at the accidents which had befallen me, as not knowing but a little stay in the place might have spoiled my SPECTATORS. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, II. With such a companion, to tend a few sheep, My fair-one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound. III. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, When IV. When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And when Phoebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, * Be still then,' I cry; for it makes me quite mad V. My dog I was ever well pleased to see VI. y? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen! How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear: 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes Made so many beautiful prospects arise. VII. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But But now she is absent, though still they sing on, VIII. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? IX. How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool breezes I burn! Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for't when she is here, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. X. Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? To be cur'd thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; DR. BYROM, ON EMBROIDERY. No. 606. < MR. SPECTATOR, "I HAVE a couple of nieces under my direction, who so often run gadding abroad that I do not know where to have them. Their dress, their tea, and their visits take up all their time, and they go to bed as tired with doing nothing, as I am after quilting a whole petticoat. The only time they are not idle is while they read your SPECTATORS; which being dedicated to the interests of virtue, I desire you to recommend the long neglected art of needle-work. Those hours which in this age are thrown away in dress, play, visits and the like, were employed, in my time, in writing out receipts, or working beds, chairs, and hangings for the family. For my part, I have plied my needle these fifty years, and by my good will would never have it out of my hand. It grieves my heart to see a couple of proud idle flirts sipping their tea, for a whole afternoon, in a room hung round with the industry of their great-grandmother. Pray, sir, take the laudable mystery of embroidery into your serious consideration; and as you have a great deal of the virtue of the last age in you, continue your endeavours to reform the present. I am, &c.' In obedience to the commands of my venerable correspondent, I have duly weighed this important subject, and promise myself, from the arguments here laid down, that all the fine ladies of England will be ready, as soon as their mourning is over, to appear covered with the work of their own hands. What a delightful entertainment must it be to the fair sex, whom their native modesty and the tenderness of of men towards them exempt from public business, to pass their hours in imitating fruits and flowers, and transplanting all the beauties of nature into their own dress, or raising a new creation in their closets and apartments! How pleasing is the amusement of walking among the shades and groves planted by themselves, in surveying heroes slain by their needle, or little Cupids which they have brought into the world without pain! This is, methinks, the most proper way wherein a lady can show a fine genius, and I cannot forbear wish. ing that several writers of that sex had chosen to apply themselves rather to tapestry than rhime. Your pastoral poetesses may vent their fancy in rural land scapes, and place despairing shepherds under silken willows, or drown them in a stream of mohair. The heroic writers may work up battles as successfully, and inflame them with gold, or stain them with crimson. Even those who have only a turn to a song or an epigrain may put many valuable stitches into a purse, and crowd a thousand graces into a pair of garters. If I may, without breach of good manners, imagine that any pretty creature is void of genius, and would perform her part herein but very awkwardly, I must nevertheless insist upon her working, if it be only to keep her out of harm's way. Another argument for busying good women in works of fancy, is because it takes them off from scardal, the usual attendant of tea-table and all other inactive scenes of life. While they are forming their birds and beasts, their neighbour will be allowed to be the fathers of their own children and whig and tory will be but seldom mentioned where the great dispute is, whether blue or red is the most proper colour. |