chang'd my place, and blush'd. They frequently turn'd their eyes upon me, and scem'd to discover many subjects of merriment; for at every look they whisper'd, and laugh'd with the most violent agitations of delight. At last Mr. Courtly cried out, Is that colour your own, child? Yes, says the lady, if she has not robb'd the kitchen hearth. This was so happy a conceit, that it renew'd the , storm of laughter, and they threw down their cards in hopes of better sport. The lady then called me to her, and began with an afsected gravity to enquire what I could do? But first turn about, and let us see your fine shape: Well, what are you fit for, Mrs. Mum? You would find your tongue, I suppofe, in the kitchen. No, no, says Mr. Courtly, the girl's a good girl yet, but I am asraid a brisk

young sellow, with fine tags on his shoulder ■

Come, child, hold up your head; what? you have

stole nothing. Not yet, says the lady, but she

hopes to steal your heart quickly.—Here was a laugh of happiness and triumph, prolonged by the consusion which I could no longer repress. At last the lady recollected herself: Stole? no—but is I had her, I should watch her; for that downcast eye—Why cannot you look people in the sace? Steal! says her husoand, she would steal nothing but, perhaps, a sew ribbands besore they were left off by her lady. Sir, answer'd I, why should you, by suppofing me a thief, insult one from whom you have received no injury? Insult, says the lady; are you come here to be a servant, you saucy baggage, and talk of insulting? What will this world come to, isa gentleman may not jest with a servant? Well,

such

such servants! pray be gone; and see when you will have the honour to be io insulted again. Servants insulted —a sine time—Insulted! Get down stairs, you flut, or the sootman shall insult you.

The last day of the last week was now coming, and my kind cousin talked of sending me down in the waggon to preserve me from bad courses. But in the morning she came and told me that she had one trial more for me; Euphemia wanted a maid, and perhaps I might do for her; for, like me, she must sall her crest, being forced to lay down her chariot upon the lofs of half her fortune by bad securities, and with her way of giving her money to every body that pretended to want it, she could have little beforehand; therefore I might serve her; for, with all her fine sense, she must not pretend to be nice.

I went immediately, and met at the door a young gentlewoman, who told me she had herself been hired that morning, but that she was ordered to bring any that offered up stairs. I was accordingly introduced to Euphemia, who, when I came in, laid down her book, and told me, that she sent for me not to gratisy an idle cu:iosity, but lest my disappointment might be made still more grating by incivility; that she was in pain to deny any thing, much more what was no savour; that she saw nothing in my appearance which did not make her wish for my company; but that another, whofe claims mio-ht perhaps be equal, had come before me. The thought of being so near to such a place, and misfing it, bi ought tears into my eyes, and my fobs hinder'd me from returning my acknowledgements. She rofe

up

up consused, and suppofing by my concern that I was distressed, placed me by her, and made me tell her my story; which when she had heard, she put two guineas in my hand, ordering me to lodge near her, and make use of her table till she could provide for me. I am now under her protection, and know not how to shew my gratitude better than by giving this account to the Rambler.

ZOSIMA.

Numb. 13. Tuesday, May 1, 1750.

Ciamijsumque tigtt 13 vino lortui y ira. Ho*.

And let not wine or anger wrest

Th' intrusted secret from your breast. Francis.

IT is related by Quintus Curtius, that the Persians always conceived an invincible contempt of a man, who had violated the laws of secrecy; for they thought, that, however he might be deficient in the qualities requisite to actual excellence, the negative virtues at least were in his power, and though he perhaps could not speak well is he was to try, it was still easy for him not to speak.

In forming this opinion of the easiness of secrecy they seem to have considered it as oppofed, not to treachery, but loquacity, and to have conceived the man, whom they thus censured, not frighted by menaces to reveal, or bribed by promises.to betray,

Vol. V. G but but incited by the mere pleasure of talking, or some other motive equally trifling, to lay Open his heart without reflection, and to let whatever he knew flip from him, only for want of power to retain it. Whether, by their settled and avowed scorn of thoughtless talkers, the Persians were able to disfuse to any great extent the virtue of .taciturnity, we are hindered by the distance of thofe times from being able to discover, there being very sew memoirs remaining of the court of Perscpolis, nor any distinct accounts handed down to us of their osfice clerks, their ladies of the bed-chamber, their attorneys, their chamber-maids, or their footmen.

In these latter ages, though the old animosity against a prattler is still retained, it appears wholly to have lost its effect upon the conduct of mankind; for secrets are so seldom kept, that it may with some reason be doubtCd, whether the ancients were not 'mistaken in their first postulate, whether the quajity of retention be so generally bestowed, and whether a secret has not some subtle volatility, by which it escapes imperceptibly at the smallest vent, or some power of sermentation, by which it expands itself so as to burst the heart that will not give it way.

Thofe that study either the body or the mind of man, very often find the most specious and pleasing theory falling under the weight of contrary experience; and instead of gratifying their vanity by inserring effects from causes, they are always reduced at last^to conjecture causes from effects. That it is easy to be secret, the speculatist can demonstrate in his retreat, and theresore thinks himself justified in placing confidence ., the man of the world knows,

that,

that, whether difficult or not, it is uncommon, and therefore finds himself rather inclined to search after the reason of this universal sailure in one of the most important duties of society. •

The vanity of being known to be trusted with a secret is generally one of the chief motives to disclofe it; for however absurd it may be thought to boast an honour by an act which shews that it was conserred without merit, yet most men seem rather inclined to consess the want of virtue than of importance, and more willingly shew their influence, though at the expence of their probity, than glide through lise with no other pleasure than the private consciousness of fidelity; which, while it is preserved, must be without praise, except from the single person who tries and knows it.

There are many Ways of telling a secret, by which a man exempts himself from the reproaches of his conscience, and gratifies his pride, without sufsering himself to believe that he impairs his virtue. He tells the private affairs of his patron, or his friend, only to thofe from whom he would not conceal his own; he tells them to thofe, who have no temptation to betray the trust, or with a denunciation of a certain forseiture of his friendship, if he discovers that they become publick.

Secrets are very frequently told in the first ardour of kindness, or of love, for the sake of proving, by so important a sacrifice, sincerity, or tenderness; but with this motive, though it be strong in itself, vanity concurs, since every man desires to be most esteemed by thofe whom he loves, or with whom he converses, with whom he passes his hours of plea