the sprit-sail-yard, to the mizzen-top-sail halyards. Will Bower a peer! a fellow that scarce knows a mast from a manger; a snotty-nose boy, whom I myself have ordered to the gun for stealing eggs out of the hencoop; and I, Hawser Trunnion, who commanded a ship before he could keep a reckoning, am laid aside, d'ye see, and forgotten. If so be as this be the case, there is a rotten plank in the constitution, which ought to be hove down and repaired. For me, d'ye see, I was none of your Guinea pigs; I did not rise in the service by parliamenteering interest, or a handsome wife. I was not hoisted over the bodies of better men, nor strutted athwart the quarter-deck in a laced doublet, and thingumbobs at the wrists. I have been a hard working man, and served all offices on board. They make a noise about this engagement with the French; but egad! it was no more than a bumboat battle in comparison with what I have seen. There was old Rook and Jennings, and another whom I will not name, they knew what fighting was. As for my own share, d'ye see, I am none of those that hollow in their own commendation; but if so be that I were minded to stand my own trumpeter, some of these little fellows that hold their heads so high would be taken aback. I once lay eight glasses along side of the Floor de Loose, a French man-of-war, though her metal was heavier, and her complement larger by an hundred hands than mine.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (A.D. 1728-1774), author of the poems, The Traveller, and The Deserted Village; of the novel, Vicar of Wakefield; of the comedies, She Stoops to Conquer, and The Good-natured Man; wrote also "for the Booksellers," School Histories of England and of Greece, and a History of Animated Nature, from which the extract is taken.

THE SPIDER.

Or all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, the spider is the most sagacious, and its actions to me, who have attentively considered them, seem almost to exceed belief. This insect is formed by nature for a state of war, not only upon other insects, but upon each other. For this state, nature seems perfectly well to have formed it. Its head and breast are covered with a strong natural coat of mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of every other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a soft pliant skin, which eludes the sting even of a wasp. Its legs are terminated by strong claws, not unlike those of a lobster; and their vast length, like spears, serve to keep assailants at a distance.

No worse furnished for observation than for an attack or defence, it has several eyes, large, transparent, and covered with a horny substance which, however, does not impede its vision. Besides this, it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth, which serves to kill or secure the prey already caught in its claws or its net.

Such are the implements of war with which the body is immediately furnished; but its net to entangle the enemy seems what it chiefly trusts to, and what it takes most pains to render as complete as possible. Nature has provided the body of this little creature with a glutinous liquid, which proceeding from the anus it spins into thread, coarser or finer as it chooses to dilate or contract its sphincter. In order to fix its threads when it begins to weave, it emits a small drop of its liquid against the

wall, which hardening by degrees serves to hold the thread very firmly. Then receding from the first point, as it recedes the thread lengthens; and when the spider has come to the place where the other end of the thread should be fixed, gathering up with its claws the thread which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched tightly and fixed in the same manner to the wall as before.

In this manner it spins and fixes several threads parallel to each other, which, so to speak, serve as the warp to the intended web. To form the woof, it spins in the same manner, transversely fixing one end of its thread to the first that was spun, and which is always the strongest in the web, and the other to the wall. All these threads, being newly spun, are glutinous, and therefore stick to each other wherever they happen to touch; and in those parts of the web most exposed to be torn, our natural artist strengthens them by doubling the threads sometimes sixfold.

Thus far naturalists have gone in the description of this animal; what follows is the result of my own observation upon that species of the insect called the house-spider. I perceived about four years ago a large spider in one corner of my room making its web; and though the housemaid frequently levelled her fatal broom against its labours, I had the good fortune to prevent its destruction, and I may say it more than repaid me by the entertainment it afforded.

In three days the web was with incredible diligence completed; nor could I avoid thinking that the insect exulted in its new abode. It frequently traversed it round, and examined the strength of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came out frequently. The first enemy, however, it had to encounter was another and a much larger spider, who having no web of its own, and having probably exhausted its stock in former labours, came to invade the property of its neighbour. Soon then a terrible encounter ensued, in which the invader seemed to have the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to take refuge in his hole. Upon this I perceived the

victor using every art to draw the enemy from his stronghold; he seemed to go off, but quickly returned, and when he found all arts vain, began to demolish the new webs without mercy. This brought on another battle, and contrary to my expectation, the laborious spider became conqueror and fairly killed his antagonist.

Now then, in peaceable possession of what was justly its own, it waited three days with the utmost patience, repairing the breaches of the web, and taking no sustenance that I could perceive. At last a large blue fly fell into the snare, and struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave it leave to entangle itself as much as possible, but it seemed too strong for the cobweb. I must own I was greatly surprised when I saw the spider sally out and in less than a minute weave a new net around its captive, by which the motion of its wings was stopped, and when it was fairly hampered in this manner, it was seized and dragged into the hole.

In this manner it lived in a precarious state, and nature seemed to have fitted it for such a life; for upon a single fly it subsisted for a week. I once put a wasp into the nest; but when the spider came out in order to seize it as usual, upon perceiving what kind of enemy it had to deal with, it instantly broke all the bands that held it fast, and contributed all in its power to disengage so formidable an antagonist. When the wasp was at liberty, I expected the spider would have set about repairing the breaches that were made in its net; but those, it seems, were irreparable; wherefore the cobweb was entirely forsaken, and a new one begun, which was completed in the usual time.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

SAMUEL JOHNSON (A.D. 1709-1784) was not the first to make literature a profession, but was foremost to maintain the independence and dignity of the pursuit. Besides his colossal work, the Dictionary of the English Language, on which he was engaged seven years, he wrote Rasselas, a novel, the periodicals, The Rambler and The Idler, the Lives of the Poets, and two poetical satires, London, and The Vanity of Human Wishes, etc.

PREFACE TO THE DICTIONARY.

IN hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of years, to the honour of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of every people arises from its authors; whether I shall ever add anything by my own writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left to time; much of my life has been lost under the pressure of disease; much has been trifled away; and much has always been spent in making provision for the day that was passing over me; but I shall not think my employment useless or ignoble, if by my assistance foreign nations and distant ages gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand the teachers of truth; if my labours afford light to the repositories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and to Boyle.

When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that has endeavoured well. That it will become popular, I have not promised to myself; a few wild blunders and visible absurdities, from which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance into contempt; but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there can never be wanting some who dis