_No Answer to this, till_ Anna Bella _sends a Description of those she
calls the Best-bred Men in the World_.
Mr. SPECTATOR,
'I am a Gentleman who for many Years last past have been well known to
be truly Splenatick, and that my Spleen arises from having contracted
so great a Delicacy, by reading the best Authors, and keeping the most
refined Company, that I cannot bear the least Impropriety of Language,
or Rusticity of Behaviour. Now, Sir, I have ever looked upon this as a
wise Distemper; but by late Observations find that every heavy Wretch,
who has nothing to say, excuses his Dulness by complaining of the
Spleen. Nay, I saw, the other Day, two Fellows in a Tavern Kitchen set
up for it, call for a Pint and Pipes, and only by Guzling Liquor to
each other's Health, and wafting Smoke in each other's Face, pretend
to throw off the Spleen. I appeal to you, whether these Dishonours are
to be done to the Distemper of the Great and the Polite. I beseech
you, Sir, to inform these Fellows that they have not the Spleen,
because they cannot talk without the help of a Glass at their Mouths,
or convey their Meaning to each other without the Interposition of
Clouds. If you will not do this with all Speed, I assure you, for my
part, I will wholly quit the Disease, and for the future be merry with
the Vulgar.