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No. 468.  Wednesday, August 27, 1712.  Steele.

  ’Erat Homo ingeniosus, acutus, acer, et qui plurimum et salis haberet
  et fellis, nec candoris minus.’

  Plin.  Epist.

My Paper is in a kind a Letter of News, but it regards rather what passes in the World of Conversation than that of Business.  I am very sorry that I have at present a Circumstance before me, which is of very great Importance to all who have a Relish for Gayety, Wit, Mirth, or Humour; I mean the Death of poor Dick Eastcourt. [1] I have been oblig’d to him for so many Hours of Jollity, that it is but a small Recompence, tho’ all I can give him, to pass a Moment or two in Sadness for the Loss of so agreeable a Man.  Poor Eastcourt! the last Time I saw him we were plotting to shew the Town his great Capacity for acting in its full Light, by introducing him as dictating to a Set of young Players, in what manner to speak this Sentence, and utter t’other Passion—­He had so exquisite a Discerning of what was defective in any Object before him, that in an Instant he could shew you the ridiculous Side of what would pass for beautiful and just, even to Men of no ill Judgment, before he had pointed at the Failure.  He was no less skilful in the Knowledge of Beauty; and, I dare say, there is no one who knew him well, but can repeat more well-turned Compliments, as well as smart Repartees, of Mr. Eastcourt’s, than of any other Man in England.  This was easily to be observed in his inimitable Faculty of telling a Story, in which he would throw in natural and unexpected Incidents to make his Court to one Part, and rally the other Part of the Company:  Then he would vary the Usage he gave them, according as he saw them bear kind or sharp Language.  He had the Knack to raise up a pensive Temper, and mortifie an impertinently gay one, with the most agreeable Skill imaginable.  There are a thousand things which crowd into my Memory, which make me too much concerned to tell on about him. Hamlet holding up the Skull which the Grave-digger threw to him, with an Account that it was the Head of the King’s Jester, falls into very pleasing Reflections, and cries out to his Companion,

’Alas, poor_ Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a Fellow of infinite Jest, of most excellent Fancy; he hath born me on his Back a thousand times:  And how abhorred my Imagination is now, my Gorge rises at it.  Here hung those Lips that I have kiss’d I know not how oft.  Where be your Gibes now, your Gambols, your Songs, your Flashes of Merriment, that were wont to set the Table on a Roar:  No one now to mock your own Jeerings:  quite Chop-fallen.  Now get you to my Lady’s Chamber, and tell her, Let her paint an Inch thick, to this Favour she must come.  Make her laugh at that.’