From _Saturday, March 25_, to _Tuesday, March 28, 1710_.
----Ni vis boni
In ipsa inesset forma, haec formam extinguerent.
TER., Phorm. I. ii. 58.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, March 27._
When artists would expose their diamonds to an advantage, they usually
set them to show in little cases of black velvet. By this means the
jewels appear in their true and genuine lustre, while there is no colour
that can infect their brightness, or give a false cast to the water.
When I was at the opera the other night, the assembly of ladies in
mourning[172] made me consider them in the same kind of view. A dress
wherein there is so little variety, shows the face in all its natural
charms, and makes one differ from another only as it is more or less
beautiful. Painters are ever careful of offending against a rule which
is so essential in all just representation. The chief figure must have
the strongest point of light, and not be injured by any gay colourings
that may draw away the attention to any less considerable part of the
picture. The present fashion obliges everybody to be dressed with
propriety, and makes the ladies' faces the principal objects of sight.
Every beautiful person shines out in all the excellence with which
Nature has adorned her: gaudy ribands and glaring colours being now out
of use, the sex has no opportunity given them to disfigure themselves,
which they seldom fail to do whenever it lies in their power. When a
woman comes to her glass, she does not employ her time in making herself
look more advantageously what she really is, but endeavours to be as
much another creature as she possibly can. Whether this happens, because
they stay so long, and attend their work so diligently, that they forget
the faces and persons which they first sat down with, or whatever it is,
they seldom rise from the toilet the same women they appeared when they
began to dress. What jewel can the charming Cleora place in her ears,
that can please her beholders so much as her eyes? The cluster of
diamonds upon the breast can add no beauty to the fair chest of ivory
which supports it. It may indeed tempt a man to steal a woman, but never
to love her. Let Thalestris change herself into a motley parti-coloured
animal: the pearl necklace, the flowered stomacher, the artificial
nosegay, and shaded furbelow,[173] may be of use to attract the eye of
the beholder, and turn it from the imperfections of her features and
shape. But if ladies will take my word for it (and as they dress to
please men, they ought to consult our fancy rather than their own in
this particular), I can assure them, there is nothing touches our
imagination so much as a beautiful woman in a plain dress. There might
be more agreeable ornaments found in our own manufacture, than any that
rise out of the looms of Persia.
This, I know, is a very harsh doctrine to womankind, who are carried
away with everything that is showy, and with what delights the eye, more
than any other species of living creatures whatsoever. Were the minds of
the sex laid open, we should find the chief idea in one to be a tippet,
in another a muff, in a third a fan, and in a fourth a farthingale. The
memory of an old visiting lady is so filled with gloves, silks, and
ribands, that I can look upon it as nothing else but a toy-shop. A
matron of my acquaintance complaining of her daughter's vanity, was
observing, that she had all of a sudden held up her head higher than
ordinary, and taken an air that showed a secret satisfaction in herself,
mixed with a scorn of others. "I did not know," says my friend, "what to
make of the carriage of this fantastical girl, until I was informed by
her elder sister, that she had a pair of striped garters on." This odd
turn of mind often makes the sex unhappy, and disposes them to be struck
with everything that makes a show, however trifling and superficial.
Many a lady has fetched a sigh at the toss of a wig, and been ruined by
the tapping of a snuff-box. It is impossible to describe all the
execution that was done by the shoulder-knot[174] while that fashion
prevailed, or to reckon up all the virgins that have fallen a sacrifice
to a pair of fringed gloves.[175] A sincere heart has not made half so
many conquests as an open waistcoat,[176] and I should be glad to see an
able head make so good a figure in a woman's company as a pair of red
heels.[177] A Grecian hero,[178] when he was asked whether he could play
upon the lute, thought he had made a very good reply when he answered,
"No, but I can make a great city of a little one." Notwithstanding his
boasted wisdom, I appeal to the heart of any toast in town, whether she
would not think the lutenist preferable to the statesman. I do not speak
this out of any aversion that I have to the sex: on the contrary, I have
always had a tenderness for them; but I must confess, it troubles me
very much to see the generality of them place their affections on
improper objects, and give up all the pleasures of life for gewgaws and
trifles.
Mrs. Margery Bickerstaff, my great aunt, had a thousand pounds to her
portion, which our family was desirous of keeping among themselves, and
therefore used all possible means to turn off her thoughts from
marriage. The method they took was, in any time of danger to throw a new
gown or petticoat in her way. When she was about twenty-five years of
age, she fell in love with a man of an agreeable temper, and equal
fortune, and would certainly have married him, had not my grandfather,
Sir Jacob, dressed her up in a suit of flowered satin; upon which, she
set so immoderate a value upon herself, that the lover was contemned and
discarded. In the fortieth year of her age, she was again smitten, but
very luckily transferred her passion to a tippet, which was presented to
her by another relation who was in the plot. This, with a white sarcenet
hood, kept her safe in the family till fifty. About sixty, which
generally produces a kind of latter spring[179] in amorous
constitutions, my Aunt Margery had again a colt's-tooth[180] in her
head, and would certainly have eloped from the mansion-house, had not
her brother Simon, who was a wise man, and a scholar, advised to dress
her in cherry-coloured ribands,[181] which was the only expedient that
could have been found out by the wit of man to preserve the thousand
pounds in our family, part of which I enjoy at this time.
This discourse puts me in mind of a humorist mentioned by Horace,[182]
called Eutrapelus, who, when he designed to do a man a mischief, made
him a present of a gay suit; and brings to my memory another passage of
the same author, when he describes the most ornamental dress that a
woman can appear in with two words, _simplex munditiis_,[183] which I
have quoted for the benefit of my female readers.
[Footnote 171: This paper, though not included in Addison's Works, may,
as Nichols suggested, be his. Two slight corrections were made in the
following number in the folio issue.]
[Footnote 172: See No. 8, with reference to the long-continued mourning,
on the decease of the Queen's husband, George Prince of Denmark, who
died in October 1708. Lewis Duke of Bourbon, eldest son to the Dauphin
of France, died on March 3, about three weeks before the date of this
paper. A month before, on February 2, 1709-10, in consequence of a
petition presented by the mercers, &c., complaining of their sufferings
from the length and frequency of public mournings, leave was given to
bring in a Bill for ascertaining and limiting the time of them.]
[Footnote 173: The furbelow was a puckered flounce ornamenting the
dress. D'Urfey wrote a play, "The Old Mode and the New, or Country Miss
with her Furbelow."]
[Footnote 174: Introduced from France at the Restoration.]
[Footnote 175: Gloves with silver fringe round the wrists. A
Fringe-Glove Club is mentioned in No. 30 of the _Spectator_.]
[Footnote 176: See No. 95.]
[Footnote 177: See No. 45.]
[Footnote 178: Themistocles.]
[Footnote 179: Cf. "1 Henry IV." act i. sc. 2, where Prince Hal says to
Falstaff, "Farewell, thou latter spring!"]
[Footnote 180: A love of youthful pleasure. Cf. "Henry VIII." act i. sc.
3,
"Well said, Lord Sands,
Your colt's tooth is not cast yet."
]
[Footnote 181: See No. 150]
[Footnote 182: 1 Epist. xviii. 31.]
[Footnote 183: 1 Od. v. 5.]
No. 152. [ADDISON.
From _Tuesday, March 28_, to _Thursday, March 30, 1710_.
Di, quibus imperium est animarum, Umbraeque silentes,
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late,
Sit mihi fas audita loqui; sit numine vestro
Pandere resalta terra et caligine mersas.
VIRG., AEn. vi. 264.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, March 29._
A man who confines his speculations to the time present, has but a very
narrow province to employ his thoughts in. For this reason, persons of
studious and contemplative natures often entertain themselves with the
history of past ages, or raise schemes and conjectures upon futurity.
For my own part, I love to range through that half of eternity which is
still to come, rather than look on that which is already run out;
because I know I have a real share and interest in the one, whereas all
that was transacted in the other can be only matter of curiosity to me.
Upon this account, I have been always very much delighted with
meditating on the soul's immortality, and in reading the several notions
which the wisest of men, both ancient and modern, have entertained on
that subject. What the opinions of the greatest philosophers have been,
I have several times hinted at, and shall give an account of them from
time to time as occasion requires. It may likewise be worth while to
consider, what men of the most exalted genius, and elevated imagination,
have thought of this matter. Among these, Homer stands up as a prodigy
of mankind, that looks down upon the rest of human creatures as a
species beneath him. Since he is the most ancient heathen author, we
may guess from his relation, what were the common opinions in his time
concerning the state of the soul after death.
Ulysses, he tells us, made a voyage to the regions of the dead, in order
to consult Tiresias how he should return to his own country, and
recommend himself to the favour of the gods. The poet scarce introduces
a single person, who does not suggest some useful precept to his reader,
and designs his description of the dead for the amendment of the living.
Ulysses, after having made a very plenteous sacrifice, sat him down by
the pool of holy blood, which attracted a prodigious assembly of ghosts
of all ages and conditions, that hovered about the hero, and feasted
upon the steams of his oblation. The first he knew, was the shade of
Elpenor, who, to show the activity of a spirit above that of body, is
represented as arrived there long before Ulysses, notwithstanding the
winds and seas had contributed all their force to hasten his voyage
thither. This Elpenor, to inspire the reader with a detestation of
drunkenness, and at the same time with a religious care of doing proper
honours to the dead, describes himself as having broken his neck in a
debauch of wine; and begs Ulysses, that for the repose of his soul, he
would build a monument over him, and perform funeral rites to his
memory. Ulysses with great sorrow of heart promises to fulfil his
request, and is immediately diverted to an object much more moving than
the former. The ghost of his own mother Anticlea, whom he still thought
living, appears to him among the multitude of shades that surrounded
him, and sits down at a small distance from him by the lake of blood,
without speaking to him, or knowing who he was. Ulysses was exceedingly
troubled at the sight, and could not forbear weeping as he looked upon
her; but being all along set forth as a pattern of consummate wisdom,
he makes his affection give way to prudence; and therefore, upon his
seeing Tiresias, does not reveal himself to his mother, till he had
consulted that great prophet, who was the occasion of this his descent
into the empire of the dead. Tiresias having cautioned him to keep
himself and his companions free from the guilt of sacrilege, and to pay
his devotions to all the gods, promises him a safe return to his kingdom
and family, and a happy old age in the enjoyment of them.
The poet having thus with great art kept the curiosity of his reader in
suspense, represents his wise man, after the despatch of his business
with Tiresias, as yielding himself up to the calls of natural affection,
and making himself known to his mother. Her eyes are no sooner opened,
but she cries out in tears, "Oh my son!" and inquires into the occasions
that brought him thither, and the fortune that attended him.
Ulysses on the other hand desires to know, what the sickness was that
had sent her into those regions, and the condition in which she had left
his father, his son, and more particularly his wife. She tells him, they
were all three inconsolable for his absence; "and as for myself," says
she, "that was the sickness of which I died. My impatience for your
return, my anxiety for your welfare, and my fondness for my dear
Ulysses, were the only distempers that preyed upon my life, and
separated my soul from my body." Ulysses was melted with these
expressions of tenderness, and thrice endeavoured to catch the
apparition in his arms, that he might hold his mother to his bosom and
weep over her.
This gives the poet occasion to describe the notion the heathens at that
time had of an unbodied soul, in the excuse which the mother makes for
seeming to withdraw herself from her son's embraces. "The soul," says
she, "is composed neither of bones, flesh, nor sinews, but leaves behind
her all those encumbrances of mortality to be consumed on the funeral
pile. As soon as she has thus cast her burden she makes her escape, and
flies away from it like a dream."
When this melancholy conversation is at an end, the poet draws up to
view as charming a vision as could enter into man's imagination. He
describes the next who appeared to Ulysses, to have been the shades of
the finest women that had ever lived upon the earth, and who had either
been the daughters of kings, the mistresses of gods, or mothers of
heroes, such as Antiope, Alcmena, Leda, Ariadne, Iphimedia, Eriphyle,
and several others of whom he gives a catalogue, with a short history of
their adventures. The beautiful assembly of apparitions were all
gathered together about the blood: "each of them," says Ulysses (as a
gentle satire upon female vanity), "giving me an account of her birth
and family." This scene of extraordinary women seems to have been
designed by the poet as a lecture of mortality to the whole sex, and to
put them in mind of what they must expect, notwithstanding the greatest
perfections, and highest honours, they can arrive at.
The circle of beauties at length disappeared, and was succeeded by the
shades of several Grecian heroes who had been engaged with Ulysses in
the siege of Troy. The first that approached was Agamemnon, the
generalissimo of that great expedition, who at the appearance of his old
friend wept very bitterly, and without saying anything to him,
endeavoured to grasp him by the hand. Ulysses, who was much moved at the
sight, poured out a flood of tears, and asked him the occasion of his
death, which Agamemnon related to him in all its tragical
circumstances; how he was murdered at a banquet by the contrivance of
his own wife, in confederacy with her adulterer: from whence he takes
occasion to reproach the whole sex, after a manner which would be
inexcusable in a man who had not been so great a sufferer by them. "My
wife," says he, "has disgraced all the women that shall ever be born
into the world, even those who hereafter shall be innocent. Take care
how you grow too fond of your wife. Never tell her all you know. If you
reveal some things to her, be sure you keep others concealed from her.
You indeed have nothing to fear from your Penelope, she will not use you
as my wife has treated me; however, take care how you trust a woman."
The poet, in this and other instances, according to the system of many
heathen as well as Christian philosophers, shows how anger, revenge, and
other habits which the soul had contracted in the body, subsist and grow
in it under its stage of separation.
I am extremely pleased with the companions which the poet in the next
description assigns to Achilles. "Achilles," says the hero, "came up to
me with Patroclus and Antilochus." By which we may see that it was
Homer's opinion, and probably that of the age he lived in, that the
friendships which are made among the living will likewise continue among
the dead. Achilles inquires after the welfare of his son, and of his
father, with a fierceness of the same character that Homer has
everywhere expressed in the actions of his life. The passage relating to
his son is so extremely beautiful, that I must not omit it. Ulysses,
after having described him as wise in council and active in war, and
mentioned the foes whom he had slain in battle, adds an observation that
he himself had made of his behaviour whilst he lay in the wooden horse.
"Most of the generals," says he, "that were with us either wept or
trembled: as for your son, I neither saw him wipe a tear from his
cheeks, nor change his countenance. On the contrary, he would often lay
his hand upon his sword, or grasp his spear, as impatient to employ them
against the Trojans." He then informs his father of the great honour and
rewards which he had purchased before Troy, and of his return from it
without a wound. The shade of Achilles, says the poet, was so pleased
with the account he received of his son, that he inquired no further,
but stalked away with more than ordinary majesty over the green meadow
that lay before them.
This last circumstance of a deceased father's rejoicing in the behaviour
of his son is very finely contrived by Homer, as an incentive to virtue,
and made use of by none that I know besides himself.
The description of Ajax, which follows, and his refusing to speak to
Ulysses, who had won the armour of Achilles from him, and by that means
occasioned his death, is admired by every one that reads it. When
Ulysses relates the sullenness of his deportment, and considers the
greatness of the hero, he expresses himself with generous and noble
sentiments. "Oh! that I had never gained a prize which cost the life of
so brave a man as Ajax! Who, for the beauty of his person, and greatness
of his actions, was inferior to none but the divine Achilles." The same
noble condescension, which never dwells but in truly great minds, and
such as Homer would represent that of Ulysses to have been, discovers
itself likewise in the speech which he made to the ghost of Ajax on that
occasion. "O Ajax!" says he, "will you keep your resentments even after
death? What destructions hath this fatal armour brought upon the Greeks,
by robbing them of you, who were their bulwark and defence? Achilles is
not more bitterly lamented among us than you. Impute not then your death
to any one but Jupiter, who out of his anger to the Greeks, took you
away from among them: let me entreat you to approach me; restrain the
fierceness of your wrath, and the greatness of your soul, and hear what
I have to say to you." Ajax, without making a reply, turned his back
upon him, and retired into a crowd of ghosts.
Ulysses, after all these visions, took a view of those impious wretches
who lay in tortures for the crimes they had committed upon the earth,
whom he describes under the varieties of pain, as so many marks of
divine vengeance, to deter others from following their example. He then
tells us that notwithstanding he had a great curiosity to see the heroes
that lived in the ages before him, the ghosts began to gather about him
in such prodigious multitudes, and with such a confusion of voices, that
his heart trembled as he saw himself amidst so great a scene of horrors.
He adds, that he was afraid lest some hideous spectre should appear to
him, that might terrify him to distraction; and therefore withdrew in
time.
I question not but my reader will be pleased with this description of a
future state, represented by such a noble and fruitful imagination, that
had nothing to direct it besides the light of nature, and the opinions
of a dark and ignorant age.
No. 153. [ADDISON.
From _Thursday, March 30_, to _Saturday, April 1, 1710_.
Bambalio, clangor, stridor, taratantara, murmur.--FARN., Rhet.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, March 31._
I have heard of a very valuable picture, wherein all the painters of the
age in which it was drawn are represented sitting together in a circle,
and joining in a concert of music. Each of them plays upon such a
particular instrument as is the most suitable to his character, and
expresses that style and manner of painting which is peculiar to him.
The famous cupola-painter of those times, to show the grandeur and
boldness of his figures, has a horn in his mouth, which he seems to wind
with great strength and force. On the contrary, an eminent artist, who
wrought up his pictures with the greatest accuracy, and gave them all
those delicate touches which are apt to please the nicest eye, is
represented as tuning a theorbo. The same kind of humour runs through
the whole piece.
I have often from this hint imagined to myself, that different talents
in discourse might be shadowed out after the same manner by different
kinds of music; and that the several conversable parts of mankind in
this great city might be cast into proper characters and divisions, as
they resemble several instruments that are in use among the masters of
harmony. Of these therefore in their order, and first of the drum.
Your drums are the blusterers in conversation, that with a loud laugh,
unnatural mirth, and a torrent of noise, domineer in public assemblies,
overbear men of sense, stun their companions, and fill the place they
are in with a rattling sound, that has seldom any wit, humour, or good
breeding in it. The drum notwithstanding, by this boisterous vivacity,
is very proper to impose upon the ignorant; and in conversation with
ladies who are not of the finest taste, often passes for a man of mirth
and wit, and for wonderful pleasant company. I need not observe, that
the emptiness of the drum very much contributes to its noise.
The lute is a character directly opposite to the drum, that sounds very
finely by itself, or in a very small concert. Its notes are exquisitely
sweet, and very low, easily drowned in a multitude of instruments, and
even lost among a few, unless you give a particular attention to it. A
lute is seldom heard in a company of more than five, whereas a drum will
show itself to advantage in an assembly of five hundred. The lutenists
therefore are men of a fine genius, uncommon reflection, great
affability, and esteemed chiefly by persons of a good taste, who are the
only proper judges of so delightful and soft a melody.
The trumpet is an instrument that has in it no compass of music or
variety of sound, but is notwithstanding very agreeable, so long as it
keeps within its pitch. It has not above four or five notes, which are
however very pleasing, and capable of exquisite turns and modulations.
The gentlemen who fall under this denomination, are your men of the most
fashionable education and refined breeding, who have learned a certain
smoothness of discourse, and sprightliness of air, from the polite
company they have kept; but at the same time they have shallow parts,
weak judgments, and a short reach of understanding: a playhouse, a
drawing-room, a ball, a visiting-day, or a Ring at Hyde Park, are the
few notes they are masters of, which they touch upon in all
conversations. The trumpet however is a necessary instrument about a
Court, and a proper enlivener of a concert, though of no great harmony
by itself.
Violins are the lively, forward, importunate wits that distinguish
themselves by the flourishes of imagination, sharpness of repartee,
glances of satire, and bear away the upper part in every concert. I
cannot however but observe that, when a man is not disposed to hear
music, there is not a more disagreeable sound in harmony than that of a
violin.
There is another musical instrument, which is more frequent in this
nation than any other; I mean your bass-viol, which grumbles in the
bottom of the concert, and with a surly masculine sound strengthens the
harmony, and tempers the sweetness of the several instruments that play
along with it. The bass-viol is an instrument of a quite different
nature to the trumpet, and may signify men of rough sense, and
unpolished parts, who do not love to hear themselves talk, but sometimes
break out with an agreeable bluntness, unexpected wit, and surly
pleasantries, to the no small diversion of their friends and companions.
In short, I look upon every sensible true-born Briton to be naturally a
bass-viol.
As for your rural wits, who talk with great eloquence and alacrity of
foxes, hounds, horses, quickset hedges, and six-bar gates, double
ditches, and broken necks, I am in doubt, whether I should give them a
place in the conversable world. However, if they will content themselves
with being raised to the dignity of hunting-horns, I shall desire for
the future that they may be known by that name.
I must not here omit the bagpipe species, that will entertain you from
morning to night with the repetition of the few notes, which are played
over and over, with the perpetual humming of a drone running underneath
them. These are your dull, heavy, tedious storytellers, the load and
burden of conversations, that set up for men of importance, by knowing
secret history, and giving an account of transactions, that whether they
ever passed in the world or not, does not signify a halfpenny to its
instruction, or its welfare. Some have observed, that the northern parts
of this island are more particularly fruitful in bagpipes.
There are so very few persons who are masters in every kind of
conversation, and can talk on all subjects, that I don't know whether
we should make a distinct species of them: nevertheless, that my scheme
may not be defective, for the sake of those few who are endowed with
such extraordinary talents, I shall allow them to be harpsichords, a
kind of music which every one knows is a concert by itself.
As for your passing-bells, who look upon mirth as criminal, and talk of
nothing but what is melancholy in itself, and mortifying to human
nature, I shall not mention them.
I shall likewise pass over in silence all the rabble of mankind that
crowd our streets, coffee-houses, feasts, and public tables. I cannot
call their discourse conversation, but rather something that is
practised in imitation of it. For which reason, if I would describe them
by any musical instrument, it should be by those modern inventions of
the bladder and string, tongs and key, marrow-bone and cleaver.
My reader will doubtless observe, that I have only touched here upon
male instruments, having reserved my female concert to another occasion.
If he has a mind to know where these several characters are to be met
with, I could direct him to a whole club of drums; not to mention
another of bagpipes, which I have before given some account of in my
description of our nightly meetings in Sheer Lane. The lutes may often
be met with in couples upon the banks of a crystal stream, or in the
retreats of shady woods and flowery meadows; which for different reasons
are likewise the great resort of your hunting-horns. Bass-viols are
frequently to be found over a glass of stale beer and a pipe of tobacco;
whereas those who set up for violins, seldom fail to make their
appearance at Will's once every evening. You may meet with a trumpet
anywhere on the other side of Charing Cross.
That we may draw something for our advantage in life out of the
foregoing discourse, I must entreat my reader to make a narrow search
into his life and conversation, and upon his leaving any company, to
examine himself seriously, whether he has behaved himself in it like a
drum or a trumpet, a violin or a bass-viol; and accordingly endeavour to
mend his music for the future. For my own part, I must confess, I was a
drum for many years; nay, and a very noisy one, till having polished
myself a little in good company, I threw as much of the trumpet into my
conversation as was possible for a man of an impetuous temper, by which
mixture of different musics, I look upon myself, during the course of
many years, to have resembled a tabor and pipe. I have since very much
endeavoured at the sweetness of the lute; but in spite of all my
resolutions, I must confess with great confusion, that I find myself
daily degenerating into a bagpipe; whether it be the effect of my old
age, or of the company I keep, I know not. All that I can do, is to keep
a watch over my conversation, and to silence the drone as soon as I find
it begin to hum in my discourse, being determined rather to hear the
notes of others, than to play out of time, and encroach upon their parts
in the concert by the noise of so tiresome an instrument.
I shall conclude this paper with a letter which I received last night
from a friend of mine, who knows very well my notions upon this subject,
and invites me to pass the evening at his house with a select company of
friends, in the following words:
"DEAR ISAAC,
"I intend to have a concert at my house this evening, having by
great chance got a harpsichord, which I am sure will entertain you
very agreeably. There will be likewise two lutes and a trumpet:
let me beg you to put yourself in tune, and believe me
"Your very faithful Servant,
"NICHOLAS HUMDRUM."[184]
No. 154. [ADDISON.
From _Saturday, April 1_, to _Tuesday, April 4, 1710_.
Obscuris vera involvens.--VIRG., AEn. vi. 100.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 3._
We have already examined Homer's description of a future state, and the
condition in which he has placed the souls of the deceased. I shall in
this paper make some observations on the account which Virgil has given
us of the same subject, who, besides a greatness of genius, had all the
lights of philosophy and human learning to assist and guide him in his
discoveries.
AEneas is represented as descending into the empire of death, with a
prophetess by his side, who instructs him in the secrets of those lower
regions.
Upon the confines of the dead, and before the very gates of this
infernal world, Virgil describes[185] several inhabitants, whose natures
are wonderfully suited to the situation of the place, as being either
the occasions or resemblances of death. Of the first kind are the
shadows[186] of Sickness, Old Age, Fear, Famine, and Poverty
(apparitions very terrible to behold); with several others, as Toil,
War, Contention, and Discord, which contribute all of them to people
this common receptacle of human souls. As this was likewise a very
proper residence for everything that resembles death, the poet tells us,
that Sleep, whom he represents as a near relation to Death, has likewise
his habitation in these quarters, and describes in them a huge gloomy
elm-tree, which seems a very proper ornament for the place, and is
possessed by an innumerable swarm of Dreams, that hang in clusters under
every leaf of it. He then gives us a list of imaginary persons, who very
naturally lie within the shadow of the dream-tree, as being of the same
kind of make in themselves, and the materials or (to use Shakespeare's
phrase) the stuff of which dreams are made. Such are the shades of the
giant with a hundred hands, and of his brother with three bodies; of the
double-shaped Centaur and Scylla; the Gorgon with snaky hair; the Harpy
with a woman's face and lion's talons; the seven-headed Hydra; and the
Chimaera, which breathes forth a flame, and is a compound of three
animals. These several mixed natures, the creatures of imagination, are
not only introduced with great art after the dreams; but as they are
planted at the very entrance, and within the very gates of those
regions, do probably denote the wild deliriums and extravagances of
fancy, which the Soul usually falls into when she is just upon the verge
of death.
Thus far AEneas travels in an allegory. The rest of the description is
drawn with great exactness, according to the religion of the heathens,
and the opinions of the platonic philosophy. I shall not trouble my
reader with a common dull story, that gives an account why the heathens
first of all supposed a ferryman in hell, and his name to be Charon; but
must not pass over in silence the point of doctrine which Virgil has
very much insisted upon in this book, that the souls of those who are
unburied, are not permitted to go over into their respective places of
rest till they have wandered a hundred years upon the banks of Styx.
This was probably an invention of the heathen priesthood, to make the
people extremely careful of performing proper rites and ceremonies to
the memory of the dead. I shall not, however, with the infamous
scribblers of the age, take an occasion from such a circumstance, to run
into declamations against priestcraft, but rather look upon it even in
this light as a religious artifice, to raise in the minds of men an
esteem for the memory of their forefathers, and a desire to recommend
themselves to that of posterity; as also to excite in them an ambition
of imitating the virtues of the deceased, and to keep alive in their
thoughts the sense of the soul's immortality. In a word, we may say in
defence of the severe opinions relating to the shades of unburied
persons, what has been said by some of our divines in regard to the
rigid doctrines concerning the souls of such who die without being
initiated into our religion, that supposing they should be erroneous,
they can do no hurt to the dead, and will have a good effect upon the
living, in making them cautious of neglecting such necessary
solemnities.
Charon is no sooner appeased, and the triple-headed dog laid asleep, but
AEneas makes his entrance into the dominions of Pluto. There are three
kinds of persons described as being situated on the borders; and I can
give no reason for their being stationed there in so particular a
manner, but because none of them seem to have had a proper right to a
place among the dead, as not having run out the whole thread of their
days, and finished the term of life that had been allotted them upon
earth. The first of these are the souls of infants, who are snatched
away by untimely ends: the second, are of those who are put to death
wrongfully, and by an unjust sentence; and the third, of those who grew
weary of their lives, and laid violent hands upon themselves. As for
the second of these, Virgil adds with great beauty, that Minos, the
judge of the dead, is employed in giving them a rehearing, and assigning
them their several quarters suitable to the parts they acted in life.
The poet, after having mentioned the souls of those unhappy men who
destroyed themselves, breaks out into a fine exclamation: "Oh, how
gladly," says he, "would they now endure life with all its miseries! But
the Destinies forbid their return to earth, and the waters of Styx
surround them with nine streams that are unpassable." It is very
remarkable, that Virgil, notwithstanding self-murder was so frequent
among the heathens, and had been practised by some of the greatest men
in the very age before him, has here represented it as so heinous a
crime. But in this particular he was guided by the doctrines of his
great master Plato, who says on this subject, that a man is placed in
his station of life like a soldier in his proper post, which he is not
to quit whatever may happen, until he is called off by his commander who
planted him in it.
There is another point in the platonic philosophy, which Virgil has made
the groundwork of the greatest part in the piece we are now examining,
having with wonderful art and beauty materialised, if I may so call it,
a scheme of abstracted notions, and clothed the most nice refined
conceptions of philosophy in sensible images and poetical
representations. The Platonists tell us, that the Soul, during her
residence in the body, contracts many virtuous and vicious habits, so as
to become a beneficent, mild, charitable, or an angry, malicious,
revengeful being: a substance inflamed with lust, avarice, and pride;
or, on the contrary, brightened with pure, generous, and humble
dispositions: that these and the like habits of virtue and vice growing
into the very essence of the Soul, survive and gather strength in her
after her dissolution: that the torments of a vicious soul in a future
state arise principally from those importunate passions which are not
capable of being gratified without a body; and that on the contrary, the
happiness of virtuous minds very much consists in their being employed
in sublime speculations, innocent diversions, sociable affections, and
all the ecstasies of passion and rapture which are agreeable to
reasonable natures, and of which they gained a relish in this life.
Upon this foundation, the poet raises that beautiful description of the
secret haunts and walks which he tells us are inhabited by deceased
lovers.
"Not far from hence," says he, "lies a great waste of plains, that are
called, the 'fields of melancholy.' In these grows a forest of myrtle,
divided into many shady retirements and covered walks, and inhabited by
the souls of those who pined away with love. The passion," says he,
"continues with them after death." He then gives a list of this
languishing tribe, in which his own Dido makes the principal figure, and
is described as living in this soft romantic scene with the shade of her
first husband Sichaeus.[187]
The poet in the next place mentions another plain that was peopled with
the ghosts of warriors, as still delighting in each other's company, and
pleased with the exercise of arms. He there represents the Grecian
generals and common soldiers who perished in the siege of Troy as drawn
up in squadrons, and terrified at the approach of AEneas, which renewed
in them those impressions of fear they had before received in battle
with the Trojans. He afterwards likewise, upon the same notion, gives a
view of the Trojan heroes who lived in former ages, amidst a visionary
scene of chariots and arms, flowery meadows, shining spears, and
generous steeds, which he tells us were their pleasures upon earth, and
now make up their happiness in Elysium. For the same reason also, he
mentions others as singing paeans, and songs of triumph, amidst a
beautiful grove of laurel. The chief of the concert was the poet Musaeus,
who stood enclosed with a circle of admirers, and rose by the head and
shoulders above the throng of shades that surrounded him. The
habitations of unhappy spirits, to show the duration of their torments,
and the desperate condition they are in, are represented as guarded by a
fury, moated round with a lake of fire, strengthened with towers of
iron, encompassed with a triple wall, and fortified with pillars of
adamant, which all the gods together are not able to heave from their
foundations. The noise of stripes, the clank of chains, and the groans
of the tortured, strike the pious AEneas with a kind of horror. The poet
afterwards divides the criminals into two classes: the first and
blackest catalogue consists of such as were guilty of outrages against
the gods; and the next, of such who were convicted of injustice between
man and man: the greatest number of whom, says the poet, are those who
followed the dictates of avarice.
It was an opinion of the Platonists, that the souls of men having
contracted in the body great stains and pollutions of vice and
ignorance, there were several purgations and cleansings necessary to be
passed through both here and hereafter, in order to refine and purify
them.[188]
Virgil, to give this thought likewise a clothing of poetry, describes
some spirits as bleaching in the winds, others as cleansing under great
falls of waters, and others as purging in fire to recover the primitive
beauty and purity of their natures.
It was likewise an opinion of the same sect of philosophers, that the
souls of all men exist in a separate state, long before their union with
their bodies; and that upon their immersion into flesh, they forget
everything which passed in the state of pre-existence; so that what we
here call knowledge, is nothing else but memory, or the recovery of
those things which we knew before.
In pursuance of this scheme, Virgil gives us a view of several souls,
who, to prepare themselves for living upon earth, flock about the banks
of the river Lethe, and swill themselves with the waters of oblivion.
The same scheme gives him an opportunity of making a noble compliment to
his countrymen, where Anchises is represented taking a survey of the
long train of heroes that are to descend from him, and giving his son,
AEneas an account of all the glories of his race.
I need not mention the revolution of the platonic year,[189] which is
but just touched upon in this book; and as I have consulted no author's
thoughts in this explication, shall be very well pleased, if it can make
the noblest piece of the most accomplished poet more agreeable to my
female readers, when they think fit to look into Dryden's translation of
it.
[Footnote 184: See No. 157.]
[Footnote 185: "Hath placed" (folio).]
[Footnote 186: "Pale shadows" (folio).]
[Footnote 187: See No. 133.]
[Footnote 188: "Purify the soul from ignorance and vice" (folio).]
[Footnote 189: The Great or Platonic Year is the time in which the fixed
stars make their revolution. See Cicero, "De Natura Deorum," ii. 20.]
No. 155. [ADDISON.
From _Tuesday, April 4_, to _Thursday, April 6, 1710_.
----Aliena negotia curat,
Excussus propriis.--HOR., 2 Sat. iii. 19.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April_ 5.
There lived some years since within my neighbourhood a very grave
person, an upholsterer,[190] who seemed a man of more than ordinary
application to business. He was a very early riser, and was often abroad
two or three hours before any of his neighbours. He had a particular
carefulness in the knitting of his brows, and a kind of impatience in
all his motions, that plainly discovered he was always intent on matters
of importance. Upon my inquiry into his life and conversation, I found
him to be the greatest newsmonger in our quarter; that he rose before
day to read the _Postman_; and that he would take two or three turns to
the other end of the town before his neighbours were up, to see if there
were any Dutch mails come in. He had a wife and several children; but
was much more inquisitive to know what passed in Poland than in his own
family, and was in greater pain and anxiety of mind for King Augustus'
welfare than that of his nearest relations. He looked extremely thin in
a dearth of news, and never enjoyed himself in a westerly wind. This
indefatigable kind of life was the ruin of his shop; for about the time
that his favourite prince left the crown of Poland, he broke and
disappeared.
This man and his affairs had been long out of my mind, till about three
days ago, as I was walking in St. James's Park, I heard somebody at a
distance hemming after me: and who should it be but my old neighbour the
upholsterer! I saw he was reduced to extreme poverty, by certain shabby
superfluities in his dress: for notwithstanding that it was a very
sultry day for the time of the year, he wore a loose great-coat and a
muff, with a long campaign-wig out of curl; to which he had added the
ornament of a pair of black garters buckled under the knee. Upon his
coming up to me, I was going to inquire into his present circumstances;
but was prevented by his asking me, with a whisper, whether the last
letters brought any accounts that one might rely upon from Bender? I
told him, none that I heard of; and asked him, whether he had yet
married his eldest daughter? He told me, No. "But pray," says he, "tell
me sincerely, what are your thoughts of the King of Sweden?" For though
his wife and children were starving, I found his chief concern at
present was for this great monarch. I told him, that I looked upon him
as one of the first heroes of the age. "But pray," says he, "do you
think there is anything in the story of his wound?" And finding me
surprised at the question, "Nay," says he, "I only propose it to you." I
answered, that I thought there was no reason to doubt of it. "But why in
the heel," says he, "more than in any other part of the body?"
"Because," says I, "the bullet chanced to light there."
This extraordinary dialogue was no sooner ended, but he began to launch
out into a long dissertation upon the affairs of the North; and after
having spent some time on them, he told me, he was in a great perplexity
how to reconcile the _Supplement_ with the _English Post_, and had been
just now examining what the other papers say upon the same subject. "The
_Daily Courant_," says he, "has these words, 'We have advices from very
good hands, that a certain prince has some matters of great importance
under consideration.' This is very mysterious; but the _Postboy_ leaves
us more in the dark, for he tells us, that there are private intimations
of measures taken by a certain prince, which time will bring to light.
Now the _Postman_," says he, "who used to be very clear, refers to the
same news in these words: 'The late conduct of a certain prince affords
great matter of speculation.' This certain prince," says the
upholsterer, "whom they are all so cautious of naming, I take to
be"----. Upon which, though there was nobody near us, he whispered
something in my ear, which I did not hear, or think worth my while to
make him repeat.
We were now got to the upper end of the Mall, where were three or four
very odd fellows sitting together upon the bench. These I found were all
of them politicians, who used to sun themselves in that place every day
about dinner-time. Observing them to be curiosities in their kind, and
my friend's acquaintance, I sat down among them.
The chief politician of the bench was a great asserter of paradoxes. He
told us, with a seeming concern, that by some news he had lately read
from Muscovy, it appeared to him that there was a storm gathering in the
Black Sea, which might in time do hurt to the naval forces of this
nation. To this he added, that for his part, he could not wish to see
the Turk driven out of Europe, which he believed could not but be
prejudicial to our woollen manufacture. He then told us, that he looked
upon those extraordinary revolutions which had lately happened in these
parts of the world, to have risen chiefly from two persons who were not
much talked of; "and those," says he, "are Prince Menzikoff and the
Duchess of Mirandola." He backed his assertions with so many broken
hints, and such a show of depth and wisdom, that we gave ourselves up to
his opinions.
The discourse at length fell upon a point which seldom escapes a knot of
true-born Englishmen, whether in case of a religious war, the
Protestants would not be too strong for the Papists? This we unanimously
determined on the Protestant side. One who sat on my right hand, and, as
I found by his discourse, had been in the West Indies, assured us, that
it would be a very easy matter for the Protestants to beat the Pope at
sea; and added, that whenever such a war does break out, it must turn to
the good of the Leeward Islands. Upon this, one who sat at the end of
the bench, and, as I afterwards found, was the geographer of the
company, said, that in case the Papists should drive the Protestants
from these parts of Europe, when the worst came to the worst, it would
be impossible to beat them out of Norway and Greenland, provided the
Northern crowns hold together, and the Czar of Muscovy stand neuter.
He further told us for our comfort, that there were vast tracts of land
about the Pole, inhabited neither by Protestants nor Papists, and of
greater extent than all the Roman Catholic dominions in Europe.
When we had fully discussed this point, my friend the upholsterer began
to exert himself upon the present negotiations of peace, in which he
deposed princes, settled the bounds of kingdoms, and balanced the power
of Europe, with great justice and impartiality.
I at length took my leave of the company, and was going away; but had
not been gone thirty yards, before the upholsterer hemmed again after
me. Upon his advancing towards me, with a whisper, I expected to hear
some secret piece of news which he had not thought fit to communicate to
the bench; but instead of that, he desired me in my ear to lend him half
a crown. In compassion to so needy a statesman, and to dissipate the
confusion I found he was in, I told him, if he pleased, I would give him
five shillings, to receive five pounds of him when the Great Turk was
driven out of Constantinople; which he very readily accepted, but not
before he had laid down to me the impossibility of such an event, as the
affairs of Europe now stand.
This paper I design for the particular benefit of those worthy citizens
who live more in a coffee-house than in their shops, and whose thoughts
are so taken up with the affairs of the Allies, that they forget their
customers.
[Footnote 190: The original of the Political Upholsterer of Nos. 155,
160 and 178 is said to have been an Edward Arne, of Covent Garden. It is
clear that he cannot--as some have said--be the same person as the Arne
at whose house the Indian kings lodged (see No. 171). Steele was
attacked in the _Examiner_ (vol. i. No. 11, vol. iv. No. 40) for the
liberties here taken by Addison.]
No. 156. [ADDISON.
From _Thursday, April 6_, to _Saturday, April 8, 1710_.
--Sequiturque patrem non passibus aequis.
VIRG., AEn. ii. 724.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 7._
We have already described out of Homer the voyage of Ulysses to the
Infernal Shades, with the several adventures that attended it.[191] If
we look into the beautiful romance published not many years since by the
Archbishop of Cambray,[192] we may see the son of Ulysses bound on the
same expedition, and after the same manner making his discoveries among
the regions of the dead. The story of Telemachus is formed altogether in
the spirit of Homer, and will give an unlearned reader a notion of that
great poet's manner of writing, more than any translation of him can
possibly do. As it was written for the instruction of a young prince,
who may one day sit upon the throne of France, the author took care to
suit the several parts of his story, and particularly the description we
are now entering upon, to the character and quality of his pupil. For
which reason, he insists very much on the misery of bad, and the
happiness of good kings, in the account he has given of punishments and
rewards in the other world.
We may however observe, notwithstanding the endeavours of this great and
learned author to copy after the style and sentiments of Homer, that
there is a certain tincture of Christianity running through the whole
relation. The prelate in several places mixes himself with the poet; so
that his future state puts me in mind of Michael Angelo's "Last
Judgment," where Charon and his boat are represented as bearing a part
in the dreadful solemnities of that great day.
Telemachus, after having passed through the dark avenues of death in the
retinue of Mercury, who every day delivers up a certain tale of ghosts
to the ferryman of Styx, is admitted into the infernal bark. Among the
companions of his voyage, is the shade of Nabopharzon, a king of
Babylon, and tyrant of all the East. Among the ceremonies and pomps of
his funeral, there were four slaves sacrificed, according to the custom
of the country, in order to attend him among the shades. The author
having described this tyrant in the most odious colours of pride,
insolence, and cruelty, tells us, that his four slaves, instead of
serving him after death, were perpetually insulting him with reproaches
and affronts for his past usage; that they spurned him as he lay upon
the ground, and forced him to show his face, which he would fain have
covered, as lying under all the confusions of guilt and infamy; and in
short, that they kept him bound in a chain, in order to drag him before
the tribunal of the dead.
Telemachus, upon looking out of the bark, sees all the strand covered
with an innumerable multitude of shades, who, upon his jumping ashore,
immediately vanished. He then pursues his course to the palace of Pluto,
who is described as seated on his throne in terrible majesty, with
Proserpine by his side. At the foot of his throne was the pale hideous
spectre, who, by the ghastliness of his visage, and the nature of the
apparitions that surrounded him, discovers himself to be Death. His
attendants are, Melancholy, Distrust, Revenge, Hatred, Avarice, Despair,
Ambition, Envy, Impiety, with frightful Dreams, and waking Cares, which
are all drawn very naturally in proper actions and postures. The author,
with great beauty, places near his Frightful Dreams an assembly of
phantoms, which are often employed to terrify the living, by appearing
in the shape and likeness of the dead.
The young hero in the next place takes a survey of the different kinds
of criminals that lay in torture among clouds of sulphur and torrents of
fire. The first of these were such as had been guilty of impieties,
which every one has a horror for: to which is added, a catalogue of such
offenders that scarce appear to be faulty in the eyes of the vulgar.
Among these, says the author, are malicious critics, that have
endeavoured to cast a blemish upon the perfections of others; with whom
he likewise places such as have often hurt the reputation of the
innocent, by passing a rash judgment on their actions, without knowing
the occasion of them. These crimes, says he, are more severely punished
after death, because they generally meet with impunity upon earth.
Telemachus, after having taken a survey of several other wretches in the
same circumstances, arrives at that region of torments in which wicked
kings are punished. There are very fine strokes of imagination in the
description which he gives of this unhappy multitude. He tells us, that
on one side of them there stood a revengeful fury, thundering in their
ears incessant repetitions of all the crimes they had committed upon
earth, with the aggravations of ambition, vanity, hardness of heart, and
all those secret affections of mind that enter into the composition of a
tyrant. At the same time, she holds up to them a large mirror, in which
every one sees himself represented in the natural horror and deformity
of his character. On the other side of them stands another fury, that
with an insulting derision repeats to them all the praises that their
flatterers had bestowed upon them while they sat upon their respective
thrones. She too, says the author, presents a mirror before their eyes,
in which every one sees himself adorned with all those beauties and
perfections in which they had been drawn by the vanity of their own
hearts, and the flattery of others. To punish them for the wantonness of
the cruelty which they formerly exercised, they are now delivered up to
be treated according to the fancy and caprice of several slaves, who
have here an opportunity of tyrannising in their turns.
The author having given us a description of these ghastly spectres, who,
says he, are always calling upon Death, and are placed under the
distillation of that burning vengeance which falls upon them drop by
drop, and is never to be exhausted, leads us into a pleasing scene of
groves, filled with the melody of birds, and the odours of a thousand
different plants. These groves are represented as rising among a great
many flowery meadows, and watered with streams that diffuse a perpetual
freshness, in the midst of an eternal day, and a never-fading spring.
This, says the author, was the habitation of those good princes who were
friends of the gods, and parents of the people. Among these, Telemachus
converses with the shade of one of his ancestors, who makes a most
agreeable relation of the joys of Elysium, and the nature of its
inhabitants. The residence of Sesostris among these happy shades, with
his character and present employment, is drawn in a very lively manner,
and with a great elevation of thought.
The description of that pure and gentle light which overflows these
happy regions, and clothes the spirits of these virtuous persons, has
something in it of that enthusiasm which this author was accused of by
his enemies in the Church of Rome; but however it may look in religion,
it makes a very beautiful figure in poetry.
The rays of the sun, says he, are darkness in comparison with this
light, which rather deserves the name of glory, than that of light. It
pierces the thickest bodies, in the same manner as the sunbeams pass
through crystal: it strengthens the sight instead of dazzling it; and
nourishes in the most inward recesses of the mind, a perpetual serenity
that is not to be expressed. It enters and incorporates itself with the
very substance of the soul: the spirits of the blessed feel it in all
their senses, and in all their perceptions. It produces a certain source
of peace and joy that arises in them for ever, running through all the
faculties, and refreshing all the desires of the soul. External
pleasures and delights, with all their charms and allurements, are
regarded with the utmost indifference and neglect by these happy spirits
who have this great principle of pleasure within them, drawing the
whole mind to itself, calling off their attention from the most
delightful objects, and giving them all the transports of inebriation,
without the confusion and the folly of it.
I have here only mentioned some master-touches of this admirable piece,
because the original itself is understood by the greater part of my
readers. I must confess, I take a particular delight in these prospects
of futurity, whether grounded upon the probable suggestions of a fine
imagination, or the more severe conclusions of philosophy; as a man
loves to hear all the discoveries or conjectures relating to a foreign
country which he is, at some time, to inhabit. Prospects of this nature
lighten the burden of any present evil, and refresh us under the worst
and lowest circumstances of mortality. They extinguish in us both the
fear and envy of human grandeur. Insolence shrinks its head, Power
disappears; Pain, Poverty and Death fly before them. In short, the mind
that is habituated to the lively sense of a hereafter, can hope for what
is the most terrifying to the generality of mankind, and rejoice in what
is the most afflicting.
[Footnote 191: See No. 152.]
[Footnote 192: Fenelon's "Telemaque."]