From _Saturday, April 8_, to _Tuesday, April 11, 1710_.
----Facile est inventis addere.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 10._
I was last night in an assembly of very fine women. How I came among
them is of no great importance to the reader. I shall only let him know,
that I was betrayed into so good company by the device of an old
friend, who had promised to give some of his female acquaintance a sight
of Mr. Bickerstaff. Upon hearing my name mentioned, a lady who sat by me
told me, they had brought together a female concert for my
entertainment. "You must know," says she, "that we all of us look upon
ourselves to be musical instruments,[194] though we do not yet know of
what kind, which we hope to learn from you, if you will give us leave to
play before you." This was followed by a general laugh, which I always
look upon as a necessary flourish in the opening of a female concert.
They then struck up together, and played a whole hour upon two grounds,
viz., the Trial,[195] and the Opera. I could not but observe, that
several of their notes were more soft, and several more sharp, than any
that ever I heard in a male concert; though I must confess, there was
not any regard to time, nor any of those rests and pauses which are
frequent in the harmony of the other sex: besides, that the music was
generally full, and no particular instrument permitted to play long by
itself.
I seemed so very well pleased with what every one said, and smiled with
so much compliance at all their pretty fancies, that though I did not
put one word into their discourse, I have the vanity to think they
looked upon me as very agreeable company. I then told them, that if I
were to draw the picture of so many charming musicians, it should be
like one I had seen of the Muses, with their several instruments in
their hands. Upon which the lady kettledrum tossed back her head, and
cried, "A very pretty simile!" The concert again revived; in which, with
nods, smiles, and approbations, I bore the part rather of one who beats
the time, than of a performer.
I was no sooner retired to my lodgings, but I ran over in my thoughts
the several characters of this fair assembly, which I shall give some
account of, because they are various in their kind, and may each of them
stand as a sample of a whole species.
The person who pleased me most was a flute, an instrument that, without
any great compass, has something exquisitely sweet and soft in its
sound: it lulls and soothes the ear, and fills it with such a gentle
kind of melody, as keeps the mind awake without startling it, and raises
a most agreeable passion between transport and indolence. In short, the
music of the flute is the conversation of a mild and amiable woman, that
has nothing in it very elevated, or at the same time anything mean or
trivial.
I must here observe, that the hautboy is the most perfect of the flute
species, which, with all the sweetness of the sound, has a great
strength and variety of notes; though at the same time I must observe,
that the hautboy in one sex is as scarce as the harpsichord in the
other.
By the side of the flute there sat a flageolet, for so I must call a
certain young lady, who fancied herself a wit, despised the music of the
flute as low and insipid, and would be entertaining the company with
tart ill-natured observations, pert fancies, and little turns, which she
imagined to be full of life and spirit. The flageolet therefore does not
differ from the flute so much in the compass of its notes, as in the
shrillness and sharpness of the sound. We must however take notice, that
the flageolets among their own sex are more valued and esteemed than the
flutes.
There chanced to be a coquette in the concert, that with a great many
skittish notes, affected squeaks, and studied inconsistencies,
distinguished herself from the rest of the company. She did not speak a
word during the whole trial; but I thought she would never have done
upon the opera. One while she would break out upon, "That hideous king!"
then upon the "charming blackmoor!" Then, "Oh that dear lion!" Then
would hum over two or three notes; then run to the window to see what
coach was coming. The coquette therefore I must distinguish by that
musical instrument which is commonly known by the name of a kit, that is
more jiggish than the fiddle itself, and never sounds but to a dance.
The fourth person who bore a part in the conversation was a prude, who
stuck to the trial, and was silent upon the whole opera. The gravity of
her censures, and composure of her voice, which were often attended with
supercilious casts of the eye, and a seeming contempt for the lightness
of the conversation, put me in mind of that ancient serious matronlike
instrument the virginal.
I must not pass over in silence a Lancashire hornpipe, by which I would
signify a young country lady, who with a great deal of mirth and
innocence diverted the company very agreeably; and, if I am not
mistaken, by that time the wildness of her notes is a little softened,
and the redundancy of her music restrained by conversation and good
company, will be improved into one of the most amiable flutes about the
town. Your romps and boarding-school girls fall likewise under this
denomination.
On the right hand of the hornpipe sat a Welsh harp, an instrument which
very much delights in the tunes of old historical ballads, and in
celebrating the renowned actions and exploits of ancient British heroes.
By this instrument I therefore would describe a certain lady, who is one
of those female historians that upon all occasions enters into pedigrees
and descents, and finds herself related, by some offshoot or other, to
almost every great family in England: for which reason she jars and is
out of tune very often in conversation, for the company's want of due
attention and respect to her.
But the most sonorous part of our concert was a shedrum, or (as the
vulgar call it) a kettledrum, who accompanied her discourse with motions
of the body, tosses of the head, and brandishes of the fan. Her music
was loud, bold, and masculine. Every thump she gave, alarmed the
company, and very often set somebody or other in it a-blushing.
The last I shall mention was a certain romantic instrument called a
dulcimer, who talked of nothing but shady woods, flowery meadows,
purling streams, larks and nightingales, with all the beauties of the
spring, and the pleasures of a country life. This instrument has a fine
melancholy sweetness in it, and goes very well with the flute.
I think most of the conversable part of womankind may be found under one
of the foregoing divisions; but it must be confessed, that the
generality of that sex, notwithstanding they have naturally a great
genius for being talkative, are not mistresses of more than one note;
with which however, by frequent repetition, they make a greater sound
than those who are possessed of the whole gamut, as may be observed in
your larums or household scolds, and in your castanets or impertinent
tittle-tattles, who have no other variety in their discourse but that of
talking slower or faster.
Upon communicating this scheme of music to an old friend of mine, who
was formerly a man of gallantry and a rover, he told me, that he
believed he had been in love with every instrument in my concert. The
first that smit him was a hornpipe, who lived near his father's house in
the country; but upon his failing to meet her at an assize, according to
appointment, she cast him off. His next passion was for a kettledrum,
whom he fell in love with at a play; but when he became acquainted with
her, not finding the softness of her sex in her conversation, he grew
cool to her; though at the same time he could not deny, but that she
behaved herself very much like a gentlewoman. His third mistress was a
dulcimer, who he found took great delight in sighing and languishing,
but would go no farther than the preface of matrimony; so that she would
never let a lover have any more of her than her heart, which, after
having won, he was forced to leave her, as despairing of any further
success. "I must confess," says my friend, "I have often considered her
with a great deal of admiration; and I find her pleasure is so much in
this first step of an amour, that her life will pass away in dream,
solitude, and soliloquy, till her decay of charms makes her snatch at
the worst man that ever pretended to her. In the next place," says my
friend, "I fell in love with a kit,[196] who led me such a dance through
all the varieties of a familiar, cold, fond, and indifferent behaviour,
that the world began to grow censorious, though without any cause: for
which reason, to recover our reputations, we parted by consent. To mend
my hand," says he, "I made my next application to a virginal, who gave
me great encouragement, after her cautious manner, till some malicious
companion told her of my long passion for the kit, which made her turn
me off as a scandalous fellow. At length, in despair," says he, "I
betook myself to a Welsh harp, who rejected me with contempt, after
having found that my great-grandmother was a brewer's daughter." I found
by the sequel of my friend's discourse, that he had never aspired to a
hautboy; that he had been exasperated by a flageolet; and that to this
very day, he pines away for a flute.
Upon the whole, having thoroughly considered how absolutely necessary it
is, that two instruments, which are to play together for life, should be
exactly tuned, and go in perfect concert with each other, I would
propose matches between the music of both sexes, according to the
following table of marriage:
1. Drum and kettledrum.
2. Lute and flute.
3. Harpsichord and hautboy.
4. Violin and flageolet.
5. Bass-viol and kit.
6. Trumpet and Welsh harp.
7. Hunting-horn and hornpipe.
8. Bagpipe and castanets.
9. Passing-bell and virginal.
Mr. Bickerstaff, in consideration of his ancient friendship and
acquaintance with Mr. Betterton,[197] and great esteem for his merit,
summons all his disciples, whether dead or living, mad or tame, Toasts,
Smarts, Dappers, Pretty Fellows, Musicians or Scrapers, to make their
appearance at the playhouse in the Haymarket on Thursday next; when
there will be a play acted for the benefit of the said Mr. Betterton.
[Footnote 193: This paper is not included in Tickell's edition of
Addison's Works; but Steele ascribes it to Addison in his Dedication of
"The Drummer" to Congreve.]
[Footnote 194: See No. 153.]
[Footnote 195: The trial of Dr. Sacheverell.]
[Footnote 196: See Nos. 34 and 160.]
[Footnote 197: See Nos. 1, 71, 167.]
No. 158. [ADDISON.
From _Tuesday, April 11_, to _Thursday, April 13, 1710_.
Faciunt nae intelligendo, ut nihil intelligant.
TER., Andria, Prologue, 17.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 12._
Tom Folio[198] is a broker in learning, employed to get together good
editions, and stock the libraries of great men. There is not a sale of
books begins till Tom Folio is seen at the door. There is not an auction
where his name is not heard, and that too in the very nick of time, in
the critical moment, before the last decisive stroke of the hammer.
There is not a subscription goes forward, in which Tom is not privy to
the first rough draught of the proposals; nor a catalogue printed, that
does not come to him wet from the press. He is an universal scholar, so
far as the title-page of all authors, knows the manuscripts in which
they were discovered, the editions through which they have passed, with
the praises or censures which they have received from the several
members of the learned world. He has a greater esteem for Aldus and
Elzevir, than for Virgil and Horace. If you talk of Herodotus, he breaks
out into a panegyric upon Harry Stephans. He thinks he gives you an
account of an author, when he tells you the subject he treats of, the
name of the editor, and the year in which it was printed. Or if you draw
him into further particulars, he cries up the goodness of the paper,
extols the diligence of the corrector, and is transported with the
beauty of the letter. This he looks upon to be sound learning and
substantial criticism. As for those who talk of the fineness of style,
and the justness of thought, or describe the brightness of any
particular passages; nay, though they write themselves in the genius and
spirit of the author they admire, Tom looks upon them as men of
superficial learning, and flashy parts.
I had yesterday morning a visit from this learned idiot (for that is the
light in which I consider every pedant), when I discovered in him some
little touches of the coxcomb which I had not before observed. Being
very full of the figure which he makes in the republic of letters, and
wonderfully satisfied with his great stock of knowledge, he gave me
broad intimations, that he did not "believe" in all points as his
forefathers had done. He then communicated to me a thought of a certain
author upon a passage of Virgil's account of the dead, which I made the
subject of a late paper.[199] This thought has taken very much among men
of Tom's pitch and understanding, though universally exploded by all
that know how to construe Virgil, or have any relish of antiquity. Not
to trouble my reader with it, I found upon the whole, that Tom did not
believe a future state of rewards and punishments, because AEneas, at his
leaving the empire of the dead, passed through the gate of ivory, and
not through that of horn. Knowing that Tom had not sense enough to give
up an opinion which he had once received, that he might avoid wrangling,
I told him, that Virgil possibly had his oversights as well as another
author. "Ah! Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "you would have another opinion
of him, if you would read him in Daniel Heinsius' edition. I have
perused him myself several times in that edition," continued he; "and
after the strictest and most malicious examination, could find but two
faults in him: one of them is in the 'AEneids,' where there are two
commas instead of a parenthesis; and another in the third 'Georgic,'
where you may find a semicolon turned upside down." "Perhaps," said I,
"these were not Virgil's thoughts, but those of the transcriber." "I do
not design it," says Tom, "as a reflection on Virgil: on the contrary, I
know that all the manuscripts 'reclaim' against such a punctuation. Oh!
Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "what would a man give to see one simile of
Virgil writ in his own hand?" I asked him which was the simile he meant;
but was answered, "Any simile in Virgil." He then told me all the secret
history in the commonwealth of learning; of modern pieces that had the
names of ancient authors annexed to them; of all the books that were now
writing or printing in the several parts of Europe; of many amendments
which are made, and not yet published; and a thousand other particulars,
which I would not have my memory burdened with for a Vatican.
At length, being fully persuaded that I thoroughly admired him, and
looked upon him as a prodigy of learning, he took his leave. I know
several of Tom's class who are professed admirers of Tasso without
understanding a word of Italian; and one in particular, that carries a
"Pastor Fido" in his pocket, in which I am sure he is acquainted with no
other beauty but the clearness of the character.
There is another kind of pedant, who, with all Tom Folio's
impertinences, has greater superstructures and embellishments of Greek
and Latin, and is still more unsupportable than the other, in the same
degree as he is more learned. Of this kind very often are editors,
commentators, interpreters, scholiasts, and critics; and in short, all
men of deep learning without common sense. These persons set a greater
value on themselves for having found out the meaning of a passage in
Greek, than upon the author for having written it; nay, will allow the
passage itself not to have any beauty in it, at the same time that they
would be considered as the greatest men of the age for having
interpreted it. They will look with contempt upon the most beautiful
poems that have been composed by any of their contemporaries; but will
lock themselves up in their studies for a twelvemonth together, to
correct, publish, and expound, such trifles of antiquity as a modern
author would be contemned for. Men of the strictest morals, severest
lives, and the gravest professions, will write volumes upon an idle
sonnet that is originally in Greek or Latin; give editions of the most
immoral authors, and spin out whole pages upon the various readings of a
lewd expression. All that can be said in excuse for them, is, that their
works sufficiently show they have no taste of their authors; and that
what they do in this kind, is out of their great learning, and not out
of any levity or lasciviousness of temper.
A pedant of this nature is wonderfully well described in six lines of
Boileau,[200] with which I shall conclude his character:
"_Un Pedant enivre de sa vaine science,
Tout herisse de grec, tout bouffi d'arrogance,
Et qui, de mille auteurs retenus mot pour mot,
Dans sa tete entasses, n'a souvent fait qu'un sot,
Croit qu'un livre fait tout, et que, sans Aristote,
La raison ne voit goutte, et le bon sens radote._"
[Footnote 198: The original of Tom Folio is supposed to be Thomas
Rawlinson, a great book-collector, who lived in Gray's Inn, and
afterwards in London House, Aldersgate Street, where he died, August 6,
1725, aged 44. His library and MSS. were sold between 1722 and 1734.]
[Footnote 199: No. 154.]
[Footnote 200: Satire iv.: "Les folies humaines."]
No. 159. [STEELE.
From _Thursday, April 13_, to _Saturday, April 15, 1710_.
Nitor in adversum, nec me qui caetera, vincit
Impetus.--OVID., Met. ii. 72.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 14._
The wits of this island, for above fifty years past, instead of
correcting the vices of the age, have done all they could to inflame
them. Marriage has been one of the common topics of ridicule that every
stage-scribbler has found his account in; for whenever there is an
occasion for a clap, an impertinent jest upon matrimony is sure to raise
it. This has been attended with very pernicious consequences. Many a
country squire, upon his setting up for a man of the town, has gone home
in the gaiety of his heart and beat his wife. A kind husband has been
looked upon as a clown, and a good wife as a domestic animal, unfit for
the company or conversation of the _beau monde_. In short, separate
beds, silent tables, and solitary homes have been introduced by your men
of wit and pleasure of the age.
As I shall always make it my business to stem the torrents of prejudice
and vice, I shall take particular care to put an honest father of a
family in countenance, and endeavour to remove all the evils out of that
state of life, which is either the most happy, or most miserable, that a
man can be placed in. In order to this, let us, if you please, consider
the wits and well-bred persons of former times. I have shown in another
paper,[201] that Pliny, who was a man of the greatest genius, as well as
of the first quality of his age, did not think it below him to be a
kind husband, and to treat his wife as a friend, companion and
counsellor. I shall give the like instance of another, who in all
respects was a much greater man than Pliny, and has written a whole book
of letters to his wife. They are not so full of turns as those
translated out of the former author, who writes very much like a modern,
but are full of that beautiful simplicity which is altogether natural,
and is the distinguishing character of the best ancient writers. The
author I am speaking of, is Cicero; who, in the following passages which
I have taken out of his letters,[202] shows, that he did not think it
inconsistent with the politeness of his manners, or the greatness of his
wisdom, to stand upon record in his domestic character.
These letters were written at a time when he was banished from his
country, by a faction that then prevailed at Rome.
_Cicero to Terentia._