"_I fancy, when your song you sing
(Your song you sing with so much art),
Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing;
For ah! it wounds me like his dart._"
"Why," says I, "this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of
salt: every verse has something in it that piques; and then the dart in
the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram
(for so I think your critics call it) as ever entered into the thought
of a poet." "Dear Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, shaking me by the hand,
"everybody knows you to be a judge of these things; and to tell you
truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry'
three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have
shown you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of
it, for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.
"_When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine._
"That is," says he, "when you have your garland on; when you are writing
verses." To which I replied, "I know your meaning: a metaphor!" "The
same," said he, and went on:
"_And tune your soft melodious notes._
"Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant in
it: I took care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of
it." "Truly," said I, "I think it as good as the former." "I am very
glad to hear you say so," says he; "but mind the next:
"_You seem a sister of the Nine._
"That is," says he, "you seem a sister of the Muses; for if you look
into ancient authors, you will find it was their opinion, that there
were nine of them." "I remember it very well," said I; "but pray
proceed."
"_Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._
"Phoebus," says he, "was the God of Poetry. These little instances,
Mr. Bickerstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then to take off from the
air of learning, which Phoebus and the Muses have given to this first
stanza, you may observe how it falls all of a sudden into the familiar;
'in petticoats!'
"_Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._"
"Let us now," says I, "enter upon the second stanza. I find the first
line is still a continuation of the metaphor:
"_I fancy, when your song you sing._"
"It is very right," says he; "but pray observe the turn of words in
those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still
a doubt upon me, whether in the second line it should be, 'Your song you
sing'; or, 'You sing your song'? You shall hear them both:
"_I fancy, when your song you sing
(Your song you sing with so much art)._"
Or,
"_I fancy, when your song you sing
(You sing your song with so much art)._"
"Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural either way, that you have made
me almost giddy with it." "Dear sir," said he, grasping me by the hand,
"you have a great deal of patience; but pray what do you think of the
next verse:
"_Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing?_"
"Think!" says I; "I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose."
"That was my meaning," says he; "I think the ridicule is well enough hit
off. But we now come to the last, which sums up the whole matter:
"_For ah! it wounds me like his dart._
"Pray, how do you like that 'Ah!' Does it not make a pretty figure in
that place? 'Ah!' It looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out at being
pricked with it:
"_For ah! it wounds me like his dart._
"My friend Dick Easy,"[233] continued he, "assured me he would rather
have written that 'Ah!' than to have been the author of the 'AEneid.' He
indeed objected that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines,
and like a dart in the other. But as to that--" "Oh! as to that," says
I, "it is but supposing Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his quills and
darts will be the same thing." He was going to embrace me for the hint;
but half a dozen critics coming into the room, whose faces he did not
like, he conveyed the sonnet into his pocket, and whispered me in the
ear, he would show it me again as soon as his man had written it over
fair.
[Footnote 233: Perhaps Henry Cromwell. See Nos. 47, 49, 165, and Mrs.
Elizabeth Thomas' "Pylades and Corinna," i. 194.]
No. 164. [STEELE.
From _Tuesday, April 25_, to _Thursday, April 27, 1710_.
Qui sibi promittit cives, urbem sibi curae,
Imperium fore et Italiam, delubra Deorum,
Quo patre sit natus, num ignota matre inhonestus,
Omnes mortales curare et quaerere cogit.
HOR., I Sat. vi. 34.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 26._
I have lately been looking over the many packets of letters which I have
received from all quarters of Great Britain, as well as from foreign
countries, since my entering upon the office of Censor, and indeed am
very much surprised to see so great a number of them, and pleased to
think that I have so far increased the revenue of the Post Office. As
this collection will grow daily, I have digested it into several
bundles, and made proper endorsements on each particular letter, it
being my design, when I lay down the work that I am now engaged in, to
erect a Paper Office, and give it to the public.[234]
I could not but make several observations upon reading over the letters
of my correspondents: as first of all, on the different tastes that
reign in the different parts of this city. I find, by the approbations
which are given me, that I am seldom famous on the same days on both
sides of Temple Bar; and that when I am in the greatest repute within
the Liberties, I dwindle at the court end of the town. Sometimes I sink
in both these places at the same time; but for my comfort, my name has
then been up in the districts of Wapping and Rotherhithe. Some of my
correspondents desire me to be always serious, and others to be always
merry. Some of them entreat me to go to bed and fall into a dream, and
like me better when I am asleep than when I am awake: others advise me
to sit all night upon the stars, and be more frequent in my astrological
observations; for that a vision is not properly a lucubration. Some of
my readers thank me for filling my paper with the flowers of antiquity,
others desire news from Flanders. Some approve my criticisms on the
dead, and others my censures on the living. For this reason, I once
resolved in the new edition of my works, to range my several papers
under distinct heads, according as their principal design was to benefit
and instruct the different capacities of my readers, and to follow the
example of some very great authors, by writing at the head of each
discourse, "Ad Aulam," "Ad Academiam," "Ad Populum," "Ad Clerum."
There is no particular in which my correspondents of all ages,
conditions, sexes, and complexions, universally agree, except only in
their thirst after scandal. It is impossible to conceive how many have
recommended their neighbours to me upon this account, or how
unmercifully I have been abused by several unknown hands, for not
publishing the secret histories of cuckoldom that I have received from
almost every street in town.
It would indeed be very dangerous for me to read over the many praises
and eulogiums which come post to me from all the corners of the nation,
were they not mixed with many checks, reprimands, scurrilities, and
reproaches, which several of my good-natured countrymen cannot forbear
sending me, though it often costs them twopence or a groat before they
can convey them to my hands:[235] so that sometimes when I am put into
the best humour in the world, after having read a panegyric upon my
performance, and looked upon myself as a benefactor to the British
nation, the next letter perhaps I open, begins with, "You old doting
scoundrel;" "Are not you a sad dog?" "Sirrah, you deserve to have your
nose slit;" and the like ingenious conceits. These little mortifications
are necessary to surpass that pride and vanity which naturally arise in
the mind of a received author, and enable me to bear the reputation
which my courteous readers bestow upon me, without becoming a coxcomb by
it. It was for the same reason, that when a Roman general entered the
city in the pomp of a triumph, the commonwealth allowed of several
little drawbacks to his reputation, by conniving at such of the rabble
as repeated libels and lampoons upon him within his hearing, and by that
means engaged his thoughts upon his weakness and imperfections, as well
as on the merits that advanced him to so great honours. The conqueror
however was not the less esteemed for being a man in some particulars,
because he appeared as a god in others.
There is another circumstance in which my countrymen have dealt very
perversely with me; and that is, in searching not only into my own life,
but also into the lives of my ancestors. If there has been a blot in my
family for these ten generations, it has been discovered by some or
other of my correspondents. In short, I find the ancient family of the
Bickerstaffs has suffered very much through the malice and prejudice of
my enemies. Some of them twit me in the teeth with the conduct of my
Aunt Margery:[236] nay, there are some who have been so disingenuous, as
to throw Maud the Milkmaid[237] into my dish, notwithstanding I myself
was the first who discovered that alliance. I reap however many
benefits from the malice of these my enemies, as they let me see my own
faults, and give me a view of myself in the worst light; as they hinder
me from being blown up by flattery and self-conceit; as they make me
keep a watchful eye over my own actions, and at the same time make me
cautious how I talk of others, and particularly of my friends and
relations, or value myself upon the antiquity of my family.
But the most formidable part of my correspondents are those whose
letters are filled with threats and menaces. I have been treated so
often after this manner, that not thinking it sufficient to fence well,
in which I am now arrived at the utmost perfection,[238] and carry
pistols about me, which I have always tucked within my girdle; I several
months since made my will, settled my estate, and took leave of my
friends, looking upon myself as no better than a dead man. Nay, I went
so far as to write a long letter to the most intimate acquaintance I
have in the world, under the character of a departed person, giving him
an account of what brought me to that untimely end, and of the fortitude
with which I met it. This letter being too long for the present paper, I
intend to print it by itself very suddenly; and at the same time I must
confess, I took my hint of it from the behaviour of an old soldier in
the Civil Wars, who was corporal of a company in a regiment of foot,
about the same time that I myself was a cadet in the King's army.
This gentleman was taken by the enemy; and the two parties were upon
such terms at that time, that we did not treat each other as prisoners
of war, but as traitors and rebels. The poor corporal being condemned to
die, wrote a letter to his wife when under sentence of execution. He
writ on the Thursday, and was to be executed on the Friday: but
considering that the letter would not come to his wife's hands till
Saturday, the day after execution, and being at that time more
scrupulous than ordinary in speaking exact truth, he formed his letter
rather according to the posture of his affairs when she should read it,
than as they stood when he sent it; though it must be confessed, there
is a certain perplexity in the style of it, which the reader will easily
pardon, considering his circumstances:
"DEAR WIFE,
"Hoping you are in good health, as I am at this present writing,
this is to let you know, that yesterday, between the hours of
eleven and twelve, I was hanged, drawn and quartered. I died very
penitently, and everybody thought my case very hard. Remember me
kindly to my poor fatherless children.
"Yours till death,
"W. B."
It so happened, that this honest fellow was relieved by a party of his
friends, and had the satisfaction to see all the rebels hanged who had
been his enemies. I must not omit a circumstance which exposed him to
raillery his whole life after. Before the arrival of the next post, that
would have set all things clear, his wife was married to a second
husband, who lived in the peaceful possession of her; and the corporal,
who was a man of plain understanding, did not care to stir in the
matter, as knowing that she had the news of his death under his own
hand, which she might have produced upon occasion.
[Footnote 234: This idea was carried out in 1725, when Charles Lillie
published, by Steele's permission, two volumes of "Original and genuine
Letters sent to the _Tatler_ and _Spectator_, during the time those
works were publishing. None of which have been before printed." See No.
110.]
[Footnote 235: See Nos. 117, 186, Advertisements.]
[Footnote 236: See No. 151.]
[Footnote 237: See No. 75.]
[Footnote 238: It would hardly be possible for a man of Bickerstaff's
age to acquire perfection in fencing after only a few months' practice.
See No. 173: "I first began to learn to push this last winter."]
No. 165. [ADDISON.
From _Thursday, April 27_, to _Saturday, April 29, 1710_.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, April 28._
It has always been my endeavour to distinguish between realities and
appearances, and to separate true merit from the pretence to it. As it
shall ever be my study to make discoveries of this nature in human life,
and to settle the proper distinctions between the virtues and
perfections of mankind, and those false colours and resemblances of them
that shine alike in the eyes of the vulgar; so I shall be more
particularly careful to search into the various merits and pretences of
the learned world. This is the more necessary, because there seems to be
a general combination among the pedants to extol one another's labours,
and cry up one another's parts; while men of sense, either through that
modesty which is natural to them, or the scorn they have for such
trifling commendations, enjoy their stock of knowledge like a hidden
treasure, with satisfaction and silence. Pedantry indeed in learning is
like hypocrisy in religion, a form of knowledge without the power of it,
that attracts the eyes of the common people, breaks out in noise and
show, and finds its reward not from any inward pleasure that attends it,
but from the praises and approbations which it receives from men.
Of this shallow species there is not a more importunate, empty, and
conceited animal, than that which is generally known by the name of a
critic. This, in the common acceptation of the word, is one that,
without entering into the sense and soul of an author, has a few general
rules, which, like mechanical instruments, he applies to the works of
every writer, and as they quadrate with them, pronounces the author
perfect or defective. He is master of a certain set of words, as "unity,
style, fire, phlegm, easy, natural, turn, sentiment," and the like;
which he varies, compounds, divides, and throws together, in every part
of his discourse, without any thought or meaning. The marks you may know
him by are, an elevated eye, and dogmatical brow, a positive voice, and
a contempt for everything that comes out, whether he has read it or not.
He dwells altogether in generals. He praises or dispraises in the lump.
He shakes his head very frequently at the pedantry of Universities, and
bursts into laughter when you mention an author that is not known at
Will's. He has formed his judgment upon Homer, Horace, and Virgil, not
from their own works, but from those of Rapin and Bossu. He knows his
own strength so well, that he never dares praise anything in which he
has not a French author for his voucher.
With these extraordinary talents and accomplishments, Sir Timothy
Tittle[239] puts men in vogue, or condemns them to obscurity, and sits
as judge of life and death upon every author that appears in public. It
is impossible to represent the pangs, agonies, and convulsions which Sir
Timothy expresses in every feature of his face, and muscle of his body,
upon the reading of a bad poet.
About a week ago I was engaged at a friend's of mine in an agreeable
conversation with his wife and daughters, when in the height of our
mirth, Sir Timothy, who makes love to my friend's eldest daughter, came
in amongst us puffing and blowing as if he had been very much out of
breath. He immediately called for a chair, and desired leave to sit
down, without any further ceremony. I asked him where he had been?
whether he was out of order? He only replied, that he was quite spent,
and fell a-cursing in soliloquy. I could hear him cry, "A wicked rogue;"
"An execrable wretch;" "Was there ever such a monster?" The young ladies
upon this began to be affrighted, and asked whether any one had hurt
him? He answered nothing, but still talked to himself. "To lay the first
scene," says he, "in St. James's Park, and the last in Northamptonshire."
"Is that all?" says I. "Then I suppose you have been at the rehearsal of
a play this morning?" "Been!" says he; "I have been at Northampton, in
the Park, in a lady's bed-chamber, in a dining-room, everywhere; the
rogue has led me such a dance." Though I could scarce forbear laughing
at his discourse, I told him I was glad it was no worse, and that he was
only metaphorically weary. "In short, sir," says he, "the author has not
observed a single unity in his whole play; the scene shifts in every
dialogue; the villain has hurried me up and down at such a rate, that I
am tired off my legs." I could not but observe with some pleasure, that
the young lady whom he made love to conceived a very just aversion to
him, upon seeing him so very passionate in trifles. And as she had that
natural sense which makes her a better judge than a thousand critics,
she began to rally him upon this foolish humour. "For my part," says
she, "I never knew a play take that was written up to your rules, as you
call them." "How, madam!" says he; "is that your opinion? I am sure you
have a better taste." "It is a pretty kind of magic," says she, "the
poets have, to transport an audience from place to place without the
help of a coach and horses. I could travel round the world at such a
rate. 'Tis such an entertainment as an enchantress finds when she
fancies herself in a wood, or upon a mountain, at a feast, or a
solemnity; though at the same time she has never stirred out of her
cottage." "Your simile, madam," says Sir Timothy, "is by no means
just." "Pray," says she, "let my similes pass without a criticism. I
must confess," continued she (for I found she was resolved to exasperate
him), "I laughed very heartily at the last new comedy which you found so
much fault with." "But, madam," says he, "you ought not to have laughed;
and I defy any one to show me a single rule that you could laugh by."
"Ought not to laugh!" says she: "pray, who should hinder me?" "Madam,"
says he, "there are such people in the world as Rapin, Dacier, and
several others, that ought to have spoiled your mirth." "I have heard,"
says the young lady, "that your great critics are always very bad poets:
I fancy there is as much difference between the works of one and the
other, as there is between the carriage of a dancing-master and a
gentleman. I must confess," continued she, "I would not be troubled with
so fine a judgment as yours is; for I find you feel more vexation in a
bad comedy than I do in a deep tragedy." "Madam," says Sir Timothy,
"that is not my fault; they should learn the art of writing." "For my
part," says the young lady, "I should think the greatest art in your
writers of comedies is to please." "To please!" says Sir Timothy; and
immediately fell a-laughing. "Truly," says she, "that is my opinion."
Upon this, he composed his countenance, looked upon his watch, and took
his leave.
I hear that Sir Timothy has not been at my friend's house since this
notable conference, to the great satisfaction of the young lady, who by
this means has got rid of a very impertinent fop.
I must confess, I could not but observe, with a great deal of surprise,
how this gentleman, by his ill-nature, folly, and affectation, has made
himself capable of suffering so many imaginary pains, and looking with
such a senseless severity upon the common diversions of life.
[Footnote 239: Perhaps Henry Cromwell; see Nos. 47, 49, 163.]
No. 166. [STEELE.
From _Saturday, April 29_, to _Tuesday, May 2, 1710_.
----Dicenda tacenda loquutus.--HOR., I Ep. vii. 72.
* * * * *
_White's Chocolate-house, May 1._
The world is so overgrown with singularities in behaviour, and method of
living, that I have no sooner laid before mankind the absurdity of one
species of men, but there starts up to my view some new sect of
impertinents that had before escaped notice. This afternoon, as I was
talking with fine Mrs. Sprightly's porter, and desiring admittance upon
an extraordinary occasion, it was my fate to be spied by Tom Modely
riding by in his chariot. He did me the honour to stop, and asked what I
did there of a Monday? I answered that I had business of importance,
which I wanted to communicate to the lady of the house. Tom is one of
those fools who look upon knowledge of the fashion to be the only
liberal science; and was so rough as to tell me, that a well-bred man
would as soon call upon a lady (who keeps a day) at midnight, as on any
day but that on which she professes being at home. There are rules and
decorums which are never to be transgressed by those who understand the
world; and he who offends in this kind, ought not to take it ill if he
is turned away, even when he sees the person look out at her window whom
he inquires for. "Nay," said he, "my Lady Dimple is so positive in this
rule, that she takes it for a piece of good breeding and distinction to
deny herself with her own mouth. Mrs. Comma,[240] the great scholar,
insists upon it; and I myself have heard her assert, that a lord's
porter, or a lady's woman, cannot be said to lie in that case, because
they act by instruction; and their words are no more their own, than
those of a puppet."
He was going on with this ribaldry, when on a sudden he looked on his
watch, and said, he had twenty visits to make, and drove away without
further ceremony. I was then at leisure to reflect upon the tasteless
manner of life, which a set of idle fellows lead in this town, and spend
youth itself with less spirit, than other men do their old age. These
expletives in human society, though they are in themselves wholly
insignificant, become of some consideration when they are mixed with
others. I am very much at a loss how to define, or under what character,
distinction, or denomination, to place them, except you give me leave to
call them the Order of the Insipids. This order is in its extent like
that of the Jesuits, and you see of them in every way of life, and in
every profession. Tom Modely has long appeared to me at the head of this
species. By being habitually in the best company, he knows perfectly
well when a coat is well cut, or a periwig well mounted.[241] As soon as
you enter the place where he is, he tells the next man to him who is
your tailor, and judges of you more from the choice of your
periwig-maker than of your friend. His business in this world is to be
well dressed; and the greatest circumstance that is to be recorded in
his annals is, that he wears twenty shirts a week. Thus, without ever
speaking reason among the men, or passion among the women, he is
everywhere well received; and without any one man's esteem, he has every
man's indulgence.
This order has produced great numbers of tolerable copiers in painting,
good rhymers in poetry, and harmless projectors in politics. You may see
them at first sight grow acquainted by sympathy, insomuch that one who
had not studied nature, and did not know the true cause of their sudden
familiarities, would think that they had some secret intimation of each
other, like the freemasons. The other day at Will's I heard Modely, and
a critic of the same order, show their equal talents with great delight.
The learned insipid was commending Racine's turns; the genteel insipid,
Devillier's curls.[242]
These creatures, when they are not forced into any particular
employment, for want of ideas in their own imaginations, are the
constant plague of all they meet with by inquiries for news and scandal,
which makes them the heroes of visiting-days, where they help the design
of the meeting, which is to pass away that odious thing called Time, in
discourses too trivial to raise any reflections which may put well-bred
persons to the trouble of thinking.
_From my own Apartment, May 1._
I was looking out of my parlour window this morning,[243] and receiving
the honours which Margery, the milkmaid to our lane, was doing me, by
dancing before my door with the plate of half her customers on her
head, when Mr. Clayton,[244] the author of "Arsinoe," made me a visit,
and desired me to insert the following advertisement in my ensuing
paper:
The Pastoral Masque composed by Mr. Clayton, author of "Arsinoe,"
will be performed on Wednesday the 3rd instant, in the great room
at York Buildings.[245] Tickets are to be had at White's
Chocolate-house, St. James's Coffee-house in St. James's Street,
and Young Man's Coffee-house.[246]
Note. The tickets delivered out for the 27th of April will be
taken then.
When I granted his request, I made one to him, which was, that the
performers should put their instruments in tune before the audience came
in; for that I thought the resentment of the Eastern Prince, who,
according to the old story, took "tuning" for "playing," to be very just
and natural. He was so civil, as not only to promise that favour, but
also to assure me, that he would order the heels of the performers to be
muffled in cotton, that the artists in so polite an age as ours, may not
intermix with their harmony a custom which so nearly resembles the
stamping dances of the West Indians or Hottentots.