A stage-coach sets out exactly at six from Nando's Coffee-house[298] to
Mr. Tiptoe's dancing school, and returns at eleven every evening, for
16_d._
N.B. Dancing-shoes not exceeding four inches height in the heel, and
periwigs not exceeding three feet in length, are carried in the
coach-box gratis.
[Footnote 297: "Alieni appetens, sui profusus" ("Bell. Cat." cap. i.).]
[Footnote 298: See No. 142.]
No. 181. [STEELE.
From _Saturday, June 3_, to _Tuesday, June 6, 1710_.
----Dies, ni fallor, adest, quem semper acerbum,
Semper honoratum (sic di voluistis), habebo.
VIRG., AEn. v. 49.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, June 5._
There are those among mankind, who can enjoy no relish of their being,
except the world is made acquainted with all that relates to them, and
think everything lost that passes unobserved; but others find a solid
delight in stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life after such a
manner, as is as much above the approbation as the practice of the
vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great enough of true
friendship or goodwill, some sages have thought it pious to preserve a
certain reverence for the manes of their deceased friends, and have
withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at certain seasons, to
commemorate in their own thoughts such of their acquaintance who have
gone before them out of this life: and indeed, when we are advanced in
years, there is not a more pleasing entertainment, than to recollect in
a gloomy moment the many we have parted with that have been dear and
agreeable to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two after those
with whom, perhaps, we have indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth
and jollity. With such inclinations in my heart I went to my closet
yesterday in the evening, and resolved to be sorrowful; upon which
occasion, I could not but look with disdain upon myself, that though all
the reasons which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now
as forcible as at the moment of their departure, yet did not my heart
swell with the same sorrow which I felt at that time; but I could,
without tears, reflect upon many pleasing adventures I have had with
some who have long been blended with common earth. Though it is by the
benefit of nature that length of time thus blots out the violence of
afflictions; yet with tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost
necessary to revive the old places of grief in our memory, and ponder
step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of
thought which poises the heart, and makes it beat with due time, without
being quickened with desire, or retarded with despair, from its proper
and equal motion. When we wind up a clock that is out of order, to make
it go well for the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the
present instant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours,
before it can recover the regularity of its time. "Such," thought I,
"shall be my method this evening; and since it is that day of the year
which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life as I much
delighted in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and
their memory, while I run over all the melancholy circumstances of this
kind which have occurred to me in my whole life."
The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my
father,[299] at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was
rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real
understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went
into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it.
I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a beating the coffin, and
calling "Papa"; for I know not how I had some slight idea that he was
locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and transported
beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost
smothered me in her embrace, and told me in a flood of tears, papa could
not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put
him under ground, whence he could never come to us again. She was a very
beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief
amidst all the wildness of her transport, which, methought, struck me
with an instinct of sorrow, which, before I was sensible of what it was
to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my
heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in
embryo, and receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to
be removed by reason, as any mark with which a child is born is to be
taken away by any future application. Hence it is, that good nature in
me is no merit; but having been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears
before I knew the cause of any affliction, or could draw defences from
my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly
gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared me into ten thousand
calamities, and from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that
in such a humour as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the
softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from
the memory of past afflictions.[300]
We that are very old, are better able to remember things which befell us
in our distant youth, than the passages of later days. For this reason
it is, that the companions of my strong and vigorous years present
themselves more immediately to me in this office of sorrow. Untimely or
unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament, so little are we able
to make it indifferent when a thing happens, though we know it must
happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved from
it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises different
passions according to the circumstance of their departure. Who can have
lived in an army, and in a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and
agreeable men that might long have flourished in the arts of peace, and
not join with the imprecations of the fatherless and widow on the tyrant
to whose ambition they fell sacrifices? But gallant men, who are cut off
by the sword, move rather our veneration than our pity, and we gather
relief enough from their own contempt of death, to make it no evil,
which was approached with so much cheerfulness, and attended with so
much honour. But when we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life
on such occasions, and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to
give death to those from whom they had the fortune to receive it; I say,
when we let our thoughts wander from such noble objects, and consider
the havoc which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters
with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once.
Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper
tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence, and untimely death,
of the first object my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous virgin!
How ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel! O Death! thou hast
right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty,
but why this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the undiscerning, to
the thoughtless?[301] Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can erase the
dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I saw her dressed for
a ball, and in a shroud. How ill did the habit of Death become the
pretty trifler? I still behold the smiling earth--A large train of
disasters were coming on to my memory, when my servant knocked at my
closet door, and interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of
wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on Thursday
next at Garraway's Coffee-house.[302] Upon the receipt of it, I sent for
three of my friends. We are so intimate, that we can be company in
whatever state of mind we meet, and can entertain each other without
expecting always to rejoice. The wine we found to be generous and
warming, but with such a heat as moved us rather to be cheerful than
frolicsome. It revived the spirits without firing the blood. We
commended it till two of the clock this morning, and having to-day met a
little before dinner, we found, that though we drank two bottles a man,
we had much more reason to recollect than forget what had passed the
night before.
[Footnote 299: Steele's father, Richard Steele, was a Dublin solicitor.
His mother, whose maiden name was Elinor Sheyles, had married Thomas
Symes, of Dublin, as her first husband.]
[Footnote 300: Thackeray has compared the treatment of Death by Swift,
Addison, and Steele. After speaking of Addison's "lovely serenity" and
Swift's "savage indignation," he turns to Steele: "The third, whose
theme is Death, too, and who will speak his word of mortal as Heaven
teaches him, leads you up to his father's coffin, and shows you his
beautiful mother weeping, and himself an unconscious little boy
wondering at her side. His own natural tears flow as he takes your hand,
and confidingly asks for your sympathy; 'See how good and innocent and
beautiful women are,' he says, 'how tender little children! Let us love
these and one another, brother--God knows we have need of love and
pardon!'" ("English Humourists," 1864, 158-9).]
[Footnote 301: The unsuspecting.]
[Footnote 302: "Notice is hereby given, that 46 hogsheads and one half
of extraordinary French claret will be put up to sale, at L20 per
hogshead, at Garraway's Coffee-house in Exchange Alley, on Thursday the
8th instant, at three in the afternoon, and to be tasted in a vault
under Messrs. Lane and Harrison's, in Sweething's Lane, Lombard Street,
from this day till the time of sale," &c. (No. 181, Advertisement).]
No. 182. [STEELE.
From _Tuesday, June 6_, to _Thursday, June 8, 1710_.
Spectaret populum ludis attentius ipsis.--HOR., 2 Ep. i. 197.
* * * * *
_Sheer Lane, June 7._
The town grows so very empty, that the greater number of my gay
characters are fled out of my sight into the country. My beaus are now
shepherds, and my belles wood-nymphs. They are lolling over rivulets,
and covered with shades, while we who remain in town hurry through the
dust about impertinences, without knowing the happiness of leisure and
retirement. To add to this calamity, even the actors are going to desert
us for a season, and we shall not shortly have so much as a landscape or
frost-scene to refresh ourselves within the midst of our fatigues. This
may not perhaps be so sensible a loss to any other as to me; for I
confess it is one of my greatest delights to sit unobserved and unknown
in the gallery, and entertain myself either with what is personated on
the stage, or observe what appearances present themselves in the
audience. If there were no other good consequences in a playhouse, than
that so many persons of different ranks and conditions are placed there
in their most pleasing aspects, that prospect only would be very far
from being below the pleasures of a wise man. There is not one person
you can see, in whom, if you look with an inclination to be pleased, you
may not behold something worthy or agreeable. Our thoughts are in our
features; and the visage of those in whom love, rage, anger, jealousy or
envy, have their frequent mansions, carries the traces of those passions
wherever the amorous, the choleric, the jealous, or the envious, are
pleased to make their appearance. However, the assembly at a play is
usually made up of such as have a sense of some elegance in pleasure, by
which means the audience is generally composed of those who have gentle
affections, or at least of such as at that time are in the best humour
you can ever find them. This has insensibly a good effect upon our
spirits; and the musical airs which are played to us, put the whole
company into a participation of the same pleasure, and by consequence
for that time equal in humour, in fortune, and in quality. Thus far we
gain only by coming into an audience; but if we find added to this, the
beauties of proper action, the force of eloquence, and the gaiety of
well-placed lights and scenes, it is being happy, and seeing others
happy for two hours; a duration of bliss not at all to be slighted by so
short-lived a creature as man. Why then should not the duty of the
player be had in much more esteem than it is at present? If the merit of
a performance be to be valued according to the talents which are
necessary to it, the qualifications of a player should raise him much
above the arts and ways of life which we call mercenary or mechanic.
When we look round a full house, and behold so few that can (though they
set themselves out to show as much as the persons on the stage do) come
up to what they would appear even in dumb show, how much does the actor
deserve our approbation, who adds to the advantage of looks and motions
the tone of voice, the dignity, the humility, the sorrow, the triumph
suitable to the character he personates?
It may possibly be imagined by severe men, that I am too frequent in the
mention of the theatrical representations; but who is not excessive in
the discourse of what he extremely likes? Eugenio can lead you to a
gallery of fine pictures, which collection he is always increasing:
Crassus through woods and forests, to which he designs to add the
neighbouring counties. These are great and noble instances of their
magnificence. The players are my pictures, and their scenes my
territories. By communicating the pleasure I take in them, it may in
some measure add to men's gratifications this way, as viewing the choice
and wealth of Eugenio and Crassus augments the enjoyments of those whom
they entertain, with a prospect of such possessions as would not
otherwise fall within the reach of their fortunes.
It is a very good office one man does another, when he tells him the
manner of his being pleased; and I have often thought, that a comment
upon the capacities of the players would very much improve the delight
that way, and impart it to those who otherwise have no sense of it.
The first of the present stage are Wilks,[303] and Cibber,[304] perfect
actors in their different kinds. Wilks has a singular talent in
representing the graces of Nature, Cibber the deformity in the
affectation of them. Were I a writer of plays, I should never employ
either of them in parts which had not their bent this way. This is seen
in the inimitable strain and run of good humour which is kept up in the
character of Wildair,[305] and in the nice and delicate abuse of
understanding in that of Sir Novelty.[306] Cibber, in another light,
hits exquisitely the flat civility of an affected gentleman-usher, and
Wilks the easy frankness of a gentleman.
If you would observe the force of the same capacities in higher life,
can anything be more ingenuous than the behaviour of Prince Harry when
his father checks him? Anything more exasperating, than that of Richard,
when he insults his superiors? To beseech gracefully, to approach
respectfully, to pity, to mourn, to love, are the places wherein Wilks
may be made to shine with the utmost beauty: to rally pleasantly, to
scorn artfully, to flatter, to ridicule, and to neglect, are what Cibber
would perform with no less excellence.
When actors are considered with a view to their talents, it is not only
the pleasure of that hour of action which the spectators gain from their
performance, but the opposition of right and wrong on the stage would
have its force in the assistance of our judgments on other occasions. I
have at present under my tutelage a young poet, who, I design, shall
entertain the town the ensuing winter. And as he does me the honour to
let me see his comedy as he writes it, I shall endeavour to make the
parts fit the genius of the several actors, as exactly as their habits
can their bodies: and because the two I have mentioned are to perform
the principal parts, I have prevailed with the house to let "The
Careless Husband"[307] be acted on Tuesday next, that my young author
may have a view of a play which is acted to perfection, both by them and
all concerned in it, as being born within the walls of the theatre, and
written with an exact knowledge of the abilities of the performers. Mr.
Wilks will do his best in this play, because it is for his own benefit;
and Mr. Cibber, because he writ it. Besides which, all the great
beauties we have left in town, or within call of it, will be present,
because it is the last play this season. This opportunity will, I hope,
inflame my pupil with such generous notions from seeing this fair
assembly as will be then present, that his play may be composed of
sentiments and characters proper to be presented to such an audience.
His drama at present has only the outlines drawn. There are, I find, to
be in it all the reverent offices of life, such as regard to parents,
husbands, and honourable lovers, preserved with the utmost care; and at
the same time that agreeableness of behaviour, with the intermixture of
pleasing passions as arise from innocence and virtue, interspersed in
such a manner, as that to be charming and agreeable shall appear the
natural consequence of being virtuous. This great end is one of those I
propose to do in my Censorship; but if I find a thin house, on an
occasion when such a work is to be promoted, my pupil shall return to
his commons at Oxford, and Sheer Lane and the theatres be no longer
correspondents.
[Footnote 303: See No. 14.]
[Footnote 304: Colley Cibber, actor and dramatist, was born in 1671. He
was admirable alike as an actor of comic parts and a critic of acting,
and some of his comedies are excellent. In 1714 Cibber became associated
with Steele in the management of Drury Lane Theatre. After his
retirement from the stage in 1733 he published his famous "Apology"
(1740). He died in 1757. Steele wrote several times in his praise in the
_Spectator_ (Nos. 370, 546).]
[Footnote 305: Sir Harry Wildair, in Farquhar's "Constant Couple."]
[Footnote 306: Sir Novelty Fashion, in Cibber's "Love's Last Shift."]
[Footnote 307: In this play, produced in 1705, Wilks was Sir Charles
Easy; Cibber, Lord Foppington; and Mrs. Oldfield, Lady Betty Modish. In
his "Apology" Cibber said that it was only just to place to the account
of Mrs. Oldfield a large share of the favourable reception accorded to
"The Careless Husband."]
No. 183. [STEELE.
From _Thursday, June 8_, to _Saturday, June 10, 1710_.
----Fuit haec sapientia quondam,
Publica privatis secernere.
HOR., Ars Poet. 396.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, June 9._
When men look into their own bosoms, and consider the generous seeds
which are there planted, that might, if rightly cultivated, ennoble
their lives, and make their virtue venerable to futurity; how can they,
without tears, reflect on the universal degeneracy from that public
spirit, which ought to be the first and principal motive of all their
actions? In the Grecian and Roman nations, they were wise enough to keep
up this great incentive, and it was impossible to be in the fashion
without being a patriot. All gallantry had its first source from hence;
and to want a warmth for the public welfare was a defect so scandalous,
that he who was guilty of it had no pretence to honour or manhood. What
makes the depravity among us in this behalf the more vexatious and
irksome to reflect upon, is, that the contempt of life is carried as far
amongst us as it could be in those memorable people; and we want only a
proper application of the qualities which are frequent among us to be as
worthy as they. There is hardly a man to be found who will not fight
upon any occasion which he thinks may taint his own honour. Were this
motive as strong in everything that regards the public, as it is in this
our private case, no man would pass his life away without having
distinguished himself by some gallant instance of his zeal towards it in
the respective incidents of his life and profession. But it is so far
otherwise, that there cannot at present be a more ridiculous animal than
one who seems to regard the good of others. He in civil life whose
thoughts turn upon schemes which may be of general benefit, without
further reflection, is called a "projector"; and the man whose mind
seems intent upon glorious achievements, a "knight-errant." The ridicule
among us runs strong against laudable actions. Nay, in the ordinary
course of things, and the common regards of life, negligence of the
public is an epidemic vice. The brewer in his excise, the merchant in
his customs, and for aught we know the soldier in his muster-rolls,
think never the worse of themselves for being guilty of their respective
frauds towards the public. This evil is come to such a fantastical
height, that he is a man of a public spirit, and heroically affected to
his country, who can go so far as even to turn usurer with all he has in
her funds. There is not a citizen in whose imagination such a one does
not appear in the same light of glory as Codrus, Scaevola, or any other
great name in old Rome. Were it not for the heroes of so much per cent.
as have regard enough for themselves and their nation to trade with her
with their wealth, the very notion of public love would long ere now
have vanished from among us. But however general custom may hurry us
away in the stream of a common error, there is no evil, no crime, so
great as that of being cold in matters which relate to the common good.
This is in nothing more conspicuous than in a certain willingness to
receive anything that tends to the diminution of such as have been
conspicuous instruments in our service. Such inclinations proceed from
the most low and vile corruption of which the soul of man is capable.
This effaces not only the practice, but the very approbation of honour
and virtue; and has had such an effect that, to speak freely, the very
sense of public good has no longer a part even in our conversations.
Can then the most generous motive of life, the good of others, be so
easily banished from the breast of man? Is it possible to draw all our
passions inward? Shall the boiling heat of youth be sunk in pleasures,
the ambition of manhood in selfish intrigues? Shall all that is
glorious, all that is worth the pursuit of great minds, be so easily
rooted out? When the universal bent of a people seems diverted from the
sense of their common good and common glory, it looks like a fatality,
and crisis of impending misfortune.
The generous nations we just now mentioned understood this so very well,
that there was hardly an oration ever made which did not turn upon this
general sense, that the love of their country was the first and most
essential quality in an honest mind. Demosthenes, in a cause wherein his
fame, reputation, and fortune were embarked, puts his all upon this
issue: "Let the Athenians," says he, "be benevolent to me, as they think
I have been zealous for them." This great and discerning orator knew
there was nothing else in nature could bear him up against his
adversaries, but this one quality of having shown himself willing or
able to serve his country. This certainly is the test of merit; and the
first foundation for deserving goodwill, is having it yourself. The
adversary of this orator at that time was AEschines, a man of wily arts
and skill in the world, who could, as occasion served, fall in with a
national start of passion, or sullenness of humour (which a whole nation
is sometimes taken with as well as a private man), and by that means
divert them from their common sense, into an aversion for receiving
anything in its true light. But when Demosthenes had awaked his audience
with that one hint of judging by the general tenor of his life towards
them, his services bore down his opponent before him, who fled to the
covert of his mean arts till some more favourable occasion should offer,
against the superior merit of Demosthenes.
It were to be wished, that love of their country were the first
principle of action in men of business, even for their own sakes; for
when the world begins to examine into their conduct, the generality, who
have no share in, or hopes of any part in power or riches, but what is
the effect of their own labour or property, will judge of them by no
other method, than that of how profitable their administration has been
to the whole. They who are out of the influence of men's fortune or
favour, will let them stand or fall by this one only rule; and men who
can bear being tried by it, are always popular in their fall: those who
cannot suffer such a scrutiny, are contemptible in their advancement.
But I am here running into shreds of maxims from reading Tacitus this
morning, which has driven me from my recommendation of public spirit,
which was the intended purpose of this Lucubration. There is not a more
glorious instance of it, than in the character of Regulus. This same
Regulus was taken prisoner by the Carthagenians, and was sent by them to
Rome, in order to demand some Punic noblemen who were prisoners in
exchange for himself, and was bound by an oath that he would return to
Carthage if he failed in his commission. He proposes this to the Senate,
who were in suspense upon it; which Regulus observing (without having
the least notion of putting the care of his own life in competition with
the public good), desired them to consider that he was old, and almost
useless; that those demanded in exchange were men of daring tempers, and
great merit in military affairs, and wondered they would make any doubt
of permitting him to go back to the short tortures prepared for him at
Carthage, where he should have the advantage of ending a long life both
gloriously and usefully. This generous advice was consented to, and he
took his leave of his country and his weeping friends to go to certain
death, with that cheerful composure, as a man, after the fatigue of
business in a Court or a city, retires to the next village for the air.
No. 184. [STEELE.
From _Saturday, June 10_, to _Tuesday, June 13, 1710_.
Una de multis face nuptiali
Digna.--HOR., 3 Od. xi. 33.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, June 12._
There are certain occasions of life which give propitious omens of the
future good conduct of it, as well as others which explain our present
inward state, according to our behaviour in them. Of the latter sort are
funerals; of the former, weddings. The manner of our carriage when we
lose a friend, shows very much our temper, in the humility of our words
and actions, and a general sense of our destitute condition, which runs
through all our deportment. This gives a solemn testimony of the
generous affection we bore our friends, when we seem to disrelish
everything now we can no more enjoy them, or see them partake in our
enjoyments. It is very proper and human to put ourselves as it were in
their livery after their decease, and wear a habit unsuitable to
prosperity, while those we loved and honoured are mouldering in the
grave. As this is laudable on the sorrowful side; so on the other,
incidents of success may no less justly be represented and acknowledged
in our outward figure and carriage. Of all such occasions, that great
change of a single life into marriage is the most important, as it is
the source of all relations, and from whence all other friendship and
commerce do principally arise. The general intent of both sexes is to
dispose of themselves happily and honourably in this state; and as all
the good qualities we have are exerted to make our way into it, so the
best appearance, with regard to their minds, their persons, and their
fortunes, at the first entrance into it, is a due to each other in the
married pair, as well as a compliment to the rest of the world. It was
an instruction of a wise lawgiver, that unmarried women should wear such
loose habits which, in the flowing of their garb, should incite their
beholders to a desire of their persons; and that the ordinary motion of
their bodies might display the figure and shape of their limbs in such a
manner, as at once to preserve the strictest decency, and raise the
warmest inclinations.
This was the economy of the legislator for the increase of people, and
at the same time for the preservation of the genial bed. She who was the
admiration of all who beheld her while unmarried, was to bid adieu to
the pleasure of shining in the eyes of many, as soon as she took upon
her the wedded condition. However, there was a festival of life allowed
the new-married, a sort of intermediate state between celibacy and
matrimony, which continued certain days. During that time,
entertainments, equipages, and other circumstances of rejoicing, were
encouraged, and they were permitted to exceed the common mode of living,
that the bride and bridegroom might learn from such freedoms of
conversation to run into a general conduct to each other, made out of
their past and future state, so to temper the cares of the man and the
wife with the gaieties of the lover and the mistress.
In those wise ages the dignity of life was kept up, and on the
celebration of such solemnities there were no impertinent whispers and
senseless interpretations put upon the unaffected cheerfulness or
accidental seriousness of the bride; but men turned their thoughts upon
the general reflections, upon what issue might probably be expected from
such a couple in the succeeding course of their life, and felicitated
them accordingly upon such prospects.
I must confess, I cannot from any ancient manuscripts, sculptures, or
medals, deduce the rise of our celebrated custom of throwing the
stocking; but have a faint memory of an account a friend gave me of an
original picture in the palace of Aldobrandini in Rome. This seems to
show a sense of this affair very different from what is usual among us.
It is a Grecian wedding, and the figures represented are, a person
offering sacrifice, a beautiful damsel dancing, and another playing on
the harp. The bride is placed in her bed, the bridegroom sits at the
foot of it, with an aspect which intimates his thoughts were not only
entertained with the joys with which he was surrounded, but also with a
noble gratitude, and divine pleasure in the offering, which was then
made to the gods to invoke their influence on his new condition. There
appears in the face of the woman a mixture of fear, hope, and modesty;
in the bridegroom, a well-governed rapture. As you see in great spirits
grief which discovers itself the more by forbearing tears and
complaints, you may observe also the highest joy is too big for
utterance, the tongue being of all the organs the least capable of
expressing such a circumstance. The nuptial torch, the bower, the
marriage song, are all particulars which we meet with in the allusions
of the ancient writers; and in every one of them something is to be
observed which denotes their industry to aggrandise and adorn this
occasion above all others.
With us all order and decency in this point is perverted by the insipid
mirth of certain animals we usually call "wags." These are a species of
all men the most insupportable. One cannot without some reflection say,
whether their flat mirth provokes us more to pity or to scorn; but if
one considers with how great affectation they utter their frigid
conceits, commiseration immediately changes itself into contempt.
A wag is the last order even of pretenders to wit and good humour. He
has generally his mind prepared to receive some occasion of merriment,
but is of himself too empty to draw any out of his own set of thoughts,
and therefore laughs at the next thing he meets, not because it is
ridiculous, but because he is under a necessity of laughing. A wag is
one that never in its life saw a beautiful object, but sees what it does
see in the most low and most inconsiderable light it can be placed.
There is a certain ability necessary to behold what is amiable and
worthy of our approbation, which little minds want, and attempt to hide
by a general disregard to everything they behold above what they are
able to relish. Hence it is, that a wag in an assembly is ever guessing
how well such a lady slept last night, and how much such a young fellow
is pleased with himself. The wag's gaiety consists in a certain
professed ill-breeding, as if it were an excuse for committing a fault,
that a man knows he does so. Though all public places are full of
persons of this order, yet, because I will not allow impertinence and
affectation to get the better of native innocence and simplicity of
manners, I have, in spite of such little disturbers of public
entertainments, persuaded my brother Tranquillus and his wife my sister
Jenny, in favour of Mr. Wilks, to be at the play to-morrow evening.
They, as they have so much good sense as to act naturally, without
regard to the observation of others, will not, I hope, be discomposed if
any of the fry of wags should take upon them to make themselves merry
upon the occasion of their coming, as they intend, in their wedding
clothes. My brother is a plain, worthy, and honest man, and as it is
natural for men of that turn to be mightily taken with sprightly and
airy women, my sister has a vivacity which may perhaps give hopes to
impertinents, but will be esteemed the effect of innocence among wise
men. They design to sit with me in the box, which the house have been so
complaisant to offer me whenever I think fit to come thither in my
public character.[308]
I do not in the least doubt, but the true figure of conjugal affection
will appear in their looks and gestures. My sister does not affect to be
gorgeous in her dress, and thinks the happiness of a wife is more
visible in a cheerful look than a gay apparel. It is a hard task to
speak of persons so nearly related to one with decency, but I may say,
all who shall be at the play will allow him to have the mien of a worthy
English gentleman; her, that of a notable and deserving wife.
[Footnote 308: See Nos. 120, 122. "I remember Mr. Bickerstaff at the
playhouse, and with what a modest, decent gravity he behaved himself"
(_Examiner_, vol. iii. No. 46). This passage occurs in a notice of
Addison's "Cato," where it is said that on the first night a crowd of
silly people "were drawn up under the leading of the renowned Ironside,
and appointed to clap at his signals.... The _Spectator_ never appeared
in public with a worse grace."]
No. 185. [STEELE.
From _Tuesday, June 13_, to _Thursday, June 15, 1710_.
Notitiam primosque gradus vicinia fecit;
Tempore crevit amor, taedae quoque jure coissent;
Sed vetuere patres, quod non potuere vetare,
Ex aequo captis ardebant mentibus ambo.
OVID, Met. iv. 59.
* * * * *
_From my own Apartment, June 14._
As soon as I was up this morning, my man gave me the following letter,
which, since it leads to a subject that may prove of common use to the
world, I shall take notice of with as much expedition as my fair
petitioner could desire:
"MR. BICKERSTAFF,
"Since you have so often declared yourself a patron of the
distressed, I must acquaint you, that I am daughter to a country
gentleman of good sense, and may expect L3000 or L4000 for my
fortune. I love and am beloved by Philander, a young gentleman who
has an estate of L500 per annum, and is our near neighbour in the
country every summer. My father, though he has been a long time
acquainted with it, constantly refuses to comply with our mutual
inclinations: but what most of all torments me, is, that if ever I
speak in commendation of my lover, he is much louder in his praises
than myself; and professes that it is out of pure love and esteem
for Philander, as well as his daughter, that he can never consent
we should marry each other; when (as he terms it) we may both do so
much better. It must indeed be confessed, that two gentlemen of
considerable fortunes, made their addresses to me last winter, and
Philander (as I have since learned) was offered a young heiress
with L15,000, but it seems we could neither of us think, that
accepting those matches would be doing better than remaining
constant to our first passion. Your thoughts upon the whole may
perhaps have some weight with my father, who is one of your
admirers, as is
"Your humble Servant,
"SYLVIA.
"P.S. You are desired to be speedy, since my father daily presses
me to accept of what he calls an 'advantageous offer.'"
There is no calamity in life that falls heavier upon human nature than a
disappointment in love, especially when it happens between two persons
whose hearts are mutually engaged to each other. It is this distress
which has given occasion to some of the finest tragedies that were ever
written, and daily fills the world with melancholy, discontent, frenzy,
sickness, despair, and death. I have often admired at the barbarity of
parents, who so frequently interpose their authority in this grand
article of life. I would fain ask Sylvia's father, whether he thinks he
can bestow a greater favour on his daughter, than to put her in a way to
live happily? Whether a man of Philander's character, with L500 per
annum, is not more likely to contribute to that end, than many a young
fellow whom he may have in his thoughts with so many thousands? Whether
he can make amends to his daughter by any increase of riches, for the
loss of that happiness she proposes to herself in her Philander? Or
whether a father should compound with his daughter to be miserable,
though she were to get L20,000 by the bargain? I suppose he would have
her reflect with esteem on his memory after his death: and does he think
this a proper method to make her do so, when, as often as she thinks on
the loss of her Philander, she must at the same time remember him as the
cruel cause of it? Any transient ill-humour is soon forgotten; but the
reflection of such a cruelty must continue to raise resentments as long
as life itself; and by this one piece of barbarity, an indulgent father
loses the merit of all his past kindnesses. It is not impossible but she
may deceive herself in the happiness which she proposes from Philander;
but as in such a case she can have no one to blame but herself, she will
bear the disappointment with greater patience; but if she never makes
the experiment, however happy she may be with another, she will still
think she might have been happier with Philander. There is a kind of
sympathy in souls that fits them for each other; and we may be assured,
when we see two persons engaged in the warmths of a mutual affection,
that there are certain qualities in both their minds which bear a
resemblance to one another. A generous and constant passion in an
agreeable lover, where there is not too great a disparity in other
circumstances, is the greatest blessing that can befall the person
beloved; and if overlooked in one, may perhaps never be found in
another. I shall conclude this with a celebrated instance of a father's
indulgence in this particular, which, though carried to an extravagance,
has something in it so tender and amiable, as may justly reproach the
hardness of temper that is to be met with in many a British father.
Antiochus, a prince of great hopes, fell passionately in love with the
young Queen Stratonice, who was his mother-in-law, and had bore a son to
the old King Seleucus his father. The prince finding it impossible to
extinguish his passion, fell sick, and refused all manner of
nourishment, being determined to put an end to that life which was
become insupportable.
Erasistratus the physician soon found that love was his distemper; and
observing the alteration in his pulse and countenance whenever
Stratonice made him a visit, was soon satisfied that he was dying for
his young mother-in-law. Knowing the old king's tenderness for his son,
when he one morning inquired of his health, he told him, that the
prince's distemper was love; but that it was incurable, because it was
impossible for him to possess the person whom he loved. The king,
surprised at this account, desired to know how his son's passion could
be incurable? "Why, sir," replied Erasistratus, "because he is in love
with the person I am married to."
The old king immediately conjured him by all his past favours to save
the life of his son and successor. "Sir," said Erasistratus, "would your
majesty but fancy yourself in my place, you would see the
unreasonableness of what you desire!" "Heaven is my witness," said
Seleucus, "I could resign even my Stratonice to save my Antiochus." At
this the tears ran down his cheeks, which when the physician saw, taking
him by the hand, "Sir," says he, "if these are your real sentiments, the
prince's life is out of danger; it is Stratonice for whom he dies."
Seleucus immediately gave orders for solemnising the marriage; and the
young queen, to show her obedience, very generously exchanged the father
for the son.
No. 186. [STEELE.
From _Thursday, June 15_, to _Saturday, June 17, 1710_.
Emitur sola virtute potestas.
CLAUDIAN, De Tertio Consulatu Honorii, 188.
* * * * *
_Sheer Lane, June 16._
As it has been the endeavour of these our labours to extirpate from
among the polite or busy part of mankind, all such as are either
prejudicial or insignificant to society; so it ought to be no less our
study to supply the havoc we have made by an exact care of the growing
generation. But when we begin to inculcate proper precepts to the
children of this island, except we could take them out of their nurses'
arms, we see an amendment is almost impracticable; for we find the whole
species of our youth and grown men is incorrigibly prepossessed with
vanity, pride, or ambition, according to the respective pursuits to
which they turn themselves: by which means the world is infatuated with
the love of appearances instead of things. Thus the vain man takes
praise for honour, the proud man ceremony for respect, the ambitious man
power for glory. These three characters are, indeed, of very near
resemblance, but differently received by mankind. Vanity makes men
ridiculous; pride, odious; and ambition, terrible. The foundation of all
which is, that they are grounded upon falsehood: for if men, instead of
studying to appear considerable, were in their own hearts possessors of
the requisites for esteem, the acceptance they otherwise unfortunately
aim at would be as inseparable from them, as approbation is from truth
itself. By this means they would have some rule to walk by; and they
may ever be assured, that a good cause of action will certainly receive
a suitable effect. It may be a useful hint in such cases for a man to
ask of himself, whether he really is what he has a mind to be
thought?[309] If he is, he need not give himself much further anxiety.
"What will the world say?" is the common question in matters of
difficulty; as if the terror lay wholly in the sense which others, and
not we ourselves, shall have of our actions. From this one source arise
all the impostors in every art and profession, in all places, among all
persons in conversation, as well as in business. Hence it is, that a
vain fellow takes twice as much pains to be ridiculous, as would make
him sincerely agreeable.
Can any one be better fashioned, better bred, or has any one more good
nature, than Damasippus? But the whole scope of his looks and actions
tends so immediately to gain the good opinion of all he converses with,
that he loses it for that only reason. As it is the nature of vanity to
impose false shows for truths, so does it also turn real possessions
into imaginary ones. Damasippus, by assuming to himself what he has not,
robs himself of what he has.
There is nothing more necessary to establish reputation, than to suspend
the enjoyment of it. He that cannot bear the sense of merit with
silence, must of necessity destroy it: for fame being the general
mistress of mankind, whoever gives it to himself, insults all to whom he
relates any circumstances to his own advantage. He is considered as an
open ravisher of that beauty, for whom all others pine in silence. But
some minds are so incapable of any temperance in this particular, that
on every second in their discourse you may observe an earnestness in
their eyes, which shows they wait for your approbation, and perhaps the
next instant cast an eye on a glass to see how they like themselves.
Walking the other day in a neighbouring Inn of Court, I saw a more happy
and more graceful orator than I ever before had heard or read of. A
youth, of about nineteen years of age, was in an Indian nightgown and
laced cap pleading a cause before a glass: the young fellow had a very
good air, and seemed to hold his brief in his hand rather to help his
action, than that he wanted notes for his further information. When I
first began to observe him, I feared he would soon be alarmed; but he
was so zealous for his client, and so favourably received by the court,
that he went on with great fluency to inform the bench, that he humbly
hoped they would not let the merit of the cause suffer by the youth and
inexperience of the pleader; that in all things he submitted to their
candour; and modestly desired they would not conclude, but that strength
of argument and force of reason may be consistent with grace of action
and comeliness of person.
To me, who see people every day in the midst of crowds (whomsoever they
seem to address to) talk only to themselves and of themselves, this
orator was not so extravagant a man as perhaps another would have
thought him; but I took part in his success, and was very glad to find
he had in his favour judgment and costs without any manner of
opposition.
The effects of pride and vanity are of consequence only to the proud and
the vain, and tend to no further ill than what is personal to
themselves, in preventing their progress in anything that is worthy and
laudable, and creating envy instead of emulation of superior virtue.
These ill qualities are to be found only in such as have so little
minds, as to circumscribe their thoughts and designs within what
properly relates to the value which they think due to their dear and
amiable selves: but ambition, which is the third great impediment to
honour and virtue, is a fault of such as think themselves born for
moving in a higher orb, and prefer being powerful and mischievous to
being virtuous and obscure. The parent of this mischief in life, so far
as to regulate it into schemes, and make it possess a man's whole heart,
without his believing himself a demon, was Machiavelli. He first taught,
that a man must necessarily appear weak to be honest. Hence it gains
upon the imagination, that a great is not so despicable as a little
villain; and men are insensibly led to a belief, that the aggravation of
crimes is the diminution of them. Hence the impiety of thinking one
thing and speaking another. In pursuance of this empty and unsatisfying
dream, to betray, to undermine, to kill in themselves all natural
sentiments of love to friends or country, is the willing practice of
such as are thirsty of power, for any other reason than that of being
useful and acceptable to mankind.