would appear absurd; but in the pulpit it is attended with the most
lasting impressions; that style, which in the closet might justly be
called flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence here. I never read a
fine composition, under the title of a sermon, that I do not think the
author has mis-called his piece; for the talents to be used in writing
well entirely differ from those of speaking well. The qualifications
for speaking, as has been already observed, are easily acquired; they
are accomplishments which may be taken up by every candidate who will
be at the pains of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is
about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause or the contempt
of his audience, and he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincerity.
With this talent alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthusiasts,
even destitute of common sense; what numbers converted to Christianity!
Folly may sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise; and our
regular divines may borrow instruction from even methodists, who go their
circuits and preach prizes among the populace. Even Whitfield may be
placed as a model to some of our young divines; let them join to their
own good sense his earnest manner of delivery.
It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the excellencies of a
preacher to proper assurance, earnestness, and openness of style, I make
the qualifications too trifling for estimation: there will be something
called oratory brought up on this occasion; action, attitude, grace,
elocution, may be repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the
character; but let us not be deceived; common-sense is seldom swayed by
fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or the display of a white
handkerchief; oratorial behaviour, except in very able hands indeed,
generally sinks into awkward and paltry affectation.
It must be observed, however, that these rules are calculated only for
him who would instruct the vulgar, who stand in most need of instruction;
to address philosophers, and to obtain the character of a polite
preacher among the polite—a much more useless, though more sought-for
character—requires a different method of proceeding. All I shall observe
on this head is, to entreat the polemic divine, in his controversy with
the Deists, to act rather offensively than to defend; to push home the
grounds of his belief, and the impracticability of theirs, rather than
to spend time in solving the objections of every opponent. ‘It is ten to
one,’ says a late writer on the art of war, ‘but that the assailant, who
attacks the enemy in his trenches, is always victorious.’
Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ themselves more to the
benefit of society, by declining all controversy, than by exhibiting even
the profoundest skill in polemic disputes; their contests with each other
often turn on speculative trifles; and their disputes with the Deists
are almost at an end, since they can have no more than victory, and that
they are already possessed of, as their antagonists have been driven
into a confession of the necessity of revelation, or an open avowal of
atheism. To continue the dispute longer would only endanger it; the
sceptic is ever expert at puzzling a debate which he finds himself unable
to continue; “and, like an Olympic boxer, generally fights best when
undermost.”
V.
A REVERIE AT THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.
The improvements we make in mental acquirements only render us each day
more sensible of the defects of our constitution; with this in view
therefore, let us often recur to the amusements of youth; endeavour to
forget age and wisdom, and as far as innocence goes, be as much a boy as
the best of them.
Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of the age; but in my
opinion every age is the same. This I am sure of, that man in every
season is a poor fretful being, with no other means to escape the
calamities of the times, but by endeavouring to forget them; for if he
attempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If I feel poverty and pain,
I am not so hardy as to quarrel with the executioner, even while under
correction: I find myself no way disposed to make fine speeches, while I
am making wry faces. In a word, let me drink when the fit is on, to make
me insensible; and drink when it is over, for joy that I feel pain no
longer.
The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, gives me more
consolation than the most studied efforts of wisdom: I here behold an
agreeable old fellow, forgetting age, and showing me the way to be young
at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so comical
as he—Is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as
much vivacity?—Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone—I give you to the
winds. Let’s have t’other bottle: here’s to the memory of Shakspeare,
Falstaff, and all the merry men of Eastcheap.
Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I sat at the
Boar’s-head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. Here, by a pleasant fire,
in the very room where old sir John Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the
very chair which was sometimes honoured by prince Henry, and sometimes
polluted by his immoral, merry companions; I sat and ruminated on the
follies of youth; wished to be young again; but was resolved to make the
best of life while it lasted, and now and then compared past and present
times together. I considered myself as the only living representative
of the old knight, and transported my imagination back to the times
when the prince and he gave life to the revel, and made even debauchery
not disgusting. The room also conspired to throw my reflections back
into antiquity: the oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous
chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth of time; the watchman had
gone twelve; my companions had all stolen off; and none now remained with
me but the landlord. From him I could have wished to know the history
of a tavern, that had such a long succession of customers: I could not
help thinking that an account of this kind would be a pleasing contrast
of the manners of different ages; but my landlord could give me no
information. He continued to doze and sot, and tell a tedious story, as
most other landlords usually do; and, though he said nothing, yet was
never silent: one good joke followed another good joke; and the best
joke of all was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. I found
at last, however, his wine and his conversation operate by degrees: he
insensibly began to alter his appearance. His cravat seemed quilled into
a ruff, and his breeches swelled out into a fardingale. I now fancied him
changing sexes; and as my eyes began to close in slumber, I imagined my
fat landlord actually converted into as fat a landlady. However, sleep
made but few changes in my situation; the tavern, the apartment, and the
table, continued as before; nothing suffered mutation but my host, who
was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be dame Quickly,
mistress of this tavern in the days of sir John; and the liquor we were
drinking, which seemed converted into sack and sugar.
“My dear Mrs. Quickly,” cried I (for I knew her perfectly well at first
sight) “I am heartily glad to see you. How have you left Falstaff,
Pistol, and the rest of our friends below stairs? Brave and hearty I
hope!” “In good sooth,” replied she, “he did deserve to live for ever;
but he maketh foul work on’t where he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine
and he have quarrelled for his attempting a rape upon her divinity; and
were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems
probable he might have been now sprawling in Tartarus.”
I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of the flesh; and
that, according to the laws of criticism and dreaming, ghosts have been
known to be guilty of even more than platonic affection: wherefore, as
I found her too much moved on such a topic to proceed, I was resolved
to change the subject; and desiring she would pledge me in a bumper,
observed with a sigh, that our sack was nothing now to what it was in
former days: “Ah, Mrs. Quickly, those were merry times when you drew
sack for prince Henry; men were twice as strong, and twice as wise, and
much braver, and ten thousand times more charitable than now. Those
were the times! The battle of Agincourt was a victory indeed! Ever since
that we have only been degenerating; and I have lived to see the day
when drinking is no longer fashionable. When men wear clean shirts, and
women show their necks and arms: all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly; and
we shall probably, in another century, be frittered away into beaus or
monkeys. Had you been on earth to see what I have seen, it would congeal
all the blood in your body (your soul I mean.) Why, our very nobility
now have the intolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day
remonstrated from the press; our very nobility, I say, have the assurance
to frequent assemblies, and presume to be as merry as the vulgar. See, my
very friends have scarcely manhood enough to sit to it till eleven; and I
only am left to make a night on’t. Pr’ythee do me the favour to console
me a little for their absence by the story of your own adventure, or the
history of the tavern where we are now sitting: I fancy the narrative may
have something singular.”
“Observe this apartment,” interrupted my companion, “of neat device
and excellent workmanship—In this room I have lived, child, woman, and
ghost, more than three hundred years: I am ordered by Pluto to keep
an annual register of every transaction that passeth here; and I have
whilom compiled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons may be submitted to
thy regards.”—“None of your whiloms or eftsoons, Mrs. Quickly, if you
please,” I replied; “I know you can talk every whit as well as I can;
for, as you have lived here so long, it is but natural to suppose you
should learn the conversation of the company. Believe me, dame, at best,
you have neither too much sense, nor too much language to spare; so give
me both as well as you can; but first my service to you: old women should
water their clay a little now and then; and now to your story.”
“The story of my own adventures,” replied the vision, “is but short and
unsatisfactory; for believe me, Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman with a
butt of sack at her elbow is never long-lived. Sir John’s death afflicted
me to such a degree, that I sincerely believe, to drown sorrow, I drank
more liquor myself than I drew for my customers; my grief was sincere,
and the sack was excellent. The prior of a neighbouring convent (for our
priors then had as much power as a Middlesex justice now) he, I say, it
was who gave me a licence for keeping a disorderly house; upon conditions
I should never make hard bargains with the clergy, that he should have
a bottle of sack every morning, and the liberty of confessing which
of my girls he thought proper in private every night. I had continued
for several years to pay this tribute; and he, it must be confessed,
continued as rigorously to exact it. I grew old insensibly; my customers
continued, however, to compliment my looks while I was by, but I could
hear them say I was wearing, when my back was turned. The prior however
still was constant, and so were half his convent; but one fatal morning
he missed the usual beverage; for I had incautiously drank over-night
the last bottle myself. What will you have on’t? The very next day Doll
Tearsheet and I were sent to the house of correction, and accused of
keeping a low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well purified there with
stripes, mortification, and penance, that we were afterwards utterly
unfit for worldly conversation: though sack would have killed me, had I
stuck to it; yet I soon died for want of a drop of something comfortable,
and fairly left my body to the care of the beadle.
“Such is my own history; but that of the tavern, where I have ever since
been stationed, affords greater variety. In the history of this, which
is one of the oldest in London, you may view the different manners,
pleasures, and follies, of men at different periods. You will find
mankind neither better nor worse now than formerly: the vices of an
uncivilized people are generally more detestable, though not so frequent,
as those in polite society. It is the same luxury, which formerly stuffed
your alderman with plum-porridge, and now crams him with turtle. It
is the same low ambition, that formerly induced a courtier to give up
his religion to please his king, and now persuades him to give up his
conscience to please his minister. It is the same vanity, that formerly
stained our ladies’ cheeks and necks with woad, and now paints them with
carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered his hair with red earth,
like brick-dust, in order to appear frightful: your modern Briton cuts
his hair on the crown, and plasters it with hogs-lard and flour; and this
to make him look killing. It is the same vanity, the same folly, and
the same vice, only appearing different, as viewed through the glass of
fashion. In a word, all mankind are a——”
“Sure the woman is dreaming,” interrupted I. “None of your reflections,
Mrs. Quickly, if you love me; they only give me the spleen. Tell me your
history at once. I love stories, but hate reasoning.”
“If you please then, sir,” returned my companion, “I’ll read you an
abstract, which I made of the three hundred volumes I mentioned just now.
“My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than the prior and several of
his convent came to purify the tavern from the pollutions with which
they said I had filled it. Masses were said in every room, reliques were
exposed upon every piece of furniture, and the whole house washed with a
deluge of holy water. My habitation was soon converted into a monastery:
instead of customers now applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were
crowded with images, reliques, saints, whores, and friars. Instead of
being a scene of occasional debauchery, it was now filled with continual
lewdness. The prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imitated his
pious example. Matrons came hither to confess their sins, and to commit
new. Virgins came hither who seldom went virgins away. Nor was this a
convent peculiarly wicked; every convent at that period was equally fond
of pleasure, and gave a boundless loose to appetite. The laws allowed
it; each priest had a right to a favourite companion, and a power of
discarding her as often as he pleased. The laity grumbled, quarrelled
with their wives and daughters, hated their confessors, and maintained
them in opulence and ease. These, these, were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole;
these were times of piety, bravery, and simplicity!”—“Not so very happy
neither, good madam! pretty much like the present; those that labour
starve; and those that do nothing wear fine clothes, and live in luxury.”
“In this manner the fathers lived for some years without molestation;
they transgressed, confessed themselves to each other, and were forgiven.
One evening, however, our prior keeping a lady of distinction somewhat
too long at confession, her husband unexpectedly came upon them, and
testified all the indignation which was natural upon such an occasion.
The prior assured the gentleman, that it was the devil who put it into
his heart; and the lady was very certain that she was under the influence
of magic, or she could never have behaved in so unfaithful a manner. The
husband, however, was not to be put off by such evasions, but summoned
both before the tribunal of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he
expected large damages. Such indeed he had a right to expect, were the
tribunals of those days constituted in the same manner as they are now.
The cause of the priest was to be tried before an assembly of priests;
and a layman was to expect redress only from their impartiality and
candour. What plea then do you think the prior made to obviate this
accusation? He denied the fact, and challenged the plaintiff to try the
merits of their cause by single combat. It was a little hard, you may
be sure, upon the poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, but to
be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain; yet such was the justice
of the times. The prior threw down his glove, and the injured husband
was obliged to take it up, in token of his accepting the challenge. Upon
this the priest supplied his champion, for it was not lawful for the
clergy to fight; and the defendant and plaintiff, according to custom,
were put in prison; both ordered to fast and pray, every method being
previously used to induce both to a confession of the truth. After a
month’s imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, the bodies anointed with
oil, the field of battle appointed and guarded by soldiers, while his
majesty presided over the whole in person. Both the champions were sworn
not to seek victory either by fraud or magic. They prayed and confessed
upon their knees; and after these ceremonies the rest was left to the
courage and conduct of the combatants. As the champion whom the prior had
pitched upon had fought six or eight times upon similar occasions, it
was no way extraordinary to find him victorious in the present combat.
In short, the husband was discomfited; he was taken from the field of
battle, stripped to his shirt, and after one of his legs had been cut
off, as justice ordained in such cases, he was hanged as a terror to
future offenders. These, these were the times, Mr. Rigmarole; you see how
much more just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were than us.”—“I
rather fancy, madam, that the times then were pretty much like our own:
where a multiplicity of laws gives a judge as much power as a want of
law; since he is ever sure to find among the number some to countenance
his partiality.”
“Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now gave a loose to every
demonstration of joy. The lady became a nun, the prior was made a bishop,
and three Wickliffites were burned in the illuminations and fire-works
that were made on the present occasion. Our convent now began to enjoy
a very high degree of reputation. There was not one in London that
had the character of hating heretics so much as ours. Ladies of the
first distinction chose from our convent their confessors; in short,
it flourished, and might have flourished to this hour, but for a fatal
accident which terminated in its overthrow. The lady, whom the prior
had placed in a nunnery, and whom he continued to visit for some time
with great punctuality, began at last to perceive that she was quite
forsaken. Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now entertained the
visions of a devotee, found herself strangely disturbed, but hesitated
in determining whether she was possessed by an angel or a demon. She
was not long in suspense; for upon vomiting a large quantity of crooked
pins, and finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, she quickly
concluded that she was possessed by the devil. She soon lost entirely
the use of speech; and when she seemed to speak, every body that was
present perceived that her voice was not her own, but that of the devil
within her. In short, she was bewitched; and all the difficulty lay in
determining who it could be that bewitched her. The nuns and the monks
all demanded the magician’s name, but the devil made no reply; for he
knew they had no authority to ask questions. By the rules of witchcraft,
when an evil spirit has taken possession, he may refuse to answer any
questions asked him, unless they are put by a bishop, and to these he
is obliged to reply. A bishop therefore was sent for, and now the whole
secret came out: the devil reluctantly owned that he was a servant of the
prior; that by his command he resided in his present habitation, and that
without his command he was resolved to keep in possession. The bishop
was an able exorcist; he drove the devil out by force of mystical arms;
the prior was arraigned for witchcraft; the witnesses were strong and
numerous against him, not less than fourteen persons being by, who heard
the devil talk Latin. There was no resisting such a cloud of witnesses;
the prior was condemned; and he who had assisted at so many burnings, was
burned himself in turn. These were times, Mr. Rigmarole: the people of
those times were not infidels, as now, but sincere believers!”—“Equally
faulty with ourselves: they believed what the devil was pleased to tell
them; and we seem resolved at last to believe neither God nor devil.”
“After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to be supposed it could
subsist any longer; the fathers were ordered to decamp, and the house was
once again converted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one of his
cast mistresses; she was constituted landlady by royal authority; and as
the tavern was in the neighbourhood of the court, and the mistress a very
polite woman, it began to have more business than ever, and sometimes
took not less than four shillings a day.
“But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what were the peculiar
qualifications of a woman of fashion at that period; and in a description
of the present landlady you will have a tolerable idea of all the rest.
This lady was the daughter of a nobleman, and received such an education
in the country as became her quality, beauty, and great expectations. She
could make shifts and hose for herself and all the servants of the family
when she was twelve years old. She knew the names of the four and twenty
letters, so that it was impossible to bewitch her; and this was a greater
piece of learning than any lady in the whole country could pretend to.
She was always up early, and saw breakfast served in the great hall by
six o’clock. At this scene of festivity she generally improved good
humour, by telling her dreams, relating stories of spirits, several of
which she herself had seen; and one of which she was reported to have
killed with a black-hafted knife. Hence she usually went to make pastry
in the larder, and here she was followed by her sweethearts, who were
much helped on in conversation by struggling with her for kisses. About
ten miss generally went to play at hot-cockles and blindman’s buff in the
parlour; and when the young folks (for they seldom played at hot-cockles
when grown old) were tired of such amusements, the gentlemen entertained
miss with the history of their greyhounds, bear-baitings, and victories
at cudgel-playing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the ring, shot at
butts; while miss held in her hand a ribbon, with which she adorned the
conqueror. Her mental qualifications were exactly fitted to her external
accomplishments. Before she was fifteen, she could tell the story of
Jack the Giant Killer, could name every mountain that was inhabited by
fairies, knew a witch at first sight, and could repeat four Latin prayers
without a prompter. Her dress was perfectly fashionable; her arms and her
hair were completely covered; a monstrous ruff was put round her neck, so
that her head seemed like that of John the Baptist placed in a charger.
In short, when completely equipped, her appearance was so very modest,
that she discovered little more than her nose. These were the times,
Mr. Rigmarole, when every lady that had a good nose might set up for a
beauty; when every woman that could tell stories might be cried up for a
wit.”—“I am as much displeased at those dresses which conceal too much,
as at those which discover too much: I am equally an enemy to a female
dunce or a female pedant.”