[324] "Written by Addison and Steele jointly" (Tickell).
[325] The publisher of the original issue of the _Tatler_.
[326] See No. 26.
[327] "In King Street, Westminster, liveth Thomas Smith, who, by
experience and ingenuity, has learnt the art of taking out and curing
all manner of corns, without pain or drawing blood. He likewise takes
out all manner of nails which cause any disaster, trouble, or pain,
which no man in England can do the like. He can, on several occasions,
help persons afflicted, as killing the scurvy in the gums; though they
be eaten away never so much, he can raise them up again. He cures the
toothache in half-an hour, let the pain be never so great, and cleanses
and preserves the teeth. He can, with God's assistance, perform the
same in a little time. I wear a silver badge, with three verses, the
first in English, the second in Dutch, the third in French, with the
States of Holland's crownet on the top, which was given me as a present
by the States-General of Holland, for the many cures, &c. My name on
the badge underwritten, Thomas Smith, who will not fail, God willing,
to make out every particular in this bill, &c., &c.
"The famousest ware in England, which never fails to cure the toothache
in half-an-hour, price 1s. the bottle. Likewise a powder for cleansing
the teeth, which makes them as ivory, without wearing them, and without
prejudice to the gums, 1s. the box. Also two sorts of water for curing
the scurvy in the gums; though they are eaten away to the bottom, it
will heal them, and cause them to grow as firm as ever; very safe,
without mercury, or any unwholesome spirit. To avoid counterfeits, they
are only sold at his own house, &c.; price of each bottle half a crown,
or more, according to the bigness, with directions." Smith seems in
the course of the week to have made his appearance, at fixed times, in
every coffee-house then in London. (Harl. MSS., 5931.) See No. 187.
No. 104. [STEELE.
From _Tuesday, Dec. 6_, to _Thursday, Dec. 8, 1709_.
----Garrit aniles
Ex re fabellas----
HOR., 2 Sat. vi. 77.
_From my own Apartment, Dec. 7._
My brother Tranquillus being gone out of town for some days, my sister
Jenny sent me word she would come and dine with me, and therefore
desired me to have no other company. I took care accordingly, and
was not a little pleased to see her enter the room with a decent and
matron-like behaviour, which I thought very much became her. I saw she
had a great deal to say to me, and easily discovered in her eyes, and
the air of her countenance, that she had abundance of satisfaction in
her heart, which she longed to communicate. However, I was resolved
to let her break into her discourse her own way, and reduced her to
a thousand little devices and intimations to bring me to the mention
of her husband. But finding I was resolved not to name him, she began
of her own accord. "My husband," said she, "gives his humble service
to you;" to which I only answered, "I hope he is well," and without
waiting for a reply, fell into other subjects. She at last was out of
all patience, and said (with a smile and manner that I thought had
more beauty and spirit than I had ever observed before in her), "I
did not think, brother, you had been so ill-natured. You have seen,
ever since I came in, that I had a mind to talk of my husband, and
you won't be so kind as to give me an occasion." "I did not know,"
said I, "but it might be a disagreeable subject to you. You do not
take me for so old-fashioned a fellow as to think of entertaining a
young lady with the discourse of her husband. I know, nothing is more
acceptable than to speak of one who is to be so; but to speak of one
who is so! Indeed, Jenny, I am a better bred man than you think me."
She showed a little dislike at my raillery; and by her bridling up, I
perceived she expected to be treated hereafter not as Jenny Distaff,
but Mrs. Tranquillus. I was very well pleased with this change in her
humour; and upon talking with her on several subjects, I could not
but fancy that I saw a great deal of her husband's way and manner in
her remarks, her phrases, the tone of her voice, and the very air of
her countenance. This gave me an unspeakable satisfaction, not only
because I had found her a husband, from whom she could learn many
things that were laudable, but also because I looked upon her imitation
of him as an infallible sign that she entirely loved him. This is an
observation that I never knew fail, though I do not remember that any
other has made it. The natural shyness of her sex hindered her from
telling me the greatness of her own passion; but I easily collected
it, from the representation she gave me of his. "I have everything,"
says she, "in Tranquillus that I can wish for; and enjoy in him (what
indeed you have told me were to be met with in a good husband) the
fondness of a lover, the tenderness of a parent, and the intimacy
of a friend." It transported me to see her eyes swimming in tears of
affection when she spoke. "And is there not, dear sister," said I,
"more pleasure in the possession of such a man than in all the little
impertinences of balls, assemblies, and equipage, which it cost me so
much pains to make you contemn?" She answered, smiling, "Tranquillus
has made me a sincere convert in a few weeks, though I am afraid you
could not have done it in your whole life. To tell you truly, I have
only one fear hanging upon me, which is apt to give me trouble in the
midst of all my satisfactions: I am afraid, you must know, that I shall
not always make the same amiable appearance in his eye that I do at
present. You know, brother Bickerstaff, that you have the reputation
of a conjurer; and if you have any one secret in your art to make your
sister always beautiful, I should be happier than if I were mistress
of all the worlds you have shown me in a starry night." "Jenny," said
I, "without having recourse to magic, I shall give you one plain rule,
that will not fail of making you always amiable to a man who has so
great a passion for you, and is of so equal and reasonable a temper
as Tranquillus. Endeavour to please, and you must please; be always
in the same disposition as you are when you ask for this secret, and,
you may take my word, you will never want it. An inviolable fidelity,
good humour, and complacency of temper outlive all the charms of a fine
face, and make the decays of it invisible."
We discoursed very long upon this head, which was equally agreeable to
us both; for I must confess (as I tenderly love her), I take as much
pleasure in giving her instructions for her welfare as she herself
does in receiving them. I proceeded therefore to inculcate these
sentiments, by relating a very particular passage that happened within
my own knowledge.
There were several of us making merry at a friend's house in a country
village, when the sexton of the parish church entered the room in a
sort of surprise, and told us, that as he was digging a grave in the
chancel, a little blow of his pick-axe opened a decayed coffin, in
which there were several written papers. Our curiosity was immediately
raised, so that we went to the place where the sexton had been at work,
and found a great concourse of people about the grave. Among the rest,
there was an old woman, who told us, the person buried there was a
lady, whose name I do not think fit to mention, though there is nothing
in the story but what tends very much to her honour[328]. This lady
lived several years an exemplary pattern of conjugal love, and dying
soon after her husband, who every way answered her character in virtue
and affection, made it her death-bed request, that all the letters
which she had received from him, both before and after her marriage,
should be buried in the coffin with her. These I found upon examination
were the papers before us. Several of them had suffered so much by
time, that I could only pick out a few words; as, "My soul!" "Lilies!"
"Roses!" "Dearest angel!" and the like. One of them (which was legible
throughout) ran thus:
"MADAM,
"If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of
your own beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom,
that graceful person, return every moment to my imagination: the
brightness of your eyes hath hindered me from closing mine since
I last saw you. You may still add to your beauties by a smile.
A frown will make me the most wretched of men, as I am the most
passionate of lovers."
It filled the whole company with a deep melancholy, to compare the
description of the letter with the person that occasioned it, who was
now reduced to a few crumbling bones, and a little mouldering heap of
earth. With much ado I deciphered another letter, which begun with "My
dear, dear wife." This gave me a curiosity to see how the style of
one written in marriage differed from one written in courtship. To my
surprise, I found the fondness rather augmented than lessened, though
the panegyric turned upon a different accomplishment. The words were as
follow:
"Before this short absence from you, I did not know that I loved
you so much as I really do; though at the same time, I thought I
loved you as much as possible. I am under great apprehensions,
lest you should have any uneasiness whilst I am defrauded of my
share in it, and can't think of tasting any pleasures that you
don't partake with me. Pray, my dear, be careful of your health,
if for no other reason because you know I could not outlive you.
It is natural in absence to make professions of an inviolable
constancy; but towards so much merit, it is scarce a virtue,
especially when it is but a bare return to that of which you have
given me such continued proofs ever since our first acquaintance.
"I am, &c."
It happened that the daughter of these two excellent persons was by
when I was reading this letter. At the sight of the coffin, in which
was the body of her mother, near that of her father, she melted into
a flood of tears. As I had heard a great character of her virtue, and
observed in her this instance of filial piety, I could not resist my
natural inclination of giving advice to young people, and therefore
addressed myself to her: "Young lady," said I, "you see how short is
the possession of that beauty in which Nature has been so liberal to
you. You find the melancholy sight before you, is a contradiction
to the first letter that you heard on that subject; whereas you may
observe, the second letter, which celebrates your mother's constancy,
is itself, being found in this place, an argument of it. But, Madam, I
ought to caution you, not to think the bodies that lie before you, your
father and your mother. Know their constancy is rewarded by a nobler
union than by this mingling of their ashes, in a state where there is
no danger or possibility of a second separation."