[328] We are told that a son of Sir Thomas Chicheley, one of King
William's admirals, said that this lady was his mother, and that the
letters were genuine. There is a mezzotint of Mrs. Sarah Chicheley, by
Smith, from a painting by Kneller. Sir Thomas Chicheley (1618-1694) was
Master-general of the Ordnance; the admiral was Sir John Chicheley, who
died in 1691, leaving a son John.
No. 105. [STEELE.
From _Thursday, Dec. 8_, to _Saturday, Dec. 10, 1709_.
_Sheer Lane, Dec. 9._
As soon as my midnight studies are finished, I take but a very short
repose, and am again up at an exercise of another kind; that is to
say, my fencing. Thus my life passes away in a restless pursuit of
fame, and a preparation to defend myself against such as attack it.
This anxiety on the point of reputation is the peculiar distress of
fine spirits, and makes them liable to a thousand inquietudes, from
which men of grosser understandings are exempt; so that nothing is more
common than to see one part of mankind live at perfect ease under such
circumstances as would make another part of them entirely miserable.
This may serve for a preface to the history of poor Will Rosin, the
fiddler of Wapping[329], who is a man as much made for happiness, and a
quiet life, as any one breathing; but has been lately entangled in so
many intricate and unreasonable distresses, as would have made him (had
he been a man of too nice honour) the most wretched of all mortals.
I came to the knowledge of his affairs by mere accident. Several of
the narrow end of our lane having made an appointment to visit some
friends beyond St. Katherine's[330], where there was to be a merry
meeting, they would needs take with them the old gentleman, as they are
pleased to call me. I, who value my company by their good-will, which
naturally has the same effect as good-breeding, was not too stately, or
too wise, to accept of the invitation. Our design was to be spectators
of a sea-ball; to which I readily consented, provided I might be
_incognito_, being naturally pleased with the survey of human life in
all its degrees and circumstances.
In order to this merriment, Will Rosin (who is the Corelli[331] of
the Wapping side, as Tom Scrape is the Bononcini[332] of Redriffe) was
immediately sent for; but to our utter disappointment, poor Will was
under an arrest, and desired the assistance of all his kind masters
and mistresses, or he must go to gaol. The whole company received
his message with great humanity, and very generously threw in their
halfpence apiece in a great dish, which purchased his redemption out of
the hands of the bailiffs. During the negotiation for his enlargement,
I had an opportunity of acquainting myself with his history.
Mr. William Rosin, of the parish of St. Katherine, is somewhat stricken
in years, and married to a young widow, who has very much the ascendant
over him: this degenerate age being so perverted in all things, that
even in the state of matrimony the young pretend to govern their
elders. The musician is extremely fond of her; but is often obliged to
lay by his fiddle to hear louder notes of hers, when she is pleased
to be angry with him: for you are to know, Will is not of consequence
enough to enjoy her conversation but when she chides him, or makes use
of him to carry on her amours. For she is a woman of stratagem; and
even in that part of the world where one would expect but very little
gallantry, by the force of natural genius, she can be sullen, sick,
out of humour, splenetic, want new clothes, and more money, as well as
if she had been bred in Cheapside or Cornhill. She was lately under
a secret discontent upon account of a lover she was like to lose by
his marriage: for her gallant, Mr. Ezekiel Boniface, had been twice
asked in church, in order to be joined in matrimony with Mrs. Winifred
Dimple, spinster, of the same parish. Hereupon Mrs. Rosin was far gone
in that distemper which well-governed husbands know by the description
of, "I am I know not how;" and Will soon understood, that it was his
part to inquire into the occasion of her melancholy, or suffer as the
cause of it himself. After much importunity, all he could get out of
her, was, that she was the most unhappy and the most wicked of all
women, and had no friend in the world to tell her grief to. Upon this,
Will doubled his importunities; but she said that she should break
her poor heart, if he did not take a solemn oath upon a Book, that he
would not be angry; and that he would expose the person who had wronged
her to all the world, for the ease of her mind, which was no way else
to be quieted. The fiddler was so melted, that he immediately kissed
her, and afterwards the Book. When his oath was taken, she began to
lament herself, and revealed to him, that (miserable woman as she was)
she had been false to his bed. Will was glad to hear it was no worse;
but before he could reply, "Nay," said she, "I will make you all the
atonement I can, and take shame upon me by proclaiming it to all the
world, which is the only thing that can remove my present terrors of
mind." This was indeed too true; for her design was to prevent Mr.
Boniface's marriage, which was all she apprehended. Will was thoroughly
angry, and began to curse and swear, the ordinary expressions of
passion in persons of his condition. Upon which his wife--"Ah William!
how well you mind the oath you have taken, and the distress of your
poor wife, who can keep nothing from you; I hope you won't be such a
perjured wretch as to forswear yourself." The fiddler answered, that
his oath obliged him only not to be angry at what was past; "but I find
you intend to make me laughed at all over Wapping." "No, no," replied
Mrs. Rosin, "I see well enough what you would be at, you poor-spirited
cuckold--you are afraid to expose Boniface, who has abused your
poor wife, and would fain persuade me still to suffer the stings of
conscience; but I assure you, sirrah, I won't go to the devil for
you." Poor Will was not made for contention, and beseeching her to be
pacified, desired she would consult the good of her soul her own way,
for he would not say her nay in anything.
Mrs. Rosin was so very loud and public in her invectives against
Boniface, that the parents of his mistress forbade the banns, and
his match was prevented, which was the whole design of this deep
stratagem. The father of Boniface brought his action of defamation,
arrested the fiddler, and recovered damages. This was the distress
from which he was relieved by the company; and the good husband's air,
history, and jollity, upon his enlargement, gave occasion to very
much mirth; especially when Will, finding he had friends to stand by
him, proclaimed himself a cuckold by way of insult over the family of
the Bonifaces. Here is a man of tranquillity without reading Seneca!
What work had such an incident made among persons of distinction?
The brothers and kindred of each side must have been drawn out, and
hereditary hatreds entailed on the families as long as their very names
remained in the world. Who would believe that Herod, Othello, and Will
Rosin were of the same species?
There are quite different sentiments which reign in the parlour and the
kitchen; and it is by the point of honour, when justly regulated and
inviolably observed, that some men are superior to others, as much as
mankind in general are to brutes. This puts me in mind of a passage in
the admirable poem called the "Dispensary,"[333] where the nature of
true honour is artfully described in an ironical dispraise of it:
_But e'er we once engage in honour's cause,
First know what honour is, and whence it was.
Scorned by the base, 'tis courted by the brave,
The hero's tyrant, and the coward's slave.
Born in the noisy camp, it lives on air;
And both exists by hope and by despair.
Angry whene'er a moment's ease we gain,
And reconciled at our returns of pain.
It lives when in death's arms the hero lies;
But when his safety he consults, it dies.
Bigoted to this idol, we disclaim
Rest, health, and ease, for nothing but a name._
A very old fellow visited me to-day at my lodgings, and desired
encouragement and recommendation from me for a new invention of
knockers to doors, which he told me he had made, and professed to
teach rustic servants the use of them. I desired him to show me an
experiment of this invention; upon which he fixed one of his knockers
to my parlour door. He then gave me a complete set of knocks, from the
solitary rap of the dun and beggar to the thunderings of the saucy
footman of quality, with several flourishes and rattlings never yet
performed. He likewise played over some private notes, distinguishing
the familiar friend or relation from the most modish visitor; and
directing when the reserve candles are to be lighted. He has several
other curiosities in this art. He waits only to receive my approbation
of the main design. He is now ready to practise to such as shall apply
themselves to him; but I have put off his public licence till next
court day.
_N. B._--He teaches underground.