From _Thursday, Dec. 29_, to _Saturday, Dec. 31, 1709_.
Ut in vitâ, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et humanissimum existimo,
severitatem comitatemque miscere, ne illa in tristitiam, hæc in
petulantium procedat.--PLIN., Epist.
_Sheer Lane, Dec. 30._
I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very gay humour, when
I saw a coach stop at my door, and a youth about fifteen alighting
out of it, whom I perceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend
that I gave some account of in my paper of the 17th of the last
month.[365] I felt a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of
him, my acquaintance having begun with his father when he was just
such a stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he
took me by the hand, and burst out in tears. I was extremely moved,
and immediately said, "Child, how does your father do?" He began to
reply, "My mother--" but could not go on for weeping. I went down with
him into the coach, and gathered out of him, that his mother was then
dying, and that while the holy man was doing the last offices to her,
he had taken that time to come and call me to his father, who, he said,
would certainly break his heart if I did not go and comfort him. The
child's discretion in coming to me of his own head, and the tenderness
he showed for his parents, would have quite overpowered me, had I not
resolved to fortify myself for the seasonable performances of those
duties which I owed to my friend. As we were going, I could not but
reflect upon the character of that excellent woman, and the greatness
of his grief for the loss of one who has ever been the support to him
under all other afflictions. How, thought I, will he be able to bear
the hour of her death, that could not, when I was lately with him,
speak of a sickness, which was then past, without sorrow. We were now
got pretty far into Westminster, and arrived at my friend's house. At
the door of it I met Favonius,[366] not without a secret satisfaction
to find he had been there. I had formerly conversed with him at this
house; and as he abounds with that sort of virtue and knowledge which
makes religion beautiful, and never leads the conversation into the
violence and rage of party disputes, I listened to him with great
pleasure. Our discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death,
which he treated with such a strength of reason, and greatness of
soul, that instead of being terrible, it appeared to a mind rightly
cultivated, altogether to be contemned, or rather to be desired. As
I met him at the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief
and humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and resolution,
which, as I afterwards found, had such an irresistible force, as to
suspend the pains of the dying, and the lamentation of the nearest
friends who attended her. I went up directly to the room where she
lay, and was met at the entrance by my friend, who, notwithstanding
his thoughts had been composed a little before at the sight of me,
turned away his face and wept. The little family of children renewed
the expressions of their sorrow according to their several ages and
degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter was in tears, busied in
attendance upon her mother; others were kneeling about the bedside:
and what troubled me most was, to see a little boy, who was too young
to know the reason, weeping only because his sisters did. The only one
in the room who seemed resigned and comforted, was the dying person.
At my approach to the bedside, she told me, with a low broken voice,
"This is kindly done. Take care of your friend--don't go from him."
She had before taken leave of her husband and children, in a manner
proper for so solemn a parting, and with a gracefulness peculiar to a
woman of her character. My heart was torn in pieces to see the husband
on one side suppressing and keeping down the swellings of his grief,
for fear of disturbing her in her last moments; and the wife even at
that time concealing the pains she endured, for fear of increasing his
affliction. She kept her eyes upon him for some moments after she grew
speechless, and soon after closed them for ever. In the moment of
her departure, my friend (who had thus far commanded himself) gave a
deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her bedside.[367] The distraction
of the children, who thought they saw both their parents expiring
together, and now lying dead before them, would have melted the hardest
heart; but they soon perceived their father recover, whom I helped to
remove into another room, with a resolution to accompany him till the
first pangs of his affliction were abated. I knew consolation would
now be impertinent; and therefore contented myself to sit by him, and
condole with him in silence. For I shall here use the method of an
ancient author,[368] who, in one of his epistles relating the virtues
and death of Macrinus's wife, expresses himself thus:[369] "I shall
suspend my advice to this best of friends, till he is made capable of
receiving it by those three great remedies (_necessitas ipsa_, _dies
longa_, _et satietas doloris_) the necessity of submission, length of
time, and satiety of grief."
In the meantime, I cannot but consider with much commiseration, the
melancholy state of one who has had such a part of himself torn from
him, and which he misses in every circumstance of life. His condition
is like that of one who has lately lost his right arm, and is every
moment offering to help himself with it. He does not appear to
himself the same person in his house, at his table, in company, or in
retirement; and loses the relish of all the pleasures and diversions
that were before entertaining to him by her participation of them. The
most agreeable objects recall the sorrow for her with whom he used to
enjoy them. This additional satisfaction, from the taste of pleasures
in the society of one we love, is admirably described in Milton, who
represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further pleased with the
beautiful objects around her than as she sees them in company with
Adam, in that passage so inexpressibly charming.
"_With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers, and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; the silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven her starry train.
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
In this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet._"[370]
The variety of images in this passage is infinitely pleasing, and the
recapitulation of each particular image, with a little varying of
the expression, makes one of the finest turns of words that I have
ever seen; which I rather mention, because Mr. Dryden has said in
his preface to Juvenal, that he could meet with no turn of words in
Milton.[371]
It may further be observed, that though the sweetness of these verses
has something in it of a pastoral, yet it excels the ordinary kind,
as much as the scene of it is above an ordinary field or meadow.
I might here, since I am accidentally led into this subject, show
several passages in Milton that have as excellent turns of this nature
as any of our English poets whatsoever; but shall only mention that
which follows, in which he describes the fallen angels engaged in the
intricate disputes of predestination, free-will, and foreknowledge; and
to humour the perplexity, makes a kind of labyrinth in the very words
that describe it:
_Others apart sat on a hill retired,
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high
Of Providence, foreknowledge, will and fate,
Fixed fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end in wandering mazes lost._[372]