own qualifications, concluded every period with these words, 'the best
of any man in England.' Thus for example: he kept the best house of any
man in England; he understood this, and that, and the other, the best
of any man in England. How harsh and ungrateful soever this expression
might sound to one of my nation, yet the gentleman was one whom it
no ways became me to interrupt; but perhaps a new term put into his
by-words (as they call a sentence a man particularly affects) may cure
him. I therefore took a resolution to apply to you, who, I dare say,
can easily persuade this gentleman (whom I cannot believe an enemy to
the Union) to mend his phrase, and be hereafter the wisest of any man
in Great Britain. I am,
"Sir,
"Your most humble Servant,
"SCOTO-BRITANNUS."
ADVERTISEMENT.
Whereas Mr. Humphrey Trelooby, wearing his own hair, a pair of
buck-skin breeches, a hunting-whip, with a new pair of spurs, has
complained to the Censor, that on Thursday last he was defrauded
of half-a-crown, under pretence of a duty to the sexton for seeing
the Cathedral of St. Paul, London: it is hereby ordered, that none
hereafter require above sixpence of any country gentleman under the age
of twenty-five for that liberty; and that all which shall be received
above the said sum of any person for beholding the inside of that
sacred edifice, be forthwith paid to Mr. John Morphew for the use of
Mr. Bickerstaff, under pain of further censure on the above-mentioned
extortion.
FOOTNOTES:
[156] See Nos. 56, 61, 67, and 70.
=No. 242.= [STEELE.
From _Tuesday, Oct. 24_, to _Thursday, Oct. 26, 1710_.
----Quis iniquæ
Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?
JUV., Sat. i. 30.
_From my own Apartment, Oct. 25._
It was with very great displeasure I heard this day a man say of a
companion of his with an air of approbation, "You know Tom never fails
of saying a spiteful thing. He has a great deal of wit, but satire is
his particular talent. Did you mind how he put the young fellow out of
countenance that pretended to talk to him?" Such impertinent applauses,
which one meets with every day, put me upon considering what true
raillery and satire were in themselves; and this, methought, occurred
to me from reflection upon the great and excellent persons that were
admired for talents this way. When I had run over several such in
my thoughts, I concluded (however unaccountable the assertion might
appear at first sight) that good-nature was an essential quality in a
satirist, and that all the sentiments which are beautiful in this way
of writing must proceed from that quality in the author. Good-nature
produces a disdain of all baseness, vice, and folly, which prompts
them to express themselves with smartness against the errors of men,
without bitterness towards their persons. This quality keeps the mind
in equanimity, and never lets an offence unseasonably throw a man
out of his character. When Virgil said, he that did not hate Bavius
might love Mævius,[157] he was in perfect good-humour, and was not so
much moved at their absurdities as passionately to call them sots or
blockheads in a direct invective, but laughed at them with a delicacy
of scorn, without any mixture of anger.
The best good man, with the worst-natured muse, was the character among
us of a gentleman as famous for his humanity as his wit.[158]
The ordinary subjects for satire are such as incite the greatest
indignation in the best tempers, and consequently men of such a make
are the best qualified for speaking of the offences in human life.
These men can behold vice and folly when they injure persons to
whom they are wholly unacquainted, with the same severity as others
resent the ills they do themselves. A good-natured man cannot see an
overbearing fellow put a bashful man of merit out of countenance, or
outstrip him in the pursuit of any advantage; but he is on fire to
succour the oppressed, to produce the merit of the one, and confront
the impudence of the other.
The men of the greatest character in this kind were Horace and Juvenal.
There is not, that I remember, one ill-natured expression in all their
writings, not one sentence of severity which does not apparently
proceed from the contrary disposition. Whoever reads them, will, I
believe, be of this mind; and if they were read with this view, it
may possibly persuade our young fellows, that they may be very witty
men without speaking ill of any but those who deserve it: but in
the perusal of these writers it may not be unnecessary to consider,
that they lived in very different times. Horace was intimate with
a prince of the greatest goodness and humanity imaginable, and his
court was formed after his example; therefore the faults that poet
falls upon were little inconsistencies in behaviour, false pretences
to politeness, or impertinent affectations of what men were not fit
for. Vices of a coarser sort could not come under his consideration,
or enter the palace of Augustus. Juvenal, on the other hand, lived
under Domitian, in whose reign everything that was great and noble was
banished the habitations of the men in power. Therefore he attacks vice
as it passes by in triumph, not as it breaks into conversation. The
fall of empire, contempt of glory, and a general degeneracy of manners,
are before his eyes in all his writings. In the days of Augustus, to
have talked like Juvenal had been madness, or in those of Domitian
like Horace. Morality and virtue are everywhere recommended in Horace,
as became a man in a polite court, from the beauty, the propriety,
the convenience, of pursuing them. Vice and corruption are attacked
by Juvenal in a style which denotes, he fears he shall not be heard
without he calls to them in their own language, with a bare-faced
mention of the villanies and obscenities of his contemporaries.
This accidental talk of these two great men runs me from my design,
which was to tell some coxcombs that run about this town with the name
of smart satirical fellows, that they are by no means qualified for the
characters they pretend to, of being severe upon other men, for they
want good-nature. There is no foundation in them for arriving at what
they aim at; and they may as well pretend to flatter, as rail agreeably
without being good-natured.
There is a certain impartiality necessary to make what a man says
bear any weight with those he speaks to. This quality, with respect
to men's errors and vices, is never seen but in good-natured men.
They have ever such a frankness of mind, and benevolence to all men,
that they cannot receive impressions of unkindness without mature
deliberation; and writing or speaking ill of a man upon personal
considerations, is so irreparable and mean an injury, that no one
possessed of this quality is capable of doing it: but in all ages there
have been interpreters to authors when living, of the same genius with
the commentators, into whose hands they fall when dead. I dare say, it
is impossible for any man of more wit than one of these to take any of
the four-and-twenty letters, and form out of them a name to describe
the character of a vicious man with greater life, but one of these
would immediately cry, Mr. Such-a-one is meant in that place. But the
truth of it is, satirists describe the age, and backbiters assign their
descriptions to private men.
In all terms of reproof, when the sentence appears to arise from
personal hatred or passion, it is not then made the cause of mankind,
but a misunderstanding between two persons. For this reason, the
representations of a good-natured man bear a pleasantry in them, which
shows there is no malignity at heart, and by consequence are attended
to by his hearers or readers because they are unprejudiced. This
deference is only what is due to him; for no man thoroughly nettled
can say a thing general enough to pass off with the air of an opinion
declared, and not a passion gratified. I remember a humorous fellow at
Oxford, when he heard any one had spoken ill of him, used to say, "I
won't take my revenge of him till I have forgiven him." What he meant
by this, was, that he would not enter upon this subject till it was
grown as indifferent to him as any other; and I have, by this rule,
seen him more than once triumph over his adversary with an inimitable
spirit and humour; for he came to the assault against a man full of
sore places, and he himself invulnerable.
There is no possibility of succeeding in a satirical way of writing or
speaking, except a man throws himself quite out of the question. It is
great vanity to think any one will attend a thing because it is your
quarrel. You must make your satire the concern of society in general,
if you would have it regarded. When it is so, the good-nature of a
man of wit will prompt him to many brisk and disdainful sentiments
and replies, to which all the malice in the world will not be able to
repartee.
FOOTNOTES:
[157] Virgil, "Eclog." iii. 90.
[158] This was said of Lord Buckhurst, afterwards Earl of Dorset, by
the Earl of Rochester.
=No. 243.= [ADDISON.
From _Thursday, Oct. 26_, to _Saturday, Oct. 28, 1710_.
Infert se septus nebula, mirabile dictu,
Per medios, miscetque viris; neque cernitur ulli.
VIRG., Æn. i. 439.
_From my own Apartment, Oct. 27._
I have somewhere made mention of Gyges's ring,[159] and intimated to
my reader, that it was at present in my possession, though I have not
since made any use of it. The tradition concerning this ring is very
romantic, and taken notice of both by Plato and Tully, who each of
them make an admirable use of it for the advancement of morality. This
Gyges was the master shepherd to King Candaules. As he was wandering
over the plains of Lydia, he saw a great chasm in the earth, and had
the curiosity to enter it. After having descended pretty far into
it, he found the statue of a horse in brass, with doors in the sides
of it. Upon opening of them, he found the body of a dead man bigger
than ordinary, with a ring upon his finger, which he took off, and
put it upon his own. The virtues of it were much greater than he at
first imagined; for upon his going into the assembly of shepherds, he
observed, that he was invisible when he turned the stone of the ring
within the palm of his hand, and visible when he turned it towards
his company. Had Plato and Cicero been as well versed in the occult
sciences as I am, they would have found a great deal of mystic learning
in this tradition; but it is impossible for an adept to be understood
by one who is not an adept.
As for myself, I have with much study and application arrived at this
great secret of making myself invisible, and by that means conveying
myself where I pleased; or to speak in Rosicrucian lore, I have entered
into the clefts of the earth, discovered the brazen horse, and robbed
the dead giant of his ring. The tradition says further of Gyges, that
by the means of this ring he gained admission into the most retired
parts of the court, and made such use of those opportunities, that he
at length became King of Lydia. For my own part, I, who have always
rather endeavoured to improve my mind than my fortune, have turned this
ring to no other advantage than to get a thorough insight into the ways
of men, and to make such observations upon the errors of others as may
be useful to the public, whatever effect they may have upon myself.
About a week ago, not being able to sleep, I got up and put on my
magical ring, and with a thought transported myself into a chamber
where I saw a light. I found it inhabited by a celebrated beauty,
though she is of that species of women which we call a slattern. Her
head-dress and one of her shoes lay upon a chair, her petticoat in
one corner of the room, and her girdle, that had a copy of verses
made upon it but the day before, with her thread stockings, in the
middle of the floor. I was so foolishly officious, that I could not
forbear gathering up her clothes together to lay them upon the chair
that stood by her bedside, when, to my great surprise, after a little
muttering, she cried out, "What do you do? Let my petticoat alone." I
was startled at first, but soon found that she was in a dream; being
one of those who, to use Shakespeare's expression, are "so loose of
thought,"[160] that they utter in their sleep everything that passes
in their imagination. I left the apartment of this female rake, and
went into her neighbour's, where there lay a male coquet. He had a
bottle of salts hanging over his head, and upon the table, by his
bedside, Suckling's Poems, with a little heap of black patches on it.
His snuff-box was within reach on a chair: but while I was admiring
the disposition which he made of the several parts of his dress, his
slumber seemed interrupted by a pang, that was accompanied by a sudden
oath, as he turned himself over hastily in his bed. I did not care for
seeing him in his nocturnal pains, and left the room.
I was no sooner got into another bed-chamber, but I heard very harsh
words uttered in a smooth uniform tone. I was amazed to hear so great
a volubility in reproach, and thought it too coherent to be spoken by
one asleep; but upon looking nearer, I saw the headdress of the person
who spoke, which showed her to be a female with a man lying by her
side broad awake, and as quiet as a lamb. I could not but admire his
exemplary patience, and discovered by his whole behaviour, that he was
then lying under the discipline of a curtain lecture.
I was entertained in many other places with this kind of nocturnal
eloquence, but observed, that most of those whom I found awake, were
kept so either by envy or by love. Some of these were fighting, and
others cursing, in soliloquy; some hugged their pillows, and others
gnashed their teeth.
The covetous I likewise found to be a very wakeful people. I happened
to come into a room where one of them lay sick. His physician and his
wife were in close whisper near his bedside. I overheard the doctor
say to the poor gentlewoman, "He cannot possibly live till five in
the morning." She received it like the mistress of a family prepared
for all events. At the same instant came in a servant-maid, who said,
"Madam, the undertaker is below according to your order." The words
were scarce out of her mouth, when the sick man cried out with a feeble
voice, "Pray, doctor, how went bank-stock to-day at 'Change?" This
melancholy object made me too serious for diverting myself further this
way: but as I was going home, I saw a light in a garret, and entering
into it, heard a voice crying, "And, hand, stand, band, fanned,
tanned." I concluded him by this, and the furniture of his room, to be
a lunatic; but upon listening a little longer, perceived it was a poet,
writing an heroic upon the ensuing peace.
It was now towards morning, an hour when spirits, witches, and
conjurers are obliged to retire to their own apartments, and feeling
the influence of it, I was hastening home, when I saw a man had got
half way into a neighbour's house. I immediately called to him, and
turning my ring, appeared in my proper person. There is something
magisterial in the aspect of the Bickerstaffs, which made him run away
in confusion.
As I took a turn or two in my own lodging, I was thinking, that, old
as I was, I need not go to bed alone, but that it was in my power to
marry the finest lady in this kingdom, if I would wed her with this
ring. For what a figure would she that should have it make at a visit,
with so perfect a knowledge as this would give her of all the scandal
in the town? But instead of endeavouring to dispose of myself and it in
matrimony, I resolved to lend it to my loving friend the author of the
"Atalantis,"[161] to furnish a new Secret History of Secret Memoirs.
FOOTNOTES:
[159] See No. 138.
[160] Iago's words ("Othello," act iii. sc. 3) are, "There are a kind
of men so loose of soul that in their sleeps will mutter their affairs;
one of this kind is Cassio."
[161] Mrs. Manley (see Nos. 35 and 63). In the dedication prefixed
to her play of "Lucius" (1717), Mrs. Manley made public apology for
the attacks upon Steele in her earlier writings: "I have not known a
greater mortification than when I have reflected upon the severities
which have flowed from a pen which is now, you see, disposed as much to
celebrate and commend you."
=No. 244.= [STEELE.
From _Saturday, Oct. 28_, to _Tuesday, Oct. 31, 1710_.
Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno,
Qui sapere et fari possit quæ sentiat?----
HOR., I Ep. iv. 8.
_Will's Coffee-house, Oct. 30._
It is no easy matter when people are advancing in anything, to prevent
their going too fast for want of patience. This happens in nothing
more frequently than in the prosecution of studies. Hence it is,
that we meet crowds who attempt to be eloquent before they can speak.
They affect the flowers of rhetoric before they understand the parts
of speech. In the ordinary conversation of this town, there are so
many who can, as they call it, talk well, that there is not one in
twenty that talks to be understood. This proceeds from an ambition to
excel, or, as the term is, to shine, in company. The matter is not to
make themselves understood, but admired. They come together with a
certain emulation, rather than benevolence. When you fall among such
companions, the safe way is to give yourself up, and let the orators
declaim for your esteem, and trouble yourself no further. It is said
that a poet must be born so; but I think it may be much better said
of an orator, especially when we talk of our town poets and orators;
but the town poets are full of rules and laws, the town orators go
through thick and thin, and are, forsooth, persons of such eminent
natural parts and knowledge of the world, that they despise all men as
inexperienced scholastics who wait for an occasion before they speak,
or who speak no more than is necessary. They had half persuaded me to
go to the tavern the other night, but that a gentleman whispered me,
"Prithee, Isaac, go with us; there is Tom Varnish will be there, and he
is a fellow that talks as well as any man in England."
I must confess, when a man expresses himself well upon any occasion,
and his falling into an account of any subject arises from a desire
to oblige the company, or from fulness of the circumstance itself, so
that his speaking of it at large is occasioned only by the openness of
a companion; I say, in such a case as this, it is not only pardonable,
but agreeable, when a man takes the discourse to himself; but when
you see a fellow watch for opportunities for being copious, it is
excessively troublesome. A man that stammers, if he has understanding,
is to be attended with patience and good-nature; but he that speaks
more than he need, has no right to such an indulgence. The man who
has a defect in his speech takes pains to come to you, while a man of
a weak capacity with fluency of speech triumphs in outrunning you.
The stammerer strives to be fit for your company; the loquacious man
endeavours to show you, you are not fit for his.
With thoughts of this kind do I always enter into that man's company
who is recommended as a person that talks well; but if I were to choose
the people with whom I would spend my hours of conversation, they
should be certainly such as laboured no further than to make themselves
readily and clearly apprehended, and would have patience and curiosity
to understand me. To have good sense, and ability to express it, are
the most essential and necessary qualities in companions. When thoughts
rise in us fit to utter, among familiar friends there needs but very
little care in clothing them.
Urbanus is, I take it, a man one might live with whole years, and enjoy
all the freedom and improvement imaginable, and yet be insensible of
a contradiction to you in all the mistakes you can be guilty of. His
great good-will to his friends has produced in him such a general
deference in his discourse, that if he differs from you in his
sense of anything, he introduces his own thoughts by some agreeable
circumlocution, or he has often observed such and such a circumstance
that made him of another opinion. Again, where another would be apt
to say, "This I am confident of; I may pretend to judge of this
matter as well as anybody;" Urbanus says, "I am verily persuaded;
I believe one may conclude." In a word, there is no man more clear
in his thoughts and expressions than he is, or speaks with greater
diffidence. You shall hardly find one man of any consideration, but
you shall observe one of less consequence form himself after him.
This happens to Urbanus; but the man who steals from him almost every
sentiment he utters in a whole week, disguises the theft, by carrying
it with quite a different air. Umbratilis knows Urbanus's doubtful way
of speaking proceeds from good-nature and good-breeding, and not from
uncertainty in his opinions. Umbratilis therefore has no more to do
but repeat the thoughts of Urbanus in a positive manner, and appear to
the undiscerning a wiser man than the person from whom he borrows: but
those who know him, can see the servant in his master's habit; and the
more he struts, the less do his clothes appear his own.
In conversation, the medium is neither to affect silence or eloquence;
not to value our approbation, and to endeavour to excel us who are of
your company, are equal injuries. The great enemies therefore to good
company, and those who transgress most against the laws of equality
(which is the life of it), are, the clown, the wit, and the pedant. A
clown, when he has sense, is conscious of his want of education, and
with an awkward bluntness hopes to keep himself in countenance, by
overthrowing the use of all polite behaviour. He takes advantage of the
restraint good-breeding lays upon others not to offend him to trespass
against them, and is under the man's own shelter while he intrudes upon
him. The fellows of this class are very frequent in the repetition of
the words "rough" and "manly." When these people happen to be by their
fortunes of the rank of gentlemen, they defend their other absurdities
by an impertinent courage; and to help out the defect of their
behaviour, add their being dangerous to their being disagreeable. This
gentleman (though he displeases, professes to do so, and knowing that,
dares still go on to do so) is not so painful a companion as he who
will please you against your will, and resolves to be a wit.
This man upon all occasions, and whoever he falls in company with,
talks in the same circle, and in the same round of chat which he has
learned at one of the tables of this coffee-house. As poetry is in
itself an elevation above ordinary and common sentiments, so there is
no fop is so very near a madman in indifferent company as a poetical
one. He is not apprehensive that the generality of the world are
intent upon the business of their own fortune and profession, and have
as little capacity as curiosity to enter into matters of ornament or
speculation. I remember at a full table in the city, one of these
ubiquitary wits was entertaining the company with a soliloquy (for so I
call it when a man talks to those who do not understand him) concerning
wit and humour. An honest gentleman who sat next to me, and was worth
half a plum, stared at him, and observing there was some sense, as he
thought, mixed with his impertinence, whispered me, "Take my word for
it, this fellow is more knave than fool." This was all my good friend's
applause of the wittiest man of talk that I was ever present at, which
wanted nothing to make it excellent but that there was no occasion for
it.
The pedant is so obvious to ridicule, that it would be to be one to
offer to explain him. He is a gentleman so well known, that there is
none but those of his own class who do not laugh at and avoid him.
Pedantry proceeds from much reading and little understanding. A pedant
among men of learning and sense, is like an ignorant servant giving
an account of a polite conversation. You may find he has brought with
him more than could have entered into his head without being there, but
still that he is not a bit wiser than if he had not been there at all.
=No. 245.= [STEELE.
From _Tuesday, Oct. 31_, to _Thursday, Nov. 2, 1710_.
_From my own Apartment, Nov. 1._
The lady hereafter mentioned having come to me in very great haste,
and paid me much above the usual fee as a cunning man to find
her stolen goods, and also having approved my late discourse of
advertisements,[162] obliged me to draw up this, and insert it in the
body of my paper:
ADVERTISEMENT.