It is an ordinary criticism, that my Lord Shaftesbury, and Sir William
Temple, are models of the genteel style in writing. We should prefer
saying--of the lordly, and the gentlemanly. Nothing can be more unlike
than the inflated finical rhapsodies of Shaftesbury, and the plain
natural chit-chat of Temple. The man of rank is discernible in both
writers; but in the one it is only insinuated gracefully, in the other
it stands out offensively. The peer seems to have written with his
coronet on, and his Earl's mantle before him; the commoner in his
elbow chair and undress.--What can be more pleasant than the way in
which the retired statesman peeps out in the essays, penned by the
latter in his delightful retreat at Shene? They scent of Nimeguen,
and the Hague. Scarce an authority is quoted under an ambassador.
Don Francisco de Melo, a "Portugal Envoy in England," tells him it
was frequent in his country for men, spent with age or other decays,
so as they could not hope for above a year or two of life, to ship
themselves away in a Brazil fleet, and after their arrival there to
go on a great length, sometimes of twenty or thirty years, or more,
by the force of that vigour they recovered with that remove. "Whether
such an effect (Temple beautifully adds) might grow from the air, or
the fruits of that climate, or by approaching nearer the sun, which
is the fountain of light and heat, when their natural heat was so
far decayed: or whether the piecing out of an old man's life were
worth the pains; I cannot tell: perhaps the play is not worth the
candle."--Monsieur Pompone, "French Ambassador in his (Sir William's)
time at the Hague," certifies him, that in his life he had never
heard of any man in France that arrived at a hundred years of age; a
limitation of life which the old gentleman imputes to the excellence
of their climate, giving them such a liveliness of temper and humour,
as disposes them to more pleasures of all kinds than in other
countries; and moralises upon the matter very sensibly. The "late
Robert Earl of Leicester" furnishes him with a story of a Countess of
Desmond, married out of England in Edward the Fourth's time, and who
lived far in King James's reign. The "same noble person" gives him
an account, how such a year, in the same reign, there went about the
country a set of morrice-dancers, composed of ten men who danced, a
Maid Marian, and a tabor and pipe; and how these twelve, one with
another, made up twelve hundred years. "It was not so much (says
Temple) that so many in one small county (Herefordshire) should live
to that age, as that they should be in vigour and in humour to travel
and to dance." Monsieur Zulichem, one of his "colleagues at the
Hague," informs him of a cure for the gout; which is confirmed by
another "Envoy," Monsieur Serinchamps, in that town, who had tried
it.--Old Prince Maurice of Nassau recommends to him the use of
hammocks in that complaint; having been allured to sleep, while
suffering under it himself, by the "constant motion or swinging of
those airy beds." Count Egmont, and the Rhinegrave who "was killed
last summer before Maestricht," impart to him their experiences.
But the rank of the writer is never more innocently disclosed, than
where he takes for granted the compliments paid by foreigners to his
fruit-trees. For the taste and perfection of what we esteem the best,
he can truly say, that the French, who have eaten his peaches and
grapes at Shene in no very ill year, have generally concluded that
the last are as good as any they have eaten in France on this side
Fontainebleau; and the first as good as any they have eat in Gascony.
Italians have agreed his white figs to be as good as any of that sort
in Italy, which is the earlier kind of white fig there; for in the
later kind and the blue, we cannot come near the warm climates, no
more than in the Frontignac or Muscat grape. His orange-trees too, are
as large as any he saw when he was young in France, except those of
Fontainebleau, or what he has seen since in the Low Countries; except
some very old ones of the Prince of Orange's. Of grapes he had the
honour of bringing over four sorts into England, which he enumerates,
and supposes that they are all by this time pretty common among some
gardeners in his neighbourhood, as well as several persons of quality;
for he ever thought all things of this kind "the commoner they are
made the better." The garden pedantry with which he asserts that 'tis
to little purpose to plant any of the best fruits, as peaches or
grapes, hardly, he doubts, beyond Northamptonshire at the furthest
northwards; and praises the "Bishop of Munster at Cosevelt," for
attempting nothing beyond cherries in that cold climate; is equally
pleasant and in character. "I may perhaps" (he thus ends his sweet
Garden Essay with a passage worthy of Cowley) "be allowed to know
something of this trade, since I have so long allowed myself to be
good for nothing else, which few men will do, or enjoy their gardens,
without often looking abroad to see how other matters play, what
motions in the state, and what invitations they may hope for into
other scenes. For my own part, as the country life, and this part of
it more particularly, were the inclination of my youth itself, so they
are the pleasure of my age; and I can truly say that, among many great
employments that have fallen to my share, I have never asked or sought
for any of them, but have often endeavoured to escape from them, into
the ease and freedom of a private scene, where a man may go his own
way and his own pace, in the common paths and circles of life. The
measure of choosing well is whether a man likes what he has chosen,
which I thank God has befallen me; and though among the follies of my
life, building and planting have not been the least, and have cost
me more than I have the confidence to own; yet they have been fully
recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, where,
since my resolution taken of never entering again into any public
employments, I have passed five years without ever once going to town,
though I am almost in sight of it, and have a house there always ready
to receive me. Nor has this been any sort of affectation, as some have
thought it, but a mere want of desire or humour to make so small a
remove; for when I am in this corner, I can truly say with Horace, _Me
quoties reficit, &c._
"Me, when the cold Digentian stream revives,
What does my friend believe I think or ask?
Let me yet less possess, so I may live,
Whate'er of life remains, unto myself.
May I have books enough; and one year's store,
Not to depend upon each doubtful hour:
This is enough of mighty Jove to pray,
Who, as he pleases, gives and takes away."
The writings of Temple are, in general, after this easy copy. On one
occasion, indeed, his wit, which was mostly subordinate to nature and
tenderness, has seduced him into a string of felicitous antitheses;
which, it is obvious to remark, have been a model to Addison and
succeeding essayists. "Who would not be covetous, and with reason,"
he says, "if health could be purchased with gold? who not ambitious,
if it were at the command of power, or restored by honour? but, alas!
a white staff will not help gouty feet to walk better than a common
cane; nor a blue riband bind up a wound so well as a fillet. The
glitter of gold, or of diamonds, will but hurt sore eyes instead of
curing them; and an aching head will be no more eased by wearing a
crown, than a common night-cap." In a far better style, and more
accordant with his own humour of plainness, are the concluding
sentences of his "Discourse upon Poetry." Temple took a part in the
controversy about the ancient and the modern learning; and, with
that partiality so natural and so graceful in an old man, whose
state engagements had left him little leisure to look into modern
productions, while his retirement gave him occasion to look back upon
the classic studies of his youth--decided in favour of the latter.
"Certain it is," he says, "that, whether the fierceness of the Gothic
humours, or noise of their perpetual wars, frighted it away, or that
the unequal mixture of the modern languages would not bear it--the
great heights and excellency both of poetry and music fell with
the Roman learning and empire, and have never since recovered the
admiration and applauses that before attended them. Yet, such as they
are amongst us, they must be confessed to be the softest and sweetest,
the most general and most innocent amusements of common time and life.
They still find room in the courts of princes, and the cottages of
shepherds. They serve to revive and animate the dead calm of poor
and idle lives, and to allay or divert the violent passions and
perturbations of the greatest and the busiest men. And both these
effects are of equal use to human life; for the mind of man is like
the sea, which is neither agreeable to the beholder nor the voyager,
in a calm or in a storm, but is so to both when a little agitated by
gentle gales; and so the mind, when moved by soft and easy passions or
affections. I know very well that many who pretend to be wise by the
forms of being grave, are apt to despise both poetry and music, as
toys and trifles too light for the use or entertainment of serious
men. But whoever find themselves wholly insensible to their charms,
would, I think, do well to keep their own counsel, for fear of
reproaching their own temper, and bringing the goodness of their
natures, if not of their understandings, into question. While this
world lasts, I doubt not but the pleasure and request of these two
entertainments will do so too; and happy those that content themselves
with these, or any other so easy and so innocent, and do no trouble
the world or other men, because they cannot be quiet themselves,
though nobody hurts them." "When all is done (he concludes), human
life is at the greatest and the best but like a froward child, that
must be played with, and humoured a little, to keep it quiet, till it
falls asleep, and then the care is over."