In order to appreciate fully the merits of an author, it is necessary to throw a search-light upon the period in which he wrote. His writings should not be studied alone, isolated from their companions, but should be viewed in relation to their social, political, and historical conditions. This is particularly advisable in criticising the literature of a previous century whose customs, manners, tastes, and opinions differ so widely from those of our own. We must obliterate our prejudices and fixed ideas; must shut our eyes to the present, and transporting ourselves to the past, live in spirit with the people of that time, be participants in their work, their recreations, their joys, and their sorrows; must eat at their tables and take part in their conversations; must wear the clothes they wore, travel the roads they travelled, read the books they read, visit the people whom they visited, appreciate their hindrances and limitations, and survey the whole field, not with a satirical, fault-finding spirit, but with clear vision and sympathetic comradeship.
With this purpose in mind, let us, like Gulliver at Lilliput, open our eyes on the new scene— the England of the Queen Anne period, from the latter part of the seventeenth century to the early middle of the eighteenth. The scene naturally divides itself into London, and that which is not London; and the latter, though so much greater in magnitude, may be quickly seen, as there was much sameness throughout in customs and mode of living. In the country, roads were poor and neglected, and the country people travelled but little— mainly on horseback. When it was necessary for a man to go to London,— and he who had been to London "had seen the world," and was looked upon with a degree of awe and respect by his simple countrymen, — he could walk to the nearest main road, and at a given time, take the stage-coach which passed once a week on its way to the great metropolis. Public schools were being instituted, but they were few, and most people were uneducated— could neither read nor write. Society, in its accepted term, was confined to the comparatively few wealthy landowners who kept large numbers of horses and hounds, and when at home filled their mansions with guests who delighted in hunting, the chase, and the other amusements which the free-hearted host could originate. On portions of the estates were grouped the little homes of the tenants; and these, with an occasional small village where the farmers gathered and discussed the price of crops, or told to open-mouthed, eager listeners the latest scandal or gossip retailed by the servants of the gentry, gave life to the slow-going and lonely country.
But the well-to-do people were spending less and less time in their country seats, and more and more in the growing towns, where congregated learning, business, wealth, and society. Many cities were growing; but the most prominent one was London, which was, and is, to England, what Paris is to France, or Athens was to Greece— the centre of all progress and culture. Almost any theologian of note in England was to be found "either in the episcopate or at the head of a London parish;" here came all authors and would-be authors; here was the active and turbid stream of manufacturing and commercial life; here was the court with its attendant vices and virtues, and Parliament with its frequent assemblings; and here was the gayest and most frivolous society of all England, with its vulgarity, licentiousness, and lawlessness.
The question which is perplexing the anxious, overburdened man of the nineteenth century, "Is life worth living?" might, with some propriety, have been asked in the eighteenth of the social dawdler whose days were rounds of sensual pleasures. Thackeray says, "I have calculated the manner in which statesmen and persons of condition passed their time— and what with drinking and dining, and supping and cards, wonder how they got through with their business at all." The fine gentleman rose late, and sauntered in the Mall— the fashionable promenade which we are told was always full of idlers, but especially so morning and evening when their Majesties often walked with the royal family. After his walk the society man, dressed elaborately and in his periwig, cocked hat, skirt-coat wired to make it stick out, ruffled linen, black silk hose, square-toed shoes, and buckles, gaily betook himself to the coffee-house or chocolate-house. Here he lounged, and over the steaming cup discussed the latest news from abroad, from Parliament, from society. As there were few conveniences in the homes for entertaining, it was the custom to dine with a friend or two at the tavern, where hilarity prevailed, and drunkenness was a trifling incident, attaching no shame or disgrace to the offender. Dinner over, the coffee-house again, or possibly the club, occupied the attention, and the theatre or gamingtable finished the day for this man of quality who perhaps had no uneasy consciousness of time wasted. And the life of the fine lady was equally purposeless. The social pulse may always be determined by the position of woman; and woman in this period neither commanded nor received respect. In the middle classes might be found many a practical mother who enjoyed her household duties, and was content in the four walls of her home. But throughout the higher classes the fine lady was not supposed to be a homekeeper; she was not supposed to be educated; she was not required to be more refined than was consistent with present pleasure. Nothing was done, and nothing was expected to be done, to bring into action those nobler qualities which we now recognize as essential to womanhood. Society existed for men; and woman was admitted, not because of her inherent right to be there to purify, to uplift, to inspire, but because she could amuse and charm away a weary hour while she idly flirted her fan, and gave inane responses to the insipid compliments of the vain, conceited beaux.
One of these social ornaments tells us how she spent her time. She says, "I lie in bed till noon, dress all the afternoon, drive in the evening, and play at cards till midnight;" and adds that she goes to church twice a year or oftener, according as her husband gives her new clothes, and spends the remainder of Sabbath in gossiping of "new fashions and new plays." A lady's diary in Spectator reads: "Shifted a patch for half an hour before I could determine it. Fixed it above my left eyebrow;" and again, "Called for my flowered handkerchief. Worked half a leaf on it. Eyes ached and head out of order. Threw by my work, and read over the remaining part of Aurengzebe." When driven by ennui to books, she chose— if choice it could be called when there were so few other books available— "lewd plays and winning romances," thus serving to heighten the superficial atmosphere in which she lived.
But prominent in society was the young beau— of whom our dude of the nineteenth century is a feeble copy— who imitated the fine gentlemen in all their weaknesses and sins, intensifying them in his "airy conceit" and lofty flippancy. He, too, frequented the Mall, coffee-house, and theatre, hobnobbing with other beaux as aimless and brainless as himself, boasting the charms of his many friends, and his latest conquest. His dress, which was usually of bright colors, occupied much of his attention, and his cane and ever-present snuff-box much more. "He scorns to condescend so low as to speak of any person beneath the dignity of a nobleman; the Duke of such a place, and my Lord such a one, are his common cronies, from whom he knows all the secrets of the court, but does not impart 'em to his best friend because the Duke enjoined him to secrecy." He was so happily unconscious of his own vacuity that he paraded his weakness, thinking it wisdom. Yet, insufferable as he seems to us, "he was an institution of the times," and was petted and adored by the ladies.
Society was permeated with corrupt ideas and morals, and the strange fact is that these were openly accepted and approved. No man had confidence in his neighbor because he knew of his own unworthiness, and could conceive of no reason why his companion should care to be better than he was himself. Robert Walpole's declaration, that every man has his price, was then painfully true, and nobody denied it or seemed ashamed of the fact. The unusual was not that men should be bad, but that they should be good. Men priding themselves on their honor, and engaging in a duel to prove this so-called honor as readily as they ordered their horses for hunting, yet slandered the ladies, flirted outrageously with other men's wives, cheated at cards, and contracted debts they knew they were unable to pay. Women pretending to be friends, lost no opportunity of back-biting and defaming one another. Social gatherings were based, not on merit of individuals, nor congeniality of taste, but on a feverish craving for excitement and admiration, or the laudable desire to kill time.
Men might talk rationally and sensibly when with one another, but in the presence of women they uttered the most shallow commonplaces and vapid compliments, and were applauded as witty. Through all conversation there was an undercurrent of insincerity and sham deference. Addison notes this and makes his protest. "The world is grown so full of dissimulation and compliment that men's words are hardly any significance of their thoughts." Accompanying this most extravagant flattery— often to mere strangers— was the greatest freedom in personal relations, and all reserve was classed as prudish and affected.
Both men and women gambled openly and excessively, staking even their clothes when purses were empty. Ward, speaking of a group of this class, said: "They are gamesters waiting to pick up some young bubble or other as he comes from his chamber; they are men whose conditions are subject to more revolutions than a weathercock, or the uncertain mind of a fantastical woman. They are seldom two days in one and the same stations; they are one day very richly dressed, and perhaps out at elbows the next;" and of woman that "were she at church in the height of her devotions, should anybody but stand at the church door and hold up the knave of clubs, she would take it to be a challenge, and starting from her prayers, would follow as a deluded traveller his ignis fatuus." Furious as they all were when they lost, and prone to laxity in money matters, they yet looked upon a gambling debt as one necessary to be paid. "Why, sir, among gentlemen, that debt is looked upon the most just of any; you may cheat widows, orphans, tradesmen, without a blush, but a debt of honor, sir, must be paid. I could name you some noblemen that pay nobody— yet a debt of honor, sir, is as sure as their ready money."
But there were many diversions besides those that have been mentioned. These vivacious, restless, superficial triflers must have variety, and have it they did. Periodical suburban fairs were held— somewhat similar to our modern circus— where at different booths one might enjoy seeing sword dancing, dancing on the rope, acrobatic agility, puppet shows, monstrosities from all parts of the world, and various exhibitions more or less refined. In process of time the fairs became so debasing in their influence that Her Majesty ordered them closed. Cock-fighting and bull-baiting— the latter being a fight between a dog and a bull tied at the horns with a rope several yards long— were also greatly enjoyed.
Next to the club and gaming table, the theatre was probably the most attractive place to while away time. The English drama which during the reign of Elizabeth reached the greatest height, and began to descend, had been denounced and suppressed by the Puritans. When it was revived under the dissolute court of Charles II, the new kind of drama was like the people, "light, witty, and immoral." The theatre was a gathering place for all classes, high and low, rich and poor, refined and coarse, pure and impure, and the greatest levity and license prevailed. Misson says that during the performance the audience "chatter, toy, play, hear and not hear." This state of things continued during Anne's reign. The object was not to interpret life or teach right living. As Steele asserts: "The understanding is dismissed from our entertainments. Our mirth is the laughter of fools, and our admiration is the wonder of idiots." Plays were written by men, for men, and were usually acted by men— no woman having appeared on the stage till 1660. Even in Queen Anne's reign, so few actresses were known that when a play "acted by all women" was advertised, it greatly attracted by its novelty, the pleasure-seeking crowd. That a woman might be pure and womanly, and still appear on the stage, was beyond the knowledge or comprehension of society. It has remained for the nineteenth century to make it possible. Queen Anne did not attend the theatre, and she strove to abolish its evils, but was far from successful.
In observing the influences which were slowly bringing about a change in London society, too much importance cannot be placed upon the coffee-house, "the centre of news, the lounge of the idler, the rendezvous for appointments, the mart for business men." We have nothing corresponding to it in these days, because our newspapers, our telephones, our electric conveyances, place all items of interest before the city at once, and such resorts are unnecessary. But in those times the coffee-house was the magnetic needle and drew all London by its powers. Clergymen, highwaymen, noblemen, beggars, authors, beaux, courtiers, business men, collected here where coffee was good and cheap, service prompt and willing, conversation interesting and witty, and where a free and easy atmosphere made all feel at home. Here men with opinions found eager listeners before whom they might pose as oracles. Here un-ideaed men came to gain opinions which they might carry away and impart to their admirers as original. And here came men of intellect to enjoy the conversation of their equals, and sharpen their own wits in the contact. The influence of the coffee-house radiated to all parts of the city, and touched business, society, church, literature.
While the coffee-houses were democratic,— "a neutral meeting ground for all men,"— the numerous clubs were naturally more exclusive. New ones were continually being formed by a knot of men having the same intellectual tastes, common business pursuits, oneness in epicurean appetites, or even similar endowments in pounds of flesh. From the Fat Men's Club, which excluded all who could get through an ordinary door, to the October Club, where "Tory squires, Parliament men, nourished patriotism with October ale," and the Kit-Cat Club, frequented by the great writers of the day— Addison, Congreve, Arbuthnot— as well as by the great Whig partisans,— from the lowest to the highest,— there was usually some club at which "the learned and the illiterate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and the buffoon," might find their counterparts and congenial spirits. Many men of the eighteenth century received their greatest intellectual impulse in these clubs and coffee-houses, and were as dependent upon them for their happiness as those of the nineteenth are upon their newspapers.
In this social world of London, but scarcely a part of it, were many authors, though they had not yet secured a foothold which enabled them to live merely by the pen. The garrets in Grub Street were full of these toilers who earned their scanty bread and butter by taking any work which promised support, often "grinding out ideas on subjects dictated by a taskmaster and foreign to their taste." There was no hope of emerging from their obscurity unless some happy accident secured the notice of the government and resulted in a pension; or some flattering article from their pen induced a nobleman to reach out a helping hand and condescend to be a patron in return for the writer's influence in political affairs. Collier says, "It was Addison and Steele, Pope and Swift, and a few others who got all the fame and the guineas, who drank their wine, and spent their afternoons in the saloons of the great, while the great majority of authors starved and shivered in garrets, or pawned their clothes for the food their pens could not win,"
But it is not alone the number of noted authors nor the thought they contributed to the world that makes the age an important one from a literary point of view. They showed to the world, what it had never known before, the great value of literary form. The greatest period of literary activity previous to this— that of Elizabeth— was far superior in creative power; and as "there were giants in those days," their genius made writing natural and easy as well as brilliant. But English authors had never consciously added carefulness in diction, in sentence structure, in rhythm, to their power of expression, until their eyes were opened after the return of Charles II from France. From that time the "French taste for finish, elegance, and correctness" had pervaded the literature of England, and now reached the height of perfection in Pope. All literature since owes a debt of gratitude to these painstaking strugglers. They stopped short of the beauty which broadens, the love of nature which inspires; but by their sharp criticisms, and the practice of their own theories, they made it impossible for future authors to write in a careless, slipshod manner.
Notwithstanding the fact that numerous writers existed, and that the public was beginning to appreciate their worth, it was not a reading age. And it was quite improbable that it should be so, as the people were a sensual people, and the writings were precise, intellectual, and did not appeal to the great mass of ought-to-be-readers. Even if books had been more to their liking, there were still grave hindrances. Many could not read intelligently, books were expensive and owned by the few, and there was lacking a literary taste, which should make any reading desirable or necessary to their happiness. Talking was much easier, and satisfied them completely; so conversation, fostered by club and coffee-house, became naturally the medium of communication and information. What this conversation degenerated into without the feeding power of books has been already shown; and it may easily be seen that this great need of mental stimulus was second only to the crying want of purer morals.
And still there was a restless, though perhaps an unconscious, craving for nobler living, higher perceptions. The Puritan period, with all its distasteful severities and rigorous demands, revealed a nobility of purpose and a grandeur of character whose influence could not be eradicated. Its growth was checked in the reactionary, lawless rule of Charles, yet the root was not dead, and was slowly but surely pushing its fibres more and more into responsive ground. Where the age of Charles was aggressive, Anne's was passive; where the former gave unbridled license in defiance of previous restraint, the latter was immoral because living on a low plane had become habitual, and there was little opposition. And this in itself makes vice lifeless because there is no wind to fan the flame. People were becoming discontented with a surfeit of immorality, and only waited for a Moses to lead them out of their slavery.
And he came in the person of Addison, who with his shrewd, penetrating common sense discerned just what was needed to give an uplift to the eighteenth century. Swift had shown his disapproval, but his bitter sarcasms stung and did not effect a cure. Defoe also had made an effort to reform society, but he lacked the personality necessary to touch the heart. But no man ever saw more clearly, aimed more wisely, or hit the mark more surely than did Addison in the pages of the Spectator. What Ben Jonson tried in the Elizabethan age, Addison accomplished in Anne's. Both felt painfully the corruption of their times, and both strove to better society. Both knew society thoroughly and pictured accurately the men and women around them, their looks, their actions, their conversations. Both did this in an attractive, satirical manner; but Jonson was not in sympathy with his creations nor does he inspire us with this feeling. His characters are compounds of vices and weaknesses with little heart, and we have a good-natured contempt for them; Addison shows vices and weaknesses, but pictures the latter in so kindly a manner that we condemn tenderly as we take the delinquent by the hand, and are perhaps inclined to ask ourselves if we do not possess the same frailties. Is it strange then that Addison, having this underlying sympathy which attracts and corrects, should give a far more helpful impulse to society than Jonson, who, though seeing just as truly, and exposing as faithfully, yet repelled by his aloofness?
Addison did not write for the heart, though we have a very warm feeling for the kindly old Roger, and the simple Will Honeycomb; he did not write for the head, to inform or invigorate the reasoning powers; his purpose was to quicken moral life; to make men and women less idle, less vain, less frivolous; to give loftier aims, to make more helpful, more pure. The essays were not aimed at the world in general, a possible or imaginary society; they were written expressly for the people whom he saw daily around him, to meet the actual need of the men and women of that age living such thoughtless, butterfly lives. He assumes that they were not consciously frittering away their energies; but "weak in their high emotions," like the rudderless boat on the wave, containing no power in itself to resist the forces which impel it now forward, now backward, perhaps dashing it against the rock, and perhaps carrying it out to sea. And his own individuality enables him to comprehend the surest method of appealing to them successfully. He comes to them simply, kindly, humorously, with an air of contempt for the fault, but no ill will to the criminal.
At the present time he does not touch us deeply, because we have attained, somewhat, to a higher plane of morality, and do not need the suggestions. Why, then, you will ask, should we make a study of his writings? They are valuable as literature; and by studying these essays, with their smooth, easy flow of words, and natural, conversational sentences, the student may gain juster conceptions of the value of purity and simplicity of style, and may be led to avoid the dangerous tendency to unnatural, stilted compositions. They are also invaluable as history; and show, as no purely historical work can do, the status of social life. Nowhere else can the student obtain such accurate, such vivid panoramic views of the society of the Queen Anne period, and such interesting pictures of its typical men and women. He who comes to Addison for excitement, for thrilling scenes and incidents will go away disappointed; for he does not hold his readers as the Ancient Mariner did the wedding guest— by weird and mysterious tales, and blood-curdling fiction; but he who comes with appetite not cloyed with sensational literature, who comes as we go into the sunshine— for restful, healthful growth of mind and body— finds a tonic which strengthens without giving undue exhilaration, or leaving the restless cravings of an over-stimulated mind.
The Spectator, which first appeared before the public March 9, 1711, was a folio sheet 12 1/4 inches high and 8 inches wide. If we may judge by the letters which Addison— who was joint contributor with Steele— received, the paper then as now was conceded to be the best of the numerous papers published, and possessed a great number of delighted readers. George Trusty writes :—
"I constantly peruse your paper as I smoke my morning pipe... and really it gives a grateful relish to every whiff; each paragraph is freighted either with some useful or delightful notion, and I never fail of being highly diverted or improved.... You charm the fancy, soothe the passions, and insensibly lead the reader to that sweetness of temper that you so well describe: you rouse generosity with that spirit, and inculcate humanity with that ease, that he must be miserably stupid that is not affected by you."
And from a Mrs. Perry comes the following:—
"Mr. Spectator,—"Your paper is a part of my tea-equipage; and my servant knows my humor so well, that calling for my breakfast this morning (it being past my usual hour) she answered, the Spectator was not yet come in; but that the teakettle boiled, and she expected it every moment."
But the Spectator— like other newspapers— did not appear suddenly before the public. It was an evolution; and "Like all masterpieces in art and literature, marks the final stage of a long and painful journey; and the merit of their inventors consists largely in the judgment with which they profited by the experiences of many predecessors." The written letters which in Rome, before the time of Christ, were sent by commanders to their generals may perhaps be considered the germ of the modern newspaper; for in addition to necessary information on military matters there were often added events transpiring in the city, and these messages were not intended for one individual alone, but were for the benefit of the whole army. We are told that Caesar had them hung where all might read them. Centuries afterward in Venice, news from foreign countries was read aloud at stated times to the people. Spasmodic as such communications were, prohibited by one ruler and favored by another, they yet impressed the public with their value; and in process of time the news-letter or newspaper appeared in many parts of Europe, reaching England in the early part of the seventeenth century.
Here as elsewhere they were in pamphlet form, on small, coarse paper; were written, not printed, till as late as 1622. What they lacked in size and material, they made up in the length and sounding of title. The Morning Mercury, or a Farce of Fools (1700); The British Apollo, or Curious Amusements for the Ingenious; to which are added the Most Material Occurrences, Foreign and Domestic, Performed by a Society of Gentlemen (1708), are the titles of two of these small editions. At first they were published at irregular intervals— when there was something especial to say; then regularly, increasing as time passed on until the editors ventured on two and three a week; and at last, beginning in 1702, a daily paper, the Daily Courant, was maintained.
Either because editors were lacking in business ability and knowledge of suitable material, or because the public did not recognize the need of such information, many papers were born, breathed for a day, and expired leaving small trace of their existence. But the death of one was certain to be followed by the birth of another, and the number steadily increased. In 1647, a tax was levied which caused many a publisher to vanish with his little sheet. However, the opposition to the taxation grew and in time triumphed, and the tax was removed. When later it was again imposed, such a foothold had been gained that publishers could afford to pay the few cents extra. Another set-back was given when the government attempted to control all publications; and it was a long time before Parliament could be induced to see "that it was wiser to leave falsehood and scurrility to be gradually corrected by public opinion, as speaking through an unfettered press, than to attack them by a law which they had proved themselves able to defy." After all the many discouragements, many failures, many trials, the newspaper remained as a proof of its necessity.
The subject-matter was somewhat similar to that of more modern papers except that there was no attempt to influence, to form, public opinion. News from abroad was given, but before the eighteenth century no Parliamentary proceedings were allowed to be published. All startling adventures were seized upon and embellished to suit the taste of a shallow public. Petty personalities then as now glared from the pages, and advertisements of medicine, "healing by royal touch," match-making, and prize-fighting occupied much space. But it was not until Steele issued the Tatler, in 1709, that the new element was introduced, which began "to hold a mirror" up to society and reflect the social life, with its customs and morals, and its gossip of club and coffee-house. Steele carried out his purpose, "to expose the false arts of life, to pull off the disguises of cunning, vanity, and affectation, and to recommend a general simplicity in our dress, our discourse, and our behavior"; and herein lies the great difference between his material and that of other papers.
Nearly two years afterward, Steele saw fit to discontinue the Tatler and to commence another paper, the Spectator. Addison, who had written many articles for the former, now contributed equally with Steele, and his connection with the paper caused it to become extremely popular. Rapidly it gained resemblance to our modern magazine in material, the critical and ethical essay predominating, while news items were left to ordinary newspapers. The Spectator was issued daily— the Friday edition confining itself to literary matter, the Saturday to moral and religious; and it aimed to accomplish even a greater work than its predecessor had done. More and more attention was given to forming and raising the standard of public opinion in "manners, morals, art, and literature." The editors hoped to meet the needs of all people, but especially the needs of women. Addison realized that through them must come the betterment of society and there the reform must begin. He says:—
"But there are none to whom this paper will be more useful than to the female world. I have often thought there has not been sufficient pains taken in finding out proper employments and diversions for the fair ones. Their amusements seem contrived for them rather as they are women, than as they are reasonable creatures; and are more adapted to the sex than to the species. The toilet is their great scene of business, and the right adjusting of their hair the principal employment of their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribbons is reckoned a very good morning's work; and if they make an excursion to a mercer's or a toy shop, so great a fatigue unfits them for anything else all the day after. Their more serious occupations are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest drudgery the preparation of jellies and sweetmeats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women; though I know there are multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversation, that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as well as love, into their male beholders. I hope to increase the number of these by publishing this daily paper which I shall always endeavor to make an innocent, if not an improving entertainment, and by that means at least divert the minds of my female readers from greater trifles."
It is a well-recognized failing with a would-be-reformer to aim above the comprehension of the class he wishes to help; and instead of moving on their plane of thought, to expect them to come up to his. Addison made no such mistake. He knew instinctively the people, descended to their level, and in a light, story-telling form, gave them what their minds were able to grasp. As they were not a reading people, as they were not interested in homilies on right living, nor capable of deep, logical thinking, they must be reached by simple discussions on what occupied most of their attention— the little everyday affairs of life. They had to be led as one leads a child— by arousing the curiosity which eagerly asks, "What did they do next?" To most intellectual men, and certainly to illiterate ones, nothing appeals so strongly as the loves and hates, the joys and sorrows, the successes and failures, and the thoughts of their fellow mortals. The child wants its story of Cinderella with her triumph, and the wonderful adventures of Jack and his beanstalk; the man is just as absorbed in Orlando's love for Rosalind, and Antonio's anxiety for his commercial ventures. And Addison and Steele based their plan of the Spectator on this knowledge of human longing. They present an imaginary club, the members of which are typical people, and with a thread of narrative skilfully binding them together, suggest the lessons they wish to impart, through the experiences of Ned Softly, Tom Folio, Sir Andrew Freeport, Sir Roger de Coverley, or through the Spectator himself— under which name we find Addison; and the English public read and profited. It is safe to say that no publication with equal circulation, ever benefited more people than did the Spectator.
Having seen the eighteenth-century England, the value of Addison's work, and the growth of the newspaper until the evolution of the Spectator, we are prepared to study certain of the essays called The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers. Not all in which Sir Roger is mentioned are in this book; but the selected ones aim to give a complete portrait of Sir Roger— a typical landed gentleman— with his quaint humors and charitable disposition. In studying his peculiarities it is well to note in how far Addison has painted his own picture. But it is not advisable to attempt to fit the numerous characters in these essays to actual people, although in many instances it might be done; however, the student must bear in mind that society contained many Sir Rogers, Will Wimbles, Will Honeycombs; that "Moll Whites" existed in abundance; that superstition was prevalent, and that the relations between parsons and squires was just what Addison has portrayed.
The text is founded on Mr. Henry Morley's edition of the Spectator, published in 1891; but an occasional sentence has been dropped, and unnecessary capitals omitted in order to make the reading more attractive. Criticisms of the style are not attempted, because they deprive the student of making unbiased estimates; and only such notes are affixed as might be difficult to obtain in an ordinary schoolroom.
Nothing is of more importance to a man than his birth; yet apparently there is nothing which the public cares less to remember than the date of his appearance. Nevertheless, it seems well to commence these biographical sketches by stating that Joseph Addison was born May 1, 1672, in Wiltshire, England. He received a college education; and at the age of twenty-seven had shown so much intellectual ability that influential Whig leaders, desiring his influence, obtained for him a pension from the Government, and sent him to the Continent. Here, studying and writing, he enjoyed two years; then the downfall of the Whig party causing the loss of his pension, he returned to England. Soon after this, his poem, "The Campaign," gained for him the position of Under Secretary of State. Later, as secretary of Lord Wharton he went to Ireland, where he formed the friendship of Swift. He was now a popular man; and his popularity was greatly increased by his contributions to the Tatler, and later by his connection with the Spectator. In 1716 he married the Countess Dowager of Warwick. She was proud and haughty, and his last years were not happy ones, though he was made Secretary of State, and was looked upon as the greatest literary man of his time. He died in 1719.
Richard Steele, who says "I am an Englishman born in the city of Dublin," also opened his eyes on the world in 1672; but he came in the cold, dreary March— not in the sunny, joyful May as did his friend Addison. Neither has left many records of his boyhood, and so we conclude that with each it was uneventful, and the boys "not very good and not very bad." Steele, though a poor boy, must have had some schooling, for he was able to enter Oxford university in 1690. But he was of too restless a nature to confine himself to student life, and in a short time left college to join the army. He enlisted as private, but was afterward made captain; and tells us that he "first became an author while Ensign of the Guards." His first prose work, The Christian Hero, which showed the ideal man, was criticised much because Steele himself practised so little the virtues of his hero. When thirty-five he received from the Government the appointment of Gazetteer, and about this time married for his second wife (very little is known of the first) Miss Mary Scurlock, to whom he was passionately devoted. His need of money brought about the publication of the Tatler, in which connection his name is best known. Following this periodical came the Spectator, the Guardian, and numerous other papers having the same general purpose. Steele became member of Parliament and in 1715 was knighted by George I. He died at Carmarthen, September 1, 1729.
The lives of these two men, so nearly the same age, and so closely connected, varied much in experiences. From letters of Steele, it is evident that he was thrown on his own resources when a mere boy, his father, a lawyer, dying when Richard was but five years old, and the mother surviving but a short time. Addison's father, a prominent dean in good circumstances, had a comfortable and somewhat luxurious home, and the boy knew nothing of privation and struggle with poverty. In their college days Thackeray marks the difference. "Addison wrote his (Steele's) exercises. Addison did his best themes. He ran on Addison's messages; fagged for him and blacked his shoes." In middle life both gained friends and lucrative positions by their writings; yet Steele was continually in trouble financially and socially, while Addison moved serenely along and experienced little difficulty in getting what he wanted. Steele's home was probably a happier one than Addison's— if there can be a comparison between a home where the whole gamut of chords and discords is sounded at various times, and one where it is invariably at low pitch. There was undoubtedly much love and much fault-finding from Mrs. Steele, much coldness and much haughtiness from Mrs. Addison. Addison had one child, Charlotte, who lived to old age but never married. Only one of Steele's children, Elizabeth, reached maturity, and she became the wife of Lord Trevor.
Thackeray says in deciding of a great man we must ask ourselves if we should like to live with him. Judging from this standpoint, of these men so widely different in character, the lovers of one would scarcely be lovers of the other, and so would not consider the two equally worthy. Of Addison, Macaulay says: "The just harmony of qualities, the exact temper between the stern and the human virtues, the habitual observance of every law, not only of moral rectitude, but of moral grace and dignity, distinguish him from all men." And Thackeray declares: "He must have been one of the finest gentlemen the world ever saw; at all moments of life serene and courteous, cheerful and calm." Swift tells us that "Steele hath committed more absurdities in economy, friendship, love, duty, good manners, politics, religion, and writing than ever fell to one man's share," and this is probably true; but a man who in an age of almost unbridled license in thought and speech of woman, possessed nothing but chivalrous tenderness and loving reverence for her purity and beauty, surely deserves that women and all lovers of women should dwell on his virtues and forget his weaknesses. Addison, polite and gentlemanly always, desirous of helping, yet lacked entirely the enthusiastic, respectful admiration for woman which animated Steele. Addison wished to raise her so that she might be respected; Steele found something to respect before she was raised. Does this mean anything to us, or is it a quality to ignore? Is there not something of greatness, some element of the highest type of manhood in this ability to detect under all the flimsy, affected showiness of the times, the undeveloped, inherent nobility of womanhood? Steele had his faults. Swift was right; but the faults of this "same gentle, kindly, improvident, jovial Dick Steele" were the faults of an impetuous child who repents and sins again only to shed other tears of repentance. Addison was a man in boyhood; Steele, a boy even in manhood; and who shall say that Steele with his "sweet and compassionate nature," though rashly living for the moment, is less lovable than the polished, dignified Addison whom all the world honors?
When they met as boys at the Charter House school, their very dissimilarity tended to cement a friendship as strong as that of David and Jonathan, Damon and Pythias. The persuasive cordiality of Steele penetrated the bashfulness and natural reserve of Addison, while "Addison's stronger, more stable, more serious character affected very favorably his (Steele's) own wayward, volatile nature." The love was mutual and the dependence mutual and actual. Later in life they quarrelled— as most friends do, sometimes. A Bill to limit the number of peers was before Parliament. Addison favored it, Steele opposed it, and bitter articles were written by each. Unfortunately Addison's death, following soon, prevented the reconciliation which would, undoubtedly, have occurred. Afterward Steele is reported to have written that "they still preserved the most passionate concern for their mutual welfare." And Morley tells us "The friendship— equal friendship— between Steele and Addison was as unbroken as the love between Steele and his wife."
And out of this friendship came the Spectator; for it is safe to say that without the cooperation of the two, the paper would never have reached such perfection. Addison was in Ireland when he recognized in the new periodical, the Tatler, the hand of his friend Steele. Seeing at once his own fitness for such work he offered to contribute, and in his first essay showed those bright touches of humor which later so enchanted the public in the Spectator. That the two friends should unite in publishing the latter paper was the natural outcome; for neither was at his best without the other. What Steele originated, Addison perfected. Morley says "It was the firm hand of his friend Steele that helped Addison up to the place in literature which became him. It was Steele who caused the nice, critical taste which Addison might have spent only in accordance with the fleeting fashions of his time, to be inspired with all Addison's religious earnestness, and to be enlivened with the free play of that sportive humor, delicately whimsical and gaily wise, which made his conversation the delight of the few men with whom he sat at ease;" and again, "the Spectator is the abiding monument commemorating the friendship of these two." Whether the originator or perfecter is greater will always be an open question; but critics must concede that both are great; that the Spectator is not the work of Addison alone, not the work of Steele alone, but is the united genius of Addison and Steele and truly their "monument."
I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure 'till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper and my next as prefatory discourses to my following writings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compiling, digesting, and correcting will fall to my share, I must do myself the justice to open the work with my own history.
I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, according to the tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that it is at present, and has been delivered down from father to son whole and entire, without the loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow, during the space of six hundred years. There runs a story in the family, that, before I was born, my mother dreamt that she was to bring forth a judge; whether this might proceed from a lawsuit which was then depending in the family, or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in my future life, though that was the interpretation which the neighborhood put upon it. The gravity of my behavior at my very first appearance in the world seemed to favor my mother's dream; for, as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and would not make use of my coral till they had taken away the bells from it.
As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it remarkable, I shall pass it over in silence. I find that, during my nonage, I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was always a favorite of my schoolmaster, who used to say, that my parts were solid, and would wear well. I had not been long at the University, before I distinguished myself by a most profound silence; for, during the space of eight years, excepting in the public exercises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hundred words; and indeed do not remember that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I was in this learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my studies, that there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned[1] or modern tongues, which I am not acquainted with.
Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the University with the character of an odd, unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would but show it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all the countries of Europe in which there was anything new or strange to be seen; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that having read the controversies[2] of some great men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the measure of a pyramid; and, as soon as I had set myself right in that particular, returned to my native country with great satisfaction.
I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am frequently seen in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know me: of whom nay next paper shall give a more particular account. There is no place of general resort wherein I do not often make my appearance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of politicians at Will's,[3] and listening with great attention to the narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at Child's,[4] and while I seem attentive to nothing but the Postman,[5] overhear the conversation of every table in the room. I appear on Sunday nights at St. James's coffee-house,[6] and sometimes join the little committee of politics in the inner room, as one who comes there to hear and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the Grecian,[7] the Cocoa-Tree,[8] and in the theatres both of Drury Lane and the Hay-Market. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Exchange for above these ten years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's.[9] In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I always mix with them, though I never open my lips but in my own club.
Thus I live in the world rather as a spectator of mankind than as one of the species; by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of an husband or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them: as standers-by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am resolved to observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostilities of either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on, which is the character I intend to preserve in this paper.
I have given the reader just so much of my history and character, as to let him see I am not altogether unqualified for the business I have undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the mean time, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to blame my own taciturnity; and since I have neither time nor inclination to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do it in writing, and to print[10] myself out, if possible, before I die. I have been often told by my friends, that it is pity so many useful discoveries which I have made should be in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a sheet full of thoughts every morning, for the benefit of my contemporaries; and if I can any way contribute to the diversion or improvement of the country in which I live, I shall leave it when I am summoned out of it, with the secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not lived in vain.
There are three very material points which I have not spoken to in this paper, and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to myself, at least for some time: I mean, an account of my name, my age, and my lodgings. I must confess I would gratify my reader in anything that is reasonable; but as for these three particulars, though I am sensible they might tend very much to the embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution of communicating them to the public. They would indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many years, and expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities, which have been always very disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain I can suffer is the being talked to and being stared at. It is for this reason likewise that I keep my complexion and dress as very great secrets; though it is not impossible but I may make discoveries of both in the progress of the work I have undertaken.
After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall in to-morrow's paper give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in this work; for, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters of importance are) in a club. However, as my friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a mind to correspond with me may direct their letters to the Spectator at Mr. Buckley's, in Little Britain.[11] For I must further acquaint the reader, that though our club meets only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have appointed a committee to sit every night, for the inspection of all such papers as may contribute to the advancement of the public weal.
The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance[12] which is called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behavior, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humor creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he lives in Soho Square.[13] It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a fine[14] gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester[15] and Sir George Etherege,[15] fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson[16] in a public coffee-house for calling him "youngster." But being ill used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. |He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a good house in both town and country; a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behavior, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company: when he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum; that he fills the chair at a quarter-session with great abilities; and, three months ago, gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the Game-Act.[17]
The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple;[18] a man of great probity, wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his place of residence rather to obey the direction of an old humorsome father, than in pursuit of his own inclinations. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle[19] and Longinus are much better understood by him than Littleton[19] or Coke. The father sends up every post questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in the neighborhood; all which questions he agrees with an attorney to answer and take care of in the lump. He is studying the passions themselves, when he should be inquiring into the debates among men which arise from them. He knows the argument of each of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not one case in the reports of our own courts. No one ever took him for a fool, but none, except his intimate friends, know he has a great deal of wit.[20] This turn makes him at once both disinterested and agreeable: as few of his thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit for conversation. His taste of books is a little too just for the age he lives in; he has read all, but approves of very few. His familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, and writings of the ancients makes him a very delicate observer of what occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent critic, and the time of the play is his hour of business; exactly at five[21] he passes through New Inn, crosses through Russell Court, and takes a turn at Will's till the play begins; he has his shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at the barber's as you go into the Rose.[22] It is for the good of the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an ambition to please him.
The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city of London, a person of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually some sly way of jesting, which would make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea the British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in all its parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion by arms; for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will often argue that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain from one nation; and if another, from another. I have heard him prove that diligence makes more lasting acquisitions than valor, and that sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, amongst which the greatest favorite is, "A penny saved is a penny got." A general trader of good sense is pleasanter company than a general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural, unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He has made his fortunes himself, and says that England may be richer than other kingdoms by as plain methods as he himself is richer than other men; though at the same time I can say this of him, that there is not a point in the compass but blows home a ship in which he is an owner.
Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry,[23] a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but invincible modesty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents within the observation of such as should take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in several engagements and at several sieges; but having a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of life in which no man can rise suitably to his merit who is not something of a courtier as well as a soldier. I have heard him often lament that in a profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to this purpose, I never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left the world because he was not fit for it. A strict honesty and an even regular behavior are in themselves obstacles to him that must press through crowds, who endeavor at the same end with himself,— the favor of a commander. He will, however, in this way of talk, excuse generals for not disposing according to men's desert, or inquiring into it; "for," says he, "that great man who has a mind to help me, has as many to break through to come at me, as I have to come at him;" therefore he will conclude, that the man who would make a figure, especially in a military way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the importunity of other pretenders by a proper assurance in his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be backward in asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking when it is your duty. With this candor does the gentleman speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through all his conversation. The military part of his life has furnished him with many adventures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable to the company; for he is never overbearing, though accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him; nor ever too obsequious from a habit of obeying men highly above him.
But that our society may not appear a set of humorists unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman who, according to his years, should be in the decline of his life, but having ever been very careful of his person, and always had a very easy fortune, time has made but very little impression either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces in his brain. His person is well turned, and of a good height. He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the history of every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king's wenches our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that way of placing their hoods; whose frailty was covered by such a sort of petticoat, and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of the dress so short in such a year; in a word, all his conversation and knowledge has been in the female world. As other men of his age will take notice to you what such a minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court such a woman was then smitten, another was taken with him at the head of his troop in the Park. In all these important relations, he has ever about the same time received a kind glance or a blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present Lord Such-a-one. This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is not one of the company, but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks of him as of that sort of man who is usually called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are not concerned, he is an honest, worthy man.
I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next to speak of as one of our company, for he visits us but seldom; but when he does, it adds to every man else a new enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such cares and business as preferments in his function would oblige him to; he is therefore among divines what a chamber-counsellor[24] is among lawyers. The probity of his mind, and the integrity of his life, create him followers, as being eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject he speaks upon; but we are so far gone in years, that he observes, when he is among us, an earnestness to have him fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much authority, as one who has no interests in this world, as one who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordinary companions.
I know no evil under the sun so great as the abuse of the understanding, and yet there is no one vice more common. It has diffused itself through both sexes and all qualities of mankind; and there is hardly that person to be found, who is not more concerned for the reputation of wit and sense, than honesty and virtue. But this unhappy affectation of being wise rather than honest, witty than good-natured, is the source of most of the ill habits of life. Such false impressions are owing to the abandoned writings of men of wit, and the awkward imitation of the rest of mankind.
For this reason Sir Roger was saying last night, that he was of opinion that none but men of fine parts deserve to be hanged. The reflections of such men are so delicate upon all occurrences which they are concerned in, that they should be exposed to more than ordinary infamy and punishment, for offending against such quick admonitions as their own souls give them, and blunting the fine edge of their minds in such a manner, that they are no more shocked at vice and folly than men of slower capacities. There is no greater monster in being than a very ill man of great parts. He lives like a man in a palsy, with one side of him dead. While perhaps he enjoys the satisfaction of luxury, of wealth, of ambition, he has lost the taste of good-will, of friendship, of innocence. Scarecrow, the beggar, in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields,[25] who disabled himself in his right leg, and asks alms all day to get himself a warm supper and a trull at night, is not half so despicable a wretch, as such a man of sense. The beggar has no relish above sensations; he finds rest more agreeable than motion; and while he has a warm fire and his doxy, never reflects that he deserves to be whipped. Every man who terminates his satisfaction and enjoyments within the supply of his own necessities and passions, is, says Sir Roger, in my eye, as poor a rogue as Scarecrow. "But," continued he, "for the loss of public and private virtue, we are beholden to your men of parts forsooth; it is with them no matter what is done, so it is done with an air. But to me, who am so whimsical in a corrupt age as to act according to nature and reason, a selfish man, in the most shining circumstance and equipage, appears in the same condition with the fellow above-mentioned, but more contemptible in proportion to what more he robs the public of, and enjoys above him. I lay it down therefore for a rule, that the whole man is to move together; that every action of any importance is to have a prospect of public good; and that the general tendency of our indifferent actions ought to be agreeable to the dictates of reason, of religion, of good-breeding; without this, a man, as I have before hinted, is hopping instead of walking; he is not in his entire and proper motion."
While the honest knight was thus bewildering himself in good starts, I looked intentively upon him, which made him, I thought, collect his mind a little. "What I aim at," says he, "is to represent that I am of opinion, to polish our understandings, and neglect our manners, is of all things the most inexcusable. Reason should govern passion, but instead of that, you see, it is often subservient to it; and, as unaccountable as one would think it, a wise man is not always a good man." This degeneracy is not only the guilt of particular persons, but also, at some times, of a whole people; and perhaps it may appear upon examination, that the most polite ages are the least virtuous. This may be attributed to the folly of admitting wit and learning as merit in themselves, without considering the application of them. By this means it becomes a rule, not so much to regard what we do, as how we do it. But this false beauty will not pass upon men of honest minds and true taste. Sir Richard Blackmore[26] says, with as much good sense as virtue, "It is a mighty dishonor and shame to employ excellent faculties and abundance of wit, to humor and please men in their vices and follies. The great enemy of mankind, notwithstanding his wit and angelic faculties, is the most odious being in the whole creation." He goes on soon after to say, very generously, that he undertook the writing of his poem "to rescue the Muses out of the hands of ravishers, to restore them to their sweet and chaste mansions, and to engage them in an employment suitable to their dignity." This certainly ought to be the purpose of every man who appears in public, and whoever does not proceed upon that foundation injures his country as fast as he succeeds in his studies. When modesty ceases to be the chief ornament of one sex, and integrity of the other, society is upon a wrong basis, and we shall be ever after without rules to guide our judgment in what is really becoming and ornamental. Nature and reason direct one thing, passion and humor another. To follow the dictates of the two latter is going into a road that is both endless and intricate; when we pursue the other, our passage is delightful, and what we aim at easily attainable.
I do not doubt but England is at present as polite a nation as any in the world; but any man who thinks can easily see that the affectation of being gay and in fashion has very near eaten up our good sense and our religion. Is there anything so just as that mode and gallantry should be built upon exerting ourselves in what is proper and agreeable to the institutions of justice and piety among us? And yet is there anything more common than that we run in perfect contradiction to them? All which is supported by no other pretension than that it is done with what we call a good grace.
Nothing ought to be held laudable or becoming, but what nature itself should prompt us to think so. Respect to all kinds of superiors is founded, methinks, upon instinct; and yet what is so ridiculous as age? I make this abrupt transition to the mention of this vice, more than any other, in order to introduce a little story, which I think a pretty instance that the most polite age is in danger of being the most vicious.
"It happened at Athens, during a public representation of some play exhibited in honor of the commonwealth, that an old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his age and quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the difficulty and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they would accommodate him if he came where they sat. The good man bustled through the crowd accordingly; but when he came to the seats to which he was invited, the jest was to sit close and expose him, as he stood, out of countenance, to the whole audience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But on those occasions there were also particular places assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked towards the boxes appointed for the Lacedaemonians, that honest people, more virtuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest respect received him among them. The Athenians, being suddenly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause; and the old man cried out, 'The Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacedaemonians practise it.'"
The club of which I am a member, is very luckily composed of such persons as are engaged in different ways of life, and deputed as it were out of the most conspicuous classes of mankind: by this means I am furnished with the greatest variety of hints and materials, and know everything that passes in the different quarters and divisions, not only of this great city, but of the whole kingdom. My readers, too, have the satisfaction to find, that there is no rank or degree among them who have not their representative in this club, and that there is always somebody present who will take care of their respective interests, that nothing may be written or published to the prejudice or infringement of their just rights and privileges.
I last night sat very late in company with this select body of friends, who entertained me with several remarks which they and others had made upon these my speculations, as also with the various success which they had met with among their several ranks and degrees of readers. Will Honeycomb told me, in the softest manner he could, that there were some ladies (but for your comfort, says Will, they are not those of the most wit) that were offended at the liberties I had taken with the opera and the puppet-show; that some of them were likewise very much surprised, that I should think such serious points as the dress and equipage of persons of quality proper subjects for raillery.
He was going on, when Sir Andrew Freeport took him up short, and told him, that the papers he hinted at had done great good in the city, and that all their wives and daughters were the better for them; and further added, that the whole city thought themselves very much obliged to me for declaring my generous intentions to scourge vice and folly as they appear in a multitude, without condescending to be a publisher of particular intrigues. In short, says Sir Andrew, if you avoid that foolish beaten road of falling upon aldermen and citizens, and employ your pen upon the vanity and luxury of courts, your papers must needs be of general use.
Upon this my friend the Templar told Sir Andrew, that he wondered to hear a man of his sense talk after that manner; that the city had always been the province[27] for satire; and that the wits of king Charles's time jested upon nothing else during his whole reign. He then showed, by the examples of Horace,[28] Juvenal, Boileau, and the best writers of every age, that the follies of the stage and court had never been accounted too sacred for ridicule, how great soever the persons might be that patronized them. But after all, says he, I think your raillery has made too great an excursion, in attacking several persons of the Inns of Court; and I do not believe you can show me any precedent for your behavior in that particular.
My good friend Sir Roger de Coverley, who had said nothing all this while, began his speech with a pish! and told us, that he wondered to see so many men of sense so very serious upon fooleries. "Let our good friend," says he, "attack every one that deserves it; I would only advise you, Mr. Spectator," applying himself to me, "to take care how you meddle with country squires: they are the ornaments of the English nation; men of good heads and sound bodies! and let me tell you, some of them take it ill of you, that you mention fox-hunters with so little respect."
Captain Sentry spoke very sparingly on this occasion. What he said was only to commend my prudence in not touching upon the army, and advised me to continue to act discreetly in that point.
By this time I found every subject of my speculations was taken away from me, by one or other of the club; and began to think myself in the condition of the good man that had one wife who took a dislike to his gray hairs, and another to his black, till by their picking out what each of them had an aversion to, they left his head altogether bald and naked.
While I was thus musing with myself, my worthy friend the clergyman, who, very luckily for me, was at the club that night, undertook my cause. He told us, that he wondered any order of persons should think themselves too considerable to be advised; that it was not quality, but innocence, which exempted men from reproof; that vice and folly ought to be attacked wherever they could be met with, and especially when they were placed in high and conspicuous stations of life. He further added, that my paper would only serve to aggravate the pains of poverty, if it chiefly exposed those who are already depressed, and in some measure turned into ridicule, by the meanness of their conditions and circumstances. He afterwards proceeded to take notice of the great use this paper might be to the public, by reprehending those vices which are too trivial for the chastisement of the law, and too fantastical for the cognizance of the pulpit. He then advised me to prosecute my undertaking with cheerfulness, and assured me, that whoever might be displeased with me, I should be approved by all those whose praises do honor to the persons on whom they are bestowed.
The whole club pay a particular deference to the discourse of this gentleman, and are drawn into what he says, as much by the candid and ingenuous manner with which he delivers himself, as by the strength of argument and force of reason which he makes use of. Will Honeycomb immediately agreed that what he had said was right; and that for his part, he would not insist upon the quarter which he had demanded for the ladies. Sir Andrew gave up the city with the same frankness. The Templar would not stand out, and was followed by Sir Roger and the Captain, who all agreed that I should be at liberty to carry the war into what quarter I pleased, provided I continued to combat with criminals in a body, and to assault the vice without hurting the person.
This debate, which was held for the good of mankind, put me in mind of that which the Roman triumvirate were formerly engaged in, for their destruction. Every man at first stood hard for his friend, till they found that by this means they should spoil their proscription: and at length, making a sacrifice of all their acquaintance and relations, furnished out a very decent execution.
Having thus taken my resolution to march on boldly in the cause of virtue and good sense, and to annoy their adversaries in whatever degree or rank of men they may be found, I shall be deaf for the future to all the remonstrances that shall be made to me on this account. If Punch[29] grow extravagant, I shall reprimand him very freely; if the stage becomes a nursery of folly and impertinence, I shall not be afraid to animadvert upon it. In short, if I meet with anything in city, court, or country, that shocks modesty or good manners, I shall use my utmost endeavors to make an example of it. I must, however, intreat every particular person, who does me the honor to be a reader of this paper, never to think himself, or any one of his friends or enemies, aimed at in what is said; for I promise him, never to draw a faulty character which does not fit at least a thousand people, or to publish a single paper that is not written in the spirit of benevolence, and with a love to mankind.
Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my humor, lets me rise and "go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance: as I have been walking in his fields I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard the Knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at.
I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of sober and staid persons; for, as the Knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him; by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counsellor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness, out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years.
I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good old Knight, with the mixture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good-nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good humor, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with: on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants.
My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as his particular friend.
My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation: he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old Knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependent.
I have observed in several of my papers that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humorist; and that his virtues as well as imperfections are, as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned, and without staying for my answer told me that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table, for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the University to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon. My friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it: I have given him the parsonage of the parish; and, because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years, and, though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among them; if any dispute arises they apply themselves to him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me I made him a present of all the good sermons[31] which have been printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical divinity.
As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and upon the Knight's asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night) told us the Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors who have published discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor.
I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would follow this example; and, instead of wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeavor after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people.
The reception, manner of attendance, undisturbed freedom, and quiet, which I meet with here in the country, has confirmed me in the opinion I always had, that the general corruption of manners in servants is owing to the conduct of masters. The aspect of every one in the family carries so much satisfaction that it appears he knows the happy lot which has befallen him in being a member of it. There is one particular which I have seldom seen but at Sir Roger's; it is usual in all other places, that servants fly from the parts of the house through which their master is passing: on the contrary, here they industriously place themselves in his way; and it is on both sides, as it were, understood as a visit, when the servants appear without calling. This proceeds from the humane and equal temper of the man of the house, who also perfectly well knows how to enjoy a great estate with such economy as ever to be much beforehand. This makes his own mind untroubled, and consequently unapt to vent peevish expressions, or give passionate or inconsistent orders to those about him. Thus respect and love go together, and a certain cheerfulness in performance of their duty is the particular distinction of the lower part of this family. When a servant is called before his master, he does not come with an expectation to hear himself rated for some trivial fault, threatened to be stripped, or used with any other unbecoming language, which mean masters often give to worthy servants; but it is often to know what road he took that he came so readily back according to order; whether he passed by such a ground; if the old man who rents it is in good health; or whether he gave Sir Roger's love to him, or the like.
A man who preserves a respect founded on his benevolence to his dependents lives rather like a prince than a master in his family; his orders are received as favors, rather than duties; and the distinction of approaching him is part of the reward for executing what is commanded by him.
There is another circumstance in which my friend excels in his management, which is the manner of rewarding his servants: he has ever been of opinion that giving his cast clothes to be worn by valets has a very ill effect upon little minds, and creates a silly sense of equality between the parties, in persons affected only with outward things. I have heard him often pleasant on this occasion, and describe a young gentleman abusing his man in that coat which a month or two before was the most pleasing distinction he was conscious of in himself. He would turn his discourse still more pleasantly upon the ladies' bounties of this kind; and I have heard him say he knew a fine woman, who distributed rewards and punishments in giving becoming or unbecoming dresses to her maids.
But my good friend is above these little instances of good-will, in bestowing only trifles on his servants; a good servant to him is sure of having it in his choice very soon of being no servant at all. As I before observed, he is so good an husband,[32] and knows so thoroughly that the skill of the purse is the cardinal virtue of this life,— I say, he knows so well that frugality is the support of generosity, that he can often spare a large fine when a tenement falls, and give that settlement to a good servant who has a mind to go into the world, or make a stranger pay the fine to that servant, for his more comfortable maintenance, if he stays in his service.
A man of honor and generosity considers it would be miserable to himself to have no will but that of another, though it were of the best person breathing, and for that reason goes on, as fast as he is able, to put his servants into independent livelihoods. The greatest part of Sir Roger's estate is tenanted by persons who have served himself or his ancestors. It was to me extremely pleasant to observe the visitants from several parts to welcome his arrival into the country; and all the difference that I could take notice of between the late servants who came to see him, and those who stayed in the family, was that these latter were looked upon as finer gentlemen and better courtiers.
This manumission and placing them in a way of livelihood, I look upon as only what is due to a good servant, which encouragement will make his successor be as diligent, as humble, and as ready as he was. There is something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds which can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to those who please them.
One might, on this occasion, recount the sense that great persons in all ages have had of the merit of their dependents, and the heroic services which men have done their masters in the extremity of their fortunes; and shown to their undone patrons that fortune was all the difference between them; but as I design this my speculation only as a gentle admonition to thankless masters, I shall not go out of the occurrences of common life, but assert it as a general observation, that I never saw, but in Sir Roger's family, and one or two more, good servants treated as they ought to be. Sir Roger's kindness extends to their children's children, and this very morning he sent his coachman's grandson to prentice. I shall conclude this paper with an account of a picture in his gallery, where there are many which will deserve my future observation.
At the very upper end of this handsome structure I saw the portraiture of two young men standing in a river, the one naked, the other in a livery. The person supported seemed half dead, but still so much alive as to show in his face exquisite joy and love towards the other. I thought the fainting figure resembled my friend Sir Roger; and looking at the butler, who stood by me, for an account of it, he informed me that the person in the livery was a servant of Sir Roger's, who stood on the shore while his master was swimming, and observing him taken with some sudden illness, and sink under water, jumped in and saved him. He told me Sir Roger took off the dress[33] he was in as soon as he came home, and by a great bounty at that time, followed by his favor ever since, had made him master of that pretty seat which we saw at a distance as we came to this house. I remembered, indeed, Sir Roger said there lived a very worthy gentleman, to whom he was highly obliged, without mentioning anything further. Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at some part of the picture, my attendant informed me that it was against Sir Roger's will, and at the earnest request of the gentleman himself, that he was drawn in the habit in which he had saved his master.
As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger before his house, a country fellow brought him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr. William Wimble had caught that very morning; and that he presented it, with his service to him, and intended to come and dine with him. At the same time he delivered a letter, which my friend read to me as soon as the messenger left him.
"Sir Roger,—"I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the best I have caught this season. I intend to come and stay with you a week, and see how the perch bite in the Black River. I observed with some concern, the last time I saw you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to it; I will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, which I hope will serve you all the time you are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle for six days last past, having been at Eton with Sir John's eldest son. He takes to his learning hugely.
"I am, sir, your humble servant,
"Will Wimble."
This extraordinary letter, and message that accompanied it, made me very curious to know the character and quality of the gentleman who sent them, which I found to be as follows. Will Wimble is younger brother[34] to a baronet, and descended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He is now between forty and fifty; but being bred to no business and born to no estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a hare. He is extremely well versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle man: he makes a may-fly[35] to a miracle, and furnishes the whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured, officious fellow, and very much esteemed upon account of his family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and keeps up a good correspondence among all the gentlemen about him. He carries a tulip-root[36] in his pocket from one to another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides of the county. Will is a particular favorite of all the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself. He now and then presents a pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers or sisters; and raises a great deal of mirth among them, by inquiring as often as he meets them how they wear. These gentleman-like manufactures and obliging little humors make Will the darling of the country.
Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, when we saw him make up to us with two or three hazel-twigs in his hand, that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods, as he came through them in his way to the house. I was very much pleased to observe on one side the hearty and sincere welcome with which Sir Roger received him, and, on the other, the secret joy which his guest discovered at sight of the good old Knight. After the first salutes were over, Will desired Sir Roger to lend him one of his servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks he had with him in a little box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he had promised such a present for above this half year. Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned but honest Will began to tell me of a large cock-pheasant that he had sprung in one of the neighboring woods, with two or three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncommon characters are the game that I look for and most delight in; for which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the person that talked to me, as he could be for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and therefore listened to him with more than ordinary attention.
In the midst of his discourse the bell rung to dinner, where the gentleman I have been speaking of had the pleasure of seeing the huge jack he had caught served up for the first dish in a most sumptuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it he gave us a long account how he had hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank, with several other particulars that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild-fowl that came afterwards furnished conversation for the rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of Will's for improving the quail-pipe.[37]
Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was secretly touched with compassion towards the honest gentleman that had dined with us, and could not but consider, with a great deal of concern, how so good an heart and such busy hands were wholly employed in trifles; that so much humanity should be so little beneficial to others, and so much industry so little advantageous to himself. The same temper of mind and application to affairs might have recommended him to the public esteem, and have raised his fortune in another station of life. What good to his country or himself might not a trader or merchant have done with such useful though ordinary qualifications?
Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger brother of a great family, who had rather see their children starve like gentlemen than thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath their quality. This humor fills several parts of Europe with pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation, like ours, that the younger sons, though uncapable of any liberal art or profession, may be placed in such a way of life as may perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their family. Accordingly, we find several citizens that were launched into the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest industry to greater estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic; and that finding his genius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at length to his own inventions. But certainly, however improper he might have been for studies of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the occupations of trade and commerce. As I think this is a point which cannot be too much inculcated, I shall desire my reader to compare what I have here written with what I have said in my twenty-first speculation.
I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human[38] institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change,[39] the whole parish politics being generally discussed in that place, either after sermon or before the bell rings.
My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing; he has likewise given a handsome pulpit cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his own expense. He has often told me that, at his coming to his estate, he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common Prayer Book: and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms; upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard.
As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and, if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servant to them. Several other of the old Knight's particularities break out upon these occasions: sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing Psalms half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces "Amen" three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing.
I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews it seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the Knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behavior; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character makes his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.
As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The Knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side, and every now and then inquires how such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church,— which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.
The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising-day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised, upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.
The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, because the very next village is famous for the differences and contentions that rise between the parson and the squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. The parson is always preaching at the squire, and the squire, to be revenged on the parson, never comes to church. The squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers; while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not said his prayers either in public or private this half year; and that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation.
Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who are so used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man of an estate as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five hundred a year who do not believe it.
In my first description of the company in which I pass most of my time, it may be remembered that I mentioned a great affliction which my friend Sir Roger had met with in his youth: which was no less than a disappointment in love. It happened this evening that we fell into a very pleasing walk at a distance from his house; as soon as we came into it, "It is," quoth the good old man, looking round him with a smile, "very hard, that any part of my land should be settled upon one who has used me so ill as the perverse Widow did; and yet I am sure I could not see a sprig of any bough of this whole walk of trees, but I should reflect upon her and her severity. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. You are to know this was the place wherein I used to muse upon her; and by that custom I can never come into it, but the same tender sentiments revive in my mind as if I had actually walked with that beautiful creature under these shades. I have been fool enough to carve[40] her name on the bark of several of these trees; so unhappy is the condition of men in love to attempt the removing of their passion by the methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world."
Here followed a profound silence; and I was not displeased to observe my friend falling so naturally into a discourse which I had ever before taken notice he industriously avoided. After a very long pause he entered upon an account of this great circumstance in his life, with an air which I thought raised my idea of him above what I had ever had before; and gave me the picture of that cheerful mind of his, before it received that stroke which has ever since affected his words and actions. But he went on as follows:—
"I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and resolved to follow the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited this spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hospitality and good neighborhood, for the sake of my fame, and in country sports and recreations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and in my servants, officers, and whole equipage, indulged the pleasure of a young man (who did not think ill of his own person) in taking that public occasion of showing my figure and behavior to advantage. You may easily imagine to yourself what appearance I made, who am pretty tall, rid well, and was very well dressed, at the head of a whole county, with music before me, a feather in my hat, and my horse well bitted. I can assure you I was not a little pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all the balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes were held. But when I came there, a beautiful creature in a widow's habit sat in court, to hear the event of a cause concerning her dower. This commanding creature (who was born for destruction of all who behold her) put on such a resignation in her countenance, and bore the whispers of all around the court with such a pretty uneasiness, I warrant you, and then recovered herself from one eye to another, till she was perfectly confused by meeting something so wistful in all she encountered, that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast her bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner met it but I bowed like a great surprised booby; and knowing her cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf as I was, 'Make way for the defendant's witnesses.' This sudden partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff also was become a slave to the fine widow. During the time her cause was upon trial, she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep attention to her business, took opportunities to have little billets handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion, occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much company, that not only I but the whole court was prejudiced in her favor; and all that the next heir to her husband had to urge was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there was not half so much said as every one besides in the court thought he could have urged to her advantage. You must understand, sir, this perverse woman is one of those unaccountable creatures, that secretly rejoice in the admiration of men, but indulge themselves in no further consequences. Hence it is that she has ever had a train of admirers, and she removes from her slaves in town to those in the country, according to the seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, and far gone in the pleasures of friendship: she is always accompanied by a confidant, who is witness to her daily protestations against our sex, and consequently a bar to her first steps towards love, upon the strength of her own maxims and declarations.
"However, I must needs say this accomplished mistress of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and most human of all the brutes in the country. I was told she said so by one who thought he rallied me; but upon the strength of this slender encouragement of being thought least detestable, I made new liveries, new-paired my coach-horses, sent them all to town to be bitted, and taught to throw their legs well, and move all together, before I pretended to cross the country and wait upon her. As soon as I thought my retinue suitable to the character of my fortune and youth, I set out from hence to make my addresses. The particular skill of this lady has ever been to inflame your wishes, and yet command respect. To make her mistress of this art, she has a greater share of knowledge, wit, and good sense than is usual even among men of merit. Then she is beautiful beyond the race of women. If you won't let her go on with a certain artifice with her eyes, and the skill of beauty, she will arm herself with her real charms, and strike you with admiration. It is certain that if you were to behold the whole woman, there is that dignity in her aspect, that composure in her motion, that complacency in her manner, that if her form makes you hope, her merit makes you fear. But then again, she is such a desperate scholar, that no country gentleman can approach her without being a jest. As I was going to tell you, when I came to her house I was admitted to her presence with great civility; at the same time she placed herself to be first seen by me in such an attitude, as I think you call the posture of a picture, that she discovered new charms, and I at last came towards her with such an awe as made me speechless. This she no sooner observed but she made her advantage of it, and began a discourse to me concerning love and honor, as they both are followed by pretenders, and the real votaries to them. When she had discussed these points in a discourse, which I verily believe was as learned as the best philosopher in Europe could possibly make, she asked me whether she was so happy as to fall in with my sentiments on these important particulars. Her confidant sat by her, and upon my being in the last confusion and silence, this malicious aid of hers turning to her says, 'I am very glad to observe Sir Roger pauses upon this subject, and seems resolved to deliver all his sentiments upon the matter when he pleases to speak.' They both kept their countenances, and after I had sat half an hour meditating how to behave before such profound casuists, I rose up and took my leave. Chance has since that time thrown me very often in her way, and she as often has directed a discourse to me which I do not understand. This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance from the most beautiful object my eyes ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all mankind, and you must make love to her, as you would conquer the sphinx, by posing her. But were she like other women, and that there were any talking to her, how constant must the pleasure of that man be, who could converse with a creature— But, after all, you may be sure her heart is fixed on some one or other; and yet I have been credibly informed— but who can believe half that is said? After she had done speaking to me, she put her hand to her bosom and adjusted her tucker. Then she cast her eyes a little down, upon my beholding her too earnestly. They say she sings excellently: her voice in her ordinary speech has something in it inexpressibly sweet. You must know I dined with her at a public table the day after I first saw her, and she helped me to some tansy in the eye of all the gentlemen in the country: she has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. I can assure you, sir, were you to behold her, you would be in the same condition; for as her speech is music, her form is angelic. But I find I grow irregular while I am talking of her; but indeed it would be stupidity to be unconcerned at such perfection. Oh the excellent creature! she is as inimitable to all women as she is inaccessible to all men."
I found my friend begin to rave, and insensibly led him towards the house, that we might be joined by some other company; and am convinced that the Widow is the secret cause of all that inconsistency which appears in some parts of my friend's discourse; though he has so much command of himself as not directly to mention her, yet according to that [passage] of Martial,[41] which one knows not how to render in English, Dum tacet hanc loquitur.[42] I shall end this paper with that whole epigram, which represents with much humor my honest friend's condition.
Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Naevia Rufo,
Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur:
Coenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est
Naevia; si non sit Naevia, mutus erit.
Scriberet hesternâ patri cûm luce salutem,
Naevia lux, inquit, Naevia lumen, ave.
Let Rufus weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk,
Still he can nothing but of Naevia talk;
Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute,
Still he must speak of Naevia, or be mute;
He writ to his father, ending with this line,
"I am, my lovely Naevia, ever thine."
Bodily labor is of two kinds, either that which a man submits to for his livelihood, or that which he undergoes for his pleasure. The latter of them generally changes the name of labor for that of exercise, but differs only from ordinary labor as it rises from another motive.
A country life abounds in both these kinds of labor, and for that reason gives a man a greater stock of health, and consequently a more perfect enjoyment of himself, than any other way of life. I consider the body as a system of tubes and glands, or, to use a more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to one another after so wonderful a manner as to make a proper engine for the soul to work with. This description does not only comprehend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves, and arteries, but every muscle and every ligature, which is a composition of fibres, that are so many imperceptible tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides with invisible glands or strainers.
This general idea of a human body, without considering it in its niceties of anatomy, lets us see how absolutely necessary labor is for the right preservation of it. There must be frequent motions and agitations, to mix, digest, and separate the juices contained in it, as well as to clear and cleanse that infinitude of pipes and strainers of which it is composed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and lasting tone. Labor or exercise ferments the humors, casts them into their proper channels, throws off redundancies, and helps nature in those secret distributions, without which the body cannot subsist in its vigor, nor the soul act with cheerfulness.
I might here mention the effects which this has upon all the facilities of the mind, by keeping the understanding clear, the imagination untroubled, and refining those spirits that are necessary for the proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, during the present laws of union between soul and body. It is to a neglect in this particular that we must ascribe the spleen which is so frequent in men of studious and sedentary tempers, as well as the vapors to which those of the other sex are so often subject.
Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our well-being, nature would not have made the body so proper for it, by giving such an activity to the limbs, and such a pliancy to every part as necessarily produce those compressions, extensions, contortions, dilatations, and all other kinds of motions that are necessary for the preservation of such a system of tubes and glands as has been before mentioned. And that we might not want inducements to engage us in such an exercise of the body as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered that nothing valuable can be procured without it. Not to mention riches and honor, even food and raiment are not to be come at without the toil of the hands and sweat of the brows. Providence furnishes materials, but expects that we should work them up ourselves. The earth must be labored before it gives its increase, and when it is forced into its several products, how many hands must they pass through before they are fit for use! Manufactures, trade, and agriculture naturally employ more than nineteen parts of the species in twenty: and as for those who are not obliged to labor, by the condition in which they are born, they are more miserable than the rest of mankind unless they indulge themselves in that voluntary labor which goes by the name of exercise. My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable man in business of this kind, and has hung several parts of his house with the trophies of his former labors. The walls of his great hall are covered with the horns of several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chase, which he thinks the most valuable furniture of his house, as they afford him frequent topics of discourse, and show that he has not been idle. At the lower end of the hall is a large otter's skin stuffed with hay, which his mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and the Knight looks upon with great satisfaction, because it seems he was but nine years old when his dog killed him. A little room adjoining to the hall is a kind of arsenal filled with guns of several sizes and inventions, with which the Knight has made great havoc in the woods, and destroyed many thousands of pheasants, partridges, and woodcocks. His stable doors are patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the Knight's own hunting down. Sir Roger showed me one of them that for distinction's sake has a brass nail struck through it, which cost him about fifteen hours' riding, carried him through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of geldings, and lost about half his dogs. This the Knight looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of his life. The perverse Widow, whom I have given some account of, was the death of several foxes; for Sir Roger has told me that in the course of his amours he patched the western door of his stable. Whenever the Widow was cruel, the foxes were sure to pay for it. In proportion as his passion for the Widow abated and old age came on, he left off fox-hunting; but a hare is not yet safe that sits within ten miles of his house.
There is no kind of exercise which I would so recommend to my readers of both sexes as this of riding, as there is none which so much conduces to health, and is every way accommodated to the body, according to the idea which I have given of it. Doctor Sydenham is very lavish in its praises; and if the English reader will see the mechanical effects of it described at length, he may find them in a book published not many years since under the title of Medicina Gymnastica. For my own part, when I am in town, for want of these opportunities, I exercise myself an hour every morning upon a dumb-bell that is placed in a corner of my room, and pleases me the more because it does everything I require of it in the most profound silence. My landlady and her daughters are so well acquainted with my hours of exercise, that they never come into my room to disturb me whilst I am ringing.
When I was some years younger than I am at present, I used to employ myself in a more laborious diversion, which I learned from a Latin treatise of exercises that is written with great erudition; it is there called the σκιομαχία, or the fighting with a man's own shadow, and consists in the brandishing of two short sticks grasped in each hand, and loaden with plugs of lead at either end. This opens the chest, exercises the limbs, and gives a man all the pleasure of boxing, without the blows. I could wish that several learned men would lay out that time which they employ in controversies and disputes about nothing, in this method of fighting with their own shadows. It might conduce very much to evaporate the spleen, which makes them uneasy to the public as well as to themselves.
To conclude: As I am a compound of soul and body, I consider myself as obliged to a double scheme of duties; and I think I have not fulfilled the business of the day when I do not thus employ the one in labor and exercise, as well as the other in study and contemplation.
Those who have searched into human nature observe, that nothing so much shows the nobleness of the soul, as that its felicity consists in action. Every man has such an active principle in him, that he will find out something to employ himself upon, in whatever place or state of life he is posted. I have heard of a gentleman who was under close confinement in the Bastile[44] seven years; during which time he amused himself in scattering a few small pins about his chamber, gathering them up again, and placing them in different figures on the arm of a great chair. He often told his friends afterwards, that unless he had found out this piece of exercise, he verily believed he should have lost his senses.
After what has been said, I need not inform my readers, that Sir Roger, with whose character I hope they are at present pretty well acquainted, has in his youth gone through the whole course of those rural diversions which the country abounds in; and which seem to be extremely well suited to that laborious industry a man may observe here in a far greater degree than in towns and cities. I have before hinted at some of my friend's exploits: he has in his youthful days taken forty coveys of partridges in a season; and tired many a salmon with a line consisting but of a single hair. The constant thanks and good wishes of the neighborhood always attended him on account of his remarkable enmity towards foxes; having destroyed more of those vermin in one year than it was thought the whole country could have produced. Indeed, the Knight does not scruple to own among his most intimate friends, that in order to establish his reputation this way, he has secretly sent for great numbers of them out of other counties, which he used to turn loose about the country by night, that he might the better signalize himself in their destruction the next day. His hunting horses were the finest and best managed in all these parts: his tenants are still full of the praises of a gray stone horse that unhappily staked himself several years since, and was buried with great solemnity in the orchard.
Sir Roger, being at present too old for fox-hunting, to keep himself in action, has disposed of his beagles and got a pack of stop-hounds. What these want in speed he endeavors to make amends for by the deepness of their mouths and the variety of their notes, which are suited in such manner to each other that the whole cry makes up a complete concert. He is so nice in this particular, that a gentleman having made him a present of a very fine hound the other day, the Knight returned it by the servant with a great many expressions of civility; but desired him to tell his master that the dog he had sent was indeed a most excellent base, but that at present he only wanted a counter-tenor. Could I believe my friend had ever read Shakespeare I should certainly conclude he had taken the hint from Theseus in the Midsummer Night's Dream:—
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
Each under each: a cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn.
Sir Roger is so keen at this sport that he has been out almost every day since I came down; and upon the chaplain's offering to lend me his easy pad, I was prevailed on yesterday morning to make one of the company. I was extremely pleased, as we rid along, to observe the general benevolence of all the neighborhood towards my friend. The farmers' sons thought themselves happy if they could open a gate for the good old Knight as he passed by; which he generally requited with a nod or a smile, and a kind inquiry after their fathers and uncles.
After we had rid about a mile from home, we came upon a large heath, and the sportsmen began to beat. They had done so for some time, when, as I was at a little distance from the rest of the company, I saw a hare pop out from a small furze-brake almost under my horse's feet. I marked the way she took, which I endeavored to make the company sensible of by extending my arm; but to no purpose, till Sir Roger, who knows that none of my extraordinary motions are insignificant, rode up to me, and asked me if puss was gone that way. Upon my answering "Yes," he immediately called in the dogs and put them upon the scent. As they were going off, I heard one of the country-fellows muttering to his companion that 'twas a wonder they had not lost all their sport, for want of the silent gentleman's crying "Stole away!" This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me withdraw to a rising ground, from whence I could have the picture of the whole chase, without the fatigue of keeping in with the hounds. The hare immediately threw them above a mile behind her; but I was pleased to find that instead of running straight forwards, or in hunter's language, "flying the country," as I was afraid she might have done, she wheeled about, and described a sort of circle round the hill where I had taken my station, in such manner as gave me a very distinct view of the sport. I could see her first pass by, and the dogs some time afterwards unravelling the whole track she had made, and following her through all her doubles. I was at the same time delighted in observing that deference which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound, according to the character he had acquired amongst them: if they were at fault, and an old hound of reputation opened but once, he was immediately followed by the whole cry; while a raw dog, or one who was a noted liar, might have yelped his heart out, without being taken notice of.
The hare now, after having squatted two or three times, and been put up again as often, came still nearer to the place where she was at first started. T