The Tatler Volume Iii Part 35

VIRG., aen. v. 49.

_From my own Apartment, June 5._

There are those among mankind, who can enjoy no relish of their being, except the world is made acquainted with all that relates to them, and think everything lost that pa.s.ses un.o.bserved; but others find a solid delight in stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life after such a manner, as is as much above the approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great enough of true friends.h.i.+p or goodwill, some sages have thought it pious to preserve a certain reverence for the manes of their deceased friends, and have withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at certain seasons, to commemorate in their own thoughts such of their acquaintance who have gone before them out of this life: and indeed, when we are advanced in years, there is not a more pleasing entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy moment the many we have parted with that have been dear and agreeable to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two after those with whom, perhaps, we have indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such inclinations in my heart I went to my closet yesterday in the evening, and resolved to be sorrowful; upon which occasion, I could not but look with disdain upon myself, that though all the reasons which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now as forcible as at the moment of their departure, yet did not my heart swell with the same sorrow which I felt at that time; but I could, without tears, reflect upon many pleasing adventures I have had with some who have long been blended with common earth. Though it is by the benefit of nature that length of time thus blots out the violence of afflictions; yet with tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary to revive the old places of grief in our memory, and ponder step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the heart, and makes it beat with due time, without being quickened with desire, or r.e.t.a.r.ded with despair, from its proper and equal motion. When we wind up a clock that is out of order, to make it go well for the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present instant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours, before it can recover the regularity of its time. "Such," thought I, "shall be my method this evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over all the melancholy circ.u.mstances of this kind which have occurred to me in my whole life."

The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father,[299] at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real understanding why n.o.body was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it.

I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a beating the coffin, and calling "Papa"; for I know not how I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embrace, and told me in a flood of tears, papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again. She was a very beautiful woman, of a n.o.ble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport, which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, which, before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo, and receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any mark with which a child is born is to be taken away by any future application. Hence it is, that good nature in me is no merit; but having been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of any affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared me into ten thousand calamities, and from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that in such a humour as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past afflictions.[300]

We that are very old, are better able to remember things which befell us in our distant youth, than the pa.s.sages of later days. For this reason it is, that the companions of my strong and vigorous years present themselves more immediately to me in this office of sorrow. Untimely or unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament, so little are we able to make it indifferent when a thing happens, though we know it must happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved from it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises different pa.s.sions according to the circ.u.mstance of their departure. Who can have lived in an army, and in a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and agreeable men that might long have flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the imprecations of the fatherless and widow on the tyrant to whose ambition they fell sacrifices? But gallant men, who are cut off by the sword, move rather our veneration than our pity, and we gather relief enough from their own contempt of death, to make it no evil, which was approached with so much cheerfulness, and attended with so much honour. But when we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions, and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death to those from whom they had the fortune to receive it; I say, when we let our thoughts wander from such n.o.ble objects, and consider the havoc which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once.

Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence, and untimely death, of the first object my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous virgin!

How ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel! O Death! thou hast right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty, but why this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtless?[301] Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can erase the dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I saw her dressed for a ball, and in a shroud. How ill did the habit of Death become the pretty trifler? I still behold the smiling earth--A large train of disasters were coming on to my memory, when my servant knocked at my closet door, and interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on Thursday next at Garraway's Coffee-house.[302] Upon the receipt of it, I sent for three of my friends. We are so intimate, that we can be company in whatever state of mind we meet, and can entertain each other without expecting always to rejoice. The wine we found to be generous and warming, but with such a heat as moved us rather to be cheerful than frolicsome. It revived the spirits without firing the blood. We commended it till two of the clock this morning, and having to-day met a little before dinner, we found, that though we drank two bottles a man, we had much more reason to recollect than forget what had pa.s.sed the night before.

[Footnote 299: Steele's father, Richard Steele, was a Dublin solicitor.

His mother, whose maiden name was Elinor Sheyles, had married Thomas Symes, of Dublin, as her first husband.]

[Footnote 300: Thackeray has compared the treatment of Death by Swift, Addison, and Steele. After speaking of Addison's "lovely serenity" and Swift's "savage indignation," he turns to Steele: "The third, whose theme is Death, too, and who will speak his word of mortal as Heaven teaches him, leads you up to his father's coffin, and shows you his beautiful mother weeping, and himself an unconscious little boy wondering at her side. His own natural tears flow as he takes your hand, and confidingly asks for your sympathy; 'See how good and innocent and beautiful women are,' he says, 'how tender little children! Let us love these and one another, brother--G.o.d knows we have need of love and pardon!'" ("English Humourists," 1864, 158-9).]

[Footnote 301: The unsuspecting.]

[Footnote 302: "Notice is hereby given, that 46 hogsheads and one half of extraordinary French claret will be put up to sale, at 20 per hogshead, at Garraway's Coffee-house in Exchange Alley, on Thursday the 8th instant, at three in the afternoon, and to be tasted in a vault under Messrs. Lane and Harrison's, in Sweething's Lane, Lombard Street, from this day till the time of sale," &c. (No. 181, Advertis.e.m.e.nt).]

No. 182. [STEELE.

From _Tuesday, June 6_, to _Thursday, June 8, 1710_.

Spectaret populum ludis attentius ipsis.--HOR., 2 Ep. i. 197.

_Sheer Lane, June 7._

The town grows so very empty, that the greater number of my gay characters are fled out of my sight into the country. My beaus are now shepherds, and my belles wood-nymphs. They are lolling over rivulets, and covered with shades, while we who remain in town hurry through the dust about impertinences, without knowing the happiness of leisure and retirement. To add to this calamity, even the actors are going to desert us for a season, and we shall not shortly have so much as a landscape or frost-scene to refresh ourselves within the midst of our fatigues. This may not perhaps be so sensible a loss to any other as to me; for I confess it is one of my greatest delights to sit un.o.bserved and unknown in the gallery, and entertain myself either with what is personated on the stage, or observe what appearances present themselves in the audience. If there were no other good consequences in a playhouse, than that so many persons of different ranks and conditions are placed there in their most pleasing aspects, that prospect only would be very far from being below the pleasures of a wise man. There is not one person you can see, in whom, if you look with an inclination to be pleased, you may not behold something worthy or agreeable. Our thoughts are in our features; and the visage of those in whom love, rage, anger, jealousy or envy, have their frequent mansions, carries the traces of those pa.s.sions wherever the amorous, the choleric, the jealous, or the envious, are pleased to make their appearance. However, the a.s.sembly at a play is usually made up of such as have a sense of some elegance in pleasure, by which means the audience is generally composed of those who have gentle affections, or at least of such as at that time are in the best humour you can ever find them. This has insensibly a good effect upon our spirits; and the musical airs which are played to us, put the whole company into a partic.i.p.ation of the same pleasure, and by consequence for that time equal in humour, in fortune, and in quality. Thus far we gain only by coming into an audience; but if we find added to this, the beauties of proper action, the force of eloquence, and the gaiety of well-placed lights and scenes, it is being happy, and seeing others happy for two hours; a duration of bliss not at all to be slighted by so short-lived a creature as man. Why then should not the duty of the player be had in much more esteem than it is at present? If the merit of a performance be to be valued according to the talents which are necessary to it, the qualifications of a player should raise him much above the arts and ways of life which we call mercenary or mechanic.

When we look round a full house, and behold so few that can (though they set themselves out to show as much as the persons on the stage do) come up to what they would appear even in dumb show, how much does the actor deserve our approbation, who adds to the advantage of looks and motions the tone of voice, the dignity, the humility, the sorrow, the triumph suitable to the character he personates?

It may possibly be imagined by severe men, that I am too frequent in the mention of the theatrical representations; but who is not excessive in the discourse of what he extremely likes? Eugenio can lead you to a gallery of fine pictures, which collection he is always increasing: Cra.s.sus through woods and forests, to which he designs to add the neighbouring counties. These are great and n.o.ble instances of their magnificence. The players are my pictures, and their scenes my territories. By communicating the pleasure I take in them, it may in some measure add to men's gratifications this way, as viewing the choice and wealth of Eugenio and Cra.s.sus augments the enjoyments of those whom they entertain, with a prospect of such possessions as would not otherwise fall within the reach of their fortunes.

It is a very good office one man does another, when he tells him the manner of his being pleased; and I have often thought, that a comment upon the capacities of the players would very much improve the delight that way, and impart it to those who otherwise have no sense of it.

The first of the present stage are Wilks,[303] and Cibber,[304] perfect actors in their different kinds. Wilks has a singular talent in representing the graces of Nature, Cibber the deformity in the affectation of them. Were I a writer of plays, I should never employ either of them in parts which had not their bent this way. This is seen in the inimitable strain and run of good humour which is kept up in the character of Wildair,[305] and in the nice and delicate abuse of understanding in that of Sir Novelty.[306] Cibber, in another light, hits exquisitely the flat civility of an affected gentleman-usher, and Wilks the easy frankness of a gentleman.

If you would observe the force of the same capacities in higher life, can anything be more ingenuous than the behaviour of Prince Harry when his father checks him? Anything more exasperating, than that of Richard, when he insults his superiors? To beseech gracefully, to approach respectfully, to pity, to mourn, to love, are the places wherein Wilks may be made to s.h.i.+ne with the utmost beauty: to rally pleasantly, to scorn artfully, to flatter, to ridicule, and to neglect, are what Cibber would perform with no less excellence.

When actors are considered with a view to their talents, it is not only the pleasure of that hour of action which the spectators gain from their performance, but the opposition of right and wrong on the stage would have its force in the a.s.sistance of our judgments on other occasions. I have at present under my tutelage a young poet, who, I design, shall entertain the town the ensuing winter. And as he does me the honour to let me see his comedy as he writes it, I shall endeavour to make the parts fit the genius of the several actors, as exactly as their habits can their bodies: and because the two I have mentioned are to perform the princ.i.p.al parts, I have prevailed with the house to let "The Careless Husband"[307] be acted on Tuesday next, that my young author may have a view of a play which is acted to perfection, both by them and all concerned in it, as being born within the walls of the theatre, and written with an exact knowledge of the abilities of the performers. Mr.

Wilks will do his best in this play, because it is for his own benefit; and Mr. Cibber, because he writ it. Besides which, all the great beauties we have left in town, or within call of it, will be present, because it is the last play this season. This opportunity will, I hope, inflame my pupil with such generous notions from seeing this fair a.s.sembly as will be then present, that his play may be composed of sentiments and characters proper to be presented to such an audience.

His drama at present has only the outlines drawn. There are, I find, to be in it all the reverent offices of life, such as regard to parents, husbands, and honourable lovers, preserved with the utmost care; and at the same time that agreeableness of behaviour, with the intermixture of pleasing pa.s.sions as arise from innocence and virtue, interspersed in such a manner, as that to be charming and agreeable shall appear the natural consequence of being virtuous. This great end is one of those I propose to do in my Censors.h.i.+p; but if I find a thin house, on an occasion when such a work is to be promoted, my pupil shall return to his commons at Oxford, and Sheer Lane and the theatres be no longer correspondents.

[Footnote 303: See No. 14.]

[Footnote 304: Colley Cibber, actor and dramatist, was born in 1671. He was admirable alike as an actor of comic parts and a critic of acting, and some of his comedies are excellent. In 1714 Cibber became a.s.sociated with Steele in the management of Drury Lane Theatre. After his retirement from the stage in 1733 he published his famous "Apology"

(1740). He died in 1757. Steele wrote several times in his praise in the _Spectator_ (Nos. 370, 546).]

[Footnote 305: Sir Harry Wildair, in Farquhar's "Constant Couple."]

[Footnote 306: Sir Novelty Fas.h.i.+on, in Cibber's "Love's Last s.h.i.+ft."]

[Footnote 307: In this play, produced in 1705, Wilks was Sir Charles Easy; Cibber, Lord Foppington; and Mrs. Oldfield, Lady Betty Modish. In his "Apology" Cibber said that it was only just to place to the account of Mrs. Oldfield a large share of the favourable reception accorded to "The Careless Husband."]

No. 183. [STEELE.

From _Thursday, June 8_, to _Sat.u.r.day, June 10, 1710_.

----Fuit haec sapientia quondam, Publica privatis secernere.

HOR., Ars Poet. 396.

_From my own Apartment, June 9._

When men look into their own bosoms, and consider the generous seeds which are there planted, that might, if rightly cultivated, enn.o.ble their lives, and make their virtue venerable to futurity; how can they, without tears, reflect on the universal degeneracy from that public spirit, which ought to be the first and princ.i.p.al motive of all their actions? In the Grecian and Roman nations, they were wise enough to keep up this great incentive, and it was impossible to be in the fas.h.i.+on without being a patriot. All gallantry had its first source from hence; and to want a warmth for the public welfare was a defect so scandalous, that he who was guilty of it had no pretence to honour or manhood. What makes the depravity among us in this behalf the more vexatious and irksome to reflect upon, is, that the contempt of life is carried as far amongst us as it could be in those memorable people; and we want only a proper application of the qualities which are frequent among us to be as worthy as they. There is hardly a man to be found who will not fight upon any occasion which he thinks may taint his own honour. Were this motive as strong in everything that regards the public, as it is in this our private case, no man would pa.s.s his life away without having distinguished himself by some gallant instance of his zeal towards it in the respective incidents of his life and profession. But it is so far otherwise, that there cannot at present be a more ridiculous animal than one who seems to regard the good of others. He in civil life whose thoughts turn upon schemes which may be of general benefit, without further reflection, is called a "projector"; and the man whose mind seems intent upon glorious achievements, a "knight-errant." The ridicule among us runs strong against laudable actions. Nay, in the ordinary course of things, and the common regards of life, negligence of the public is an epidemic vice. The brewer in his excise, the merchant in his customs, and for aught we know the soldier in his muster-rolls, think never the worse of themselves for being guilty of their respective frauds towards the public. This evil is come to such a fantastical height, that he is a man of a public spirit, and heroically affected to his country, who can go so far as even to turn usurer with all he has in her funds. There is not a citizen in whose imagination such a one does not appear in the same light of glory as Codrus, Scaevola, or any other great name in old Rome. Were it not for the heroes of so much per cent.

as have regard enough for themselves and their nation to trade with her with their wealth, the very notion of public love would long ere now have vanished from among us. But however general custom may hurry us away in the stream of a common error, there is no evil, no crime, so great as that of being cold in matters which relate to the common good.

This is in nothing more conspicuous than in a certain willingness to receive anything that tends to the diminution of such as have been conspicuous instruments in our service. Such inclinations proceed from the most low and vile corruption of which the soul of man is capable.

This effaces not only the practice, but the very approbation of honour and virtue; and has had such an effect that, to speak freely, the very sense of public good has no longer a part even in our conversations.

Can then the most generous motive of life, the good of others, be so easily banished from the breast of man? Is it possible to draw all our pa.s.sions inward? Shall the boiling heat of youth be sunk in pleasures, the ambition of manhood in selfish intrigues? Shall all that is glorious, all that is worth the pursuit of great minds, be so easily rooted out? When the universal bent of a people seems diverted from the sense of their common good and common glory, it looks like a fatality, and crisis of impending misfortune.

The generous nations we just now mentioned understood this so very well, that there was hardly an oration ever made which did not turn upon this general sense, that the love of their country was the first and most essential quality in an honest mind. Demosthenes, in a cause wherein his fame, reputation, and fortune were embarked, puts his all upon this issue: "Let the Athenians," says he, "be benevolent to me, as they think I have been zealous for them." This great and discerning orator knew there was nothing else in nature could bear him up against his adversaries, but this one quality of having shown himself willing or able to serve his country. This certainly is the test of merit; and the first foundation for deserving goodwill, is having it yourself. The adversary of this orator at that time was aeschines, a man of wily arts and skill in the world, who could, as occasion served, fall in with a national start of pa.s.sion, or sullenness of humour (which a whole nation is sometimes taken with as well as a private man), and by that means divert them from their common sense, into an aversion for receiving anything in its true light. But when Demosthenes had awaked his audience with that one hint of judging by the general tenor of his life towards them, his services bore down his opponent before him, who fled to the covert of his mean arts till some more favourable occasion should offer, against the superior merit of Demosthenes.

It were to be wished, that love of their country were the first principle of action in men of business, even for their own sakes; for when the world begins to examine into their conduct, the generality, who have no share in, or hopes of any part in power or riches, but what is the effect of their own labour or property, will judge of them by no other method, than that of how profitable their administration has been to the whole. They who are out of the influence of men's fortune or favour, will let them stand or fall by this one only rule; and men who can bear being tried by it, are always popular in their fall: those who cannot suffer such a scrutiny, are contemptible in their advancement.

But I am here running into shreds of maxims from reading Tacitus this morning, which has driven me from my recommendation of public spirit, which was the intended purpose of this Lucubration. There is not a more glorious instance of it, than in the character of Regulus. This same Regulus was taken prisoner by the Carthagenians, and was sent by them to Rome, in order to demand some Punic n.o.blemen who were prisoners in exchange for himself, and was bound by an oath that he would return to Carthage if he failed in his commission. He proposes this to the Senate, who were in suspense upon it; which Regulus observing (without having the least notion of putting the care of his own life in compet.i.tion with the public good), desired them to consider that he was old, and almost useless; that those demanded in exchange were men of daring tempers, and great merit in military affairs, and wondered they would make any doubt of permitting him to go back to the short tortures prepared for him at Carthage, where he should have the advantage of ending a long life both gloriously and usefully. This generous advice was consented to, and he took his leave of his country and his weeping friends to go to certain death, with that cheerful composure, as a man, after the fatigue of business in a Court or a city, retires to the next village for the air.

No. 184. [STEELE.