Chapter XVI: Part 16

One shoe.
A pair of snuffers.
A French grammar.
A mourning hat-band: and half a bottle of usquebaugh.

There will be added to these goods, to make a complete auction, a collection of gold snuff-boxes and clouded canes,[361] which are to continue in fashion for three months after the sale.

The whole are to be set up and prized by Charles Bubbleboy,[362] who is to open the auction with a speech.

* * * * *

I find that I am so very unhappy, that while I am busy in correcting the folly and vice of one sex, several exorbitances break out in the other. I have not thoroughly examined their new-fashioned petticoats, but shall set aside one day in the next week for that purpose. The following petition on this subject was presented to me this morning:

"The humble Petition of WILLIAM JINGLE, Coach-maker and
Chair-maker of the Liberty of Westminster.

"To ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, Esq., Censor of Great Britain:

"Showeth--That upon the late invention of Mrs. Catherine
Cross-stitch, mantle-maker, the petticoats of ladies were too wide
for entering into any coach or chair which was in use before the
said invention.

"That for the service of the said ladies, your petitioner has
built a round chair, in the form of a lanthorn, six yards and a
half in circumference, with a stool in the centre of it; the said
vehicle being so contrived, as to receive the passenger by opening
in two in the middle, and closing mathematically when she is
seated.

"That your petitioner has also invented a coach for the reception
of one lady only, who is to be let in at the top.

"That the said coach has been tried by a lady's woman in one of
these full petticoats, who was let down from a balcony, and drawn
up again by pulleys, to the great satisfaction of her lady and all
who beheld her.

"Your petitioner therefore most humbly prays, that for the
encouragement of ingenuity and useful inventions, he may be heard
before you pass sentence upon the petticoats aforesaid.

"And your petitioner, &c."

I have likewise received a female petition, signed by several thousands, praying, that I would not any longer defer giving judgment in the case of the petticoat, many of them having put off the making new clothes till such time as they know what verdict I will pass upon it. I do therefore hereby certify to all whom it may concern, that I do design to set apart Tuesday next for the final determination of that matter, having already ordered a jury of matrons to be impanelled, for the clearing up of any difficult points that may arise in the trial.

* * * * *

Being informed, that several dead men in and about this city do keep out of the way and abscond, for fear of being buried; and being willing to respite their interment, in consideration of their families, and in hopes of their amendment, I shall allow them certain privileged places, where they may appear to one another, without causing any let or molestation to the living, or receiving any in their own persons from the Company of Upholders. Between the hours of seven and nine in the morning, they may appear in safety at St. James's Coffee-house, or at White's, if they do not keep their beds, which is more proper for men in their condition. From nine to eleven, I allow them to walk from Story's to Rosamond's Pond[363] in the Park, or in any other public walks which are not frequented by the living at that time. Between eleven and three, they are to vanish, and keep out of sight till three in the afternoon; at which time they may go to 'Change till five; and then, if they please, divert themselves at the Haymarket, or Drury Lane, till the play begins. It is further granted in favour of these persons, that they may be received at any table where there are more present than seven in number; provided, that they do not take upon them to talk, judge, commend, or find fault with any speech, action, or behaviour of the living. In which case, it shall be lawful to seize their persons at any place or hour whatsoever, and to convey their bodies to the next undertakers; anything in this advertisement to the contrary notwithstanding.

FOOTNOTES:

[356] On the authority of the Rev. John Duncombe (see Hughes's "Correspondence," iii. 7).

[357] See No. 110.

[358] See No. 50.

[359] See No. 4.

[360] Published first in 1696. We are told that John Toland "was once the butt of the _Tatler_" (_Examiner_, vol. iv. No. 35).

[361] _Cf._ Pope's "Odyssey"--

"The handle smooth and plain,
Made of the clouded olive's easy grain."

[362] Charles Mather; see No. 27.

No. 114. [ADDISON and STEELE[364]

From _Thursday, Dec. 29_, to _Saturday, Dec. 31, 1709_.

Ut in vitâ, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et humanissimum existimo,
severitatem comitatemque miscere, ne illa in tristitiam, hæc in
petulantium procedat.--PLIN., Epist.

_Sheer Lane, Dec. 30._

I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very gay humour, when I saw a coach stop at my door, and a youth about fifteen alighting out of it, whom I perceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend that I gave some account of in my paper of the 17th of the last month.[365] I felt a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of him, my acquaintance having begun with his father when he was just such a stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he took me by the hand, and burst out in tears. I was extremely moved, and immediately said, "Child, how does your father do?" He began to reply, "My mother--" but could not go on for weeping. I went down with him into the coach, and gathered out of him, that his mother was then dying, and that while the holy man was doing the last offices to her, he had taken that time to come and call me to his father, who, he said, would certainly break his heart if I did not go and comfort him. The child's discretion in coming to me of his own head, and the tenderness he showed for his parents, would have quite overpowered me, had I not resolved to fortify myself for the seasonable performances of those duties which I owed to my friend. As we were going, I could not but reflect upon the character of that excellent woman, and the greatness of his grief for the loss of one who has ever been the support to him under all other afflictions. How, thought I, will he be able to bear the hour of her death, that could not, when I was lately with him, speak of a sickness, which was then past, without sorrow. We were now got pretty far into Westminster, and arrived at my friend's house. At the door of it I met Favonius,[366] not without a secret satisfaction to find he had been there. I had formerly conversed with him at this house; and as he abounds with that sort of virtue and knowledge which makes religion beautiful, and never leads the conversation into the violence and rage of party disputes, I listened to him with great pleasure. Our discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death, which he treated with such a strength of reason, and greatness of soul, that instead of being terrible, it appeared to a mind rightly cultivated, altogether to be contemned, or rather to be desired. As I met him at the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief and humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and resolution, which, as I afterwards found, had such an irresistible force, as to suspend the pains of the dying, and the lamentation of the nearest friends who attended her. I went up directly to the room where she lay, and was met at the entrance by my friend, who, notwithstanding his thoughts had been composed a little before at the sight of me, turned away his face and wept. The little family of children renewed the expressions of their sorrow according to their several ages and degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter was in tears, busied in attendance upon her mother; others were kneeling about the bedside: and what troubled me most was, to see a little boy, who was too young to know the reason, weeping only because his sisters did. The only one in the room who seemed resigned and comforted, was the dying person. At my approach to the bedside, she told me, with a low broken voice, "This is kindly done. Take care of your friend--don't go from him." She had before taken leave of her husband and children, in a manner proper for so solemn a parting, and with a gracefulness peculiar to a woman of her character. My heart was torn in pieces to see the husband on one side suppressing and keeping down the swellings of his grief, for fear of disturbing her in her last moments; and the wife even at that time concealing the pains she endured, for fear of increasing his affliction. She kept her eyes upon him for some moments after she grew speechless, and soon after closed them for ever. In the moment of her departure, my friend (who had thus far commanded himself) gave a deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her bedside.[367] The distraction of the children, who thought they saw both their parents expiring together, and now lying dead before them, would have melted the hardest heart; but they soon perceived their father recover, whom I helped to remove into another room, with a resolution to accompany him till the first pangs of his affliction were abated. I knew consolation would now be impertinent; and therefore contented myself to sit by him, and condole with him in silence. For I shall here use the method of an ancient author,[368] who, in one of his epistles relating the virtues and death of Macrinus's wife, expresses himself thus:[369] "I shall suspend my advice to this best of friends, till he is made capable of receiving it by those three great remedies (_necessitas ipsa_, _dies longa_, _et satietas doloris_) the necessity of submission, length of time, and satiety of grief."

In the meantime, I cannot but consider with much commiseration, the melancholy state of one who has had such a part of himself torn from him, and which he misses in every circumstance of life. His condition is like that of one who has lately lost his right arm, and is every moment offering to help himself with it. He does not appear to himself the same person in his house, at his table, in company, or in retirement; and loses the relish of all the pleasures and diversions that were before entertaining to him by her participation of them. The most agreeable objects recall the sorrow for her with whom he used to enjoy them. This additional satisfaction, from the taste of pleasures in the society of one we love, is admirably described in Milton, who represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further pleased with the beautiful objects around her than as she sees them in company with Adam, in that passage so inexpressibly charming.

"_With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers, and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; the silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven her starry train.
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
In this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet._"[370]

The variety of images in this passage is infinitely pleasing, and the recapitulation of each particular image, with a little varying of the expression, makes one of the finest turns of words that I have ever seen; which I rather mention, because Mr. Dryden has said in his preface to Juvenal, that he could meet with no turn of words in Milton.[371]

It may further be observed, that though the sweetness of these verses has something in it of a pastoral, yet it excels the ordinary kind, as much as the scene of it is above an ordinary field or meadow. I might here, since I am accidentally led into this subject, show several passages in Milton that have as excellent turns of this nature as any of our English poets whatsoever; but shall only mention that which follows, in which he describes the fallen angels engaged in the intricate disputes of predestination, free-will, and foreknowledge; and to humour the perplexity, makes a kind of labyrinth in the very words that describe it:

_Others apart sat on a hill retired,
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high
Of Providence, foreknowledge, will and fate,
Fixed fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end in wandering mazes lost._[372]

FOOTNOTES:

[363] Story's Gate and Rosamond's Pond were at opposite ends of Birdcage Walk (see No. 60).

[364] "Steele assisted in this paper" (Tickell).

[365] No. 95.

[366] Dr. Smalridge (see No. 72).

[367] What follows is said to have been written by Addison. "It would seem as though Steele felt himself unable to proceed, and his friend had taken the pen from his trembling hand" (Forster, "Historical and Biographical Essays," 1858, ii. 141).

[368] Pliny, Book viii., Epist. 5.

[369] "Says very justly" (folio).

[370] "Paradise Lost," iv. 639.

[371] "But as he [Milton] endeavours everywhere to express Homer, whose age had not arrived to that fineness, I found in him a true sublimity, lofty thoughts which were clothed with admirable Grecisms, and ancient words which he had been digging from the mines of Chaucer and of Spenser, and which, with all their rusticity, had somewhat of venerable in them. But I found not there neither that for which I looked ['beautiful turns']." (Dryden's" Discourse on Satire.")

[372] "Paradise Lost," ii. 557.

THE END OF THE SECOND VOLUME

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Transcriber's Notes:

Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors
were corrected.

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Greek text has been transliterated and is denoted by #number marks#.

P. 74 & 257 added missing footnote anchors.

P. 188 added missing footnote number.