Chapter XXXI: Introduction (31)

'I am one of your Disciples, and endeavour to live up to your Rules,
which I hope will incline you to pity my Condition: I shall open it to
you in a very few Words. About three Years since a Gentleman, whom, I
am sure, you yourself would have approved, made his Addresses to me.
He had every thing to recommend him but an Estate, so that my Friends,
who all of them applauded his Person, would not for the sake of both
of us favour his Passion. For my own part, I resigned my self up
entirely to the Direction of those who knew the World much better than
my self, but still lived in hopes that some Juncture or other would
make me happy in the Man, whom, in my Heart, I preferred to all the
World; being determined if I could not have him, to have no Body else.
About three Months ago I received a Letter from him, acquainting me,
that by the Death of an Uncle he had a considerable Estate left him,
which he said was welcome to him upon no other Account, but as he
hoped it would remove all Difficulties that lay in the Way to our
mutual Happiness. You may well suppose, Sir, with how much Joy I
received this Letter, which was followed by several others filled with
those Expressions of Love and Joy, which I verily believe no Body felt
more sincerely, nor knew better how to describe than the Gentleman I
am speaking of. But Sir, how shall I be able to tell it you! by the
last Week's Post I received a letter from an intimate Friend of this
unhappy Gentleman, acquainting me, that as he had just settled his
Affairs, and was preparing for his Journey, he fell sick of a Fever
and died. It is impossible to express to you the Distress I am in upon
this Occasion. I can only have Recourse to my Devotions; and to the
reading of good Books for my Consolation; and as I always take a
particular Delight in those frequent Advices and Admonitions which you
give to the Publick, it would be a very great piece of Charity in you
to lend me your Assistance in this Conjuncture. If after the reading
of this Letter you find your self in a Humour, rather to Rally and
Ridicule, than to Comfort me, I desire you would throw it into the
Fire, and think no more of it; but if you are touched with my
Misfortune, which is greater than I know how to bear, your Counsels
may very much Support, and will infinitely Oblige the afflicted
_LEONORA_.'

A Disappointment in Love is more hard to get over than any other; the Passion itself so softens and subdues the Heart, that it disables it from struggling or bearing up against the Woes and Distresses which befal it. The Mind meets with other Misfortunes in her whole Strength; she stands collected within her self, and sustains the Shock with all the Force [which [3]] is natural to her; but a Heart in Love has its Foundations sapped, and immediately sinks under the Weight of Accidents that are disagreeable to its Favourite Passion.

In Afflictions Men generally draw their Consolations out of Books of Morality, which indeed are of great use to fortifie and strengthen the Mind against the Impressions of Sorrow. Monsieur St. _Evremont_, who does not approve of this Method, recommends Authors [who [4]] are apt to stir up Mirth in the Mind of the Readers, and fancies _Don Quixote_ can give more Relief to an heavy Heart than _Plutarch_ or _Seneca_, as it is much easier to divert Grief than to conquer it. This doubtless may have its Effects on some Tempers. I should rather have recourse to Authors of a quite contrary kind, that give us Instances of Calamities and Misfortunes, and shew Human Nature in its greatest Distresses.

If the Affliction we groan under be very heavy, we shall find some Consolation in the Society of as great Sufferers as our selves, especially when we find our Companions Men of Virtue and Merit. If our Afflictions are light, we shall be comforted by the Comparison we make between our selves and our Fellow Sufferers. A Loss at Sea, a Fit of Sickness, or the Death of a Friend, are such Trifles when we consider whole Kingdoms laid in Ashes, Families put to the Sword, Wretches shut up in Dungeons, and the like Calamities of Mankind, that we are out of Countenance for our own Weakness, if we sink under such little Stroaks of Fortune.

Let the Disconsolate _Leonora_ consider, that at the very time in which she languishes for the Loss of her deceased Lover, there are Persons in several Parts of the World just perishing in a Shipwreck; others crying out for Mercy in the Terrors of a Death-bed Repentance; others lying under the Tortures of an Infamous Execution, or the like dreadful Calamities; and she will find her Sorrows vanish at the Appearance of those which are so much greater and more astonishing.

I would further propose to the Consideration of my afflicted Disciple, that possibly what she now looks upon as the greatest Misfortune, is not really such in it self. For my own part, I question not but our Souls in a separate State will look back on their Lives in quite another View, than what they had of them in the Body; and that what they now consider as Misfortunes and Disappointments, will very often appear to have been Escapes and Blessings.

The Mind that hath any Cast towards Devotion, naturally flies to it in its Afflictions.

Whon I was in _France_ I heard a very remarkable Story of two Lovers, which I shall relate at length in my to-Morrow's Paper, not only because the Circumstances of it are extraordinary, but because it may serve as an Illustration to all that can be said on this last Head, and shew the Power of Religion in abating that particular Anguish which seems to lie so heavy on _Leonora_. The Story was told me by a Priest, as I travelled with him in a Stage-Coach. I shall give it my Reader as well as I can remember, in his own Words, after having premised, that if Consolations may be drawn from a wrong Religion and a misguided Devotion, they cannot but flow much more naturally from those which are founded upon Reason, and established in good Sense.

L.

[Footnote 1: one]

[Footnote 2: This letter is by Miss Shepheard, the 'Parthenia' of No. 140.]

[Footnote 3: that]

[Footnote 4: that]

* * * *

No. 164. Friday, September 7, 1711. Addison.

'Illa; Quis et me, inquit, miseram, et te perdidit, Orpheu? Jamque
vale: feror ingenti circumdata nocte, Invalidasque tibi tendens,
heu! non tua, palmas.'

Virg.

CONSTANTIA was a Woman of extraordinary Wit and Beauty, but very unhappy in a Father, who having arrived at great Riches by his own Industry, took delight in nothing but his Money. _Theodosius_ was the younger Son of a decayed Family of great Parts and Learning, improved by a genteel and vertuous Education. When he was in the twentieth year of his Age he became acquainted with _Constantia_, who had not then passed her fifteenth. As he lived but a few Miles Distance from her Father's House, he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; and by the Advantages of a good Person and a pleasing Conversation, made such an Impression in her Heart as it was impossible for time to [efface [1]]: He was himself no less smitten with _Constantia_. A long Acquaintance made them still discover new Beauties in each other, and by Degrees raised in them that mutual Passion which had an Influence on their following Lives. It unfortunately happened, that in the midst of this intercourse of Love and Friendship between _Theodosius_ and _Constantia_, there broke out an irreparable Quarrel between their Parents, the one valuing himself too much upon his Birth, and the other upon his Possessions. The Father of _Constantia_ was so incensed at the Father of _Theodosius_, that he contracted an unreasonable Aversion towards his Son, insomuch that he forbad him his House, and charged his Daughter upon her Duty never to see him more. In the mean time to break off all Communication between the two Lovers, who he knew entertained secret Hopes of some favourable Opportunity that should bring them together, he found out a young Gentleman of a good Fortune and an agreeable Person, whom he pitched upon as a Husband for his Daughter. He soon concerted this Affair so well, that he told _Constantia_ it was his Design to marry her to such a Gentleman, and that her Wedding should be celebrated on such a Day. _Constantia_, who was over-awed with the Authority of her Father, and unable to object anything against so advantageous a Match, received the Proposal with a profound Silence, which her Father commended in her, as the most decent manner of a Virgin's giving her Consent to an Overture of that Kind: The Noise of this intended Marriage soon reached _Theodosius_, who, after a long Tumult of Passions which naturally rise in a Lover's Heart on such an Occasion, writ the following letter to _Constantia_.

'The Thought of my _Constantia_, which for some years has been my only
Happiness, is now become a greater Torment to me than I am able to
bear. Must I then live to see you another's? The Streams, the Fields
and Meadows, where we have so often talked together, grow painful to
me; Life it self is become a Burden. May you long be happy in the
World, but forget that there was ever such a Man in it as
_THEODOSIUS_.'

This Letter was conveyed to _Constantia_ that very Evening, who fainted at the Reading of it; and the next Morning she was much more alarmed by two or three Messengers, that came to her Father's House one after another to inquire if they had heard any thing of _Theodosius_, who it seems had left his Chamber about Midnight, and could nowhere be found. The deep Melancholy, which had hung upon his Mind some Time before, made them apprehend the worst that could befall him. _Constantia_, who knew that nothing but the Report of her Marriage could have driven him to such Extremities, was not to be comforted: She now accused her self for having so tamely given an Ear to the Proposal of a Husband, and looked upon the new Lover as the Murderer of _Theodosius:_ In short, she resolved to suffer the utmost Effects of her Father's Displeasure, rather than comply with a Marriage which appeared to her so full of Guilt and Horror. The Father seeing himself entirely rid of _Theodosius,_ and likely to keep a considerable Portion in his Family, was not very much concerned at the obstinate Refusal of his Daughter; and did not find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that Account to his intended Son-in-law, who had all along regarded this Alliance rather as a Marriage of Convenience than of Love. _Constantia_ had now no Relief but in her Devotions and Exercises of Religion, to which her Afflictions had so entirely subjected her Mind, that after some Years had abated the Violence of her Sorrows, and settled her Thoughts in a kind of Tranquillity, she resolved to pass the Remainder of her Days in a Convent. Her Father was not displeased with [a [2]] Resolution, [which [3]] would save Money in his Family, and readily complied with his Daughter's Intentions. Accordingly in the Twenty-fifth Year of her Age, while her Beauty was yet in all its Height and Bloom, he carried her to a neighbouring City, in order to look out a Sisterhood of Nuns among whom to place his Daughter. There was in this Place a Father of a Convent who was very much renowned for his Piety and exemplary Life; and as it is usual in the Romish Church for those who are under any great Affliction, or Trouble of Mind, to apply themselves to the most eminent Confessors for Pardon and Consolation, our beautiful Votary took the Opportunity of confessing herself to this celebrated Father.

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very Morning that the above-mentioned Inquiries had been made after him, arrived at a religious House in the City, where now Constantia resided; and desiring that Secresy and Concealment of the Fathers of the Convent, which is very usual upon any extraordinary Occasion, he made himself one of the Order, with a private Vow never to enquire after _Constantia_; whom he looked upon as given away to his Rival upon the Day on which, according to common Fame, their Marriage was to have been solemnized. Having in his Youth made a good Progress in Learning, that he might dedicate [himself [4]] more entirely to Religion, he entered into holy Orders, and in a few Years became renowned for his Sanctity of Life, and those pious Sentiments which he inspired into all [who [5]] conversed with him. It was this holy Man to whom _Constantia_ had determined to apply her self in Confession, tho' neither she nor any other besides the Prior of the Convent, knew any thing of his Name or Family. The gay, the amiable _Theodosius_ had now taken upon him the Name of Father _Francis_, and was so far concealed in a long Beard, a [shaven [3]] Head, and a religious Habit, that it was impossible to discover the Man of the World in the venerable Conventual.

As he was one Morning shut up in his Confessional, _Constantia_ kneeling by him opened the State of her Soul to him; and after having given him the History of a Life full of Innocence, she burst out in Tears, and entred upon that Part of her Story in which he himself had so great a Share. My Behaviour, says she, has I fear been the Death of a Man who had no other Fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only knows how dear he was to me whilst he liv'd, and how bitter the Remembrance of him has been to me since his Death. She here paused, and lifted up her Eyes that streamed with Tears towards the Father; who was so moved with the Sense of her Sorrows, that he could only command his Voice, which was broke with Sighs and Sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. She followed his Directions, and in a Flood of Tears poured out her Heart before him. The Father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that in the Agonies of his Grief the Seat shook under him. _Constantia_, who thought the good Man was thus moved by his Compassion towards her, and by the Horror of her Guilt, proceeded with the utmost Contrition to acquaint him with that Vow of Virginity in which she was going to engage herself, as the proper Atonement for her Sins, and the only Sacrifice she could make to the Memory of _Theodosius_. The Father, who by this time had pretty well composed himself, burst out again in Tears upon hearing that Name to which he had been so long disused, and upon receiving this Instance of an unparallel'd Fidelity from one who he thought had several Years since given herself up to the Possession of another. Amidst the Interruptions of his Sorrow, seeing his Penitent overwhelmed with Grief, he was only able to bid her from time to time be comforted--To tell her that her Sins were forgiven her--That her Guilt was not so great as she apprehended--That she should not suffer her self to be afflicted above Measure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her the Absolution in Form; directing her at the same time to repair to him again the next Day, that he might encourage her in the pious Resolution[s] she had taken, and give her suitable Exhortations for her Behaviour in it. _Constantia_ retired, and the next Morning renewed her Applications. _Theodosius_ having manned his Soul with proper Thoughts and Reflections exerted himself on this Occasion in the best Manner he could to animate his Penitent in the Course of Life she was entering upon, and wear out of her Mind those groundless Fears and Apprehensions which had taken Possession of it; concluding with a Promise to her, that he would from time to time continue his Admonitions when she should have taken upon her the holy Veil. The Rules of our respective Orders, says he, will not permit that I should see you, but you may assure your self not only of having a Place in my Prayers, but of receiving such frequent Instructions as I can convey to you by Letters. Go on chearfully in the glorious Course you have undertaken, and you will quickly find such a Peace and Satisfaction in your Mind, which it is not in the Power of the World to give.

_Constantia's_ Heart was so elevated with the Discourse of Father _Francis_, that the very next Day she entered upon her Vow. As soon as the Solemnities of her Reception were over, she retired, as it is usual, with the Abbess into her own Apartment.

The Abbess had been informed the Night before of all that had passed between her Noviciate and Father _Francis:_ From whom she now delivered to her the following Letter.

'As the First-fruits of those Joys and Consolations which you may
expect from the Life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you that
_Theodosius_, whose Death sits so heavy upon your Thoughts, is still
alive; and that the Father, to whom you have confessed your self, was
once that _Theodosius_ whom you so much lament. The love which we have
had for one another will make us more happy in its Disappointment than
it could have done in its Success. Providence has disposed of us for
our Advantage, tho' not according to our Wishes. Consider your
_Theodosius_ still as dead, but assure your self of one who will not
cease to pray for you in Father.'

_FRANCIS._

_Constantia_ saw that the Hand-writing agreed with the Contents of the Letter: and upon reflecting on the Voice of the Person, the Behaviour, and above all the extreme Sorrow of the Father during her Confession, she discovered _Theodosius_ in every Particular. After having wept with Tears of Joy, It is enough, says she, _Theodosius_ is still in Being: I shall live with Comfort and die in Peace.

The Letters which the Father sent her afterwards are yet extant in the Nunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young Religious, in order to inspire them with good Resolutions and Sentiments of Virtue. It so happened, that after _Constantia_ had lived about ten Years in the Cloyster, a violent Feaver broke out in the Place, which swept away great Multitudes, and among others _Theodosius._ Upon his Deathbed he sent his Benediction in a very moving Manner to _Constantia,_ who at that time was herself so far gone in the same fatal Distemper, that she lay delirious. Upon the Interval which generally precedes Death in Sicknesses of this Nature, the Abbess, finding that the Physicians had given her over, told her that _Theodosius_ was just gone before her, and that he had sent her his Benediction in his last Moments. _Constantia_ received it with Pleasure: And now, says she, If I do not ask anything improper, let me be buried by _Theodosius._ My Vow reaches no farther than the Grave. What I ask is, I hope, no Violation of it.--She died soon after, and was interred according to her Request.

Their Tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin Inscription over them to the following Purpose.

Here lie the Bodies of Father _Francis_ and Sister _Constance. They were lovely in their Lives, and in their Deaths they were not divided._

C.

[Footnote 1: deface]

[Footnote 2: her]

[Footnote 3: that]

[Footnote 4: himself up]

[Footnote 5: that]

[Footnote 6: shaved]

* * * * *

No. 165. Saturday, September 8, 1711. Addison.

'... Si fortè necesse est,
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis
Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.' [1]

Hor.

I have often wished, that as in our Constitution there are several Persons whose Business it is to watch over our Laws, our Liberties and Commerce, certain Men might be set apart as Superintendants of our Language, to hinder any Words of a Foreign Coin from passing among us; and in particular to prohibit any _French_ Phrases from becoming Current in this Kingdom, when those of our own Stamp are altogether as valuable. The present War has so Adulterated our Tongue with strange Words that it would be impossible for one of our Great Grandfathers to know what his Posterity have been doing, were he to read their Exploits in a Modern News Paper. Our Warriors are very industrious in propagating the _French_ Language, at the same time that they are so gloriously successful in beating down their Power. Our Soldiers are Men of strong Heads for Action, and perform such Feats as they are not able to express. They want Words in their own Tongue to tell us what it is they Atchieve, and therefore send us over Accounts of their Performances in a Jargon of Phrases, which they learn among their Conquered Enemies. They ought however to be provided with Secretaries, and assisted by our Foreign Ministers, to tell their Story for them in plain _English_, and to let us know in our Mother-Tongue what it is our brave Country-Men are about. The _French_ would indeed be in the right to publish the News of the present War in _English_ Phrases, and make their Campaigns unintelligible. Their People might flatter themselves that Things are not so bad as they really are, were they thus palliated with Foreign Terms, and thrown into Shades and Obscurity: but the _English_ cannot be too clear in their Narrative of those Actions, which have raised their Country to a higher Pitch of Glory than it ever yet arrived at, and which will be still the more admired the better they are explained.

For my part, by that time a Siege is carried on two or three Days, I am altogether lost and bewildered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable Difficulties, that I scarce know what Side has the better of it, till I am informed by the Tower Guns that the Place is surrendered. I do indeed make some Allowances for this Part of the War, Fortifications having been foreign Inventions, and upon that Account abounding in foreign Terms. But when we have won Battels [which [2]] may be described in our own Language, why are our Papers filled with so many unintelligible Exploits, and the _French_ obliged to lend us a Part of their Tongue before we can know how they are Conquered? They must be made accessory to their own Disgrace, as the _Britons_ were formerly so artificially wrought in the Curtain of the _Roman_ Theatre, that they seemed to draw it up in order to give the Spectators an Opportunity of seeing their own Defeat celebrated upon the Stage: For so Mr. _Dryden_ has translated that Verse in _Virgil_.

[_Purpurea intexti_ [3]] _tollunt auloea Britanni_.

(Georg. 3, v. 25.)

_Which interwoven_ Britains _seem to raise_,
_And shew the Triumph that their Shame displays_.

The Histories of all our former Wars are transmitted to us in our Vernacular Idiom, to use the Phrase of a great Modern Critick. [4] I do not find in any of our Chronicles, that _Edward_ the Third ever reconnoitred the Enemy, tho' he often discovered the Posture of the _French_, and as often vanquished them in Battel. The _Black Prince_ passed many a River without the help of Pontoons, and filled a Ditch with Faggots as successfully as the Generals of our Times do it with Fascines. Our Commanders lose half their Praise, and our People half their Joy, by means of those hard Words and dark Expressions in which our News Papers do so much abound. I have seen many a prudent Citizen, after having read every Article, inquire of his next Neighbour what News the Mail had brought.

I remember in that remarkable Year when our Country was delivered from the greatest Fears and Apprehensions, and raised to the greatest Height of Gladness it had ever felt since it was a Nation, I mean the Year of _Blenheim_, I had the Copy of a Letter sent me out of the Country, which was written from a young Gentleman in the Army to his Father, a Man of a good Estate and plain Sense: As the Letter was very modishly chequered with this Modern Military Eloquence, I shall present my Reader with a Copy of it.

_SIR_,

Upon the Junction of the _French_ and _Bavarian_ Armies they took Post
behind a great Morass which they thought impracticable. Our General
the next Day sent a Party of Horse to reconnoitre them from a little
Hauteur, at about a [Quarter of an Hour's [5]] distance from the Army,
who returned again to the Camp unobserved through several Defiles, in
one of which they met with a Party of _French_ that had been
Marauding, and made them all Prisoners at Discretion. The Day after a
Drum arrived at our Camp, with a Message which he would communicate to
none but the General; he was followed by a Trumpet, who they say
behaved himself very saucily, with a Message from the Duke of
_Bavaria_. The next Morning our Army being divided into two Corps,
made a Movement towards the Enemy: You will hear in the Publick Prints
how we treated them, with the other Circumstances of that glorious
Day. I had the good Fortune to be in that Regiment that pushed the
_Gens d'Arms_. Several _French_ Battalions, who some say were a Corps
de Reserve, made a Show of Resistance; but it only proved a Gasconade,
for upon our preparing to fill up a little Fossé, in order to attack
them, they beat the Chamade, and sent us _Charte Blanche_. Their
Commandant, with a great many other General Officers, and Troops
without number, are made Prisoners of War, and will I believe give you
a Visit in _England_, the Cartel not being yet settled. Not
questioning but these Particulars will be very welcome to you, I
congratulate you upon them, and am your most dutiful Son, &c.'

The Father of the young Gentleman upon the Perusal of the Letter found it contained great News, but could not guess what it was. He immediately communicated it to the Curate of the Parish, who upon the reading of it, being vexed to see any thing he could not understand, fell into a kind of a Passion, and told him that his Son had sent him a Letter that was neither Fish, nor Flesh, nor good Red-Herring. I wish, says he, the Captain may be _Compos Mentis_, he talks of a saucy Trumpet, and a Drum that carries Messages; then who is this _Charte Blanche_? He must either banter us or he is out of his Senses. The Father, who always looked upon the Curate as a learned Man, began to fret inwardly at his Son's Usage, and producing a Letter which he had written to him about three Posts afore, You see here, says he, when he writes for Mony he knows how to speak intelligibly enough; there is no Man in England can express himself clearer, when he wants a new Furniture for his Horse. In short, the old Man was so puzzled upon the Point, that it might have fared ill with his Son, had he not seen all the Prints about three Days after filled with the same Terms of Art, and that _Charles_ only writ like other Men.

L.

[Footnote 1: The motto in the original edition was

'Semivirumque bovem Semibovemque virum.'

Ovid.]

[Footnote 2: that]

[Footnote 3: _Atique_]

[Footnote 4: Dr Richard Bentley]

[Footnote 5: Mile]

* * * * *

No. 166. Monday, September 10, 1711. Addison.

'... Quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis,
Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas.'

Ovid.

Aristotle tells us that the World is a Copy or Transcript of those Ideas which are in the Mind of the first Being, and that those Ideas, which are in the Mind of Man, are a Transcript of the World: To this we may add, that Words are the Transcript of those Ideas which are in the Mind of Man, and that Writing or Printing are the Transcript of words.

As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it were printed his Ideas in the Creation, Men express their Ideas in Books, which by this great Invention of these latter Ages may last as long as the Sun and Moon, and perish only in the general Wreck of Nature. Thus _Cowley_ in his Poem on the Resurrection, mentioning the Destruction of the Universe, has those admirable Lines.

'_Now all the wide extended Sky,
And all th' harmonious Worlds on high,
And_ Virgil's _sacred Work shall die_.'

There is no other Method of fixing those Thoughts which arise and disappear in the Mind of Man, and transmitting them to the last Periods of Time; no other Method of giving a Permanency to our Ideas, and preserving the Knowledge of any particular Person, when his Body is mixed with the common Mass of Matter, and his Soul retired into the World of Spirits. Books are the Legacies that a great Genius leaves to Mankind, which are delivered down from Generation to Generation, as Presents to the Posterity of those who are yet unborn.

All other Arts of perpetuating our Ideas continue but a short Time: Statues can last but a few Thousands of Years, Edifices fewer, and Colours still fewer than Edifices. _Michael Angelo_, _Fontana_, and _Raphael_, will hereafter be what _Phidias_, _Vitruvius_, and _Apelles_ are at present; the Names of great Statuaries, Architects and Painters, whose Works are lost. The several Arts are expressed in mouldring Materials: Nature sinks under them, and is not able to support the Ideas which are imprest upon it.

The Circumstance which gives Authors an Advantage above all these great Masters, is this, that they can multiply their Originals; or rather can make Copies of their Works, to what Number they please, which shall be as valuable as the Originals themselves. This gives a great Author something like a Prospect of Eternity, but at the same time deprives him of those other Advantages which Artists meet with. The Artist finds greater Returns in Profit, as the Author in Fame. What an Inestimable Price would a _Virgil_ or a _Homer_, a _Cicero_ or an _Aristotle_ bear, were their Works like a Statue, a Building, or a Picture, to be confined only in one Place and made the Property of a single Person?

If Writings are thus durable, and may pass from Age to Age throughout the whole Course of Time, how careful should an Author be of committing any thing to Print that may corrupt Posterity, and poison the Minds of Men with Vice and Error? Writers of great Talents, who employ their Parts in propagating Immorality, and seasoning vicious Sentiments with Wit and Humour, are to be looked upon as the Pests of Society, and the Enemies of Mankind: They leave Books behind them (as it is said of those who die in Distempers which breed an Ill-will towards their own Species) to scatter Infection and destroy their Posterity. They act the Counterparts of a _Confucius_ or a _Socrates_; and seem to have been sent into the World to deprave human Nature, and sink it into the Condition of Brutality.

I have seen some Roman-Catholick Authors, who tell us that vicious Writers continue in Purgatory so long as the Influence of their Writings continues upon Posterity: For Purgatory, say they, is nothing else but a cleansing us of our Sins, which cannot be said to be done away, so long as they continue to operate and corrupt Mankind. The vicious Author, say they, sins after Death, and so long as he continues to sin, so long must he expect to be punished. Tho' the Roman Catholick Notion of Purgatory be indeed very ridiculous, one cannot but think that if the Soul after Death has any Knowledge of what passes in this World, that of an immoral Writer would receive much more Regret from the Sense of corrupting, than Satisfaction from the Thought of pleasing his surviving Admirers.

To take off from the Severity of this Speculation, I shall conclude this Paper with a Story of an Atheistical Author, who at a time when he lay dangerously sick, and desired the Assistance of a neighbouring Curate, confessed to him with great Contrition, that nothing sat more heavy at his Heart than the Sense of his having seduced the Age by his Writings, and that their evil Influence was likely to continue even after his Death. The Curate upon further Examination finding the Penitent in the utmost Agonies of Despair, and being himself a Man of Learning, told him, that he hoped his Case was not so desperate as he apprehended, since he found that he was so very sensible of his Fault, and so sincerely repented of it. The Penitent still urged the evil Tendency of his Book to subvert all Religion, and the little Ground of Hope there could be for one whose Writings would continue to do Mischief when his Body was laid in Ashes. The Curate, finding no other Way to comfort him, told him, that he did well in being afflicted for the evil Design with which he published his Book; but that he ought to be very thankful that there was no danger of its doing any Hurt: That his Cause was so very bad, and his Arguments so weak, that he did not apprehend any ill Effects of it: In short, that he might rest satisfied his Book could do no more Mischief after his Death, than it had done whilst he was living. To which he added, for his farther Satisfaction, that he did not believe any besides his particular Friends and Acquaintance had ever been at the pains of reading it, or that any Body after his Death would ever enquire after it. The dying Man had still so much the Frailty of an Author in him, as to be cut to the Heart with these Consolations; and without answering the good Man, asked his Friends about him (with a Peevishness that is natural to a sick Person) where they had picked up such a Blockhead? And whether they thought him a proper Person to attend one in his Condition? The Curate finding that the Author did not expect to be dealt with as a real and sincere Penitent, but as a Penitent of Importance, after a short Admonition withdrew; not questioning but he should be again sent for if the Sickness grew desperate. The Author however recovered, and has since written two or three other Tracts with the same Spirit, and very luckily for his poor Soul with the same Success.

C.

* * * * *

No. 167. Tuesday, September 11, 1711 Steele

'_Fuit haud ignobilis Argis,
Qui se credebat miros audire tragoedos,
In vacuo lætus sessor plausorque theatro;
Cætera qui vitæ servaret munia recto
More; bonus sanè vicinus, amabilis hospes,
Comis in uxorem; posset qui ignoscere servis,
Et signo læso non insanire lagenæ;
Posset qui rupem et puteum vitare patentem.
Hic ubi cognatorum opibus curisque refectus
Expulit elleboro morbum bilemque meraco,
Et redit ad sese: Pol me occidistis, amici,
Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta valuptas,
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus Error._'

Hor.

The unhappy Force of an Imagination, unguided by the Check of Reason and Judgment, was the Subject of a former Speculation. My Reader may remember that he has seen in one of my Papers a Complaint of an Unfortunate Gentleman, who was unable to contain himself, (when any ordinary matter was laid before him) from adding a few Circumstances to enliven plain Narrative. That Correspondent was a Person of too warm a Complexion to be satisfied with things merely as they stood in Nature, and therefore formed Incidents which should have happened to have pleased him in the Story. The same ungoverned Fancy which pushed that Correspondent on, in spite of himself, to relate publick and notorious Falsehoods, makes the Author of the following Letter do the same in Private; one is a Prating, the other a Silent Liar.

There is little pursued in the Errors of either of these Worthies, but mere present Amusement: But the Folly of him who lets his Fancy place him in distant Scenes untroubled and uninterrupted, is very much preferable to that of him who is ever forcing a Belief, and defending his Untruths with new Inventions. But I shall hasten to let this Liar in Soliloquy, who calls himself a CASTLE-BUILDER, describe himself with the same Unreservedness as formerly appeared in my Correspondent above-mentioned. If a Man were to be serious on this Subject, he might give very grave Admonitions to those who are following any thing in this Life, on which they think to place their Hearts, and tell them that they are really CASTLE-BUILDERS. Fame, Glory, Wealth, Honour, have in the Prospect pleasing Illusions; but they who come to possess any of them will find they are Ingredients towards Happiness, to be regarded only in the second Place; and that when they are valued in the first Degree, they are as dis-appointing as any of the Phantoms in the following Letter.

_Sept._ 6, 1711.

_Mr._ SPECTATOR,

'I am a Fellow of a very odd Frame of Mind, as you will find by the
Sequel; and think myself Fool enough to deserve a Place in your Paper.
I am unhappily far gone in Building, and am one of that Species of Men
who are properly denominated Castle-Builders, who scorn to be beholden
to the Earth for a Foundation, or dig in the Bowels of it for
Materials; but erect their Structures in the most unstable of
Elements, the Air, Fancy alone laying the Line, marking the Extent,
and shaping the Model. It would be difficult to enumerate what august
Palaces and stately Porticoes have grown under my forming Imagination,
or what verdant Meadows and shady Groves have started into Being, by
the powerful Feat of a warm Fancy. A Castle-builder is even just what
he pleases, and as such I have grasped imaginary Scepters, and
delivered uncontroulable Edicts, from a Throne to which conquered
Nations yielded Obeysance. I have made I know not how many Inroads
into _France_, and ravaged the very Heart of that Kingdom; I have
dined in the _Louvre_, and drank Champaign at _Versailles;_ and I
would have you take Notice, I am not only able to vanquish a People
already cowed and accustomed to Flight, but I could, _Almanzor_-like,
[1] drive the _British_ General from the Field, were I less a
Protestant, or had ever been affronted by the Confederates. There is
no Art or Profession, whose most celebrated Masters I have not
eclipsed. Where-ever I have afforded my Salutary Preference, Fevers
have ceased to burn, and Agues to shake the Human Fabrick. When an
Eloquent Fit has been upon me, an apt Gesture and proper Cadence has
animated each Sentence, and gazing Crowds have found their Passions
work'd up into Rage, or soothed into a Calm. I am short, and not very
well made; yet upon Sight of a fine Woman, I have stretched into
proper Stature, and killed with a good Air and Mein. These are the gay
Phantoms that dance before my waking Eyes and compose my Day-Dreams. I
should be the most contented happy Man alive, were the Chimerical
Happiness which springs from the Paintings of the Fancy less fleeting
and transitory. But alas! it is with Grief of Mind I tell you, the
least Breath of Wind has often demolished my magnificent Edifices,
swept away my Groves, and left no more Trace of them than if they had
never been. My Exchequer has sunk and vanished by a Rap on my Door,
the Salutation of a Friend has cost me a whole Continent, and in the
same Moment I have been pulled by the Sleeve, my Crown has fallen from
my Head. The ill Consequence of these Reveries is inconceivably great,
seeing the loss of imaginary Possessions makes Impressions of real
Woe. Besides, bad Oeconomy is visible and apparent in Builders of
invisible Mansions. My Tenant's Advertisements of Ruins and
Dilapidations often cast a Damp on my Spirits, even in the Instant
when the Sun, in all his Splendor, gilds my Eastern Palaces. Add to
this the pensive Drudgery in Building, and constant grasping Aerial
Trowels, distracts and shatters the Mind, and the fond Builder of
_Babells_ is often cursed with an incoherent Diversity and Confusion
of Thoughts. I do not know to whom I can more properly apply my self
for Relief from this Fantastical Evil, than to your self; whom I
earnestly implore to accommodate me with a Method how to settle my
Head and cool my Brain-pan. A Dissertation on Castle-Building may not
only be serviceable to my self, but all Architects, who display their
Skill in the thin Element. Such a Favour would oblige me to make my
next Soliloquy not contain the Praises of my dear Self but of the
SPECTATOR, who shall, by complying with this, make me.'

_His Obliged, Humble Servant._
Vitruvius.

[Footnote 1: "(unreadable on original page) in Dryden's 'Conquest of Granada.'"]

* * * * *

No. 168. Wednesday, September 12, 1711. Steele.

'... _Pectus Præceptis format amicis_.'

Hor.

It would be Arrogance to neglect the Application of my Correspondents so far as not sometimes to insert their Animadversions upon my Paper; that of this Day shall be therefore wholly composed of the Hints which they have sent me.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

I Send you this to congratulate your late Choice of a Subject, for
treating on which you deserve publick Thanks; I mean that on those
licensed Tyrants the Schoolmasters. If you can disarm them of their
Rods, you will certainly have your old Age reverenced by all the young
Gentlemen of _Great-Britain_ who are now between seven and seventeen
Years. You may boast that the incomparably wise _Quintilian_ and you
are of one Mind in this Particular.

'_Si cui est_ (says he) _mens tam illiberalis ut objurgatione non
corrigatur, is etiam ad plagas, ut pessimo quæque mancipia,
durabitur. [1]

If any Child be of so disingenuous a Nature, as not to stand
corrected by Reproof, he, like the very worst of Slaves, will be
hardned even against Blows themselves.'

And afterwards,

'Pudet dicere in quæ probra nefandi homines isto cædendi jure
abutantur_,

i. e. _I blush to say how shamefully those wicked Men abuse the
Power of Correction_.'

I was bred myself, Sir, in a very great School, of which the Master
was a _Welchman_, but certainly descended from a _Spanish_ Family, as
plainly appeared from his Temper as well as his Name. [2] I leave you
to judge what sort of a Schoolmaster a _Welchman_ ingrafted on a
_Spaniard_ would make. So very dreadful had he made himself to me,
that altho' it is above twenty Years since I felt his heavy Hand, yet
still once a Month at least I dream of him, so strong an Impression
did he make on my Mind. 'Tis a Sign he has fully terrified me waking,
who still continues to haunt me sleeping.

And yet I may say without Vanity, that the Business of the School was
what I did without great Difficulty; and I was not remarkably unlucky;
and yet such was the Master's Severity that once a Month, or oftner, I
suffered as much as would have satisfied the Law of the Land for a
_Petty Larceny_.

Many a white and tender Hand, which the fond Mother has passionately
kissed a thousand and a thousand times, have I seen whipped till it
was covered with Blood: perhaps for smiling, or for going a Yard and
half out of a Gate, or for writing an O for an A, or an A for an O:
These were our great Faults! Many a brave and noble Spirit has been
there broken; others have run from thence and were never heard of
afterwards.

It is a worthy Attempt to undertake the Cause of distrest Youth; and
it is a noble Piece of _Knight-Errantry_ to enter the Lists against so
many armed Pedagogues. 'Tis pity but we had a Set of Men, polite in
their Behaviour and Method of Teaching, who should be put into a
Condition of being above flattering or fearing the Parents of those
they instruct. We might then possibly see Learning become a Pleasure,
and Children delighting themselves in that which now they abhor for
coming upon such hard Terms to them: What would be a still greater
Happiness arising from the Care of such Instructors, would be, that we
should have no more Pedants, nor any bred to Learning who had not
Genius for it. I am, with the utmost Sincerity, _SIR, Your most
affectionate humble Servant_.

_Richmond, Sept._ 5_th_, 1711.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

I am a Boy of fourteen Years of Age, and have for this last Year been
under the Tuition of a Doctor of Divinity, who has taken the School of
this Place under his Care. [3] From the Gentleman's great Tenderness
to me and Friendship to my Father, I am very happy in learning my Book
with Pleasure. We never leave off our Diversions any farther than to
salute him at Hours of Play when he pleases to look on. It is
impossible for any of us to love our own Parents better than we do
him. He never gives any of us an harsh Word, and we think it the
greatest Punishment in the World when he will not speak to any of us.
My Brother and I are both together inditing this Letter: He is a Year
older than I am, but is now ready to break his Heart that the Doctor
has not taken any Notice of him these three Days. If you please to
print this he will see it, and, we hope, taking it for my Brother's
earnest Desire to be restored to his Favour, he will again smile upon
him.
_Your most obedient Servant_,
T. S.

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

You have represented several sorts of _Impertinents_ singly, I wish
you would now proceed, and describe some of them in Sets. It often
happens in publick Assemblies, that a Party who came thither together,
or whose Impertinencies are of an equal Pitch, act in Concert, and are
so full of themselves as to give Disturbance to all that are about
them. Sometimes you have a Set of Whisperers, who lay their Heads
together in order to sacrifice every Body within their Observation;
sometimes a Set of Laughers, that keep up an insipid Mirth in their
own Corner, and by their Noise and Gestures shew they have no Respect
for the rest of the Company. You frequently meet with these Sets at
the Opera, the Play, the Water-works, [4] and other publick Meetings,
where their whole Business is to draw off the Attention of the
Spectators from the Entertainment, and to fix it upon themselves; and
it is to be observed that the Impertinence is ever loudest, when the
Set happens to be made up of three or four Females who have got what
you call a Woman's Man among them.

I am at a loss to know from whom People of Fortune should learn this
Behaviour, unless it be from the Footmen who keep their Places at a
new Play, and are often seen passing away their Time in Sets at
_All-fours_ in the Face of a full House, and with a perfect Disregard
to People of Quality sitting on each Side of them.

For preserving therefore the Decency of publick Assemblies, methinks
it would be but reasonable that those who Disturb others should pay at
least a double Price for their Places; or rather Women of Birth and
Distinction should be informed that a Levity of Behaviour in the Eyes
of People of Understanding degrades them below their meanest
Attendants; and Gentlemen should know that a fine Coat is a Livery,
when the Person who wears it discovers no higher Sense than that of a
Footman.
I am _SIR_,
_Your most humble Servant._

_Bedfordshire, Sept.._ 1, 1711

_Mr_. SPECTATOR,

I am one of those whom every Body calls a Pocher, and sometimes go out
to course with a Brace of Greyhounds, a Mastiff, and a Spaniel or two;
and when I am weary with Coursing, and have killed Hares enough, go to
an Ale-house to refresh my self. I beg the Favour of you (as you set
up for a Reformer) to send us Word how many Dogs you will allow us to
go with, how many Full-Pots of Ale to drink, and how many Hares to
kill in a Day, and you will do a great Piece of Service to all the
Sportsmen: Be quick then, for the Time of Coursing is come on.

_Yours in Haste_,
T. Isaac Hedgeditch.

[Footnote 1: 'Instit. Orat.' Bk. I. ch. 3.]

[Footnote 2: Dr. Charles Roderick, Head Master of Eton.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Nicholas Brady, Tate's colleague in versification of the Psalms. He was Rector of Clapham and Minister of Richmond, where he had the school. He died in 1726, aged 67.]

[Footnote 4: The Water Theatre, invented by Mr. Winstanley, and exhibited by his widow at the lower end of Piccadilly.]

* * * * *

No. 169. Thursday, Sept. 13, 1711. Addison

'_Sic vita erat: facile omnes perferre ac pati:
Cum quibus erat cunque una, his sese dedere,
Eorum obsequi studiis: advorsus nemini;
Nunquam præponens se aliis: Ita facillime
Sine invidia invenias laudem._'

Ter. And.

Man is subject to innumerable Pains and Sorrows by the very Condition of Humanity, and yet, as if Nature had not sown Evils enough in Life, we are continually adding Grief to Grief, and aggravating the common Calamity by our cruel Treatment of one another. Every Man's natural Weight of Afflictions is still made more heavy by the Envy, Malice, Treachery, or Injustice of his Neighbour. At the same time that the Storm beats upon the whole Species, we are falling foul upon one another.

Half the Misery of Human Life might be extinguished, would Men alleviate the general Curse they lie under, by mutual Offices of Compassion, Benevolence, and Humanity. There is nothing therefore which we ought more to encourage in our selves and others, than that Disposition of Mind which in our Language goes under the Title of Good-nature, and which I shall chuse for the Subject of this Day's Speculation.

Good-nature is more agreeable in Conversation than Wit, and gives a certain Air to the Countenance which is more amiable than Beauty. It shows Virtue in the fairest Light, takes off in some measure from the Deformity of Vice, and makes even Folly and Impertinence supportable.

There is no Society or Conversation to be kept up in the World without Good-nature, or something which must bear its Appearance, and supply its Place. For this Reason Mankind have been forced to invent a kind of Artificial Humanity, which is what we express by the Word _Good-Breeding_. For if we examine thoroughly the Idea of what we call so, we shall find it to be nothing else but an Imitation and Mimickry of Good-nature, or in other Terms, Affability, Complaisance and Easiness of Temper reduced into an Art.

These exterior Shows and Appearances of Humanity render a Man wonderfully popular and beloved when they are founded upon a real Good-nature; but without it are like Hypocrisy in Religion, or a bare Form of Holiness, which, when it is discovered, makes a Man more detestable than professed Impiety.

Good-nature is generally born with us: Health, Prosperity and kind Treatment from the World are great Cherishers of it where they find it; but nothing is capable of forcing it up, where it does not grow of it self. It is one of the Blessings of a happy Constitution, which Education may improve but not produce.

Xenophon [1] in the Life of his Imaginary Prince, whom he describes as a Pattern for Real ones, is always celebrating the _Philanthropy_ or Good-nature of his Hero, which he tells us he brought into the World with him, and gives many remarkable Instances of it in his Childhood, as well as in all the several Parts of his Life. Nay, on his Death-bed, he describes him as being pleased, that while his Soul returned to him [who [2]] made it, his Body should incorporate with the great Mother of all things, and by that means become beneficial to Mankind. For which Reason, he gives his Sons a positive Order not to enshrine it in Gold or Silver, but to lay it in the Earth as soon as the Life was gone out of it.

An Instance of such an Overflowing of Humanity, such an exuberant Love to Mankind, could not have entered into the Imagination of a Writer, who had not a Soul filled with great Ideas, and a general Benevolence to Mankind.