Chapter II (1)

"_I fancy, when your song you sing
(Your song you sing with so much art),
Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing;
For ah! it wounds me like his dart._"

"Why," says I, "this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of salt: every verse has something in it that piques; and then the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram (for so I think your critics call it) as ever entered into the thought of a poet." "Dear Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, shaking me by the hand, "everybody knows you to be a judge of these things; and to tell you truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry' three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shown you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of it, for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.

"_When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine._

"That is," says he, "when you have your garland on; when you are writing verses." To which I replied, "I know your meaning: a metaphor!" "The same," said he, and went on:

"_And tune your soft melodious notes._

"Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant in it: I took care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of it." "Truly," said I, "I think it as good as the former." "I am very glad to hear you say so," says he; "but mind the next:

"_You seem a sister of the Nine._

"That is," says he, "you seem a sister of the Muses; for if you look into ancient authors, you will find it was their opinion, that there were nine of them." "I remember it very well," said I; "but pray proceed."

"_Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._

"Phoebus," says he, "was the God of Poetry. These little instances, Mr. Bickerstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then to take off from the air of learning, which Phoebus and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe how it falls all of a sudden into the familiar; 'in petticoats!'

"_Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._"

"Let us now," says I, "enter upon the second stanza. I find the first line is still a continuation of the metaphor:

"_I fancy, when your song you sing._"

"It is very right," says he; "but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me, whether in the second line it should be, 'Your song you sing'; or, 'You sing your song'? You shall hear them both:

"_I fancy, when your song you sing
(Your song you sing with so much art)._"

Or,

"_I fancy, when your song you sing
(You sing your song with so much art)._"

"Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural either way, that you have made me almost giddy with it." "Dear sir," said he, grasping me by the hand, "you have a great deal of patience; but pray what do you think of the next verse:

"_Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing?_"

"Think!" says I; "I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose." "That was my meaning," says he; "I think the ridicule is well enough hit off. But we now come to the last, which sums up the whole matter:

"_For ah! it wounds me like his dart._

"Pray, how do you like that 'Ah!' Does it not make a pretty figure in that place? 'Ah!' It looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out at being pricked with it:

"_For ah! it wounds me like his dart._

"My friend Dick Easy,"[233] continued he, "assured me he would rather have written that 'Ah!' than to have been the author of the 'AEneid.' He indeed objected that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and like a dart in the other. But as to that--" "Oh! as to that," says I, "it is but supposing Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his quills and darts will be the same thing." He was going to embrace me for the hint; but half a dozen critics coming into the room, whose faces he did not like, he conveyed the sonnet into his pocket, and whispered me in the ear, he would show it me again as soon as his man had written it over fair.

[Footnote 233: Perhaps Henry Cromwell. See Nos. 47, 49, 165, and Mrs. Elizabeth Thomas' "Pylades and Corinna," i. 194.]

No. 164. [STEELE.

From _Tuesday, April 25_, to _Thursday, April 27, 1710_.

Qui sibi promittit cives, urbem sibi curae,
Imperium fore et Italiam, delubra Deorum,
Quo patre sit natus, num ignota matre inhonestus,
Omnes mortales curare et quaerere cogit.
HOR., I Sat. vi. 34.

* * * * *

_From my own Apartment, April 26._

I have lately been looking over the many packets of letters which I have received from all quarters of Great Britain, as well as from foreign countries, since my entering upon the office of Censor, and indeed am very much surprised to see so great a number of them, and pleased to think that I have so far increased the revenue of the Post Office. As this collection will grow daily, I have digested it into several bundles, and made proper endorsements on each particular letter, it being my design, when I lay down the work that I am now engaged in, to erect a Paper Office, and give it to the public.[234]

I could not but make several observations upon reading over the letters of my correspondents: as first of all, on the different tastes that reign in the different parts of this city. I find, by the approbations which are given me, that I am seldom famous on the same days on both sides of Temple Bar; and that when I am in the greatest repute within the Liberties, I dwindle at the court end of the town. Sometimes I sink in both these places at the same time; but for my comfort, my name has then been up in the districts of Wapping and Rotherhithe. Some of my correspondents desire me to be always serious, and others to be always merry. Some of them entreat me to go to bed and fall into a dream, and like me better when I am asleep than when I am awake: others advise me to sit all night upon the stars, and be more frequent in my astrological observations; for that a vision is not properly a lucubration. Some of my readers thank me for filling my paper with the flowers of antiquity, others desire news from Flanders. Some approve my criticisms on the dead, and others my censures on the living. For this reason, I once resolved in the new edition of my works, to range my several papers under distinct heads, according as their principal design was to benefit and instruct the different capacities of my readers, and to follow the example of some very great authors, by writing at the head of each discourse, "Ad Aulam," "Ad Academiam," "Ad Populum," "Ad Clerum."

There is no particular in which my correspondents of all ages, conditions, sexes, and complexions, universally agree, except only in their thirst after scandal. It is impossible to conceive how many have recommended their neighbours to me upon this account, or how unmercifully I have been abused by several unknown hands, for not publishing the secret histories of cuckoldom that I have received from almost every street in town.

It would indeed be very dangerous for me to read over the many praises and eulogiums which come post to me from all the corners of the nation, were they not mixed with many checks, reprimands, scurrilities, and reproaches, which several of my good-natured countrymen cannot forbear sending me, though it often costs them twopence or a groat before they can convey them to my hands:[235] so that sometimes when I am put into the best humour in the world, after having read a panegyric upon my performance, and looked upon myself as a benefactor to the British nation, the next letter perhaps I open, begins with, "You old doting scoundrel;" "Are not you a sad dog?" "Sirrah, you deserve to have your nose slit;" and the like ingenious conceits. These little mortifications are necessary to surpass that pride and vanity which naturally arise in the mind of a received author, and enable me to bear the reputation which my courteous readers bestow upon me, without becoming a coxcomb by it. It was for the same reason, that when a Roman general entered the city in the pomp of a triumph, the commonwealth allowed of several little drawbacks to his reputation, by conniving at such of the rabble as repeated libels and lampoons upon him within his hearing, and by that means engaged his thoughts upon his weakness and imperfections, as well as on the merits that advanced him to so great honours. The conqueror however was not the less esteemed for being a man in some particulars, because he appeared as a god in others.

There is another circumstance in which my countrymen have dealt very perversely with me; and that is, in searching not only into my own life, but also into the lives of my ancestors. If there has been a blot in my family for these ten generations, it has been discovered by some or other of my correspondents. In short, I find the ancient family of the Bickerstaffs has suffered very much through the malice and prejudice of my enemies. Some of them twit me in the teeth with the conduct of my Aunt Margery:[236] nay, there are some who have been so disingenuous, as to throw Maud the Milkmaid[237] into my dish, notwithstanding I myself was the first who discovered that alliance. I reap however many benefits from the malice of these my enemies, as they let me see my own faults, and give me a view of myself in the worst light; as they hinder me from being blown up by flattery and self-conceit; as they make me keep a watchful eye over my own actions, and at the same time make me cautious how I talk of others, and particularly of my friends and relations, or value myself upon the antiquity of my family.

But the most formidable part of my correspondents are those whose letters are filled with threats and menaces. I have been treated so often after this manner, that not thinking it sufficient to fence well, in which I am now arrived at the utmost perfection,[238] and carry pistols about me, which I have always tucked within my girdle; I several months since made my will, settled my estate, and took leave of my friends, looking upon myself as no better than a dead man. Nay, I went so far as to write a long letter to the most intimate acquaintance I have in the world, under the character of a departed person, giving him an account of what brought me to that untimely end, and of the fortitude with which I met it. This letter being too long for the present paper, I intend to print it by itself very suddenly; and at the same time I must confess, I took my hint of it from the behaviour of an old soldier in the Civil Wars, who was corporal of a company in a regiment of foot, about the same time that I myself was a cadet in the King's army.

This gentleman was taken by the enemy; and the two parties were upon such terms at that time, that we did not treat each other as prisoners of war, but as traitors and rebels. The poor corporal being condemned to die, wrote a letter to his wife when under sentence of execution. He writ on the Thursday, and was to be executed on the Friday: but considering that the letter would not come to his wife's hands till Saturday, the day after execution, and being at that time more scrupulous than ordinary in speaking exact truth, he formed his letter rather according to the posture of his affairs when she should read it, than as they stood when he sent it; though it must be confessed, there is a certain perplexity in the style of it, which the reader will easily pardon, considering his circumstances:

"DEAR WIFE,

"Hoping you are in good health, as I am at this present writing,
this is to let you know, that yesterday, between the hours of
eleven and twelve, I was hanged, drawn and quartered. I died very
penitently, and everybody thought my case very hard. Remember me
kindly to my poor fatherless children.

"Yours till death,
"W. B."

It so happened, that this honest fellow was relieved by a party of his friends, and had the satisfaction to see all the rebels hanged who had been his enemies. I must not omit a circumstance which exposed him to raillery his whole life after. Before the arrival of the next post, that would have set all things clear, his wife was married to a second husband, who lived in the peaceful possession of her; and the corporal, who was a man of plain understanding, did not care to stir in the matter, as knowing that she had the news of his death under his own hand, which she might have produced upon occasion.

[Footnote 234: This idea was carried out in 1725, when Charles Lillie published, by Steele's permission, two volumes of "Original and genuine Letters sent to the _Tatler_ and _Spectator_, during the time those works were publishing. None of which have been before printed." See No. 110.]

[Footnote 235: See Nos. 117, 186, Advertisements.]

[Footnote 236: See No. 151.]

[Footnote 237: See No. 75.]

[Footnote 238: It would hardly be possible for a man of Bickerstaff's age to acquire perfection in fencing after only a few months' practice. See No. 173: "I first began to learn to push this last winter."]

No. 165. [ADDISON.

From _Thursday, April 27_, to _Saturday, April 29, 1710_.

* * * * *

_From my own Apartment, April 28._

It has always been my endeavour to distinguish between realities and appearances, and to separate true merit from the pretence to it. As it shall ever be my study to make discoveries of this nature in human life, and to settle the proper distinctions between the virtues and perfections of mankind, and those false colours and resemblances of them that shine alike in the eyes of the vulgar; so I shall be more particularly careful to search into the various merits and pretences of the learned world. This is the more necessary, because there seems to be a general combination among the pedants to extol one another's labours, and cry up one another's parts; while men of sense, either through that modesty which is natural to them, or the scorn they have for such trifling commendations, enjoy their stock of knowledge like a hidden treasure, with satisfaction and silence. Pedantry indeed in learning is like hypocrisy in religion, a form of knowledge without the power of it, that attracts the eyes of the common people, breaks out in noise and show, and finds its reward not from any inward pleasure that attends it, but from the praises and approbations which it receives from men.

Of this shallow species there is not a more importunate, empty, and conceited animal, than that which is generally known by the name of a critic. This, in the common acceptation of the word, is one that, without entering into the sense and soul of an author, has a few general rules, which, like mechanical instruments, he applies to the works of every writer, and as they quadrate with them, pronounces the author perfect or defective. He is master of a certain set of words, as "unity, style, fire, phlegm, easy, natural, turn, sentiment," and the like; which he varies, compounds, divides, and throws together, in every part of his discourse, without any thought or meaning. The marks you may know him by are, an elevated eye, and dogmatical brow, a positive voice, and a contempt for everything that comes out, whether he has read it or not. He dwells altogether in generals. He praises or dispraises in the lump. He shakes his head very frequently at the pedantry of Universities, and bursts into laughter when you mention an author that is not known at Will's. He has formed his judgment upon Homer, Horace, and Virgil, not from their own works, but from those of Rapin and Bossu. He knows his own strength so well, that he never dares praise anything in which he has not a French author for his voucher.

With these extraordinary talents and accomplishments, Sir Timothy Tittle[239] puts men in vogue, or condemns them to obscurity, and sits as judge of life and death upon every author that appears in public. It is impossible to represent the pangs, agonies, and convulsions which Sir Timothy expresses in every feature of his face, and muscle of his body, upon the reading of a bad poet.

About a week ago I was engaged at a friend's of mine in an agreeable conversation with his wife and daughters, when in the height of our mirth, Sir Timothy, who makes love to my friend's eldest daughter, came in amongst us puffing and blowing as if he had been very much out of breath. He immediately called for a chair, and desired leave to sit down, without any further ceremony. I asked him where he had been? whether he was out of order? He only replied, that he was quite spent, and fell a-cursing in soliloquy. I could hear him cry, "A wicked rogue;" "An execrable wretch;" "Was there ever such a monster?" The young ladies upon this began to be affrighted, and asked whether any one had hurt him? He answered nothing, but still talked to himself. "To lay the first scene," says he, "in St. James's Park, and the last in Northamptonshire." "Is that all?" says I. "Then I suppose you have been at the rehearsal of a play this morning?" "Been!" says he; "I have been at Northampton, in the Park, in a lady's bed-chamber, in a dining-room, everywhere; the rogue has led me such a dance." Though I could scarce forbear laughing at his discourse, I told him I was glad it was no worse, and that he was only metaphorically weary. "In short, sir," says he, "the author has not observed a single unity in his whole play; the scene shifts in every dialogue; the villain has hurried me up and down at such a rate, that I am tired off my legs." I could not but observe with some pleasure, that the young lady whom he made love to conceived a very just aversion to him, upon seeing him so very passionate in trifles. And as she had that natural sense which makes her a better judge than a thousand critics, she began to rally him upon this foolish humour. "For my part," says she, "I never knew a play take that was written up to your rules, as you call them." "How, madam!" says he; "is that your opinion? I am sure you have a better taste." "It is a pretty kind of magic," says she, "the poets have, to transport an audience from place to place without the help of a coach and horses. I could travel round the world at such a rate. 'Tis such an entertainment as an enchantress finds when she fancies herself in a wood, or upon a mountain, at a feast, or a solemnity; though at the same time she has never stirred out of her cottage." "Your simile, madam," says Sir Timothy, "is by no means just." "Pray," says she, "let my similes pass without a criticism. I must confess," continued she (for I found she was resolved to exasperate him), "I laughed very heartily at the last new comedy which you found so much fault with." "But, madam," says he, "you ought not to have laughed; and I defy any one to show me a single rule that you could laugh by." "Ought not to laugh!" says she: "pray, who should hinder me?" "Madam," says he, "there are such people in the world as Rapin, Dacier, and several others, that ought to have spoiled your mirth." "I have heard," says the young lady, "that your great critics are always very bad poets: I fancy there is as much difference between the works of one and the other, as there is between the carriage of a dancing-master and a gentleman. I must confess," continued she, "I would not be troubled with so fine a judgment as yours is; for I find you feel more vexation in a bad comedy than I do in a deep tragedy." "Madam," says Sir Timothy, "that is not my fault; they should learn the art of writing." "For my part," says the young lady, "I should think the greatest art in your writers of comedies is to please." "To please!" says Sir Timothy; and immediately fell a-laughing. "Truly," says she, "that is my opinion." Upon this, he composed his countenance, looked upon his watch, and took his leave.

I hear that Sir Timothy has not been at my friend's house since this notable conference, to the great satisfaction of the young lady, who by this means has got rid of a very impertinent fop.

I must confess, I could not but observe, with a great deal of surprise, how this gentleman, by his ill-nature, folly, and affectation, has made himself capable of suffering so many imaginary pains, and looking with such a senseless severity upon the common diversions of life.

[Footnote 239: Perhaps Henry Cromwell; see Nos. 47, 49, 163.]

No. 166. [STEELE.

From _Saturday, April 29_, to _Tuesday, May 2, 1710_.

----Dicenda tacenda loquutus.--HOR., I Ep. vii. 72.

* * * * *

_White's Chocolate-house, May 1._

The world is so overgrown with singularities in behaviour, and method of living, that I have no sooner laid before mankind the absurdity of one species of men, but there starts up to my view some new sect of impertinents that had before escaped notice. This afternoon, as I was talking with fine Mrs. Sprightly's porter, and desiring admittance upon an extraordinary occasion, it was my fate to be spied by Tom Modely riding by in his chariot. He did me the honour to stop, and asked what I did there of a Monday? I answered that I had business of importance, which I wanted to communicate to the lady of the house. Tom is one of those fools who look upon knowledge of the fashion to be the only liberal science; and was so rough as to tell me, that a well-bred man would as soon call upon a lady (who keeps a day) at midnight, as on any day but that on which she professes being at home. There are rules and decorums which are never to be transgressed by those who understand the world; and he who offends in this kind, ought not to take it ill if he is turned away, even when he sees the person look out at her window whom he inquires for. "Nay," said he, "my Lady Dimple is so positive in this rule, that she takes it for a piece of good breeding and distinction to deny herself with her own mouth. Mrs. Comma,[240] the great scholar, insists upon it; and I myself have heard her assert, that a lord's porter, or a lady's woman, cannot be said to lie in that case, because they act by instruction; and their words are no more their own, than those of a puppet."

He was going on with this ribaldry, when on a sudden he looked on his watch, and said, he had twenty visits to make, and drove away without further ceremony. I was then at leisure to reflect upon the tasteless manner of life, which a set of idle fellows lead in this town, and spend youth itself with less spirit, than other men do their old age. These expletives in human society, though they are in themselves wholly insignificant, become of some consideration when they are mixed with others. I am very much at a loss how to define, or under what character, distinction, or denomination, to place them, except you give me leave to call them the Order of the Insipids. This order is in its extent like that of the Jesuits, and you see of them in every way of life, and in every profession. Tom Modely has long appeared to me at the head of this species. By being habitually in the best company, he knows perfectly well when a coat is well cut, or a periwig well mounted.[241] As soon as you enter the place where he is, he tells the next man to him who is your tailor, and judges of you more from the choice of your periwig-maker than of your friend. His business in this world is to be well dressed; and the greatest circumstance that is to be recorded in his annals is, that he wears twenty shirts a week. Thus, without ever speaking reason among the men, or passion among the women, he is everywhere well received; and without any one man's esteem, he has every man's indulgence.

This order has produced great numbers of tolerable copiers in painting, good rhymers in poetry, and harmless projectors in politics. You may see them at first sight grow acquainted by sympathy, insomuch that one who had not studied nature, and did not know the true cause of their sudden familiarities, would think that they had some secret intimation of each other, like the freemasons. The other day at Will's I heard Modely, and a critic of the same order, show their equal talents with great delight. The learned insipid was commending Racine's turns; the genteel insipid, Devillier's curls.[242]

These creatures, when they are not forced into any particular employment, for want of ideas in their own imaginations, are the constant plague of all they meet with by inquiries for news and scandal, which makes them the heroes of visiting-days, where they help the design of the meeting, which is to pass away that odious thing called Time, in discourses too trivial to raise any reflections which may put well-bred persons to the trouble of thinking.

_From my own Apartment, May 1._

I was looking out of my parlour window this morning,[243] and receiving the honours which Margery, the milkmaid to our lane, was doing me, by dancing before my door with the plate of half her customers on her head, when Mr. Clayton,[244] the author of "Arsinoe," made me a visit, and desired me to insert the following advertisement in my ensuing paper:

The Pastoral Masque composed by Mr. Clayton, author of "Arsinoe,"
will be performed on Wednesday the 3rd instant, in the great room
at York Buildings.[245] Tickets are to be had at White's
Chocolate-house, St. James's Coffee-house in St. James's Street,
and Young Man's Coffee-house.[246]

Note. The tickets delivered out for the 27th of April will be
taken then.

When I granted his request, I made one to him, which was, that the performers should put their instruments in tune before the audience came in; for that I thought the resentment of the Eastern Prince, who, according to the old story, took "tuning" for "playing," to be very just and natural. He was so civil, as not only to promise that favour, but also to assure me, that he would order the heels of the performers to be muffled in cotton, that the artists in so polite an age as ours, may not intermix with their harmony a custom which so nearly resembles the stamping dances of the West Indians or Hottentots.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

A Bass-viol of Mr. Bickerstaff's acquaintance, whose mind and fortune do not very exactly agree, proposes to set himself to sale by way of lottery.[247] Ten thousand pounds is the sum to be raised, at threepence a ticket, in consideration that there are more women who are willing to be married than that can spare a greater sum. He has already made over his person to trustees for the said money to be forthcoming, and ready to take to wife the fortunate woman that wins him.

N.B. Tickets are given out by Mr. Charles Lillie, and Mr. John Morphew. Each adventurer must be a virgin, and subscribe her name to her ticket.[248]

* * * * *

Whereas the several churchwardens of most of the parishes within the bills of mortality, have in an earnest manner applied themselves by way of petition, and have also made a presentment of the vain and loose deportment during divine service, of persons of too great figure in all their said parishes for their reproof: And whereas it is therein set forth, that by salutations given each other, hints, shrugs, ogles, playing of fans, and fooling with canes at their mouths, and other wanton gesticulations, their whole congregation appears rather a theatrical audience, than a house of devotion: It is hereby ordered, that all canes, cravats, bosom-laces, muffs, fans, snuff-boxes, and all other instruments made use of to give persons unbecoming airs, shall be immediately forfeited and sold; and of the sum arising from the sale thereof, a ninth part shall be paid to the poor, and the rest to the overseers.[249]

[Footnote 240: "I have been informed by a relation of hers, that when Mrs. Mary Astell has accidentally seen needless visitors coming, whom she knew to be incapable of discoursing upon any useful subject, she would look out of the window, and jestingly tell them (as Cato did Nasica), 'Mrs. Astell is not at home'; and in good earnest keep them out, not suffering such triflers to make inroads upon her more serious hours" (Ballard's "Memoirs of British Learned Ladies," 1775, p. 309). For Swift's attacks on Mary Astell, see Nos. 32, 63.]

[Footnote 241: "Monter une perruque" is a French barber's phrase.]

[Footnote 242: See Nos. 26, 29. Duvillier or Devillier was a hairdresser.]

[Footnote 243: May Day. In the _Spectator_ (No. 365) Budgell says: "It is likewise on the first day of this month that we see the ruddy milkmaid exerting herself in a most sprightly manner under a pyramid of silver tankards, and like the virgin Tarpeia, oppressed by the costly ornaments which her benefactors lay upon her." Similarly, Misson ("Travels in England," p. 307) says: "On the first of May, and the five or six days following, all the pretty young country girls that serve the town with milk, dress themselves up very neatly, and borrow abundance of silver plate, whereof they make a pyramid, which they adorn with ribands and flowers, and carry upon their heads, instead of their common milkpails. In this equipage, accompanied by some of their fellow milkmaids, and a bagpipe and fiddle, they go from door to door, dancing before the houses of their customers."]

[Footnote 244: "There is a Pastoral Masque to be performed on the 27th inst., in York Buildings, for the benefit of Mr. Clayton, and composed by him. This gentleman is the person who introduced the Italian opera into Great Britain, and hopes he has pretensions to the favour of all lovers of music, who can get over the prejudice of his being their countryman" (_Tatler_, original folio, No. 163).

Thomas Clayton, in association with Haym and Dieuport, began a series of operatic performances at Drury Lane Theatre in 1705, commencing with "Arsinoe," which was a success. In 1707 he produced a setting of Addison's "Rosamond," but it was played only three times. The opera performances were continued until 1711, after which Clayton gave concerts in York Buildings (see _Spectator_, No. 258). He died about 1730.]

[Footnote 245: In the Strand. In 1713 Steele started a scheme for "a noble entertainment for persons of refined taste," in York Buildings.]

[Footnote 246: At Charing Cross, with a back door into Spring Gardens.]

[Footnote 247: See Nos. 153, 157, 168.]

[Footnote 248: In the _Daily Courant_ for Aug. 18, 1710, there was advertised as just published a pamphlet called "A Good Husband for Five Shillings; or, Esquire Bickerstaff's Lottery for the London Ladies. Wherein those that want bedfellows, in an honest way, will have a fair chance to be well fitted." It was complained that husbands were scarce through the war. The title exhausts all that is of interest in the pamphlet, with the exception of the frontispiece, which represents a room in which a lottery is being drawn, with two wheels of fortune, &c.]

[Footnote 249: Nichols notes that a correction in this number, intimated in the following paper, was actually made in a copy before him, and concluded that there was sometimes more than one impression of the original folio issue. This was certainly the case. There is a set of the _Tatlers_ in folio in the British Museum (press-mark 628 m 13) in which many of the numbers are set up somewhat differently from the ordinary issue (Nos. 4, 28, 29, 30, &c.). Sometimes there is a line more or less in a column; sometimes slightly different type is used in one or two advertisements.]

No. 167. [STEELE.

From _Tuesday, May 2_, to _Thursday, May 4, 1710_.

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem,
Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus----
HOR., Ars Poet. 180.

* * * * *

_From my own Apartment, May 2._

Having received notice, that the famous actor Mr. Betterton[250] was to be interred this evening in the cloisters near Westminster Abbey, I was resolved to walk thither, and see the last office done to a man whom I had always very much admired, and from whose action I had received more strong impressions of what is great and noble in human nature, than from the arguments of the most solid philosophers, or the descriptions of the most charming poets I had ever read. As the rude and untaught multitude are no way wrought upon more effectually than by seeing public punishments and executions, so men of letters and education feel their humanity most forcibly exercised, when they attend the obsequies of men who had arrived at any perfection in liberal accomplishments. Theatrical action is to be esteemed as such, except it be objected, that we cannot call that an art which cannot be attained by art. Voice, stature, motion, and other gifts, must be very bountifully bestowed by Nature, or labour and industry will but push the unhappy endeavourer, in that way, the further off his wishes.

Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be recorded with the same respect as Roscius among the Romans. The greatest orator[251] has thought fit to quote his judgment, and celebrate his life. Roscius was the example to all that would form themselves into proper and winning behaviour. His action was so well adapted to the sentiments he expressed, that the youth of Rome thought they wanted only to be virtuous to be as graceful in their appearance as Roscius. The imagination took a lively impression of what was great and good; and they who never thought of setting up for the arts of imitation, became themselves imitable characters.

There is no human invention so aptly calculated for the forming a free-born people as that of a theatre. Tully reports that the celebrated player of whom I am speaking used frequently to say, "The perfection of an actor is only to become what he is doing." Young men, who are too unattentive to receive lectures, are irresistibly taken with performances. Hence it is, that I extremely lament the little relish the gentry of this nation have at present for the just and noble representations in some of our tragedies. The operas which are of late introduced can leave no trace behind them that can be of service beyond the present moment. To sing and to dance are accomplishments very few have any thoughts of practising; but to speak justly, and move gracefully, is what every man thinks he does perform, or wishes he did.

I have hardly a notion, that any performer of antiquity could surpass the action of Mr. Betterton in any of the occasions in which he has appeared on our stage. The wonderful agony which he appeared in, when he examined the circumstance of the handkerchief in "Othello"; the mixture of love that intruded upon his mind upon the innocent answers Desdemona makes, betrayed in his gesture such a variety and vicissitude of passions, as would admonish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and perfectly convince him, that it is to stab it to admit that worst of daggers, jealousy. Whoever reads in his closet this admirable scene, will find that he cannot, except he has as warm an imagination as Shakespeare himself, find any but dry, incoherent, and broken sentences: but a reader that has seen Betterton act it, observes there could not be a word added; that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay impossible, in Othello's circumstances. The charming passage in the same tragedy, where he tells the manner of winning the affection of his mistress, was urged with so moving and graceful an energy, that while I walked in the cloisters, I thought of him with the same concern as if I waited for the remains of a person who had in real life done all that I had seen him represent. The gloom of the place, and faint lights before the ceremony appeared, contributed to the melancholy disposition I was in; and I began to be extremely afflicted, that Brutus and Cassius had any difference; that Hotspur's gallantry was so unfortunate; and that the mirth and good humour of Falstaff could not exempt him from the grave. Nay, this occasion in me, who look upon the distinctions amongst men to be merely scenical, raised reflections upon the emptiness of all human perfection and greatness in general; and I could not but regret, that the sacred heads which lie buried in the neighbourhood of this little portion of earth in which my poor old friend is deposited, are returned to dust as well as he, and that there is no difference in the grave between the imaginary and the real monarch. This made me say of human life itself with Macbeth:

"_To-morrow, to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day,
To the last moment of recorded time!
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
To their eternal night! Out, out short candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more._"[252]

The mention I have here made of Mr. Betterton, for whom I had, as long as I have known anything, a very great esteem and gratitude for the pleasure he gave me, can do him no good; but it may possibly be of service to the unhappy woman he has left behind him,[253] to have it known, that this great tragedian was never in a scene half so moving as the circumstances of his affairs created at his departure. His wife, after the cohabitation of forty years in the strictest amity, has long pined away with a sense of his decay, as well in his person as his little fortune; and in proportion to that, she has herself decayed both in her health and her reason. Her husband's death, added to her age and infirmities, would certainly have determined her life, but that the greatness of her distress has been her relief, by a present deprivation of her senses. This absence of reason is her best defence against age, sorrow, poverty, and sickness. I dwell upon this account so distinctly, in obedience to a certain great spirit[254] who hides her name, and has by letter applied to me to recommend to her some object of compassion, from whom she may be concealed.

This, I think, is a proper occasion for exerting such heroic generosity; and as there is an ingenuous shame in those who have known better fortune to be reduced to receive obligations, as well as a becoming pain in the truly generous to receive thanks in this case, both those delicacies are preserved; for the person obliged is as incapable of knowing her benefactress, as her benefactress is unwilling to be known by her.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Whereas it has been signified to the Censor, that under the pretence that he has encouraged the Moving Picture,[255] and particularly admired the Walking Statue, some persons within the Liberties of Westminster have vended Walking Pictures, insomuch that the said pictures have within few days after sales by auction returned to the habitation of their first proprietors; that matter has been narrowly looked into, and orders are given to Pacolet to take notice of all who are concerned in such frauds, with directions to draw their pictures, that they may be hanged in effigy, _in terrorem_ of all auctions for the future.

[Footnote 250: See Nos. 1, 71, 157. On the 25th of April 1710, there was given for Betterton's benefit, "The Maid's Tragedy" of Beaumont and Fletcher, in which he himself performed his celebrated part of Melantius. This, however, was the last time he was to appear on the stage, for, having been suddenly seized with the gout, and being impatient at the thought of disappointing his friends, he made use of outward applications to reduce the swellings of his feet, which enabled him to walk on the stage, though obliged to have his foot in a slipper. But the fomentations he had used occasioning a revulsion of the gouty humour to the nobler parts, threw the distemper up into his head, and terminated his life on the 28th of April. On the 2nd of May his body was interred with much ceremony in the cloister of Westminster.--"This day is published, 'The Life of Mr. Thomas Betterton'" (_Postboy_, Sept. 16 to 19, 1710). This book, attributed to Gildon, is dedicated to Richard Steele, Esq. "I have chosen," says the author, "to address this discourse to you, because the Art of which it treats is of your familiar acquaintance, and the graces of action and utterance come naturally under the consideration of a dramatic writer."]

[Footnote 251: Cicero.]

[Footnote 252: "Macbeth," act v. sc. 5, quoted inaccurately by Steele.]

[Footnote 253: Betterton married, in 1662, Maria Saunderson, an actress who seems to have been as good as she was clever. She lost her reason after the death of her husband, but recovered it before her death at the end of 1711. By her will she bequeathed to Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Barry, Mr. Doggett, Mr. Wilks, and Mr. Dent, twenty shillings a piece for rings; and her husband's picture to Mrs. Anne Stevenson, whom she appointed her residuary legatee.]

[Footnote 254: Possibly Lady Elizabeth Hastings (see Nos. 42, 49), or perhaps Queen Anne, though it is not likely that she consulted Steele by letter on the subject. The Queen gave Mrs. Betterton a pension on the death of her husband, "but," says Cibber, "she lived not to receive more than the first half year of it."]

[Footnote 255: See No. 129.]

No. 168. [STEELE.

From _Thursday, May 4_, to _Saturday, May 6, 1710_.

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_From my own Apartment, May 5._

Never was man so much teased, or suffered half the uneasiness, as I have done this evening, between a couple of fellows with whom I was unfortunately engaged to sup, where there were also several others in company. One of them is the most invincibly impudent, and the other as incorrigibly absurd. Upon hearing my name, the man of audacity, as he calls himself, began to assume an awkward way of reserve, by way of ridicule upon me as a Censor, and said, he must have a care of his behaviour, for there would notes be writ upon all that should pass. The man of freedom and ease (for such the other thinks himself) asked me, whether my sister Jenny was breeding or not? After they had done with me, they were impertinent to a very smart, but well-bred man, who stood his ground very well, and let the company see they ought, but could not be out of countenance. I look upon such a defence as a real good action; for while he received their fire, there was a modest and worthy young gentleman sat secure by him, and a lady of the family at the same time, guarded against the nauseous familiarity of the one, and the more painful mirth of the other. This conversation, where there were a thousand things said not worth repeating, made me consider with myself, how it is that men of these disagreeable characters often go great lengths in the world, and seldom fail of outstripping men of merit; nay, succeed so well, that with a load of imperfections on their heads, they go on in opposition to general disesteem, while they who are every way their superiors, languish away their days, though possessed of the approbation and goodwill of all who know them.

If we would examine into the secret spring of action in the impudent and the absurd, we shall find, though they bear a great resemblance in their behaviour, that they move upon very different principles. The impudent are pressing, though they know they are disagreeable; the absurd are importunate, because they think they are acceptable. Impudence is a vice, and absurdity a folly. Sir Francis Bacon talks very agreeably upon the subject of impudence.[256] He takes notice, that the orator being asked, what was the first, second, and third requisite, to make a fine speaker, still answered, "Action." This, said he, is the very outward form of speaking, and yet it is what with the generality has more force than the most consummate abilities. Impudence is to the rest of mankind of the same use which action is to orators.

The truth is, the gross of men are governed more by appearances than realities, and the impudent man in his air and behaviour undertakes for himself that he has ability and merit, while the modest or diffident gives himself up as one who is possessed of neither. For this reason, men of front carry things before them with little opposition, and make so skilful a use of their talent, that they can grow out of humour like men of consequence, and be sour, and make their satisfaction do them the same service as desert. This way of thinking has often furnished me with an apology for great men who confer favours on the impudent. In carrying on the government of mankind, they are not to consider what men they themselves approve in their closets and private conversations, but what men will extend themselves furthest, and more generally pass upon the world for such as their patrons want in such and such stations, and consequently take so much work off the hands of those who employ them.

Far be it that I should attempt to lessen the acceptance which men of this character meet with in the world; but I humbly propose only, that they who have merit of a different kind, would accomplish themselves in some degree with this quality of which I am now treating. Nay, I allow these gentlemen to press as forward as they please in the advancement of their interests and fortunes, but not to intrude upon others in conversation also: let them do what they can with the rich and the great, as far as they are suffered, but let them not interrupt the easy and agreeable. They may be useful as servants in ambition, but never as associates in pleasure. However, as I would still drive at something instructive in every Lucubration, I must recommend it to all men who feel in themselves an impulse towards attempting laudable actions, to acquire such a degree of assurance, as never to lose the possession of themselves in public or private, so far as to be incapable of acting with a due decorum on any occasion they are called to. It is a mean want of fortitude in a good man, not to be able to do a virtuous action with as much confidence as an impudent fellow does an ill one. There is no way of mending such false modesty, but by laying it down for a rule, that there is nothing shameful but what is criminal.

The Jesuits, an order whose institution is perfectly calculated for making a progress in the world, take care to accomplish their disciples for it, by breaking them of all impertinent bashfulness, and accustoming then to a ready performance of all indifferent things. I remember in my travels, when I was once at a public exercise in one of their schools, a young man made a most admirable speech, with all the beauty of action, cadence of voice, and force of argument imaginable, in defence of the love of glory. We were all enamoured with the grace of the youth, as he came down from the desk where he spoke to present a copy of his speech to the head of the society. The principal received it in a very obliging manner, and bid him go to the market-place and fetch a joint of meat, for he should dine with him. He bowed, and in a trice the orator returned, full of the sense of glory in this obedience, and with the best shoulder of mutton in the market.

This treatment capacitates them for every scene of life. I therefore recommend it to the consideration of all who have the instruction of youth, which of the two is the most inexcusable, he who does everything by the mere force of his impudence, or who performs nothing through the oppression of his modesty? In a word, it is a weakness not to be able to attempt what a man thinks he ought, and there is no modesty but in self-denial.

P.S. Upon my coming home I received the following petition and letter:

"The humble petition of Sarah Lately:
"SHEWETH,

"That your petitioner has been one of those ladies who has had fine
things constantly spoken to her in general terms, and lived, during
her most blooming years, in daily expectation of declarations of
marriage, but never had one made to her.

"That she is now in her grand climacteric; which being above the
space of four virginities, accounting at 15 years each,

"Your petitioner most humbly prays, that in the lottery for the
Bass-viol[257] she may have four tickets, in consideration that her
single life has been occasioned by the inconstancy of her lovers,
and not through the cruelty or forwardness of your petitioner.

"And your Petitioner shall," &c.

"MR. BICKERSTAFF, "_May 3, 1710_.

"According to my fancy, you took a much better way to dispose of a
Bass-viol in yesterday's paper than you did in your table of
marriage.[258] I desire the benefit of a lottery for myself too----
The manner of it I leave to your own discretion: only if you
can----allow the tickets at above five farthings a piece. Pray
accept of one ticket for your trouble, and I wish you may be the
fortunate man that wins.

"Your very humble Servant till then,
"ISABELLA KIT."

I must own the request of the aged petitioner to be founded upon a very undeserved distress; and since she might, had she had justice done her, been mother of many pretenders to this prize, instead of being one herself, I do readily grant her demand; but as for the proposal of Mrs. Isabella Kit, I cannot project a lottery for her, until I have security she will surrender herself to the winner.

[Footnote 256: Essay xii., "Of Boldness."]

[Footnote 257: See No. 166.]

[Footnote 258: See Nos. 157, 160.]

No. 169. [STEELE.

From _Saturday, May 6_, to _Tuesday, May 9, 1710_.

O rus! Quando ego te aspiciam? quandoque licebit
Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno, et inertibus horis,
Ducere sollicitae jucunda oblivia vitae?
HOR., 2 Sat. vi. 60.

* * * * *

_From my own Apartment, May 8._