ADDISON S: ESSAYS.

FROM THE

Ss PECTA‘PEOR.

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LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, PICCADILLY.

 

M DCCC XXX.CHISWICK ¢
PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM.Ei.

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. Variety of Female Orators

YOE- i:

Laughter and Ridicule ..
Ambition and Fame

Love and Marriage

Female Headdress .
Visit from Sir Roger
Dissection of a Beau’s Head
Dissection of a Coquette’s Heart
On the British Constitution
The Bills of Mortality 2.03.5;
Prudence and good Fortune
On-Pimmoney: 4.010
Miseries of unequal Marriage
Sir Roger at Westminster Abbey

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CONTENTS.

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Disadvantages of: Ambition... 24.
. Ambition and Futurity

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Catttion an. Writing 7697. 9 is

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esreovrer eevee. Hypocrisy in its Varieties

- English Oratory

. The new Stamp
3. Degeneracy of the Stage
. Influence of Custom

. On True and False Modesty
. On Faith and Practice
. Wisdom and Riches.

. Mediocrity of Fortune
. Faith and Devotion

CONTENTS.

Sir Roger at the Theatre
‘Transmigration of Souls
Consolation in Death

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Industry encouraged by Printing
Jocular Selection of Company
Cheerfulnessvanud Worthis 02503. .-.....2-5
Sir Roger at Spring Gardens
Motives:to Cheerfulnesseeive.s.. 6... sae
Ancient Fables on Prayers
Reflections on Spring
On Compassion

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Coffee-house Politicians
On Sacred Music

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Characteristics of Taste
Sociability of the Sexes
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Reliance on the Supreme Being

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AED;
. The present Life preparatory

    
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 

CONTENTS.

Method in Writing and Conversation ...... 499
On attributing Misfortune to Judgment .... 202

On Dreams

Bier oh vise Sieiewtee se cts ie ee 206
On the Wonders of the Deepissack i Ree 210
On Religious Melancholy ................ 213
Dispersion of theJewss 3. -.. 4d 3h oR 217
Siege. of Hensbiugesewss oo) le etiaee. 220
Defence: of the Married: ite, ..° siveae! A. 224.
On, Party Liés....s.> aa me ee Ue
Will Honeycomb’s Proposal: 4s 3524) 7.0 72. 2351
On. giving Advice,» :..0aesey gel eae Uae 234
Meditation on Dost: 5 ag thee cet i 257
Death of Sie Rovers saev ieee ed 241
On Animal bite’ see, ss ee 245
Precedence amoup Authors () 72... 22 7 = 250
Marriage of Will Honeycomb............. 253
Idea of the Supreme Beme’.,. ..-4.....-.. 255
Vanity of Wz pectations, a... 259
Extravagance of Storytelling ............, 263
Criticisms, on. the Speetator . oc .4 esc 7 ee 268
Meditation on the Human Frame .......... 271
Reluctance to leave the World............ 276
The Dignity of Human Nature ............ 279
The Mountain of Miseries. A Dream ..... 283
TheSuibject concluded ss. 5... 3.66 285
Osi ee gUsig icin ca st oe hoe Se oe 289
The Immensity of the Supreme Being ...... 299
Affectation of Secrecy in Writers .......... 297
Coffee-house Conversation................ 299
On Dronkenness. i ss eile oct cin tere a 303
The Protection.of the Deity . 2... 7 Wiring. «..: 305
Adyantages.of Content wre snc ieee Ja ee * 310

  

Vll

Page

Beownanrteov, uesCONTENTS.

. On Singularity
On Adultery ...
. On the Glory of Heaven
On the Contagion of Writing ....
On Planting
Story of Hilpa
The Sequel of the Story of Hilpa ...
On Eternity
On Dramatic Criticism ..
The Merry and the Serious
On future Happiness ......ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

 

 

92. THE ABSENCE OF LOVERS.
“MR. SPECTATOR,

‘'Tuovuca you have considered virtuous love in most
of its distresses, I do not remember that you have
given us any dissertation upon the absence of lovers,
or laid down any methods how they should support
themselves under those long separations which they
are sometimes forced to undergo. I am at present in
this unhappy circumstance, having parted with the
best of husbands, who is abroad in the service of his
country, and may not possibly return for some years.
His warm and generous affection while we were to-
gether, with the tenderness which he expressed to me
at parting, make his absence almost insupportable. I
think of him every moment of the day, and meet him
every night in my dreams. Every thing I see puts
me in mind of him. I apply myself with more than
ordinary diligence to the care of his family and his
estate ; but this, instead of relieving me, gives me but
SO many occasions of wishing for his. return. I fre-
quent the rooms where I used to converse with him,
and, not meeting him there, sit down in his chair and
falla weeping. I love to read the books he delighted
in, and to converse with the persons whom he esteem-
ed. I visit his picture a hundred times a day, and
place myself over against it whole hours together. -I
pass a great part of my time in the walks where [
used to lean upon his arm, and recollect in my mind
the discourses which have there passed between us:
VOI II. B2 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
I look over the several prospects and points of view
which we used to survey together; fix my eye upon
the objects which he has made me take notice of ;
and call to mind a thousand agreeable remarks which
he has made on those occasions. I write to him by
every conveyance, and, contrary to other people, am
always in good humour when an east wind blows, be-
cause it seldom fails of bringing me a letter from him.
Let me entreat you, sir, to give me your advice upon
this occasion, and to let me know how I may relieve
myself in this my widowhood,
‘T am, sir, your most humble servant,
‘ ASTERIA.’

Absence is what the poets call death in love, and
has given occasion to abundance of beautiful com-
plaints in those authors who have treated of this pas-
sion in verse. Ovid’s Epistles are full of them. Otway’s
Monimia talks very tenderly upon this subject:

— It was not kind
To leave me, like a turtle, here alone
To droop and mourn the absence of my mate.
When thou art from me every place is desert;
And I, methinks, am savage and forlorn.
Thy presence only ’tis can make me bless’d,
Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul.’

ORPHAN, Act li.

The consolations of lovers on these occasions are
very extraordinary. Besides those mentioned by As-
teria, there are many other motives of comfort which
are made use of by absent lovers.

I remember im one of Scudery’s romances, a couple
of honourable lovers agreed at their parting to set
aside one half hour in the day to think of each other
during a tedious absence. The romance tells us that
they both of them punctually observed the time thus
agreed upon; and that, whatever company or busi-
ness they were engaged in, they left it abruptly as soon
as the clock warned them to retire. The romance far-THE ABSENCE OF LOVERS. 3

vo
ther adds, that the lovers expected the return of this
stated hour with as much impatience as if it had been
a real assignation, and enjoyed an imaginary happi-
ness that was almost as pleasing to them as what they
would have found from a real meeting. It was an
inexpressible satisfaction to these divided lovers to be
assured that each was at the same time employed in
the same kind of contemplation, and making equal
returns of tenderness and affection,

If I may be allowed to mention a more serious
expedient for the alleviating of absence, I shall take
notice of one which I have known two persons prac-
tise, who joined religion to that elegance of sentiment
with which the passion of love generally inspires its
votarles: this was, at the return of such an hour, to
offer up a certain prayer for each other, which they
had agreed upon before their parting. The husband,
who is a man that makes a figure in the polite world,
as well as in his own family, has often told me that he
could not have Supported an absence of three years
without this expedient.

Strada, in one of his Prolusions, gives an account
ofa chimerical correspondence between two friends by
the help of a certain loadstone, which had such virtue
in it, that if it touched two several needles, when one
of the needles so touched began to move, the other,
though at never so great a distance, moved at the
same time, and in the same manner. He tells us,
that the two friends, being each of them possessed of
one of these needles, made a kind of dial-plate, in-
scribing it with the four and twenty letters, and in the
same manner as the hours of the day are marked upon
the ordinary dial-plate. They then fixed one of the
needles on each of these plates in such a manner that
it could move round without impediment so as to
touch any of the four and twenty letters. Upon their
separating from one another into distant countries,4 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

they agreed to withdraw themselves punctually into
their closets at a certain hour of the day, and to con-
verse with one another by means of this their inven-
tion. Accordingly, when they were some hundred
miles asunder, each of them shut himself up in his
closet at the time appointed, and immediately cast
his eye upon his dial-plate. If he had a mind to
write any thing to his friend, he directed his needle
to every letter that formed the words which he had
occasion for, making a little pause at the end of every
word or sentence, to avoid confusion. The friend in
the mean while saw his own sympathetic needle
moving of itself to every letter which that of his cor-
respondent pointed at. By this means they talked
together across a whole continent, and conveyed their
thoughts to one another in an instant over cities or
mountains, seas or deserts.

If Monsieur Scudery, or any other writer of ro-
mance, had introduced a necromancer, who is gene=
rally in the train of a knight-errant, making a present
to two lovers of a couple of those above mentioned
needles, the reader would not have been a little
pleased to have seen them corresponding with one
another when they were guarded by spies and watches,
or separated by castles and adventures.

In the mean while, if ever this invention should be
revived or put in practice, [ would propose, that upon
the lover’s. dial-plate there should be written not only
the four and twenty letters, but several entire words
which have always a place in passionate epistles, as
flames, darts, die, language, absence, Cupid, heart,
eyes, hang,.drown, and the like. This would very
nuch abridge the lover’s pains in this way of writing
a letter, as it would enable him to express the most
useful and significant words with a single touch of the
needle.93. THE LOVELINESS OF VIRTUE,
I-po not remember to have read any discourse writ-
ten expressly upon the beauty and loveliness of virtue,
without considering it as a duty, and as the means of
making us happy both now and hereafter. J design
therefore this speculation as an essay upon that sub-
ject ; in which I shall consider virtue no farther than
as it is in itself of an amiable nature ; after having
premised, that I understand by the word virtue such
a general notion as is affixed to it by the writers of
morality, and which by devout men generally goes
under the name of religion, and by men of the world
under the name of honour.

Hypocrisy itself does great honour, or rather jus-
tice to religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be an
ornament to human nature. The hypocrite would
not be at so much pains to put on the appearance of
virtue, if he did not know it was the most proper and
effectual means to gain the love and esteem of man-
kind.

We learn from Hierocles, it was a common saying
among the heathens, that the wise man hates nobody,
but only loves the virtuous.

Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to
show how amiable virtue is. ‘ We love a virtuous
man,’ says he, ‘ who lives in the remotest parts of the
earth, though we are altogether out of the reach of his
virtue, and can receive from it no manner of benefit.’
Nay, one who died several ages ago raises a secret
fondness and benevolence for him in our minds, when
we read his story: nay, what is still more, one who
has been the enemy of our country, provided his wars
were regulated by justice and humanity, as in the in-
stance of Pyrrhus, whom Tully mentions on this occa-
sion in opposition to Hannibal. Such is the natural
beauty and loveliness of virtue. i .
Stoicism, which was the pedantry of virtue, ascribesaA

6 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

all good qualifications of what kind soever to the vir-
tuous man. Accordingly Cato, in the character Tully
has left of him, carried matters so far, that he would
not allow any one but a virtuous man to be handsome.
This indeed looks more like a philosophical rant than
the real opinion of a wise man; yet this was what
Cato very seriously maintained. In short, the Stoics
thought they could not sufficiently represent the ex-
cellence of virtue, if they did not comprehend in the
notion of it all possible perfection ; and therefore did
not only suppose that it was transcendently beautiful
in itself, but that it made the very body amiable, and
banished every kind of deformity from the person in
whom it resided.

It is acommon observation, that the most abandoned
to all sense and goodness are apt to wish those who
are related to them of a different character: and it is
very observable, that none are more struck with the
charms of virtue in the fair sex, than those who by
their very admiration of it are carried to a desire of
ruining it.

A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a fine
picture in a good light, and therefore it is no wonder
that it makes the beautiful sex all over charms.

As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely
nature, there are some particular kinds of it which
are more so than others, and these are such as dis-
pose us to do good to mankind. Temperance and
abstinence, faith and devotion, are in themselves per-
haps as laudable as any other virtues; but those which
make a man popular and beloved, are justice, charity,
munificence, and, in short, all the good qualities that
render us beneficial to each other. For this reason
even an extravagant man, who has nothing else to
recommend him but a false generosity, is often more
beloved and esteemed than a person of a much more

finished character, who is defective in this parti-
cular.THE LOVELINESS OF VIRTUE. 7
_ The two great ornaments of virtue, which show hex
in the most advantageous views, and make her alto-
gether lovely, are cheerfulness and good-nature. These
generally go together, as a man cannot be agreeable
to others who is not easy within himself. They are
both very requisite in a virtuous mind, to keep out
melancholy from the many serious thoughts it is en-
gaged in, and to hinder its natural hatred of vice from
souring into severity and censoriousness.

If virtue is of this amiable nature, what can we
think of those who can look upon it with an eye of
hatred and ill will, or can suffer their aversion for a
party to blot out all the merit of the person who is
engaged in it? A man must be excessively stupid,
as well as uncharitable, who believes that there is no
virtue but on his own side, and that there are not
men as honest as himself who may differ from him
in political principles. Men may oppose one another
in some particulars, but ought not to carry their hatred
to those qualities which are of so amiable a nature in
themselves, and have nothing to do with the points in
dispute. Men of virtue, though of different interests,
ought to consider themselves as more nearly united
with one another, than with the vicious part of man-
kind, who embark with them in the same civil con-
cerns. We should bear the same love towards a man
of honour who is a living antagonist, which Tully tells
us, in the forementioned passage, every one naturally
does to an enemy that is dead. In short, we should
esteem virtue though in a foe, and abhor vice though
in a friend.

I speak this with an eye to those cruel treatments
which men of all sides are apt to give the characters
of those who do not agree with them. How many
persons of undoubted probity and exemplary virtue,
on either side, are blackened and defamed? How
many men of honour exposed to public obloquy and8 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

reproach? Those therefore who are either the instru-
ments or abettors in such infernal dealings, ought to
be looked upon as persons who make use of religion
to promote their cause *, not of their cause to promote
religion.

 

94. VARIETY OF FEMALE ORATORS.

We are told by some ancient authors that Socrates
was instructed in eloquence by a woman, whose name,
if | am not mistaken, was Aspasia. I have indeed
very often looked upon that art as the most proper
for the female sex ; and I think the universities would
do well to consider whether they should not fill the
rhetoric chairs with she professors.

It has been said in the praise of some men, that
they could talk whole hours together upon any thing;
but it must be owned, to the honour of the other Sex,
that there are many among them who can talk whole
hours together upon nothing. I have known a woman
branch out into a long extempore dissertation upon
the edging of a petticoat, and chide her servant for
breaking a china cup in all the figures of rhetoric.

Were women admitted to plead in courts of judi-
cature, [am persuaded they would carry the eloquence
of the bar to greater heights than it has yet arrived at.
If any one doubts this, let him but be present at those
debates which frequently arise among the ladies of
the British Fishery.

The first kind therefore of female orators which I
shall take notice of, are those who are employed in
Stirring up the passions; a part of rhetoric in which
the wife of Socrates had perhaps made a greater pro-
ficiency than his abovementioned teacher.

* Alluding to the popular cry of those times, that ‘ the chureh

was in danger,’ artfully made use of by the leaders of one party to
effect the downfalt of the other, :VARIETY OF FEMALE ORATORS. 9

The second kind of female orators are those who
deal in invectives, and who are commonly known by
the name of the Censorious. The imagination and
elocution of this set of rhetoricians is wonderful. With
what a fluency of invention, and copiousness of ex-
pression, will they enlarge upon every little slip in
the behaviour of another! With how many different
circumstances, and with what variety of phrases, will
they tell over the same story! I have known an old
lady make an unhappy marriage the subject of a
month’s conversation. She blamed the bride in one
place; pitied her in another; laughed at her in a
third ; wondered at her in a fourth; was angry with
her ina fifth; and, in short, wore outa pair of coach-
horses in expressing her concern for her. At length,
after having quite exhausted the subject on this side,
she made a visit to the new-married pair, praised the
wife for the prudent choice she had made, told her
the unreasonable reflections which some malicious
people had cast upon her, and desired that thay might
be better acquainted. The censure and approbation
of this kind of women are therefore only to be consi-
dered as helps to discourse.

A third kind of female orators may be compre-
hended under the word Gossips. Mrs. Fiddle-Faddle
is perfectly accomplished in this sort of eloquence ;
she launches out into descriptions of christenings, runs
divisions upon a headdress, knows every dish of meat
that is served up in her neighbourhood, and entertains
her company a whole afternoon together with the wit
of her little boy before he is able to speak.

The coquette may be looked upon as a fourth kind
of female orator. To give herself the larger field for
discourse, she hates and loves in the same breath ;
talks to her lapdog or parrot; is uneasy in all kinds
of weather, and in every part of the room. She has
false quarrels and feigned obligations to all the men
B 210 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

of her acquaintance; sighs when she is not sad, and
laughs when she is not merry. The coquette is in
particular a great mistress of that part of oratory which
is called action, and indeed seems to speak for no
other purpose, but as it gives her an opportunity of
stirring a limb or varying a feature, of glancing her
eyes or playing with her fan. rat

As for newsmongers, politicians, mimics, story-
tellers, with other characters of that nature which
give birth to loquacity, they are as commonly found
among the men as the women; for which reason |
shall pass them over in silence.

I have been often puzzled to assign a cause why
women should have this talent of a ready utterance
in so much greater perfection than men. I have
sometimes fancied that they have not a retentive
power, or the faculty of suppressing their thoughts,
as men have, but that they are necessitated to speak
every thing they think; and if so, it would perhaps
furnish a very strong argument to the Cartesians for
the supporting of their doctrine that the soul always
thinks. But as several are of opinion that the fair sex
are not altogether strangers to the arts of dissembling
and concealing their thoughts, I have been forced to
relinquish that opinion, and have therefore endea-
voured to seek after some better reason. In order to
it, a friend of mine, who is an excellent anatomist,
has promised me, by the first opportunity, to dissect
a woman’s tongue, and to examine whether there
may not be im it certain juices which render it so
wonderfully voluble or flippant, or whether the fibres
of it may not be made up of a finer or more pliant
thread; or whether there are not in it some particular
muscles which dart it up and down by such sudden
glances and vibrations; or whether, in the last place,
there may not be certain undiscovered channels run-
ning from the head and the heart to this little instru-VARIETY OF FEMALE ORATORS. tt

ment of loquacity, and conveying into it a perpetual
affluence of animal spirits. Nor must I omit the
reason which Hudibras has given, why those who can
talk on trifles speak with the greatest fluency; namely,
that the tongue is like a racehorse, which runs the
faster the lesser weight it carries.

Which of these reasons soever may be looked upon
as the most probable, I think the Irishman’s thought
was very natural, who after some hours’ conversation
with a female orator told her, that he believed her
tongue was very glad when she was asleep, for that it
had not a moment’s rest all the while she was awake.

That excellent old ballad of The Wanton Wife of
Bath, has the following remarkable lines:

‘I think, quoth Thomas, women’s tongues
Of aspen leaves are made.’

And Ovid, though in the description of a very bar-
barous circumstance, tells us that when the tongue of
a beautiful female was cut out, and thrown upon the
ground, it could not forbear muttering even in that
posture :

—* Comprehensam forcipe linguam
Abstulit ense fero. Radix micat ultima lingue.
Ipsa jacet, terreque tremens immurmurat atr@é 3

Utque salire solet mutilate cauda colubre,
Palpitat—’
—* The blade had cut
Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root:
The mangled part still quiver’d on the ground,
Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound;
And as a serpent writhes his wounded train,
Uneasy, panting, and possess’d with pain.? CROXALL.

MET. vi. 556.

Ifa tongue would be talking without a mouth, what
could it have done when it had all its organs of speech
and accomplices of sound about it? I might here
mention the story of the Pippin Woman, had not I
some reason to look upon it as fabulous*.

* This is a fine stroke of humour, after having admitted Ovid’s
tale of Philomel, without any objections to its veracity. The story1:2 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

I must confess I am so wonderfully charmed with
the music of this little instrument, that I would by
no means discourage it. All that I aim at by this
dissertation, is to cure it of several disagreeable notes,
and in particular of those little jarrings and dissonances
which arise from anger, censoriousness, gossiping, and
coquetry. In short, I would have it always tuned by
good-nature, truth, discretion, and sincerity.

95. LAUGHTER AND RIDICULE.

Wuewn I make choice of a subject that has not been
treated on by others, I throw together my reflections
on it without any order or method, so that they may
appear rather in the looseness and freedom of an
essay, than in the regularity of a set discourse. It is
after this manner that I shall consider laughter and
ridicule in my present paper.

Man is the merriest species of the creation, all
above and below him are serious. He sees things in
a different light from other beings, and finds his mirth
arising from objects that perhaps cause something
like pity or displeasure in higher natures. Laughter
is indeed a very good counterpoise to the spleen; and
it seems but reasonable that we should be capable of
receiving joy from what is no real good to us, since
we can receive grief from what is no real evil.

I have, in my forty-seventh paper*, raised a specu-
lation of the notion of a modern philosopher+ who
describes the first motive of laughter to be a secret

a

here referred to, is of an apple-woman, who, when the Thames was
frozen over, was said to have had her head cut off by the ice. It
is humorously told in Gay’s Trivia:

‘ The crackling crystal yields, she sinks, she dies;

Her head chopp’d off, from her lost shoulders flies;

Pippins she cried, but death her voice confounds,

And pip-pip-pip along the ice resounds.’ Book ii. vy. 375, Kc.

Se Noots: + The philosopher Hobbes,LAUGHTER AND RIDICULE. is

comparison which we make between ourselves and
the persons we laugh at; or, in other words, that
satisfaction which we receive from the opinion of
some preeminence in ourselves when we see the ab-
surdities of another, or when we reflect on any past
absurdities of our own. This seems to hold in most
cases, and we may observe that the vainest part of
mankind are the most addicted to this passion.

I have read a sermon of a conventual in the church
of Rome on those words of the wise man, ‘ I said of
laughter, it is mad; and of mirth, what does it”
Upon which he laid it down asa point of doctrine
that laughter was the effect of original sin, and that
Adam could not laugh before the fall.

Laughter, while it lasts, slackens and unbraces the
mind, weakens the faculties, and causes a kind of
remissness and dissolution in all the powers of the
soul; and thus far it may.be looked upon as a weak-
ness in the composition of human nature. But if we
consider the frequent reliefs we receive from it, and
how often it breaks the gloom which is apt to depress
the mind and damp our spirits with transient unex-
pected gleams of joy, one would take care not to grow
too wise for so great a pleasure of life.

The talent of turning men into ridicule, and ex-
posing to laughter those one converses with, is the
qualification of little ungenerous tempers. A young
man with this cast of mind cuts himself off from all
manner of improvement. Every one has his flaws
and weaknesses; nay, the greatest blemishes are often
found in the most shining characters; but what an
absurd thing is it to pass over all the valuable parts
of a man, and fix our attention on his infirmities? to
observe his imperfections more than his virtues? and
to make use of him for the sport of others rather than
for our own improvement?

We therefore very often find that persons the most{4 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

accomplished in ridicule are those who are very shrewd
at hitting a blot without exerting any thing masterly
in themselves. As there are many eminent critics
who never writ a good line, there are many admirable
buffoons that animadvert upon every single defect in
another, without ever discovering the least beauty of
their own. By this means these unlucky little wits
often gain reputation in the esteem of vulgar minds,
and raise themselves above persons of much more
laudable characters.

If the talent of ridicule were employed to laugh
men out of vice and folly, it might be of some use to
the world; but, instead of this, we find that it is ge-
nerally made use of to laugh men out of virtue and
good sense, by attacking every thing that is solemn
and serious, decent and praiseworthy, in human life,

We may observe, that in the first ages of the world,
when the great souls and masterpieces of human
nature were produced, men shined by a noble sim-
plicity of behaviour, and were strangers to those little
embellishments which are so fashionable in our present
conversation. And it is very remarkable, that, not-
withstanding we fall short at present of the ancients
in poetry, painting, oratory, history, architecture, and
all the noble arts and sciences which depend more
upon genius than experience, we exceed them as much
in doggerel, humour, burlesque, and all the trivial arts
of ridicule. We meet with more raillery among the
moderns, but more good sense among the ancients.

The two great branches of ridicule in writing are
comedy and burlesque. The first ridicules persons
by drawing them in their proper characters, the other
by drawing them quite unlike themselves. Burlesque
is therefore of two kinds; the first represents mean
persons in the accoutrements of heroes; the other
describes great persons acting and speaking like the
basest among the people. Don Quixote is an instanceLAUGHTER AND RIDICULE. 15

of the first, and Lucian’s gods of the second. Itis a
dispute among the critics whether burlesque poetry
runs best in heroic verse, like the Dispensary, or in
doggerel, like that of Hudibras. I think where the
low character is to be raised, the heroic is the proper
measure ; but when a hero is to be pulled down and
degraded, it is done best in doggerel.

If Hudibras had been set out with as much wit and
humour in heroic verse as he is in doggerel, he would
have made amuch more agreeable figure than he does;
though the generality of his readers are so wonderfully
pleased with the double rhymes that I do not expect
many will be of my opinion in this particular.

I shall conclude this essay upon laughter with ob-
serving, that the metaphor of laughing, applied to
fields and meadows when they are in flower, or to
trees when they are in blossom, runs through all
languages; which I have not observed of any other
metaphor excepting that of fire and burning when
they are applied to love. This shows that we naturally
regard laughter as what is in itself both amiable and
beautiful. For this reason, likewise, Venus has gained
the title of @sAouwedys, ‘ the laughter-loving dame,’ as
Waller has translated it, and is represented by Horace
as the goddess who delights in laughter. Milton, in
a Joyous assembly of imaginary persons, has given us
a very poetical figure of laughter. His whole band
of mirth is so finely described, that I shall set the
passage down at length:

‘ But come, thou goddess fair and free,

In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne,

And by men, heart-easing Mirth,

Whom lovely Venus, at a birth

With two sister graces more,

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. .

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful jollity, j
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
None acd becks, and wreathed smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

Come, and trip it as you go

On the light fantastic toe:

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain nymph sweet Liberty ;

And if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free.’ L’ ALLEGRO.

 

96. AMBITION AND FAME.

Tue soul, considered abstractedly from its passions,
is of aremiss and sedentary nature, slow in its resolves,
and languishing in its executions. The use, therefore,
of the passions is, to stir it up, and put it upon action ;
to awaken the understanding; to enforce the will;
and to make the whole man more vigorous and atten-
tive in the prosecution of his designs. As this is the
end of the passions in general, so it is particularly of
ambition, which pushes the soul to such actions as
are apt to procure honour and reputation to the actor.
But if we carry our reflections higher, we may dis-
cover farther ends of Providence in implanting this
passion in mankind.

It was necessary for the world that arts should be
invented and improved, books written and transmitted
to posterity, nations conquered and civilized. Now
since the proper and genuine motives to these and the
like great actions would only influence virtuous minds,
there would be but small improvements in the world
were there not some common principle of action
working equally with all men: and such a principle
is ambition, or a desire of fame; by which great
endowments are not suffered to lie idle and useless
to the public, and many vicious men overreached as
it were, and engaged, contrary to their natural incli-
nations, in a glorious and laudable course of action.
For, we may farther observe, that men of the greatest
abilities are most fired with ambition; and that, onAMBITION AND FAME. 17

the contrary, mean and narrow minds are the least
actuated by it: whether it be that a man’s sense of
his own incapacities makes him despair at coming at
fame; or that he has not enough range of thought to
look out for any good which does not more imme-
diately relate to his interest or convenience ; or that
Providence, in the very frame of his soul, would not
subject him to such a passion as would be useless to
the world and a torment to himself.

Were not this desire of fame very strong, the diffi-
culty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing it when
obtained, would be sufficient to deter a man from so
vain a pursuit.

How few are there who are furnished with abilities
sufficient to recommend their actions to the admiration
of the world, and to distinguish themselves from the
rest of mankind! Providence for the most part sets
us upon a level, and observes a kind of proportion in
its dispensations towards us. If it renders us perfect
in one accomplishment, it generally leaves us defective
in another; and seems careful rather of preserving
every person from being mean and deficient in his
qualifications, than of making any single one eminent
or extraordinary.

And among those who are the most richly endowed
by nature, and accomplished by their own industry,
how few are there whose virtues are not obscured by
the ignorance, prejudice, or envy of their beholders !
Some men cannot discern between a noble and a
mean action; others are apt to attribute them to some
false end or intention; and others purposely misre-
present, or put a wrong interpretation on them. But,
the more to enforce this consideration, we may observe,
that those are generally most unsuccessful in their
pursuit after fame who are most desirous of obtaining
it. It is Sallust’s remark upon Cato, that the less he
coveted glory, the more he acquired it.ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

Men take an ill-natured pleasure in crossing our
inclinations, and disappointing us in what our hearts
are most set upon. When therefore they have disco-
vered the passionate desire of fame in the ambitious
man (as no temper of mind is more apt to show itself),
they become sparing and reserved in their commen-
dations ; they envy him the satisfaction of an applause,
and look on their praises rather as a kindness done to
his person than as a tribute paid to his merit. Others,
who are free from this natural perverseness of temper,
erow wary in their praises of one who sets too great
a value on them, lest they should raise him too high
in his own imagination, and by consequence remove
him to a greater distance from themselves.

But farther, this desire of fame naturally betrays
the ambitious man into such indecencies as are a
lessening to his reputation. He is still afraid lest
any of his actions should be thrown away in private,
lest his deserts should be concealed from the notice
of the world, or receive any disadvantage from the
reports which others make of them. This often sets
him on empty boasts and ostentations of himself, and
betrays him into vain fantastical recitals of his own
performances. His discourse generally leans one way,
and whatever is the subject of it, tends obliquely either
to the detracting from others, or the extolling of him-
self. Vanity is the natural weakness of an ambitious
man, which exposes him to the secret scorn and de-
vision of those he converses with, and ruins the cha-
racter he is so industrious to advance by it. For
though his actions are never so glorious, they lose
their lustre when they are drawn at large and set to
show by his own hand; and as the world is more apt
to find fault than to commend, the boast will probably
be censured when the great action that occasioned it
is forgotten.

Besides, this very desire of fame is looked on as aAMBITION AND FAME. 19

meanness and imperfection in the greatest character.
A solid and substantial greatness of soul looks down
with a generous neglect on the censures and applauses
of the multitude, and places a man beyond the little
noise and strife of tongues. Accordingly we find in
ourselves a secret awe and veneration for the character
of one who moves above usin a regular and illustrious
course of virtue, without any regard to our good or
ill opinions of him, to our reproaches or commenda-
tions: as, on the contrary, it is usual for us, when
we would take off from the fame and reputation of
an action, to ascribe it to vainglory, and a desire of
fame in the actor. Nor is this common judgment and
opinion of mankind ill founded; for certainly it de-
hotes no great bravery of mind to be worked up to
any noble action by so selfish a motive, and to do
that out of a desire of fame, which we could not be
prompted to by a disinterested love to mankind, or by
a generous passion for the glory of Him that made us.

Thus is fame a thing difficult to be obtained by all,
and particularly by those who thirst after it; since
most men have so much either of ill-nature or of
wariness, as not to gratify and sooth the vanity of the
ambitious man; and since this very thirst after fame
naturally betrays him into such indecencies as are a
lessening to his reputation, and is itself looked upon
as a weakness in the greatest characters.

In the next place, fame is easily lost, and as difficult
to be preserved as it was at first to be acquired. But
this I shall make the subject of a following paper.

 

97. DISADVANTAGES OF AMBITION.

THERE are many passions and tempers of mind which
naturally dispose us to depress and vilify the merit of
one rising in the esteem of mankind. All those who
made their entrance into the world with the sameADDISON'S ESSAYS.

advantages, and were once looked on as his equals,
are apt to think the fame of his merits a reflection on
their own indeserts; and will therefore take care to
reproach him with the scandal of some past action,
or derogate from the worth of the present, that they
may still keep him on the same level with themselves.
The like kind of consideration often stirs up the envy
of such as were once his superiors, who think it a
detraction from their merit to see another get ground
upon them, and overtake them in the pursuits of glory ;
and will therefore endeavour to sink his reputation
that they may the better preserve their own. Those
who were once his equals envy and defame him,
because they now see him their superior; and those
who were once his superiors, because they look upon
him as their equal.
But farther, a man, whose extraordinary reputation
thus lifts him up to the notice and observation of man-
kind, draws a multitude of eyes upon him that will
narrowly inspect every part of him, consider him
nicely in all views, and not be a little pleased when
they have taken him in the worst and most disadvan-
tageous light. There are many who find a pleasure
in contradicting the common reports of fame, and in
spreading abroad the weaknesses of an exalted cha-
racter. They publish their ill-natured discoveries with
a secret pride, and applaud themselves for the singu-
larity of their judgment, which has searched deeper
than others, detected what the rest of the wor!d have
overlooked, and found a flaw in what the generality
of mankind admires. Others there are who proclaim
the errors and infirmities of a great man with an in-
ward satisfaction and complacency, if they discover
none of the like errors and infirmities in themselves ;
for while they are exposing another’s weaknesses, they
are tacitly aiming at their own commendations, who
are not subject to the like infirmities, and are apt toDISADVANTAGES OF AMBITION. ot

be transported with a secret kind of vanity to see
themselves superior in some respects to one of a sub-
lime and celebrated reputation. Nay, it very often
happens, that none are more industrious in publishing
the blemishes of an extraordinary reputation, than
such as lie open to the same censures in their own
characters, as either hoping to excuse their own defects
by the authority of so high an example, or raising an
imaginary applause to themselves for resembling a
person of an exalted reputation, though in the blame-
able parts of his character. If all these secret springs
of detraction fail, yet very often a vain ostentation of
wit sets a man on attacking an established name, and
sacrificing it to the mirth and laughter of those about
him. A satire or a libel on one of the common stamp
never meets with that reception and approbation
among its readers, as what is aimed ata person whose
merit places him upon an eminence, and gives him
a more conspicuous figure among men: whether it
be, that we think it shows greater art to expose and
turn to ridicule a man whose character seems so im-
proper a subject for it, or that we are pleased, by some
implicit kind of revenge, to see him taken down and
humbled in his reputation, and in some measure re-
duced to our own rank, who had so far raised himself
above us in the reports and opinions of mankind.
Thus we see how many dark and intricate motives
there are to detraction and defamation, and how
many malicious spies are searching into the actions
of a great man, who is not always the best prepared
for so narrow an inspection. For, we may generally
observe, that our admiration of a famous man lessens
upon our nearer acquaintance with him: and that we
seldom hear the description of a celebrated person
without a catalogue of some notorious weaknesses
and infirmities. The reason may be, because any
little slip is more conspicuous and observable in his

Re

PS Ea “meses

= oot wre a310 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

conduct than-in another’s, as it is not of a piece with
the rest of his character; or, because it is impossible
fora man at the same time to be attentive to the more
important part of his life, and to keep a watchful eye
over all the inconsiderable circumstances of his be-
haviour and conversation; or because, as we have
before observed, the same temper of mind which in-
clines us to a desire of fame naturally betrays us into
such slips and unwarinesses as are not incident to
men of a contrary disposition.

After all, it must be confessed, that a noble and
triumphant merit often breaks through and dissipates
these little spots and sullies in its reputation; but 1,
by a mistaken pursuit after fame, or through human
infirmity any false step be made in the more momen-
tous concerns of life, the whole scheme of ambitious
designsis broken and disappointed. The smaller stains
and blemishes may die away and disappear amidst
the brightness that surrounds them; but a blot of a
deeper nature casts a shade on all the other beauties,
and darkens the whole character. How difficult
therefore is it to preserve a great name, when he that
has acquired it is so obnoxious to such little weak-
nesses and infirmities as are no small diminution to
it when discovered ; especially when they are so in-
dustriously proclaimed, and aggravated by such as
were once his superiors or equals; by such as would
set to show their judgment or their wit, and by such
as are guilty or innocent of the same slips or miscon-
ducts in their own behaviour !

But were there none of these dispositions in others
to censure a famous man, nor any such miscarriages
in himself, yet would he meet with no small trouble
in keeping up his reputation in all its height and
splendour. ‘There must be always a noble train of
actions to preserve his fame in life and motion. For
when it is once at a stand, it naturally flags and lan-DISADVANTAGES OF AMBITION. 23
guishes. Admiration is a very short-lived passion,
that immediately decays upon growing familiar with
its object, unless it be still fed with fresh discoveries,
and kept alive by a new perpetual succession of mi-
racles rising up to its view. And even the greatest
actions of a celebrated person labour under this dis-
advantage, that, however surprising and extraordinary
they may be, they are no more than what are expected
from him; but, on the contrary, if they fall any thing
below the opinion that is conceived of him, though
they might raise the reputation of another, they are a
diminution to his.

One would think there should be something won-
derfully pleasing in the possession of fame, that, not-
withstanding all these mortifying considerations, can
engage a man in so desperate a pursuit; and yet, if
we consider the little happiness that attends a great
character, and the multitude of disquietudes to which
the desire of it subjects an ambitious mind, one would
be still the more surprised to see so many restless
candidates for glory.

Ambition raises a secret tumult in the soul; it in-
flames the mind, and puts it into a violent hurry of
thought. It is still reaching after an empty imaginary
good, that has not in it the power to abate or satisfy
it. Most other things we long for can allay the
cravings of their proper sense, and for a while set the
appetite at rest; but fame is a good so wholly foreign
to our natures, that we have no faculty in the soul
adapted to it, nor any organ in the body to relish it;
an object of desire, placed out of the possibility of
fruition. It may indeed fill the mind for a while
with a giddy kind of pleasure, but it is such a pleasure
as makes a man restless and uneasy under it; and
which does not so much satisfy the present thirst, as
it excites fresh desires.and sets the soul on new enter-

prises. For how fewambitious men are there whoEc se

94 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

have got as much fame as they desired, and whose
thirst after it has not been as eager in the very height
of their reputation as it was before they became
known and eminent among men! ‘There is not any
circumstance in Cesar’s character which gives me a
greater idea of him, than a saying which Cicero tells
us he frequently made use of in private conversation,
‘ That he was satisfied with his share of life and fame ;’
‘ Se satis vel ad naturam, vel ad gloriam viaisse.’ Many
indeed have given over their pursuits after fame; but
that has proceeded either from the disappointments
they have met in it, or from their experience of the
little pleasure which attends it, or from the better in-
formations or natural coldness of old age; but seldom
from a full satisfaction and acquiescence in their pre-
sent enjoyments of it.

Nor is fame only unsatisfying in itself, but the desire
of it lays us open to many accidental troubles which
those are free from who have no such tender regard
for it. How often is the ambitious man cast down
and disappointed if he receives no praise where he
expected it! Nay, how often is he mortified with the
very praises he receives, if they do not rise so high as
he thinks they ought; which they seldom do unless
increased by flattery, since few men have so good an
opinion of us as we have of ourselves! But if the am-
bitious man can be so much grieved even with praise
itself, how will he be able to bear up under scandal
and defamation? for the same temper of mind which
makes him desire fame makes him hate reproach. If
he can be transported with the extraordinary praises
of men, he will be as much dejected by their censures.
How little therefore is the happiness of an ambitious
man, who gives every one a dominion over it, who
thus subjects himself to the good or ill speeches of
others, and puts it in the power of every malicious
tongue to throw him into a fit of melancholy, andDISADVANTAGES OF AMBITION. 25

destroy his. natural rest and repose of mind; espe-
cially when we consider that the world is. more apt to
censure than applaud, and himself fuller of imperfec-
tions than virtues!

We may farther observe, that such a man will be
more grieved for the loss of fame, than he could have
been pleased with the enjoyment of it. For though
the presence of this imaginary good cannot make us
happy, the absence of it cannot make us miserable -
because in the enjoyment of an object we only find
that share of pleasure which it is capable of giving us,
but in the loss of it we do not proportion our grief to
the real value it bears, but to. the value our fancies
and imaginations set upon it.

So inconsiderable is. the satisfaction that fame
brings along with it,.and so great the disquietudes to
which it makes us liable! The desire of it stirs up very
uneasy motions in the mind, and is rather inflamed
than satisfied by the presence of the thing desired.
The enjoyment of it brings but very little pleasure,
though the loss or want of it be very sensible and
afficting ; and even this little happiness is so very
precarious, that it wholly depends on the will of others.
Weare not only tortured by the reproaches which are
offered us, but are disappointed by the silence of men
when it is unexpected, and humbled even by their
praises.

98. AMBITION AND FUTURITY.

Tuar I might. not lose myself. upon a subject of so
great extent as that of fame, I have treated it in a
particular order and method. I have first. of all con-
sidered the reasons why Providence may have im-
planted in our mind such a. principle of action™. I
have in the next place shown, from many. considera-
* No. 96.
VOL.

II. Cc26 ADDISON'S ESSAYS:

tions, first, that fame is a thing difficult to be obtained,
and easily lost; secondly, that it brings the ambitious
man very little happiness, but subjects him to much
uneasiness and dissatisfaction®. I shall in the last
place show, that it hinders us from obtaining an end
which we have abilities to acquire, and which is ac-
companied with fulness of satisfaction. I need not
tell my reader, that I mean by this end that happiness
which is reserved for us in another world, which every
one has abilities to procure, and which will bring along
with it ¢ fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore.’

tow the pursuit after fame may hinder us in the
attainment of this great end, I shall leave the reader
to collect from the three following considerations:

First, Because the strong desire of fame breeds
several vicious habits in the mind.

Secondly, Because many of those actions, which
are apt to procure fame, are not in their nature con-
ducive to this our ultimate happiness.

Thirdly, Because if we should allow the same ac-
tions to be the proper instruments, both of acquiring
fame, and of procuring this happiness, they would
nevertheless fail in the attainment of this last end, if
they proceeded from a desire of the first.

These three propositions are self-evident to those
who are versed in speculations of morality : for which
reason I shall not enlarge upon them, but proceed to
a point of the same nature, which may open to us a
more uncommon field of speculation.

From what has been already observed, I think we
may make a natural conclusion, that it is the greatest
folly to seek the praise or approbation of any being,
besides the Supreme, and that for these two reasons :
because no other being can make a right judgment of
us, and esteem us according to our merits; and be-
cause we can procure no considerable benefit or ad-

* No, 97.AMBITION AND FUTURITY. at
vantage from the esteem and approbation of any other
being.

In the first place, no other being can make a right
Judgment of us, and esteem us according to our me-
rits. Created beings see nothing but our outside, and
can therefore only frame a judgment of us from our
exterior actions and behaviour ; but how unfit these
are to give us a right notion of each other’s perfec-
tions, may appear from several considerations. There
are many virtues, which in their own nature are inca-
pable of any outward representation ; many silent
perfections in the soul of a good man, which are great
ornaments to human nature, but not able to discover
themselves to the knowledge of others ; they are trans-
acted in private without noise or show, and are only
visible to the great Searcher of hearts. What actions
can express the entire purity of thought which refines
and sanctifies a virtuous man! that secret rest and
contentedness of mind, which gives him a perfect en-
joyment of his present condition! that inward plea-
sure and complacency which he feels in doing good !
that delight and satisfaction which he takes in the
prosperity and happiness of another! These and the
like virtues are the hidden beauties of a soul, the
secret graces which cannot be discovered by a mortal
eye, but make the soul lovely and precious in His
sight from whom no secrets are concealed. Again,

there are many virtues which want an opportunity of

exerting and showing themselves in actions. Every
virtue requires time and place, a proper object and a
fit conjuncture of circumstances, for the due exercise

of it. A state of poverty obscures all the virtues of

liberality and munificence. The patience and forti-
tude of a martyr or confessor lie concealed in the
flourishing times of Christianity. Some virtues are
only seen in affliction, and some in prosperity ; some
in a private, and others ina public capacity. But

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 

aa28 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

the great Sovereign of the world beholds every per-
fection in its obscurity, and not only sees what we do,
but what we would do. He views our behaviour in
every concurrence of affairs, and sees us engaged in
all the possibilities of action. He discovers the mar-
tyr and confessor without the trial of flames and tor-
tures, and will hereafter entitle many to the reward of
actions which they had never the opportunity of per-
forming. Another reason why men cannot form a
right judgment of us is, because the same actions
may be aimed at different ends, and arise from quite
contrary principles. Actions are of so mixed a nature,
and so full of circumstances, that as men pry into them
more or less, or observe some parts more than others,
they take different hints, and put contrary interpreta-
tions on them; so that the same actions may repre-
sent a man as hypocritical and designing to one,
which make him appear a saint or hero to another.
He therefore who looks upon the soul through its
outward actions, often sees it through a deceitful
medium, which is apt to discolour and pervert the
object: so that, on this account also, He is the only
proper judge of our perfections, who does not guess
at the sincerity of our intentions. from the goodness of
our actions, but weighs the goodness. of our actions
by the sincerity of our intentions.

But farther, it is impossible for outward actions to
represent the perfections of the soul, because they can
never show the strength of those principles from
whence they proceed. They are not adequate ex-
pressions. of our-virtues, and can only show us what
habits are in the soul, without discovering the degree
and perfection of such habits. They are at best but
weak resemblances of our intentions, faint and imper-
fect copies, that may acquaint us with the general
design, but can never express the beauty and life of
the original. But the great Judge of all the earthAMBITION AND FUTURITY. 29

knows every different state and degree of human im-
provement, from those weak stirrings and tendencies
of the will which have not yet formed themselves into
regular purposes and designs, to the last entire finish-
ing and consummation of a good habit. He beholds
the first imperfect rudiments of a virtue in the soul,
and keeps a watchful eye over it in all its progress,
till it has received every grace it is capable of, and
appears in its full beauty and perfection. Thus we
see, that none but the Supreme Being can esteem us
according to our proper merits, since all others must
judge of us from our outward actions; which can
never give them a just estimate of us, since there are
many perfections of a man which are not capable of
appearing in actions; many which, allowing no na-
tural incapacity of showing themselves, want an Op-
portunity of doing it; or should they all meet with an
opportunity of appearing by actions, yet those actions
may be misinterpreted, and applied to wrong princi-
ples ; or though they plainly discovered the principles
from whence they proceeded, they could never show
the degree, strength, and perfection of those princi=
ples.

And as the Supreme Being is the only proper Judge
of our perfections, so is he the only fit rewarder of
them. This is a consideration that comes home to our
mterest, as the other adapts itself to our ambition.
And what could the most aspiring or the most selfish
man desire more, were he to form the notion of a
Being to whom he would recommend himself, than
such a knowledge as can discover the least appear-
ance of perfection in him, and sucha goodness as will
proportion a reward to it!

Let the ambitious man therefore turn all his desire
of fame this way; and that he may propose to him-
self a fame worthy of his ambition, let him consider,
that, if he employs his abilities to the best advantage,
the time will come when the Supreme Governor of the

 

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30 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

world, the great Judge of mankind, who sees every
degree of perfection in others, and possesses all pos-
sible perfection in himself, shall proclaim his worth
before men and angels, and pronounce to him in the
presence of the whole creation that best and most sig-
nificant of applauses, ‘ Well done, thou good and
faithful servant, enter thou into thy Master’s joy.’

 

99. LOVE AND MARRIAGE,

My father, whom I mentioned in my first specula-
tion, and whom I must always name with honour and
cratitude, has very frequently talked to me upon the
subject of marriage. 1 was in my younger years en-
gaged, partly by his advice, and partly by my own
inclinations, in the courtship of a person who had a
great deal of beauty, and did not, at my first ap-
proaches, seem to have any aversion to me; but as
my natural taciturnity hindered me from showing
myself to the best advantage, she by degrees began
to look upon me as a very silly fellow; and, being
resolved to regard merit more than any thing else in
the persons who made their applications to her, she
married a captain of dragoons who happened to be
beating up for recruits in those parts.

This unlucky accident has given me an aversion to
pretty fellows ever since, and discouraged me from
trying my fortune with the fair sex. The observations
which I made at this conjuncture, and the repeated
advices which I received at that time from the good
old man above mentioned, have produced the follow-
ing essay upon love and marriage.

The pleasantest part of a man’s life is generally
that which passes in courtship, provided his passion
be sincere, and the party beloved kind with discretion.
Love, desire, hope, all the pleasing motions of the
soul, rise in the pursuit.

It is easier for an artful man who is not in love toLOVE AND MARRIAGE. 3

persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to
succeed in his pursuits, than for one who loves with
the greatest violence. True love hath ten thousand
griefs, impatiences, and resentments, that render a
man unamiable in the eyes of the person whose aftec-
tion he solicits ; besides that it sinks his figure, gives
him fears, apprehensions, and poorness of spirit, and
often makes him appear ridiculous where he has a
mind to recommend himself.

Those marriages generally abound most with love
and constancy that are preceded by a long courtship.
The passion should strike root and gather strength
before marriage be grafted on it. A long course of
hopes and expectations fixes the idea in our minds,
and habituates us to a fondness of the person beloved.

There is nothing of so great importance to us as
the good qualities of one to whom we join ourselves
for life: they do not only make our present state
agreeable, but often determine our happiness to all
eternity. Where the choice is left to friends, the chief
point under consideration is an estate ; where the par-
ties choose for themselves, their thoughts turn most
upon the person. They have both their reasons. The
first would procure many conveniences and pleasures
of life to the party whose interests they espouse; and
at the same time may hope that the wealth of their
friend will turn to their own credit and advantage.
The others are preparing for themselves a perpetual
feast. A good person does not only raise but conti-
nue love, and breeds a secret pleasure and compla-
cency in the beholder when the first heats of desire
are extinguished. It puts the wife or husband in
countenance both among friends and strangers, and
generally fills the family with a healthy and beautiful
race of children.

1 should prefer a woman that is agreeable in my
own eye, and not deformed in that of the world, to aST Rw a TT

LE AAAS

     
   
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
   

32 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

celebrated beauty. If you marry one remarkably
beautiful, you must have a violent passion for her, or
you have not the proper taste for her charms; and if
you have such a passion for her, it is odds but it would
be imbittered with fears and jealousies.

Good-nature and evenness of temper will give you
an easy companion for life; virtue and good sense,
an agreeable friend ; love and constaney, a good wife
or husband. Where we meet one person with all
these accomplishments, we find a hundred without
any one of them. The world, notwithstanding, is
more intent upon trains and equipages, and all the
showy parts of life; we love rather to dazzle the mul-
titude than consult our proper interests; and, as I
have elsewhere observed, it is one of the most unac-
countable passions of human nature, that we are at
greater pains to appear easy and happy to others than
really to make ourselves so. Of all disparities, that
in humour makes the most unhappy marriages, yet
scarce enters into our thoughts at the contracting of
them. Several that are in this respect unequally
yoked, and uneasy for life with a person of particular
character, might have been pleased and happy with
a person of a contrary one, notwithstanding they are
both perhaps equally virtuous and laudable in their
kind.

Before marriage, we cannot be too inquisitive and
discerning in the faults of the person beloved, nor,
after it, too dim-sighted and superficial. However
perfect and accomplished the person appears to you
at a distance, you will find many blemishes and
imperfections in her humour upon a more intimate
acquaintance, which you never discovered or perhaps
suspected. Here therefore discretion and good-na-
ture are to show their strength; the first will hinder
your thoughts from dwelling on what is disagreeable,
the other will raise in you all the tenderness of com-LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 53

passion and humanity, and by degrees soften those
very imperfections into beauties.

Marriage enlarges the scene of our happiness and
miseries. A marriage of love is pleasant; a marriage
of interest easy; and a marriage where both meet,
happy. A happy marriage has in it all the pleasures
of friendship, all the enjoyments of sense and reason,
and, indeed, all the sweets of life. Nothing is a
greater mark of a degenerate and vicious age than
the common ridicule which passes on this state of life.
It is, indeed, only happy in those who can look down
with scorn or neglect on the impieties of the times,
and tread the paths of life together in a constant uni-
form course of virtue.

—

109. CAUTION IN WRITING.

I ruink myself highly obliged to the public for their
kind acceptance of a paper which visits them every
morning, and has in it none of those seasonings that
recommend so many of the writings which are in
vogue among us.

As, on the one side, my paper has not in it a single
word of news, a reflection in politics, nor a stroke of
party ; so, on the other, there are no fashionable touches
of infidelity, no obscene ideas, no satires upon priest-
hood, marriage, and the like popular topics of ridicule,
no private scandal, nor any thing that may tend to the
defamation of particular persons, families, or societies.

There is not one of those above mentioned subjects
that would not sell a very indifferent paper, could I
think of gratifying the public by such mean and base
methods. But, notwithstanding I have rejected every
thing that savours of party, every thing that is loose
and immoral, and every thing that might create un-
easiness in the minds of particular persons, I find
that the demand of my papers has increased every

c234 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

month since their first appearance in the world. This
does not perhaps reflect so much honour upon myself
as on my readers, who give a much greater attention
to discourses of virtue and morality than ever I ex-
pected or indeed could hope.

When I broke loose from that great body of writers
who have employed their wit and parts.in propagat-
ing vice and irreligion, I did not question but I
should be treated as an odd kind of fellow, that had
a mind to appear singular in my way of writing: but
the general reception I have found convinces me that
the world is not so corrupt as we are apt to imagine;
and that if those men of parts who have been em-
ployed in vitiating the age had endeavoured to rectify
and amend it, they needed not to have sacrificed their
good sense and virtue to their fame and reputation.
No man is so sunk in vice and ignorance but there
are still some hidden seeds of goodness and know-
ledge in him; which give him a relish of such reflec-
tions and speculations as have an aptness to improve

the mind and to make the heart better.

{ have shown, in a former paper, with how much
eare I have avoided allt such thoughts as are loose,
obscene, or immoral; and I believe my reader would
still think the better of me, if he knew the pains Iam
at in qualifymg what I write, after such a manner
that nothing may be interpreted as aimed at private
persons. For this reason, when I draw any faulty
eharacter, I consider all those persons to: whom the
malice of the world may possibly apply it, and take
care to dash it with such particular circumstances as
may prevent all such ill-natured applications. If I
write any thing on a black man, I run over in my
mind all the eminent persons in the nation who are
of that complexion: when I place an imaginary name
at the head of a character, 1 examine every syllable
and letter of it that it may not bear any resemblanceCAUTION IN WRITING. Or

to one that is real. I know very well the value which
every man sets upon his reputation, and how painful
it is to be exposed to the mirth and derision of the
public, and should therefore scorn to divert my reader
at the expense of any private man.

As I have been thus tender of every particular per-
son’s reputation, so I have taken more than ordinary
care net to give offence to those who appear in the
higher figures of life. I would not make myself
merry even with a piece of pasteboard that is invested
with a public character; for which reason 1 have
never glanced upon the late designed procession of
his Heliness and his attendants, netwithstanding it
might have afforded matter to many ludicrous specu-
lations*. Among those advantages which the public
may reap from this paper, it is not the least that it
draws men’s minds off from the bitterness of party,
and furnishes them with subjects of discourse that may
be treated without warmth or passion. This is said to
have been the first design of those gentlemen who se
on foot the Royal Society; and had then a very good
effect, as it turned many of the greatest geniuses of
that age to the disquisitions of natural knowledge,
who, if they had engaged in politics with the same
parts aud application, might have set their country in
a flame. The air-pump, the barometer, the quadrant,
and the like inventions, were thrown out to those busy
spirits, as tubs and barrels are to a whale, that he may
let the ship sail on without disturbance while he diverts
himseif with those imnocent amusements.

I have been so very scrupulous in this particular of

* His Holinéss and his attendants, in ali fifteen images in wax-
work, prepared for diversion on the 17th of November, being
Queen Elizabeth’s ‘birthday, fell under the displeasure of govern-
ment, and were apprehended by a secretary of state’s warrant.
The devil, one of bis Holiness’s attendants, being thought to have
a resemblance to the lord treasurer at that time, was saved from
the flames.—See Journal Letters to Stella, Swift’s Works,36 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

not hurting any man’s reputation, that I have forborne
mentioning even such authors as I could not name
with honour. This I must confess to have been a
piece of very great self-denial: for as the public
relishes nothing better than the ridicule which turns
upon a writer of any eminence, so there is nothing
which a man that has but a very ordinary talent in
ridicule may execute with greater ease. One might
raise laughter for a quarter of a year together upon
the works of a person who has published but a very
few volumes. For which reason I am astonished that
those who have appeared against this paper have made
so very little of it. The criticisms which I have
hitherto published, have been made with an intention
rather to discover beauties and excellences in the
writers of my own time, than to publish any of their
faults and imperfections. Inthe mean while, I should
take it for a very great favour from some of my under-
hand detractors, if they would break all measures with
me so far, as to give me a pretence for examining their
performances with an impartial eye: nor shall I look
upon it as any breach of charity to criticise the author,
so long as I keep clear of the person.

In the mean while, till I am provoked to such
hostilities, I shall from time to time endeavour to do
justice to those who have distinguished themselves in
the politer parts of learning, and to point out such
beauties in their works as may have escaped the ob-
servation of others.

As the first place among our English poets is due
to Milton; and as I have drawn more quotations out
of him than from any other, I shall enter into a regular
criticism upon his Paradise Lost, which I shall pub-
lish every Saturday till I have given my thoughts
upon that poem. I shall not, however, presume to
impose upon others my own particular judgment on
this author, but only deliver it as my private opinion.CAUTION IN WRITING. oe

Criticism is of a very large extent; and every parti-
cular master in this art has his favourite passages in
an author, which do not equally strike the best judges.
It will be sufficient for me if I discover many beau-
ties or imperfections which others have not attended
to; and I should be very glad to see one of our emi-
nent writers publish their discoveries on the same
subject. In short, I would always be understood to
write my papers of criticism* in the spirit which Ho-
race has expressed in those two famous lines :

—‘* Si quid novisti rectius istis,

Candidus imperti ; si non, his utere mecum.’ 1 Ep. vi. ult.

‘If you have made any better remarks of your own, communi-
cate them with candour; if not, make use of these I present
you with.’

101. FEMALE HEADDRESS.

One of the fathers, if Iam rightly informed, has de-
fined a woman to be @oov PiAoxdcpoy, an animal that
delights in finery. I have already treated of the sex
in two or three papers conformably to this definition ;
and have in particular observed, that in all ages they
have been more careful than the men to adorn that
part of the head which we generally call the outside.

This observation is so very notorious, that when in
ordinary discourse we say a man has a fine head, a
long head, or a good head, we express ourselves me-
taphorically, and speak in relation to his understand-
ing; whereas, when we say of a woman, she has a
fine, a long, or a good head, we speak only in relation
to her commode.

It is observed among birds, that nature has lavished
all her ornaments upon the male, who very often ap-
pears in a most beautiful headdress; whether it be a
crest, a comb, a tuft of feathers, or a natural little plume,
erected like a kind of pinnacle on the very top of the

* The Critical papers are omitted in this collection.38 ADDISON’S ‘ESSAYS.

head. As nature on the contrary has poured out her
charms in the greatest abundance upon the female part
of our species ; so they are very assiduous in bestowing
upon themselves the finest garnitures of art. The pea-
cock, in all his pride, does not display half the celours
that appear im the garments of a British lady, when she
is dressed either for a ball or a birthday.

But to return to our female heads. The ladies
have been for some time in a kind of moulting season
with regard to that part of their dress, having cast
great quantities of riband, lace, and cambric, and in
some measure reduced that part of the human figure
to the beautiful globular form which is natural to it.
We have for a great while expected what kind of
ornament would be substituted in the place of those
antiquated commodes. But our female projectors
were all the last summer so taken up with the im-
provement of their petticoats, that they had not time
to attend te any thing else; but, having at length suf
ficiently adorned their lower parts, they now begin to
turn their thoughts upon the other extremity, as well
remembering the old kitchen proverb, ‘that if you light
the fire at both ends, the middle will shift for itself.’

I am engaged in this speculation by a sight which
I lately met with at the opera. As I was standing in
the hinder part of a box, I took notice of a little clus-
ter of women sitting together in the prettiest coloured
hoods that I ever saw. One of them was blue, ano-
ther yellow, and another philomot; the fourth was of
a pink colour, and the fifth of a pale green. I looked
with as much pleasure upon this little party-coloured
assembly, as upon a bed of tulips, and did not know
at first whether it might not be an embassy of Indian
queens ; but upon my going about inte the pit, and
taking them in front, I was immediately undeceived,
and saw so much beauty in every face that I found
them all to be English, Such eyes and lips, cheeksFEMALE HEADDRESS. 39

and foreheads, could be the growth of no other coun-
try. The complexion of their faces hindered me from
observing any farther the colour of their hoods, though
I could easily perceive, by that unspeakable satisfac-
tion which appeared in their looks, that their own
thoughts were wholly taken up on those pretty orna-
ments they wore upon their heads.

I am informed that this fashion spreads daily, inso-
much that the whig and tory ladies begin already to
hang out different colours, and to show their princi-
ples in their headdress. Nay, if I may believe my
friend Will Honeycomb, there is a certain old co-
quette of his acquaintance, who intends to appear very
suddenly in a rainbow hood, like the Iris in Dryden’s
Virgil, not questioning but that among such a variety
of colours she shall have a charm for every heart.

My friend Will, who very much values himself
upon his great insights into gallantry, tells me, that
he can already guess at the humour a lady is in by
her hood, as the courtiers of Morocco know the dis-
position of their present emperor by the colour of the
dress which he puts on. When Melesinda wraps her
head in flame colour, her heart is set upon execution :
when she covers it with purple, I would not, says he,
advise her lover to approach her; but if she appears
in white, it is peace, and he may hand her out of her
box with safety.

Will informs me likewise, that these hoods may be
used as signals. Why else, says he, does Cornelia
always put on a black hood when her husband 1s gone
into the country?

Such are my friend Honeycomb’s dreams of gal-
lantry. For my own part, I impute this diversity of
colours in the hoods to the diversity of complexion in
the faces of my pretty countrywomen. Ovid, in his
Art of Love, has given some precepts as to this parti-
cular, though I find they are different from those

    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
   

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40 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

which prevail among the moderns. He recommends
a red striped silk to the pale complexion; white to
the brown, and dark to the fair. On the contrary, my
friend Will, who pretends to be a greater master in
this art than Ovid, tells me, that the palest features
look the most agreeable in white sarsnet; that a face
which is overflushed appears to advantage in the
deepest scarlet; and that the darkest complexion is
not a little alleviated by a black hood. In short, he
is for losing the colour of the face in that of the hood,
as a fire burns dimly, and a candle goes half out, in
the light of the sun. ‘ This,’ says he, ‘ your Ovid him-
self has hinted, where he treats of these matters, when
he tells us, that the blue water nymphs are dressed in
sky-coloured garments; and that Aurora, who always
appears in the light of the rising sun, is robed in
saffron.’

Whether these his observations are justly grounded,
I cannot tell; but I have often known him, as we
have stood together behind the ladies, praise or dis-
praise the complexion of a face which he never saw,
from observing the colour of her hood, and [he] has
been very seldom out in these his guesses.

As I have nothing more at heart than the honour
and improvement of the fair sex, I cannot conclude
this paper without an exhortation to the British ladies,
that they would excel the women of all other nations
as much in virtue and good sense, as they do in
beauty ; which they may certainly do, if they will be
as industrious to cultivate their minds as they are to
adorn their bodies. In the mean while, I shall re-
commend to their most serious consideration the say-
ing of an old Greek poet:

Foy \ f e , > Pos
VOUXb KOT [AOS O TEOTFOS, KOU KeuTin ~.

 

* RA. Vea « “ANRC - c
‘ianners, and not dress, are the ornaments of women.102. VISIT FROM SIR ROGER.

I was this morning surprised with a great knocking
at the door, when my landlady’s daughter:came up to
me, and told me that there was a man below desired
to speak with me. Upon my asking her who it was,
she told me it was a very grave elderly person, but
that she did not know his name. I immediately went
down to him, and found him to be the coachman of
my worthy friend Sir Roger de Coverley. He told
me that his master came to town last night, and would
be glad to take a turn with me in Gray’s Inn walks.
As I was wondering with myself what had brought
Sir Roger to town, not having lately received any
letter from him, he told me that his master was come
up to get a sight of Prince Eugene*, and that he
desired I would immediately meet him.

T was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the
old knight, though I did not much wonder at it, having
heard him say more than once in private discourse,
that he looked upon Prince Eugenio (for so the knight
always calls him) to be a greater man than Scanderbeg:

I was no sooner come into Gray’s Inn walks, but
I heard my friend upon the terrace hemming twice or
thrice to himself with great vigour, for he loves to
clear his pipes in good air (to make use of his own
phrase), and is not a little pleased with any one who
takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in
his morning hems.

I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the
good old man, who before he saw me was engaged
in conversation with a beggar-man that had asked an
alms of him. I could hear my friend chide him for
not finding out some work ; but at the same time saw
him put his hand in his pocket and give him sixpence.

* Prince Eugene was at this time in London, and highly caressed
by the queen, her ministry, and courtiers, though his visit was
unwished for, and unwelcome to them all.SS ee

a

—————

—————————— -

42 ADDISON’S ESSAYS,

Our salutations were very hearty on both sides,
consisting of many kind shakes of the hand, and
several affectionate looks which we cast upon one
another. After which the knight told me my good
friend his chaplain was very well, and much at my
service, and that the Sunday before he had made a
most incomparable sermon out of Dr. Barrow. ¢ I
have left,’ says he, ¢ all my affairs in his hands, and,
being willing to lay an obligation upon him, have
deposited with him thirty marks, to be distributed
among his poor parishioners.’

He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare
of Will Wimble*. Upon which he put his hand into
his fob and presented me in his name with a tobacco-
Stopper, telling me that Will had been busy all the
beginning of the winter in turning great quantities of
them; and that he made a present of one to every
gentleman in the country who has good principles,
and smokes. He added, that poor Will was at pre-
sent under great tribulation, for that Tom Touchy
had taken the law of him for cutting some hazel sticks
out of one of his hedges.

Among other pieces of news which the knight
brought from his country-seat, he informed me that
Moll White was dead, and that about a month after
her-death the wind was so very high that it blew down
the end of one of his barns. ‘ But for my own part,’
Says Sir Roger, ‘I do not think that the old woman
had any hand in it.’

He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions
which had passed in his house during the holidays ;
for Sir Roger, after the laudable custom of his ances-

* The original of this character was Mr. Thomas Morecraft, a
younger son of a baronet of that name in Yorkshire. Steele, who
knew him very early in life, introduced him to Addison, by whose
bounty he was for some years supported. At the death of this
patron, Mr. Morecraft went into Ireland to his friend the bishop of
Kildare, at whose house in Fishamble Street, Dublin, he died in

july, 1741.VISIT FROM SIR ROGER, 43
tors, always keeps open house at Christmas. I learned
from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for this
season, that he had dealt about his chines very libe-
rally amongst his neighbours, and that in particular
he had sent a string of hogs-puddings with a pack of
cards to every poor family in the parish. ‘I have
often thought,’ says Sir Roger, ‘ it happens very well
that Christmas should fall out in the middle of winter.
It is the most dead uncomfortable time of the year,
when the poor people would suffer very much from
their poverty and cold, if they had not good cheer,
warm fires, and Christmas gambols to support them.
I love to rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and
to see the whole village merry in my great hall. I
allow a double quantity of malt to my small-beer, and
set it a running for twelve days to every one that
calls for it. I have always a piece of cold beef and
a mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully
pleased to see my tenants pass away a whole evening
in playing their innocent tricks, and smutting one
another. Our friend Will Wimble is as merry as any
of them, and shows a thousand roguish tricks upon
these occasions.’

I was very much delighted with the reflection of
my old friend, which carried so much goodness in it.
He then launched out into the praise of the late act
of parliament for securing the Church of England’,
and told me, with great satisfaction, that he believed
it already began to take effect, for that a rigid dis-
senter, who chanced to dine at his house on Christ-
mas-day, had been observed to eat very plentifully of
his plum-porridge.

After having despatched all our country matters,
Sir Roger made several inquiries concerning the club,
and particularly of his old antagonist Sir Andrew
Freeport. He asked me, with a kind of smile, whe-
ther Sir Andrew had not taken advantage of his ab-

* Stat. 10 Ann. cap. 2. The act against occasional conformity.44 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

sence, to vent among them some of his republican
doctrines; but soon after gathering up his countenance
into a more than ordinary seriousness, ‘ Tell me truly,’
says he ‘ don’t you think Sir Andrew had a hand in
the pope’s procession ?’—But, without giving me time
to answer him, * Well, well,’ says he, ‘I know you
are a wary man, and do not care to talk of public
matters.’

The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince
Eugenio, and made me promise to get him a stand
in some convenient place where he might have a full
sight of that extraordinary man, whose presence does
so much honour to the British nation. He dwelt
very long on the praises of this great general; and I
found that, since I was with him im the country, he
had drawn many observations together out of his
reading ‘in Baker’s Chronicle, and other authors, who
always lie in his hall window, which very much re-
dound to the honour of this prince.

Having passed away the greatest part of the morn-
ig in hearing the knight’s reflections, which were
partly private and ‘partly political, he asked me if I
would smoke a pipe with him over a dish of coffee at
Squires’s? As I love the old man, I take a delight in
complying with every thing that is agreeable to him,
and accordingly waited on him to the coffee-house,
where his venerable figure drew upon us the eyes of
the whole room. He had no sooner seated himself at
the upper end of the high table, but he called for a
clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, a dish of coffee, a
Wax candle, and the Supplement, with such an air
of cheerfulness and good humour, that all the boys
in the coffee-room (who seemed to take pleasure in
serving him) were at once employed on his several
errands, insomuch that nobody else could come at a

dish of tea, till the knight had got all his conveniences
about him.45

103. DISSECTION OF A BEAU’S HEAD.

I was yesterday engaged in an assembly of virtuosos,
where one of them produced many curious observa-
tions which he had lately made in the anatomy of a
human body. Another of the company communicated
to us several wonderful discoveries, which he had also
made-on the same subject by the help of very fine
glasses, This gave birth to a great variety of un-
common remarks, and furnished discourse for the
remaining part of the day.

The different opinions which were started on this
occasion presented to my imagination so many new
ideas, that, by mixing with those which were already
there, they employed my fancy all the last night, and
composed a. very wild extravagant dream.

I was invited methought to the dissection of a beau’s
head and of a coquette’s heart, which were both of
them laid on a table before us. An imaginary ope-
vator opened the first with a great deal of nicety,
which, upon a cursory and superficial view, appeared
like the head of another man; but, upon applying our
glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely,
that what we looked upon as brains were not such in
reality, but a heap of strange materials wound up in
that shape and texture, and packed together with
wonderful art in the several cavities of the skull.
For, as Homer tells us that the blood of: the gods is
not real blood, but only something like it; so we
found that the brain of a beau is not a real brain, but
only somethiag like it.

The pineal gland, which many of our modern phi-
losophers suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt
very strong of essence and orange-flower water, and
was encompassed with a kind of horny substance, cut
into a thousand little faces or mirrors which were
imperceptible to the naked eye, insomuch that thea Tenge

rs!

ee ay a en ry

Dede

 

46 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

soul, if there had been any here, must have been al-
ways taken up in contemplating her own beauties.

We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sinci-
put, that was filled with ribands, lace, and embroidery,
wrought together in a most curious piece of network,
the parts of which were likewise imperceptible to the
naked eye. Another of these antrums or cavities was
stuffed with invisible billets-doux, love-letters, pricked
dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In
another we found a kind of powder, which set the
whole company a sneezing, and by the scent disco-
vered itself to be right Spanish. The several other
cells were stored with commodities of the same kind,
of which it would be tedious to give the reader an
exact inventory.

There was a large cavity on each side the head,
which I must not omit. That on the right side was
filled with fictions, flatteries, and falsehoods, vows,
promises, and protestations; that on the left, with
oaths and imprecations. There issued out a duct
from each of these cells, which ran into the root of
the tongue, where both joined together, and passed
forward in one common duct to the tip of it. We
discovered several little roads or canals running from
the ear into the brain, and took particular care to
trace them out through their several passages. One
of them extended itself to a bundle of sonnets and
little musical instruments. Others ended in several
bladders which were filled either with wind or froth.
But the large canal entered-into a great cavity of the
scull, from whence there went another canal into the
tongue. This great cavity was filled with a kind of
spongy substance, which the French anatomists call
calimatias, and the English, nonsense.

The skins of the forehead were extremely tough
and thick, and, what very much surprised us, had
not in them any single blood-vessel that we were ableDISSECTION OF A BEAU’S HEAD. 47

to discover, either with or without our glasses; from
whence we concluded, that the party when alive must
have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing.

The os cribriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and in
some places damaged, with snuff. We could not but
take notice in particular of that small muscle which
is not often discovered in dissections, and draws the
nose upwards, when it expresses the contempt which
the owner of it has, upon seeing any thing he does
not like, or hearing any thing he does not understand.
I need not tell my learned reader, this is that muscle
which performs the motion so often mentioned by the
Latin poets, when they talk of a man’s cocking his
nose, or playing the rhinoceros.

We did not tind any thing very remarkable in the
eye, Saving only that the musculi amatorii, or, as we
may translate it into English, the ogling muscles, were
very much worn and decayed with use; whereas, on
the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle which turns
the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been
used at all.

I have only mentioned in this dissection such new
discoveries as we were able to make, and have not
taken any notice of those parts which are to be met
with in common heads. As for the skull, the face,
and indeed the whole outward shape and figure of the
head, we could not discover any difference from what
we observe in the heads of other men. We were in-
formed that the person to whom this head belonged,
had passed for a man above five-and-thirty years ;
during which time he eat and drank like other people,
dressed well, talked loud, laughed frequently, and on
particular occasions had acquitted himself tolerably
at a ball or an assembly; to which one of the com-
pany added, that a certain knot of ladies took him for
a wit. He was cut off in the flower of his age by the
blow of a paring-shovel, having been surprised by an

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Cal” cage ES ke48 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

eminent citizen, as he was tendering some civilities
to his wife.

When we had thoroughly examined this head with
all its apartments, and its several kinds of furniture,
we put up the brain, such as it was, into its. proper
place, and laid it aside under a broad piece of scarlet
cloth, in order to be prepared, and kept in.a great
repository of dissections ; our operator telling us that
the preparation would not be so difficult as that of
another brain, for that he had observed several of the
little pipes and tubes which ran through the brain
were already filled with a kind of mercurial substance,
which he looked upon to be true quicksilver.

He applied himself in the next place to the co-
quette’s heart, which he likewise laid open with great
dexterity. There occurred to us many particularities
in this dissection; but, being unwilling to burthen my
reader’s memory too much, I shall reserve this subject
for the speculation of another day.

 

—

104. DISSECTION OF A COQUETTE’S HEART.

Havine already given an account of the dissection
of a beau’s head, with the several discoveries made
on that occasion*; I shall here, according to my pro-
mise, enter upon the dissection of a coquette’s heart,
and communicate to the public such particularities
as we observed in that curious piece of anatomy.

I should perhaps have waved this undertaking, had
not I been put in mind of my promise by several of
my unknown correspondents, who are very importu-
nate with me to make an example of the coquette, as
I have already done of the beau. It is therefore, in
compliance with the request of friends, that I have
looked over the minutes of my former dream, in order

* See No... 103.DISSECTION OF A COQUETTE’S HEART. 49

to give the public an exact relation of it, which I shall
enter upon without farther preface.

Our operator, before he engaged in this visionary
dissection, told us that there was nothing in his art
more difficult than to lay open the heart of a coquette,
by reason of the many labyrinths and recesses which
are to be found in it, and which do not appear in the
heart of any other animal.

Fe desired us first of all to observe the pericardium,
or outward case of the heart, which we did very at-
tentively ; and by the help of our glasses discerned
in it millions of little scars, which seemed to have
been occasioned by the points of innumerable darts
and arrows, that from time to time had glanced upon
the outward coat; though we could not discover the
smallest orifice by which any of them had entered
and pierced the inward substance.

Every smatterer in anatomy knows that this peri-
cardium, or case of the heart, contains in it a thin
reddish liquor, supposed to be bred from the vapours
which exhale out of the heart, and, being stopped
here, are condensed into this watery substance. Upon
examining this liquor, we found that it had in it all
the qualities of that spirit which is made use of in the
thermometer to show the change of weather.

Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the
company assured us he himself had made with this
liquor, which he found in great quantity about the
heart of a coquette whom he had formerly dissected.
He affirmed to us, that he had actually enclosed it
in a small tube made after the manner of a weather-
glass; but that, instead of acquainting him with the
variations of the atmosphere, it showed him the qua-
lities of those persons who entered the room where it
stood. He affirmed also, that it rose at the approach
of a plume of feathers, an embroidered coat, ora pair
of fringed gloves; and that it fell as soon as an ill
MOL. Ul, D50 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

shaped periwig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an un-
fashionable coat, came into his house. Nay, he pro-
ceeded so far as to assure us, that upon his laughing
aloud when he stood by it, the liquor mounted very
sensibly, and immediately sunk again upon his look-
ing serious. In short, he told us that he knew very
well by this invention, whenever he had a man of
sense or a coxcomb in his room.

Having cleared away the pericardium, or the case,
and liquor abovementioned, we came to the heart
itself. The outward surface of it was extremely slip-
pery, and the mucro, or point, so very cold withal,
that, upon endeavouring to take hold of it, it glided
through the fingers like a smooth piece of ice.

The fibres were turned and twisted in a more in-
tricate and perplexed manner than they are usually
found in other hearts; insomuch that the whole heart
was wound up together like a Gordian knot, and
must have had very irregular and unequal motions,
while it was employed in its vital function.

One thing we thought very observable, namely, that
upon examining all the vessels which came into it, or
issued out of it, we could not discover any communi-
cation that it had with the tongue.

We could not but take notice likewise that several
of those little nerves in the heart which are affected
by the sentiments of love, hatred, and other passions,
did not descend to this before us from the brain, but
from the muscles which lie about the eye.

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to
be extremely light, and consequently very hollow,
which I did not wonder at, when, upon looking mto
the inside of it, I saw multitudes of cells and cavities
running one within another, as our historians describe
the apartments of Rosamond’s bower. Several of these
little hollows were stuffed with innumerable sorts of
trifles, which I shall forbear giving any particularDISSECTION OF A COQUETTE’S HEART, a

account of, and shall therefore only take notice of what
lay first and uppermost, which, upon our unfolding
it, and applying our microscopes to it, appeared to be
a flame-coloured hood.

We are informed that the lady of this heart, when
living, received the addresses of several who made
love to her, and did not only give each of them en-
couragement, but made every one she conversed with
believe that she regarded him with an eye of kind-
ness; for which reason we expected to have seen the
impression of multitudes of faces among the several
plaits and foldings of the heart; but to our great
surprise not a single print of this nature discovered
itself till we came into the very core and centre of it.
We there observed a little figure, which, upon applying

ur glasses to it, appeared dressed in a very fantastic
manner. The more I looked upon it, the more I
thought I had seen the face before, but could not
possibly recollect either the place or time; when at
length one of the company, who had examined this
figure more nicely than the rest, showed us plainly
by the make of its face, and the several turns of its
features, that the little idol which was thus lodged in
the very middle of the heart was the deceased beau,
whose head I gave some account of in my last Tues-
day’s paper.

As soon as we had finished our dissection, we re-
solved to make an experiment of the heart, not being
able to determine among ourselves the nature of its
substance, which differed in so many particulars from
that in the heart of other females. Accordingly we
laid it into a pan of burning coals, when we observed
in it a certain salamandrine quality, that made it ca-
pable of living in the midst of fire and flame, without
being consumed or so much as singed.

As we were admiring this strange phenomenon,
and standing round the heart in a circle, it gave a
most prodigious sigh, or rather crack, and dispersed52 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

all at once in smoke and vapour. This imaginary
noise, which methought was louder than the burst of
a cannon, produced such a violent shake in my brain,
that it dissipated the fumes of sleep, and left me in
an instant broad awake.

105. ON THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION.

I rook upon it as a peculiar happiness, that were I
to choose of what religion I would be, and under what
government I would live, I should most certainly give
the preference to that form of religion and government
which is established in my own country. In this
point I think Iam determined by reason and convic-~
tion; butif Ishall be told that I am acted by prejudice,
I am sure it is an honest prejudice; it is a prejudice
that arises from the love of my country, and therefore
such a one as I will always indulge. I have in several
papers endeavoured to express my duty and esteem
for the church of England, and design this as an
essay upon the civil part of our constitution, having
often entertained myself with reflections on this sub-
ject, which I have not met with in other writers.

That form of government appears to me the most
reasonable, which is most conformable to the equality
that we find in human nature, provided it be consistent
with public peace and tranquillity. This is what may
properly be called liberty, which exempts one man
from subjection to another, so far as the order and
economy of government will permit.

Liberty should reach every individual of a people,
as they all share one common nature. If it only
spreads among particular branches, there had better
be none at all; since such a liberty only aggravates
the misfortune of those who are deprived of it, by
setting before them a disagreeable subject of com-
parison.

This liberty is best preserved where the legislativeON THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION. 53

power is lodged in several persons, especially if those
persons are of different ranks and interests ; for where
they are of the same rank, and consequently have an
interest to manage peculiar to that rank, it differs but
little from a despotical government in a single person.
But the greatest security a people can have for their
liberty, is when the legislative power is in the hands
of persons so happily distinguished, that, by providing
for the particular interest of their several ranks, they
are providing for the whole body of the people; or,
in other words, when there is no part of the people
that has not a common interest with at least one part
of the legislators.

If there be but one body of legislators, it is no
better than a tyranny; if there are only two, there
will want a casting voice, end one of them must ,at
length be swallowed 1p ‘by disputes and :conteriticns

that will necessarily arigehetween them. Four would

have the same inconvenience as two, and a greater
number would cause too muth ?cortfusion. Toculd
never read a passagé, in Polybias and another m
Cicero to this purpose, without a secret pleasure im”
applying it to the English constitution, which it suits
much better than the Roman. Both these great authors
give the preeminence to a mixed government, con-
sisting of three branches, the regal, the noble, and
the popular. They had doubtless in their thoughts
the constitution of the Roman commonwealth, in
which the consul represented the king; the senate,
the nobles; and the tribunes the people. This division
of the three powers in the Roman constitution was
by no means so distinct and natural as it is in the
English form of government. Among several objec-
tions that might be made to it, I think the chief are
those that affect the consular power, which had only
the ornaments without the force of the regal authority.
Their number had not a casting voice in it; for which
reason, if one did not chance to be employed abroad,Seer mae

Sad

ee

ee

Snes — a eT ee ass |

 

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

vhile the other sat at home, the public business was
sometimes at a stand, while the consuls pulled two
different ways in it. Besides, I do not find that the
consuls had ever a negative voice in the passing of a
law or decree of the senate; so that indeed they were
rather the chief body of the nobility, or the first minis-
ters of state, than a distinct branch of the sovereignty,
in which none can be looked upon as a part who are
not a part of the legislature. Had the consuls been
invested with the regal authority to as great a degree
as our monarchs, there would never have been any
occasions for a dictatorship, which had in it the power
of all the three orders, and ended in the subversion
of the whole constitution.

Such a history as that of Suetonius, which gives
us, a suecession. of absolute princes, is to me an un-
answerable argument against despotic power. Where
the pfince isa man of wisdom and virtue, it is indeed
happy, for his people that he is absolute; but since,
In tneccommon. rfin, of *hankind; for one that is wise

and good. yeu, fitid ten’ of a contrary character, it is

very dangerous for a nation to stand to its chance, or

to have its public happiness or misery depend on the
virtue or vices of a single person. Look into the his-
torian I have mentioned, or into any series of absolute
princes, how many tyrants must you read through
before you come at an emperor that is supportable !
But this is not all; an honest private man often grows
cruel and abandoned when converted into an absolute
prince. Give a man power of doing what he pleases
with impunity, you extinguish his fear, and conse-
quently overturn in him one of the great pillars of
morality. This too we find confirmed by matter of
fact. How many hopeful heirs apparent to grand
empires, when in the possession of them, have become
such monsters of lust and cruelty as are a reproach
to human nature!

Some tell us we ought to make our governmentsON THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION. 55

on earth like that in heaven, which, say they, is alto-
gether monarchical and unlimited. Was man like
his Creator in goodness and justice, I should be for
following this great model; but where goodness and
justice are not essential to the ruler, I would by no
means put myself into his hands to be disposed of
according to his particular will and pleasure.

It is odd to consider the connexion between des-
potic government and barbarity, and how the making
of one person more than man makes the rest less.
Above nine parts of the world in ten are in the lowest
state of slavery, and consequently sunk in the most
gross and brutal ignorance. European slavery is in-
deed a state of liberty if compared with that which
prevails in the other three divisions of the world; and
therefore it is no wonder that those who grovel under
it have many tracks of light among them, of which
the others are wholly destitute.

Riches and plenty are the natural fruits of liberty ;
and, where these abound, learning and all the liberal
arts will immediately lift up their heads and flourish.
As a man must have no slavish fears and apprehen-
sions hanging upon his mind, who will indulge the
flights of fancy or speculation, and push his researches
into all the abstruse corners of truth; so it is neces-
sary for him to have about him a competency of all
the conveniences of life.

The first thing every one looks after is, to provide
himself with necessaries. This point will engross our
thoughts till it be satisfied. If this is taken care of to
our hands, we look out for pleasures and amusements ;
and, among a great number of idle people, there will
be many whose pleasures will lie in reading and con-
templation. These are the two great sources of know-
ledge, and as men grow wise they naturally love to
communicate their discoveries; and others seeing the
happiness of such a learned life, and improving by56 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

their conversation, emulate, imitate, and surpass one
another, till a nation is filled with races of wise and
understanding persons. Ease and plenty are there-
fore the great cherishers of knowledge: and as most
of the despotic governments of the world have neither
of them, they are naturally overrun with ignorance
and barbarity. In Europe, indeed, notwithstanding
several of its princes are absolute, there are men
famous for knowledge and learning: but the reason
is, because the subjects are many of them rich and
wealthy, the prince not thinking fit to exert himself in
his full tyranny like the princes of the eastern nations,
lest his subjects should be invited to new mould their
constitution, having so many prospects of liberty within
their view. But in all despotic governments, though
a particular prince may favour arts and letters, there
is a natural degeneracy of mankind; as you may
observe, from Augustus’s reign, how the Romans lost
themselves by degrees till they fell to an equality with
the most barbarous nations that surrounded them.
Look upon Greece under its free states, and you
would think its inhabitants lived in different climates,
and under different heavens, from those at present:
so different are the geniuses which are formed under
Turkish slavery and Grecian liberty.

Besides poverty and want, there are other reasons
that debase the minds of men who live under slavery,
though I look on this as the principal. This natural
tendency of despotic power to ignorance and barbarity,
though not insisted upon by others, is, I think, an
unanswerable argument against that form of govern-
ment, as it shows how repugnant it is to the good of
mankind and the perfection of human nature, which
ought to be the great ends of all civil institutions.OF
106. THE BILLS OF MORTALITY.

Upon taking my seat in a coffee-house, I often draw
the eyes of the whole room upon me, when in the hot-
test seasons of news; and, at a time perhaps thatthe
Dutch mail is just come in, they hear me ask the
coffee-man for his last week’s bill of mortality. I find
that I have been sometimes taken on this occasion for
a parish sexton, sometimes for an undertaker, and
sometimes for a doctor of physic. In this, however,
I am guided by the spirit of a philosopher, as I take
occasion from hence to reflect upon the regular increase
and diminution of mankind, and consider the several
various ways through which we pass from life to
eternity. JI am very well pleased with these weekly
admonitions, that bring into my mind such thoughts
as ought to be the daily entertainment of every rea-
sonable creature ; and can consider with pleasure to
myself, by which of those deliverances, or, as we com-
monly call them, distempers, I may possibly make my
escape out of this world of sorrows, into that condi-
tion of existence wherein I hope to be happier than it
is possible for me at present to conceive.

But this is not all the use I make of the above
mentioned weekly paper. A bill of mortality is, in
my opinion, an unanswerable argument for a Provi-
dence. How can we, without supposing ourselves
under the constant care of a Supreme Being, give any
possible account for that nice proportion which we
find in every great city, between the deaths and births
of its inhabitants, and between the number of males
and that of females who are brought into the world ?
What else could adjust in so exact a manner the
recruits of every nation to its losses, and divide these
new supplies of people into such equal bodies of both
sexes ? Chance could never hold the balance with so
steady a hand. Were we not counted out by an intel-
D2ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

ligent supervisor, we should be sometimes overcharged
with multitudes, and at others waste away into a de-
sert: we should be sometimes a populus virorum, as
Florus elegantly expresses it, a generation of males,
and at others a species of women. We may extend
this consideration to every species of living creatures,
and consider the whole animal world as a huge army
made up of innumerable corps, if I may use that term,
whose quotas have been kept entire near five thou-
sand years, in so wonderful a manner, that there is
not probably a single species lost during this long
tract of time. Could we have general bills of mortality
of every kind of animal, or particular ones of every
species in each continent and island, I could almost
say in every wood, marsh, or mountain, what asto-
nishing instances would there be of that Providence
which watches over all its works!

I have heard of a great man in the Romish church,
who upon reading those words in the fifth chapter of
Genesis, ‘ And all the days that Adam lived were nine
hundred and thirty years, and he died; and all the
days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years, and
he died; and all the days of Methuselah were nine
hundred and sixty-nine years, and he died ;’ imme-
diately shut himself up in a convent, and retired from
the world, as not thinking any thing in this life worth
pursuing which had not regard to another.

The truth of it is, there is nothing in history which
is SO improving to the reader, as those accounts which
we meet with of the deaths of eminent persons, and
of their behaviour in that dreadful season. I may
also add, that there are no parts in history which
affect and please the reader in so sensible a manner.
The reason I take to be this; because there is no other
single circumstance in the story of any person which
can possibly be the case of every one who reads it.
A battle or a triumph are conjunctures in which notTHE BILLS OF MORTALITY. 59

ene man in a million is likely to be engaged ; but
when we see a person at the point of death, we cannot
forbear being attentive to every thing he says or does,
because we are sure that some time or other we shall
ourselves be in the same melancholy circumstances.
The general, the statesman, or the philosopher, are
perhaps characters which we may never act in, but
the dying man is one whom sooner or later we shall
certainly resemble.

It is perhaps for the same kind of reason, that few
books written in English have been so much perused
as Dr. Sherlock’s Discourse upon Death; though at
the same time I must own, that he who has-not
perused this excellent piece has not perhaps read one
of the strongest persuasives to a religious life that was
ever written in any language.

The consideration with which I shall close this essay
upon death, is one of the most ancient and most beaten
morals that has been recommended to mankind. But
its being so very common, and so universally received,
though it takes away from it the grace of novelty,
adds very much to the weight of it, as it shows that it
falls in with the general sense of mankind. In short,
I would have every one to consider that he is in this
life nothing more than a passenger, and that he is not
to set up his rest here, but to keep an attentive eye
upon that state of being to which he approaches every
moment, and which will be for ever fixed and per-
manent. This single consideration would be sufficient
to extinguish the bitterness of hatred, the thirst of
avarice, and the cruelty of ambition.

I am very much pleased with the passage of Anti-
phanes, a very ancient poet, who lived near a hundred
years before Socrates, which represents the life of man
under this view, as I have here translated it word for
word. ‘ Be not grieved,’ says he, ‘ above measure for
thy deceased friends. They are not dead, but haveLA

IA AD

og enemas erg SEAS AT

SS A

perenne ae

 

 

   

60 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

only finished that journey which it is necessary for
every one of us to take. We ourselves must go to
that great place of reception in which they are all of
them assembled, and in this general rendezvous of
mankind live together in another state of being.’

I think I have in a former paper taken notice of
those beautiful metaphors in scripture, where life is
termed a pilgrimage, and those who pass through it
are all called strangers and sojourners upon earth. I
shall conclude this with a story, which I have some-
where read in the travels of Sir John Chardin. That
gentleman, after having told us that the inns which
receive the caravans, in Persia and the eastern coun-
tries, are called by the name of caravansaries, gives
us a relation to the following purpose.

A dervise travelling through Tartary, being arrived
at the town of Balk, went into the king’s paince by
mistake, as thinking it to be a public inn, or caravan-
sary. Having looked about him for some time, he
entered into a long gallery, where he laid down his
wallet, and spread his carpet, in order to repose him-
self upon it, after the manner of the eastern nations.
He had not been long in this posture before he was
discovered by some of the guards, who asked him
what was his business in that place? The dervise told
them he intended to take up his night’s lodging in
that caravansary. The guards let him know, in a very
angry manner, that the house he was in was not a
caravansary, but the king’s palace. It happened that
the king himself passed through the gallery during
this debate, and, smiling at the mistake of the dervise,
asked him how he could possibly be so dull as not to
distinguish a palace from a caravansary? ‘ Sir,’ says
the dervise, ‘ give me leave to ask your majesty a
question or two. Who were the persons that lodged
in this house when it was first built?” The king re-
plied, ‘ His ancestors.’ ‘ And who,’ says the dervise,THE BILLS OF MORTALITY. 61

“was the last person that lodged here?’ The king
replied, ‘ His father.’ And who is it,’ says the der-
vise, ‘that lodges here at present?’ The king told
him, that it was he himself. ‘And who,’ says the
dervise, ‘ will be here after you?’ The king answered,
‘The young prince his son.’ ‘ Ah, sir,’ said the der-
vise, ‘a house that changes its inhabitants so often,
and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, is
not a palace, but a caravansary.’

os

107. PRUDENCE AND GOOD FORTUNE.

Tue famous Gracian, in his ttle book wherein he
lays down maxims for a man’s advancing himself at
court, advises his reader to associate himself with the
fortunate, and to shun the company of the unfortunate ;
which, notwithstanding the baseness of the precept to
an honest mind, may have something useful in it for
those who push their interest in the world. It is cer-
tain, a great part of what we call good or ill fortune
rises out of right or wrong measures and schemes of
life. When I hear a man complain of his being un-
fortunate in all his undertakings, I shrewdly suspect
him for a very weak man in his affairs. In conformity
with this way of thinking, Cardinal Richelieu used to
say, that unfortunate and imprudent were but two
vords for the same thing. As the cardinal himself had
a great share both of prudence and good fortune, his
famous antagonist, the Count d’Olivares, was dis-
graced at the court of Madrid, because it was alleged
against him that he had never any success in his
undertakings. This, says an eminent author, was
indirectly accusing him of imprudence.

Cicero recommended Pompey to the Romans for
their general upon three accounts, as he was a man of
courage, conduct, and good fortune. It was, perhaps,
for the reason above mentioned, namely, that a series

 
 
 
 
 
 

ee eens

RR Seeroe aR TES

62 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

of good fortune supposes a prudent management in the
person whom it befalls, that not only Sylla the dicta-
tor, but several of the Roman emperors, as is still to
be seen upon their medals, among their other titles
gave themselves that of Felix, or Fortunate. The
heathens indeed seem to have valued a man more for
his good fortune than for any other quality, which I
think is very natural for those who have not a strong
belief of another world. For how can I conceive a
man crowned with many distinguishing blessings that
has not some extraordinary fund of merit and perfec-
tion in him, which lies open to the Supreme eye,
though perhaps it is not discovered by my observa-
tion? What is the reason Homer’s and Virgil’s heroes
do not form a resolution or strike a blow without the
conduct and direction of some deity? Doubtless,
because the poets esteemed it the greatest honour to
be favoured by the gods, and thought the best way of
praising a man was, to recount those favours which
naturally imphed an extraordinary merit in the person
on whom they descended.

Those who believe a future state of rewards and
punishments, act very absurdly if they form their
opinions of a man’s merit from his successes. But
certainly, if I thought the whole circle of our being
was concluded between our births and deaths, I
should think a man’s good fortune the measure and
standard of his real merit, since Providence would
have no opportunity of rewarding his virtue and per-
fections but in the present life. A virtuous unbeliever,
who lies under the pressure of misfortunes, has reason
to cry out, as they say Brutus did a little before his
death: ‘O virtue, I have worshiped thee as a sub-
stantial good, but I find thou art an empty name.’

But to return to our first point. Though Prudence
does undoubtedly in a great measure produce our
good or ill fortune in the world, it is certain there arePRUDENCE AND GOOD FORTUNE. 63

many unforeseen accidents and occurrences which
very often pervert the finest schemes that can be laid
by human wisdom. ‘The race is not always to the
swift, nor the battle to the strong.’ Nothing less
than Infinite Wisdom can have an absolute command
over fortune ; the highest degree of it which man can
possess is by no means equal to fortuitous events,
and to such contingences as may rise in the prosecu-
tion of our affairs. Nay, it very often happens that
prudence, which has always in it a great mixture of
caution, hinders a man from being so fortunate as he
might possibly have been without it. A person who
only aims at what is likely to succeed, and follows
closely the dictates of human prudence, never meets
with those great and unforeseen successes, which are
often the effect of a sanguine temper or a more happy
rashness ; and this perhaps may be the reason that,
according to the common observation, Fortune, like
other females, delights rather in favouring the young
than the old.

Upon the whole, since man is so short-sighted a
creature, and the accidents which may happen to him
so various, I cannot but be of Dr. Tillotson’s opinion
in another case, that were there any doubt of a Pro-
vidence, yet it certainly would be very desirable there
should be such a Being of infinite wisdom and good-
ness, on whose direction we might rely in the conduct
of human life.

It is a great presumption to ascribe our successes
to our own management, and not to esteem ourselves
upon any blessing, rather as it is the bounty of heaven
than the acquisition of our own prudence. I am very
well pleased with a medal whicn was struck by Queen
Elizabeth, a little after the defeat of the invincible
armada, to perpetuate the memory of that extraordi-
nary event. It is well known how the king of Spain,
and others who were the enemies of that great prin-ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

cess, to derogate from her glory, ascribed the ruin of
their fleet rather to the violence of storms and tem-
pests than to the bravery of the English. Queen
Elizabeth, instead of looking upon this as a diminu-
tion of her honour, valued herself upon such a signal
favour of Providence, and accordingly you see in the
reverse of the medal above mentioned, has represented
a fleet beaten by a tempest, and falling foul upon one
another, with that religious inscription, ‘ Afflavit
Deus, et dissipantur ;’ ‘ He blew with his wind, and
they were scattered.’

It is remarked of a famous Grecian general, whose
name I cannot at present recollect*, and who had
been a particular favourite of Fortune, that, upon
recounting his victories among his friends, he added at
the end of several great actions, ‘ And in this Fortune
had no share.’ After which, it 1s observed in history
that he never prospered in any thing he undertook.

As arrogance and a conceitedness of our own abi-
lities are very shocking and offensive to men of sense
and virtue, we may be sure they are highly displeasing
to that Being who delights in an humble mind, and by
several of his dispensations seems purposely to show
us, that our own schemes, or prudence, have no share
in our advancement.

Sinee on this subject I have already admitted seve-
ral quotations, which have occurred to my memory
upon writing this paper, I will conclude it with a
little Persian fable.—A drop of water fell out of a
cloud into the s2a, and finding itself lost in such an
immensity of fluid matter, broke out into the following
reflection: ‘ Alas! What an inconsiderable creature
am I in this prodigious ocean of waters! My exist-
ence is of no concern to the universe; I am reduced
to a kind of nothing, and am less than the least of
the works of God.’ It so happened that an oyster,

* Timotheus the Athenian.PRUDENCE AND GOOD FORTUNE. 65

which lay in the neighbourhood of this drop, chanced
to gape and swallow it up in the midst of this his
humble soliloquy. The drop, says the fable, lay a
great while hardening in the shell, till by degrees it
was ripened into a pearl, which falling into the hands
of a diver, after a long series of adventures, is at pre-
sent that famous pearl which is fixed on the top of
the Persian diadem.

 

108. ON PINMONEY.
‘MR. SPECTATOR,

‘I'am turned of my great climacteric, and am natu-
rally aman of a meek temper. About a dozen years
ago I was married, for my sins, to a young woman of a
good family and of a high spirit; but could not bring
her to close with me before I had entered into a treaty
with her longer than that of the grand alliance.
Among other articles, it was therein stipulated that
she should have four hundred pounds a year for pin-
money, which I obliged myself to pay quarterly into
the hands of one who acted as her plenipotentiary in
that affair. I have ever since religiously observed
my part in this solemn agreement. Now, sir, so it
is, that the lady has had several children since I mar-
ried her; to which, if I should credit our malicious
neighbours, her pinmoney has not a little contributed.
The education of these my children, who, contrary to
my expectation, are born to me every year, straitens
me so much that I have begged their mother to free
me from the obligation of the above mentioned pin-
money, that it may go towards making a provision
for her family. This proposal makes her noble blood
swell in her veins, insomuch that, finding me a little
tardy in her last quarter’s payment, she threatens me
every day to arrest me; and proceeds so far as to tell
me, that if I do not do her justice, I shall die in aADDISON’S ESSAYS.

jail. To this she adds, when her passion will let her
argue calmly, that she has several play debts on her
hand, which must be discharged very suddenly, and
that she cannot lose her money as becomes a woman
of her fashion if she makes me any abatements in this
article. I hope, sir, you will take an occasion from
hence to give your opinion upon a subject which you
have not yet touched, and inform us if there are any
precedents for this usage among our ancestors; or
whether you find any mention of pinmoney in Gro-
tius, Puffendorff, or any other of the civilians.
‘T am ever the humblest of your admirers,
‘JosraH Frippxe, Esq.’

As there is no man living who is a more professed
advocate for the fair sex than myself, so there is none
that would be more unwilling to invade any of their
ancient rights and privileges; but as the doctrine of
pinmoney is of a very late date, unknown to our great
grandmothers, and not yet received by many of our
modern ladies, I think it is for the interest of both
sexes to keep it from spreading.

Mr. Fribble may not perhaps be much mistaken
where he intimates, that the supplying a man’s wife
with pinmoney is furnishing her with arms against
himself, and in a manner becoming accessary to his
own dishonour. We may indeed generally observe,
that in proportion as a woman is more or less beau-
tiful, and her husband advanced in years, she stands
in need of a greater or less number of pins, and, upon
a treaty of marriage, rises or falls in her demands
accordingly. It must likewise be owned, that high
quality in a mistress does very much inflame this
article in the marriage reckoning.

But where the age and circumstances of both par-
ties are pretty much upon a level, I cannot but think
the insisting upon pinmoney is very extraordinary ;ON PINMONEY. 67

and yet we find several matches broken off upon this
very head. What would a foreigner, or one who is a
stranger to this practice, think ofa lover that forsakes
his mistress because he is not willing to keep her in
pins! But what would he think of the mistress, should
he be informed that she asks five or six hundred
pounds a year for this use! Should a man, unac-
quainted with our customs, be told the sums which
are allowed in Great Britain under the title of pin-
money, what a prodigious consumption of pins would
he think there was in this island? ‘A pin a day,’
says our frugal proverb, ‘is a groat a year;’ so that,
according to this calculation, my friend Fribble’s wife
must every year make use of eight millions six hun-
dred and forty thousand new pins.

I am not ignorant that our British ladies allege they
comprehend under this general term several other con-
veniences of life; I could therefore wish, for the ho-
nour of my countrywomen, that they had rather called
it needle-money, which might have implied some-
thing of good housewifery, and not have given the
malicious world occasion to think that dress and
trifles have always the uppermost place in a woman’s
thoughts.

I know several of my fair reasoners urge, in defence
of this practice, that it is but a necessary provision
they make for themselves in case their husband proves
a churl or a miser; so that they consider this allow-
ance as a kind of alimony which they may lay their
claim to without actually separating from their hus-
bands. But, with submission, I think a woman who
will give up herself to a man in marriage, where there
is the least room for such an apprehension, and trust
her person to one whom she will not rely on for the
common necessaries of life, may very properly be ac-
cused (in the phrase of a homely proverb) of being
‘penny wise and pound foolish.’ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

It is observed of overcautious generals, that they
never engage in a battle without securing a retreat in
case the event should not answer their expectations ;
on the other hand, your greatest conquerors have
burnt their ships, and broke down the bridges behind
them, as being determined either to succeed or die
in the engagement. In the same manner I should
very much suspect a woman who takes such precau-
tions for her retreat, and contrives methods how she
may live happily, without the affection of one to
whom she joms herself for life. Separate purses be-
tween man and wife are, in my opinion, as unnatural
as separate beds. A marriage cannot be happy where
Hl the pleasures, inclinations, and interests of both par-

t ties are not the same. There is no greater incitement
to love in the mind of man than the sense of a person’s
depending upon him for her ease and happiness; as
a woman uses all her endeavours to please the person
whom she looks upon as her honour, her comfort, and
her support.

For this reason I am not very much surprised at
the behaviour of a rough country squire, who, being
| not a little shocked at the proceeding of a young
widow that would not recede from her demands of
pinmoney, was so enraged at her mercenary temper,
Pi i that he told her in great wrath, ‘As much as she
thought him her slave, he would show all the world
he did not care a pin for her.’ Upon which he flew
out of the room, and never saw her more.

Socrates, in Plato’s Alcibiades, says, he was in-
formed by one who had travelled through Persia,
that as he had passed over a great tract of land, and
inquired what the name of the place was, they told
him it was the Queen’s Girdle: to which he adds,
that another wide field, which lay by it, was called the
Queen’s Veil ; and that in the same manner there was
a large portion of ground set aside for every part of

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aeON PINMONEY. 69

her majesty’s dress. These lands might not be im-
properly called the Queen of Persia’s pinmoney.

I remember my friend Sir Roger, who, I dare say,
never read this passage in Plato, told me some time
since, that upon his courting the perverse widow (of
whom I have given an account in former papers), he
had disposed of a hundred acres in a diamond ring,
which he would have presented her with had she
thought fit to accept it: and that, upon her wedding-
day, she should have carried on her head fifty of the
tallest oaks upon his estate. He farther informed me,
that he would have given her a coal-pit to keep her
in clean linen, that he would have allowed her the
profits of a windmill for her fans, and have presented
her once in three years with the shearing of his sheep
for her under-petticoats. To which the knight always
adds, that though he did not care for fine clothes
himself, there should not have been a woman in the
country better dressed than my Lady Coverley. Sir
Roger, perhaps, may in this, as well as in many other
of his devices, appear something odd and singular;
but if the humour of pinmoney prevails, I think it
would be very proper for every gentleman of an

estate to mark out so many acres of it under the title
of.* Fhe: Pins?

109. MISERIES OF UNEQUAL MARRIAGE.

Ir is observed, that a man improves more by reading
the story ofa person eminent for prudence and virtue,
than by the finest rules and precepts of morality. In
the same manner a representation of those calamities
and misfortunes which a weak man suffers from wrong
measures and ill concerted schemes of life, is apt to
make a deeper impression upon our minds than the
wisest maxims and instructions that can be given us
for avoiding the like follies and indiscretions in our= SET ES s

 

—naeitcnaeemie septa iirntoateneseetimte seh na tee enn RS AT

SE

   
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  

70 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

own private conduct. It is for this reason that I lay
before my reader the following letter, and leave it
with him to make his own use of it, without adding
any reflections of my own upon the subject matter.

‘MR. SPECTATOR,
‘ Havine carefully perused a letter sent you by Josiah
Fribble, Esq. with your subsequent discourse upon
pinmoney, I do presume to trouble you with an ac-
count of my own case, which I look upon to be no
less deplorable than that of Squire Fribble. I ama
person of no extraction, having begun the world with
a small parcel of rusty iron, and was for some years
commonly known by the name of Jack Anvil. I have
naturally a very happy genius for getting money, in-
somuch that by the age of five and twenty I had
scraped together four thousand two hundred pounds
five shillings and a few odd pence. I then launched
out into considerable business, and became a bold
trader both by sea and land, which in a few years
raised me a very great fortune. For these my good
services I was knighted in the thirty-fifth year of my
age, and lived with great dignity among my city
neighbours by the name of Sir John Anvil. Being
in my temper very ambitious, I was now bent upon
making a family, and accordingly resolved that my
descendants should have a dash of good blood in their
veins. In order to this I made love to the Lady Mary
Oddly, an indigent young woman of quality. To cut
short the marriage treaty, I threw her a carte blanche,
as our newspapers call it, desiring her to write upon
it her own terms. She was very concise in her de-
mands, insisting only that the disposal of my fortune
and the regulation of my family should be entirely in
her hands. Her father and brothers appeared ex-
tremely averse to this match, and would not see me
for some time; but at present are so well reconciled,MISERIES OF UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. a1

that they dine with me almost every day, and have
borrowed considerable sums of me; which my Lady
Mary very often twits me with, when she would show
me how kind her relations are to me. She had no
portion, as I told you before ; but what she wanted in
fortune she makes up in spirit. She at first changed
my name to Sir John Enville, and at present writes
herself Mary Enville. I have had some children by
her, whom she has christened with the surnames of
her family, in order, as she tells me, to wear out the
homeliness of their parentage by the father’s side.
Our eldest son is the honourable Oddly Enville, Esq.
and our eldest daughter Harriet Enville. Upon her
first coming into my family, she turned off a parcel of
very careful servants, who had been long with me,
and introduced in their stead a couple of blacka-
moors, and three or four very genteel fellows in laced
liveries, besides her French woman, who is perpetu-
ally making a noise in the house in a language which
nobody understands except my Lady Mary. She
next set herself to reform every room of my house,
having glazed all my chimney-pieces with looking-
glass, and planted every corner with such heaps of
china, that I am obliged to move about my own house
with the greatest caution and circumspection, for fear
of hurting some of our brittle furniture. She makes
an illumination once a week with wax candles in one
of the largest rooms, in order, as she phrases it, to
see company ; at which time she always desires me
to be abroad, or to confine myself to the cockloft,
that I may not disgrace her among her visitants of
quality. Her footmen, as I told you before, are such
beaus that I do not much care for asking them ques-
tions ; when I do, they answer me with a saucy frown,
and say that every thing which I find fault with was
done by my Lady Mary’s order. She tells me that
she intends they shall wear swords with their next

WERE ee nes recat sionsSs A I

a ae eerie

 

 

 

—— rr a = . —

NT

 

 

72 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

liveries, having lately observed the footmen of two or
three persons of quality hanging behind the coach
with swords by their sides. As soon as the first ho-
neymoon was over, I represented to her the unrea-
sonableness of those daily innovations which she made
in my family; but she told me I was no longer to
consider myself as Sir John Anvil, but as her hus-
band; and added, with a frown, that I did not seem
to know who she was. _ I was surprised to be treated
thus, after such familiarities as had passed between
us. but she has since given me to know, that what-
ever freedoms she-may sometimes indulge me in, she
expects in general to be treated with the respect that
is due to her birth and quality. Our children have
been trained up from their infancy with so many ac-
counts of their mother’s family, that they know the
stories of all the great men and women it has pro-
duced. Their mother tells them that such a one
commanded in such a sea engagement; that their
ereat-grandfather had a horse shot under him at Edge
Hill; that their uncle was at the siege of Buda; and
that her mother danced in a ball at court with the
Duke of Monmouth; with abundance of fiddlefaddle
of the same nature. I was the other day a little out
of countenance at a question of my little daughter
Harriet, who asked me with a great deal of innocence
why I never told them of the generals and admirals
that had been in my family. As for my eldest son
Oddly, he has been so spirited up by his mother, that
if he does not mend his manners I shall go near to
disinherit him. He drew his sword upon me before
he was nine years old, and told me that he expected
to be used like a gentkeman: upon my offering to
correct him for his insolence, my Lady Mary stepped
in between us, and told me that I ought to consider
there was some difference between his mother and
mine. She is perpetually finding out the features ofMISERIES OF UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. Ps
her own relations in every one of my children, though,
by the way, I have a little chub-faced boy as like me
as he can stare, if I durst say so: but what most angers

me, when she sees me playing with any of them upon

my knee, she has begged me more than once to con-.

verse with the children as little as possible, that they
may not learn any of my awkward tricks.

‘You must farther know, since I am opening my
heart to you, that she thinks herself my superior in
sense as much as she is in quality, and therefore treats
me like a plain well meaning man who does not know
the world. She dictates to me in my own business,
Sets me right in point of trade, and, if I disagree with
her about any of my ships at sea, wonders that I will
dispute with her, when I know very well that her
great-grandfather was a flag officer.

“To complete my sufferings, she has teased me for
this quarter of a year last past, to remove into one of
the squares at the other end of the town, promising
for my encouragement that I shall have as good a
cockloft as any gentleman in the square ; to which
the Honourable Oddly Enville, Esq. always adds,
like.a jackanapes as he is, that he hopes it will be as
near the court as possible.

“In short, Mr. Spectator, I am so much out of my
natural element, that, to recover my old way of life, I
would be content to begin the world again, and be
plain Jack Anvil: but, alas! I am in for life, and am
bound to subscribe myself, with great sorrow of heart,

‘Your humble servant,
‘Joun Envitie, Kw,’

 

110. SIR ROGER AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me the other

night, that he had been reading my paper upon

Westminster Abbey, in which, says he, there are a
VOL. If. E

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74 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

great many ingenious fancies. He told me at the
same time, that he observed I had promised another
paper upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to
xo and see them with me, not having visited them since
he had read history. I could not, at first, imagine how
this came into the knight’s head, till I recollected that
he had been very busy all last summer upon Baker’s
Chronicle, which he has quoted several times in his
disputes with Sir Andrew Freeport since his last
coming to town. Accordingly I promised to call upon
him the next morning, that we might go together to
the abbey.

I found the knight under his butler’s hands, who
always shaves him. Ile was no sooner dressed, than he
called for a glass of the widow Trueby’s water, which
he told me he always drank before he went abroad.
He recommended to me a dram of it at the same time,
with so much heartiness, that I could not forbear
drinking it. As soon as I had got it down, I found
it very unpalatable ; upon which the knight, observing
that | had made several wry faces, told me that he
knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the
best thing in the world against the stone or gravel.

I could have wished indeed that he had acquainted
me with the virtues of it sooner; btt it was too late
to complain, and I knew what he had done was out
of good will. Sir Roger told me farther, that he
looked upon it to be very good for a man whilst he
stayed in town, to keep off infection, and that he got
together a quantity of it upon the first news of the
sickness being at Dantzic: when of a sudden turning
short to one of his servants, who stood behind him,
he bid him call a hackney-coach, and take care it was
an elderly man that drove it.

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Trueby’s
water, telling me that the widow Trueby was one who
did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries
in the county; that she distilled every poppy thatSIR ROGER AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY. KO

grew within five miles of her; that she distributed
her water gratis among all sorts of people: to which
the knight added, that she had a very great jointure,
and that the whole country would fain have it a match
between him and hers ‘and truly,’ says Sir Roger,
‘if I had not been engaged, perhaps I could not have
done better.’

His discourse was broken off by his man’s telling
him he had called a coach. Upon our going to it,
after having cast his eye upon the wheels, he asked
the coachman if his axletree was good: upon the
fellow’s telling him he would warrant it, the knight
turned to me, told me he looked like an honest man,
and went in without farther ceremony.

We had not gone far when Sir Roger, popping out
his head, called the coachman down from his box,
and, upon his presenting himself at the window, asked
him if he smoked. As I was considering what this
would end in, he bid him stop by the way at any good
tobacconist’s, and take in a roll of their best Virginia.
Nothing material happened in the remaining part of
our journey, till we were set down at the west end of
the abbey.

As we went up the body of the church, the knight
pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monu-
ments, and cried out, ‘ A brave man, I warrant him!’
Passing afterwards by Sir Cloudsley Shovel,-he flung
his hand that way, and cried, ¢ Sir Cloudsley Shovel!
a very gallant man.’ As we stood before Busby’s
tomb, the knight uttered himself again after the same
manner: ‘ Dr. Busby! a great man: he whipped my
grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone
to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead: a very
great man!’

We were immediately conducted into the little
chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger, planting him-
self at our historian’s elbow, was very attentive toRNA RE OOP nar om

tt!

Fn in

ee rs a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

76 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

every thing he said, particularly to the account he
gave us of the lord who had cut off the King of Mo-
rocco’s head. Among several other figures, he was
very well pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his
knees; and, concluding them all to be great men, was
conducted to the figure which represents that martyr
to good housewifery who died by the prick ofa needle.
Upon our interpreter’s telling us that she was a maid
of honour to Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very
inquisitive into her name and family; and, after
having regarded her finger for some time, ‘I wonder,’
says he, ‘ that Sir Richard Baker has said nothing of
her in his Chronicle.’

We were then conveyed to the two coronation
chairs, where my old friend, after having heard that
the stone underneath the most ancient of them, which
was brought from Scotland, was called Jacob’s pillar,
sat himself down in the chair; and, looking like the
figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter
what authority they had to say that Jacob had ever
been in Scotland? The fellow, instead of returning
him an answer, told him that he hoped his honour
would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a
little ruffled upon being thus trepanned; but our
guide not insisting upon his demand, the knight
soon recovered his good humour, and whispered in
my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw
those two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a
tobacco stopper out of one or t’other of them.

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon
Edward the Third’s sword, and, leaning upon the
pommel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black
Prince; concluding, that, in Sir Richard Baker’s
opinion, Edward the Third was one of the greatest
princes that ever sat upon the English throne.

We were then shown Edward the Confessor’s tomb 5
upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was theSIR ROGER AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY. ¢

first who touched for the evil: and afterwards Henry
the Fourth’s ; upon which he shook his head, and told
us there was fine reading in the casualties of that reign.

Our conductor then pointed to that monument
where there is the figure of one of our English kings
without a head; and upon giving us to know, that
the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen
away several years since; ‘ Some whig, I’ll warrant
you,’ says Sir Roger; ‘ you ought to lock up your
kings better; they will carry off the body too, if you
don’t take care.’

The glorious names of Henry the Fifth and Queen
Elizabeth gave the knight great opportunities of
shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Baker,
who, as our knight observed with some surprise, had
a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had
not seen in the abbey.

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see
the knight show such an honest passion for the glory
of his country, and such a respectful gratitude to the
memory of its princes.

I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good
old friend, which flows out towards every one he con-
verses with, made him very kind to our interpreter,
whom he looked upon as an extraordinary man: for
which reason he shook him by the hand at parting,
telling him, that he should be very glad to see him at
his lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over these
matters with him more at leisure.

~“

111. SIR ROGER AT THE THEATRE.

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met
together at the club, told me that he had a great mind
to see the new tragedy* with me, assuring me at the
same time that he had not been at a play these twenty
* The Distressed Mother, by Ambrose Phillips.RRA AAP Ae DE AOC

 

 

 

 

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

years. ‘The last I saw,’ said Sir Roger, ‘ was The
Committee *, which I should not have gone to neither,
had not I been told beforehand that it was a good
church of England comedy.’ He then proceeded to
inquire of me who this distressed mother was; and,
upon hearing that she was Hector’s widow, he told
me that her husband was a brave man, and that when
he was a schoolboy, he had read his life at the end
of the dictionary. My friend asked me, in the next
place, if there would not be some danger in coming
home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad.
‘J assure you,’ says he, ‘1 thought I had fallen into
their hands last night; for I observed two or three
lusty black men that followed me half way up Fleet
Street, and mended their pace behind me in propor-
tion as I put on to get away from them. You mast
know,’ continued the knight with a smile, ‘ I fancied
they had a mind to hunt me; for I remember an
honest gentleman in my neighbourhood, who was
served such a trick in King Charles the Second’s
time, for which reason he has not ventured himself
in town ever since. E might have shown them very
good sport, had this been their design; for as I am
an old fox-hunter, I should have turned and dodged,
and have played them a thousand tricks they had
never seen in their lives before.’ Sir Roger added,
that ‘if these gentlemen had any such intention, they
did not succeed very well in it; for I threw them out,’
says he, ‘at the end of Norfolk Street, where I doubled
the corner and got shelter in my lodgings before they
could imagine what was become of me. However,’
says the knight, ‘if Captain Sentry will make one
with us to-morrow night, and you will both of you
call upon me about four o’clock, that we may be at
the house before it is full, I will have my own coach

* Com. by Sir Robert Howard; intended to throw an odium on
the party called Roundheads, and their proceedings.SIR ROGER AT THE THEATRE. 79

in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has
got the fore wheels mended.’

The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at
the appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for
that he had put on the same sword which he made
use of at the battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger’s servants,
and among the rest my old friend the butler, had, 1
found, provided themselves with good oaken plants,
to attend their master upon this occasion. When we
had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left
hand, the captain before him, and his butler at the
head of his footmen in the rear, we convoyed him in
safety to the playhouse, where, after having marched
up the entry in good order, the captain and I went
in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit.
As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted,
my old friend stood up, and looked about him with
that pleasure which a mind seasoned with humanity
naturally feels in itself, at the sight of a multitude of
people who seemed pleased with one another, and
partake of the same common entertainment. I could
not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in
the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper
centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of
Pyrrhus, the knight told me that he did not believe
the King of France himself had a better strut. I was
indeed very attentive to my old friend’s remarks,
because I looked upon them as a piece of natural
criticism, and was well pleased to hear him, at the
conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he
could not imagine how the play would end. One
while he appeared much concerned for Andromache;
and a little while after, as much for Hermione; and
was extremely puzzled to think what would become
of Pyrrhus.

When Sir Roger saw Andromache’s obstinate re-
fusal to her lover’s importunities, he whispered me= = at ay 2 mr
Sap he at RE RAR

 

 

 

 

   

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19 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

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in the ear, that he was sure she never would have
him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary
vyehemence, ‘ You can’t imagine, sir, what it is to have
to do with a widow.’ Upon Pyrrhus his threatening
afterwards to leave her, the knight shook his head
and muttered to himself, ‘ Ay, do if you can.’ This
part dwelt so much upon my friend’s imagination,
that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking of
something else, he whispered me in my ear, ‘ These
widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in the
world. But pray,’ says he, ‘ you that are a critic, is
the play according to your dramatic rules, as you call
them? Should your people in tragedy always talk to
be understood? Why, there is not a single sentence
in this play that I do not know the meaning of.’

The fourth act very luckily began before I had time
to give the old gentleman an answer. ‘ Well,’ says
the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, ‘ I
suppose we are now to see Hector’s ghost.’ He then
renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a
praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mis-
take as to one of her pages, whom at his first entering
he took for Astyanax; but quickly set himself right
in that particular, though, at the same time, he owned
he should have been very glad to have seen the little
boy, who, says he, must needs be avery fine child by the
account that is given of him. Upon Hermione’s going
off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a
loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, ‘ On my word,
a notable young baggage !’

As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness
in the audience during the whole action, it was natural
for them to take the opportunity of the intervals be-
tween the acts to express their opinion of the players,
and of their respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing a
cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them,
and told them that he thought his friend Pylades wasSIR ROGER AT THE THEATRE. 81

a very sensible man. As they. were afterwards ap-~
plauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time.
* And let me tell you,’ says he, ‘ though he speaks
but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as
any of them.’ Captain Sentry, seeing two or three
wags who sat near us lean with an attentive ear to-
wards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke
the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered
something in his ear that lasted till the opening of the
fifth act. The knight was wonderfully attentive to
the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus his death,
and, at the conclusion of it, told me it was such a
bloody piece of work that he was glad it was not
done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in
his raving fit, he grew more than ordinarily serious,
and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an
evil conscience, adding, that Orestes in his madness
looked as if he saw something.

As we were the first that came into the house, so
we were the last that went out of it; being resolved
to have a clear passage for our old friend, whom we
did not care to venture among the justling of the
crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his
entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodging in
the same manner that we brought him to the play-
house; being highly pleased, for my own part, not
only with the performance of the excellent piece which
had been presented, but with the satisfaction which
it had given to the good old man.

 

112. TRANSMIGRATION OF SOULS.

Wixt Uoneycoms, who loves to show upon occasion
all the little learning he has picked up, told us yes-
terday at the club, that he thought there might be a
great deal said for the transmigration of souls, and
that the eastern parts of the world believed in that
E 2Se

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

82 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

doctrine to this day. ‘ Sir Paul Ryecaut,’ says he,
‘ gives us an account of several well disposed Maho-
metans that purchase the freedom of any little bird
they see confined to a cage, and think they merit as
much by it as we should do here by ransoming any
of our countrymen from their captivity at Algiers.
You must know,’ says Will, ‘ the reason is, because
they consider every animal as a brother or sister in
disguise, and therefore think themselves obliged to
extend their charity to them, though under such mean
circumstances. They’ll tell you,’ says Will, ‘ that the
soul of a man, when he dies, immediately passes into
the body of another man, or of some brute, which he
resembled in his humour or his fortune, when he was
one of us.’

As I was wondering what this profusion of learn-
ing would end in, Will told us that ‘ Jack Freelove,
who was a fellow of whim, made love to one of those
ladies who throw away all their fondness on parrots,
monkeys, and lapdogs. Upon going to pay her a
visit one morning, he writ a very pretty epistle upon
this hint. Jack,’ says he, ‘ was conducted into the
parlour, where he diverted himself for some time with
her favourite monkey, which was chained in one of
the windows; till at length observing a pen and ink
lie by him, he writ the following letter to his mistress
in the person of the monkey; and, upon her not
coming down so soon as he expected, left it in the
window, and went about his business.

‘The lady soon after coming into the parlour, and
seeing her monkey look upon a paper with great
earnestness, took it up, and to this day is in some
doubt,’ says Will, ‘ whether it was written by Jack,
or the monkey.’

‘ MADAM,

‘ Nor having the gift of speech, I have a long time
waited in vain for an opportunity of making myselfTRANSMIGRATION OF SOULS. 83

Known to you; and having at present the conve-
niences of pen, ink, and paper by me, I gladly take
the occasion of giving you my history in writing, which
I could not do by word of mouth.” You must know,
madam, that about a thousand years ago I was an
Indian Brachman, and versed in all those mysterious
secrets which your European philosopher, called Py-
thagoras, is said to have learned from our fraternity.
I had so ingratiated myself, by my great skill in the
occult sciences, with a demon whom I used to con-
verse with, that he promised to grant me whatever I
should ask ef him. I desired that my soul might
never pass into the body of a brute creature; but this,
he told me, was not in his power to grant me. I then
begged, that, into whatever creature I should chance
to transmigrate, I should still retain my memory, and
be conscious that I was the same person who lived
in different animals. This, he told me, was within
his power, and accordingly promised, on the word of
a demon, that he would grant me what I desired.
From that time forth I lived so very unblamably,
that I was made president of the college of Brachmans,
an office which I discharged with great integrity till
the day of my death.

‘I was then shuffled into another human body, and
acted my part so very well in it, that I became first
minister to a prince who reigned upon the banks of
the Ganges. I here lived in great honour for several
years, but by degrees lost all the innocence of the
Brachman, being obliged to rifle and oppress the
people to enrich my sovereign; till at length I became
so odious, that my master, to recover his credit with
his subjects, shot me through the heart with an arrow,
as I was one day addressing myself to him at the head
of his army.

‘Upon my next remove, I found myself in the
woods under the shape of a jackal, and soon listed

 

   
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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84 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

myself in the service of a lion. I used to yelp near
his den about midnight, which was his time of rousing
and seeking after prey. He always followed me in
the rear, and when I had run down a fat buck, a wild
goat, or a hare, after he had: feasted very plentifully
upon it himself, would now and then throw me a bone
that was but half picked for my encouragement; but
upon my being unsuccessful in two or three chases,
he gave me such a confounded gripe in his anger that
I died of it.

‘In my next transmigration, I was again set upon
two legs, and became an Indian tax-gatherer ; but
having been guilty of great extravagances, and being
married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran so
cursedly in debt, that I durst not show my head. I
could no sooner step out of my house but I was
arrested by somebody or other that lay in wait for
me. As I ventured abroad one night in the dusk of
the evening, I was taken up and hurried into a dun-
geon, where I died a few months after.

‘ My soul then entered into a flying fish, and in
that state led a most melancholy life for the space of
six years. Several fishes of prey pursued me when I
was in the water; and if I betook myself to my wings,
it was ten to one but I had a flock of birds aiming at
me. As I was one day flying amidst a fleet of English
ships, I observed a huge sea-gull whetting his bill,
and hovering just over my head: upon my dipping
into the water to avoid him, I fell into the mouth of
a monstrous shark, that swallowed me down in an
instant.

“T was some years afterwards, to my great surprise,
an eminent banker in Lombard Street; and remem-
bering how I had formerly suffered for want of money,
became so very sordid and avaricious that the whole
town cried shame of me. I was a miserable little old
fellow to look upon; for I had im a manner starvedTRANSMIGRATION OF SOULS. 85

myself, and was nothing but skin and bone when I
died.

‘I was afterwards very much troubled and amazed
to find myself dwindled into anemmet. I was heartily
concerned to make so insignificant a figure, and did
not know but some time or other I might be reduced
to a mite if I did not mend my manners. I therefore
applied myself with great diligence to the offices that
were allotted to me, and was generally looked upon
as the notablest ant in the whole molehill. I was at
last picked up, as I was groaning under a burthen,
by an unlucky cock-sparrow that lived in the neigh-
bourhood, and had before made great depredations
upon our commonwealth.

‘ I then bettered my condition a little, and lived a
whole summer in the shape of a bee; but being tired
with the painful and penurious life I had undergone
in my two last transmigrations, I fell into the other
extreme, and turned drone. As I one day headed a
party to plunder a hive, we were received so warmly
by the swarm which defended it, that we were most
of us left dead upon the spot.

‘I might tell you of many other transmigrations
which I went through: how I was a town rake, and
afterwards did penance in a bay gelding for ten years;
as also how I was a tailor, a shrimp, and a tomtit.
In the last of these my shapes I was shot in the
Christmas holidays by a young jackanapes, who
would needs try his new gun upon me.

‘ But I shall pass over these and several other stages
of life, to remind you of the young beau who made
love to you about six years since. You may remem-
ber, madam, how he masked, and danced, and sung,
and played a thousand tricks to gain you; and how
he was at last carried off by a cold that he got under
your window one night in a serenade. I was that
unfortunate young fellow whom you were then so

   
     

ESSERE ce

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

RET AT EN86 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

eruel to. Not long after my shifting that unlucky
body, I found myself upon a bill in A’thiopia, where
I lived in my present grotesque shape, till I was caught
by a servant of the English factory, and sent over into
Great Britain. I need not inform you how I came
into your hands. You see, madam, this is not the
first time that you have had me in a chain: I am,
however, very happy in this my captivity, as you
often bestow on me those kisses and caresses which
I would have given the world for when I was a man.
I hope this discovery of my person will not tend to
my disadvantage, but that you will still continue your
accustomed favours to
‘ Your most devoted humble servant,
‘ Puce.

‘P.S. I would advise your little shock-dog to keep
out of my way; for as I look upon him to be the most
formidable of my rivals, I may chance one time or
other to give him such a snap as he won’t like.’

 

113. CONSOLATION IN DEATH.

I am very much pleased with a consolatory letter of
Phalaris, to one who had lost a son that was a young
man of great merit. The thought with which he com-
forts the afflicted father is, to the best of my memory,
as follows. That he should consider death had set a
kind of seal upon his son’s character, and placed him
out of the reach of vice and infamy: that, while he
lived, he was still within the possibility of falling
away from virtue, and losing the fame of which he
was possessed *. Death only closes a man’s reputa-
tion, and determines it as good or bad.
This, among other motives, may be one reason why
* “Yea speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should alter

his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul—The Lord hath set
him in safety,’ &c.—Wisdom, iv. Il, & seq.CONSOLATION IN DEATH. 87

we are naturally averse to the launching out into a
man’s praise till his head is laid in the dust. Whilst
he is capable of changing, we may be forced to retract
our opinions. He may forfeit the esteem we have
conceived of him, and some time or other appear to
us under a different light from what he does at present.
In short, as the life of any man cannot be called happy
or unhappy, so neither can it be pronounced vicious
or virtuous, before the conclusion of it.

It was upon this consideration that Epaminondas,
being asked whether Chabrias, Iphicrates, or he him-
self, deserved most to be esteemed? ¢ You must first
see us die,’ said he, ‘before that question can be
answered.’

As there is not a more melancholy consideration
to a good man than his being obnoxious to such a
change, so there is nothing more glorious than to
keep up a uniformity in his actions, and to preserve
the beauty of his character to the last.

The end of a man’s life is often compared to the
winding up of a well written play, where the princi-
pal persons still act in character, whatever the fate is
which they undergo. There is scarce a great person
in the Grecian or Roman history, whose death has
not been remarked upon by some writer or other, and
censured or applauded according to the genius or
principles of the person who has descanted on it.
Monsieur de St. Evremond is very particular in set-
ting forth the constancy and courage of Petronius
Arbiter during his last moments, and thinks he dis-
covers in them a greater firmness of mind and resolu-
tion than in the death of Seneca, Cato, or Socrates.
There is no question but this polite author’s affecta-
tion of appearing singular in his remarks, and making
discoveries which had escaped the observation of
others, threw him into this course of reflection. It
was Petronius’s merit, that he died in the same gaiety

  

 

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88 ADDISON'S ESSAYS;

of temper in which he lived; but as his life was alto-
gether loose and dissolute, the indifference which he
showed at the close of it is to be looked upon as a
piece of natural carelessness and levity, rather than
fortitude. The resolution of Socrates proceeded from
very different motives, the consciousness of a well
spent life, and the prospect of a happy eternity. If
the ingenious author above mentioned was so pleased
with gaiety of humour in a dying man, he might have
found a much nobler instance of it in our countryman
Sir Thomas More.

This great and learned man was famous for enliven-
ing his ordinary discourses with wit and pleasantry ;
and, as Erasmus tells him in an epistle dedicatory,
acted in all parts of life like a second Democritus.

He died upon a point of religion, and is respected
as a martyr by that side for which he suffered. That
innocent mirth, which had been so conspicuous in his
life, did not forsake him to the last. He maintained
the same cheerfulness of heart upon the scaffold which
he used to show at his table; and, upon laying his
head on the block, gave instances of that good humour
with which he had always entertained his friends in
the most ordinary.occurrences. His death was of a
piece with his life. There was nothing in it new,
forced, or affected. He did not look upon the severing
his head from his body as a circumstance that ought
to produce any change in the disposition of his mind ;
and as he died under a fixed and settled hope of im-
mortality, he thought any unusual degree of sorrow
and concern improper on such an occasion, as had
nothing in it which could deject or terrify him.

There is no great danger of imitation from this
example. Men’s natural fears will be a sufficient
guard against it. I shall only observe, that what
was philosophy in this extraordinary man, would be
frenzy in one who does not resemble him as well inCONSOLATION IN DEATH, 89

the cheerfulness of his temper as in the sanctity of
his life and manners.

I shall conclude this paper with the instance of a
person who seems to me to have shown more intre-
pidity and greatness of soul in his dying moments
than what we meet with among any of the most
celebrated Greeks and Romans. I met with this in-
stance in the History of the Revolutions in Portugal,
written by the abbot de Vertot.

When Don Sebastian, king of Portugal, had
invaded the territories of Muli Moluc, emperor of
Morocco, in order to dethrone him, and set his crown
upon the head of his nephew, Moluc was wearing
away with a distemper which he himself knew was
incurable. However, he prepared for the reception
of so formidable an enemy. He was indeed so far
spent with his sickness, that he did not expect to
live out the whole day, when the last decisive battle
was given; but knowing the fatal consequences that
would happen to’his children and people, in case he
should die before he put an end to the war, he com-
manded his principal officers, that if he died during
the engagement, they should conceal his death from
the army, and that they should ride up to the litter in
which his corpse was carried, under pretence of re-
ceiving orders from him as usual. Before the battle
began, he was carried through all the ranks of his
army.in an open litter, as they stood drawn up in
array, encouraging them to fight valiantly in defence
of their religion and country. Finding afterwards
the battle to go against him, though he was very near
his last agonies, he threw himself out of his litter,
rallied his army, and led them on to the charge;
which afterwards ended in a complete victory on the
side of the Moors. He had no sooner brought his
men to the engagement, but, finding himself utterly
spent, he was again replaced in his litter, where, lay-SL

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Sam AP

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90 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

ing his finger on his mouth to enjoin secrecy to his
officers who stood about him, he died a few moments
a‘ter in that posture.

114. FORBEARANCE TO OUR ENEMIES.

I nave been very often tempted to write invectives
upon those who have detracted from my works, or
spoken in derogation of my person; but I look upon
it as a particular happiness, that I have always hin-
dered my resentments from proceeding to this extre-
mity. I once had gone through half a satire, but
found so many motions of humanity rising in me
towards the persons whom I had severely treated,
that I threw it into the fire without ever finishing it.
I have been angry enough to make several little epi-
grams and lampoons; and, after having admired
them a day or two, have likewise committed them to
the flames. These I look upen as so many sacrifices
to humanity, and have received much greater satis-
faction from the suppressing of such performances,
than I could have done from any reputation they
might have procured me, or from any mortification
they might have given my enemies, in case I had
made them public. Ifa man has any talent in writ-
ing, it shows a good mind to forbear answering
calumnies and reproaches in the same spirit of bitter-
ness with which they are offered. But when.a man
has been at some pains in making suitable returns to
an enemy, and has. the instruments of revenge in his
hands, to let drop his wrath, and stifle his resentments,
seems to have something in it great and heroical.
There is a particular merit in such a way of forgiving
au enemy; and the more violent and unprovoked the
offence has been, the greater still is the merit of him
who thus forgives it.

I never met with a consideration that is more finelyFORBEARANCE TO OUR ENEMIES. 91

spun, and what has better pleased me, than one in
Epictetus, which places an enemy in a new light, and
gives us a view of him altogether different from that
in which we are used to regard him. The sense of
it is as follows: ‘ Does a man reproach thee for being
proud or ill-natured, envious or conceited, ignorant
or detracting? Consider with thyself whether his
Treproaches are true. If they are not, consider that
thou art not the person whom he reproaches, but that
he reviles an imaginary being, and perhaps loves
what thou really art, though he hates what thou
appearest to be. If his reproaches are true, if thou
art the envious ill-natured man he takes thee for, give
thyself another turn, become mild, affable, and
obliging, and his. reproaches.of thee naturally cease.

His reproaches may indeed continue, but thou art no.

longer the person whom he reproaches.’

I often apply this rule to myself; and when I hear
of a satirical speech or writing that is aimed at me,
I examine my own heart whether I deserve it or not.
If I bring in a verdict against myself, I endeavour to
rectify my conduct for the future in those particulars
which have drawn the censure upon me; but if the
whole invective be grounded upon a falsehood, I
trouble myself no farther about it, and look upon my
name at the head of it to signify no more than one of
those fictitious names made use of by an author to
introduce an imaginary character. Why should a
man be sensible of the sting of a reproach, who is a
Stranger to the guilt that is implied in it? or subject
himself to the penalty, when he knows he has never
committed the crime? This is a piece of fortitude
which every one owes to his own innocence, and
without which it is impossible for a man of any merit
or figure to live at peace with himself, in a country
that abounds with wit and liberty.

The famous Monsieur Balzac, in a letter to the chan-se aa

 

92 ADDISON’S. ESSAYS.

cellor of France, who had: prevented the publication
of a book against him, has the following words, which
are a lively picture of the greatness of mind so visible
in the works of that author: ‘ If it was a new thing,
it may be I should not be displeased with the sup-
pression of the first libel that should abuse me; but
since there are enough of them to make a small library,
I am secretly pleased to see the number increased,
and take delight in raising a heap of stones that envy
has cast at me without doing me any harm.’

The author here alludes to those monuments of the
eastern nations, which were mountains of stones raised
upon the dead bodies by travellers, that used to cast
every one his stone upon it as they passed by. It is
certain that no monument is so glorious as one which
is thus raised by the hands of envy. For my part, I
admire an author for such a temper of mind as enables
him to bear an undeserved reproach without resent-
ment, more than for all the wit of any the finest
satirical reply.

Thus far I thought necessary to explain myself in
relation to those who have animadverted on this paper,
and to show the reasons why I have not thought fit to
return them any formal answer. I must farther add,
that the work would have been of very little use to the
public, had it been filled with personal reflections and
debates; for which reason I have never once turned
out of my way to observe those little cavils which
have been made against it by envy or ignorance. The
common fry of scribblers, who have no other way of
being taken notice of but by attacking what has gained
some reputation in the world, would have furnished
me with business enough, had they found me dis-
posed to enter the lists with them.

I shall conclude with the fable of Boccalini’s tra-
veller, who was so pestered with the noise of grass-
hoppers in his ears, that he alighted from his horse inFORBEARANCE TO OUR ENEMIES. 93

great wrath to kill them all. ‘ This,’ says the author,
* was troubling himself to no manner of purpose. Had
he pursued his journey without taking notice of them,
the troublesome insects would have died of themselves
in a very few weeks, and he would have suffered no-
thing from them.’

 

115. INDUSTRY ENCOURAGED BY PRINTING.

I nave often pleased myself with considering the two
kinds of benefits which accrue to the public from these
my speculations, and which, were I to speak after the
manner of logicians, I would distinguish into the ma-
terial and the formal. By the latter I understand those
advantages which my readers receive, as their minds
are either improved or delighted by these my daily
labours ; but having already several times descanted
on my endeavours in this light, I shall at present
wholly confine myself to the consideration of the for-
mer. By the word material, I mean those benefits
which arise to the public from these my speculations,
as they consume a considerable quantity of our paper
manufacture, employ our artisans in printing, and find
business for great numbers of indigent persons.

Our paper manufacture takes into it several mean
materials which could be put to no other use, and
affords work for several hands in the collection of
them which are incapable of any other employment.
Those poor retailers, whom we see so busy in every
street, deliver in their respective gleanings to the mer-
chant. The merchant carries them in loads to the
paper-mill, where they pass through a fresh set of
hands, and give life to another trade. Those who
have mills on their estates by this means considerably
raise their rents, and the whole nation is in a great
measure supplied with a manufacture, for which
formerly she was obliged to her neighbours.94 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

The materials are no sooner wrought into paper;
but they are distributed among the presses, where
they again set innumerable artists at work, and furnish
business to another mystery. From hence, accordingly
as they are stained with news or politics, they fly
through the town in Postmen, Postboys, Daily Cou-
rants, Reviews, Medleys, and Examiners. Men, wo-
men, and children contend who shall be the first
bearers of them, and get their daily sustenance by
spreading them. In short, when I trace in my mind a
bundle of rags to a quire of Spectators, I find so many
hands employed in every step they take through their
whole progress, that while I am writing a Spectator,
I fancy myself providing bread for a multitude.

If I do not take care to obviate some of my witty
readers, they will be apt to tell me that my paper, thus
printed and published, is still beneficial to the public
on several occasions. I must confess I have lighted
my pipe with my own works for this twelvemonth past.
My landlady often sends up her little daughter to
desire some of my old Spectators, and has frequently
told me, that the paper they are printed on is the best
in the world to wrap spice in. They likewise make
a good foundation for a mutton pie, as | have more
than once experienced, and were very much sought
for last Christmas by the whole neighbourhood.

It.is pleasant enough to consider the changes that
a linen fragment undergoes by passing through the
several hands above mentioned. The finest pieces of
Holland, when worn to tatters, assume a new white-
ness more beautifal than the first, and often return in
the shape of letters to their native country. A lady’s
shift may be metamorphosed into billets-doux, and
come into her possession a second time. A beau may
peruse his cravat after it is worn out, with greater
pleasure and advantage than ever he did in a glass.
In a word, a piece of cloth, after having officiated forINDUSTRY-ENCOURAGED BY PRINTING. 95

some years as a towel or napkin, may by this means
be raised from a dunghill, and become the most valu-
able piece of furniture in a prince’s cabinet.

The politest nations of Europe have endeavoured to
vie with one another for the reputation of the finest
printing. Absolute governments, as well as republics,
have encouraged an art which seems to be the noblest
and most beneficial that was ever invented among the
sons of men. The present king of France, in his pur-
Suits after glory, has particularly distinguished himself
by the promoting of this useful art, insomuch that
several books have been printed in the Louvre at his
Own expense, upon which he sets so great a value,
that he considers them as the noblest presents he can
make to foreign princes and ambassadors. If we look
into the commonwealths of Holland and Venice, we
shall find that in this particular they have made them-
selves the envy of the greatest monarchies. Elzevir
and Aldus are more frequently mentioned than any
pensioner of the one or doge of the other.

The several presses which are now in England, and
the great encouragement which has been given to learn-
ing for some years last past, has made our own nation
as glorious upon this account, as for its late triumphs
and conquests. The new edition which is given us
of Cesar’s Commentaries *, has already been taken
notice of in foreign gazettes, and is a work that does
honour to the English press. It is no wonder that an
edition should be very correct, which has passed
through the hands of one of the most accurate, learned,
and judicious writers this age has produced. The
beauty of the paper, of the character, and of the seve-
ral cuts with which this noble work is illustrated,
makes it the finest book that I have ever seen; and
is a true instance of the English genius, which, though
it does not come the first into any art, generally carries
* Published about this time in folio, by Dr. Samuel Clarke.

soba oa ananiaia a edo

   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

*ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

it to greater heights than any other country in the
world. Iam particularly glad that this author comes
from a British printing-house in so great a magnifi-
cence, as he is the first who has-given us any tolerable
account of our country.

My illiterate readers, if any such there are, will be
surprised to hear me talk of learning as the glory of
a nation, and of printing as an art that gains a repu-
tation to a people among whom it flourishes. When
men’s thoughts are taken up with avarice and ambi-
tion, they cannot look upon any thing as great or valu-
able, which does not bring with it an extraordinary
power or interest to the person who is concerned in it.
But as I shall never sink this paper so far as to engage
with Goths and Vandals, I shall only regard such
kind of reasoners with that pity which is due to so
deplorable a degree of stupidity and ignorance.

116. JOCULAR SELECTION OF COMPANY.

I sHALL communicate to my reader the following
letter for the entertainment of this day.

“SIR,
‘You know very well that our nation is more famous
for that sort of men who are called “whims” and
‘‘ humourists,” than any other country in the world;
for which reason it is observed, that our English
comedy excels that ofall other nations in the novelty
and variety of its characters.

‘Among those innumerable sets of whims which
our country produces, there are none whom I have
regarded with more curiosity than those who have
invented any particular kind of diversion for the
entertainment of themselves or their friends. My
letter shall single out those who take delight in sorting
a company that has something of burlesque and ridi-JOCULAR SELECTION OF COMPANY, O7

cule in its appearance. I shall make myself under-
stood by the following example. One of the wits of
the last age, who was a man of a good estate*, thought
he never laid out his money better than in a jest: as
he was one year at the Bath, observing that, in the
great confluence of fine people, there were several
among them with long chins, a part of the visage b
which he himself was very much distinguished, he
invited to dinner half a score of these remarkable
persons who had their mouths in the middle of their
faces. They had no sooner placed themselves about
the table, but they began to stare wpon one another,
not being able to imagine what had brought them
together. Our English proverb says,

‘Tis merry in the hall,

When beards wag all,’
It proved so in the assembly I am now speaking of?
who seeing so many peaks of faces agitated with eat-
ing, drinking, and discourse, and observing all the
chins that were present meeting together very often
over the centre of the table, every one grew sensible
of the jest, and came into it with so much good hu-
mour, that they lived in strict friendship and alliance
from that day forward.

‘The same gentleman some time after packed to-
gether a set of oglers, as he called them, consisting
of such as had an unlucky cast in their eyes. His
diversion on this occasion was to see the cross bows,
mistaken signs, and wrong connivances, that passed
amidst so many broken and refracted rays of sight.

“The third feast which this merry gentleman ex-
hibited was to the stammerers, whom he got together
in a sufficient body to fill his table. He had ordered
one of his servants, who was placed behind a screen,
to write down their table-talk, which was very easy to

* Villiers, the last duke of Buckingham.
VOLE, £1, EFSRT TT 7

 

 

 

98 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

be done without the help of short-hand. It appears
by the notes which were taken, that though their con-
versation never fell, there were not above twenty
words spoken during the first course ; that, upon
serving up the second, one of the company was a
quarter of an hour in telling them that the ducklings
and asparagus were very good; and that another took
up the same time in declaring himself of the same
opinion. This jest did not, however, go off so well as
the former; for one of the guests being a brave man,
and fuller of resentment than he knew how to express,
went out of the room, and sent the facetious inviter a
challenge in writing, which, though it was afterwards
dropped by the interposition of friends, put a stop to
these ludicrous entertainments.

‘Now, sir, I dare say you will agree with me, that
as there is no moral in these jests, they ought to be
discouraged, and looked upon rather as pieces of
unluckiness than wit. However, as it is natural for
one man to refine upon the thought of another, and
impossible for any single person, how great soever
his parts may be, to invent an art, and bring it to its
utmost perfection; I shall here give you an account
of an honest gentleman of my acquaintance, who,
upon hearing the character of the wit above men-
tioned, has himself assumed it, and endeavoured to
convert it to the benefit of mankind. He invited half
a dozen of his friends one day to dinner, who were
each of them famous for inserting several redundant
phrases in their discourse, as, ‘* D’ye hear me ?—
D’ye see?—That is,—And so, sir.’”’ Each of his
guests making frequent use of his particular elegance,
appeared so ridiculous to his neighbour, that he could
not but reflect upon himself as appearing equally
ridiculous to the rest of the company. By this means,
before they had sat long together, every one, talking
with the greatest circumspection, and carefully avoid-JOCULAR SELECTION OF COMPANY. 99

o

ing his favourite expletive, the conversation was Ha
cleared of its redundances, and had a greater quan- i
tity of sense, though less of sound in it. Ha

‘The same well meaning gentleman took occasion, Hal
at another time, to bring together such of his friends
as were addicted to a foolish habitual custom of
swearing. In order to show them the absurdity of
the practice, he had recourse to the invention above- H|
mentioned, having placed an amanuensis in a private Bs!
part of the room. After the second bottle, when men Fi
open their minds without reserve, my honest friend f |
began to take notice of the many sonorous but unne- Hi
cessary words that had passed in his house since their
sitting down at table, and how much good conversa=
tion they had lost by giving way to such superfluous
phrases. ‘* What a tax,” says he, “ would they have
raised for the poor, had we put the laws in execution
upon one another!” Every one of them took this
gentle reproof in good part ; upon which he told them,
that, knowing their conversation would have no secrets
in it, he had ordered it to be taken down in writing,
and, for the humour sake, would read it to them, if
they pleased. There were ten sheets of it, which
might have been reduced to two, had there not been
those abominable interpolations I have before men-
tioned. Upon the reading of it in cold blood, it looked i a
rather like a conference of fiends than of men. In i ag!
short, every one trembled at himself upon hearing |
calmly what he had pronounced amidst the heat and
inadvertency of discourse.

‘I shall only mention another occasion wherein he
made use of the same invention to cure a different
kind of men, who are the pests of all polite conver-
sation, and murder time as much as either of the two
former, though they do it more innocently; I mean,
that dull generation of storytellers. My friend got
together about half a dozen of his acquaintance, who

ee adie

—

Ja aS Sasa100 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

were infected with this strange malady. The first
day, one of them sitting down, entered upon the siege
of Namur, which lasted till four o’clock, their time
of parting. The second day a North Briton took
possession of the discourse, which it was impossible
to get out of his hands so long as the company stayed
together. The third day was engrossed after the same
manner by a story of the same length. They at last
began to reflect upon this barbarous way of treating
one another, and by this means awakened out of that
lethargy with which each of them had been seized for
several years.

‘ As you have somewhere declared, that extraordi-
nary and uncommon characters of mankind are the
game which you delight in, and as I look upon you
to be the greatest sportsman, or, if you please, the
Nimrod among this species of writers, I thought this
discovery would not be unacceptable to you.

‘Tam, sir, &c.’

 

117. CHEERFULNESS AND MIRTH.

I wave always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The
latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of
the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness
fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into
the greatest transports of mirth who are subject to the
greatest depressions of melancholy. On the contrary,
cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such
an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into
any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of light-
ning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and
glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind
of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and
perpetual serenity.

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too
wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and asCHEERFULNESS AND MIRTH. 101

filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart
that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment
obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this
complexion have observed, that the Sacred Person
who was the great pattern of perfection was never
seen to laugh.

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these
exceptions ; it is of a serious and composed nature ;
it does not throw the mind into a condition improper
for the present state of humanity, and is very conspi-
cuous in the characters of those who are looked upon
as the greatest philosophers among the heathens, as
well as among those who have been deservedly es-
teemed as saints and holy men among Christians.

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with
regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and
to the great Author of our being, it will not a little
recommend itself on each of these accounts. The
man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind
is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master
of all the powers and faculties of the soul. His
imagination is always clear, and his judgment undis-
turbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in
action or in solitude. He comes with a relish to all
those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes
all the pleasures of the creation which are poured
about him, and does not feel the full weight of those
accidental evils which may befall him,

If we consider him in relation to the persons whom
he converses with, it naturally produces love and
good will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only
disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the
same good humour in those who come within its in-
fluence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not
know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion.
It is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret
delight in the mind, without her attending to it. TheADDISON’S ESSAYS.

heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows
out into friendship and benevolence towards. the
person who has so kindly an effect upon it.

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its
third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant
habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An
inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanks-
giving to Providence under all its dispensations. It
is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are
placed, and a secret approbation of the divine will in
his conduct towards man.

There are but two things which, in my opinion,
can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart.
The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who
lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no
title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind which
is the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue
and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves
a harder name than language can furnish us with,
and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call
folly or madness.

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme
Being, and consequently of a future state, under
whatsoever titles it shelters itself, may likewise very
reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of
temper. There is something so particularly gloomy
and offensive to human nature in the prospect of non-
existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many ex-
cellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive
the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the
being of a God is so little to. be doubted, that it is
almost the only truth we are sure of, and such a truth
as we meet with in every object, in every occurrence,
and in every thought. If we look into the characters
of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they are
made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It is indeed
no wonder, that men who are uneasy to themselves,CHEERFULNESS AND MIRTH. 163

should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it
possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in
himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his
entire existence, and dropping into nothing ?

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no
pretence to cheerfulness, and would act very unrea-
sonably should they endeavour after it. It is impos-
sible for any one to live in good humour, and enjoy
his present existence, who is apprehensive either of
torment or of annihilation; of being miserable, or of
not being at all.

After having mentioned these two great principles;
which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own
nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of
any other that ought to banish this happy temper
from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame
and reproach, poverty and old age, nay death itself,
considering the shortness of their duration, and the
advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve
the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under
them with fortitude, with indolence, and with cheer-
fulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not
discompose him, which he is sure will bring him toa
joyful harbour.

A man who uses his best endeavours to live accord-
ing to te dictates of virtue and right reason has two
perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration
of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has
a dependance. If he looks into himself, he cannot
but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed
upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be
still new, and still in its beginning. How many self
congratulations naturally arise in the mind, when it
reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes
a view of those improveable faculties which in a few
years, and even at its first setting out, have made so

considerable a progress, and which will be still re-

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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104 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

ceiving an increase of perfection, and consequently
an increase of happiness! The consciousness of such
a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through
the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon
himself every moment as more happy than he knows
how to conceive.

- The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind
is its consideration of that Being on whom we have
our dependance, and in whom, though we behold
him as yet but in the first fait discoveries of his per-
fections, we see every thing that we can imagine as
great, glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves every-
where upheld by his goodness, and surrounded with
animmensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend
upon a Being, whose power qualifies him to make us
happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and
truth engage him to make those happy who desire it
of him, and whose unchangeableness will secure us
in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should per-
petually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us
all that secret heaviness of heart which unthinking
men are subject to when they lie under no real afflic-
tion; all that anguish which we may feel from any
evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise
add those little cracklings of mirth and folly that are
apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish
in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us
pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we con-
verse, and to Him whom we were made to please.

 

118. SIR ROGER AT SPRING GARDENS.

As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a
subject for my next Spectator, I heard two or three
irregular bounces at my landlady’s door, and, upon
the opening of it, a loud cheerful voice inquiringSIR ROGER AT SPRING GARDENS. 105

whether the philosopher was at home. The child
who went to the door answered very innocently, that
he did not lodge there. I immediately recollected
that it was my good friend Sir Roger’s voice; and
that I had promised to go with him on the water to
Spring Garden*, in case it proved a good evening.
The knight put me in mind of my promise from the
bottom of the staircase, but told me that if I was spe-
culating he would stay below till I had done. Upon
my coming down, I found all the children of the family
got about my old friend; and my landlady herself,
who is a notable prating gossip, engaged in a con-
ference with him; being mightily pleased with his
stroking her little boy upon the head, and bidding
him to be a good child and mind his book.

We were no sooner come to the Temple stairs, but
we were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offer-
ing us their respective services. Sir Roger, after having
looked about him very attentively, spied one with a
wooden leg, and immediately gave him orders to get
his boat ready. As we were walking towards it, ‘ You
must know,’ says Sir Roger, ‘I never make use of
any body to row me, that has not either lost a leg or
an arm. I would rather bate him a few strokes of his

* This place, now known only by the name of Vauxhall, was
originally the habitation of Sir Samuel Moreland, who built a fine
room there in 1667. The house was afterwards rebuilt; and, about
the year 1730, Mr. Jonathan Tyers became the occupier of it; and,
from a large garden belonging to it, planted with stately trees, and
laid out in shady walks, it obtained the name of Spring Garden.
The house being converted into a tavern, soon became a place of
entertainment much frequented by the votaries of pleasure. Mr.
Tyers opened it in 1732, with an advertisement of a Ridotto al Fresco,
a term which the people of this country had till that time been
strangers to. The repetition and success of these summer enter-
tainments encouraged the proprietor to make his garden a place
of musical entertainment for every evening during the summer
season. He decorated it with paintings; engaged a band of ex-
cellent musicians ; issued silver tickets for admission at a guinea
each; set up an organ in the orchestra, and in a conspicuous part
of the garden erected a fine statue of Handel, a of Roubiliac.
ESR A a

 

 

 

 

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a LT LT a a SRS, <I eeS

106 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

oar than not employ an honest man that has been
wounded in the queen’s service. If I was a lord or
a bishop, and kept a barge, 1 would not put a fellow
in my livery that had not a wooden leg.’

My old friend, after having seated himself, and
trimmed the boat with his coachman, who, being a
very sober man, always serves for ballast on these
occasions, we made the best of our way for Vauxhall.
Sir Roger obliged the waterman to give us the history
of his right leg; and, hearing that he had left it at
La Hogue, with many particulars which passed in
that glorious action, the knight, in the triumph of his
heart, made several reflections on the greatness of the
British nation; as, that one Englishman could beat
three Frenchmen; that we could never be in danger
of popery so long as we took care of our fleet; that
the Thames was the noblest river in Europe; that
London bridge was a greater piece of work than any
of the seven wonders of the world ; with many other
honest prejudices which naturally cleave to the heart
of a true Englishman.

After some short pause, the old knight, turning
about his head twice or thrice, to take a survey of
this great metropolis, bid me observe how thick the
city was set with churches, and that there was scarce
a single steeple on this side Temple Bar. ‘ A most
heathenish sight !’ says Sir Roger: ‘ there is no reli-
gion at this end of the town. The fifty new churches
will very much mend the prospect; but church-work
is slow, church-work is slow.’

I do not remember I have anywhere mentioned in
Sur Roger’s character, his custom of saluting every
body that passes by him with a good-morrow, or a
good-night. This the old man does out of the over-
flowings of his humanity, though at the same time it
renders him so popular among all h‘s country neigh-
bours, that it is thought to have gone a good way inSIR ROGER AT SPRING GARDENS, 107

naking him once or twice knight of the shire. He
cannot forbear this exercise of benevolence even in
town, when he meets with any one in his morning or
evening walk. It broke from him to several boats
that passed by us upon the water; but, to the knight’s
great surprise, as he gave the good-night to two or
three young fellows a little before our landing, one of
them, instead of returning the civility, asked us what
queer old put we had in the boat, and whether he
was not ashamed to go a wenching at his years; with
a great deal of the like Thames ribaldry. Sir Roger
seemed a little shocked at first, but at length assuming
a face of magistracy, told us, that if he were a Mid-
dlesex justice, he would make such vagrants know
that her majesty’s subjects were no more to be abused
by water than by land.

We were now arrived at Spring Garden, which is
exquisitely pleasant at this time of the year... When
I considered the fragrancy of the walks and bowers,
with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees, and
the loose tribe of people that walked under their
shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind
of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me, it put
him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the
country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of
nightingales. ‘ You must understand,’ says the knight,
‘there is nothing in the world that pleases a man in
love so much as your nightingale. Ah, Mr. Spectator,
the many moonlight nights that I have walked by
myself, and thought on the widow by the music of
the nightingale!’ He here fetched a deep sigh, and
was falling into a fit of musing, when a mask, who
came behind him, gave him a gentle tap upon the
shoulder, and asked him if he would drink a bottle
of mead with her. But the knight, being startled at
so unexpected a familiarity, and displeased to be in-
terrupted in his thoughts of the widow, told her she108 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

was a wanton baggage; and bid her go about her
business.

We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale,
and a slice of hung beef. When we had done eating
ourselves, the knight called a waiter to him, and bid
him carry the remainder to a waterman that had but
one leg. I perceived the fellow stared upon him at
the oddness of the message, and was going to be
saucy; upon which I ratified the knight’s commands
with a peremptory look.

As we were going out of the garden, my old friend
thinking himself obliged, as a member of the quorum,
to animadvert upon the morals of the place, told the
mistress of the house, who sat at the bar, that he should
be a better customer to her garden, if there were more
nightingales, and fewer strumpets.

119. MOTIVES TO CHEERFULNESS.

In my last Saturday’s paper I spoke of cheerfulness
as it is a moral habit of the mind, and accordingly
mentioned such moral motives as are apt to cherish
and keep alive this happy temper in the soul of man:
I shall now consider cheerfulness in its natural state,
and reflect on those motives to it which are indifferent
either as to virtue or vice.

Cheerfulness is, in the first place, the best promoter
of health. Repinings and secret murmurs of heart
give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of
which the vital parts are composed, and wear out the
machine insensibly ; not to mention those violent fer-
ments which they stir up in the blood, and those irre-
gular disturbed motions which they raise in the animal
spirits. I scarce remember, in my own observation,
to have met with any old men, or with such who (to
use our English phrase) wear well, that had not at
least a certain indolence in their humour, if nota more.MOTIVES TO CHEERFULNESS. 109

than ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The
truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mutually beget
each other; with this difference, that we seldom meet
with a great degree of health which is not attended
with a certain cheerfulness, but very often see cheer-
fulness where there is no great degree of health.

Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the
mind as to the body. It banishes all anxious care and
discontent, soothes and composes the passions, and
keeps the soul in a perpetual calm. ‘But having al-
ready touched on this last consideration, I shall here
take notice, that the world in which we are placed is
filled with innumerable objects that are proper to raise
and keep alive this happy temper of mind.

If we consider the world in its subserviency to
man, one would think it was made for our use; but
if we consider it in its natural beauty and harmony,
one would be apt to conclude it was made for our
pleasure. The sun, which is as the great soul of the
universe, and produces all the necessaries of life, has
a particular influence in cheering the mind of man,
and making the heart glad.

Those several living creatures which are made for
our service or sustenance, at the same time either fill
the woods with their music, furnish us with game, or
raise pleasing ideas in us by the delightfulness of
their appearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are
as refreshing to the imagination, as to the soil through
which they pass.

There are writers of great distinction, who have
made it an argument for Providence, that the whole
earth is covered with green rather than with any other
colour, as being such a right mixture of light and
shade, that it comforts and strengthens the eye instead
of weakening or grieving it. For this reason several

painters have a green cloth hanging near them, to ease.

the eye upon, after. too great an application to theirNRT RI I, a ENS I

 

110

colouring. A famous modern philosopher* accounts
for it in the following manner. All colours that are
more luminous, overpower and dissipate the animal
spirits which are employed in sight: on the contrary,
those that are more obscure do not give the animal
spirits a sufficient exercise; whereas the rays that
produce in us the idea of green fall upon the eye in
such a due proportion, that they give the animal spi-
rits their proper play, and by keeping up the struggle
in a just balance, excite a very pleasing and agreeable
sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect
is certain, for which reason the poets ascribe to this
particular colour the epithet of cheerful.

To consider farther this double end in the works of
nature, and how they are at the same time both useful
and entertaining, we find that the most important parts
in the vegetable world are those which are the most
beautiful. These are the seeds by which the several
races of plants are propagated and continued, and
which are always lodged in flowers or blossoms.
Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be
industrious in making the earth gay and delightful,
while she is carrying on her great work, and intent
upon her own preservation. The husbandman after
the same manner is employed in laying out the whole
country into a kind of garden or landscape, and
making every thing smile about him, whilst in reality
he thinks ofnothing but of the harvest, and the increase
which is to arise from it.

We may farther observe how Providence has taken
care to keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man,
by having formed it after such a manner, as to make
it capable of conceiving delight from several objects
which seem to have very little use in them; as from
the wildness of rocks and deserts, and the like gro~
tesque parts of nature. Those who are versed in phi-

* Sir Isaac Newton,

ADDISON'S ESSAYS:MOTIVES TO CHEERFULNESS. Ta

losophy may still carry this consideration higher, by
observing that if matter had appeared to us endowed
only with those real qualities which it actually pos-
sesses, it would have made but a very joyless and
uncomfortable figure : and why has Providence given
it a power of producing in us such imaginary quali-
ties, and tastes and colours, sounds and smells, heat
and cold, but that man, while he is conversant in the
lower stations of nature, might have his mind cheered
and delighted with agreeable sensations! In short,
the whole universe is a kind of theatre filled with
objects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement,
or admiration.

The reader’s own thoughts will suggest to him the
vicissitude of day and night, the change of seasons,
with all that variety of scenes which diversify the face
of nature, and fill the mind with a perpetual succes-
sion of beautiful and pleasing images.

I shall not here mention the several entertainments
of art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conver-
sation, and other accidental diversions of life, because
I would only take notice of such incitements to a
cheerful temper as offer themselves to persons of all
ranks and conditions, and which may sufficiently
show us that Providence did not design this world
should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that
the heart of man should be involved in gloom and
melancholy.

I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as
it is a virtue in which our countrymen are observed to
be more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy
is a kind of demon that haunts our island, and often
conveys herself to us in an easterly wind. A cele-
brated French novelist, in opposition to those who
begin their romances with the flowery season of the
year, enters on his story thus: ‘ In the gloomy month
of November, when the people of England hang andSea RT

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119 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

drown themselves, a disconsolate lover walked out
into the fields,’ &c.

Every one ought to fence against the temper of his
climate or constitution, and frequently to indulge m
himself those considerations which may give him a
serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up cheer-
fully against those little evils and misfortunes which
are common to human nature, and which, by a right
improvement of them, will produce a satiety of joy,
and an uninterrupted happiness.

At the same time that I would engage my reader
to consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I
must own there are many evils which naturally spring
up amidst the entertainments that are provided for us ;
but these, if rightly considered, should be far from
overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying that
cheerfulness of temper which I have been recommend-
ing. This interspersion of evil with good, and pain with
pleasure, in the works of nature, is very truly ascribed
by Mr. Locke, in his Essay on Human Understand-
ing, to a moral reason, in the following words:

‘ Beyond all this we may find another reason why
God hath scattered up and down several degrees of
pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and
affect us, and blended them together in almost all that
our thoughts and senses have to do with; that we, find-
ing imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete
happiness in all the enjoyments which the creatures
can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment
of Him with whom “there is fulness of joy, and at
whose right hand are pleasures for evermore.’’’

120. ANCIENT FABLES ON PRAYERS.

Wuere Homer represents Phenix, the tutor of
Achilles, as persuading his pupil to lay aside his re-
sentments, and give himself up to the entreaties of hisANCIENT FABLES ON PRAYERS. 113
countrymen, the poet, in order to make him speak
in character, ascribes to him a speech full of those
fables and allegories which old men take delight in
relating, and which are very proper for instruction.
‘The gods,’ says he, ‘ suffer themselves to be prevailed
upon by entreaties. When mortals have offended them
by their transgressions, they appease them by vows
and sacrifices. You must know, Achilles, that Prayers
are the daughters of Jupiter. They are crippled by
frequent kneeling, have their faces full of cares and
vrinkles, and their eyes always cast towards heaven.
They are constant attendants on the goddess Ate, and
march behind her. This goddess walks forward with
a bold and haughty air, and, being very light of foot,
runs through the whole earth, grieving and afflicting
the sons of men. She gets the start of Prayers, who
always follow her, in order to heal those persons whom
she wounds. He who honours these daughters of
Jupiter, when they draw near to him, receives great
benefit from them ; but as for him who rejects them,
they entreat their father to give his orders to the god-
dess Ate, to punish him for his hardness of heart.’
This noble allegory needs but little explanation ; for
whether the goddess Ate signifies injury, as some have
explained it; or guilt in general, as others; or divine
justice, as [ am more apt to think, the interpretation
is obvious enough.

I shall produce another heathen fable relating to
prayers, which is of a more diverting kind. One would
think by some passages in it that it was composed by
Lucian, or at least by some author who has endea-
voured to imitate his way of writing; but as disser-
tations of this nature are more curious than useful, I
shall give my reader the fable, without any farther
inquiries after the author.

‘Menippus, the philosopher, was a second time
taken up into heaven by Jupiter, when for his enter-— RAST ee

NR IS

 

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114, ADDISON'S ESSA'YS.«

tainment he lifted up a trapdoor that was placed by
his footstool. At its rising, there issued through it
such a din of cries as astonished the philosopher.
Upon his asking what they meant, Jupiter told him
they were the prayers that were sent up to him from
the earth. Menippus, amidst the confusion of voices,
which was so great that nothing less than the ear of
Jove could distinguish them, heard the words “riches,”
‘‘honour,” and “long life,”’ repeated in several dif-
ferent tones and languages. When the first hubbub
of sounds was over, the trapdoor being left open, the
voices came up more separate and distinct. The first
prayer was a very odd one; it came from Athens,
and desired Jupiter to increase the wisdom and the
beard of his humble supplicant. Menippus knew it
by the voice to be the prayer of his friend Licander
the philosopher. This was succeeded by the petition
of one who had just laden a ship, and promised Jupi-
ter, if he took care of it, and returned it home again
full of riches, he would make him an offering of a
silver cup. Jupiter thanked him for nothing; and
bending down his ear more attentively than ordinary,
heard a voice complaining to him of the cruelty of an
Ephesian widow, and begging him to breed compas-
sion in her heart. “This,” says Jupiter, “is a very
honest fellow. I have received a great deal of incense
from him; I will not be so cruel to him as not to hear
his prayers.” He was then interrupted with a whole
volley of vows which were made for the health of a
tyrannical prince by his subjects who prayed for him
in his presence. Menippus was surprised, after having
hstened to prayers offered up with so much ardour
and devotion, to hear low whispers from the same’
assembly, expostulating with Jove for suffering such
a tyrant to live, and asking him how his thunder
could lie idle. Jupiter was so offended at these pre-
varicating rascals, that he took down the first vows,ANCIENT FABLES ON PRAYERS. L415

and puffed away the last. The philosopher seeing a
great cloud mounting upwards, and making its way
directly to the trapdoor, inquired of Jupiter what it
meant. “This,” says Jupiter, “is the smoke of a
whole hecatomb, that is offered me by the general of
an army, who is very importunate with me to let him
cut off a hundred thousand men that are drawn up in
array against him. What does the impudent wretch
think I see in him, to believe that I will make a sacri-
fice of so many mortals as good as himself, and all
this to his glory forsooth? But hark,” says Jupiter,
“¢ there is a voice I never heard but in time of danger:
tis a rogue that is shipwrecked in the Ionian sea. I
saved him ona plank but three days ago, upon his
promise to mend his manners; the scoundrel is not
worth a groat, and yet has the impudence to offer me
a temple if I will keep him from sinking.—But yon-
der,” says he, “ is a special youth for you; he desires
me to take his father, who keeps a great estate from
him, out of the miseries of human life. The old fellow
shall live till he makes his heart ache, I can tell him
that for his pains.” This was followed up by the soft
voice of a pious lady, desiring Jupiter that she might
appear amiable and charming in the sight of her em-
peror. As the philosopher was reflecting on this ex-
traordinary petition, there blew a gentle wind through
the trapdoor, which he at first mistook for a gale of
Zephyrs, but afterwards found it to be a breeze of
sighs. They smelt strong of flowers and incense, and
were succeeded by most passionate complaints of
wounds and torments, fires and arrows, cruelty, de-
spair, and death. Menippus fancied that such la-
mentable cries arose from some general execution, or
from wretches lying under the torture; but Jupiter
told him that they came up to him from the isle of
Paphos, and that he every day received complaints
of the same nature from that whimsical tribe of mor-
tals who are called lovers. “I am so trifled with,”=

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116

says he, ‘‘ by this generation of both sexes, and find
it so impossible to please them, whether I grant or
refuse their petitions, that I shall order a western wind
for the future to intercept them in their passage, and
blow them at random upon the earth. The last peti-
tion I heard was from a very aged man of near a hun-
dred years old, begging but for one year more of life,
and then promising to die contented. This is the
rarest old fellow,” says Jupiter; ‘‘ he has made this
prayer to me for above twenty years together. When
he was about fifty years old, he desired only that
he might live to see his son settled in the world. I
granted it. He then begged the same favour for his
daughter, and afterwards that he might see the educa-
tion of a grandson. When all this was brought about,
he puts up a petition that he might live to finish a
house he was building. In short, he is an unreason-
able old cur, and never wants an excuse; I will hear
no more of him.” Upon which he flung down the
trapdoor in a passion, and was resolved to give no
more audiences that day.’

Notwithstanding the levity of this fable, the moral
of it very well deserves our attention, and is the same
with that which has been inculcated by Socrates and
Plato, not to mention Juvenal and Persius *, who
have each of them made the finest satire in their
whole works upon this subject. The vanity of men’s
wishes, which are the natural prayers of the mind, as
well as many of those secret devotions which they
offer to the Supreme Being, are sufficiefitly exposed
by it. Among other reasons for set forms of prayer,
I have often-thought it a very good one, that by this
means the folly and extravagance of men’s desires
may be kept within due bounds, and not break out in
absurd and ridiculous petitions on so great and solemn
an occasion.

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

* JUV. sat. X<

    

Pers, Sat. ii.LiG¢

121. REFLECTIONS ON SPRING.

Looktne over the letters that have been sent me, I
chanced to find the following one, which I received
about two years ago from an ingenious friend who
was then in Denmark.

“DEAR SIR, Copenhagen, May 1, 1710.

‘Tne spring with you has already taken possession
of the fields and woods. Now is the season of soli-
tude, and of moving complaints upon trivial suffer-
ings. Now the griefs of lovers begin to flow, and
their wounds to bleed afresh. I too, at this distance
from the softer climates, am not without my discon-
tents at present. You perhaps may laugh at me for
a most romantic wretch, when FE have disclosed to you
the occasion of my uneasiness ; and yet I cannot help
thinking my unhappiness real, in being confined to a
region which is the very reverse of Paradise. The
seasons here are all of them unpleasant, and the coun-
try quite destitute of rural charms. I have not heard
a bird sing, nor a brook murmur, nor a breeze whis-
per, neither have I been blessed with the sight of a
flowery meadow these two years. Every wind here
is a tempest, and every water a turbulent ocean. [
hope, when you reflect a little, you will not think the
grounds of my complaint in the least frivolous and
unbecoming a man of serious thought; since the love
of woods, of fields and flowers, of rivers and foun-
tains, seems to be a passion implanted in our natures
the most early of any, even before the fair sex had a
being. I am, srr,’ &c.

Could I transport myself, with a wish, from one
country to another, I should choose to pass my win-
ter in Spain, my spring in Italy, my summer in Eng-
land, and my autumn in France. Of all these seasons
there is none that can vie with the spring for beautyee

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118 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

and delightfulness. It bears the same figure among
the seasons of the year, that the morning does among
the divisions of the day, or youth among the stages of
life. The English summer is pleasanter than that of
any other country in Europe, on no other account but
because it has a greater mixture of spring in it. The
mildness of our climate, with those frequent refresh-
ments of dews and rains that fall among us, keep up
a perpetual cheerfulness in our fields, and fill the hot-
test months of the year with a lively verdure.

In the opening of the spring, when all nature be-
gins to recover herself, the same animal pleasure
which makes the birds sing, and the whole brute crea-
tion rejoice, rises very sensibly in the heart of man. I
know none of the poets who have observed so well as
Milton those secret overflowings of gladness which
diffuse themselves through the mind of the beholder
upon surveying the gay scenes of nature: he has
touched upon it twice or thrice in his Paradise Lost,
and describes it very beautifully under the name of
‘vernal delight,’ in that passage where he represents
the devil himself as almost sensible of it :

* Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue

Appear’d, with gay enamell’d colours mix’d:

On which the sun more glad impress’d his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,

When God hath shower’d the earth; so lovely seem’d
That landscape: and of pure now purer air

Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires

Vernal delight, and joy able to drive

All sadness, but despair,’ &c.

Many authors have written on the vanity of the
creature, and represented the barrenness of every
thing in this world, and its incapacity of producing
any solid or substantial happiness. As discourses of
this nature are very useful to the sensual and volup-
tuous, those speculations which show the bright side
of things, and lay forth those innocent entertainments

which are to be met with among the several objectsREFLECTIONS ‘ON SPRING. 119

tnat encompass us, are no less beneficial to men of

dark and melancholy tempers. It was for this reason
that I endeavoured to recommend a cheerfulness of
mind in my two last Saturday’s papers, and which [
would still inculcate, not only from the consideration
of ourselves, and of that Being on whom we depend,
nor from the general survey of that universe in which
we are placed at present, but from reflections on the
particular season in which this paper is written. The
creation is a perpetual feast to the mind of a good
man; every thing he sees cheers and delights him.
Providence has imprinted so many smiles on nature,
that it is impossible for a mind which is not sunk in
more gross and sensual delights to take a survey of
them, without several secret sensations of pleasure,
The Psalmist has, in several of his divine poems,
celebrated those beautiful and agreeable scenes which
make the heart glad, and produce in it that vernal
delight which I have before taken notice of.

Natural philosophy quickens this taste of the crea-
tion, and renders it not only pleasing to the imagina-
tion, but to the understanding. It does not rest in
the murmur of brooks and the melody of birds, in the
shade of groves and woods, or in the embroidery of
fields and meadows; but considers the several ends
of Providence which are served by them, and the
wonders of divine wisdom which appear in them. It
heightens the pleasures of the eye, and raises such a
rational admiration in the soul as is little inferior to
devotion.

It is not in the power of every one to offer up this
kind of worship to the great Author of nature, and
to indulge these more refined meditations of heart,
which are doubtless highly acceptable in his sight; I
shall therefore conclude this short essay on that plea-
sure which the mind naturally conceives from the pre-
sent season of the year, by the recommending of a
practice for which every one has sufficient abilities.

   
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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en sts et120 ADDISON’S ESSAYS:

I would have my readers endeavour to moralize
this natural pleasure of the soul, and to improve this
vernal delight, as Milton calls it, into a Christian
virtue. When we find ourselves inspired with this
pleasing instinct, this secret satisfaction and compla-
cency arising from the beauties of the creation, let us
consider to whom we stand indebted for all these
entertainments of sense, and who it is that thus opens
his hand, and fills the world with good. The apostle
instructs us to take advantage of our present temper
of mind, to graft upon it such a religious exercise as
is particularly conformable to it, by that precept
which advises those who are sad to pray, and those
who are merry to sing psalms. The cheerfulness of
heart which springs up in us from the survey of na-
ture’s works, is an admirable preparation for gratitude.
The mind has gone a great way towards praise and
thanksgiving, that is filled with such a secret gladness.
A grateful reflection on the supreme Cause who pro-
duces it, sanctifies it in the soul, and gives it its proper
value. Such an habitual disposition of mind conse-
crates every field and wood, turns an ordinary walk
into a morning or evening sacrifice, and will improve
those transient gleams of joy which naturally brighten
up and refresh the soul on such occasions, into an
inviolable and perpetual state of bliss and happiness.

122. ON COMPASSION,

As the Stoic philosophers discard all passions in gene-
ral, they will not allow a wise man so much as to pity
the afflictions of another. ‘If thou seest thy friend in
trouble,’ says Epictetus, ‘ thou mayest put on a look
of sorrow, and condole with him; but take care that
thy sorrow be not real.’ The more rigid of this sect
would not comply so far as to show even such an out-
ward appearance of grief; but when one told them
of any calamity that had befallen even the nearest ofON COMPASSION.

their acquaintance, would immediately reply, ‘ What

is that tome?’ If you aggravated the circumstances
of the affliction, and showed. how one misfortune was
followed by another, the answer was still, ‘ All this
may be true, but what is it to me?’

For my own part, I am of opinion, compassion does
not only refine and civilize human nature, but has
something init more pleasing and agreeable than what
can be met with in such an indolent happiness, such
an indifference to mankind as that in which the Stoics
placed their wisdom. As love is the most delightful
passion, pity is nothing else but love softened by a
degree of sorrow. In short, it is a kind of pleasing
anguish, as well as generous sympathy, that knits
mankind together, and blends them in the same com-
mon lot.

Fhose who have laid down rules for rhetoric or
poetry, advise the writer to work himself up, if pos-
sible, to the pitch of sorrow which he endeavours to
produce in others. There are none, therefore, who
stir up pity so much as those who indite their own
sufferings. Grief has a natural eloquence belonging
to it, and breaks out in more moving sentiments than
can be supplied by the finest imagination. Nature
on this occasion dictates a thousand passionate things
which cannot be supplied by art.

It is for this reason that the short speeches or sen-
tences which we often meet with in histories, make a
deeper impression on the mind of the reader, than
the most laboured strokes in a well written tragedy.
Truth and matter of fact sets the person actually be-
fore us in the one, whom fiction places.at a greater
distance from us in the other. I do not remember to
have seen any ancient or modern story. more affecting
than a letter of Ann of Bologne, wife to King Henry
the Eighth, and mother to Queen. Elizabeth, which is

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122 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

still extant in the Cotton library, as written by her
own hand.

Shakspeare himself could not have made her talk
in a strain so suitable to her condition and character.
One sees in it the expostulations of a slighted lover,
the resentments of an injured woman, and the sor-
rows of an imprisoned queen. I need not acquaint
my reader that this princess was then under prosecu-
tion for disloyalty to the king’s bed, and that she was
afterwards publicly beheaded upon the same account,
though this prosecution was believed by many to pro-
ceed, as she herself intimates, rather from the king’s
love to Jane Seymour, than from any actual crime in
Ann of Bologne.

Queen Ann Boleyn’s last Letter to King Henry.
Cotton. Lib. ‘ YOUR grace’s displeasure and my impri-
Otho C.10. sonment are things so strange unto me,
as what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether
ignorant. Whereas you send unto me (willing me to
confess a truth, and so obtain your favour) by such
an one, whom you know to be mine ancient professed
enemy, I no sooner received this message by him,
than I rightly conceived your meaning; and if, as
you say, confessing a truth indeed may procure my
safety, I shall with all willingness and duty perform
your command.

‘But let not your grace ever imagine, that your
poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault,
where not so much as a thought thereof preceded.
And to speak a truth, never prince had wife more
loyal in all duty and in all true affection than you
have ever found in Ann Boleyn: with which name
and place I could willingly have contented myself, if
God and your grace’s pleasure had been so pleased.
Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my
exaltation, or received queenship, but that I alwaysANN BOLEYN’S LAST LETTER. 133

looked for such an alteration as now I find ; for the
ground of my preferment being on no surer founda-
tion than your grace’s fancy, the least alteration I
knew was fit and sufficient to draw that fa ney to some
other subject. You have chosen me from a low estate
to be your queen and companion, far beyond my de-
sert or desire. If then you found me worthy of such
honour, good your grace, let not any light fancy or
bad counsel of mine enemies withdraw your princely
favour from me; neither let that stain, that unworthy
stain of a disloyal heart towards your good grace, ever
cast so foul a blot on your most dutiful wife, and the
infant princess your daughter. Try me, good king,
but let me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn
enemies sit as my accusers and judges; yea, let me
receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no open
shame ; then shall you see either mine innocency
cleared, your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the
ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my
guilt openly declared. So that whatsoever God or
you may determine of me, your grace may be freed
from an open censure; and mine offence being so
lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty, both before
God and man, not only to execute worthy punish-
ment on me as an unlawful wife, but to follow your
affection, already settled on that party, for whose sake
I am now as I am, whose name I could some good
while since have pointed unto, your grace being not
ignorant of my suspicion therein.

“But if you have already determined of me, and
that not only my death, but an infamous slander, must
bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness ;
then I desire of God, that he will pardon your great
sin therein, and likewise mine enemies, the instru-
ments thereof, and that he will not call you to a strict
account for your unprincely and cruel usage of me,
at his general judgment seat, where both you and

   
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

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124
myself must shortly appear, and in whose judgment
I doubt not (whatsoever the world may think of me)
mine innocence shall be openly known, and suffi-
ciently cleared.

‘ My last and only request shall be, that myself may
only bear the burden of your grace’s displeasure, and
that it may not touch the innocent souls. of those poor
gentlemen, who (as I understand) are likewise in
straight imprisonment for my sake. If ever I have
found favour in your sight, if ever the name of Ann
Boleyn hath been pleasing in your ears, then let me
obtain this request, and I will so leave to trouble
your grace any farther, with mine earnest prayers to
the Trinity, to have your grace in his good keeping,
and to direct you in all your actions. From my dole-
ful prison in the Tower, this sixth of May.

‘ Your most loyal and ever faithful wife,
‘Ann BoLeyn’

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

 

123. HYPOCRISY IN ITS VARIETIES.

Hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town is very
different from hypocrisy in the city. The modish
hypocrite endeavours to appear more vicious than he
realty is, the other kind of hypocrite more virtuous.
The former is afraid of every thing that has the show
of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in
many criminal gallantries and amours which he is not
guilty of. The latter assumes a face of sanctity, and
covers a multitude of vices under a seeming religtous
deportment.

But there. is another kind of hypocrisy, which dif
fers from both these, and which I intend to make
the subject of this paper: I mean, that hypocrisy by
which a man does not only deceive the world, but
very often imposes on himself; that hypocrisy which
conceals his own heart from him, and makes himHY POGRISY EN: [TS#VAREETIES. £25

believe he is more virtuous than he really is, and
either not attend to his vices, or mistake even his
vices for virtues. It is this fatal hypocrisy and self-
deceit which is taken notice of in those words, ‘ Who
can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from
secret faults.’

If the open professors of impiety deserve the utmost A
application and endeavours of moral writers to recover |
them from vice and folly, how much more may those
lay a claim to their care and compassion, who are
walking in the paths of death, while they fancy them- |
selves engaged in a course of virtue! I shall endeavour h
therefore to lay down some rules for the discovery of
those vices that lurk in the secret corners of the soul,
and to show my reader those methods by which he
may arrive at a true and impartial knowledge of him-
self. The usual means prescribed for this purpose
are to examine ourselves by the rules which are laid
down for our direction in sacred writ, and to compare
our lives with the life of that Person who acted up to
the perfection of human nature, and is the standing
example, as well as the great guide and instructor, of
those who receive his doctrines. Though these two
heads cannot be too much insisted upon, I shall but
just mention them, since they have been handled by
many great and eminent writers.

I would therefore propose the following methods to
the consideration of such as would find out their secret
faults, and make a true estimate of themselves.

In the first place, let them consider well what are
the characters which they bear among their enemies.
Our friends very often flatter us, as much as our own
hearts. They either do not see our faults, or conceal
them from us, or soften them by their representations
after such a manner that we think them too trivial to
be taken notice of. An adversary, on the contrary,
makes a stricter search into us, discovers every flaw126 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
and imperfection in our tempers; and though his
malice may set them in too strong a light, it has gene-
rally some ground for what it advances. A friend
exaggerates a man’s virtues, an enemy inflames his
crimes. A wise man should give a just attention to
both of them, so far as they may tend to the improve-
ment of the one, and the diminution of the other.
Plutarch has written an essay on the benefits which
a man may receive from his enemies, and, among
the good fruits of enmity, mentions this in particular,
that by the reproaches which it casts upon us we see
the worst side of ourselves, and open our eyes to
several blemishes and defects in our lives and conver-
sations, which we should not have observed without
the help of such ill-natured monitors.

In order likewise to come at a true knowledge of
ourselves, we should consider on the other hand how
far we may deserve the praises and approbations
which the world bestow upon us; whether the actions
they celebrate proceed from laudable and worthy
motives ; and how far we are really possessed of the
virtues which gain us applause among those with
whom we converse. Such a reflection is absolutely
necessary, if we consider how apt we are either to
value or condemn ourselves by the opinions of others,
and to sacrifice the report of our own hearts to the
judgment of the world.

In the next place, that we may not deceive our-
selves in a point of so much importance, we should
not lay too great a stress on any supposed virtues we
possess that are of a doubtful nature: and such we
may esteem all those in which multitudes of men
dissent from us, who are as good and wise as our-
selves. We should always act with great cautious-
ness and circumspection in points where it is not
impossible that we may be deceived. Intemperate
zeal, bigotry, and persecution for any party or opi-HYPOCRISY IN 1TS VARIETIES. 120
nion, how praiseworthy soever they may appear to
weak men of our own principles, produce infinite
calamities among mankind, and are highly criminal
in their own nature: and yet how many persons
eminent for piety suffer such monstrous and absurd
principles of action to take root in their minds under
the colour of virtues! For my own part, I must own,
I never yet knew any party so just and reasonable,
that a man could follow it in its height and violence,
and at the same time be innocent.

We should likewise be very apprehensive of those
actions which proceed from natural constitution,
favourite passions, particular education, or whatever
promotes our worldly interest or advantage. In these
and the like cases, a man’s judgment is easily per-
verted, and a wrong bias hung upon his mind. These
are the inlets of prejudice, the unguarded avenues of
the mind, by which a thousand errors and secret
faults find admission, without being observed or taken
notice of. A wise man will suspect those actions to
which he is directed by something besides reason, and
always apprehend some concealed evil in every reso-
lution that is of a disputable nature, when it is con-
formable to his particular temper, his age, or way of
life, or when it favours his pleasure or his profit.

There is nothing of greater importance to us than
thus diligently to sift our thoughts, and examine all
these dark recesses of the mind, if we would establish
our souls in such a solid and substantial virtue, as will
turn to account in that great day when it must stand
the test of infinite wisdom and justice.

I shall conclude this essay with observing, that the
two kinds of hypocrisy I have here spoken of, namely,
that of deceiving the world, and that of imposing on
ourselves, are touched with wonderful beauty in the
hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. The folly of the first
kind of hypocrisy is there set forth by reflections onTR

 

 

£28 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

God’s omniscience and omnipresence, which are cele-
brated in as noble strains of poetry as any other I
ever met with either sacred or profane. The other
kind of hypocrisy, whereby a man deceives himself,
is intimated in the two last verses, where the Psalmist
addresses himself to the great Searcher of hearts in
that emphatical petition, ‘Try me, O God, and seek
the ground of my heart; prove me, and examine my
thoughts. Look well if there be any way of wicked-
ness in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.’

 

124. COFFEE-HOUSE POLITICIANS.

Wuew I consider this great city in its several quar-
ters and divisions, I look upon it as an aggregate of
various nations distinguished from each other by their
respective customs, manners, and interests. The courts
of two countries do not so much differ from one ano-
ther, as the court and city in their peculiar ways of
life and conversation. In short, the inhabitants of
St. James’s, notwithstanding they live under the same
laws, and speak the same language, are a distinct
people from those of Cheapside, who are likewise
removed from those of the Temple on the one side,
and those of Smithfield on the other, by several
climates and degrees in their ways of thinking and
conversing together.

For this reason, when any public affair is upon the
anvil, I love to hear the reflections that arise upon it
in the several districts and parishes of London and
Westminster, and to ramble up and down a whole
day together, in order to make myself acquainted
with the opinions of my ingenious countrymen. By
this means I know the faces of all the principal poli-
ticians within the bills of mortality; and as every
coffee-house has some particular statesman belonging
to it, who is the mouth of the street where he lives, ICOFFEE-HOUSE POLITICIANS. 129

always take care to place myself near him, in order to
know his judgment on the present posture of affairs.
The last progress that I made with this intention was
about three months ago, when we had a current
report of the king of France’s death. As I foresaw
this would produce a new face of things in Europe,
and many curious speculations in our British coftee-
houses, I was very desirous to learn the thoughts of
our most eminent politicians on that occasion.

That I might begin as near the fountain-head as
possible, I first of all called in at St. James’s, where I
found the whole outward room in a buzz of politics.
The speculations were but very indifferent towards
the door, but grew finer as you advanced to the upper
end of the room, and were so very much improved
by a knot of theorists, who sat in the inner room,
within the steams of the coffee-pot, that I there heard
tne whole Spanish monarchy disposed of, and all the
line of Bourbon provided for in less than a quarter
of an hour.

I afterwards called in at Giles’s, where I saw a
board of French gentlemen sitting upon the life and
death of their grand monarque. Those among them
who had espoused the whig interest very positively
affirmed that he departed this life about a week since,
and therefore proceeded without any farther delay to
the release of their friends on the galleys, and to their
own reestablishment; but finding they could not
agree among themselves, I proceeded on my intended
progress.

Upon my arrival at Jenny Man’s I saw an alerte
young fellow that cocked his hat upon a friend of his
who entered just at the same time with myself, and ac-
costed him after the following manner: ‘ Well, Jack,
the old prig is dead at last. Sharp’s the word. Now
ornever, boy. Up to the walls of Paris directly.’ With
several other deep reflections of the same nature.
G2130 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

I met with very little variation in the politics be-
tween Charing-cross and Covent-garden. And upon
my going into Will’s, I found their discourse was
gone off from the death of the French king to that of
Monsieur Boileau, Racine, Corneille, and several
other poets, whom they regretted on this occasion, as
persons who would have obliged the world with very
noble elegies on the death of so great a prince and so
eminent a patron of learning.

At a coffee-house near the Temple, I found a
couple of young gentlemen engaged very smartly in
a dispute on the succession to the Spanish monarchy.
One of them seemed to have been retained as advo-
cate for the duke of Anjou, the other for his imperial
majesty. They were both for regulating the title to
that kimgdom by the statute laws of England; but
finding them going out of my depth, I passed forward
to Paul’s Churchyard, where I listened with great
attention to a learned man, who gave the company an
account of the deplorable state of France during the
minority of the deceased king.

I then turned on my right hand into Fish Street,
where the chief politician of that quarter, upon hear-
ing the news (after having taken a pipe of tobacco,
and ruminated for some time), ‘ If,’ says he, ¢ the
king of France is certainly dead, we shall have plenty
of mackerel this season: our fishery will not be dis-
turbed by privateers, as it has been for these ten years
past.’ He afterwards considered how the death of
this great man would affect our pilchards, and by
several other remarks infused a general joy into his
whole audience.

I afterwards entered a by coffee-house that stood
at the upper end of a narrow lane, where I met with
a nonjuror, engaged very warmly with a laceman who
was the great support of a neighbouring conventicle.

Tr

Lhe matter in debate was, whether the late FrenchCOFFEE-HOUSE POLITICIANS. 131
king was most like Augustus Cesar or Nero. The
controversy was carried on with great heat on both
sides, and as each of them looked upon me very fre-
quently during the course of their debate, I was under
some apprehension that they would appeal to me,
and therefore laid down my penny at the bar, and
made the best of my way to Cheapside.

I here gazed upon the signs for some time before
J found one to my purpose. The first object I met
in the coffee-room, was a person who expressed a
great grief for the death of the French king; but,
upon his explaining himself, I found his sorrow did
not arise from the loss of the monarch, but for his
having sold out of the Bank about three days before
he heard the news of it. Upon which a haberdasher,
who was the oracie of the coffee-house, and had his
circle of admirers about him, called several to witness
that he had declared his opinion above a week before
that the French king was certainly dead; to which
he added, that, considering the late advices we had
received from France, it was impossible that it could
be otherwise. As he was laying these together, and
dictating to his hearers with great authority, there
came in a gentleman from Garraways, who told us
that there were several letters from France just come
in, with advice that the king was in good health, and
was gone out a hunting the very morning the post
came away: upon which the haberdasher stole off
his hat that hung upon a wooden peg by him, and
retired to his shop with great confusion. This intel-
ligence put a stop to my travels, which I had prose-
cuted with much satisfaction; not being a little pleased
to hear so many different opinions upon so great an
event, and to observe how naturally upon such a piece
of news every one is apt to consider it with regard to
his own particular interest and advantage.act ty

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ADDISON’S ESSAYS

125. ON SACRED MUSIC.

I am very sorry to find, by the opera bills for this
day, that we are likely to lose the greatest performer
in dramatic music that is now living, or that perhaps
ever appeared upon a stage. I need not acquaint
my reader that I am speaking of Signior Nicolini.
The town is highly obliged to that excellent artist,
for having shown us the Italian music in its perfection,
as well as for that generous approbation he lately gave
to an opera of our own country, in which the com-
poser endeavoured to do justice to the beauty of the
words, by following that noble example which has been
set him by the greatest foreign masters in that art.

I could heartily wish there was the same applica-
tion and endeavours to cultivate and improve our
church music, as have been lately bestowed on that
of the stage. Our composers have one very great
incitement to it. They are sure to meet with excel-
lent words, and at the same time a wonderful variety
of them. There is no passion that is not finely ex-
pressed in those parts of the inspired writings, which
are proper for divine songs and anthems.

There is a certain coldness and indifference in the
phrases of our European languages, when they are
compared with the oriental forms of speech; and it
happens very luckily that the Hebrew idioms run
into the English tongue with a particular grace and
beauty. Our language has received innumerable
elegances and improvements from that infusion of
Hebraisms, which are derived to it out of the poetical
passages in holy writ. They give a force and energy
to our expressions, warm and animate our language,
and convey our thoughts in more ardent and intense
phrases, than any that are to be met with in our own
tongue. There is something so pathetic in this kind
of diction, that it often sets the mind ina flame, andON SACRED MUSIC. 133
makes our hearts burn within us. How cold and
dead does a prayer appear, that is composed in the
most elegant and polite forms of speech, which are
natural to our tongue, when it is not heightened by
that solemnity of phrase which may be drawn from
the sacred writings! It has been said by some of the
ancients, that if the gods were to talk with men, they
would ‘certainly speak in Plato’s style; but I think
we may say with justice, that when mortals converse
with their Creator, they cannot do it in so proper a
style as in that of the holy scriptures.

If any one would judge of the beauties of poetry
that are to be met with in the divine writings, and
examine how kindly the Hebrew manners of speech
mix and incorporate with the English language; after
having perused the book of Psalms, let him read a
literal translation of Horace or Pindar. He will find
in these two last such an absurdity and confusion of
style, with such a comparative poverty of imagination,
as will make him very sensible of what I have been
here advancing.

Since we have therefore such a treasury of words,
so beautiful in themselves, and so proper for the airs
of music, I cannot but wonder that persons of distinc-
tion should give so little attention and encouragement
to that kind of music, which would have its foundation
in reason, and which would improve our virtue in
proportion as it raised our delight. The passions that
are excited by ordinary compositions generally flow
from such silly and absurd occasions, that a man 1s
ashamed to reflect upon them seriously; but the fear,
the love, the sorrow, the indignation that are awakened
in the mind by hymns and anthems, make the heart
better, and proceed from such causes as are altogether
reasonable and praiseworthy. Pleasure and duty go
hand in hand, and the greater our satisfaction 1s, the
greater is our religion.134 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

Music among those who were styled the chosen
people was a religious art. The songs of Sion, which
we have reason to believe were in high repute among
the courts of the eastern monarchs, were nothing else
but psalms and pieces of poetry that adored or cele-
brated the Supreme Being. The greatest conqueror
in this holy nation, after the manner of the old Grecian
lyrics, did not only compose the words of his divine
odes, but generally set them to music himself: after
which, his works, though they were consecrated to
the tabernacle, became the national entertainment as

well as the devotion of his people.

The first original of the drama was a religious wor-
ship consisting only of a chorus, which was nothing
else but a hymn to a deity. As luxury and volup-
tuousness prevailed over innocence and religion, this
form of worship degenerated into tragedies; in which
however the chorus so far remembered its first office,
as to brand every thing that was vicious, and recom-
mend every thing that was laudable, to intercede with
Heaven for the innocent, and to implore its vengeance
on the criminal.

Homer and Hesiod intimate to us how this art
should be applied, when they represent the muses as
surrounding Jupiter, and warbling their hymns about
his throne. I might show, from innumerable passages
in ancient writers, not only that vocal and instrumental
music were made use of in their religious worship,
but that their most favourite diversions were filled
with songs and hymns to their respective deities. Had
we frequent entertainments of this nature among us,
they would not a little purify and exalt our passions,
give our thoughts a proper turn, and cherish those
divine impulses in the soul which every one feels
that has not stifled them by sensual and immoderate
pleasures.

Music, when thus applied, raises noble hints in theON SACRED MUSIC. 135
mind of the hearer, and fills it with great conceptions.
It strengthens devotion, and advances praise into rap-
ture. It lengthens out every act of worship, and pro-
duces more lasting and permanent impressions in the
mind than those which accompany any transient form
of words that are uttered in the ordinary method of
religious worship.

———

126. ENGLISH ORATORY.

Mosr foreign writers, who have given any character
of the English nation, whatever vices they ascribe to
it, allow, in general, that the people are naturally
modest. It proceeds perhaps from this our national
virtue, that our orators are observed to make use of
less gesture or action than those of other countries.
Our preachers stand stock still in the pulpit, and will
not so much as move a finger to set off the best ser-
mons in the world. We meet with the same speaking
statues at our bars, and in all public places of debate.
Our words flow from us in a smooth, continued stream,
without those strainings of the voice, motions of the
body, and majesty of the hand, which are so much
celebrated in the orators of Greece and Rome. We
can talk of life and death in cold blood, and keep our
temper in a discourse which turns upon every thing
that is dear to us. Though our zeal breaks out in the
finest tropes and figures, it is not able to stir a limb
about us. I have heard it observed more than once,
by those who have seen Italy, that an untravelled
Englishman cannot relish all the beauties of Italian
pictures, because the postures which are expressed in
them are often such as are peculiar to that country.
One who has not seen an Italian in the pulpit will
not know what to make of that noble gesture in Ra-
phael’s picture of St. Paul preaching at Athens, where
the apostle is represented as liftung up both his arms,

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136 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

and pouring out the thunder of his rhetoric amidst an
audience of pagan philosophers.

It is certain, that proper gestures and vehement
exertions of the voice cannot be too much studied by
a public orator. They are a kind of comment to what
he utters, and enforce every thing he says, with weak
hearers, better than the strongest argument he can
make use of. They keep the audience awake, and
fix their attention to what is delivered to them, at the
same time that they show the speaker is in earnest,
and affected himself with what he so passionately re-
commends to others. Violent gesture and vociferation
naturally shake the hearts of the ignorant, and fill
them with a kind of religious horror. Nothing is
more frequent than to see women weep and tremble
at the sight of a moving preacher, though he is placed
quite out of their hearing; as in England, we very
frequently see people lulled asleep with solid and
elaborate discourses of piety, who would be warmed
and transported out of themselves by the bellowing
and distortions of enthusiasm.

If nonsense, when accompanied with such an emo-
tion of voice and body, has such an influence on men’s
minds, what might we not expect from many of those
admirable discourses which are printed in our tongue,
were they delivered with a becoming fervour, and with
the most agreeable graces of voice and gesture ?

We are told that the great Latin orator very much
impaired his health by this laterum contentio, the
vehemence of action, with which he used to deliver
himself. The Greek orator was likewise so very
famous for this particular in rhetoric, that one of his
antagonists, whom he had banished from Athens,
reading over the oration which had procured his ba-

nishment, and seeing his friends admire it, could not
forbear asking them, if they were so much affected
by the bare reading of it, how much more they wouldENGLISH ORATORY. rot

have been alarmed had they heard him actually throw-
ing out such a storm of eloquence ?

How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of these
two great men, does an orator often make at the Bri-
tish bar, holding up his head with the most insipid
serenity, and stroking the sides of a long wig that
reaches down to his middle! The truth of it 1s, there
is often nothing more ridiculous than the gestures of
an English speaker; you see some of them running
their hands into their pockets as far as ever they can
thrust them, and others, looking with great attention
on a piece of paper that has nothing written on it;
you may see many a smart rhetorician turning his hat
in his hands, moulding it into several different cocks,
examining sometimes the lining of it, and sometimes
the button, during the whole course of his harangue.
A deaf man would think he was cheapening a beaver,
when perhaps he is talking of the fate of the British
nation. I remember, when I was a young man, and
used to frequent Westminster Hall, there was a coun-
sellor who never pleaded without a piece of packthread
in his hand, which he used to twist about a thumb or
a finger all the while he was speaking: the wags of
those days used to call it ¢ the thread of his discourse,’
for he was not able to utter a word without it. One
of his clients, who was more merry than wise, stole
it from him one day in the midst of his pleading: but
he had better have let it alone, for he lost his cause
by his jest.

I have all along acknowledged myself to be a dumb
man, and therefore may be thought a very improper
person to give rules for oratory; but I believe every
one will agree with me in this, that we ought either
to lay aside all kinds of gesture (which seems to be
very suitable to the genius of our nation), or at least
to make use of such only as are graceful and expres-
sive.pn ATTN mF zs

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ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

127. CHARACTERISTICS OF TASTE.

GRATIAN very often recommends fine taste as the
utmost perfection of an accomplished man.

As this word arises very often in conversation, I
shall endeavour to give some account of it, and to
lay down rules how we may know whether we are
possessed of it, and how we may acquire that fine
taste of writing which is so much talked of among
the polite world.

Most languages make use of this metaphor, to ex-
press that faculty of the mind which distinguishes all
the most concealed faults and nicest perfections in
writing. We may be sure this metaphor would not
have been so general in all tongues, had there not
been a very great conformity between that mental
taste which is the subject of this paper, and that sen-
sitive taste which gives us a relish of every different
flavour that affects the palate. Accordingly we find,
there are as many degrees of refinement in the intel-
lectual faculty, as in the sense which is marked out
by this common denomination.

I knew a person who possessed the one in so great
a perfection, that, after having tasted ten different
kinds of tea, he would distinguish, without seeing the
colour of it, the particular sort which was offered him;
and not only so, but any two sorts of them that were
mixed together in an equal proportion; nay, he has
carried the experiment so far, as, upon tasting the
composition of three different sorts, to name the par-
cels from whence the three several ingredients were
taken. A man of fine taste in writing will discern,
after the same manner, not only the general beauties
and imperfections of an author, but discover the several
ways of thinking and expressing himself, which di-
versify him from all other authors, with the several
foreign infusions of thought and language, and the
particular authors from whom they were borrowed.CHARACTERISTICS OF TASTE. 139

After having thus far explained what is generally
meant by a fine taste in writing, and shown the pro-
priety of the metaphor which is used on this occasion,
I think I may define it to be ‘ that faculty of the soul,
which discerns the beauties of an author with plea-
sure, and the imperfections with dislike.” If a man
would know whether he is possessed of this faculty,
I would have him read over the celebrated works of
antiquity, which have stood the test of so many dif
ferent ages and countries, or those works among the
moderns which have the sanction of the politer part
of our contemporaries. If, upon the perusal of such
writings, he does not find himself delighted in an ex-
traordinary manner, or if, upon reading the admired
passages in such authors, he finds a coldness and in-
difference in his thoughts, he ought to conclude, not
(as is too usual among tasteless readers) that the author
wants those perfections which have been admired in
him, but that he himself wants the faculty of discover-
ing them.

He should, in the second place, be very careful to
observe, whether he tastes the distinguishing perfec-
tions, or, if I may be allowed to call them so, the
specific qualities of the author whom he peruses ;
whether he is particularly pleased with Livy for his
manner of telling a story, with Sallust for his entering
into those internal principles of action which arise
from the characters and manners of the persons he
describes, or with Tacitus for his displaying those out-
ward motives of safety and interest, which give birth
to the whole series of transactions which he relates.

He may likewise consider, how differently he is
affected by the same thought which presents itself in
a great writer, from what he is when he finds it deli-
vered by a person of an ordinary genius; for there is
as much difference in apprehending a thought clothed
in Cicero’s language, and that of a common author,A TE TE Ne

 

 

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7 SLL a: Ie
v8 TE IT ne

140

as in seeing an object by the light of a taper, or by
the light of the sun.

Tt is very difficult to Jay down rules for the acquire-
ment of such a taste as that I am here speaking of.
The faculty must, in some degree, be born with us;
and it very often happens, that those who have other
qualities in perfection are wholly void of this. One
of the most eminent mathematicians of the age has
assured me, that the greatest pleasure he took in read-
ing Virgil, was in examining /Mneas his voyage by the
map; as I question not but many a modern compiler
of history would be delighted with little more in that
divine author than the bare matters of fact.

But, notwithstanding this faculty must, in some
measure, be born with us, there are several methods
for cultivating and improving it, and without which
it will be very uncertain, and of little use to the person
that possesses it. The most natural method for this
purpose is to be conversant among the writings of the
most polite authors. A man who has any relish for

fine writing, either discovers new beauties, or receives
stronger impressions, from the masterly strokes of a
Sreat author every time he peruses him; besides that
he naturally wears himself into the same manner of
speaking and thinking.

Conversation with men of a polite genius is ano-
ther method for improving our natural taste. It is
impossible for a man of the greatest parts to consider
any thing in its whole extent, and in all its variety
of lights. Every man, besides those general obser-
vations which are to be made upon an author, forms

several reflections that are peculiar to his own manner
of thinking ; so that conversation will naturally furnish
us with hints which we did not attend to, and make
us enjoy other men’s parts and reflections as well as
our own. This is the best reason I can give for the
observation which several have made, that men of

ADDISON'S ESSAYS.CHARACTERISTICS OF TASTE. 141

great genius in the same way of writing seldom rise
up singly, but at certain periods of time appear toge-
ther, and in a body; as they did at Rome in the reign
of Augustus, and in Greece about the age of Socrates.
I cannot think that Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boi-
leau, La Fontaine, Bruyere, Bossu, or the Daciers
would have written so well as they have done, had
they not been friends and contemporaries.

It is likewise necessary for a man who would form
to himself a finished taste of good writing, to be well
versed in the works of the best critics, both ancient
and modern. I must confess that I could wish there
were authors of this kind, who beside the mechanical
rules, which a man of very little taste may discourse
upon, would enter into the very spirit and soul of fine
writing, and show us the several sources of that plea-
sure which rises in the mind upon the perusal of a
noble work. Thus, although in poetry it be abso-
lutely necessary that the unities of time, place, and
action, with other points of the same nature, should
be thoroughly explained and understood; there is
still something more essential to the art, something
that elevates and astonishes the fancy, and gives a
greatness of mind to the reader, which few of the
critics besides Longinus have considered.

Our general taste in England is for epigram, turns
of wit, and forced conceits, which have no manner of
influence, either for the bettering or enlarging the
mind of him who reads them, and have been care-
fully avoided by the greatest writers, both among the
ancients and moderns. I have endeavoured, in seve-
ral of my speculations, to banish this Gothic taste,
which has taken possession among us. I entertained
the town, for a week together, with an essay upon

wit*, in which I endeavoured to detect several of

those false kinds which have been admired in the

* See Nos. 17, 20, 21, &c.142

different ages of the world, and at the same time to
show wherein the nature of true wit consists. I after-
wards gave an instance of the great force which lies
in a natural simplicity of thought to affect the mind
of the reader, from such vulgar pieces as have little
else besides this single qualification to recommend
them. I have likewise examined the works of the
greatest poet which our nation, or perhaps any other,
has produced, and particularized most of those ra-
tional and manly beauties which give a value to that
divine work. TI shall next Saturday enter upon an
essay on ‘The Pleasures of the Imagination,’ which,
though it shall consider the subject at large, will
perhaps suggest to the reader what it is that gives a
beauty to many passages of the finest writers both in
prose and verse. Asan undertaking of this nature is
entirely new, I question not but it will be received
with candour.

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

 

128. SOCIABILITY OF THE SEXES.

Tae moral world, as consisting of males and females,
if of a mixed nature, and filled with several customs,
fashions, and ceremonies, which would have no place
in it were there but one sex. Had our species no
females in it, men would be quite different creatures
from what they are at present: their endeavours to
please the opposite sex polishes and refines them out
of those manners which are most natural to them, and
often sets them upon modelling themselves, not ac-
cording to the plans which they approve in their own
opinions, but according to those plans which they
think are most agreeable to the female world. Ina
word, man would not only be an unhappy, but a rude
unfinished creature, were he conversant with none but
those of his own make.

Women, on the other side, are apt to form them-SOCIABILITY OF THE SEXES. 143

selves in every thing with regard to that other half of

reasonable creatures, with whom they are here blended
and confused: their thoughts are ever turned upon
appearing amiable to the other sex; they talk, and
move, and smile, with a design upon us; every fea-
ture of their faces, every part of their dress, is filled
with snares and allurements. There would be no such
animals as prudes or coquettes in the world, were there
not such an animalas man. In short it is the male
that gives charms to womankind, that produces an air
in their faces, a grace in their motions, a softness in
their voices, and a delicacy in their complexions.

As this mutual regard between the two sexes tends
to the improvement of each of them, we may observe
that men are apt to degenerate into rough and brutal
natures who live as if there were no such things as
women in the world ; as, on the contrary, women who
have an indifference or aversion for their counterparts
in human nature are generally sour and unamiable,
sluttish and censorious.

I am led into this train of thoughts by a little ma-
nuscript which has lately fallen into my hands, and
which I shall communicate to the reader, as I have
done some other curious pieces of the same nature,
without troubling him with any inquiries about the
author of it. It contains a summary account of two
different states which bordered upon one another.
The one was a commonwealth of Amazons, or women
without men; the other was a republic of males, that
had not a woman in their whole community. As
these two states bordered upon one another, it was
their way, it seems, to meet upon their frontiers at a
certain season of the year, where those among the
men who had not made their choice in any former
meeting, associated themselves with particular women,
whom they were afterwards obliged to look upon as
their wives, in every one of these yearly rencounters.SPE TS TT

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tan epi oR OR A IT

7 SATS

144 ADDISON’S ESSAYS:

The children that sprung from this alliance, if males,
were sent to their respective fathers ; if females, con-
tinued with their mothers. By means of this anni-
versary carnival, which lasted about a week, the com-
monwealths were recruited from time to time, and
supphed with their respective subjects.

These two states were engaged together in a perpe-
tual league, offensive and defensive; so that if any
foreign potentate offered to attack either of them, both
the sexes fell upon him at once, and quickly brought
him to reason. It was remarkable that for ma ny ages
this agreement continued inviolable between the two
States, notwithstanding, as was said before, they were
husbands and wives: but this will not appear so won-
derful, if we consider that they did not live together
above a week in a year.

In the account which my author gives of the male
republic, there were several customs very remarkable.
The men never shaved their beards, or pared their
nails, above once ina twelvemonth, which was pro-
bably about the time of the great annual meeting
upon their frontiers. I find the name of a minister
of state in one part of their history who was fined for
appearing too frequently in clean linen; and of a
certain great general who was.turned out of his post
for effiminacy, it having been proved upon him by
several credible witnesses that he washed his face
every morning. If any member of the commonwealth
had a soft voice, a smooth face, ora supple behaviour,
he was banished into the commonwealth of females,
where he was treated-as a slave, dressed in petticoats,
and seta spinning. They had no titles of honour
among them but such as denoted some bodily strength

or perfection, as such a one ‘the tall,’ such a one “the
stocky,’ such a one ‘ the gruff” Their public debates
were generally managed with kicks and cuffs, inso-
much that they often came from the council-table withSOCIABIEIIY OF THE SEXES. 145

broken shins, black eyes, and bloody noses. When
they would reproach a man in the most bitter terms,
they would tell him his teeth were white, or that he
had a fair skin and a soft hand. The greatest man I
meet with in their history was one who, could lift five
hundred weight, and wore such a prodigious pair of
whiskers as had never been seen in the commonwealth
before his time. ‘These accomplishments it seems
had rendered him so popular, that, if he had not died
very seasonably, itis thought he might have enslaved
the republic. Having made this short extract out
of the history of the male commonwealth, I shall look
into the history of the neighbouring state, which con-
sisted of females; and, if I find any thing in it, will
not fail to communicate it to the public.

129. THE FEMALE REPUBLIE.

Havine carefully perused the manuscript I men-
tioned m my yesterday’s paper, so far as it relates to
the republic of women, I find in it several particulars
which may very well deserve the reader’s attention.
The girls of quality, from six to twelve years old,
were put to public schools, where they learned to
box and play at cudgels, with several other accom-
plishments of the same nature; so that nothing was
more usual than to see a little miss returning home
at night with a broken pate, or two or three teeth
knocked out of her head. They were afterwards
taught to ride the great horse, to shoot, dart, or sling,
and listed into several companies, in order to perfect
themselves in military exercises. No woman was to
be married till she had killed her man. ‘he ladies

of fashion used to play with young lions instead of

lapdogs; and when they made any parties of diver-
sion, instead of entertaining themselves at ombre and
piquet, they would wrestle and pitch the bar for a
VOR. II; H146

whole afternoon together, There was never any such
thing as a blush seen, or a sigh heard, in the whole
commonwealth. The women never dressed but to
look terrible; to which end they would sometimes
after a battle paint their cheeks with the blood of their
enemies. For this reason, likewise, the face which
had the most scars was looked upon as the most beau-
tiful. If they found lace, jewels, ribands, or any
ornaments in silver or gold, among the booty which
they had taken, they used to dress their horses with
it, but never entertained a thought of wearing it them-
selves. There were particular rights and _ privileges
allowed to any member of the commonwealth who
was a mother of three daughters. The senate was
made up of old women ; for, by the laws of the coun-
try, none was to be a counsellor of state that was not
past child-bearing. They used to boast that their
republic had continued four thousand years, which is
altogether improbable, unless we may suppose, what
I am very apt to think, that they measured their time
by lunar years.

There was a great revolution brought about in this
female republic by means of a neighbouring king,
who had made war upon them several years with
various success, and at length overthrew them in a
very great battle. This defeat they ascribe to several
causes ; some say that the secretary of state, having
been troubled with the vapours, had committed some
fatal mistakes in several dispatches about that time.
Others pretend that the first minister, being big with
child, could not attend the public affairs, as so great
an exigency of state required; but this I can give no
manner of credit to, since it seems to contradict a
fundamental maxim in their government, which [I
have before mentioned. My author gives the most
probable reason of this great disaster; for he affirms
that the general was brought to bed, or (as others say)

miscarried, the very night before the battle: however

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.Suse

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
   

THE FEMALE REPUBLIC. 147

it was, this single overthrow obliged them to call in
the male republic to their assistance ; but, notwith-
standing their common efforts to repulse the victorious
enemy, the war continued for many years before they
could entirely bring it to a happy conclusion.

The campaigns which both sexes passed together
made them so well acquainted with one another, that
at the end of the war they did not care for parting.
In the beginning of it they lodged in separate camps,
but afterwards, as they grew more familiar, they
pitched their tents promiscuously.

From this time, the armies being checquered with
both sexes, they polished apace. The men used to
invite their fellow soldiers into their quarters, and
would dress their tents with flowers and boughs for
their reception. If they chanced to ike one more
than another, they would be cutting ber name in the
table, or chalking out her figure upon a wall, or talk-
ing of her in a kind of rapturous language, which by
degrees improved into verse and sonnet. ‘These were
as the first rudiments of architecture, painting, and
poetry, among this savage people. After any advan-
tage over the enemy, both sexes used to jump together,
and make a clattering with their swords and shields,
for joy, which in a few years produced several regular
tunes and set dances.

As the two armies romped on these occasions, the

women complained of the thick bushy beards and:

long nails of their confederates, who thereupon took
care to prune themselves into such figures as were
most pleasing to their female friends and allies.
When they had taken any spoils from the enemy,
the men would make a present of every thing that was
rich and showy to the women whom they most ad-
mired, and would frequently dress the necks, or heads,
or arms of their mistresses, with any thing which
they thought appeared gay or pretty. The women,SAA TE a LIN

 

 

148 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

observing that the men took delight in looking upon
them when they were adorned with such trappings
and gewgaws, set their heads at work to find out new
inventions, and to outshine one another in all councils
of war, or the like solemn meetings. On the other
hand, the men, observing how the women’s hearts
were set upon finery, began to embellish themselves,
and look as agreeably as they could in the eyes of.
their associates. In short, after a few years conversing
together, the women had learnt to smile, and the men
to ogle; the women grew soft, and the men lively.
When they had thus insensibly formed one another,
upon finishing of the war, which concluded with an
entire conquest of their common enemy, the colonels
in one army married the colonels in the other; thé
captains in the same manner took the captains to
their wives; the whole body of common soldiers were
matched after the example of their leaders. By this
means the two republics incorporated with one another,
and became the most flourishing and polite govern-
ment in the part of the world which they inhabited.

 

 

130. THE MANNERS OF COURTS.

Ovip describes the palace of Fame as situated in the
very centre of the universe, and perforated with so
many windows and avenues as gave her the sight of
every thing that was done in the heavens, in the earth,
and in the sea. The structure of it was contrived in so
admirable a manner, that it echoed every word which
was spoken in the whole compass of nature; so that
the palace, says the poet, was always filled with a con-
fused hubbub of low dying sounds, the voices being
almost spent and worn out before they arrived at this
general rendezvous of speeches and whispers.

I consider courts with the same regard to the g0-
vernments which they superintend, as Ovid’s palaceTHE MANNERS OF COURTS. 149
of Fame with regard to the universe. The eyes of a
watchful minister run through the whole people. There
is scarce a murmur or complaint that does not reach
his ears. They have news-gatherers and intelligencers
distributed in their several walks and quarters, who
bring in their respective quotas, and make them ac-
quainted with the discourse and conversation of the
whole kingdom or commonwealth where they are
employed. The wisest of kings, alluding to these
invisible and unsuspected spies, who are planted by
kings and _ rulers over their fellow citizens, as well as
to those voluntary informers that are buzzing about
the ears of a great man, and making their court by
such secret methods of intelligence, has given us a
very prudent caution: ‘ Curse not the king, no not in
thy thought, and curse not the rich in thy bedcham-
ber; for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and
that which hath wings shall tell the matter®.’

As it is absolutely necessary for rulers to make use
of other people’s eyes and ears, they should take par-
ticular care to do it in such manner, that it may not
bear too hard on the person whose life and conversa-
tion are inquired into. A man who is capable of so
infamous a calling as that of a spy, is not very much
to be relied upon. He can have no great ties of ho-
nour, or checks of conscience, to restrain him in those
covert evidences, where the person accused has no
opportunity of vindicating himself. He will be more
industrious to carry that which is grateful than that
which is true. There will be no occasion for him if
he does not hear and see things worth discovery ; SO
that he naturally inflames every word and circum-
stance, aggravates what is faulty, perverts what is
cood, and misrepresents what 1s indifferent. Nor is
it to be doubted but that such ignominious wretches
let their private passions into these their clandestine

* Eccles. x. 20.Br

IT

SS A POE OI =
SS
“ ee = P spies

 

 

150 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

informations, and often wreak their particular spite
and malice against the person whom they are set to
watch. It isa pleasant scene enough, which an Italian
author describes between a spy, and a cardinal who
employed him. The cardinal is represented as mi-
nuting down every thing that is told him. The spy
begins with a low voice, ‘ Such a one, the advocate,
whispered to one of his friends, within my hearing,
that your eminence was a very great poltron;’ and,
after having given his patron time to take it down,
adds that another called him a mercenary rascal in a
public conversation. The cardinal replies, ‘ Very
well,’ and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and
loads him with reports of the same nature, till the
cardinal rises in great wrath, calls him an impudent
scoundrel, and kicks him out of the room.

It is observed of great and heroic minds, that they
have not only shown a particular disregard to those
unmerited reproaches which have been cast upon
them, but have been altogether free from that imper-
tinent curiosity of inquiring after them, or the poor
revenge of resenting them. The histories of Alex-
ander and Cesar are full of this kind of instances.
Vulgar souls are of a.quite contrary character. Dio-
nysius, the tyrant of Sicily, had a dungeon which was
a very curious piece of architecture ; and of which, as
I am informed, there are still to be seen some remains
in that island. It was called Dionysius’s Ear, and
built with several little windings and labyrinths, in
the form of a real ear. The structure of it made it a
kind of whispering place, but such a one as gathered
the voice of him who spoke into a funnel which was
placed at the very top of it. The tyrant used to lodge
all his state criminals, or those whom he supposed to
be engaged together in any evil designs upon him, in
this dungeon. He had at the same time an apartment
over it, where he used to apply himself to the funnel,TILE MANNERS OF COURTS.

and by that means overheard every thing that was
whispered in the dungeon. I believe one may ven-
ture to affirm, that a Cesar or an Alexander would
have rather died by the treason, than have used such
disingenuous means for the detecting of it.

A man who in ordinary life is very inquisitive after
every thing which is spoken ill of him, passes his time
but very indifferently. He is wounded by every arrow
that is shot at him, and puts it in the power of every
insignificant enemy to disquiet him. Nay, he will
suffer from what has been said of him, when it is for-
gotten by those who said or heard it. For this reason
I could never bear one of those officious friends, that
would be telling every malicious report, every idle
censure that passed upon me. The tongue of man is
so petulant, and his thoughts so variable, that one
should not lay too great a stress upon any present
speeches or opinions. Praise and obloquy proceed
very frequently out of the same mouth upon the same
person, and upon the same occasion. <A generous
enemy will sometimes bestow commendations, as the
dearest friend cannot sometimes refrain from speaking
ill. The man who is indifferent in either of these
respects, gives his opinion at random, and praises or
disapproves as he finds himself in humour.

I shall conclude this essay with part of a character,
which is finely drawn by the earl of Clarendon, in
the first book of his history, and which gives us the
lively picture of a great man teasing himself with an
absurd curiosity. oe

‘ He had not that application and submission, and
reverence for the queen, as might have been expected
fom his wisdom and breeding; and often crossed her
pretences and desires with more rudeness than was
natural to him. Yet he was impertinently solicitous
to know what her majesty said of him in private, and
what resentments she had towards him. And when152 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

by some confidents, who had their ends upon him
from those offices, he was informed of some bitter
expressions fallen from her majesty, he was so exceed-
ingly afflicted and tormented with the sense of it; that
sometimes by passionate complaints and representa-
tions to the king, sometimes by more dutiful addresses
and expostulations with the queen in bewailing his
musfortune, he frequently exposed himself, and left
his condition worse than it was before, and the eclair-
cissement commonly ended in the discovery of the
persons from whom he had received his most secret
intelligence.’

 

131. RELIANCE ON THE SUPREME BEING.

Man, considered in himself, is a very helpless and a
very wretched being. He is subject every moment to
the greatest calamities and misfortunes. He is beset
with dangers on all sides; and may become unhappy
by numberless casualties which he could not foresee,
nor have prevented had he foreseen them.

It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so
many accidents, that we are under the care of One
who directs contingencies, and has in his hands the
management of every thing that is capable of annoy-
ing or offending us; who knows the assistance we
stand in need of, and is always ready to bestow it on
those who ask it of him.

The natural homage which such a creature bears'to
so infinitely wise and good a Being, isa firm reliance
on him for the blessings and conveniences of life, and
an habitual trust in him for deliverance out of all such
dangers and difficulties as may befall us.

The man who always lives in this disposition of
mind has not the same dark and melancholy views of
human nature, as he who considers himself abstract-
edly from this relation to the Supreme Being. At theRELIANCE ON THE SUPREME BEING. A53

same time that he reflects upon his own weakness and
imperfection, he comforts himself with the contem-
plation of those divine attributes which are employed
for his safety and his welfare. He finds his want of
foresight made up by the omniscience of Him who is
his support. He is not sensible of his own want of
strength, when he knows that his helper is almighty.
In short, the person who has a firm trust on the Su-
preme Being is powerful in His power, wise by His
wisdom, happy. by His happiness. He reaps the
benefit of every divine attribute, and loses his own
insufficiency in the fullness of infinite perfection.

To make our lives more easy to us, we are com-
manded to put our trust in Him whotis thus able to
relieve and succour us; the divine goodness having
made such reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should
have been miserable had it been forbidden us.

Among several motives which might be made use
of to recommend this duty to us, I shall only take
notice of these that follow.

The first and strongest is, that we are promised He
will not fail those who put their trust in Him.

But without considering the supernatural blessing
which accompanies this duty, we may observe-that it
has a natural tendency to its own reward, or, in other
words, that this firm trust and confidence in the great
Disposer of all things contributes very much to the
getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing it
manfully. A person who believes he has his succour
at hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend,
often exerts himself beyond his abilities, and does
wonders that are not to be matched by one who is
not animated with such a confidence of success. I
could produce instances from history, of generals,
who, out of belief that they were under the protection
of some invisible assistant, did not only encourage
their soldiers to do their utmost, but have acted them-
H 2eR ET

 

OO AAC

— aS
a AR I - ee “

 

 

 

 

164 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

selves beyond what they would have done, had they
not been inspired by such a belief. I might in the
same manner show how such a trust in the assistance
of an Almighty Being naturally produces patience,
hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions of the
mind that alleviate those calamities which we are not
able to remove.

The practice of this virtue administers great com-
fort to the mind of man in times of poverty and afflic-
tion, but most of all in the hour of death. When the
soul is hovering in the last moments of its separation,
when it is just entering on another state of existence,
to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions
that are altogether new,—what can support her under
such tremblings of thought, such fear, such anxiety,
such apprehensions, but the casting of all her cares
upon Him who first gave her being, who has con-
ducted her through one stage of it, and will be always
with her to guide and comfort her in her progress
through eternity ?

David has very beautifully represented this steady
reliance on God Almighty in his twenty-third psalm,
which is a kind of pastoral hymn, and filled with those
allusions which are usual in that kind of writing. As
the poetry is very exquisite, I shall present my reader
with the following translation of it.

“The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shiephertts care:
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye ;

My noonday walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

“ When in the sultry glebe I faint,

Or on the thirsty mountain pant;

To fertile vales and dewy meads

My weary, wand’ring steps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

* Though in the paths of death J tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.RELIANCE ON THE SUPREME BEING. 155

* Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile:

The barren wilderness shall smile,

With sudden greens and herbage crown’d,
And streams shall murmur all around.’

 

132. THE NEW STAMP.

Tus is the day on which many eminent authors will
probably publish their last words. I am afraid that
ew of our weekly historians, who are men that above
all others delight in war, will be able to subsist under
the weight of a stamp* and an approaching peace.
A sheet of blank paper that must have this new im-
primatur clapped upon it, before it is qualified to
communicate any thing to the public, will make its
way in the world but very heavily. In short, the
necessity of carrying a stamp, and the improbability
of notifying a bloody battle, will, I am afraid, both
concur to the sinking of those thin folios, which have
every other day retailed to us the history of Europe
for several years last past. A facetious friend of mine,
who loves a pun, calls this present mortality among
authors, ‘ The fall of the leaf.’

I remember upon Mr. Baxter’s death, there was
published a sheet of very good sayings, inscribed,
‘The last words of Mr. Baxter.’ The title sold so
great a number of these papers, that about a week
after there came out a second sheet, inscribed, ‘ More
last words of Mr. Baxter.’ In the same manner I
1ave reason to think, that several ingenious writers,
who have taken their leave of the public in farewell
papers, will not give over so, but intend to appear
again, though perhaps under another form and with a
different title. Be that as it will, it is my business, in
this place, to give an account of my own intentions,

* Aug. 1, 1712, the stamp-duty here alluded to took place, and
every single half-sheet paid a halfpenny to the queen.156
and to acquaint my reader with the motives by which
I act, in this great crisis of the republic of letters.

I have been long debating in my own heart, whe-
ther I should throw up my pen, as an author that is
cashiered by the act of parliament which is to operate
vithin these four and twenty hours, or whether I
should still persist in laying my speculations, from
day to day, before the public. The argument which
prevails with me most on the first side of the question
is, that I am informed by my bookseller he must raise
the price of every single paper to twopence, or that
he shall not be able to pay the duty of it. Now as I
am very desirous my readers should have their learn-

Ing as cheap as possible, it is with great difficulty that
1 comply with him in this particular.

However, upon laying my reasons together in the
balance, I find that those who plead for the continu-
ance of this work have much the greater weight. For,
in the first place, in recompense for the expense to
which this will put my readers, it is to be hoped they
may receive from every paper so much instruction as
will be a very good equivalent. And, in order to this,
I would not advise any one to take it in, who, after
the perusal of it, does not find himself twopence the
wiser or the better man for it; or who, upon exami-
nation, does not believe that he has had twopenny
worth of mirth or instruction for his money.

But I must confess there is another motive which
prevails with me more than the former. I consider
that the tax on paper was given for the support of the
government; and, as I have enemies who are apt to
pervert every thing I do or say, I fear they would
ascribe the laying down my paper, on such an occa-
sion, to a spirit of malcontentedness, which I am
resolved none shall ever justly upbraid me with. No,
I shall glory in contributing my utmost to the public
weal ; and, if my country receives five or six pounds

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.THE NEW STAMP. PSF

a day by my labours, I shall be very well pleased to
find myself so useful a member. It is a received
maxim, that no honest man should enrich himself by
methods that are prejudicial to the community in
which he lives; and, by the same rule, I think we
may pronounce the person to deserve very well of his
countrymen, whose labours bring more into the public
coffers than into his own pocket.

Since I have mentioned the word enemies, I must
explain myself so far as to acquaint my reader, that
I mean only the insignificant party zealots on both
sides: men of such poor narrow souls, that they are
not capable of thinking on any thing but with an eye
to whig or tory. During the course of this paper, I
have been accused by these despicable wretches of
trimming, time serving, personal reflection, secret
satire, and the like. Now, though in these my com-
positions it is visible to any reader of common sense
that I consider nothing but my subject, which is
always of an indifferent nature ; how is it possible for
me to write so clear of party, as not to lie open to
the censures of those who will be applying every
sentence, and finding out persons and things in it
which it has no regard to?

Several paltry scribblers and declaimers have done
me the honour to be dull upon me in reflections of
this nature; but, notwithstanding my name has been
sometimes traduced by this contemptible tribe of men,
I have hitherto avoided all animadversions upon them.
The truth of it is, I am afraid of making them appear
considerable by taking notice of them, for they are
like those imperceptible insects which are discovered
by the microscope, and cannot be made the subject
of observation without being magnified.

Having mentioned those few who have shown
themselves the enemies of this paper, I should be
very ungrateful to the public, did I not at the same

a a ee

sone iha doen

Perna158 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

time testify my gratitude to those who are its friends,
in which number I may reckon many of the most dis-
tinguished persons, of all conditions, parties, and pro-
fessions, in the isle of Great Britain. I am not so
vain as to think approbation is so much due to the
performance as to the design. There is, and ever will
e, Justice enough in the world, to afford patronage
and protection for those who endeavour to advance
truth and virtue, without regard to the passions and
prejudices of any particular cause or faction. If I
have any other merit in me, it is that I have new
pointed all the batteries of ridicule. They have been
generally planted against persons who have appeared
Serious rather than absurd: or, at best, have aimed
rather at what is unfashionable than what is vicious.
For my own part, I have endeavoured to make no-
thing ridiculous that is not in some measure criminal.
I have set up the immoral man as the object of deri-
sion. In short, if I have not formed a new weapon
against vice and irreligion, I have at least shown how
that weapon may be put to a right use which has so
often fought the battles of impiety and profaneness.

 

133. DEGENERACY OF THE STAGE.

SINCE two or three writers of comedy who are now
living have taken their farewell of the stage, those
who succeed them, finding themselves incapable of
rising up to their wit, humour, and good sense, have
only imitated them in some of those loose unguarded
Strokes, in which they complied with the corrupt
taste of the more vicious part of their audience.
When persons of a low genius attempt this kind of
writing, they know no difference between being
merry and being lewd. It is with an eye to some of

these degenerate compositions that I have written the
following discourse.DEGENERACY OF THE STAGE. 159

Were our English stage but half so virtuous as that
of the Greeks or Romans, we should quickly see the
influence of it in the behaviour of all the politer part
of mankind. It would not be fashionable to ridicule
religion, or its professors; the man of pleasure would
not be the complete gentleman; vanity would be out
of countenance; and every quality which is orna-
mental to human nature would meet with that esteem
which is due to it.

If the Enelish stage were under the same recula-
tions the Athenian was formerly, it would have the
same effect that had, in recommending the religion,
the government, and public worship of its country.
Were our plays subject to proper inspections and
limitations, we might not only pass away several of
our vacant hours in the highest entertainments, but
should always rise from them wiser and better than
we sat down to them.

It is one of the most unaccountable things in our
age, that the lewdness of our theatre should be so
much complained of, so well exposed, and so little
redressed. It is to be hoped that some time or other
we may be at leisure to restrain the licentiousness of
the theatre, and make it contribute its assistance to
the advancement of morality, and to the reformation
of the age. As matters stand at present, multitudes
are shut out from this noble diversion, by reason of
those abuses and corruptions that accompany it. A
father is often afraid that his daughter should be
ruined by those entertainments which were invented
for the accomplishment and refining of human nature.
The Athenian and Roman plays were written with
such a regard to morality, that Socrates used to
frequent the one, and Cicero the other.

It happened once indeed, that Cato dropped into
the Roman theatre, when the Floralia were to be
represented ; and as in that performance, which wasae

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have looked upon incest or murder to have been as

 

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

a kind of religious ceremony, there were several in-
decent parts to be acted, the people refused to see
them whilst Cato was present. Martial, on this hint,
made the following epigram, which we must suppose
was applied to some grave friend of his, that had been
accidentally present at some such entertainment.

© Nosses jocose dulce cum sacrum Flore,

Lestosque lusus, et licentiam vulgi,

Cur in theatrum, Cato severe, venisté ?

An ideo tantum veneras, ut exires? Marr. 1. Epig. 3.

‘Why dost thou come, great censor of thy age,

o see the loose diversions of the stage?

With awful countenance, and brow severe,

What in the name of goodness dost thon here? :

See the mix’d crowd! how giddy, lewd, and vain!

Didst thou come in, but to go out again?’

An accident of this nature might happen once in
an age among the Greeks and Romans; but they
were too wise and good to let the constant nightly
entertainment be of such a nature, that people of the
most sense and virtue could not be at it. Whatever
vices are represented upon the stage, they ought to be
so marked and branded by the poet, as not to appear
either laudable or amiable in the person who is tainted
with them. But if we look into the English comedies
above mentioned, we would think they were formed
upon a quite contrary maxim, and that this rule,
though it held good upon the heathen stage, was not
to be regarded in Christian theatres. There is ano-
ther rule likewise, which was observed by authors of
antiquity, and which these modern geniuses have no
regard to, and that was, never to choose an improper
subject for ridicule. Now a subject is improper for
ridicule, if it is apt to stir up horror and commisera-
tion rather than laughter. For this reason, we do not
find any comedy, in so polite an author as Terence,

raised upon the violations of the marriage bed. The
falsehood of the wife or husband has given occasion
to noble tragedies; but a Scipio or a Lelius wouldDEGENERACY OF THE STAGE. 161

proper subjects for comedy. On the contrary, cuck-
oldom is the basis of most of our modern plays. If
an alderman appears upon the stage, you may be
sure it 1s in order to be cuckolded. A husband that
is a little grave or elderly generally meets with the
same fate. Knights and baronets, country squires,
and justices of the quorum, come up to the town for
no other purpose. I have seen poor Dogget cuck-
olded in all these capacities. In short, our English
writers are as frequently severe upon this innocent
unhappy creature, commonly known by the name of
a cuckold, as the ancient comic writers were upon an
eating parasite, or a vainglorious soldier.

At the same time the poet so contrives matters, that
the two criminals are the favourites of the audience.
We sit still, and wish well to them through the whole
play, are pleased when they meet with proper oppor-
tunities, and out of humour when they are disap-
pointed. The truth of it is, the accomplished gentle-
man upon the English stage is the person that is
familiar with other men’s wives, and indifferent to his
own; as the fine woman is generally a composition
of sprightliness and falsehood. I do not know whether
it proceeds from barrenness of invention, depravation
of manners, or ignorance of mankind, but I have
often wondered that our ordinary poets cannot frame
to themselves the idea of a fine man who is not a
whoremaster, or a fine woman that is not a jilt.

I have sometimes thought of compiling a system
of ethics out of the writings of these corrupt poets
under the title of Stage Morality. But I have been
diverted from this thought by a project which has
been executed by an ingenious gentleman of my ac-
quaintance. He has composed, it seems, the history
of a young fellow who has taken all his notions of the
world from the stage, and who has directed himself,
in every circumstance of his life and conversation, by162

the maxims and examples of the fine gentleman in
English comedies. If I can prevail upon him to give
me a copy of this new-fashioned novel, I will bestow
on it a place in my works, and question not but it
may have as good an effect upon the drama as Don
Quixote had upon romance.

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

 

134. INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM.

THERE is not a common saying which has a better
turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the
mouths of the vulgar, that ‘custom isa second nature.’
It is indeed able to form the man anew, and to give
him inclinations and capacities altogether different
from those he was born with. Dr. Plot, in his history
of Staffordshire, tells us of an idiot, that, chancing to
live within the sound of a clock, and always amusing
himself with counting the hour of the day whenever
the clock struck, the clock being spoiled by accident,
the idiot continued to strike and count the hour with-
out the help of it, in the same manner as he had done
when it was entire. Though I dare not vouch for the
truth of this story, it is very certain that custom has a
mechanical effect upon the body, at the same time that
it has a very extraordinary influence upon the mind.
I shall in this paper consider one very remarkable
effect which custom has upon human nature, and
which, if rightly observed, may lead us into very
useful rules of life. What I shall here take notice of
in custom, is its wonderful efficacy in making every
thing pleasant to us. <A person who is addicted to
play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it
at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination
towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that
it seems the only end of his being. The love of a
retired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly,
as he is conversant in the one or the other, until heINFLUENCE OF CUSTOM. 163

is utterly unqualified for relishing that to which he
has been for some time disused. Nay, a man may
smoke, or drink, or take snuff, until he is unable to
pass away his time without it; not to mention how
our delight in any particular study, art, or science,
rises and improves in proportion to the application
which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an
exercise becomes at leneth an entertainment. Our
employments are changed into our diversions. The
mind grows fond of those actions which she is accus-
tomed to, and is drawn with reluctancy from those
paths in which she has been used to walk.

Not only such actions as were at first indifferent
to us, but even such as are painful, will by custom
and practice become pleasant. Sir Francis Bacon
observes in his natural philosophy, that our taste is
never pleased better than with those things which at
first created a disgust in it. He gives particular in-
stances, of claret, coffee, and other liquors, which the
palate seldom approves upon the first taste; but, when
it has once got a relish of them, generally retains it
for life. The mind is constituted after the same
manner; and, after having habituated herself to any
particular exercise or employment, not only loses her
first aversion towards it, but conceives a certain fond-
ness and affection for it. I have heard one of the
greatest geniuses this age has produced *, who had
been trained up in all the polite studies of antiquity,
assure me, upon his being obliged to search into
several rolls and records, that, notwithstanding such
an employment was at first very dry and irksome to
him, he at last took an incredible pleasure in it, and
preferred it even to the reading of Virgil or Cicero.
The reader will observe that I have not here considered
custom as it makes things easy, but as it renders them
delightful; and though others have often made the
* Dr, Atterbury.a a

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164 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

same reflections, it is possible they may not have

drawn those uses from it, with which I intend to fill

the remaining part of this paper.

If we consider attentively this property of human
nature, it may instruct us in very fine moralities. In
the first place, I would have no man discouraged with
that kind of life, or series of action, in which the choice
of others, or his own necessities, may have engaged
him. It may perhaps be very disagreeable to him at
first; but use and application will certainly render it
not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory.

In the second place, I would recommend to every

one that admirable precept which Pythagoras is said
to have given to his disciples, and which that philo-
sopher must have drawn from the observation I have
enlarged upon. Optimwn vite genus eligito, nam
consuetudo faciet jucundissimum ; * Pitch upon that
course of life which is the most excellent, and custom
will render it the most delightful.’ Men, whose cir-
cumstances will permit them to choose their own way
of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that
which their judgment tells them is the most laudable.
The voice of reason is more to be regarded than the
bent of any present inclination, since, by the rule
above mentioned, inclination will at length come over
to reason, though we can never force reason to comply
with inclination.

In the third place, this observation may teach the
most sensual and irreligious man to overlook those
hardships and difficulties which are apt to discourage
him from the prosecution of a virtuous life.  ¢ The
gods,’ said Hesiod, ‘ have placed labour before virtue ;
the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but grows
more smooth and easy the farther you advance in it.’
The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and re-
solution will in a little time find that ¢ her ways are
ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace.’INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM. 165

To enforce this consideration, we may farther ob-
serve, that the practice of religion will not only be
attended with that pleasure which naturally accom-
panies those actions to which we are habituated, but
with those supernumerary joys of heart that rise from
the consciousness of such a pleasure, from the satis-
faction of acting up to the dictates of reason, and from
the prospect of a happy immortality.

In the fourth place, we may learn from this obser-
vation, which we have made on the mind of man, to take
particular care, when we are once settled in a regular
course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves
in any the most innocent diversions and entertain-
ments; since the mind may insensibly fall off from
the relish of virtuous actions, and, by degrees, ex-
change that pleasure which it takes in the performance
of its duty, for delights of a much more inferior and
unprofitable nature.

The last use which I shall make of this remarkable
property in human nature, of being delighted with
those actions to which it is accustomed, is to show
how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of
virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of
the next. The state of bliss we call heaven will not
be capable of affecting those minds which are not thus
qualified for it; we must, in this world, gain a relish
of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that
knowledge and perfection which are to make us happy
in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and
raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the soul
to all eternity, must be planted in her during this her
present state of probation. In short, heaven is not
to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the
natural effect of a religious life.

On the other hand, those evil spirits, who, by long
custom, have contracted in the body habits of lust and
sensuality, malice and revenge, an aversion to every

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166 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

thing that is good, just, or laudable, are naturally
seasoned and prepared for pain and misery. Their
torments have already taken root in them ; they cannot
be happy when divested of the body, unless we may
Suppose, that Providence will in a manner create them
anew, and work a miracle in the rectification of their
faculties. They may, indeed, taste a kind of malignant
pleasure in those actions towhich they are accustomed,
whilst in this life; but when they are removed from
all those objects which are here apt to gratify them,
they will naturally become their own tormentors, and
cherish in themselves those painful habits of mind
which are called in scripture phrase, ‘the worm which
never dies.’ This notion of heaven and hell is so very
conformable to the light of nature, that it was disco-
vered by several of the most exalted heathens. It
has been finely improved by many eminent divines of
the last age, as in particular by Archbishop Tillotson
and Dr. Sherlock : but there is none who has raised
such noble speculations upon it as Dr. Scott, in the
first book of his Christian Life, which is one of the
finest and most rational schemes of divinity that is
written in our tongue, or in any other. That excellent
author has shown how every particular custom and
habit of virtue will, in its own nature, produce the
heaven, or a state of happiness, in him who shal]
hereafter practise it : as, on the contrary, how every
Custom or habit of vice will be the natural hell of him
in whom it subsists.

 

135. ON LIBEL.

Tuere is nothing so scandalous to a government, and
detestable in the eyes of all good men, as defamatory
papers and pamphlets; but at the same time there is
nothing so difficult to tame as a satirical author. An
angry writer, who cannot appear in print, naturallyON LIBEL. TOE

vents his spleen in libels and lampoons. A gay old
woman, says the fable, seeing all her wrinkles repre-
sented in a large lookingglass, threw it upon the
ground in a passion, and broke it into a thousand
pieces; but as she was afterwards surveying the frag-
ments with a spiteful kind of pleasure, she could not
forbear uttering herself in the following sohloquy :
‘ What have I got by this revengeful blow of mine?
I have only multiplied my deformity, and see a hun-
dred ugly faces, where before I saw but one.’

It has been proposed to oblige every person that
writes a book, or a paper, to swear himself the author
of it, and enter down in a public register his name
and place of abode.

This indeed would have effectually suppressed all
printed scandal, which generally appears under bor-
rowed names, or under none at all. But it is to be
feared that such an expedient would not only destroy
scandal, but learning. It would operate promis-
cuously, and root up the corn and tares together.
Not to mention some of the most celebrated works of
piety which have proceeded from anonymous authors,
who have made it their merit to convey to us so great
a charity in secret, there are few works of genius that
come out at first with the author’s name. The writer
generally makes a trial of them in the world before
he owns them; and I believe very few who are capable
of writing would set pen to paper, if they knew before-
hand that they must not publish their productions but
on such conditions. For my own part, I must declare,
the papers I present the public are like fairy favours,
which shall last no longer than while the author is
concealed.

That which makes it particularly difficult to restrain
these sons of calumny and defamation is, that all sides
are equally guilty of it, and that every dirty scribbler
is countenanced by great names, whose interests heee

 

 

 

168 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
propagates by such y
have never yet heard
an exemplary punisl

ile and infamous methods. I
of a ministry who have infl.cted
iment on an author that has sup-
ported their cause with falsehood and scandal, and
treated in a most cruel manner the names of those
who have been looked upon as their rivals and an-
tagonists. Would a government set an everl
mark of their displeasure upon one of those infamous
writers who makes his court to them by tearing to
pieces the reputation of a competitor, we should
quickly see an end put to this race of vermin, that
are a scandal to government and a reproach to. human
Hature. Such a proceeding would make a minister
of state shine in history, and would fill all mankind
with a just abhorrence of persons who should treat
him unworthily, and employ against him those arms
which he scorned to make use of against his enemies,
I cannot think that any one will be so unjust as to
imagine what I have here said is spoken with a respect
t) any party or faction. Every one who has in him
the sentsments either of a Christian or a gentleman
cannot but be highly offended at this wicked and un-
senerous practice, which is so much in use among us
at present, that it is become a kind of n
and distinguishes us from all the governments that lie
about us. I cannot but look upon the finest strokes
of satire, which are aimed at particular persons, and
which are Supported even with the appearances of
truth, to be the marks of an evil mind, and highly
criminal in themselves. Infamy, like other punish-
ments, is under the direction and distribution of the
Inagistrate, and not of any. private person. Accord-
ingly we learn, from a fragment of Cicero, that though
there were very few capital punishments in the twelve
tables, a libel or lampoon which took away the good
name of another, was to be punished by death. But
this is far from being our case. Our satire is nothing

asting

ational crime,ON LIBEL. 169

but ribaldry and billingsgate. Scurrility passes for wit;
and he who can call names in the greatest variety of
phrases is looked upon to have the shrewdest pen.
By this means the honour of families is ruined, the
highests posts and greatest titles are rendered cheap
and vile in the sight of the people, the noblest virtues
and most exalted parts exposed to the contempt of
the vicious and the ignorant. Should a foreigner, who
knows nothing of our private factions, or one who is
to act his part in the world when our present heats
and animosities are forgot; should, I say, such a one
form to himself a notion of the greatest men of all sides
in the British nation, who are now living, from the
characters which are given them in some or other of
those abominable writings which are daily published
among us, what a nation of monsters must we appear!

As this cruel practice tends to the utter subversion
of all truth and humanity among us, it deserves the
utmost detestation and discouragement of all who
have either the love of their country, or the honour
of their religion, at heart. I would therefore earnestly
recommend it to the consideration of those who deal
in these pernicious arts of writing, and of those who
take pleasure in the reading of them. As for the first,
I have spoken of them in former papers, and have not
stuck to rank them with the murderer and assassin.
Every honest man sets as high a value upon a good
name as upon life itself: and I cannot but think that
those who privily assault the one would destroy the
other, might they do it with the same secrecy and
impunity,

As for persoris who take pleasure in the reading
and dispersing of such detestable libels, I am afraid
they fall very little short of the guilt of the first com-
posers. By a law of the emperors Valentinian and
Valens, it was made death for any person not only to
write a libel, but, if he met with one by chance, not
VOL Ads zy

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

lee eee ee£70 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

to tearor burn it. But because I would not be thought
singular in my opinion of this matter, I shall conclude
my paper with the words of Monsieur Bayle, who
was a man of great freedom of thought as well as of
exquisite learning and judgment.
‘ I cannot imagine that a man who disperses a libel
is less desirous of doing mischief than the author
himself. But what shall we say of the pleasure which
a man takes in the reading of a defamatory libel? Is
it not a heinous sin in the sight of God? We must
distinguish in this point. This pleasure is either an
agreeable sensation we are affected with, when we
meet with a witty thought which is well expressed,
or it is a joy which we conceive from the dishonour of
the person who is defamed. I will say nothing to the
first _of these cases, for perhaps some would think that
my morality is not severe enough, if I should affirm
that a man is not master of those agreeable sensations,
any more than of those occasioned by sugar or honey,
when they touch his tongue; but as to the second,
every one will own that pleasure to be a heinous sin.
The pleasure in the first case is of no continuance: it
prevents our reason and reflection, and may be imme-
diately followed by a secret grief to see our neighbour’s
honour blasted. If it does not cease immediately, it
is a sign that we are not displeased with the ill-nature
of the satirist, but are glad to see him defame his
enemy by all kinds of stories; and then we deserve
the punishment to which the writer of the libel is
subject. I shall here add the words of a modern
author. St. Gregory, upon excommunicating those
writers who had dishonoured Castorius, does not ex-
cept those who read their works: because, says he, if
calumnies have always been the delight of the hearers,
and a gratification of those persons who have no other
advantage over honest men, is not he who takes plea-
sure in reading them as guilty as he who composed
them? It is an uncontested maxim, that they whoON LIBEL. TTA

approve an action, would certainly do it if they could ;
that is, ifsome reason of self-love did not hinder them.
There is no difference, says Cicero, between advising
a crime, and approving it when committed. The Ro-
man law confirmed this maxim, having subjected the
approvers and authors of this evil to the same penalty.
We may therefore conclude that those who are pleased
with reading defamatory libels, so far as to approve
the authors and dispersers of them, are as guilty as if
they had composed them; for if they do not write
such libels themselves, it is because they have not the
talent of writing, or because they will run no hazard.’

The author produces other authorities to confirm
his judgment in this particular.

136. ON GRATITUDE.

THERE is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind
than gratitude. It is accompanied with such an in-
ward satisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently reward-
ed by the performance. It is not like the practice of
many other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended
with so much pleasure, that were there no positive
command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid
up for it hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in
it, for the natural gratification that accompanies it.

If gratitude is due from man to man, how much
more from man to his Maker? The Supreme Being
does not only confer upon us those bounties which
proceed more immediately from his hand, but even
those benefits which are conveyed to us by others.
Every blessing we enjoy, by what means soever it
may be derived upen us, is the gift of Him who is
the great Author of good, and Father of mercies.

If gratitude, when exerted towards one another,
naturally produces a very pleasing sensation in the
mind of a grateful man; it exalts the soul into rap-£72 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

ture, when it is employed on this great object of gra-

titude, on this beneficent Being who has given us

every thing we already possess, and from whom we
expect every thing we yet hope for.

Most of the works of the pagan poets were either
direct hymns to their deities, or tended indirectly to
the celebration of their respective attributes and per-
fections. Those who are acquainted with the works
of the Greek and Latin poets which are still extant,
will, upon reflection, find this observation so true,
that I shall not enlarge upon it. One would wonder
that more of our Christian poets have not turned their
thoughts this way, especially if we consider, that our
idea of the Supreme Being is not only infinitely more
great and noble than what could possibly enter into
the heart of a heathen, but filled with every thing that

“ean raise the imagination, and give an opportunity
for the sublimest thoughts and conceptions.

Plutarch tells us of a heathen who.was singing a
hymn to Diana, in which he celebrated her for her
delight in human sacrifices, and other instances of
cruelty and revenge; upon which a poet, who was
present at this piece of devotion, and seems to have
had a truer idea of the divine nature, told the votary,
by way ofreproof, that, in recompense for his hymn,
he heartily wished he might have a daughter of the
Same temper with the goddess he celebrated. It was
indeed impossible to write the praises of one of those
false deities, according to the pagan creed, without a
mixture of impertinence and absurdity.

The Jews, who, before the time of Christianity,
were the only people that had the knowledge of the
true God, have set the Christian world an example
how they ought to employ this divine talent of which
I am speaking. As that nation produced men of
great genius, without considering them as inspired
writers, they have transmitted to us many hymns andON GRATITUDE. 173

divine odes, which excel those that are delivered
down to us by the ancient Greeks and Romans, in
the poetry, as much as in: the subject to which it was
consecrated. This I think might easily be shown, if ke
there were occasion for it.” H

I have already communicated to the public some Ee
pieces of divine poetry ; and, as they have met witha LF
very favourable reception, I shall from time to time a
publish any work of the same nature, which has not Be)
yet appeared in print, and may be acceptable to my
readers.

 

* When all thy mercies, O my God, i
My rising soul surveys; i

Transported with the view, I’m lost fait
In wonder, love, and praise:

 

* O how shall words with eyual warmth
The praninds declare

That glows within my ravish’d heart?
But thou canst read it there.

 

*‘ Thy providence my life sustain’d,
And all my wants redress’d,
When in the silent womb I lay, i
And hung upon the breast. i

* To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in prayer.

* Unnumber’d comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestow’d,

Before my infant heart conceived
From whom those comforts flow’d.

‘ When in the slipp’ry paths of youth fi)
With heedless steps { ran, i

Thine arm unseen convey’d me safe,
And led me up to man.

‘ Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear’d my way, ti
And through the pleasing snares of vice, ¥
More to be fear’d than they. r

¢ When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou
With health renew’d my face,

And when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Revived my soul with grace.

‘ Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o’er,

And in a kind and faithful friend

Has doubled all my store.PEI NR REY 3 ee att PIT

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

* Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ ;

Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.

‘ Through every period of my life
Thy goodness Pll pursue;

And after death in distant worlds
The glorious theme renew.

* When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,

My ever grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.

‘ Through all eternity to Thee
A joyful song Ill raise,

For, oh! eternity’s too short
To utter all thy praise’

 

137. ON TRUE AND FALSE MODESTY.

I coup not but smile at the account that was yester-
day given me of a modest young gentleman, who,
being invited to an entertainment, though he was not
used to drink, had not the confidence to refuse his
glass in his turn; when on a sudden he grew so flus-
tered, that he took all the talk of the table into his own
hands, abused every one of the company, and flung a
bottle at the gentleman’s head who treated him. This
has given me occasion to reflect upon the ill effects of
a vicious modesty, and to remember the saying of
Brutus, as it is quoted by Plutarch, that ¢ the person
has had but an ill education, who has not been taught
to deny any thing.’ This false kind of modesty has,
perhaps, betrayed both sexes into as many vices as
the most abandoned impudence; and is the more in-
excusable to reason, because it acts to gratify others
rather than itself, and is punished with a kind of re-
morse, not only like other vicious habits when the
crime is over, but even at the very time that it is
committed.

Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and
nothing is more contemptible than the false. . The ove
guards virtue, the other betrays it. True modesty isON TRUE AND FALSE MODESTY. 175

ashamed to do any thing that is repugnant to the rules
of right reason; false modesty is ashamed to do any
thing that is opposite to the humour of the company.
True modesty avoids every thing that is criminal ;
false modesty every thing that is unfashionable. The
latter is only a general undetermined instinct; the
former is that instinct, limited and circumscribed by
the rules of prudence and religion.

We may conclude that modesty to be false and
vicious which engages a man to do any thing that is
ill or indiscreet, or which restrains him from doing
any thing that is of a contrary nature. How many
men, in the common concerns of life, lend sums of
money which they are not able to spare, are bound
for persons whom they have but little friendship for,
give recommendatory characters of men whom they
are not acquainted with, bestow places on those whom
they do not esteem, live in such manner as they them-
selves do not approve, and all this merely because
they have not the confidence to resist solicitation,
importunity, or example ?

Nor does this false modesty expose us only to such
actions as are indiscreet, but very often to such as are
highly criminal. When Xenophanes was called timor-
ous because he would not venture his money in a
game at dice: ‘1 confess,’ said he, ‘that Iam exceed-
ing timorous, for I dare not do an ill thing.’ On the
contrary, a man of vicious modesty complies with
every thing, and is only fearful of doing what may
look singular in the company where he is engaged.

fe falls in with the torrent, and lets. himself go to
every action or discourse, however unjustifiable in
itself, so it be in vogue among the present party.
This, though one of the most common, is one of the
most ridiculous dispositions in human nature, that
men should not be ashamed of spéaking or acting in
» dissolute or irrational manner, but that one who isADDISON’S ESSAYS.

in their company should be ashamed of governing
himself by the principles of reason and virtue.

In the second place, we are to consider false mo-
desty, as it restrains a man from doing what is good
and laudable. My reader’s own thoughts will suggest
to him many instances and examples under this head.
I shall only dwell upon one reflection, which I can-
not make without a secret concern. We have in
England a particular bashfulness in every thing that
regards religion. A well bred man is obliged to con-
ceal any serious sentiment of this nature, and very
often to appear a greater libertine than he is, that he
may keep himself in countenance among the men of
mode. Our excess of modesty makes us shamefaced
in all the exercises of piety and devotion. This hu-

mour. prevails upon us daily ; insomuch that, at many
well bred tables, the master of the house is SO very
modest a man, that he has not the confidence to say
grace at his own table: a custom which is not only
practised by all the nations about us, but was never
omitted by the heathens themselves, English gen-
tlemen, who travel into Roman catholic countries, are
not a little surprised to meet with people of the best
quality kneeling in their churches, and engaged in
their private devotions, though it be not at the hours
of public worship. An officer of the army, or a man
of wit and pleasure, in those countries, would be
afraid of passing not only for an irreligious, but an
ill bred man, should he be seen to go to bed, or sit
down at table, without offering up his devotions on
such occasions. The same show of religion appears
in all the foreign reformed churches, and enters so
much into their ordinary conversation, that an English-
man is apt to term them hypocritical and precise.
This little appearance of a religious deportment in
our nation may proceed in some measure from that
modesty which.is natural to us; but the great occa-ON TRUE AND FALSE MODESTY. 177
sion of it is certainly this. Those swarms of sectaries
that overran the nation in the time of the great rebel-
lion, carried their hypocrisy so high, that they had
converted our whole language into a jargon of enthu-
slasm; insomuch that, upon the restoration, men
thought they could not recede too far from the beha-
viour and practice of those persons who had made
religion a cloak to so many villanies. This led them
into the other extreme; every appearance of devotion
was looked upon as puritanical, and falling into the
hands of the ‘ ridiculers’ who flourished in that reign,
and attacked every thing that was serious, it has ever
since been out of countenance among us. By this
means we are gradually fallen into that vicious mo-
desty, which has in some measure worn out from
among us the appearance of Christianity in ordinary
life and conversation, and which distinguishes us from
all our neighbours.

Hypocrisy cannot indeed be too much detested,
but at the same time it is to be preferred to open
impiety. They are both equally destructive to the
person who is possessed with them; but, in regard
to others, hypocrisy is not so pernicious as barefaced
irreligion. The due mean to be observed is ‘ to be
sincerely virtuous, and at the same time to let the
world see we are so.’ I do not know a more dread-
ful menace in the holy writings, than that which is
pronounced against those who have this perverted
modesty, to be ashamed before men ina particular
of such unspeakable importance.

—.

138. ON FAITH AND PRACTICE.

ReELicron may be considered under two general
heads. The first comprehends what we are to believe,
the other what we are to practise. By those things
which we are to believe, I mean whatever is revealed
12

animateLN OOOO ne
SC — ~ .
ae peiiacegse ‘

aE EES
tenn

 

OP EMOTE 0 Pa

   

178

to us in the holy writings, and which we could not
have obtained the knowledge of by the light of nature ;
by the things which we are to practise, I mean all
those duties to which we are directed by reason or
natural religion. The first of these I shall distinguish
by the name of faith, the second by that of morality.

If we look into the more serious part of mankind
we find many who lay so great a stress upon faith,
that they neglect morality; and many who build so
much upon morality, that they do not pay a due re-
gard to faith. The perfect man should be defective
in neither of these particulars, as will be very evident
to those who consider the benefits which arise from
each of them, and which I shall make the subject of
this day’s paper.

Notwithstanding this general division of Christian
duty into morality and faith, and that they have both
their peculiar excellences, the first has the preemi-
nence in several respects.

First, Because the greatest part of morality (as I
have stated the notion of it) is of a fixed eternal nature,
and will endure when faith shall fail, and be lost in
conviction.

Secondly, Because a person may be qualified to do
greater good to mankind, and become more beneficial
to the world, by morality without faith, than by faith
without morality.

Thirdly, Because morality gives a greater perfec-
tion to human nature, by quieting the mind, mode-
rating the passions, and advancing the happiness of
every man in his private capacity.

Fourthly, Because the rule of morality is much
more certain than that of faith, all the civilized nations
of the world agreeing in the great points of morality,
as much as they differ in those of faith.

Fifthly, Because infidelity is not of so malignant
a nature as immorality; or, to put the same reason
in another light, because it is generally owned there

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

?ON FAITH AND PRACTICE. 179

may be a salvation for a virtuous infidel (particularly
in the case of invincible ignorance), but none for a
vicious believer.

Sixthly, Because faith seems to draw its principal,
if not all its excellency, from the influence it has upon
morality ; as we shall see more at large, if we consider
wherein consists the excellency of faith, or the belief
of revealed religion; and this I think is,

First, In explaining and carrying to greater heights,
several points of morality.

Secondly, In furnishing new and stronger motives
to enforce the practice of morality.

Thirdly, In giving us more amiable ideas of the
Supreme Being, more endearing notions of one ano-
ther, and a truer state of ourselves, both in regard to
the grandeur and vileless of our natures.

Fourthly, By showing us the blackness and defor-
mity of vice, which in the Christian system is so very
great, that He who is possessed of all perfection, and
the sovereign judge of it, is represented by several of
our divines as hating sin to the same degree that He
loves the sacred person who has made the propitia-
tion of it.

Fifthly, In being the ordinary and prescribed me-
thod of making morality effectual to salvation.

I have only touched on these several heads, which
every one who is conversant in discourses of this
nature will easily enlarge upon in his own thoughts,
and draw conclusions from them which may be useful
to him in the conduct of his life. One I am sure is
so obvious, that he cannot miss it; namely, that a
man cannot be perfect in his scheme of morality, who
does not strengthen and support it with that of the
Christian faith.

Besides, this, I shall lay down two or three other
maxims, which I think we may deduce from what has
been said.TE Ry I ce Ie

 

 

NN

 

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

First, That we should be particularly cautious of
making any thing an article of faith which does not
contribute to the confirmation or improvement of
morality.

Secondly, That no article of faith can be true and
authentic which weakens or subverts the practical part
of religion, or what I have hitherto called morality.

Thirdly, That the greatest friend of morality and
natural religion cannot possibly apprehend any dan-
ger from embracing Christianity, as it is preserved
pure and uncorrupt in the doctrines of our national
church *, !

There is likewise another maxim which I think
may be drawn from the foregoing considerations,
which is this, that we should, in all dubious points,
consider any ill consequences that may arise from
them, supposing they should be erroneous, before we
give up our assent to them.

For example: In that disputable point of persecu-
ting men for conscience sake, besides the imbittering
their minds with hatred, indignation, and all the ve-
hemence of resentment, and ensnaring them to pro-
fess what they do not believe; we cut them off from
the pleasures and advantages of society, afflict their
bodies, distress their fortunes, hurt their reputations,
ruin their families, make their lives painful, or put an
end to them. Sure when I see such dreadful conse-
quenees rising from a principle, I would be as fully
convinced of the truth of it as of a mathematical de-
monstration, before I would venture to act upon it,
or make it a part of my religion.

In this case the injury done our neighbour is plain
and evident ; the principle that puts us upon doing it,

of a dubious and disputable nature. Morality seems
highly violated by the one; and whether or no a zeal
for what aman thinks the true system of faith may
* The Gospel.ON FAITH AND PRACTICE. 181

justify it, is very uncertain. I cannot but think, if
our religion produces charity as well as zeal, it will not
be for showing itself by such cruel instances. But to
conclude with the words of an excellent author, ‘ We
have just enough of religion to make us hate, but not
enough to make us love, one another.’

139. WISDOM AND RICHES. A VISION.

I was lately entertaining myself with comparing
Homer’s balance, in which Jupiter is represented as
weighing the fates of Hector and Achilles, with a
passage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced as
weighing the fates of Turnus and A‘neas. I then
considered how the same way of thinking prevailed
in the eastern parts of the world, as in those noble
passages of scripture, wherein we are told, that the
great king of Babylon, the day before his death, had
been ‘ weighed in the balance, and been found want-
ing.’ In other places of the holy writings, the Al-
mighty is described as weighing the mountains in
scales, making the weight for the winds, knowing the
balancings of the clouds; and in others, as weighing
the actions of men, and laying their calamities toge-
ther ina balance. Milton, as I have observed ina
former paper, had an eye to several of these foregoing
instances, in that beautiful description wherein he re-
presents the archangel and the evil spirit as addressing
themselves for the combat, but parted by the balance
which appeared in the heavens, and weighed the
consequences of such a battle.

‘ The’ Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
Hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign 5
Wherein all things created first he weigh’d,

The pendulous round earth, with balanced air,
In counterpoise, now ponders all events,

Battles and realms; in these he put two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight.

The latter quick up flew, and kick’d the beam ;
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend:182 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

* Satan, 1 know thy strength, and thou know’st mine:
Neither our own, but given, What folly then
To boast what arms can do, since thine no more
Than heaven permits; nor mine, though doubled more
To trample thee as mire! For proof look up,
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign,
Where thou art weigh’d, and shown how light, how weak,
If thou resist.” The fiend look’d up, and knew
His mounted scale aloft; nor more; but fled
Murm’ring, and with him fled the shades of night’
These several amusing thoughts, having taken pos-
session of my mind some time before I went to sleep,
and mingling themselves with my ordinary ideas,
raised in my imagination a very odd kind of vision. I
was, methought, replaced in my study, and seated in
my elbow-chair, where I had indulged the foregoing
speculations, with my lamp burning by me as usual.
Whilst I was here meditating on several subjects of
morality, and considering the nature of many virtues
and vices, as materials for those discourses with which
I daily entertain the public, I saw, methought, a pair
of golden scales hanging by a chain of the same metal
over the table that stood before me; when, on a sud-
den, there were great heaps of weights thrown down
on each side of them. I found, upon examining
these weights, they showed the value of every thing
that is in esteem among men. I made an essay of
them, by putting the weight of Wisdom in one scale,
and that of Riches in another; upon which the latter,
to show its comparative lightness, immediately flew
up and kicked the beam.

But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader,
that these weights did not exert their natural gravity,
till they were laid in the golden balanee, insomuch
that I could not guess which was light or heavy, whilst
I held them in my hand. This I found by several
instances ; for, upon my laying a weight in one of the
scales, which was inscribed by the word < Eternity,’
though I threw in that of Time, Prosperity, Affliction,
Wealth, Poverty, Interest, Success, with many other
weights, which in my hand seemed very ponderous,WISDOM AND RICHES. 183

they were not able to stir the opposite balance; nor
could they have prevailed, though assisted with the
weight of the Sun, the Stars, and the Earth.

Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles and
honours, with Pomps, Triumphs, and many weights
of the like nature, in one of them; and seeing a little
glittering weight lie by me, I threw it accidentally
into the other scale, when, to my great surprise, it
proved so exact a counterpoise, that it kept the ba-
lance in an equilibrium. This little glittering weight
was inscribed upon the edges of it with the word
‘Vanity.’ I found there were several other weights
which were equally heavy, and exact counterpoises to
one another: a few of them I tried, as Avarice and
Poverty, Riches and Content, with some others.

There were likewise several weights that were of
the same figure, and seemed to correspond with each
other, but were entirely different when thrown into
the scales : as Religion and Hypocrisy, Pedantry and
Learning, Wit and Vivacity, Superstition and Devo-
tion, Gravity and Wisdom, with many others.

I observed one particular weight lettered on both
sides; and, upon applying myself to the reading of
it, I found on one side written, ‘In the dialect of
men,’ and-underneath it, ‘ Calamities :’ on the other
side was written, ‘ In the language of the gods,’ and
underneath ‘ Blessings.’ I found the intrinsic value
of this weight to be much greater than | imagined,
for it overpowered Health, Wealth, Good Fortune,
and many other weights, which were much more pon-
derous in my hand than the other.

There is a saying among the Scotch, that an ounce
of mother is worth a pound of clergy: I was sensible
of the truth of this saying, when I saw the difference

between the weight of Natural Parts, and: that of

Learning. The observations which I made upon
these two weights, opened to me a new field of dis-SE ET ee

: TT A Sanna. is
——— SITS 7” — : .
TRG RRR onl 5 7 ReaD SERN Bower A

EES

vA

 

 

 

 

 

ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

coveries ; for, notwithstanding the weight of Natural
Parts was much heavier than that of Learning, I ob-
served that it weighed a hundred times heavier than
it did before, when I put Learning into the same scale
with it. I made the same observation upon Faith
and Morality; for, notwithstanding the latter out-
weighed the former separately, it received a thousand
times more additional weight from its conjunction
with the former, than what it had byitself. This odd
phenomenon showed itself in other particulars, as in
Wit and Judgment, Philosophy and Religion, Justice
and Humanity, Zeal and Charity, depth of Sense and
perspicuity of Style, with innumerable other particu-
lars too long to be mentioned in this paper.
Asa dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness with

impertinence, mirth with gravity, methought I made
several other experiments of a more ludicrous nature,
by one of which I found that an English octavo was
very often heavier than a French folio; and, by ano-
ther, that an old Greek or Latin author weighed down
a whole library of moderns. Seeing one of my Spec-
tators lying by me, I laid it into one of the scales,
and flung a two-penny piece into the other. The

reader will not inquire into the event, if he remembers
the first trial which I have recorded in this paper. I

afterwards threw both the sexes into the balance ; but

as it is not for my interest to disoblige either of them,

I shall desire to be excused from telling the result of
this experiment. Having an opportunity of this na-

ture in my hands, I could not forbear throwing into

one scale the principles -of a tory, and in the other

those ofa whig; but as I have all along declared this

to be a neutral. paper, I shall likewise desire to be

silent under this head also, though, upon examining
one of the weights, I saw the word ‘ TEKEL,’ engraven
on it in capital letters.
I made many other experiments; and, though IWISDOM AND RICHES. 185

have not room for them all in this day’s speculation,
I may perhaps reserve them for another. I shall only
add, that, upon my awaking, I was sorry to find my
golden scales vanished ; but resolved for the future to
learn this lesson from them, not to despise or value
any things for their appearances, but to regulate my
esteem and passions towards them according to their
real and intrinsic value.

140. MEDIOCRITY OF FORTUNE.

I am wonderfully pleased when I meet with any
passage in an old Greek or Latin author, that is not
blown upon, and which I have never met with in a
quotation. Of this kind is a beautiful saying in
Theognis; ‘ Vice is covered by wealth, and virtue
by poverty ;’ or, to give it in the verbal translation,
‘Among men there are some who have their vices
concealed by wealth, and others who have their virtues
concealed by poverty.’ Every man’s observation will
supply him with instances of rich men, who have
several faults and defects that are overlooked, if not
entirely hidden, by means of their riches; and, I
think, we cannot find a more natural description of a
poor man, whose merits are lost in his poverty, than
that in the words of the wise man: ‘ There was a
little city, and few men within it; and there came a
ereat king against it, and besieged it, and built great
bulwarks against it. Now there was found in it a
poor wise man, and he, by his wisdom, delivered the
city; yet no man remembered that same poor man,
Then, said I, wisdom is better than strength; never-
theless, the poor man’s wisdom is despised, and his
words are not heard.’

The middle condition seems to be the most advan-
tageously situated for the gaining of wisdom. Poverty
turns our thoughts too much upon the supplying ofvA

 

   

180

our wants, and riches upon enjoying our superfluities ;
and, as Cowley has said in another case, ¢ It is hard
for a man to keep a steady eye upon truth, who is .
always in a battle or a triumph.’

It we regard poverty and wealth, as they are apt to
produce virtues or vices in the mind of man, one may
observe that there is a set of each of these growing
out of poverty, quite different from that which rises
out of wealth. Humility and patience, industry and
temperance, are very often the good qualities of a
poor man. Humanity and good-nature, magnanimity
and a sense of honour, are as often the qualifications
of the rich. On the contrary, poverty is apt to betray
a man ito envy, riches into arrogance; poverty is
too often attended with fraud, vicious compliance,
repining, murmur, and discontent. Riches expose a
man to pride and luxury, a foolish elation of heart,
and too great a fondness for the present world. In
short, the middle condition is most eligible to the
man who would improve himself in virtue; as I have
before shown, it is the most advantageous for the
gaining of knowledge. It was upon this consideration
that Agur founded his prayer, which for the wisdom
of it is recorded in holy writ. ‘ Two things have I
required of thee; deny me them not before I die.
Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither
poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for
me: lest I be full and deny thee, and say, Who is
the Lord? or lest I be poor and steal, and take the
name of my God in vain.’

I shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a
very pretty allegory, which is wrought into a play by
Aristophanes the Greek comedian. It seems originally
designed as a satire upon the rich, though, in some
parts of it, it is like the foregoing discourse, a kind of
comparison between wealth and poverty.

Chremylus, who was an old and a good man, and

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.MEDIOCRITY OF FORTUNE. 187

withal exceeding poor, being desirous to leave some
riches to his son, consults the oracle of Apollo upon
the subject. The oracle bids him follow the first man
he should see upon his going out of the temple. The
person he chanced to see was to appearance an old
sordid blind man; but upon his following him from
place to place, he at last found, by his own confession,
that he was Plutus the god of riches, and that he was
just come out of the house of a miser. Plutus farther
told him, that when he was a boy, he used to declare,
that as soon as he came to age he would distribute
wealth to none but virtuous and just men; upon which
Jupiter, considering the pernicious consequences of
such a resolution, took his sight away from him, and
left him to stroll about the world in the blind condition
wherein Chremylus beheld: him. With much ado
Chremylus prevailed upon him to go to his house,
where he met an old woman in a tattered raiment,
who had been his guest for many years, and whose
name was Poverty. The old woman refusing to turn
out so easily as he would have her, he threatened to
banish her not only from his own house, but out of
all Greece, if she made any more words upon the
matter. Poverty on this occasion pleads her cause
very notably, and represents to her old landlord, that
should she be driven out of the country, all their
trades, arts, and sciences, would be driven out with
her; and that if every one was rich, they would never
be supplied with those pomps, ornaments, and con-
veniences of life which made riches desirable. She
likewise represented to him the several advantages
which she bestowed upon her votaries, in regard to
their shape, their health, and their activity, by pre-
serving them from gouts, dropsies, unwieldiness, and
intemperance. But whatever she had to say for her-
self, she was at last forced to troop off. Chremylus
immediately considered how he might restore PlutusPee EN
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188 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

to his sight; and, in order to it, conveyed him to the
temple of AXsculapius, who was famous for cures and
miracles of this nature. By this means the deity re-
covered his eyes, and began to make a right use of
them, by enriching every one that was distinguished
by piety towards the gods and justice towards men ;
and at the same time by taking away his gifts from
the impious and undeserving. This produces several
merry incidents, till in the last act Mercury descends
with great complaints from the gods, that since the
good men were grown rich, they had received no
sacrifices; which is confirmed by a priest of Jupiter,
who enters with a remonstrance, that since this late
innovation he was reduced to a starving condition,
and could not live upon his office. Chremylus, who
in the beginning of the play was religious in his
poverty, concludes it with a proposal, which was re-
lished by all the good men who were now grown
rich as well as himself, that they should carry Plutus
In a solemn procession to the temple, and install him
in the place of Jupiter. This allegory instructed the
Athenians in two points: first, as it vindicated the
conduct of Providence in its ordinary distributions of
wealth; and in the next place, as it showed the great

tendency of riches to corrupt the morals of those who
possessed them.

 

141. FAITH AND DEVOTION.

Havine endeavoured in my
show the great excellency of
sider what are the proper me
confirming it in the mind of man. Those who delight
in reading books of controversy, which are written on
both sides of the question on points of faith, do very
seldom arrive at a fixed and settled habit of it. They
are one day entirely convinced of its important truths,

last Saturday’s paper to
faith, I shall here con-
ans of strengthening andFAITH AND DEVOTION. 189

and the next meet with something that shakes and
disturbs them. The doubt which was laid revives
again, and shows itself in new difficulties, and that
generally for this reason, because the mind, which is
perpetually tossed in controversies and disputes, is
apt to forget the reasons which had once set it at rest,
and to be disquieted with any former perplexity, when
it appears in a new shape, or is started by a different
hand. As nothing is more laudable than an inquiry
after truth, so nothing is more irrational than to pass
away our whole lives without determining ourselves
one way or other in those points which are of the last
importance tous. There are indeed many things from
which we may withhold our assent; but in cases by
which we are to regulate our lives, it is the greatest
absurdity to be wavering and unsettled, without closing
with that side which appears the most safe and the
most probable. The first rule, therefore, which I shall
lay down, is this, that when by reading or discourse
we find ourselves thoroughly convinced of the truth
of any article, and of the reasonableness of our belief
in it, we should never after suffer ourselves to call it
into question. We may perhaps forget the arguments
which occasioned our conviction, but we ought to
remember the strength they had with us, and therefore
still to retain the conviction which they once produced.
This is no more than what we do in every common
art or science; nor is it possible to act otherwise,
considering the weakness and limitation of our intel-
lectual faculties. It was thus that Latimer, one of
the glorious army of martyrs, who introduced the
reformation in England, behaved himself in that great
conference which was managed between the most
learned among the protestants and papists in the reign
of Queen Mary. This venerable old man, knowing
how his abilities were impaired by age, and that it
vas impossible for him to recollect all those reasons

   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

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190 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

which had directed him in the choice of his religion,
left his companions, who were in the full possession
of their parts and learning, to baffle and confound
their antagonists by the force of reason. As for him-
self, he only repeated to his adversaries the articles
in which he firmly believed, and in the profession of
which he was determined to die. It is in this manner
that the mathematician proceeds upon propositions
which he has once demonstrated ; and, though the
demonstration may have slipped out of his memory,
he builds upon the truth, because he knows it was
demonstrated. This rule is absolutely necessary for
weaker minds, and in some measure for men of the
greatest abilities; but to these last | would propose,
in the second place, that they should lay up in their
memories, and always keep by them in readiness,
those arguments which appear to them of the greatest
strength, and which cannot be got over by all the
doubts and cavils of infidelity.

But, mm the third place, there is nothing ‘which
strengthens faith more than morality. Faith and
morality naturally produce each other. A man is
quickly convinced of the truth of religion, who finds
it is not against his interest that it should be true.
The pleasure he receives at present, and the happiness
which he promises himself from it hereafter, will both
dispose him very powerfully to give credit to it, ac-
cording to the ordinary observation that we are easy
to believe what we wish. It is very certain, that a
man of sound reason cannot forbear closing with re-
ligion upon an impartial examination of it; but at
the same time it is as certain, that faith is kept alive
in us, and gathers strength from practice more than
from speculation.

There is still another method, which is more per-
suasive than any of the former. and that is, an habitual
adoration of ‘the Supreme Being, as well in constantFAITH AND DEVOTION. 191

acts of mental worship, as in outward forms. The
devout man does not only believe, but feels there is
a Deity. He has actual sensations of him; his ex-
perience concurs with his reason; he sees him more
and more in all his intercourses with him, and even
in this life almost loses his faith in conviction.

The last method which I shall mention, for the
giving life to. a man’s faith, is frequent retirement
from the world, accompanied with religious medita-
tion. Whena man thinks of any thing in the dark-
ness of the night, whatever deep impressions it may
make in his mind, they are apt to vanish as soon as
the day breaks about him. The light and noise of
the day, which are perpetually soliciting his senses,
and calling off his attention, wear out of his mind
the thoughts that imprinted themselves in it, with so
much strength, during the silence and darkness of the
night. A man finds the same difference as to himself
in a crowd and in a solitude: the mind is stunned
and dazzled amidst that variety of objects which press
upon her in a great city. She cannot apply herself
to the consideration of those things which are of the
utmost concern to her. The cares or pleasures of the
world strike in with every thought, and a multitude
of vicious examples give a kind of justification to our
folly. In our retirements every thing disposes us to
be serious. In courts and cities we are entertained
with the works of men; in the country with those of
God. One is the province of art, the other of nature.
Faith and devotion naturally grow in the mind of
every reasonable man, who sees the impressions of
divine power and wisdom in every object on which
he casts his eye. The Supreme Being has made the
best arguments for his own existence, in the formation
of the heavens and the earth: and these are arguments
which a man of sense cannot forbear attending to,
who is out of the noise and hurry of human affairs.

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192 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

Aristotle says, that should a man live under ground,
and there converse with works of art and mechanism,
and should afterwards be brought up into the open
day, and see the several glories of the heaven and
earth, he would immediately pronounce them the
works of such a being as we define God to be. The
Psalmist has very beautiful strokes of poetry to this
purpose, in that exalted strain: ‘ The heavens declare
the glory of God; and the firmament showeth his
handy work. One day telleth another; and one
night certifieth another. There is neither speech nor
language; but their voices are heard among them.
Their sound is gone out into all lands; and their
words into the ends of the world.’ As such a bold
and sublime manner of thinking furnishes very noble
matter for an ode, the reader may see it wrought into
the following one:

* The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim:

Th’ unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator’s power display,

And publishes to every land

The work of an almighty hand.

* Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

*.What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found;

In reason’s ear, they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine.’193

142. BENEVOLENCE IN OFFICIAL STATIONS.

I am persuaded there are few men of generous prin-
ciples who would seek after great places, were it not
rather to have an opportunity in their hands of oblig-
ing their particular friends, or those whom they look
upon as men of worth, than to procure wealth and
honour for themselves. To an honest mind the best
perquisites of a place are the advantages it gives a
man of doing goed.

Those who are under the great officers.of state, and
are the instruments by. which they act, have more fre-
quent opportunities for the exercise of compassion
and benevolence, than their superiors themselves.
These men know every little case that is to come
before the great: man, and, if they are possessed with
honest minds, will consider poverty as a reeommenda-
tion in the person who applies himself to them, and
make the justice of his cause the most powerful soli-
citor in his behalf, A man of this temper, when he

is in a post of business, becomes a blessing to the.

public. He patronises the orphan and the widow,
assists the friendless, and guides the ignorant. He
does not reject the person’s pretensions, who does not
know how to explain them, or refuse doing a good
office for a man because he cannot pay the fee of it.
In short, though. he. regulates. himself in all his pro-
ceedings by justice and equity, he finds a thousand
occasions for all the good-natured offices of generosity
and compassion.

A man.is unfit for such a place of trust, who-is of
a sour untractable nature, or has any other passion
that makes. him uneasy to those who approach him.
Roughness of temper is apt to discountenance the
timorous or modest. The proud man discourages
those from.approaching him, who are of a mean con-
dition, and who. most want his assistance. The im-

VOL. II. K194 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

patient man will not give himself time to be informed
of the matter that lies before him. An officer, with
one or more of these unbecoming qualities, is some-
times looked upon as a proper person to keep off
impertinence and solicitation from his superior; but
this is a kind of merit that can never atone for the
injustice which may very often arise from it.

There are two other vicious qualities, which render
a man very unfit for such a place of trust. The first
of these is a dilatory temper, which commits innu-
merable cruelties without design. The maxim which
several have laid down for a man’s conduct in ordi-
nary life, should be inviolable with a man in office,
never to think of doing that to-morrow which may be
done to-day. A man who defers doing what ought to
be done is guilty of injustice so long as he defers it.
The despatch of a good office is very often as bene-
ficial to the solicitor as the good office itself. In
short, if a man compared the inconveniences which
another suffers by his delays, witb the trifling motives

‘and advantages which he himself may reap by such a

delay, he would never be guilty of a fault which very
often does an irreparable prejudice to a person who
depends upon him, and which might be remedied
with little trouble to himself.

But in the last place there is no man so improper
to be employed in business, as he who is in any
degree capable of corruption; and such a one is the
man who, upon any pretence whatsoever, receives
more than what is the stated and unquestioned fee of
his office. Gratifications, tokens of thankfulness,
despatch money, and the like specious terms, are the
pretences under which corruption very frequently
shelters itself. An honest man will however look on
all these methods as unjustifiable, and will enjoy bim-
self better in a moderate fortune that is gained with
honour and reputation, than in an overgrown estateBENEVOLENCE IN OFFICIAL STATIONS. 195

that is cankered with the acquisitions of rapine and
exaction. Were all our offices discharged with such
an inflexible integrity, we should not see men in all
ages, who grow up to exorbitant wealth, with the
abilities which are to be met with in an ordinary
mechanic. I cannot but think that such a corruption
proceeds chiefly from men’s employing the first that
offer themselves, or those who have the character of
shrewd worldly men, instead of searching out such as
have had a liberal education, and have been trained
up in the studies of knowledge and virtue.

It has been observed, that men of learning who take
to business discharge it generally with greater honesty
than men of the world. The chief reason for it I take
to be as follows. A man that has spent his youth in
reading has been used to find virtue extolled, and
‘vice stigmatised. Aman that has passed his time in the
world has often seen vice triumphant, and virtue dis-
countenanced. Extortion,rapine, and injustice, which
are branded with infamy in books, often give a man
a figure in the world; while several qualities which
are celebrated in authors, as generosity, ingenuity, and
good-nature, impoverish and ruin him. This cannot
but have a proportionable effect on men whose tem-
pers and principles are equally good and vicious.

There would be at least this advantage in employ-
ing men of learning and parts in business; that their
prosperity would sit more gracefully on them, and
that we should not see many worthless persons shoot
up into the greatest figure of life.

 

143. ON RELIGIOUS HOPE.

Tur time present seldom affords sufficient employ-
ment to the mind of man. Objects of pain or pleasure,
love or admiration, do not lie thick enough together
in life to keep the soul in constant action, and supply196 ADDISON’S ESSAYS,

an immediate exercise to its faculties. In order, there-
fore, to remedy this defect, that the mind may not
want business, but always have materials for thinking,
she is endowed with certain powers, that can recall
what is passed, and anticipate what is to come.
That wonderful faculty, which we call the memory,
is perpetually looking back, when we have nothing
present to entertain us. It is like those repositories
in several animals that are filled with stores of their
former food, on which they may ruminate when their
present pasture fails.
Wi As the memory relieves the mind in her vacant
Hi moments, and prevents any chasms of thought by
ideas of what is past, we have other faculties that

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1 agitate and employ her for what is to come. These
iH are the passions of hope and fear.

Wa By these two passions we reach forward into futu-
;

rity, and bring up to our present thoughts objects that
f lie hid in the remotest depths. of time. We suffer
i misery, and eajoy happiness, before they are in beings
ai we can set the sun and stars forward, or lose sight of
ee them by wandering into those retired parts of eternity,
when the heayens and earth shall be no more.
ae By the way, who can imagine that the existence of
re a creature is to be circumscribed by time, whose
‘i thoughts are not? But I shall, in this paper, confine
ay myself to that particular passion which goes by the
> name of hope.

 

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not endowed with this passion, which gives him a
taste of those good things that may possibly come into
his possession. ‘ We should hope for every thing
that is good,’ says the old poet Linus, ‘ because there
i is nothing which may not be hoped for, and nothing
TE but what the gods are able to give us.’ Hope quickens
Hl all the still parts of life, and keeps the mind awake inON RELIGIOUS HOPE. 197

her most remiss and indolent hours. It gives habi-
tual serenity and good humour. It is a kind of vital
heat in the soul, that cheers and gladdens her, when
she does not attend to it. It makes pain easy, and
labour pleasant.

Beside these several advantages which rise from
hope, there is another which is none of the least, and
that is, its great efficacy in preserving us from setting
too high a value on present enjoyments. The saying
of Cesar is very well known. When he had given
away all his estate in gratuities amongst his friends,
one of them asked what he had left for himself; to
which that great man replied, ‘ Hope.’ His natural
magnanimity hindered him from prizing what he was
certainly possessed of, and turned all his thoughts
upon something more valuable that he had in view.
I question not but every reader will draw a moral
from this story, and apply it to himself without my
direction.

The old story of Pandora’s box (which many of the
tearned believe was formed among the heathens upon
the tradition of the fall of man) shows us how de-
plorable a state they thought the present life without
hope. To set forth the utmost condition of misery,
they tell us, that our forefather, according to the pagan
theology, had a great vessel presented him by Pan-
dora. Upon his lifting up the lid of it, says the fable,
there flew out all the calamities and distempers inci-
dent to men, from which, till that time, they had been
altogether exempt. Hope, who had been enclosed in
the cup with so much bad company, instead of flying
off with the rest, stuck so close to the lid of it, that it
was shut down upon her.

I shall make but two reflections upon what I have
hitherto said. First, that no kind of life is so happy
as that which is full of hope, especially when the hope
is well grounded, and when the object of it 1s of an198 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

exalted kind, and in its nature proper to make the
person happy who enjoys it. This proposition must
be very evident to those who consider how few are
the present enjoyments of the most happy man, and
how insufficient to give him an entire satisfaction and
acquiescence in them.

My next observation is this, that a religious life is
that which most abounds in a well grounded hope,
and such a one as is fixed on objects that are capable
of making us entirely happy. This hope in a religious
man is much more sure and certain than the hope of
any temporal blessing, as it is strengthened not only
by reason, but by faith, It has at the same time its
eye perpetually fixed on that state, which implies,
in the very notion of it, the most full and complete
happiness.

I have before shown how the influence of hope in
general sweetens life, and makes our present condition
supportable, if not pleasing ; but a religious hope has
still greater advantages. It does not only bear up the
mind under her sufferings, but makes her rejoice in
them, as they may be the instruments of procuring
her the great and ultimate end of all her hope.

Religious hope has likewise this advantage above
any Other kind of hope,- that it is able to revive the
dying man, and to fill his mind not only with secret
comfort and refreshment, but sometimes with rapture
and transport. He triumphs in his agonies, whilst the
soul springs forward with delight to the great object
which she has always had in view, and leaves the
body with an expectation of being reunited to her in
a glorious and joyful resurrection.

I shall conclude this essay with those emphatical
expressions of a lively hope which the Psalmist made
use of in the midst of those dangers and adversities
which surrounded him: for the following passage had
its present and personal, as well as its future and pro-ON RELIGIOUS HOPE. 199

phetic sense. ‘I have set the Lord always before me.
Because he is at my right hand I shall not be moved.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth.
My flesh also shall rest in hope. For thou wilt not
leave my soul in hell, neither wilt thou suffer thine
holy one to see corruption. Thou wilt show me the
path of life. In thy presence is fullness of joy, at thy
right hand there are pleasures for evermore.’

144. METHOD IN WRITING AND CONVERSATION.

Amonc my daily papers which I bestow on the public,
there are some which are written with regularity and
method, and others that run out into the wildness of
those compositions which go by the name of essays.
As for the first, I have the whole scheme of the dis-
course in my mind before I set pen to paper. In the
other kind of writing, it is sufficient that I have seve-
ral thoughts on a subject, without troubling myself to
range them in such order, that they may seem to grow
out of one another, and be disposed under the proper
heads. Seneca and Montaigne are patterns for writ-
ing in this last kind, as Tully and Aristotle excel in
the other. When I read an author of genius who
writes without method, I fancy myself in a wood that
abounds with a great many noble objects, rising
among one another in the greatest confusion and dis-
order. When I read a methodical discourse, I am in
a regular plantation, and can place myself in its seve-
val centres, so as to take a view of all the lines and
walks that are struck from them. You may ramble
in the one a whole day together, and every moment
discover something or other that is new to you; but
when you have done, you will have but a confused
imperfect notion of the place: in the other your eye
commands the whole prospect, and gives you such an
idea of it as is not easily worn out of the memory.

Irregularity and want of method are only support;Snes A A AINE 8 MORE omer,

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200 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
able in men of great learning or genius, who are often

too full to be exact, and therefore choose to throw
down their pearls in heaps before the reader, rather

‘than be at the pains of stringing them.

Method is of advantage to a work, both in respect
to the writer and the reader. In regard to the first, it
is a great help to his invention. When a man has
planned his discourse, he finds a great many thoughts
rising out of every head, that do not offer themselves
upon the general survey of a subject. His thoughts
are at the same time more intelligible, and better dis-
cover their drift and meaning, when they are placed
in their proper lights, and follow one another in a
regular series, than when they are thrown together
without order and connection. There is always an
obscurity in confusion; and the same sentence that
would have enlightened the reader in one part of a
discourse, perplexes him in another. For the same
reason, likewise, every thought in a methodical dis-
course shows itself in its greatest beauty, as the seve-
ral figures In a piece of painting receive new grace
from their disposition in the picture. The advan-
tages of a reader from a methodical discourse are
correspondent with those of the writer. He compre-
hends every thing easily, takes it in with pleasure,
and retains it long.

Method is not less requisite in ordinary conversation
than in writing, provided a man would talk to make
himself understood. I, who hear a thousand coffee-
house debates every day, am very sensible of this want
of method in the thoughts of my honest countrymen.
There is not one dispute in ten which is managed in
those schools of politics, where, after the three first
sentences, the question is not entirely lost. Our dis-
putants put me in mind of the cuttle-fish, that when
he is unable to extricate himself, blackens all the
water about him till he becomes invisible. The man
who does not know how -to methodize his thoughts,ON METHOD. 201

has always, to borrow a phrase from the Dispensary,
‘ A barren superfluity of words;’ the fruit is lost
amidst the exuberance of leaves.

Tom Puzzle is one of the most eminent immethodi-
cal disputants of any that has fallen under my obser-
vation. Tom has read enough to make him very
impertinent; his knowledge is sufficient to raise
doubts, but not to clear them. It is pity that he has
so much learning, or that he has not a great deal
more. With these qualifications Tom sets up for a
freethinker, finds a great many things to blame in the
constitution of his country, and gives shrewd. intima-
tions that he does not believe another world. In
short, Puzzle is an atheist as much as his parts will
give him leave. He has got about half a dozen com-
monplace topics, into which he never fails to turn the
conversation, whatever was the occasion of it. Though
the matter in debate be about Douay or Denain, it is
ten to one but half his discourse runs upon the unrea-
sonableness of bigotry and priestcraft. This makes
Mr. Puzzle the admiration of all those who have less
sense than himself, and the contempt of all those who
have more. There is none in town whom Tom dreads
so much as my friend Will Dry. Will, who is
acquainted with Tom’s logic, when he finds him run-
ning off the question, cuts him short with a ‘ What
then? We allow all this to be true; but what is it to
our present purpose?’ I have known Tom eloquent
half an hour together, and triumphing, as he thought,
in the superiority of the argument, when he has been
nonplussed on a sudden by Mr. Dry’s desiring him
to tell the company what it was that he endeavoured to
prove. In short, Dry is a man of a clear methodical
head, but few words, and gains the same advantages
over Puzzle that a small body of regular troops would
gain over a numberless undisciplined militia.

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ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

145. ON ATTRIBUTING MISFORTUNE TO
JUDGMENT.

We cannot be guilty of a greater act of uncharitable-
ness than to interpret the afflictions which befall our
neighbours as punishments and judgments. It agera-
vates the evil to him who suffers, when he looks upon
himself as the mark of divine vengeance, and abates
the compassion of those towards him, who regard him
in so dreadful a light. This humour, of turning every
misfortune into a judgment, proceeds from wrong
notions of religion, which in its own nature produces
good will towards men, and puts. the mildest construc-
tion upon every accident that befalls them. In this
case, therefore, it is not religion that sours a man’s
temper, but it is his temper that sours his religion.
People of gloomy uncheerful imaginations, or of
envious malignant tempers, whatever kind of life they
are engaged in, will discover their natural tincture of
mind in all their thoughts, words, and actions. As
the finest wines have often the taste of the soil, so even
the most religious thoughts often draw something that
is particular from the constitution of the mind in which
they arise. When folly or superstition strike in with
this natural depravity of temper, it is not in the power
even of religion itself to preserve the character of the
person who is possessed with it from appearing highly
absurd and ridiculous.

An old maiden gentlewoman, whom I shall con-
ceal under the name of Nemesis, is the greatest dis-
coverer of judgments that I have met with. She can
tell you what sin it was that set such a man’s house
on fire, or blew down his barns. Talk to her of an
unfortunate young lady that lost her beauty by the
smallpox, she fetches a deep sigh, and tells you that
when she had a fine face she was always looking on
it in her glass. Tell her of a piece of good fortuneON MISFORTUNE. 203

that has befallen one of her acquaintance, and she
wishes it may prosper with her, but her mother used
one of her nieces very barbarously. Her usual remarks
turn upon people who had great estates, but never
enjoyed them by reason of some flaw in their own or
their father’s behaviour. She can give you the reason
why such a one died childless; why such a one was
cut off in the flower of his youth ; why such a one was
unhappy in her marriage; why one broke his leg on
such a particular spot of ground; and why another
was killed with a backsword, rather than with any
other kind of weapon. She has a crime for every
misfortune that can befall any of her acquaintance ;
and when she hears of a robbery that has been made,
or a murder that has been committed, enlarges more
on the guilt of the suffering person, than on that of the
thief or the assassin. In short, she is so good a Chris-
tian, that whatever happens to herself is a trial, and
whatever happens to her neighbours is a judgment.
The very description of this folly, in ordinary life,
is sufficient to expose it; but, when it appears in a
pomp and dignity of style, it is very apt to amuse
and terrify the mind of the reader. Herodotus and
Plutarch very often apply their judgments as imper-
tinently as the old woman I have before mentioned,
though their manner of relating them makes the folly
itself appear venerable. Indeed most historians, as
well Christian as pagan, have fallen into this idle
superstition, and spoken of ill success, unforeseen dis-
asters, and terrible events, as if they had been let into
the secrets of Providence, and made acquainted with
that private conduct by which the world is governed.
One would think several of our own historians in par-
ticular had many revelations of this kind made to them.
Our old English monks seldom let any of their kings
depart in peace, who had endeavoured to diminish
the power or wealth of which the ecclesiastics werei
4

 

 

 

 

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ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

in those times possessed. William the Conqueror’s
race generally found their judgments in the New
Forest, where their father had pulled down churches
and monasteries. In short, read one of the chronicles
written by an author of this frame of mind, and you
would think you were reading a history of the kings
of Israel and Judah, where the historians were actu-
ally inspired, and where, by a particular scheme of
Providence, the kings were distinguished by judg-
ments or blessings, according as they promoted
idolatry or the worship of the true God.

I cannot but look upon this manner of judging
upon misfortunes, not only to be very uncharitable
in regard to the person on whom they fall, but very
presumptuous in regard to him who is supposed to
inflict them. It is a strong argument for a state of
retribution hereafter, that in this world virtuous per-
sons are very often unfortunate, and vicious persons
prosperous ; which is wholly repugnant to the nature
of a Beimg whe appears infinitely wise and good in
all his works, unless we may suppose that such a
_ promiscuous and undistinguishing distribution of good
and evil, which was necessary for carrying on the de-
signs of Providence in this life, will be rectified, and
made amends for, in another. We are not therefore
to expect that fire should fall from heaven in the
ordinary course of providence; nor when we see
triumphant guilt or depressed virtue in particular
persons, that Omnipotence will make bare his holy
arm in the defence of the one or punishment of the
other. It is sufficient that there is a day set apart for
the hearing and requiting of both, according to their
respective merits.

The folly of ascribing temporal judgments to any
particular crimes may appear from several considera-
tions. JI shall only mention two. First, that, gene-
rally speaking, there is no calamity or affliction whichON MISFORTUNE. 205

is supposed to have happened as a judgment to a
vicious man, which does not sometimes happen to
men of approved religion and virtue. When Diagoras
the atheist was on board one of the Athenian ships,
there arose a very violent tempest: upon which the
mariners told him, that it was a just judgment upon
them for having taken so impious a man on board.
Diagoras begged them to look upon the rest of the
ships that were in the same distress, and asked them
whether or no Diagoras was on board every vessel in
the fleet. Weare all involved in the same calamities,
and subject to the same accidents: and, when we see
any one of the species under any particular oppression,
we should look upon it as arising from the common
lot of human nature, rather than from the guilt of the
person who suffers.

Another consideration, that may check our pre-
sumption in putting such a construction upon a mis-
fortune, is this, that it is impossible for us to know
what are calamities and what are blessings. How
many accidents have passed for misfortunes, which
have turned to the welfare and prosperity of the
persons in whose lot they have fallen! How many
disappointments have in their consequences saved a
man from ruin! If we could look into the effects of
every thing, we might be allowed to pronounce boldly
upon blessings and judgments; but for a man to give
his opinion of what he sees but in part, and in its
beginnings, is an unjustifiable piece of rashness and
folly. The story of Biton and Clitobus, which was
in great reputation among the heathens (for we see it
quoted by all the ancient authors, both Greek and
Latin, who have written upon the immortality of the
soul), may teach us a caution in this matter. These
two brothers, being the sons ofa lady who was priestess
to Juno, drew their mother’s chariot to the temple at
the time of a great solemnity, the persons being absent

 

ad
fi
piel
ergs206

   

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

HF || i who by their office were to have drawn her chariot on
i iW that occasion. The mother was so transported with
Pir tie | this instance of filial duty, that she petitioned her
We goddess to bestow upon them the greatest gift that

could be given to men; upon which they were both
cast into a deep sleep, and the next morning found
dead in the temple. This was such an event, as
would have been construed into a judgment, had it
happened to the two brothers after an act of disobe-
dience, and would doubtless have been represented

as such by any ancient historian who had given us an
account of it.

 

~ eee

LL ALLL LEI

Ni | 146. ON DREAMS.

THoucu there are many authors who have written on
it dreams, they have generally considered them only as
Hes | revelations of what has already happened in distant

if parts of the world, or as presages of what is to happen
in future periods of time.

I shall consider this subject in another light, as
| dreams may give us some idea of the great excellency
He of a human soul, and some intimations of its inde-
in pendency on matter.

He In the first place, our dreams are great instances of
. that activity which is natural to the human soul, and
which it is not in the power of sleep to deaden or
tl, abate. When the man appears tired and worn out
, with the labours of the day, this active part in his
composition is still busied and unwearied. When the
organs of sense want their due repose and necessary
reparations, and the body is no longer able to keep
pace with that spiritual substance to which it is united 5
the soul exerts herself in her several faculties, and
continues in action until her partner is again qualified
Pet to bear her company. In this case dreams look like
Hi the relaxations and amusements of the soul when she

 

 

 

  
 
 
 
    
  

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camber”
omer =ON DREAMS, 207

is disencumbered of her machine; her sports and
recreations, when she has laid her charge asleep.

In the second place, dreams are an instance of that
agility and perfection which is natural to the faculties
of the mind when they are disengaged from the body.
The soul is clogged and retarded in her operations
when she acts in conjunction with a companion that
is so heavy and unwieldy in its motion. But in dreams
it is wonderful to observe with what a sprightliness
and alacrity she exerts herself. The slow of speech
make unpremeditated harangues, or converse readily
in languages that they are but little acquainted with.
The grave abound in pleasantries, the dull in repartees
and points of wit. There is not a more painful action
of the mind than invention; yet in dreams it works
with that ease and activity, that we are not sensible
when the faculty is employed. For instance, I be-
lieve every one, some time or other, dreams that he
is reading papers, books, or letters; in which case
the invention prompts so readily, that the mind is
imposed upon, and mistakes its own suggestions for
the compositions of another.

I shall, under this head, quote a passage out of the
Religio Medici, in which the ingenious author gives
an account of himself in his dreaming and his waking
thoughts. ‘ We are somewhat more than ourselves
in our sleeps, and the slumber of the body seems to
be but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of
sense, but the liberty of reason; and our waking con-
ceptions do not match the fancies of our sleeps. At
my nativity my ascendant was the watery sign of
Scorpius: I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn,
and [ think I have a piece of that leaden planet in
me. I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the
mirth and galliardize of company; yet In one dream
I can compose a whole comedy, behold the action,
apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at theSe eae nS _ aetiiireaa mie insane ae =r
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208 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

conceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful as my
reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in
my dreams; and this time also would I choose for
my devotions; but our grosser memories have then
so little hold of our abstracted understandings, that
they forget the story, and can only relate to our awaked
souls a confused and broken tale of that that has
passed. Thus it is observed that men sometimes, upon
the hour of their departure, do speak and reason above
themselves ; for then the soul, beginning to be freed
from the ligaments of the body, begins to reason like
herself, and to discourse in a strain above mortality.’
We may likewise observe, in the third place, that
the passions affect the mind with greater strength
when we are asleep than when we are awake. Joy
and sorrow give us more vigorous sensations of pain
or pleasure at this time than any other. Devotion
likewise, as the excellent author above mentioned has
hinted, is in a very particular manner heightened and
inflamed when it rises in the soul at a time that the
body is thus laid at rest. Every man’s experience
will inform him in this matter, though it is very pro-
bable that this may happen differently in different
constitutions. I shall conclude this head with the
two following problems, which I shall leave to the
solution of my reader. Supposing a man always happy
in his dreams, and miserable in his waking thoughts,
and that his life was equally divided between them ;
whether would he be more happy or miserable? Were
aman a king in his dreams, and a beggar awake, and
dreamt as consequentially, and in as continued un-
broken schemes, as he thinks when awake; whether
he would be in reality a king or beggar; or, rather,
whether he would not be both ?
There is another circumstance, which methinks
gives us a very high idea of the nature of the soul,
in regard to what passes in dreams: I mean, thatON DREAMS. 209

innumerable multitude and variety of ideas which
then arise in her. Were that active and watchful
being only conscious of her own existence at such a
time, what a painful solitude would her hours of sleep
be. Were the soul sensible of her being alone in her
sleeping moments, after the same manner that she is
sensible of it while awake, the time would hang very
heavy on her, as it often actually does when she dreams
that she is in such a solitude.
—* Semperque reliiqui

Scla sibi, semper’ longam incomitata videtur

Tre viam — Vira. En. iv. 466.

— * She seems alone

To wander in her sleep through ways unknown,

Guideless and dark.’ DRYDEN.

But this observation I only make by the way. What
I would here remark is, that wonderful power in the
soul of producing her own company upon these occa-
sions. She converses with numberless beings of her
own creation, and is transported into ten thousand
scenes of her own raising. She is herself the theatre,
the-actor, and the beholder. This puts me in mind
of a saying which I am infinitely pleased with, and
which Plutarch ascribes to Heraclitus, that all men
whilst they are awake are in one common world; but
that each of them when he is asleep is in a world of
his own. The waking man is conversant in the world
of nature: when he sleeps, he retires to a private
world that is particular to himself. There seems
something in this consideration that intimates to us
a natural grandeur and perfection in the soul, which
is rather to be admired than explained.

I must not omit that argument for the excellency
of the soul, which I have seen quoted out of Tertul-
lian, namely, its power of divining in dreams. That
several such divinations have been made, none can
question who believes the holy writings, or who has
but the least degree of a common historical faith ;

Sem ee

ee210 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

there being innumerable instances of this nature in
several authors, both ancient and modern, sacred and
profane. Whether such dark presages, such visions
of the night, proceed from any latent power in the
soul, during this her state of abstraction, or from any
communication with the Supreme Being, or from any
operation of subordinate spirits, has been a great dis-
pute among the learned; the matter of fact is, I think,
incontestable, and has been looked upon as such by
the greatest writers, who have been never suspected
either of superstition or enthusiasm.

I do not suppose that the soul, in these instances,
is entirely loose and unfettered from the body; it is
sufficient if she is not so far sunk and immersed in
matter, nor entangled and perplexed in her operations
with such motions of blood and spirits, as when she
actuates the machine in its waking hours. The cor-
poreal union is slackened enough to give the mind
more play. The soul seems gathered within herself,
and recovers that spring which is broke and weakened,
when she operates more in concert with the body.

The speculations I have here made, if they are not
arguments, they are at least strong intimations, not
only of the excellency of a human soul, but of its in-
dependence on the body; and, if they do not prove,
do at least confirm, these two great points, which are
established by many other reasons that are altogether
unanswerable.

 

147. ON THE WONDERS OF THE DEEP.

SIR;
‘ Upon reading your essay concerning the pleasures
of the imagination, I find, among the three sources
of those pleasures which you have discovered, that
greatness isone. This has suggested to me the reason
why, of all objects that I have ever seen, there is noneON THE WONDERS OF THE DEEP. 214t

which affects my imagination so much as the sea, or
ocean. I cannot see the heavings of this prodigious
bulk of waters, even in a calm, without a very pleasing
astonishment; but when it is worked up in a tempest,
so that the horizon on every side is nothing but foam-
ing billows and floating mountains, it is impossible
to describe the agreeable horror that rises from such
a prospect. A troubled ocean, to a man who sails
upon it, is, I think, the biggest object that he can see
in motion, and, consequently, gives his imagination
one of the highest kinds of pleasure that can arise
from greatness. I must confess, it is impossible for
me to survey this world of fluid matter, without think-
ing on the Hand that first poured it out, and made a
proper channel for its reception. Such an object na-
turally raises in my thoughts the idea of an Almighty
Being, and convinces me of his existence as much
as a metaphysical demonstration. The imagination
prompts the understanding, and, by the greatness of
the sensible object, produces in it the idea of a Being
who is neither circumscribed by time nor space.

‘ As I have made several voyages upon the sea, |
have often been tossed in storms, and on that occasion
have frequently reflected on the descriptions of them
in ancient poets. I remember Longinus highly re-
commends one in Homer, because the poet has not
amused himself with little fancies upon the occasion,
as authors of an inferior genius, whom he mentions,
had done, but because he has gathered together those
circumstances which are the most apt to terrify the
imagination, and which really happen in the raging
of a tempest. It is for the same reason that I prefer
the following description of a ship in a storm, which
the Psalmist has made, before any other I have ever
met with :—‘ They that go down to the sea in ships,
that do business in great waters; these see the works

of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For heacnenmnrtts’

 

 

 

eee:

 

21 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth
up the waters thereof. They mount up to heaven, they
go down again to the depths, their soul is melted
because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger
hike a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end. Then
they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth
them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a
calm, so that the waves thereof are still, Then they
are glad, because they be quiet, so he bringeth them
unto their desired haven *.”

‘ By the way; how much more comfortable, as
well as rational, is this system of the Psalmist, than
the pagan scheme in Virgil, and other poets, where
one deity is represented as raising a storm, and
another as laying it?) Were we only to consider the
sublime in this piece of poetry, what can be nobler
than the idea it gives us of the Supreme Being thus
raising a tumult among the elements, and recovering
them out of their confusion, thus troubling and be-
calming nature ?

* Great painters do not only give us landscapes of
gardens, groves, and meadows, but very often employ
their pencils upon sea-pieces. I could wish you would
follow their example. If this small sketch may de-
serve a place among your works, I shall accompany

it with a divine ode, made by a gentleman upon the
conclusion of his travels.

‘ How are Thy servants bless’d, O Lord;
How sure is their defence :

Eternal Wisdom is their guide,
Their help, Omnipotence.

‘In foreign realms and lands remote,
Supported by Thy care,

Through burning climes I pass’d unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air,

* Thy mercy sweeten’d every soil,
Made every region please:

The hoary Alpine hills it warm’d,
And smooth’d the Tyrrhene seas.

 

 

 

* Ps. cvii. 23, & SEQ.ON THE WONDERS OF THE DEEP.

‘ Fhink, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,

Thou saw’st the wide extended deep
In all its horrors rise!

* Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart;

When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs,
O’ercame the pilot’s art.

* Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free,

Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on Thee.

* For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew Thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

‘ The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to Thy will;

The sea, that roar’d at Thy command,
At Thy command was still.

‘ In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness V’11 adore,

And praise Thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

‘ My life, if Thou presery’st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to Thee.’

 

148. ON RELIGIOUS MELANCHOLY.

ABOUT an age ago it was the fashion in England for
every one that would be thought religious to throw
as much sanctity as possible into his face, and in par-
ticular to abstain from all appearances of mirth and
pleasantry, which were looked upon as the marks of
a carnal mind. The saint was. of a sorrowful coun-
tenance, and. generally eaten up with spleen and
melancholy. A gentleman, who was lately a great
ornament to the learned world, has diverted me more
than once with an account of the reception which he
met with from a very famous. independent minister,
who was head of a college* in those times. This

* The head of a college was Dr.. Thomas Goodwin, S. T. P. pre-

sident of Magdalen college in Oxford, and one of the assembly of
divines who sat at Westminster.se TI TT ,

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214

gentleman was then a young adventurer in the re-
public of letters, and just fitted out for the university
with a good cargo of Latin and Greek. His friends
were resolved that he should try his fortune at an
election which was drawing near in the college, of
which the independent minister whom I have before
mentioned was governor. The youth, according to
custom, waited on him in order to be examined. He
was received at the door by a servant who was one
of that gloomy generation that were then in fashion.
He conducted him, with great silence and seriousness,
to a long gallery, which was darkened at noonday,
and had only a single candle burning in it. After a
short stay in this melancholy apartment, he was led
into a chamber hung with black, where he entertained
himself for some time by the glimmering of a taper,
till at length the head of the college came out to him,
from an inner room, with half a dozen nightcaps upon
his head, and religious horror in his countenance.
The young man trembled: but his fears increased,
when, instead of being asked what progress he had
made in learning, he was examined how he abounded
in grace. His Latin and Greek stood him in little
stead ; he was to give an account only of the state of
his soul; whether he was of the number of the elect;
what was the occasion of his conversion ; upon what
day of the month, and hour of the day, it happened ;
how it was carried on, and when completed. The
whole examination was summed up with one short
question, namely, whether he was prepared for death ?
The boy, who had been bred up by honest parents,
was frighted out of his wits at the solemnity of the
proceeding, and especially by the last dreadful inter-
rogatory; so that, upon making his escape out of this
house of mourning, he could never be brought a
second time to the examination, as not being able to
go through the terrors of it.

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.ON RELIGIOUS MELANCHOLY. 915

Notwithstanding this general form and outside of
religion is pretty well worn out among us, there are
many persons who, by a natural uncheerfulness of
heart, mistaken notions of piety, or weakness of un-
derstanding, love to indulge this uncomfortable way
of life, and give up themselves a prey to grief and
melancholy. Superstitious fears and groundless scru-
ples cut them off from the pleasures of conversation,
and all those social entertainments which are not only
innocent but laudable; as if mirth was made for re-
probates, and cheerfulness of heart denied those who
are the only persons that have a proper title to it.

Sombrius is one of these sons of sorrow. He thinks
himself obliged in duty to be sad and disconsolate.
He looks on a sudden fit of laughter as a breach of
his baptismal vow. An innocent jest startles him
like blasphemy. Tell him of one who is advanced
to a title of honour, he lifts up his hands and eyes ;
describe a public ceremony, he shakes his head; show
him a gay equipage, he blesses himself. All the little
ornaments of life are pomps and vanities. Mirth is
wanton, and wit profane. He is scandalized at youth
for being lively, and at childhood for being playful.
He sits at a christening or a marriage feast as at a
funeral; sighs at the conclusion of a merry story ;
and grows devout when the rest of the company grow
pleasant. After all, Sombrius is a religious man, and
would have behaved himself very properly, had he
lived when Christianity was under a general perse-
cution.

I would by no means presume to tax such charac-
ters with hypocrisy, as is done too frequently; that
being a vice which I think none but He who knows
the secrets of men’s hearts should pretend to discover
in another, where the proofs of it do not amount to a
demonstration. On the contrary, as there are many
excellent persons who are weighed down by this ha-rate At

 

 

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216 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

bitual sorrow of heart, they rather deserve our com-
passion than our reproaches. I think, however, they
would do well to consider whether such a behaviour
does not deter men from a religious life, by repre-
senting it as an unsociable state, that extinguishes all
joy and gladness, darkens the face of nature, and
destroys the relish of being itself.

IT have, in former papers, shown how great a ten-
dency there is to cheerfulness in religion, and how
such a frame of mind is not only the most lovely, but
the most commendable in a virtuous person. In
short, those who represent religion in so unamiable
a light are like the spies sent by Moses to make a
discovery of the land of promise, when by their reports
they discouraged the people from entering upon it.
Those who show us the joy, the cheerfulness, the
good humour, that naturally spring up in this happy
state, are like the spies bringing along with them the
clusters of grapes and delicious fruits, that might
invite their companions into the pleasant country
which produced them*.

An eminent pagan writer has made a discourse to
show that the atheist, who denies a. God, does him
less dishonour than the man who owns his being, but
at the same time believes him to be cruel, hard to
please, and terrible to human nature. ‘ For my own
part,’ says he, ‘ I would rather it should be said of me,
that there was never any such manas. Plutarch, than
that Plutareh was.ill natured, capricious, or inhuman.’

If we may believe our logicians, man is distinguished
from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter.
He has a heart capable of mirth, and naturally dis-
posed to it. It is not the business of virtue to extir-
pate the affections of the mind, but to regulate them.
It may moderate and restrain, but was not designed
to banish gladness from the heart of man. Religion

* Numbers, ch. xiii,ON RELIGIOUS MELANCHOLY. DAG

contracts the circle of our pleasures, but leaves it wide
enough for her votaries to expatiate in. The contem-
plation of the Divine Being and.the exercise of virtue
are, in their own nature, so far from excluding all
gladness of heart, that they are perpetually sources of
it. Ina word, the true spirit of religion cheers, as
well as composes, the soul; it banishes, indeed, all
levity of behaviour, all vicious and dissolute mirth, but
in exchange fills the mind with a perpetual serenity,
uninterrupted cheerfulness, and an habitual inclina-
tion to please others, as well as to be pleased in itself.

 

149. DISPERSION OF THE JEWS.

As I am one who, by my profession, am obliged to
look into all kinds of men, there are none whom I
consider with so much pleasure, as those who have
any thing new or extraordinary in their characters or
ways of living. For this reason, I have often amused
myself with speculations on the race of people called
Jews, many of whom I have met with in mast of the
considerable towns which I have passed through in
the course of my travels. They are, indeed, so dis-
seminated through all the trading parts of the world,
that they are become the instruments by which the
most distant. nations converse with one another, and
by which mankind are knit together in a general cor-
respondence.. They are like the pegs and nails in a
great building, which, though they are but little valued
in themselyes, are absolutely necessary to keep the
whole frame together.

That I may not fall into any common beaten tracks
of observation, I shall consider this people in three
views. First, with regard to their number: secondly,
their dispersion; and thirdly, their adherence to their
religion:. and afterwards endeavour to show,, first,
what natural reasons, and secondly, what providential
VOL. IIs ie

Te ae ee

Pa tn timesann Oe ARTES er

 

amen

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
   
  

218 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

reasons may be assigned for these three remarkable
particulars.

The Jews are looked upon by many to be as numer-
ous at present as they were formerly in the land of
Canaan.

Thisis wonderful, considering the dreadful slaughter
made of them under some of the Roman emperors,
which historians describe by the death of many hun-
dred thousands in a war; and the innumerable mas-
sacres and persecutions they have undergone in Tur-
key, as well as in all Christian nations of the world.
The rabbins, to express the great havoc which has been
sometimes made of them, tell us, after their usual
manner of hyperbole, that there were such torrents of
holy blood shed, as carried rocks of a hundred yards
in circumference about three miles into the sea.

Their dispersion is the second remarkable particu-
lar in this people. They swarm over all the East;
and are settled in the remotest parts of China. They
are spread through most of the nations in Europe and
Africa, and many families of them are established in
the West Indies: not to mention whole nations bor-
dering on Prester-John’s country, and some disco-
vered in the inner parts of America, if we may give
any credit to their own writers.

Their firm adherence to their religion is no less
remarkable than their numbers and dispersion, espe-
cially considering it as persecuted or contemned over
the face of the whole earth. This is likewise the more
remarkable, if we consider the frequent apostasies of
this people, when they lived under their kings in the
land of promise, and within sight of their temple.

If, in the next place, we examine what may be the
natural reasons for these three particulars which we
find in the Jews, and which are not to be found in
any other religion or people, I can, in the first place,
attribute their numbers to nothing but their constantDISPERSION OF THE JEWS. 219

employment, their abstinence, their exemption from
wars, and, above all, their frequent marriages; for
they look on celibacy as an accursed state, and gene-
rally are married before twenty, as hoping the Mes-
siah may descend from them.

The dispersion of the Jews into all the nations of

the earth is the second remarkable particular of that
people, though not so hard to be accounted for. They
were always in rebellions and tumults while they had
the temple and holy city in view; for which reason
they have often been driven out of their old habita-
tions in the land of promise. They have as often
been banished out of most other places where they
have settled, which must very much disperse and
scatter a people, and oblige them to seek a livelihood
where they can find it. Besides, the whole people is
now a race of such merchants as are wanderers by pro-
fession, and, at the same time, are in most, if not all
places, incapable of either lands or offices that might
engage them to make any part of the world their home.

This dispersion would probably have lost their reli-
gion, had it not been secured by the strength of its
constitution: for they are to live all in a body, and
generally within the same enclosure ; to marry among
themselves, and to eat no meats that are not killed or
prepared their own way. This shuts them out from
all table conversation, and the most agreeable inter-
courses of life; and, by consequence, excludes them
from the most probable means of conversion.

If, in the last place, we consider what providential
reason may be assigned for these three particulars, we
shall find that their numbers, dispersion, and adhe-
rence to their religion, have furnished every age, and
every nation of the world, with the strongest argu-
ments for the Christian faith, not only as these very
particulars are foretold of them, but as they themselves
are the depositaries of these and all the other prophe-220 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

sies which tend to their own confusion. Their num-
ber furnishes us with a sufficient cloud of witnesses
that attest the truth of the Old Bible. Their disper-
sion spreads these winesses through all parts of the
world. The adherence to their religion makes their tes-
timony unquestionable. Had the whole body of Jews
been converted to Christianity, we should certainly
have thought all the prophecies of the Old Testament,
that relate to the coming and history of our Blessed
Saviour, forged by Christians, and have looked upon
them, with the prophecies of the Sibyls, as made many
years after the events they pretended to foretell.

150. SIEGE OF HENSBURG.

My friend Will Honeycomb has told me, for above
this half year, that he had a great mind to try his
hand at a Spectator, and that he would fain have one
of his writing in my works. This morning I received
from him the following letter, which, after having
rectified some little orthographical mistakes, I shall
make a present of to the public.

‘ DEAR SPEC,
‘T was about two nights ago in company with very
agreeable young people of both sexes, where, talking
of some of your papers which are written on conjugal
love, there arose a dispute among us. whether there
were not more bad husbands in the world than bad
wives. A gentleman, who was advocate for the la-
dies, took this occasion to tell us the story of a famous
siege in Germany, which I have since found related
in my historical dictionary, after the following man-
ner. When the emperor Conrade the Third had
besieged Guelphus, Duke of Bavaria, in the city of
Hensberg, the women, finding that the town could
not possibly hold out long, petitioned the emperorSIEGE OF HENSBURG. 224

that they might depart out of it with so much as each
of them could carry. The emperor, knowing they
could not convey away many of their effects, granted
them their petition: when the women, to his great
surprise, come out of the place with every one her
husband upon her back. The emperor was so moved
at the sight, that he burst into.tears ; and, after having
very much extolled the women for their conjugal
affection, gave the men to their wives, and received
the duke into his favour.

‘The ladies did not a little triumph at this story,
asking us at the same time, whether in our consciences
we believed that the men of any town in Great Britain
would, upon the same offer, and at the same conjunc-
ture, have loaden themselves with their wives; or
rather, whether they would not have been glad of
such an opportunity to get rid of them? To this my
very good friend, Tom Dapperwit, who took upon
him to be the mouth of our sex, replied, that they
would be very much to blame if they would not do
the same good office for the women, considering that
their strength would be greater, and their burdens
lighter. As we were amusing ourselves with dis-
courses of this nature in order to pass away the even-
ing, which now begins to grow tedious, we fell into
that laudable and primitive diversion of questions
and commands. I was no sooner vested with the
regal authority, but I enjoined all the ladies, under
pain of my displeasure, to tell the company ingenu-
ously, in case they had been in the siege above men-
tioned, and had the same offers made them as the
good women of that place, what every one of them
would have brought off with her, and have thought
most worth the saving. There were several merry
answers made to my question, which entertained us
till bedtime. This filled my mind with such a hud-
dle of ideas, that, upon my going to sleep, I fell into
the following dream.SR ee

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222
_ I saw a town of this island, which shall be name-
less, invested on every side, and the inhabitants of
it so straitened as to cry for quarter. The general
refused any other terms than those granted to the
above mentioned town of Hensberg, namely, that the
married women might come out with what they could
bring along with them. Immediately the city gates
flew open, and a female procession appeared, multi-
tudes of the sex following one another in a row, and
Staggering under their respective burdens. I took my
stand upon an eminence in the enemy’s camp, which
was appointed for the general rendezvous of these
female carriers, being very desirous to look into their
several ladings. The first of them had a huge sack
upon her shoulders, which she set down with great
care. Upon the opening of it, when I expected to
have seen her husband shot out of it, I found it was
filled with china-ware. The next appeared in a more
decent figure, carrying a handsome young fellow
upon her back: I could not forbear commending the
young woman for her conjugal affection, when to
my great surprise I found that she had left the good
man at home, and brought away her gallant. I saw
the third, at some distance, with a little withered face
peeping over her shoulder, whom I could not suspect
for any but her spouse, till upon her setting him down
I heard her call him dear pug, and found him to be
her favourite monkey. A fourth brought a huge bale
of cards along with her ; and the fifth a Bolonia lap-
dog; for her husband, it seems, being a very burly
man, she thought it would be less trouble for her to
bring away little Cupid. The next was the wife of a
rich usurer, loaden with a bag of gold; she told us
that her spouse was very old, and by the course of
nature could not expect to live long ; and that to show
her tender regards for him, she had saved that which
te poor man loved better than his life. The next
came towards us with her son upon her back, who,

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.SIEGE OF HENSBURG. 223

we were told, was the greatest rake in the place, but
so much the mother’s darling, that she left her hus-
band behind, with a large family of hopeful sons and
daughters, for the sake of this graceless youth.

‘It would be endless to mention the several per-
sons, with their several loads, that appeared to me in
this strange vision. All the place about me was
covered with packs of ribands, brocades, embroidery,
aud ten thousand other materials, sufficient to have
furnished a whole street of toy-shops. One of the
women, having a husband, who was none of the
heaviest, was bringing him off upon her shoulders,
at the same time that she carried a great bundle of
Flanders lace under her arm; but finding herself so
overloaden that she could not save both of them, she
dropped the good man, and brought away the bundle.
In short, I found but one husband among this great
mountain of baggage, who was a lively cobbler, that
kicked and spurred all the while his wife was carry-
ing him on, and, as it was said, had scarce passed a
day in his life without giving her the discipline of the
strap.

‘T cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without
telling thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I
saw, methought, a dozen women employed in bringing
off one man; I could not guess who it should be, till
upon his nearer approach I discovered thy short phiz.
The women all declared that it was for the sake of thy
works, and not thy person, that they brought thee off,
and that it was on condition that thou shouldst con-
tinue the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will
make a tolerable one, it is at thy service, from,

‘DEAR SPEC,
‘Thine sleeping and waking,
‘Witt Honeycoms,’

The ladies will see by this letter what I have oftenSRT

 

 

224
told them, that Will is one of those old fashioned
men of wit and pleasure of the town, that shows his
Vie parts by raillery on marriage, and one who has often
q tried his fortune that way without success. I cannot
a however dismiss this letter, without observing, that
| if the true story on which it is built does honour to the
sex, and that, in order to abuse them, the writer is

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

eee :

 

i i obliged to have recourse-to dream and fiction.

151. DEFENCE OF THE MARRIED LIFE.
SSRs
* You, who are so well acquainted with the story of
Socrates, must have read how, upon his making a
discourse concerning love, he pressed his point with

i he so much success, that all the bachelors in his audi-

ence took a resolution to marry by the first opportu-
nity, and that all the married men immediately took
horse and galloped home to their wives. Jam apt
to think your discourses, in which you have drawn
so many agreeable pictures of marriage, have had a
very good effect this way in England. We are obliged
to you, at least, for having taken off that senseless
ridicule which for many years the witlings of the

Ve town have turned upon their fathers and mothers,

a For my own part, I was born in wedlock, and I do
| not care who knows it: for which reason, among
; many others, I should look upon myself as a most
insufferable coxcomb, did I endeavour to maintain
that cuckoldom was inseparable from marriage, or to
make use of a husband and wife as terms of reproach.
Nay, sir, I will go one step farther, and declare to
you before the whole world, that I am a married
man, and at the same time I have so much assurance
as not to be ashamed of what I have done.

( “ Among the several pleasures that accompany this
. State of life, and which you have described in yourDEFENCE OF THE MARRIED LIFE. 295

former papers, there are two you have not taken no-
tice of, and which are seldom cast into the account
by those who write on this subject. You must have
observed, in your speculations on human nature, that
nothing is more gratifying to the mind of man than
power or dominion ; and this I think myself amply
possessed of, as | am the father of a family. J am
perpetually taken up in giving out orders, in pre-
scribing duties, in hearing parties, in administering
justice, and in distributing rewards and punishments.
To speak in the language of the centurion, I say unto
one, Go, and*he goeth; and to another, Come, and
he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth
it. Inshort, sir, I look upon my family as a patriar-
chal sovereignty, in which I am myself both king
and priest. All great governments are nothing else
but clusters of these little private royalties, and there-
fore I consider the masters of families as small deputy-
governors presiding over the several little parcels and
divisions of their fellow subjects. As I take great
pleasure in the administration of my government in
particular, so I look upon myself not only as a more
useful, but as a much greater and happier man than
any bachelor in England of my rank and condition.

‘ There is another accidental advantage in marriage,
which has likewise fallen to my share; I mean, the
having a multitude of children. These I cannot but
regard as very great blessings. When I see my little
troop before me, I rejoice in the additions which I
have made to my species, to my country, and to my
religion, in having produced such a number of rea-
sonable creatures, citizens, and Christians. I am
pleased to see myself thus perpetuated; and as there
is no production comparable to that of a human crea-
ture, I am more proud of having been the occasion of
ten such glorious productions, than if I had built a
hundred pyramids at my own expense, or published as
L2926 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

many volumes of the finest wit and learning. In what
a beautiful light has the holy scripture represented
Abdon, one of the judges of Israel, who had forty sons
and thirty grandsons, that rode on threescore and ten
ass-colts, aecording to the magnificence of the eastern
countries ! How must the heart of the old man rejoice,
when he saw such a beautiful procession of his own
descendants, such a numerous cavalcade of his own
raising! For my own part, I can sit in my parlour
with great content, when I take a review of half a
dozen of my little boys mounted upon their hobby-
horses, and of as many little girls tutorirf their babies,
each of them endeavouring to excel the rest, and to
do something that may gain my favour and approba-
tion. I cannot question but He who has blessed me
with so many children will assist my endeavours in
vroviding for them. There is one thing I am able to
give each of them, which is a virtuous education. . I
think it is Sir Francis Bacon’s observation, that in a
numerous family of children, the eldest is often spoiled
by the prospect of an estate, and the youngest by being
the darling of the parents ; but that some one or other
in the middle, who has not perhaps been regarded,
has made his way in the world, and overtopped the
rest. It is my business to implant in every one of my
children the same seeds of industry, and the same ho-
nest principles. By this means | think I have a fair
chance, that one or other of them may grow consider-
able in some or other way of life, whether it be in the
army, or in the fleet, in trade, or any of the three
learned professions ; for you must know, sir, that from
long experience and observation, [ am persuaded of
what seems a paradox to most of those with wnom I
converse; namely, that a man who has many chil-
dren, and gives them a good education, is more likely
to raise a family, than he who has but one, notwith-
standing he leaves him his whole estate. For thisDEFENCE OF THE MARRIED LIFE. 227

reason I cannot forbear amusing myself with finding
out a general, an admiral, or an alderman of London,
a divine, a physician, or a lawyer, among my little
people who are now perhaps in petticoats; and when
I see the motherly airs of my little daughters when
they are playing with their puppets, 1 cannot but flat-
ter myself that their husbands and children will be
happy in the possession of such wives and mothers.
‘If you are a father, you will not perhaps think this
letter impertinent; but if you are a single man, you
will not know the meaning of it, and probably throw
it into the fire. Whatever you determine of it, you
may assure yourself that it comes from one who is
¢ Your most humble servant,
‘and well-wisher,
‘ PHILOGAMUS.’

152. QN PARTY LIES.

TueEreE is something very sublime, though very fanci-
ful, in Plato’s description of the Supreme Being ;
that ‘truth is his body, and light his shadow.’ Ac-
cording to this definition, there is nothing so contra-
dictory to his nature as error and falsehood. The
Platonists have so just a notion of the Almighty’s
aversion to every thing which is false and erroneous,
that they looked upon truth as no less necessary than
virtue to qualify a human soul for the enjoyment of a
separate state. For this reason, as they recommended
moral duties to qualify and season the will for a future
life, so they prescribed several contemplations and
sciences to rectify the understanding. Thus Plato
has called mathematical demonstrations the cathartics
or purgatives of the soul, as being the most proper
means to cleanse it from error, and to give it a relish
ef truth; which is the natural food and nourishment
ef the understanding, as virtue is the perfection and
happiness of the will.ett AR 2 PAE

 

228 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

There are many authors who have shown wherein
the malignity of a lie consists, and set forth in proper
colours the heinousness of the offence. I shall here
consider one particular kind of this crime, which has
not been so much spoken to; I mean, that abomina-
ble practice of party lying. This vice is so very pre-
dominant among us at present, that a man is thought
of no principles who does not propagate a certain
system of lies. The coffee-houses are supported by
them, the press is choked with them, eminent authors
live upon. them. Our bottle conversation is so in-
fected with them, that a party lie is grown as fashion-
able an entertainment as a lively catch or a merry
story. The truth of it is, half the great talkers in the
nation would be struck dumb were this fountain of
discourse dried up. There is however one advantage
resulting from this detestable practice; the very ap-
pearances of truth are so little regarded, that lies are
at present discharged in the air, and begin to hurt
nobody. When we hear a party story from a stranger,
we consider whether he is a whig or a tory that relates
it, and immediately conclude they are words of course,
in which the honest gentleman designs to recommend
his zeal without any concern for his veracity. Aman
is looked upon as bereft of common sense that gives
credit to the relations of party writers; nay, his own
friends shake their heads at him, and consider him in
no other light than as an officious tool or a well mean-
ing idiot. When it was formerly the fashion to hus-
band a lie, and trump it up in some extraordinary
emergency, it generally did execution, and was nota
little serviceable to the faction that made use of it:
but at present every man is upon his guard: the arti-
fice has been too often repeated to take effect.

I have frequently wondered to see men of probity,
who would scorn to utter a falsehood for their own
particular advantage, give so readily into a lie, when
it is become the voice of their faction, notwithstand-ON PARTY LIES. 229

ing they are thoroughly sensible of it as such. How
is it possible for those who are men of honour in their
persons, thus to become notorious liars in their party ?
If we look into the bottom of this matter, we may find,
I think, three reasons for it, and at the same time
discover the insufficiency of these reasons to justify
so criminal a practice.

In the first place, men are apt to think that the
cuilt of a lie, and consequently the punishment, may
be very much diminished, if not wholly worn out, by
the multitudes of those who partake in it. Though
the weight of a falsehood would be too heavy for one
to bear, it grows light in their imaginations when it
is shared among many. But in this.case a man very
much deceives himself; guilt, when it spreads through
numbers, is not so properly divided as multiphed.
Every one is criminal in proportion to the offence
which he commits, not to the number of those who
are his companions in it. Both the crime and the
penalty lie as heavy upon every individual of an
offending multitude, as they would upon any single
person, had none shared with him in the offence. In
a word, the division of guilt is like to that of matter ;
though it may be separated into infinite portions,
every portion shall have the whole essence of matter
in it, and consist of as many parts as the whole did
before it was divided.

But in the second place, though multitudes, who
join in a lie, cannot exempt themselves from the guilt,
they may from the shame of it. The scandal of a
lie is in a manner lost and annihilated when diffused
among several thousands; as a drop of the blackest
tincture wears away and vanishes when mixed and
confused ina considerable body of water; the blot is
still in it, but is not able to discover itself. This is
certainly a very great motive to several party offenders,
who avoid crimes, not as they are prejudicial to theirKea
ha oe

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230 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
virtue, but to their reputation. It is enough to show
the weakness of this reason, which palliates guilt
without removing it, that every man who is influenced
by it declares himself in effect an infamous hypocrite,
prefers the appearance of virtue to its reality, and is
determined in his conduct neither by the dictates of
his own conscience, the suggestions of true honour,
nor the principles of religion.

The third and last great motive for men’s joining
in a popular falsehood, or, as I have hitherto called
it, a party lie, notwithstanding they are convinced of
it as such, is the doing good to a cause which every
party may be supposed to look upon as the most me-
ritorious. The unsoundness of this principle has been
so often exposed, and is so universally acknowledged,
that a man must be an utter stranger to the principles
either of natural religion or Christianity, who suffers
himself to be guided by it. Ifa man might promote
the supposed good of his country by the blackest ca-
lumnies and falsehoods, eur nation abounds more in
patriots than any other ofthe Christian world. When
Pompey was desired not to set sail in a tempest that
would hazard his life, ‘It is necessary for me,’ says
he, ‘to sail, but it is not necessary for me to live.’
Every man should say to himself, with the same spl-
rit, ‘ It is my duty to speak truth, though it is not my
duty to be in an office.’ One of the fathers hath carried
this point so high as to declare he would not tell a lie
though he were sure to gain heaven by it. However
extravagant such a protestation may appear, every one
will own that a man may say, very reasonably, he
would not tell a lie if he were sure to gain hell by it;
or, if you have a mind to soften the expression, that
he would not tell a lie to gain any temporal reward
by it, when he should run the hazard of losing much
more than it was possible for him to gain.153. WILL HONEYCOMB’S PROPOSAL.

‘ DEAR SPEC,
‘ Finprne that my last letter took, I do intend to
continue my epistolary correspondence with thee, on
those dear confounded creatures, women. Thou
knowest all the little learning I am master of is upon
that subject; I never looked in a book, but for their
sakes. I have lately met with two pure stories for a
Spectator, which I am sure will please mightily, if
they pass through thy hands. The first of them [
found by chance in an English book, called Herodo-
tus, that lay in my friend Dapperwit’s window, as I
visited him one morning. It luckily opened in the
place where I met with the following account. He
tells us that it was the manner among the Persians to
have several fairs in the kingdom, at which all the
young unmarried women were annually exposed to
sale. The men who wanted wives came hither to
provide themselves. Every woman was given to the
highest bidder; and the money which she fetched
laid aside for the public use, to be employed as thou
shalt hear by and by. By this means the richest
people had the choice of the market, and culled out
all the most extraordinary beauties. As soon as the
fair was thus picked, the refuse was to be distributed
among the poor, and among those who could not go
to the price of a beauty. Several of these married the
agreeables, without paying a farthing for them, unless
somebody chanced to think it worth his while to bid
for them, in which case the best bidder was always
the purchaser. But now you must know, Spec, it
happened in Persia, as it does in our own country,
that there were as many ugly women as beauties or
agreeables; so that, by consequence, after the magis-
trates had put off a great many, there were still a
creat many that stuck upon their hands. In ordera ce LOLOL

 

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239 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

therefore to clear the market, the money which the
beauties had sold for was disposed of among the ugly;
so that a poor man, who could not afford to have a
beauty for his wife, was forced to take up with a for-
tune; the greatest portion being always given to the
most deformed. To this the author adds, that every
poor man. was forced to live kindly with his wife, or,
in case he repented of his bargain, to return her portion
with her to the next public sale.

‘ What I would recommend to thee on this occasion
is, to establish such an imaginary fair in Great Britain:
thou couldst make it very pleasant, by matching wo-
men of quality with cobblers and carmen, or describing
titles and garters leading off in great ceremony shop-
keepers’ and farmers’ daughters. Though, to tell
thee the truth, I am confoundedly afraid, that as the
love of money prevails in our island more than it did
in Persia, we should find that some of our greatest
men would choose out the portions, and rival one
another for the richest piece of deformity ; and that,
on the contrary, the toasts and belles would be bought
up by extravagant heirs, gamesters, and spendthrifts.
Thou couldst make very pretty reflections upon this
occasion in honour of the Persian politics, who took
eare, by such marriages, to beautify the upper part of
the species, and to make the greatest persons in the
government the most graceful. But this I shall leave
to thy judicious pen.

‘I have another story to tell thee, which I likewise
met with in a book. It seems the general of the
Tartars, after having laid siege to a strong town in
China, and taken it by storm, would set to sale all
the women that were found in it. Accordingly he
put each of them into a sack, and, after having tho-
roughly considered the value of the woman who was
enclosed, marked the price that was demanded for
her upon the sack. There were a great confluenceWILL HONEYCOMB’S PROPOSAL. 233

of chapmen, that resorted from every part, with a
design to purchase, which they were to do ‘ unsight
unseen.’ The book mentions a merchant in particular,
who, observing one of the sacks to be marked pretty
high, bargained for it, and carried it off with him to
his house. As he was resting with it upon a halfway
bridge, he was resolved to take a survey of his pur-
chase; upon opening the sack, a little old woman
popped her head out of it; at which the adventurer
was in so great a rage, that he was going to shoot her
out into the river. The old lady, however, begged
him first of all to hear her story, by which he learned
that she was sister to a great Mandarin, who would
infallibly make the fertune of his brother-in-law as
soon as he should know to whose lot she fell. Upon
which the merchant again tied her up in his sack,
and catried her to his house, where she proved an
excellent wife, and procured him all the riches from
her brother that she had promised him.

‘I fancy, if Iwas disposed to dream a second time,
I could make a tolerable vision upon this plan. I
would suppose all the unmarried women in London
and Westminster brought to market in sacks, with
their respective prices on each sack. The first sack
that is sold is marked with five thousand pound. Upon
the opening of it, I find it filled with an admirable
housewife, of an agreeable countenance. The pur-
chaser, upon hearing her good qualities, pays down
her price very cheerfully. The second I would open
should be a five hundred pound sack. The lady in
it, to our surprise, has the face and person of a toast.
As we are wondering how she came to be set at so
low a price, we hear that she would have been valued
at ten thousand pound, but that the public had made
those abatements for her being a scold. I would
afterwards find some beautiful, modest, and discreet
woman, that should be the top of the market: and
perhaps discover half a dozen romps tied up togetherSA LAL IOE I

 

— _

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934 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

in the same sack,.at one hundred pound ahead. The
prude and the coquette should be valued at the same
price, though the first should go off the better of the
two. I fancy thou wouldst like such a vision, had I
time to finish it; because, to talk in thy own way,
there is a moral in it. Whatever thou mayest think
of it, pr’ythee do not make any of thy queer apologies
for this letter, as thou didst for my last. The women
love a gay lively fellow, and are never angry at the
railleries of one who is their known admirer. I am
always bitter upon them, but well with them.
‘ Thine,
“ HONEYCOMB,’

154. ON GIVING ADVICE.

THERE is nothing which we receive with so much
reluctance as advice. We look upon the man who
gives it us as offering an affront to our understanding,
and treating us like children or idiots. We consider
the instruction as an implicit censure, and the zeal
which any one shows for our good on such an occa-
sion as a piece of presumption or impertinence. The
truth of it is, the person who pretends to advise does,
in that particular, exercise a superiority over us, and
can have no other reason for it, but that, in comparing
us with himself, he thinks us defective either in our
conduct or our understanding. For these reasons,
there is nothing so difficult as the art of making advice
agreeable; and, indeed, all the writers, both ancient
and modern, have distinguished themselves among
one another, according to the perfection at which they
have arrived in this art. How many devices have
been made use of to render this bitter potion palatable ?
Some convey their instructions to usin the best chosen
words, others in the most harmonious numbers; some
in points of wit, and others in short proverbs.

But, among all the different ways of giving counsel,ON GIVING ADVICE. Qa

I think the finest, and that which pleases the most
universally, is fable, in whatsoever shape it appears.
If we consider this way of instructing or giving advice,
it excels all others, because it is the least shocking,
and the least subject to those exceptions which I have
before mentioned.

This will appear to us, if we reflect in the first place,
that upon the reading of a fable we are made to be-
lieve we advise ourselves. We peruse the author for
the sake of the story, and consider the precepts rather
as our own conclusions than his instructions, The
moral insinuates itself imperceptibly; we are taught
by surprise, and become wiser and better unawares,
In short, by this method, a man is so far overreached
as to think he is directing himself, whilst he is follow-
ing the dictates of another, and consequently is not
sensible of that which is the most unpleasing circum-
stance in advice.

In the next place, if we look into human nature,
we shall find that the mind is never so much pleased
as when she exerts herself in any action that gives her
an idea of her own perfections and abilities. This
natural pride and ambition of the soul is very much
gratified in the reading of a fable; for, in writings of
this kind, the reader comes in for half of the perform-
ance; every thing appears to him like a discovery of
his own; he is busied all the while in applying cha-
racters and circumstances, and is, in this respect, both
a reader and a composer. It is no wonder therefore,
that on such occasions, when the mind is thus pleased
with itself, and amused with its own discoveries, it
is highly delighted with the writing which is the
occasion of it. For this reason the Absalom and
Achitophel was one of the most popular poems that
appeared in English. The poetry is indeed very fine,
but had it been much finer, it would not have so
much pleased, without a plan which gave the reader

an opportunity of exerting his own talents.236 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
This oblique manner of giving advice is so inoffen-
sive, that, if we look into ancient histories, we find
the wise men-of old very often chose to give counsel
to their kings in fables. To omit many which will
occur to everyone’s memory, there is a pretty instance
of this nature in a Turkish tale, which I do not like
the worse for that little oriental extravagance which
is mixed with it.
We are told that the sultan Mahmoud, by his per-
petual wars abroad and his tyranny at home, had
filled his dominions with ruin and desolation, and
half unpeopled the Persian empire. The visier to this
great sultan (whether a humourist or an enthusiast,
we are not informed) pretended to have learned of a
certain dervise to understand the language of birds,
so that there was not a bird that could open his mouth
but the visier knew what it was he said. As he was
one evening with the emperor, in their return from
hunting, they saw a couple of owls upon a tree that
grew near an old wall out of a heap of rubbish. ‘ I
would fain know,’ says the sultan, ‘ what those two
owls are saying to one another; listen to their dis-
course, and give me an account-of it.’ The visier
approached the tree, pretending to be very attentive
to the two owls. Upon his return to the sultan, ¢ Sir,
says he, ‘I have heard part of their conversation, but
dare not tell you what it is.’ The sultan would not
be satisfied with such an answer, but forced him to
repeat word for word every thing that the owls had
said. ‘ You must know then,’ said the visier, ¢ that
one of these owls has a son, and the othera daughter,
between whom they are now upon a treaty of mar-
riage. The father of the son said to the father of the
daughter, in my hearing, ‘‘ Brother, I consent to this
marriage, provided you will settle upon your daughter
fifty ruined villages for her portion.”” To which the
father of the daughter replied, “ Instead of fifty, I
will give her five hundred, if you please. God grantON GIVING ADVICE. 23%

a long life to sultan Mahmoud; whilst he reigns over
us, we shall never want ruined villages*.”

The story says, the sultan was so touched with the
fable, that he rebuilt the towns and villages which
had been destroyed, and from that time forward con-
sulted the good of his people.

To fill up my paper, I shall add a most ridiculous
piece of natural magic, which was taught by no less
a philosopher than Democritus; namely, that if the
blood of certain birds, which he mentioned, were
mixed together, it would produce a serpent of such a
wonderful virtue, that whoever did eat it should be
skilled in the language of birds, and understand every
thing they said to one another. Whether the dervise
above mentioned might not have eaten such a serpent,
I shall leave to the determinations of the learned.

155. MEDITATION ON DEATH.

Tue following letter comes to me from that excellent
man in holy orders, whom I have mentioned more
than once as one of that society who assists me in my
speculations. It is a thought in sickness, and of a
very serious nature, for which reason I give it a place
in the paper-of this day.

‘<SI Ris
‘ Tne indisposition which has long hung. upon me
is at last grown to such a head, that it must quickly
make an end of me, or of itself. You may imagine,
that whilst I am in this bad state of health, there are
none of your works which I read.with greater pleasure
than your Saturday’s papers. I should be very glad
if I could furnish you with any hints for that day’s
entertainment. Were I able to dress up several

* This story is in the superb Persian. MS. in the public library,
Cambridge.et nN
—

 

 

238 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

thoughts of a serious nature, which have made great
impressions on my mind during a long fit of sickness,
they might not be an improper entertainment for that
occasion.

‘ Among all the reflections which usually rise in
the mind of a sick man, who has time and inclination
to consider his approaching end, there is none more
natural than that of his going to appear naked and
unbodied before him who made him. When a man
considers, that as soon as the vital union is dissolved,
he shall see that Supreme Being whom he now con-
templates at a distance, and only in his works; or,
to speak more philosophically, when, by some faculty
in the soul, he shall apprehend the Divine Being, and
be more sensible of his presence than we are now of
the presence of any object which the eye beholds, a
man must be lost in carelessness and stupidity who
is not alarmed at such a thought. Dr. Sherlock, in
his excellent Treatise upon Death, has represented,
in very strong and lively colours, the state of the soul
in its first separation from the body, with regard to
that invisible world which every where surrounds us,
though we are not able to discover it through this
grosser world of matter, which is accommodated to
our senses in this life. His words are as follow:

“That death, which is our leaving this world, is
nothing else but our putting off these bodies, teaches
us that it is only our union to these bodies which in-
tercepts the sight of the-other world. The other world
is not at such a distance from us as we may imagine;
the throne of God indeed is at a great remove from
this earth, above the third heavens, where he displays
his glory to‘those blessed spirits which encompass his
throne; but as soon as we step out of these bodies,

we step into the other world, which is not so properly

another world-(for there is the same heaven and earthMEDITATION ON DEATH. 239

still) as a new state of life. To live in these bodies is
to live in this world; to live out of them is to remove
into the next: for while our souls are confined to
these bodies, and can look only through these material
casements, nothing but what is material can affect us;
nay, nothing but what is so gross, that it can reflect
light, and convey the shapes and colours of things
with it to the eye: so that, though within this visible
world there be a more glorious scene of things than
what appears to us, we perceive nothing at all of it;
for this veil of flesh parts the visible and imvisible
world; but when we put off these bodies, there are
new and surprising wonders present themselves to
our views; when these material spectacles are taken
off, the soul with its own naked eyes sees what was
invisible before: and then we are in the other world,
when we can sée it, and converse with it. Thus
St. Paul tells us, ‘ that when we are at home in the
body we are absent from the Lord, but when we are
absent from the body, we are present with the Lord;’
2 Cor. v. 6, 8. And methinks this is enough to cure
us of our fondness for these bodies, unless we think
it more desirable to be confined to a prison, and to
look through a grate all our lives, which gives us but
a very narrow prospect, and that none of the best
neither, than to be set at liberty to view all the glories
of the world. What would we give now for the least
slimpse of that invisible world which the first step
we take out of these bodies will present us with?
There are such things * as eye hath not seen, nor ear
heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man
to conceive.’ Death opens our eyes, enlarges our
prospect, presents us with a new and more glorious
world, which we can never see while we are shut up
in flesh ; which should make us as willing to part
with this veil, as to take the film off of our eyes, which
hinders our sight.”Ra

 

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240 ADDISON’S

‘ As a thinking man cannot but be very much af-
fected with the idea of his appearing in the presence
of that Being “* whom none can see and live,” he
must be much more affected when he considers that
this Being, whom he appears before, will examine all
the actions of his past life, and reward or punish him
accordingly. I must confess that I think there is no
scheme of religion, besides that-of Christianity, which
can possibly support the most virtuous person under
this thought. Let a man’s innocence be what it will,
let his virtues rise to the highest pitch of perfection
attainable in this life, there will. be still in him so
many secret sins, so many human frailties, so many
offences of ignorance, passion, and prejudice, so many
unguarded words and thoughts, and in short so many
defects in his best actions, that, without the advantages
of such an expiation and atonement as Christianity _
has revealed to us, it is impossible that he should be
vee before his Sovereign Judge, or that he should

e able to “ stand in his sight.” Our holy religion
Se ek to us the only means whereby our guilt Pe
be taken ¢ away, and our imperfect obedience accepted.

‘It is this series of thought that I have endeavoured
to express in the following hymn, which I have com-
posed during this my, sickness.

ESSAYS.

* When, rising from the bed of death,.
O’erwhelm’d with euilt and fear,
i} see my Maker face to face,
O how shall I appear?

“If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,

My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought;

‘ When Thou, O Lord, s
In majesty severe,

And sit in judgment on my soul,
Q how shall I appear?

* But Thou hast told the troubled mind,
Ww ho does her sins lament,

he timely tribute of her tears

Shall endless woe prevent.

shalt stand disclosedMEDITATION ON DEATH.

* Then see the sorrows of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;

And hear my Saviour’s dying groans,
To give those sorrows weight.

* For never shall my soul despair
Her pardon to procure,

Who knows Thine only Son has died
To make her pardon sure.’

‘There isa noble hymn in French, which Monsieur
Bayle has celebrated for a very fine one, and which
the famous author of the Art of Speaking calls an
admirable one, that turns upon a thought of the same
nature. If I could have done it justice in English, I
would have sent it you translated. It was written by
Monsieur des Barreux, who had been one of the
greatest wits and libertines in France, but in his last
years was as remarkable a penitent.

© Grand Dieu, tes jugemens sont remplis @ equite ;
Toujours tu prens plaisir a nous etre propice.
Mais j'ai tant fait de mal, que jamais ta bonte
Ne me pardonnera, sans choquer ta justice.

Our, mon Dieu, la grandeur de mon imprete

Ne laisse a ton pouvoir que le chotx du supplice:
Ton interet 8’ oppose a ma felictte; i

Et ta clemence meme attend que je perisse.
Contente ton desir, puis ywil v est glorieur ;
Offense tot des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux ;
Tonne, frappe, tl est temps, rens mot guerre pour guerre ;
J’ adore en perissant la raison quit” aigrit.

Mais dessus quel endrott tombera ton tonnere, |

Qui ne soit tout couvert du sang de Jesus Christ.’

‘If these thoughts may be serviceable to you, I
desire you would place them in a proper light, and
am ever, with great sincerity,

‘Sir, yours, &c.’

 

156. DEATH OF SIR ROGER.

We last night received a piece of ill news at our club,
which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I ques-
tion not but my readers themselves will be troubled
at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in sus-
pense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead*. He departed

*©Mr. Addison was so fond of this character, that a little before
he laid down the Spectator (foresecing that some nimble gentleman
VOIn i M242 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks
sickness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a letter from one
of his correspondents in those parts, that informs him
the old man caught a cold at the county sessions, as
he was very warmly promoting an address of his own
penning, in which he succeeded according to his
wishes. But this particular comes from a whig justice
of peace, who was always Sir Roger’s enemy and
antagonist. I have letters both from the chaplain
and Captain Sentry, which mention nothing of it, but
are filled with many particulars to the honour of the
good old man. I have likewise a letter from the
butler, who took so much care of me last summer
when I was at the knight’s house. As my friend the
butler mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several
circumstances the others have passed over in silence,
I shall give my reader a copy of his letter, without
any alteration or diminution.

‘ HONOURED SIR,
* Knowine that you was my old master’s good friend,
I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news
of his death, which has afflicted the whole country,
as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may
say, better than we did our lives. JI am afraid he
caught his death the last county sessions, where he
would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman
and her fatherless children, that had been wronged
by a neighbouring gentleman; for you know, sir, my
good master was always the poor man’s friend. Upon
his coming home, the first complaint he made was,
that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being
able to touch a sirloin, which was served up accord-
ing to custom ; and you know he used to take great
delight init. From that time forward he grew worse
would catch up his pen the moment he quitted it), he said to an
intimate friend, with a certain warmth in his expression, which he

was not often guilty of, “ By G—, ll kill Sir Roger, that nobody
else may murder him.” ”DEATH OF SIR ROGER. 243

and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last.
Indeed we were once in great hope of his recovery,
upon a kind message that was sent him from the
widow lady whom he had made love to the forty last
years of his life; but this only proved a lightning
before death. He has bequeathed to this lady, as a
token of his love, a great pearl necklace, and a couple
of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to
my good old lady his mother. - He has bequeathed
the fine white gelding that he used to ride a hunting
upon to his chaplain, because he thought he would
be kind to him, and has left you all his books. He
has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain a very
pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being
a very cold day when he made his will, he left for
mourning, to every man in the parish a great frize-
coat, and to every woman a black ridinghood. It
was a most moving sight to see him take leave of his
poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity,
whilst we were not able to speak a word for weeping.
As we most of us are grown gray-headed in our dear
master’s service, he has left us pensions and legacies,
which we may live very comfortably upon the remain-
ing part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal
more in charity, which is not yet come to my know-
ledge, and it is peremptorily said in the parish that
he has left money to build a steeple to the church ;
for he was heard to say some time ago, that, if he
lived two years longer, Coverley church should have
a steeple to it.. The chaplain tells every body that
he made a very good end, and never speaks of him
without tears. He was buried, according to his own
directions, among the family of the Coverleys, on the
left hand of his father Sir Arthur. The coffin was
carried by six of his tenants, and the pall held up by
six of the quorum. The whole parish followed the
corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits ;

ee244

the men in frize, and the women in ridinghoods.
Captain Sentry, my master’s nephew, has taken pos-
session of the Hall house, and the whole estate. When
my old master saw him a hittle before his death, he
shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of the
estate which was falling to him, desiring him only to
make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies,
and the gifts of charity, which he told him he had
left as quitrents upon the estate. The captain truly
eems a courteous man, though he says but little. He
makes much of those whom my master loved, and
shows great kindness to the old house-dog, that you
know my poor master was so fond of. It would have
gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb
creature made on the day of my master’s death. He
has never joyed himself since; no more has any of us.
It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that
ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from,
‘ Honoured sir,
“ Your most sorrowful servant,
‘ Epwarp Biscuit.

“P.S. My master desired, some weeks before he
died, that a book, which comes up to you by the
carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport in
his name.’

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler’s man-
ner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good
old friend, that upon the reading of it there was not
a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew opening the book,
found it to be a collection of acts.of parliament. There
was in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some
passages in it marked by Sir Roger’s own hand. Sir
Andrew found that they related to two or three points
which he had disputed with Sir Roger the last time
he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would
have been merry at such an incident on another oc-DEATH OF SIR ROGER. 245

casion, at the sight of the old man’s handwriting burst
into tears, and put the book in his pocket. Captain
Sentry informs me that the knight has left rings and
mourning for every one in the club.

157. GN ANIMAL LIFE.

Tuovucu there is a great deal of pleasure in contem+
plating the material world, by which I mean that
system of bodies into which nature has so curiously
wrought the mass of dead matter, with the several re-
lations which those bodies bear to one another; there
is still, methinks, something more wonderful and
surprising in contemplations on the world of life, by
which I mean all those animals with which every part
of the universe is furnished. The material world is
only the shell of the universe; the world of life are
its inhabitants.

If we consider those parts of the material world
which lie the nearest to us, and are therefore subject
to our observations and inquiries, it is amazing to con-
sider the infinity of animals with which it is stocked.
Every part of matter is peopled; every green leaf
swarms with inhabitants. There is scarce a single
humour in the body of a man, or of any other animal,
in which our glasses do not discover myriads of living
creatures. The surface of animals is also covered
with other animals, which are in the same manner
the basis of other animals that live upon it; nay, we
find in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, in-
numerable cells and cavities that are crowded with
such imperceptible inhabitants, as are too little for
the naked eye to discover. On the other hand, if we
look into the more bulky parts of nature, we see the
seas, lakes, and rivers teeming with numberless kinds
of living creatures. We find every mountain and
marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked with246 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

birds and beasts; and every part of matter affording
proper necessaries and convenience for the livelihood
of multitudes which inhabit it.

The author of the Plurality of Worlds draws a very
good argument from this consideration for the peopling
of every planet; as indeed it seems very probable,
from the analogy of reason, that if no part of matter,
which we are acquainted with, lies waste and useless,
those great bodies, which are at such a distance from
us, should not be desert and unpeopled, but rather
that they should be furnished with beings adapted to
their respective situations.

Existence is a blessing to those beings only which
are endowed with perception; and is in a manner
thrown away upon dead matter, any farther than as
it is subservient to beings which are conscious of their
existence. Accordingly we find, from the bodies which
lie under our observation, that matter is only made as
the basis and support of animals, and there is no more
of the one than what is necessary for the existence of
the other.

Infinite goodness is of so communicative a nature,
that it seems to delight in the conferring of existence
upon every degree of perceptive being. As this is a
speculation which I have often pursued with great
pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge farther upon it, by
considering that part of the scale of beings which
comes within our knowledge.

There are some living creatures which are raised
but just above dead matter: to mention only that
species of shell-fish, which are formed in the fashion
of a cone, that grow to the surface of several rocks,
and immediately die upon their being severed from
the place where they grow. There are many other
creatures but one remove from these, which have no
other sense besides that of feeling and taste: others
have still an additional one of hearing; others ofON ANIMAL LIFE. 247

smell, and others of sight. It is wonderful to observe
by what a gradual progress the world of life advances
through a prodigious variety of species, before a
creature is formed that is comple*e in all its senses ;
and even among these there is such a different de-
gree of perfection in the sense which one animal
enjoys beyond what appears in another, that, though
the sense in different animals be distinguished by the
same common denomination, it seems almost of a
different nature. If after this we look into the several
inward perfections of cunning and sagacity, or what
we generally call instinct, we find them nsing after
the same manner imperceptibly one above another,
and receiving additional improvements, according to
the species in which they are implanted. This pro-
gress in nature is so very gradual, that the most perfect
of an inferior species comes very near to the most im-
perfect of that which is immediately above it.

The exuberant and overflowing goodness of the
Supreme Being, whose mercy e* ‘ends to all his works,
is plainly seen, as I have before hinted, from his having
made so very little matter, at least what falls within
our knowledge, that does not swarm with life. Nor
is his goodness less seen in the diversity than in the
multitude of living creatures. Had he only made
one species of animals, none of the rest would have
enjoyed the happiness of existence; he has, therefore,
specified in his creation every degree of Ife; every
capacity of being. The whole chasm in nature, from

a plant to a man, is filled up with diverse kinds of

creatures, rising one over another by such a gentle
and easy ascent, that the little transitions and devia-
tions from one species to another are almost insensible.
This intermediate space is so well husbanded and
managed, that there is scarce a degree of perception
which does not appear in some one part of the worlc
of life. Is the goodness or the wisdom of the Divine
Being more manifested in this his proceeding ¢a

 

 

 

 

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
   

248 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

There is a consequence, besides those I have al-
ready mentioned, which seems very naturally deduci-
ble from the foregoing considerations. If the scale of
being rises by such a regular progress so high as man,
we may, by a parity of reason, suppose that it still
proceeds gradually through those beings which are of
a superior nature to him ; since there is an infinitely
greater space and room for different degrees of per-
fection, between the Supreme Being and man, than
between man and the most despicable insect. This
consequence of so great a variety of beings which are
Superior to us, from that variety which is inferior to
us, is made by Mr. Locke, in a passage which I shall
here set down, after having premised, that notwith-
standing there is such infinite room between man and
his Maker for the creative power to exert itself in, it
is impossible that it should ever be filled up, since
there will be still an infinite gap or distance between
the highest created being and the Power which pro-
duced him.

‘That there should be more species of intelligent
creatures above us, than there are of sensible and
material below us, is probable to me from hence—
that in all the visible corporeal world we see no
chasms, or no gaps. All quite down from us the de-
scent is by easy steps, and a continued series of things,
that in each remove differ very little one from the
other. There are fishes that have wings, and are not
Strangers to the airy region: and there are some birds
that are inhabitants of the water; whose blood is as
cold as fishes, and their flesh so like in taste, that the
scrupulous are allowed them on fish days. There are
animals so near of kin both to birds and beasts that
they are in the middle between both. Amphibious
animals link the terrestrial and aquatic together.
Seals live at land and at sea, and porpoises have the
warm blood and entrails of a hog; not to mention
what is confidently reported of mermaids, or sea men.ON ANIMAL LIFE. 248

There are some brutes that seem to have as much
knowledge and reason as some that are called men :
and the animal and vegetable kingdoms are so nearly
joined, that if you will take the lowest of one, and
the highest of the other, there will scarce be perceived
any great difference between them: and so on, till
we come to the lowest and the most inorganical parts
of matter, we shall find every where that the several
species are linked together, and differ but in almost
insensible degrees. And, when we consider the in-
finite power and wisdom of the Maker, we have
reason to think that it is suitable to the magnificent
harmony of the universe, and the great design and
infinite goodness of the architect, that the species of
creatures should also by gentle degrees ascend up-
ward from us toward his infinite perfection, as we see
they gradually descend from us downward: which,
if it be probable, we have reason then to be persuaded
that there are far more species of creatures above us
than there are beneath; we being in degrees of per-
fection much more remote from the infinite being of
God, than we are from the lowest state of being, and
that which approaches nearest to nothing. And yet
of all those distinct species we have no clear distinct
ideas.’

In this system of being, there is no creature so
wonderful in its nature, and which so much deserves
our particular attention, as man, who fills up the mid-
dle space between the animal and intellectual nature,
the visible and invisible world, and is that link in the
chain of beings which has been often termed the nexus
utriusqgue mundi. So that he, who in one respect,
being associated with angels and archangels, may
look upon a Being ‘ of infinite perfection’ as his father,
and the highest order of spirits as his brethren, may
in another respect say to corruption, ‘Thou art my
father; and to the worm, Thou art my mother and
my sister.’

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ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

158. PRECEDENCE AMONG AUTHORS.

Upon the hearing of several late disputes concerning
rank and precedence, I could not forbear amusing
myself with some observations, which I have made
upon the learned world, as to this great particular.
By the learned world, I here mean at large all those
who are any way concerned in works of literature,
whether in the writing, printing, or repeating part.
To begin with the writers. Ihave observed that the
author of a folio, in all companies and conversations,
sets himself above the author of a quarto; the author
of a quarto, above the author of an octavo; and so
on, by a gradual descent and subordination, to an
author in twenty-fours. This distinction is so well
observed, that, in an assembly of the learned, I have
seen a folio writer place himself in an elbow chair,
when the author of a duodecimo has, out of a just
deference to his superior quality, seated himself upon
a squab. In a word, authors are usually ranged in
company after the same manner as their works are
upon a shelf.

The most minute pocket author hath beneath him
the writers of all pamphlets, or works that are only
stitched. As for the pamphleteer, he takes place of
none but of the authors of single sheets, and of that
fraternity who publish their labours on certain days,
or on every day of the week. I do not find that the
precedency among the individuals in this latter class
of writers is yet settled.

For my own part, I have had so strict a regard to
the ceremonial which prevails in the learned world,
that I never presumed to take place of a pamphleteer,
until my daily papers were gathered into those two
first volumes which have already appeared*. After
which, I naturally jumped over the heads not only of
all pamphleteers, but of every octavo writer in Great
* The two first volumes of the Spectator were now published.PRECEDENCE AMONG AUTHORS. 20a

Britain that had written but one book. I am also
informed by my bookseller, that six octavos have at
all times been looked upon as an equivalent to a folio ;
which I take notice of the rather, because I would not
have the learned world surprised, if, after the publi-
cation of half a dozen volumes, I take my place ac-
cordingly. When my scattered forces are thus rallied,
and reduced into regular bodies, I flatter myself that I
shall make no despicable figure at the head of them.

Whether these rules, which have been received
time out of mind in the commonwealth of letters,
were not originally established with an eye to our
paper manufacture, I shall leave to the discussion of
others; and shall only remark farther in this place,
that all printers and booksellers take the wall of one
another according to the above mentioned merits of
the authors to whom they respectively belong.

I come now to that point of precedency which is
settled among the three learned professions by the
wisdom of our laws. I need not here take notice of
the rank which is allotted to every doctor in each of
these professions, who are all of them, though not so
high as knights, yet a degree above squires; this last
order of men, being the illiterate body of the nation,
are consequently thrown together into a class below
the three learned professions*. I mention this for
the sake of several rural squires, whose reading does
not rise so high as to The present State of England,
and who are often apt to usurp that precedency which
by the laws of their country is not dueto them. Their
want of learning, which has planted them in this
station, may in some measure extenuate their misde-
meanour; and our professors ought to pardon them
when they offend in this particular, considering that

* In some universities, that of Dublin in particular, they have
doctors of music, who take rank after the doctors of the three
learned professions, and above esquires.

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252 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

they are in a state of ignorance, or, as we usually say,
do not know their right hand from their left.

There is another tribe of persons who are retainers
to the learned world, and who regulate themselves
upon all occasions by several laws peculiar to their
body ; 1 mean, the players or actors of both sexes.
Among these it is a standing and uncontroverted
principle, that a tragedian always takes place of a
comedian ; and it is very well known the merry drolls
who make us laugh are always placed at the lower
end of the table, and in every entertainment give way
to the dignity of the buskin. It is a stage maxim,
‘Once a king, and always a king.’ For this reason
it would be thought very absurd in Mr. Bullock,
notwithstanding the height and gracefulness of his
person, to sit at the right hand of a hero, though he
were but five feet high. The same distinction is ob-
served among the ladies of the theatre. Queens and
heroines preserve their rank in private conversation,
while those who are waiting women and maids of
honour upon the stage keep their distance also behind
the scenes.

I shall only add that, by a parity of reason, all
writers of tragedy look upon it as their due to be
seated, served, or saluted before comic writers ; those
who deal in tragi-comedy usually taking their seats
between the authors of either side. There has been
a long dispute for precedency between the tragic and
heroic poets. Aristotle would have the latter yield the

pas to the former; but Mr. Dryden and many others

would never submit to this decision. Burlesque wri-
ters pay the same deference to the heroic, as comic
writers to their serious brothers in the drama.

By this short table of laws order is kept up, and dis-
tinction preserved, in the whole republic of letters.159. MARRIAGE OF WILL HONEYCOMB.

Ir is very usual for those who have been severe upon
marriage, in some part or other of their lives, to enter
into the fraternity which they have ridiculed, and to
see their raillery return upon their own heads. I
scarce ever knew a woman-hater that did not, sooner
or later, pay for it. Marriage, which is a blessing to
another man, falls upon such a one as a judgment.
Mr. Congreve’s Old Bachelor is set forth to us with
much wit and humour, as an example of this kind.
In short, those who have most distinguished them-
selves by railing at the sex in general, very often make
an honourable amends, by choosing one of the most
worthless persons of it for a companion and yoke-
fellow. Hymen takes his revenge in kind on those
who turn his mysteries into ridicule.

My friend Will Honeycomb, who was so unmer-
cifully witty upon the women in a couple of letters
which I lately communicated to the public, has given
the ladies ample satisfaction by marrying a farmer’s
daughter; a piece of news which came to our club
by the last post. The Templar is very positive that
he has married a dairymaid: but Will, in his letter
to me on this occasion, sets the best face upon the
matter that he can, and gives a more tolerable account
of his spouse. I must confess I suspected something
more than ordinary, when upon opening the letter I
found that Will was fallen off from his former gaiety,
having changed ‘ Dear Spec,’ which was his usual
salute at the beginning of the letter, into ‘ My worthy
Friend,’ and described himself in the latter end at
full length William Honeycomb. In short, the gay,
the loud, the vain Will Honeycomb, who had made
love to every great fortune that has appeared in town
for above thirty years together, and boasted of favours
from ladies whom he had never seen, is at length
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254

His letter gives us the picture of a converted rake.
The sober character of the husband is dashed with
the man of the town, and enlivened with those little
cant phrases, which have made my friend Will often

thought very pretty company. But let us hear what
he says for himself.

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

“MY WORTHY FRIEND,
* I QUESTION not but you, and the rest of my acquaint-
ance, wonder that I, who have lived in the smoke and
gallantries of the town for thirty years together, should
all on a sudden grow fond of a country life. Had not
my dog of a steward ran away as he did without making
up his accounts, I had still been immersed in sin and
seacoal. But since my late forced visit to my estate,
I am so pleased with it, that I am resolved to live and
die upon it. I am every day abroad among my acres,
and can scarce forbear filling my letter with breezes,
shades, flowers, meadows, and purling streams. The
simplicity of manners, which I have heard you so
often speak of, and which appears here in perfection,
charms me wonderfully. As an instance of it, I must
acquaint you, and by your means the whole club, that
I have lately married one of my tenant’s daughters.
She is born of honest parents, and though she has no
portion, she has a great deal of virtue. The natural
Sweetness and innocence of her behaviour, the fresh-
ness of her complexion, the unaffected turn of her
shape and person, shot me through and through every
time I saw her, and did more execution upon me in
grogram, than the greatest beauty in town or court
had ever done in brocade. In short, she is such a
one as promises me a good heir to my estate; and if
by her means I cannot leave to my children what are
falsely called the gifts of birth, high titles, and alli-
ances, | hope to convey to them the more real and
valuable gifts of birth, strong bodies and healthy con-
Stitutions. As for your fine women, I need not tellMARRIAGE OF WILL HONEYCOMB. 255

thee that I know them. I have had my share in their
graces; but no more of that. It shall be my business
hereafter to live the life of an honest man, and to act
as becomes the master of a family. I question not
but I shall draw upon me the raillery of the town,
and be treated to the tune of “The Marriage-hater
Matched ;” but J am prepared for it. I have been
as witty upon others in my time. To tell thee truly,
I saw such a tribe of fashionable young fluttering
coxcombs shot up that I did not think my post of an
homme de ruelle any longer tenable. I felt a certain
stiffness in my limbs, which entirely destroyed the
jantiness of air I was once master of. Besides, for I
may now confess my age to thee, I have been eight-
and-forty above these twelve years. Since my retire-
ment into the country will make a vacancy in the
club, I could wish that you would fill up my place
with my friend Tom Dapperwit. He has an infinite
deal of fire, and knows the town. For my own part,
as I have said before, I shall endeavour to live here-
after suitable to a man in my station, as a prudent
head of a family, a good husband, a careful father
(when it shall so happen), and as
‘ Your most sincere friend, and humble servant,
<Wiiiam HonEycoms.’

 

160. IDEA OF THE SUPREME BEING.

Srmonrpes being asked by Dionysius the tyrant what
God was, desired a day’s time to consider of it before
he made his reply. When the day was expired, he
desired two days; and afterwards, instead of return-
ing his answer, demanded still double the time to
consider of it. This great poet and philosopher, the
more he contemplated the nature of the Deity, found
that he waded but the more out of his depth; and
that he lost himself in the thought, instead of finding
an end of it.OTR ae ame

 

 

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  

256 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

If we consider the idea which wise men, by the
light of reason, have framed of the Divine Being, it
amounts to this; that he has in him all the perfection
of a spiritual nature. And, since we have no notion
of any kind of spiritual perfection but what we dis-
cover in our own souls, we join infinitude to each
kind of these perfections, and what is a faculty in a
human soul becomes an attribute in God. We exist
in place and time; the Divine being fills the immen-
sity of space with his presence, and inhabits eternity.
We are possessed of a little power and a little know-
ledge; the Divine Being is almighty and omniscient.
In short, by adding infinity to any kind of perfection
we enjoy, and by joining all these different kinds of
perfection in one being, we form our idea of the great
Sovereign of nature.

Though every one who thinks must have made this
observation, I shall produce Mr. Locke’s authority to
the same purpose, out of his Essay on Human Un-
derstanding. ‘If we examine the idea we have of
the incomprehensible Supreme Being, we shall find
that we come by it the same way; and that the com-
plex ideas we have both of God and separate spirits,
are made up of the simple ideas we receive from re-
flection: v. g. having, from what we experience in
ourselves, got the ideas of existence and duration, of
knowledge and power, of pleasure and happiness,
and of several other qualities and powers, which it is
better to have than to be without: when we would
frame an idea the most suitable we can to the Supreme
Being, we enlarge every one of these with our own
idea of infinity; and so putting them together make
our complex idea of God.’

It is not impossible that there may be many kinds
of spiritual perfection besides those which are lodged
im a human soul; but it is impossible that we should
have ideas of any kinds of perfection, except those of
which we have some small rays and short imperfectIDEA OF THE SUPREME BEING. 257

strokes in ourselves. It would be therefore very
high presumption to determine whether the Supreme
Being has not many more attributes than those which
enter into our conceptions of him. This is certain,
that, if there be any kind of spiritual perfection which
is not marked out in a human soul, it belongs in its
fulness to the divine nature.

Several eminent philosophers have imagined that
the soul, in her separate state, may have new faculties
springing up in her, which she is not capable of
exerting during her present union with the body ;
and whether these faculties may not correspond with
other attributes in the divine nature, and open to us
hereafter new matter of wonder and adoration, we
are altogether ignorant. This, as I have said before,
we ought to acquiesce in, that the Sovereign Being,
the great Author of nature, has in him all possible
perfection, as well in kind as in degree: to speak
according to our methods of conceiving, I shall only
add under this head, that when we have raised our
notion of this Infinite Being as high as it is possible
for the mind of man to go, it will fall infinitely short
of what he really is. ‘There is no end of his great-

ess.’ The mostexalted creature he has made is only
capable of adoring it, none but himself can compre-
hend it.

The advice of the son of Sirach is very just and
sublime in this tight. ‘ By his word all things consist.
We may speak much, and yet come short : wherefore
in sum he is all. How shall we be able to magnify
him? for he is great above all his works. The Lord
is terrible and very great; and marvellous in his
power. When you glorify the Lord, exalt him as
much as you can; for even yet will he far exceed.
And when you exalt him, put forth all your strength,
and be not weary; for you can never go far enough.
Who hath seen him, that he might tell us? And whoa RN IN,

 

 

 

 

 

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258 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

can magnify him ashe is? There are yet hid greater
things than these be, for we have seen but a few of
his works.’

[ have here only considered the Supreme Being by
the light of reason and philosophy. If we would see
him in all the wonders of his mercy, we must have
recourse to revelation, which represents him to us not
only as infinitely great and glorious, but as infinitely
good and just in his dispensations towards men. But
as this is a theory which falls under every one’s con-
sideration, though indeed it can never be sufficiently
considered, I shall here only take notice of that habi-
tual worship and veneration which we ought to pay to
this Almighty Being. We should often refresh our
minds with the thoughts of him, and annihilate our-
selves before him, in the contemplation of our own
worthlessness, and of his transcendent excellency and
perfection. This would imprint in our minds such a
constant and uninterrupted awe and veneration as
that which I am here recommending, and which is in
reality a kind of incessant prayer, and reasonable hu-
miliation of the soul before him who made it.

This would effectually kill in us all the little seeds
of pride, vanity, and self-conceit, which are apt to
shoot up in the minds of such whose thoughts turn
more on those comparative advantages which they
enjoy over some of their fellow creatures, than on that
infinite distance which is placed between them and the
supreme model of all perfection. It would likewise
quicken our desires and endeavours of uniting ourselves
to him by all the acts of religion and virtue.

Such an habitual homage to the Supreme Being
would, in a particular manner, banish from among us
that prevailing impiety of using his name on the most
trivial occasions.

I find the following passage in an excellent sermon,
preached at the funeral of a gentleman who was anIDEA OF THE SUPREME BEING. 259

honour to his country, and a more diligent as well as
successful inquirer into the works of nature than any
other our nation has ever produced. ‘ He had the
profoundest veneration for the great God of heaven
and earth that I have ever observed in any person.
The very name of God was never mentioned by him
without a pause and a visible stop in his discourse ; in
which, one that knew him particularly above twenty
years has told me, that he was so exact that he does
not remember to have observed him once to fail in it.
Every one knows the veneration which was paid
by the Jews to a name so great, wonderful, and holy.
They would not let it enter even into their religious
discourses. What can we then think of those who
make use of so tremendous a name in the ordinary
expressions of their anger, mirth, and most imperti-
nent passions? of those who admit it into the most
familiar questions and assertions, ludicrous phrases,
and works of humour? not to mention those who vio-
late it by solemn perjuries! It would be an affront to
reason to endeavour to set forth the horror and pro-
faneness of such a practice. The very mention of it
exposes it sufficiently to those in whom the light of na-
ture, not to say religion, is not utterly extinguished.

161. VANITY OF EXPECTATIONS.

My four hundred and seventy-first speculation *
turned upon the subject of hope in general. I design
this paper as a speculation upén that vain and foolish
hope, which is misemployed on temporal objects, and
produces many sorrows and calamities in human life.

It is a precept several times inculcated by Horace,
that we should not entertain a hope of any thing in
life, which lies ata great distance from us. The short-
ness and uncertainty of our time here makes such a

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260 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

kind ef hope unreasonable and absurd. The grave
lies unseen between us and the object which we reach
after. Where one maniives to enjoy the good he has
in view, ten thousand are cut off in the pursuit of it.
It happens likewise unluckily, that one hope no
sooner dies in us but another rises up in its stead. We
are apt to fancy that we shall be happy and satisfied if
we possess ourselves of such and such particular en-
joyments; but either by reason of their emptiness, or
the natural inquietude of the mind, we have no sooner
gained one point, but we extend our hopes to another.
We still find new inviting scenes and landscapes lying
behind those which at a distance terminated our view.

The natural consequences of such reflections are

these: that we should take care not to let our hopes
run into too great a length; that we should sufficiently
weigh the objects of our hope, whether they be such
as we may reasonably expect from them what we pro-
pose in their fruition, and whether they are such as
we are pretty sure of attaining, in case our life extend
itself so far. If we hope for things which are at too
great a distance from us, it is possible that we may
be intercepted by death in-our progress towards them.
Ifwe hope for things which we have not thoroughly
considered the value of, our disappointment will be
greater ‘than our pleasure in the fruition of them. If
we hope for what we are not likely to possess, we act
and think in vain, and make life a greater dream and
shadow than it really is.

Many of the miseriés and misfortunes of life pro-
ceed from our want of consideration, in one or all of
these particulars. They are the rocks on which the
sanguine tribe of lovers daily split, and on which the
bankrupt, the politician, the alchymist, and projector,
are cast away in every age. Men of warm imagina-
tions and towering thoughts are apt to overlook the
goods of fortune which are near them, for somethingSTORY OF ALNASCHAR. 261

that glitters in the sight at a distance ; to neglect solid
and substantial happiness, for what is showy and su-
perficial; and to contemn that good which lies within
their reach, for that which they are not capable of
attaining. Hope calculates its schemes for a long and
durable life; presses forward to imaginary points of
bliss; grasps at impossibilities; and consequently
very often ensnares men into beggary, ruin, and dis-
honour.

What I have here said may serve as a moral to an
Arabian fable, which I find translated into French by
Monsieur Galland. The fable has in it such a wild
but natural simplicity, that I question not but my
reader will be as much pleased with it asI have been,
and that he will consider himself, if he reflects on the
several amusements of hope which have sometimes
passed in his mind, as a near relation to the Persian
glassman.

Alnaschar, says the fable, was a very idle fellow,
that never would set his hand to any business during
his father’s life. When his father died, he left him to
the value of a hundred drachmas in Persian money.
Alnaschar, in order to make the best of it, laid it out
in glasses, bottles, and the finest earthenware. These
he piled up in a large open basket, and, having made
choice of a very little shop, placed the basket at his
feet, and leaned his back upon the wall, in expecta-
tion of customers. As he sat in this posture, with his
eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing
train of thought, and was overheard by one of his
neighbours, as he talked to himself in the following
manner: ‘This basket,’ says he, ‘ cost me at the
wholesale merchant’s a hundred drachmas, which is
all I have in the world. I shall quickly make two
hundred of it, by selling it in retail. These two hun-
dred drachmas will in a very little while rise-to four
hundred, which of course will amount in time to foureT

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262 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

thousand. Four thousand drachmas cannot fail of
making eight thousand. As soon as by these means
I am master of ten thousand, I will lay aside my
trade of a glassman, and turn jeweller. I shall then
deal in diamonds, pearls, and all sorts of rich stones.
When I have got together as much wealth as I can
well desire, | will make a purchase of the finest house
I can find, with lands, slaves, eunuchs, and horses. I
shall then begin to enjoy myself, and make a noise in
the world. I will not however stop there, but still
continue my traffic, till I have got together a hundred
thousand drachmas. When I have thus made myself
master of a hundred thousand drachmas, I shall natu-
rally set myself on the foot of a prince, and will de-
mand the grand visier’s daughter in marriage, after
having represented to that minister the information
which I have received of the beauty, wit, discretion,
and other high qualities which his daughter possesses.
I will let him know at the same time, that it is my
intention fo make him a present of a thousand pieces
of gold on our marriage night. As soon as I have
married the grand visier’s daughter, I will buy her
ten black eunuchs, the youngest and the best that can
be got for money. I must-afterwards make my father-
in-law a visit, with a great train and equipage. And
when I am placed at his right hand, which he will do
of course, if it be only to honour his daughter, I will
give him the thousand pieces of gold which I pro-
mised him; and afterwards, to his great surrrise, will
present him with another purse of the same value,
with some short speech : as, ‘‘ Sir, you see [ama man
of my word; I always give more than I promise.”
‘When I have brought the princess to my house,
I shall take particular care to breed her in a due
respect for me, before I give the reins to love and
dalliance. To this end I shall confine her to her own
apartment, make her a short visit, and talk but littleSTORY OF ALNASCHAR. 263

to her. Her women will represent to me, that she is
inconsolable by reason of my unkindness, and beg me
with tears to caress her, and let her sit down by me ;
but I shall still remain inexorable, and will turn my
back upon her all the first night. Her mother will
then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am
seated upon my sofa. The daughter, with tears in her
eyes, will fling herself at my feet, and beg of me to
receive her into my favour. Then will I, to imprint
in her a thorough veneration for my person, draw up
my legs and spurn her from me with my foot, in such
a manner, that she shall fall down several paces from
the sofa.’

Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chi-
merical vision, and could not forbear acting with his
foot what he had done in his thoughts: so that un-
luckily striking his basket of brittle ware, which was
the foundation of all his grandeur, he kicked his
glasses to a great distance from him into the street,
and broke them into ten thousand pieces.

162. EXTRAVAGANCE OF STORY TELLING.

SURPRISE is so much the life of stories, that every
one aims at it who endeavours to please by telling
them. Smooth delivery, an elegant choice of words
and a sweet arrangement, are all beautifying graces,
but not the particulars in this point of conversation
which either long command the attention, or strike
with the violence of a sudden passion, or occasion the
burst of laughter which accompanies humour. I have
sometimes fancied that the mind is in this case like
a traveller who sees a fine seat in haste; he acknow-
ledges the delightfulness of a walk set with regularity,
but would be uneasy if he were obliged to pace it
over, when the first view had let him into all its beau-
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264 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

However, a knowledge of the success which stories
will have when they are attended with a turn of sur-
prise, as it has happily made the characters of some,
so has it also been the ruin of the characters of others.
There is a set of men who outrage truth, instead of
affecting us with a manner in telling it; who over-
leap the line of probability, that they may be seen to
move out of the common road; and endeavour only
to make their hearers stare by imposing upon them
with a kind of nonsense against the philosophy of
nature, or such a heap of wonders told upon. their
own knowledge, as it is not likely one man should
have ever met with.

IT have been led to this observation by a company
into which I fell accidentally. The-subject of anti-
pathies was a proper field wherein such false surprises
might expatiate, and there were those present who
appeared very fond to.show it in its full extent of tra-
ditional history. Some of them, in a learned manner,
offered to our consideration the miraculous powers
which the eflluviums of cheese have over bodies whose
pores are disposed to receive them in a noxious man-
ner; others.gave an account of such who could indeed
bear the sight of cheese, but not the taste; for which
they brought a reason from the milk of their nurses.
Others again discoursed, without endeavouring at
reasons, concerning an unconquerable aversion which
some stomachs have against a joint.of meat when it
is whole, and the eager inclination they have for it
when by its being cut up the shape which had affected
them is altered. From hence they passed to eels, then
to parsnips, and so from one aversion to another, till
we had worked up ourselves to such a pitch of com-
plaisance, that when the dinner was to come in we
inquired the name of every dish, and hoped it would
be. no offence to any in company before it was ad-
mitted. When we had sat down, this civility amongstEXTRAVAGANCE OF STORY TELLING. 265

us turned the discourse from eatables to other sorts of
aversions ; and the eternal cat, which plagues every
conversation of this nature, began then to engross the
subject. One had sweated at the sight of it, another
had smelled it out as it lay concealed in a very distant
cupboard ; and he who crowned the whole set of these
Stories reckoned up the number of times in which it
had occasioned him to swoon away. ‘ At last,’ says
he, ‘ that you may all be satisfied of my invincible
aversion to a cat, I shall give an unanswerable in-
stance, As I was going through a street of London,
where I never had been until then, I felt a general
damp and faintness all over me, which I could not
tell how to account for, until I chanced to cast my
eyes upwards, and found that I was passing under a
signpost on which the picture of a cat was hung.’

The extravagance of this turn in the way of surprise
gave a stop to the talk we had been carrying on. Some
were silent because they doubted, and others because
they were conquered in their own way; so that the
gentleman had opportunity to press the belief of it
upon us, and let us see that he was rather exposing
himself than ridiculing others.

I must freely own that I did not all this while dis-
believe every thing that was said; but yet I thought
some in the company had been endeavouring who
should pitch the bar farthest; that it had for some
time been a measuring cast, and at last my friend of
the cat and signpost had thrown beyond them all.

I then considered the manner in which this story
had been received, and the possibility that it might
have passed for a jest upon others, if he had not
laboured against himself. From hence, thought J,
there are two ways which the well bred world gene-
rally takes to correct such a practice, when they do
not think fit to contradict it flatly.

The first of these is a general silence, which I
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266 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

would not advise any one to interpret in his own
behalf. It is often the effect of prudence in avoiding
a quarrel, when they see another drive so fast that
there is no stopping him without being run against ;
and but very seldom the effect of weakness in believ-
ing suddenly. The generality of mankind are not so
grossly ignorant, as some overbearing spirits would
persuade themselves; and if the authority of a cha-
racter or a caution against danger make us suppress
our opinions, yet neither of these are of force enough
to suppress our thoughts of them. Ifa man who has
endeavoured to amuse his company with improbabi-
lities could but look into their minds, he would find
that they imagine he lightly esteems of their sense
when he thinks to impose upon them, and that he is
less esteemed by them for his attempt in doing so.
His endeavour to glory at their expense becomes a
ground of quarrel, and the scorn and indifference with
which they entertain it begins the immediate punish-
ment: and indeed (if we should even go no farther)
silence, or a negligent indifference, has a deeper way
of wounding than opposition, because opposition
proceeds from an anger that has a sort of generous
sentiment for the adversary mingling along with it,
while it shows that there is some esteem in your mind
for him; in short, that you think him worth while to
contest with. But silence, or a negligent indifference,
proceeds from anger, mixed with a scorn that shows
another he is thought by you too contemptible to be
regarded.

The other method which the world has taken for
correcting this practice of false surprise is to overshoot
such talkers in their own bow, or to raise the story
with farther degrees of impossibility, and set up for a
voucher to them in such a manner as must let them
see they stand detected. Thus I have heard a dis-
course was once managed upon the effects of fear.
One of the company had given an account how it hadEXTRAVAGANCE OF STORY TELLING. 206

turned his friend’s hair gray in the night, while the
terrors of a shipwreck encompassed him. Another,
taking the hint from hence, began upon his own
knowledge to enlarge his instances of the like nature
to such a number, that it was not probable he could
ever have met with them: and as he still grounded
these upon different causes for the sake of variety, it
might seem at last, from his share of the conversation,
almost impossible that any one who can feel the pas-
sion of fear should all his life escape so common an
effect of it. By this time some of the company grew
negligent, or desirous to contradict him; but one
rebuked the rest with an appearance of severity, and,
with the known old story in his head, assured them
he did not scruple to believe that the fear of any thing
can make a man’s hair gray, since he knew one whose
periwig had suffered so by it. Thus he stopped the
talk, and made them easy. Thus is the same method
taken to bring us to shame, which we fondly take to
increase our character. It is indeed akind of mimicry,
by which another puts on our air of conversation to
show us to ourselves. . He seems to look ridiculous
before you, that you may remember how near a re-
semblance you bear to him, or that you may know
that he will not lie under the imputation of believing
you. Then it is that you are struck dumb immediately
with a conscientious shame for what you have been
saying. Then it is that you are inwardly grieved at
the sentiments which you cannot but perceive others
entertain concerning you. In short, you are against
yourself; the laugh of the company runs against you ;
the censuring world is obliged to you for that triumph
which you have allowed them at your own expense ;
and truth, which you have injured, has a near way of
being revenged on you, when by the bare repetition
of your story you become a frequent diversion for the
public.Tan NN a a

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

268 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

163. CRITICISMS ON THE SPECTATOR.

Wuen I have been present in assemblies where my
paper has been talked of, I have been very well pleased
to hear those who would detract from the author of it
observe, that the letters which are sent to the Spec-
tator are as good, if not better, than any of his works.
Upon this occasion many letters of mirth are usually
mentioned, which some think the Spectator writ to
himself, and which others commend because they
fancy he received them from his correspondents.
Such are those from the valetudinarian*; the in-
spector of the sign-posts; the master of the fan ex-
ercise ft; with that of the hooped petticoat}; that of
Nicholas Hart the annual sleeper; that from Sir
John Envil§; that upon the London Cries ; with
multitudes of the same nature. As I love nothing
more than to mortify the ill natured, that I may do
it effectually, I must acquaint them they have very
often praised me when they did not design it, and
that they have approved my writings when they thought
they had derogated from them. I have heard several
of these unhappy gentlemen proving, by undeniable
arguments, that I was not able to pen a letter which
I had written the day before. Nay, I have heard
some of them throwing out ambiguous expressions,
and giving the company reason to suspect that they
themselves did me the honour to send me such and
such a particular epistle, which happened to be talked
of with the esteem or approbation of those who were
present. These rigid critics are so afraid of allowing
me any thing which does not belong to me, that they
will not be positive whether the lion, the wild boar,

‘and the flowerpots in the playhouse did not actually

write those letters which came to me in their names.
{ must therefore inform these gentlemen, that I often
* See No. S. + No. 36. t No. 40. No. 35. § No. 109.CRITICISMS ON THE SPECTATOR. 269
choose this way of casting my thoughts into a letter,
for the following reasons. First, out of the policy of
those who try their jest upon another, before they
own it themselves. Secondly, because I would extort
a little praise from such who will never applaud any
thing whose author is known and certain. Thirdly,
because it gave me an opportunity of introducing a
great variety of characters into my work, which could
not have been done had I always written in the person
of the Spectator. Fourthly, because the dignity spec-
tatorial would have suffered had I published as from
myself those several ludicrous compositions which I
have ascribed to fictitious names and characters. And
lastly, because they often serve to bring in more na-
turally such additional reflections as have been placed
at the end of them.

There are others who have likewise done me a very
particular honour, though undesignedly. These are
such who will needs have it that I have translated or
borrowed many of my thoughts out of books which
are written in other languages. I have heard of a
person, who is more famous for his library than his
learning, that has asserted this more than once in his
private conversation. Were it true, I am sure he
could not speak it from his own knowledge; but, had
he read the books which he has collected, he would
find this accusation to be wholly groundless. Those
who are truly learned will acquit me in this point, in
which I have been so far from offending, that I have
been scrupulous, perhaps to a fault, in quoting the
authors of several passages which I might have made
my own. But, as this assertion is in reality an en-
comium on what I have published, I ought rather to
glory in it than endeavour to confute it.

Some are so very willing to alienate from me that
small reputation that might accrue to me from any
of these my speculations, that they attribute some of
the best of them to those imaginary manuscripts witha

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270 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

which I have introduced them. There are others, I
must confess, whose objections have given me a greater
concern, as they seem to reflect, under this head, rather
on my morality, than on my invention. These are
they who say an author is guilty of falsehood, when
he talks to the public of manuscripts which he never
saw, or describes scenes of action or discourse in
which he was never engaged. But these gentlemen
would do well to consider, that there is not a fable
or parable, which ever was made use of, that is not
liable to this exception ; since nothing, according to
this notion, can be related innocently which was not
once matter of fact. Besides, I think the most ordi-
nary reader may be able to discover, by my way of
writing, what I deliver in these occurrences as truth,
and what as fiction.

Since I am unawares engaged in answering the
several objections which have been made against these
my works, I must take notice that there are some who
affirm a paper of this nature should always turn upon
diverting subjects, and others who find fault with
every one of them that hath not an immediate ten-
dency to the advancement of religion or learning. I
shall leave these gentlemen to dispute it out among
themselves: since I see one half of my conduct pa-
tronised by each side. Were I serious on an improper
subject, or trifling in a serious one, I should deservedly
draw upon me the censure of my readers; or were [
conscious of any thing in my writings that is not in-
nocent at least, or that the greatest part of them were
not sincerely designed to discountenance vice and
ignorance, and support the interest of truth, wisdom,
and virtue, I should be more severe upon myself than
the public is disposed to be. In the mean while I
desire my reader to consider every particular paper
or discourse as a distinct tract by itself, and inde-
pendent of every thing that goes before or after it.

I shall end this paper with the following letter,CRITICISMS ON THE SPECTATOR. tA

which was really sent me, as some others have been
which I have published, and for which I must own
myself indebted to their respective writers.
* SIR,
‘I was this morning in a company of your well
wishers, when we read over, with great satisfaction,
Tully’s observations on action adapted to the British
theatre; though, by the way, we were very sorry to
find that you have disposed of another member of
your club. Poor Sir Roger is dead, and the worthy
clergyman dying; Captain Sentry has taken posses-
sion of a fair estate; Will Honeycomb has married a
farmer’s daughter; and the Templar withdraws him-
self into the business of his own profession. What
will all this end in? We are afraid it portends no
good to the public. Unless you very speedily fix a
day for the election of new members, we are under
apprehensions of losing the British Spectator. I hear
of a party of ladies who intend to address you on this
subject; and I question not, if you do not give us the
slip very suddenly, that you will receive addresses
from all parts of the kingdom to continue so useful a
work. Pray deliver us out of this perplexity; and,
among the multitude of your readers, you will par-
ticularly oblige
‘ Your most sincere friend and servant,
‘ PHILO-SPEC.’

164. MEDITATION ON THE HUMAN FRAME.

Tuose who were skilful in anatomy among the an-
cients concluded, from the outward and inward make
of a human body, that it was the work of a Being
transcendently wise and powerful. As the world
grew more enlightened in this art, their discoveries
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272 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

of Providence in the formation of a human body.
Galen was converted by his dissections, and could
not but own a Supreme Being upon a survey of this
his handy-work. There were, indeed, many parts of
which the old anatomists did not know the certain
use; but, as they saw that most of those which they
examined were adapted with admirable art to their
several functions, they did not question but those,
whose uses they could not determine, were contrived
with the same wisdom for respective ends and pur-
poses. Since the circulation of the blood has been
found out, and many other great discoveries have
been made by our modern anatomists, we see new
wonders in thé human frame, and discern several
important uses for those parts, which uses the ancients
Knew nothing of. In short, the body of man is such
a subject as stands the utmost test of examination.
Though it appears formed with the nicest wisdom,
upon the most superficial survey of it, it still mends
upon the search, and produces our surprise and
amazement in proportion as we pry into it. What
T have here said of a human body may be applied to
the body of every animal which has been the subject
of anatomical observations.

The body of an animal is an object adequate to our
senses. It is a particular system of Providence that
lies in a narrow compass. The eye is able to com-
mand it, and by successive inquiries can search into
all its parts. Could the body of the whole earth, or
indeed the whole universe, be thus submitted to the
examination of our senses, were it not too big and
disproportioned for our inquiries, too unwieldy for
the management of the eye and hand, there is no
question but it would appear to us as curious and
well contrived a framé as that of the human body. We
should see the same concatenation and subserviency,
the same necessity and usefulness, the same beautyMEDITATION ON THE HUMAN FRAME. VES

and harmony, in all and every of its parts, as what
we discover in the body of every single animal.

The more extended our reason is, and the more
able to grapple with immense objects, the greater still
are those discoveries which it makes of wisdom and
providence in the work of the creation. A Sir Isaac
Newton, who stands up as the miracle of the present
age, can look through a whole planetary system ;
consider it in its weight, number, and measure; and
draw from it as many demonstrations of infinite power
and wisdom, as a more confined understanding is able
to deduce from the system of a human body.

But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I
shall here consider the fabric and texture of the bodies
of animals in one particular view; which, in my opi-
nion, shows the hand of a thinking and all-wise Being
in their formation, with the evidence of a thousand
demonstrations. J think we may lay this down as
an incontested principle, that chance never acts in a
perpetual uniformity and consistence with itself. If
one should always fling the same number with ten
thousand dice, or see every throw just five times less,
or five times more in number, than the throw which
immediately preceded it, who would not imagine
there is some invisible power which directs the cast?
This is the proceeding which we find in the operations
of nature. Every kind of animal is diversified by
different magnitudes, each of which gives rise to a
different species. Let a man trace the dog or lion
kind, and he will observe how many of the works of
nature are published, if I may use the expression, in
a variety of editions. If we look into the reptile
world, or into those different kinds of animals that
fill the element of water, we meet with the same re-
petition among several species, that differ very little
from one another, but in size and bulk. You find
the same creature that is drawn at large copied out
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VTA: ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

in several proportions and ending in miniature. It
would be tedious to produce instances of this regular
conduct in Providence, as it would be superfluous to
those who are versed in the natural history of animals.
The magnificent harmony of the universe is such that
we may observe innumerable divisions running upon
the same ground. I might also extend this specula-
tion to the dead parts of nature, in which we may
find matter disposed into many similar systems, as
well in our survey of stars and planets as of stones,
vegetables, and other sublunary parts of the creation.
In a word, Providence has shown the richness of its
goodness and wisdom, not only in the production of
many original species, but in the multiplicity of de-
scents which it has made on every original species in
particular.

But to pursue this thought still farther. Every
living creature considered in itself has many very
complicated parts that are exact copies of some other
parts which it possesses, and which are complicated
in the same manner. One eye would have been
sufficient for the subsistence and preservation of an
animal; but, in order to better his condition, we see
another placed with a mathematical exactness in the
same most advantageous situation, and in every par-
ticular of the same size and texture. Is it possible
for chance to be thus delicate and uniform in her
operations? Should a million of dice turn up together
twice the same number, the wonder would be nothing
in comparison with this. But when we see this simi-
litade and resemblance in the arm, the hand, the
fingers ; when we see one half of the body entirely
correspond with the other in all those minute strokes
without which a man might have very well subsisted ;
nay, when we often see a single part repeated a hun-
dred times in the same body, notwithstanding it con-
sists of the most intricate weaving of numberless fibres,MEDITATION ON THE HUMAN FRAME. 219

and these parts differing still in magnitude as the
convenience of their particular situation requires; sure
@ man must have a strange cast of understanding, who
does not discover the finger of God in so wonderful
a work. These duplicates in those parts of the body,
without which a man might have very well subsisted,
though not so well as with them, are a plain demon-
Stration of an all-wise Contriver; as those more nu-
merous copyings which are found among the vessels
of the same body are evident demonstrations that they
could:not be the work of chance. This argument
receives additional strength, if we apply it to every
animal and insect within our knowledge, as well as
to those numberless living creatures that are objects
too minute for a human eye; and if we consider how
the several species in this whole world of life resemble
one another in very many particulars, so far as is
convenient for their respective states of existence, it
is much more probable that a hundred millions of
dice should be casually thrown a hundred millions
of times in the same number, than that the body of
any single animal should be produced by the fortuitous
concourse of matter. And that the like chance should
arise in innumerable instances, requires a degree of
credulity that is not under the direction of common
sense. We may carry this consideration yet farther,
if we reflect on the two sexes in every living species,
with their resemblance to each other, and those par-
ticular distinctions that were necessary for the keeping
up of this great world of life.

There are many more demonstrations of a Supreme
Being, and of his transcendent wisdom, power, and
goodness, in the formation of the body of a living
creature, for which I refer my reader to other writings,
particularly to the sixth book of the poem entitled
Creation, where the anatomy of the human body is
described with great perspicuity and elegance. I

   
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

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976 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

have been particular on the thought which runs
through this speculation, because I have not seen it
enlarged upon by others.

165. RELUCTANCE TO LEAVE THE WORLD.

I BELIEVE most people begin the world with a reso-
lution to withdraw from it into a serious kind of
solitude or retirement when they have made them-
selves easy in it. Our happiness is, that we find out
some excuse or other for deferring such our good
resolutions until our intended retreat is cut off by
death. But among all kinds of people there are none
who are so hard to part with the world as those who
are grown old in the heaping up of richés. Their
minds are so warped with their constant attention to
gain, that it is very difficult for them to give their
souls another bent, and convert them towards those
objects, which, though they are proper for every stage
of life, are so more especially for the last. Horace
describes an old usurer as so charmed with the plea-
sures of a country life, that in order to make a pur-
chase he called in all his money; but what was the
event of it?’ Why, in a very few days after, he put it
out again. ] am engaged in this series of thought by
a discourse which I had last week with my worthy
friend Sir Andrew Freeport, a man of so much natural
eloquence, good sense, and probity of mind, that I
always hear him with a particular pleasure. As we
were sitting together, being the sole remaining mem-
bers of our club, Sir Andrew gave me an account of
the many busy scenes of life in which he had been
engaged, and at the same time reckoned up to me
abundance of those lucky hits, which at another time
he would have called pieces of good fortune; but in
the temper of mind he was then he termed them
mercies, favours of Providence, and blessings uponRELUCTANCE TO LEAVE THE WORLD. RLF

an honest industry. ‘ Now,’ says he, ‘ you must know,
my good friend, Lam so used to consider myself as
creditor and debtor, that I often state my accounts
after the same manner with regard to heaven and my
own soul. In this case, when I look upon the debtor
side, I find such innumerable articles, that I want

arithmetic to cast them up; but when I look upon -

the creditor side, I find little more than blank paper.
Now, though I am very well satisfied that it is not in
my power to balance accounts with my Maker, I am
resolved however to turn all my future endeavours
that way. You must not therefore be surprised, my
friend, if you hear that I am betaking myself to a
more thoughtful kind of life, and if I meet you no
more in this place.’

I could not but approve so good a resolution, not-
withstanding the loss I shall suffer by it. Sir Andrew
has since explained himself to me more at large in the
following letter, which is just come to my hands.

‘ GOOD MR. SPECTATOR,

* NotwitusTaNnbING my friends at the club have al-
ways rallied me when I have talked of retiring from
business, and repeated to me one of my own sayings,
that ‘a merchant has never enough until he has got
a little more;’ I can now inform you, that there is
one in the world who thinks he has enough, and is
determined to pass the remainder of his life in the
enjoyment of what he has. You know me so well, that
I need not tell you, I mean, by the enjoyment of my
possessions, the making of them useful to the public.
As the greatest part of my estate has been hitherto of
an unsteady and volatile nature, either tossed upon
seas or fluctuating in funds, it is now fixed and settled
in substantial acres and tenements. I have removed
it from the uncertainty of stocks, winds, and waves,
and disposed of it in a considerable purchase. ‘This

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278 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
will give me great opportunity of being charitable in
my way, that is, in setting my poor neighbours to
work, and giving them a comfortable subsistence out
of their own industry. My gardens, my fish-ponds,
my arable and pasture grounds, shall be my several
hospitals, or rather workhouses, in which I propose
to maintain a great many indigent persons, who are
now starving in my neighbourhood. I have got a fine
spread of improveable lands, and in my own thoughts
am already ploughing up some of them, fencing others,
planting woods, and draining marshes. In fine, as I
have my share in the surface of this island, I am re-
solved to make it as beautiful a spot as any in her
majesty’s dominions; at least there is not an inch of
it which shall not be cultivated to the best advantage,
and do its utmost for its owner. As in my mercantile
employment I so disposed of my affairs, that, from
whatever corner of the compass the wind blew, it was
bringing home one or other of my ships, I hope as
a husbandman to contrive it so, that not a shower of
rain, or a glimpse of sunshine, shall fall upon my
estate without bettering some part of it, and contri-
buting to the products of the season. You know it
has been hitherto my opinion of life, that it is thrown
away when it is not some way useful to others. But
when I am riding out by myself, in the fresh air on
the open heath that lies by my house, I find several
other thoughts growing up in me. I am now of opi-
nion, that a man of my age may find business enough
on himself, by setting his mind in order, preparing it
for another world, and reconciling it to the thoughts
of death. I must therefore acquaint you, that besides
those usual methods of charity, of which I have before
spoken, I am at this very instant finding out a con-
venient place where I may build an alms-house,
which I intend to endow very handsomely for a dozen
superannuated husbandmen. It will be a great plea-9
sure to me to say my prayers twice a day with men
of my own years, who all of them, as well as myself,
may have their thoughts taken up how they shall die,
rather than how they shall live. JI remember an ex-
cellent saying that I learned at school, finis coronat
opus. You know best whether it be in Virgil or
in Horace; it is my business to apply it. If your
affairs will permit you to take the country air with me
sometimes, you shall find an apartment fitted up for
you, and shall be every day entertained with beef or
mutton of my own feeding, fish out of my own ponds,
and fruit out of my own gardens. . You shall have
free egress and regress about my house, without hav-
ing any questions asked you; and, ina word, such a
hearty welcome as you may expect from
‘ Your most sincere friend and humble servant,
‘ANDREW FREEPORT.’

RELUCTANCE TO: LEAVE THE WORLD. DY

Me Se % Me

166. THE DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE.

‘ THERE is nothing,” says Plato, ‘so delightful as the
hearing or the speaking of truth.’ For this reason
there is no conversation so agreeable as that of the
man of integrity, who hears without any intention to
betray, and speaks without any intention to deceive.

Among all the accounts which are given of Cato,
I do not remember one that more redounds to his ho-
nour than the following passage related by Plutarch.
As an advocate was pleading the cause of his elient
before one of the pretors, he could only produce a
single witness in a point where the law required the
testimony of two persons: upon which the advocate
insisted on the integrity of that person whom he had
produced ; but the pretor told him, that where the
law required two witnesses he would not accept of
one, though it were Cato himself. Such a speech

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280 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

from a person who sat at the head of a court of jus-
tice, while Cato was still living, shows us, more than
a thousand examples, the high reputation this great
man had gained among his contemporaries upon the
account of his sincerity.

When such an inflexible integrity is a little softened
and qualified by the rules of conversation and good-
breeding, there is not a more shining virtue in the
whole catalogue of social duties. A man however
ought to take great care not to polish himself out of
his veracity, nor to refine his behaviour to the preju-
dice of his virtue.

This subject is exquisitely treated in the most ele-
gant sermon of the great British preacher*. I shall
beg leave to transcribe out of it two or three sentences,
as a proper introduction toa very curious letter, which
I shall make the chief entertainment of this specula-
tion.

‘The old English plainness and sincerity, that ge-
nerous integrity of nature, and honesty of disposition,
which always argues true greatness of mind, and is
usually accompanied with undaunted courage and
resolution, is in a great measure lost among us.

‘ The dialect of conversation is nowadays so swelled
with vanity and compliment, and so surfeited (as I
may say) of expressions of kindness and respect, that
if a man that lived an age or two ago should return
into the world again, he would really want a dictionary
to help him to understand his own language,’and to
know the true intrinsic value of the phrase in fashion ;
and would hardly at first believe at what a low rate
the highest strains and expressions of kindness ima-
ginable do commonly pass in current payment; and
when he should come to understand it, it would be a
great while before he could bring himself with a good
countenance and a good conscience to converse with
men upon equal terms and in their own way.’

* Archbishop Tillotson.THE DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE. 281

I have by me a letter which I look upon as a great
curiosity, and which may serve as an exemplification
to the foregoing passage, cited out of this most excel-
lent prelate. It is said to have been written in King
Charles the Second’s reign by the ambassador of Ban-
tam, a little after his arrival in England.

‘ MASTER,
‘Tue people, where I now am, have tongues farther
from their hearts than from London to Bantam, and
thou knowest the inhabitants of one of these places
do not know what is done in the other. They call
thee and thy subjects barbarians, because we speak
what we mean; and account themselves a civilized
people, because they speak one thing and mean ano-
ther: truth they call barbarity, and falsehood polite-
ness. Upon my first landing, one, who was sent from
the king of this place to meet me, told me that he was
extremely sorry for the storm I had met with just be-
fore my arrival. I was troubled to hear him grieve
and afflict himself upon my account; but in less than
a quarter of an hour he smiled, and was as merry as if
nothing had happened. Another who came with him
told me by my interpreter, he should be glad to do
me any service that layin his power. Upon which I
desired him to carry one of my portmanteaus for me ;
but instead of serving me according to his promise,
he laughed, and bid another do it. I lodged the first
week at the house of one who desired me to think
myself at home, and to consider his house as my own.
Accordingly, I the next morning began to knock
down one of the walls of it, in order to let in the fresh
air, and had packed up some of the household goods,
of which I intended to have made thee a present ; but
the false varlet no sooner saw me falling to work, but he
sent word to desire me to give over, for that he would
have no such doings in his house. I had not been
long in this nation before I was told by one, for whomIY

inte cet ATI TE

 

 

282 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

I had asked a certain favour from the chief of the
king’s servants, whom they here call the lord-trea-
surer, that I had eternally obliged him. I was so
surprised at his gratitude, that I could not forbear
saying, ‘‘ What service is there which one man can
do for another, that can oblige him to all eternity ?”
However, I only asked him for my reward, that he
would lend me his eldest daughter, during my stay
in this country; but I quickly found that he was as
treacherous as the rest of his countrymen.

‘ At my first going to court, one of the great men
almost put me out of countenance, by asking ten
thousand pardons of me for only treading by accident
upon my toe. They call this kind of lie a compli-
ment; for, when they are civil to a great man, they
tell him untruths, for which thou wouldst order any
of thy officers of state to receive a hundred blows
upon his foot. I do not know how I shall negotiate
any thing with this people, since there is so little cre-
dit to be given to them. When I go to see the king’s
scribe, I am generally told that he is not at home,
though perhaps I saw him go into his house almost
the very moment before. Thou wouldst fancy that
the whole nation are physicians, for the first question
they always ask me is, how I do: I have this question
put to me above a hundred times a day. Nay, they
are not only thus inquisitive after my health, but wish
it in a more solemn manner, with a full glass in their
hands, every time I sit with them at table, though at
the same time they would persuade me to drink their
liquors in such quantities as I have found by expe-
rience will make me sick. They often pretend to
pray for thy health also in the same manner; but I
have more reason to expect it from the goodness of
thy constitution than the sincerity of their wishes.
May thy slave escape in safety from this double-
tongued race of men, and live to lay himself once
more at thy feet in thy royal city of Bantam.’283

167. THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. A DREAM.

Ir is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the
misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock,
in order to be equally distributed among the whole
species, those who now think themselves the most
unhappy would prefer the share they are already pos-
sessed of before that which would fall to them by such
a division. Horace has carried this thought a great
deal farther (Sat. i. 1. 1. ver. 1.), which implies, that
the hardships or misfortunes we lie under are more
easy to us than those of any other person would be, in
case we could change conditions with him.

As I was ruminating upon these two remarks, and
seated in my elbow chair, I insensibly fell asleep ;
when on a sudden methought there was a proclama-
tion made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring
in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together
in a heap. There was a large plain appointed for this
purpose. I took my stand in the centre of it, and
saw with a great deal of pleasure the whole human
species marching one after another, and throwing
down their several loads, which immediately grew up
into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above
the clouds.

There was a certain lady of a thin airy shape, who
was very active in this solemnity. She carried a mag-
nifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in
a loose flowing robe, embroidered with several figures
of fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves in
a thousand chimerical shapes as her garment hovered
in the wind. There was something wild and dis-
tracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led
up every mortal to the appointed place, after having
very Officiously assisted him in making up his pack,
and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted
within me to see my fellow creatures groaning underoN I re TS

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284 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
their respective burdens, and to consider that prodigi-
ous bulk of human calamities which lay before me.
There were however several persons who gave me
great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one
bringing in a fardel very carefully concealed under an
old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it
into the heap, I discovered to be Poverty. Another,
aiter a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage,
which, upon examining, I found to be his wife.
There were multitudes of lovers:saddled with very
whimsical burdens composed of darts and flames;

- but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their

hearts would break under these bundles of calamities;
they could not persuade themselves to cast them into
the heap when they came up to it; but, after a few
faint efforts, shook their heads, and marched away as
heavy loaden as they came. I saw multitudes of old
women throw down their wrinkles, and several young
ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There
were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and
rusty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see
the greatest part of the mountain made up of bodily
deformities. Observing one advancing towards the
heap with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back,
I found upon his near approach that it was only a
natural hump, which he disposed of with great joy of
heart among this collection of human miseries. There
were likewise distempers of all sorts; though I could
not but observe, that there were many more imaginary
than real. . One little packet I could not but take
notice of, which was a complication of all the dis-
eases incident to human nature, and was in the hand
of a great many fine people; this was called the
spleen. But what most of all surprised me, was a
remark I made, that there was not a single vice or
folly thrown into the whole heap; at which I was
very much astonished, having concluded within my-THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 285

self that every one would take this opportunity of get-
ting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties.

I took notice in particular of a very profligate fel-
low, who I did not question came loaden with his
crimes: but upon searching into his bundléI found
that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had
only laid down his memory. He was followed by
another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty
instead of his ignorance.

When the whole race of mankind had thus cast
their burdens, the phantom which had been so busy

on this occasion, seeing me an idle Spectator of what @

passed, approached towards me. I grew uneasy at
her presence, when of a sudden she held her magni-
fying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my
face in it, but was startled at the shortness of it, which
now appeared to me in its utmost aggravation. The
immoderate breadth of the features made me very
much out of humour with my own countenance, upon
which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened
very luckily that one who stood by me had just before
thrown down his visage, which it seems was too long
for him. It was indeed extended to a most shameful
length; I believe the very chin was, modestly speak-
ing, as long as my whole face. We had both of us an
opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the con-
tributions being now brought in, every man was at
liberty to exchange his misfortunes for those of ano-
ther person. But as there arose many new incidents
in the sequel of my vision, I shall reserve them for the
subject of my next paper.

 

168. THE SUBJECT CONCLUDED.

In my last paper I gave my reader a sight of that
mountain of miseries which was made up of those
several calamities that afflict the minds of men. I

    
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
    
 
 
   
  
 
   
 
  
   
 
 
  
 
 

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286 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

saw with unspeakable pleasure the whole species thus
delivered from its sorrows ; though at the samé time,
as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several
materials of which it was composed, there was scarce
a mortal in this vast multitude, who did not discover
what he thought pleasures and blessings of life, and
wondered how the owners of them ever came to look
upon them as burdens and grievances.

As we were regarding very attentively this confu-
sion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued
out a second proclamation, that every one was now at
liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return to his
habitation with any such other bundle as should be
delivered to him.

Upon this Fancy began again to bestir herself, and,
parcelling out the whole heap with incredible activity,
recommended to every one his particular packet.
The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be
expressed. Some observations which I made upon
the occasion I shall communicate to the public. A
venerable gray-headed man, who had laid down the
colic, and who I found wanted an heir to his estate,
snatched up an undutiful son that had been thrown
into the heap by his angry father. The graceless youth,
in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gen-
tleman by the beard, and had like to have knocked
his brains out; so that meeting the true father, who
came towards him with a fit of the gripes, he begged
him to take his son again, and give him back his colic;
but they were incapable either of them to recede from
the choice they had made. A poor galley-slave, who
had thrown down his chains, took up the gout in their
stead, but made such wry faces, that one might easily
perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It
was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that
were made, for sickness against poverty, hunger
against want of appetite, and care against pain.THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 287

The female world were very busy among them-
Selves in bartering for features: one was trucking a
lock of gray hairs for a carbuncle, another was making
over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders, and
a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation :
but on all these occasions there was not one of them
who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she
had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable
than the old one. JI madethe same observation on
every other misfortune or calamity which every one
in the assembly brought upon himself in lieu of what

he had parted with; whether it be that all the evils:

which befall us are in some measure suited and pro-
portioned to our strength, or that every evil becomes
more supportable by our being accustomed to it, I
shall not determine.

I could not from my heart forbear pitying the poor
humpbacked gentleman mentioned in the former
paper, who went off a very well shaped person with a
stone in his bladder; nor the fine gentleman who had
struck up this bargain with him, that limped through
a whole assembly of ladies, who used to admire him,
with a pair of shoulders peeping over his head.

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My
friend with a long visage had no sooner taken upon
him my short face, but he made such a grotesque
figure in it, that as I looked upon him I could not
forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my
own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman
was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was
ashamed of what he had done: on the other side, I
found that I myself had no great reason to triumph,
for as I went to touch my forehead I missed the place
and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides,
as my nose was exceeding prominent, I gave it two
or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand
about my face, and aiming at some other part of it.

    
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
   

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288 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

I saw two other gentlemen by me who were in the
same ridiculous*circumstances. These had madéa
foolish swap between a couple of thick bandy legs
and two long trapsticks that had no calves to them,
One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts,
and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary
height, that his head turned round with it; while the
other made such awkward circles, as he attempted to
walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward
upon his new supporters. Observing him to be a
pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the
ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of
wine that he did not march up to it on a line that I
drew for him in a quarter of an hour.

The heap was at last distributed among the two
sexes, who made a most piteous sight as they wan-
dered up and down under the pressure of their several
burdens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs
and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter at
length taking compassion‘on the poor mortals, ordered
them a second time to lay down their loads, with a
design to give every one his own again. They dis-
charged themselves with a great deal of pleasure:
after which, the phantom who had led them into such
gross delusions was commanded to disappear. There
was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different
figure: her motions were steady and composed, and
her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now and
then cast her eyes towards heaven, and fixed them
upon Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She had
no sooner placed herself by the mount of Sorrows,
but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap
sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third
part so big as it was before. She afterwards returned
every man his own proper calamity, and teaching him
how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he
marched off with it contentedly, being very wellTHE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 289

pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as
to the kind of evils which fell to his lot.

Beside the several pieces of morality to be drawn
Out of this vision, I learnt from it never to repine at
my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of ano-
ther, since it is impossible for any man to form a right
judgment of his neighbour’s sufferings; for which
reason also I have determined never to think too
lightly of another’s complaints, but to regard the
sorrows of my fellow creatures with sentiments of
humanity and compassion.

 

169. ON EGOTISM.

“Tr is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak of
himself,’ says Cowley; ‘ it grates his own heart to say
any thing of disparagement, and the reader’s ears to
hear any thing of praise from him.’ Let the tenour
of his discourse be what it will upon this subject, it
generally proceeds from vanity. An ostentatious man
will rather relate a blunder or an absurdity he has
committed, than be debarred from talking of his own
dear person.

Some very great writers have been guilty of this
fault. It is observed of Tully in particular, that his
works run very much in the first person, and that he
takes all occasions of doing himself justice. ‘ Does
he think,’ says Brutus, ¢ that his consulship deserves
more applause than my putting Cesar to death,
because I am not perpetually talking of the ides of
March, as he is of the nones of December?’ I need
not acquaint my learned reader, that in the ides of
March Brutus destroyed Cesar, and that Cicero
quashed the conspiracy of Catiline in the calends of
December. How shocking soever this great man’s
talking of himself might have been to his contempo-
varies, I must confess I am never better pleased than

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2990 ADDISON S ESSAYS:

when he is on this subject. Such openings of the
heart give a man a thorough insight into his personal
character, and illustrate several passages in the his-
tory of his life: besides, that there is some little plea-
sure in discovering the infirmity of a great man, and
seeing how the opinion he has of himself agrees with
what the world entertains of him.

The gentlemen of Port Royal, who were more
eminent for their learni ing and their braondlaty than any
other in France, banished the w ay of speaking in the
first person out of all their works, as arising from
vainglory and self-conceit. To show their particular
aversion to it, they branded this form of writing with .
the name of an egotism; a figure not to be found
among the ancient rhetoricians.

The most violent egotism which I have met with in
the course of my reading, is that of Cardinal Wolsey,
ego et rex meus,‘ I and my king;’ as perhaps the
most eminent egotist that ever appeared in the world

as Montaigne, the author of the celebrated Essays.
This lively old Gascon has woven all his bodily infir-
mities into his works; and, after having spoken of
the faults or virtues of any other men, immediately
publishes to the world how it stands with himself in
that particular. Had he kept his own counsel, he
might have passed for a much better man, though per-
haps he would not have been so diverting an author.
The title of an Essay promises perhaps a discourse
upon Virgil or Julius Cesar; but, when you look
into it, you are sure to meet with more upon Monsieur
Montaigne than of either of them. The younger Sca-
liger, who seems to have been no great friend to this
author, after having acquainted the world that his
father sold herrings, adds these words: La grande

fadaisse de Montaigne, qui a écrit qwil aimoit mieux le
vin blane

gue diable a ton a faire de savoir ce gu’il
aime? ‘For my part,’ says Montaigne, ‘I am a greatON EGOTISM. 204
lover of your white wines.’—‘ What the devil signi-
fies it to the public,’ says Scaliger, ‘ whether he is a
lover of white wines or of red wines?’

I cannot here forbear mentioning a tribe of egotists,
for whom I have always hada mortal aversion; I mean
the authors of memoirs, who are never mentioned in
any works but their own, and who raise all their pro-
ductions out of this single figure of speech.

Most of our modern prefaces savour very strongly
of the egotism. Every insignificant author fancies it
of importance to the world to know that he writ his
book in the country, that he did it to pass away some
of his idle hours, that it was published at the impor-
tunity of friends, or that his natural temper, studies,
or conversations, directed him to the choice of his
subject.

—* Id populus curat scilicet.’
Such informations cannot but be highly improving to
the reader.

In works of humour especially, when a man writes
under a fictitious personage, the talking of oneself
may give some diversion to the public; but I would
advise every other writer never to speak of himself,
unless there be something very considerable in his
character; though I am sensible this rule will be of
little use in the world, because there is no man who
fancies his thoughts worth publishing, that does not
look upon himself as a considerable person.

I shall close this paper with a remark upon such as
are egotists in conversation: these are generally the
vain or shallow part of mankind, people being natu-
rally full of themselves when they have nothing else
in them. There is one kind of egotists which is very
common in the world, though I do not remember that
any writer has taken notice of them; I mean those
empty conceited fellows who repeat, as sayings of
their own, or some of their particular friends, severala

 

 

 

 

  

292 ADDISON’S ESSAYS,

jests which were made before they were born, and
which every one who has conversed in the world has
heard a hundred times over. A forward young fellow
of my acquaintance was very guilty of this absurdity :
he would be always laying a new scene for some old
piece of wit, and telling us that, as he and Jack Such-
@-one were together, one or t’other of them had such
a conceit on such an occasion; upon which he would
laugh very heartily, and wonder the company did not
join with him. When his mirth was over, I have often
reprehended him out of Terence, Twwmne, obsecro te,
hoc dictum erat? vetus credidi. But finding him still
incorrigible, and having a kindness for the young
coxcomb, who was otherwise a good-natured fellow,
I recommended to his perusal the Oxford and Cam-.
bridge jests, with several little pieces of pleasantry of
the same nature. Upon the reading of them he was
under no small confusion to find that all his jokes had
passed through several editions, and that what he
thought was a new conceit, and had appropriated to
his own use, had appeared in print before he or his
ingenious friends were ever heard of. This had so
good an effect upon him, that he is content at present
to pass for a man of plain sense in his ordinary con-
versation, and is never facetious but when he knows
his company.

 

170. THE IMMENSITY OF THE SUPREME BEING.

I was yesterday about sunset walking in the open
helds, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at
first amused myself with all the richness and variety
of colours which appeared in the western parts of
heaven ; in proportion as they faded away and went
out, several stars and planets appeared one after ano-
ther, until the whole firmament was in a glow. The
blueness of the ether was exceedingly heightened andIMMENSITY OF THE SUPREME BEING. 20%

enlivened by the season of the year, and by the rays
of all those luminaries that passed through it. The
galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To com-
plete the scene, the full moon rose at length in that
clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of, and
opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was
more finely shaded and disposed among softer lights,
than that which the sun had before discovered to us.

As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright-
ness, and taking her progress among the constellations,
a thought rose in me which I believe very often per-
plexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative
natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection,
‘ When I consider the heavens the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained ;
what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the
son of man that thou regardest him!’ In the same
manner, when [ considered that infinite host of stars,
or, to speak more philosophically, of suns which were
then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets
of planets or worlds which were moving round their
respective suns; when I still enlarged the idea, and
supposed another heaven of suns and worlds rising
still above this which we discovered, and these still
enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries,
which are planted at so great a distance, that they
may appear to the inhabitants of the former as the
stars do to us: in short, whilst I pursued this thought,
I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure
which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God’s
works.

Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the
creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that
move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated,
they would not be missed more than a grain of sand
upon the seashore. The space they possess is so ex-
ceedingly little in comparison of the whole, that it

   
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 

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294 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

would scarce make a blank in the creation. The
chasm would be imperceptible to an eye that could
take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from
one end of the creation to the other; as it is possible
there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or
in creatures which are at present more exalted than
ourselves. We see many stars by the help of glasses,
which we do not discover with our naked eyes; and
the finer our telescopes are the more still are our dis-
coveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, that
he does not think it impossible there may be stars
whose light is not yet travelled down to us, since their
first creation. There is no question but the universe
has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider
that it is the work of infinite power, prompted by in-
finite goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself
in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it?

To return therefore to my first thought. I could
not but look upon myself with secret horror, as a
being that was not worth the smallest regard of one
who had so great a work under his care and superin-
tendency. I was afraid of bemg overlooked amidst
the immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite
variety of creatures, which in all probability swarm
through all these immeasurable regions of matter.

In order to recover myself from this mortifying
thought, I considered that it. took its rise from those
narrow conceptions which we are apt to entertain of
the divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to
many different objects at the same time. If we are
careful to inspect some things, we must of course
neglect others. This imperfection, which we observe
in ourselves, is an imperfection that cleaves in some
degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they
are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited
natures. The presence of every created being is con-
fined to a certain measure of space, and consequentlyIMMENSITY OF THE SUPREME BEING. 295

his observation is stinted to a certain number of ob-
jects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and
understand, is ofa wider circumference to one creature
than another, according as we rise one above another
im the scale of existence. But the widest of these our
spheres has its circumference. When therefore we
reflect on the divine nature, we are so used and ac-
customed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we
cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to Him
in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our
reason indeed assures us that his attributes are infinite,
but the poorness. of our conceptions is such that it
cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it con-
templates, till our reason comes again to our succour,
and throws down all those little prejudices which rise
in us unawares, and are natural to the mind of man.

We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melan-
choly thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker
in the multiplicity of his works, and the infinity of
those objects among which he seems to be incessantly
employed, if we consider, in the first place, that he
is Omnipresent; and, in the second, that he is om-
niscient.

if we consider him in his omnipresence: his being
passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame
of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full
of him. There is nothing he has made that is either
so distant, so little, or so mconsiderable, which he
does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within
the substance of every thing whether material or im-
material, and as intimately present to it as that being
is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were
he able to remove out of one place into another, or
to withdraw himself from any thing he has created,
or from any part of that space which is diffused and
spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him
in the language of the old philosopher, he is a Being

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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296

whose centre is every where, and his circumference
no where.

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as
omnipresent. His omniscience indeed necessarily
and naturally flows from his omnipresence; he cannot
but be conscious of every motion that arises in the
whole material world, which he thus essentially per-
vades, and of every thought that is stirring in the
intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus
intimately united. Several moralists have considered
the creation as the temple of God, which he has built
with his own hands, and which is filled with his pre-
sence. Others have considered infinite space as the
receptacle, or rather the habitation, of the Almighty ;
but the noblest and most exalted way of considering
this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who
calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes and
men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by
which they apprehend the presence and perceive the
actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them.
Their knowledge and observation turn within a very
narrow circle. But as God Almighty cannot but
perceive and know every thing in which he resides,
infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and
IS, aS 1t were, an organ to omniscience.

Were the soul separate from the body, and with
one glance of thought should start beyond the bounds
of the creation, should it for millions of years continue
its progress through infinite space with the same ac-
tivity, it would still find itself within the embrace of
its Creator, and encompassed round with the im-
mensity of the Godhead. Whilst we are in the body,
he is not less present with us because he is concealed
from us. ‘O that I knew where I might find him!’
says Job. ‘ Behold I go forward, but he is not there ;
and backward, but I cannot perceive him: on the
left hand, where he does work, but I cannot behold

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.IMMENSITY OF THE SUPREME BEING. 2907

him: he hideth himself on the right hand that I can-
not see him*.’ In short, reason as well as revelation
assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwith-
standing he is undiscovered by us.

Tn this consideration of God Almighty’s omnipre-
sence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought
vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has
being, especially such of his creatures who fear they
are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their
thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular
which is apt to trouble them on this occasion: for, as
it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures,
so we may be confident that he regards, with an eye
of mercy, those who endeavour to recommend them-
selves to. his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of
heart think themselves unworthy that he should be
mindful of them.

171. AFFECTATION OF SECRECY IN WRITERS,

I Ave received private advice from some of my cor-
respondents, that if I would give my paper a general]
run, I should take care to season it with scandal. I
have indeed observed of late that few writings sell
which are not filled with great names and illustrious
titles. The reader generally casts his eye upon a new
book, and, if he finds several letters separated from
one another by a dash, he buys it up and peruses it
with great satisfaction. An MM and an h,a T'and
an 7, with a short line between them, has sold many
an insipid pamphlet. Nay, I have known a whole
edition go off by virtue of two or three well written
&c 5.

A sprinkling of the words ‘ faction, Frenchman,
papist, plunderer,’ and the like significant terms, in
an Italic character, have also a very good effect upon

* Job, xxiii. 8, &c.

 

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298 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

the eye of the purchaser; not to mention ‘ scribbler,
liar, rogue, rascal, knave, and villain,’ without which
it is impossible to carry on a modern controversy.

Our party-writers are so sensible of the secret virtue
of an inuendo to recommend their productions, that
of late they never mention the Q nor P t at
length, though they speak of them with honour, and
with that deference which is due to them from every
private person. It gives a secret satisfaction to a
peruser of these mysterious works, that he is able to
decipher them without help, and, by the strength of
his own natural parts, to fill up a blank space, or make
out a word that has only the first or last letter to it.

Some of our authors indeed, when they would be
more satirical than ordinary, omit only the vowels of
a great man’s name, and fall most unmercifully upon
all the consonants. This way of writing was first of
all introduced by T-m Br-wn of facetious memory,
who, after having gutted a proper name of all its in-
termediate vowels, used to plant it in his works, and
make as free with it as he pleased, without any danger
of the statute.

That I may imitate these celebrated authors, and
publish a paper which shall be more taking than or-
dinary, I have here drawn up a very curious libel, in
which a reader of penetration will find a great deal
of concealed satire, and, if he be acquainted with the
present posture of affairs, will easily discover the
meaning of it.

‘If there are four persons in the nation who en-
deavour to bring all things into confusion, and ruin
their native country, I think every honest Engl-shm-n
ought to be upon his guard. That there are such
every one will agree with me, who hears me name
*** with his first friend and favourite *** not to
mention *** nor ***, These people may cry ch-rch,
ch-rch, as long as they please; but, to make use of a
homely proverb, “ The proof of the p-dd-ng is in theAFFECTATION OF SECRECY IN WRITERS. 299

eating.” This I am sure of, that if a certain prince

should concur with a certain prelate (and we have
Monsieur Z n’s word for it), our posterity would
be in a sweet p-ckle. Must the British nation suffer,
forsooth, because my lady Q-p-t-s has been dis-
obliged? Or is it reasonable that our English fleet,
which used to be the terror of the ocean, should lie
windbound for the sake of a ? I love to speak
out, and declare my mind clearly, when I am talking
for the good of my country. I will not make my court
to an ill man, though he were a B yoraT t.
Nay, I would not stick to call so wretched a politician
a traitor, an enemy to his country, and a Bl-nd-rb-ss,
Sei Gel

The remaining part of this political treatise, which
is written after the manner of the most celebrated
authors in Great Britain, I may communicate to the
public at a more convenient season. In the mean
while I shall leave this with my curious reader, as
some ingenious writers do their enigmas; and, if any
' Sagacious person can fairly unriddle it, I will print
his explanation, and, if he pleases, acquaint the world
with his name.

I hope this short essay will convince my readers it
is not for want of abilities that I avoid state tracts,
and that, if I would apply my mind to it, I might
in a little time be as great a master of the political
scratch as any the most eminent writer of the age. I
shall only add, that in order to outshine all this modern
race of syncopists, and thoroughly content my English
readers, I intend shortly to publish a Spectator that
shall not have a single vowel in it.

 

 

 

 

172. COFFEE-HOUSE CONVERSATION.

{ was yesterday in a coffee-house not far from the
Royal Exchange, where I observed three persons in
close conference over a pipe of tobacco; upon which,

   
  
   
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
    

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300 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

having filled one for my own use, I lighted it at the
little wax candle that stood before them ; and, after
having thrown in two or three whiffs amongst them,
sat down and made one of the company. I need not
tell my reader, that lighting a man’s pipe at the same
candle is looked upon among brother smokers as an
overture to conversation and friendship. As we here
laid our heads together in a very amicable manner,
being entrenched under a cloud of our own raising,
I took up the last Spectator, and casting my eye over
it, ‘The Spectator,’ says I, ‘is very witty to-day ;’
upon which a lusty lethargic old gentleman, who sat
at the upper end of the table, having gradually blown
out of his mouth a great deal of smoke, which had
been collecting for some time before, ‘ Ay,’ says he,
“more witty than wise, I am afraid.’ His neighbour,
who sat at his right hand, immediately coloured, and,
being an angry politician, laid down his pipe with
so much wrath that he broke it in the middle, and
by that means furnished me with a tobacco-stopper.
I took it up very sedately, and, looking him full in
the face, made use of it from time to time all the
while he was speaking: ‘ This fellow,’ says he,
“cannot for his life keep out of politics. Do you see
how he abuses four great men here?’ I fixed my eye
very attentively on the paper, and asked him if he
meant those who were represented by asterisks.’
‘ Asterisks,’ says he, do you call them? they are all
of them stars—he might as well have put garters to
them, Then pray do but mind the two or three next
lines. Ch-rch and p-dd-ng in the same sentence! Our
clergy are very much beholden to him!’ Upon this
the third gentleman, who was of a mild disposition,
and, as I found, a whig in his heart, desired him not
to be too severe upon the Spectator neither; ‘ for,’
says he, ‘you find he is very cautious of giving
offence, and has therefore put two dashes into his
pudding.’ ‘A fig for his dash,’ says the angry poli-COFFEE-HOUSE CONVERSATION. 301

tician; ‘ in his next sentence he gives a plain inuendo
that our posterity will be in a sweet p-ckle. What
does the fool mean by his pickle?) Why does he not
write it at length, if he means honestly?’ ‘I have
read over the whole sentence,’ says I, ‘ but I look
upon the parenthesis in the belly of it to be the most
dangerous part, and as full of insinuations as it can
hold. But who,’ says I, ‘is my lady Q-p-t-s?’ ‘ Ay,
answer that if you can, sir,’ says the furious statesman
to the poor whig that sat over against him. But
without giving him time to reply, ¢ I do assure you,’
says he, ‘ were I my lady Q-p-t-s, I would sue him
for scandulum magnatum. What is the world come
to? Must every body be allowed to —! He had
by this time filled a new pipe, and applying it to his
lips, when we expected the last word of his sentence,
put us off with a whiff of tobacco: which he redoubled
vith so much rage and trepidation that he almost
stifled the whole company. After a short pause, |
owned that I thought the Spectator had gone too far
in writing so many letters of my lady Q-p-t-s’s name ;
‘but, however,’ says I, ‘he has made a little amends
for it in his next sentence, where he leaves a blank
space without so much as a consonant to direct us.
I mean,’ says I, ‘ after those words, “ the fleet that
used to be the terror of the ocean, should be wind-
bound for the sake of a ;” after which ensues a
chasm, that in my opinion looks modest enough.’
‘ Sir,’ says my antagonist, ‘ you may easily know his
meaning by his gaping; I suppose he designs his
chasm, as you call it, for a hole to creep out at, but
I believe it will hardly serve his turn. Who can
endure to see the great officers of state, the B y's
and T t’s, treated after so scurrilous a manner ?”
‘TI can’t for my life,’ says I, ‘ imagine who they are
the Spectator means.’ ‘ No!’ says he. ‘ Your humble
servant, sir!’ Upon which he flung himself back in
his chair after a contemptuous manner, and smiled

 

 

 

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302 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

upon the old lethargic gentleman on his left hand,
who I found was his great admirer. The whig how-
ever had begun to conceive a good will towards me,
and, seeing my pipe out, very generously offered me
the use of his box, but I declined it with great civility,
being obliged to meet a friend about that time in
another quarter of the city.

At my leaving the coffee-house, I could not forbear
reflecting with myself upon that gross tribe of fools
who may be termed the overwise, and upon the
difficulty of writing any thing in this censorious age,
which a weak head may not construe into private
satire and personal reflection.

A man who has a good nose at an inuendo smells
treason and sedition in the most innocent words that
can be put together, and never sees a vice or folly
stigmatized, but finds out one or other of his acquaint-
ance pointed at by the writer. I remember an empty
pragmatical fellow in the country, who, upon reading
over The Whole Duty of Man, had written the names
of several persons in the village at the side of every
sin which is mentioned by that excellent author; so
that he had converted one of the best books in the
world into a libel against the squire, churchwardens,
overseers of the poor, and all other the most consi-
derable persons in the parish. This book, with these
extraordinary marginal notes, fell accidentally into
the hands of one who had never seen it before; upon
which there arose a current report that somebody had
written a book against the squire and the whole parish.
The minister of the place, having at that time a con-
troversy with some of his congregation upon the
account of his tithes, was under some suspicion of
being the author, until the good man set his people
right, by showing them that the satirical passages
might be applied to several others of two or three
neighbouring villages, and that the book was writ
against all the sinners in England,303

173. ON DRUNKENNESS,

No vices are so incurable as those which men are apt
to glory in. One would wonder how drunkenness
should have the good luck to be of this number.
Anacharsis being invited to a match of drinking at
Corinth, demanded the prize very humorously, be-
cause he was drunk before any of the rest of the com-
pany ; ‘ for,’ says he, ‘ when we run a race, he who
arrives at the goal first is entitled to the reward ;’ on
the contrary, in this thirsty generation, the honour
falls upon him who carries off the greatest quantity
of liquor, and knocks down the rest of the company.
I was the other day with honest Will Funnel, the
West Saxon, who was reckoning up how much liquor
had passed through him in the last twenty years of his
life, which, according to his computation, amounted

to twenty-three hogsheads of October, four tons of

port, halfa kilderkin of small beer, nineteen barrels
of cider, and three glasses of champaign ; besides
which he had assisted at four hundred bowls of punch,
not to mention sips, drams, and whets without num-
ber. I question not but every reader’s memory will
suggest to him several ambitious young men who are
as vain in this particular as Will Funnel, and can
boast of as glorious exploits.

Our modern philosophers observe, that there is a
general decay of moisture in the globe of the earth.
This they chiefly ascribe to the growth of vegetables,
which incorporate into their own substance many
fluid bodies that never return again to their former
nature: but, with submission, they ought to throw
into their account those innumerable rational beings
which fetch their nourishment chiefly out of liquids ;
especially when we consider that men, compared with
their fellow-creatures, drink much more than comes
to their share.

But, however highly this tribe of people may think

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304 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

of themselves, a drunken man is a greater monster
than any that is to be found among all the creatures
which God has made; as indeed there is no character
which appears more despicable and deformed, in the
eyes of all reasonable persons, than that of a drunkard.
Bonosus, one of our own countrymen, who was ad-
dicted to this vice, having set up for a share in the
Roman empire, and being defeated in a great battle,
hanged himself. When he was seen by the army in
this melancholy situation, notwithstanding he had
behaved himself very bravely, the common jest was,
that the thing they saw hanging upon the tree before
them was not a man, but a bottle.

This vice has very fatal effects on the mind, the
body, and fortune of the person who is devoted to it.

In regard to the mind, it first of all discovers every
flaw in it. The sober man, by the strength of reason,
may keep under and subdue every vice or folly to
which he is most inclined ; but wine makes every
latent seed sprout up in the soul, and show itself; it
gives fury to the passions, and force to those objects
which are apt to produce them. When a young fellow
complained to an old philosopher that his wife was
not handsome, ‘ Put less water in your wine,’ says
the philosopher, ‘and you will quickly make her so.’
Wine heightens indifference into love, love into jea-
lousy, and jealousy into madness. It often turns the
good-natured man into an idiot, and the choleric into
an assassin. It gives bitterness to resentment, it makes
vanity insupportable, and displays every little spot of
the soul in its utmost deformity.

Nor does this vice only betray the hidden faults of
a man, and show them in the most odious colours,
but often occasions faults to which he is not naturally
subject. There is more of turn than of truth in a
Saying of Seneca, that drunkenness does not produce
but discover faults. Common experience teaches us
the contrary. Wine throws a man out of himself, andON DRUNKENNESS. 305
infuses qualities into the mind which she is a stranger
to in her sober moments. The person you converse
with, after the third bottle, is not the same man who
at first sat down at table with you. Upon this maxim
is founded one of the prettiest sayings I ever met
with, which is ascribed to Publius Syrus, ‘ Qui ebrium
ludificat, ledit absentem:’ ‘He who jests upon a man
that is drunk injures the absent.’

Thus does drunkenness act in a direct contradic-
tion to reason, whose business it is to clear the mind
of every vice which is crept into it, and to guard it
against all the approaches of any that endeavours to
make its entrance. But besides these ill effects which
this vice produces in the person who is actually under
its dominion, it has also a bad influence on the mind
even in its sober moments, as it insensibly weakens
the understanding, impairs the memory, and makes
those faults habitual which are produced by frequent
excesses.

I should now proceed to show the ill effects which
this vice has on the bodies and fortunes of men; but
these I shall réserve for the subject of some future

paper.

174. THE PROTECTION OF THE DEITY.

As the work I have engaged in will not only consist
of papers of humour and learning, but of several
essays moral and divine, I shall publish the following
one, which is founded on a former Spectator, and
sent me by a particular friend, not questioning but
it will please such of my readers as think it no dis-
paragement to their understandings to give way
sometimes to a serious thought.

‘SIR
“In your paper of Friday the 9th instant, you had
occasion to consider the ubiquity of the Godhead,

st peerLe

creat call OCEAN > ~~

 

 

 

 

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
  
   
  

306 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

and at the same time to show that, as he is present
to every thing, he cannot but be attentive to every
thing, and privy to all the modes and parts of its
existence; or, in other words, that his Omniscience
and Qmnipresence are coexistent, and run together
through the whole infinitude of space. This consi-
deration might furnish us with many incentives to
devotion and motives to morality; but, as this subject
has been handled by several excellent writers, I shall
consider it in a light wherein I have not seen it placed
by others.

‘ First, How disconsolate is the condition of an
intellectual being, who is thus present with his Maker,
but at the same time receives no extraordinary benefit
or advantage from this his presence !

‘Secondly, How deplorable is the condition of an
intellectual being, who feels no other effects from this
his presence but such as proceed from divine wrath
and indignation !

“'Phirdly, Htow happy is the condition of that in-
tellectual being, who is sensible of his Maker’s pre-
sence, from the secret effects of his mercy and loving-
kindness !

‘ First, How disconsolate is the condition of an
intellectual being, who is thus present with his Maker,
but at the same time receives no extraordinary benefit
or advantage from this his presence! Every particle
of matter is actuated by this Almighty Being, which
passes through it. The heavens and the earth, the
stars and planets, move and gravitate by virtue of
this great principle within them. All the dead parts
of nature are invigorated by the presence of their
Creator, and made capable of exerting their respective
qualities. The several instincts in the brute creation
do likewise operate and work towards the several
ends which are agreeable to them by this divine
energy. Man only, who does not cooperate with
this Holy Spirit, and is unattentive to his presence,THE PROTECTION OF THE DEITY. 307

receives none of those advantages from it which are
perfective of his nature and necessary to his well-
being. The Divinity is with him, and in him, and
every where about him, but of no advantage to him.
It is the same thing to a man without religion, as if
there were no God in the world. It is indeed impos-
sible for an Infinite Being to remove himself from
any of his creatures; but though he cannot withdraw
his essence from us, which would argue an imperfec-
tion in him, he can withdraw from us all the joys
and consolations of it. His presence may perhaps
be necessary to support us in our existence; but he
may leave this our existence to itself, with regard to
its happiness or misery. For in this sense he may
cast us away from his presence, and take his Holy
Spirit from us. This single consideration one would
think sufficient to make us open our hearts to all those
infusions of joy and gladness which are so near at
hand, and ready to be poured in upon us; especially
when we consider, secondly, the deplorable condition
of an intellectual being, who feels no other effects
from his Maker’s presence but such as proceed from
divine wrath and indignation.

‘We may assure ourselves. that the great Author
of nature will not always be as one who is indifferent
to any of his creatures. Those who will not feel him
in his love will be sure at length to feel him in his
displeasure. And how dreadful is the condition of
that creature who is only sensible of the being of his
Creator by what he suffers from him! He is as es-
sentially present in hell as in heaven; but the inha-
bitants of the former behold him only in his wrath,
and shrink within their flames to conceal themselves
from him. It is not in the power of imagination to
conceive the fearful effects of Omnipotence incensed.

‘ But I shall only consider the wretchedness of an
intellectual being, who in this life lies under the dis-

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

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308 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

pleasure of him, that at all times and in all places is
intimately united with him. He is able to disquiet
the soul, and vex it in all its faculties. He can hinder
any of the greatest comforts of life from refreshing us,
and give an edge to every one of its slightest calamities.
Who then can bear the thought of being an outcast
from his presence, that is, from the comforts of it; or
of feeling it only in its terrors! How pathetic is that
expostulation of Job, when for the trial of his patience
he was made to look upon himself in this deplorable
condition! “¢ Why hast thou set me as a mark against
thee, so that Iam become a burden to myself.” But,
thirdly, how happy is the condition of that intellectual
being who is sensible of his Maker’s presence from
the secret effects of his mercy and lovingkindness!
‘The blessed in heaven behold him face to face,
that is, are as sensible of his presence as we are of
the presence of any person whom we look upon with
our eyes. There is, doubtless, a faculty in spirits by
which they apprehend one another as our senses do
material objects; and there is no question but our
souls, when they are disembodied, or placed in glo-
rified bodies, will, by this faculty, in whatever part of
Space they reside, be always sensible of the Divine
Presence. We, who have this veil of flesh standing
between us and the world of spirits, must be content
to know that the Spirit of God is present with us by
the effects which he produceth in us. Our outward
senses are too gross to apprehend him; we may,
however, taste and see how gracious he is, by his in-
fluence upon our minds, by those virtuous thoughts
which he awakens in us, by those secret comforts and
refreshments which he conveys into our souls, and by
those ravishing joys and inward satisfactions which
are perpetually springing up, and diffusing themselves
among all the thoughts of good men. He is lodged
in Our very essence, and is as a soul within the soulTHE PROTECTION OF THE DEITY, 309

to irradiate its understanding, rectify its will, purify
its passions, and enliven all the powers of man. How
happy therefore is an intellectual being, who, by
prayer and meditation, by virtue and good works,
opens this communication between God and his own
soul! Though the whole creation frowns upon him,
and all nature looks black about him, he has his light
and support within him, that are able to cheer his
mind, and bear him up in the midst of all those hor-
rors which encompass him. He knows that his helper
is at hand, and is always nearer to him than any thing
else can be, which is capable of annoying or terrify-
ing him. In the midst of calumny or contempt he
attends to that Being who whispers better things within
his soul, and whofn he looks upon as his defender,
his glory, and the lifter-up of his head. In his deepest
solitude and retirement he knows that he is in com-
pany with the greatest of beings; and perceives within
himself such real sensations of his presence, as are
more delightful than any thing that can be met with
in the conversation of his creatures. Even in the hour
of death he considers the pains of his dissolution to
be nothing else but the breaking down of that partition
which stands betwixt his soul and the sight of that
Being who is always. present with him, and is about
to manifest itself to him in fulness of joy.

‘ If we would be thus happy, and thus sensible of
our Maker’s presence, from the secret effects of his
mercy and goodness, we must keep such a watch
over all our thoughts, that, in the language of the
scripture, his soul may have pleasure in us. We
must take care not to grieve his Holy Spirit, and en-
deavour to make the meditations of our hearts always
acceptable in his sight, that he may delight thus to
reside and dwell in us. The light of nature could
direct Seneca to this doctrine, in a very remarkable
passage among his epistles: ‘ Sacer in est in nobisinns

 

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310 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

spiritus bonorum matorumque custos, et observator, et
guemadnodum nos illum tractamus, ita et ille nos.”
‘‘ There is a Holy Spirit residing in us, who watches
and observes both goed and evil men, and will treat
us after the same manner that we treat him.” But I
shall conclude this discourse with those more empha-
tical words in Divine revelation, “‘ If a man love me,
he will keep my word; and my Father will love him,
and we will come unto him, and make our abode with
hing’

 

175. ADVANTAGES OF CONTENT.

I was once engaged in discourse with a Rosicrucian
about ‘the great secret.’ As this kind of men (I
mean those of them who are not professed cheats) are
overrun with enthusiasm and philosophy, it was very
amusing to hear this religious adept descanting on his
pretended discovery. He talked of the secret as of «
spirit which lived within an emerald, and converted
every thing that was near it to the highest perfection
it is capable of. ‘ It gives a lustre,’ says he, ‘ to the
sun, and water to the diamond. It irradiates every
metal, and enriches lead with all the properties of
gold. It heightens smoke into flame, flame into light,
and light into glory.’ He farther added, that ‘a sin-
ele ray of it dissipates pain, and care, and melanchely,
from the person on whom it falls. In short,’ says he,
‘its presence naturally changes every place into a
kind of heaven.’ After he had gone on for some time
in this unintelligible cant, I found that he jumbled
natural and moral ideas together into the same dis-
course, and that his great secret was nothing else but
content.

This virtue does indeed produce, in some measure,
all those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes
to what he calls the philosopher’s stone ; and if it does41

not bring riches, it does the same thi 1g, by banishing
the desire of them. If it cannot remove the dis-
quietudes arising out of a man’s mind, body, or for-
tune, it makes him easy under them. It has indeed
a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of
every being to whom he stands related. It extin-
guishes all murmur, repining, and ingratitude towards
that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this
world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every
tendency to corruption, with regard to the community
wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness to his con-
versation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts.

Among the many methods which might be made
use of for the acquiring of this virtue, I shall only
mention the two following. First of all, a man should
always consider how much he has more than he
wants ; and, secondly, how much more unhappy he
might be than he really is.

First of all, a man should always consider how
much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully
pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one
who condoled him upon the loss of a farm: ‘ Why,’
said he, ‘I have three farms still, and you have but
one; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you
than you for me.’ On the contrary, foolish men are
more apt to consider what they have lost than what
they possess; and to fix their eyes upon those who
are richer than themselves, rather than on those who
are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures
and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; but
it is the humour of mankind to be always looking for-
ward, and straining after one who has got the start of
them in wealth and honour. For this reason, as there
are none can be properly ealled rich who have not
more than they want, there are few rich men in any
of the politer nations but among the middle sort of
people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes,

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312 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy.
Persons of a higher rank live in a. kind of splendid
poverty, and are perpetually wanting, because, in-
stead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life,
they endeavour to outvie one another in shadows and
appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld
with a great deal of mirth this silly game that is play-
ing over their heads, and, by contracting their desires,
enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are
always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous
chase after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficiently
exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which
generally undo anation. Let a man’s estate be what
it will, he is a poor man if he does not live within it,
and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can
give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death
of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was
offered a great sum of money by the King of Lydia,.
he thanked him for his kindness, but told him he had
already more by half than he knew what to do with.
In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury
Lo poverty ; or, to give the thought a more agreeable
turn, ‘ Content is natural wealth,’ says Socrates ; to
which I shall add, ‘ Luxury is artificial poverty.’ I
shall therefore recommend to the consideration of
those who are always aiming after superfluous. and
imaginary enjoyments, and will not be at the trouble
of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of
Bion the philosopher; namely, that ‘ no man has so
much care as he who endeavours after the most hap-
piness.’ -

In the second place, every one ought to reflect how
much more unhappy he might be than he really is.
The former consideration took in all those who are
sufficiently provided with the means to make them-
selves easy; this regards such as actually he under
some pressure or misfortune. These may receive greatADVANTAGES OF CONTENT. ont

alleviation from such a comparison as the unhappy
person may make between himself and others, or
between the misfortune which he suffers,.and greater
misfortunes which might have befallen him.

I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon
breaking his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the
standers-by, it was a great mercy that it was not his
neck, To which, since I am got into quotations, give
me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who,
after having invited some of his friends to dine with
him, was ruffled by his wife that came into the room
in a passion, and threw down the table that stood be-
fore them: ‘ Every one,’ says he, ‘ has his calamity,
and he is a happy man that has no greater than this,’
We find an instance to the same purpose in the life
of Doctor Hammond, written by Bishop Fell. As this
good man was troubled with a complication of dis-
tempers, when he had the gout upon him he used to
thank God that it was not the Stone; and when he
had the stone, that he had not both these distempers
on him at the same time,

I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that
there was never any system besides that of Christi-
anity, which could effectually produce in the mind of
man the virtue I have been hitherto speaking of. In
order to make us content with our present condition,
many of the ancient philosophers tell us that our dis.
content only hurts ourselves,. without being able to
make any alteration in. our circumstances ; others,
that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal
necessity, to. which the.gods themselves are subject ;
whilst others very gravely tell the man who is misera.
ble, that it is necessary he should be so to keep up
the harmony of the universe, and that the scheme of
Providence would be troubled and perverted were he
otherwise. These, and the like considerations, rather
silence than satisfy a man. They may show him that

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314 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

his discontent is unreasonable, but are by no means
sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than
consolation. Ina word, a man might reply to one of
these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend who
advised him not to grieve for the death of a person
whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him
again: ‘It is for that very reason,’ said the emperor,
‘that I grieve.’

On the contrary, religion bears a more tender re-
gard to human nature. It prescribes to every miser-
able man the means of bettering his condition; nay,
it shows him that the bearing of his afflictions as he
ought to do will naturally end in the removal of them;
it makes him easy here, because it can make him
happy hereafter.

Upon the whole, a contented mind is the greatest
blessing a man can enjoy in this world ; and if in the

present life his happiness arises from the subduing of |

his desires, it will arise in the next from the gratifica-
tion of them.

 

176. THE PRESENT LIFE PREPARATORY.

A LEwp young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by
him. barefoot, ‘ Father,’ says he, ‘you are in a very

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

t
J

miserable condition if there is not another world.’ |
‘True, son,’ said the hermit, ‘ but what is thy condi- -

tion if there is*?’ Man isa creature designed for two

different states of being, or rather for two different :

lives. His first life is short and transient; his second
permanent and lasting. The question we are all con-

cerned in is this, in which of these two lives it is our |

chief interest to make ourselves happy? or, in other

words, whether we should endeavour to secure to our- »

selves the pleasures and gratifications of a life which
is uncertain and precarious, and at its utmost length

* This grammatical error occurs in the Spectator in folio.THE PRESENT LIFE PREPARATORY. SiS

of a very inconsiderable duration ; or to secure to our-
selves the pleasures of a life which is fixed and settled,
and will never end? Every man, upon the first hear-
ing of this question, knows very well which side of it
he ought to close with. But however right we are in
theory, it is plain that in practice we adhere to the
wrong side of the question. We make provisions for
this life as though it were never to have an end, and
for the other life as though it were never to have a
beginning.

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger
to human nature, accidently alight upon the earth,
and take a survey of its inhabitants, what would his
notions of us be? Would not he think that we are a
species of beings made for quite different ends and
purposes than what we really are? Must not he ima-
gine that we were placed in this world to get riches
and honours? Would not he think that it was our
duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title? Nay,
would not he believe we were forbidden poverty by
threats of eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue
our pleasures under pain of damnation? He would
certainly imagine that we were influenced by ascheme
of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed
prescribed to us. And truly, according to such an
imagination, he must conclude that we are a species
of the most obedient creatures in the universe ; that we
are constant to our duty ; and that we keep a steady
eye on the end for which we were sent hither.

But how great would be his astonishment when he
learned that we were beings not designed to exist in
this world above threescore and ten years, and that
the greatest part of this busy species fall short even
of that age! How would he be lost in horror and
admiration, when he should know that this set of
creatures, who lay out all their endeavours for this
life, which scarce deserves the name of existence ;gy RE

earners, ———-

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316 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

when, I say, he should know that this set of creatures
are to exist to all eternity in another life, for which
they make no preparations! Nothing can be a greater
disgrace to reason, than that men, who are persuaded
of these two different states of. being, should be per-
petually employed in providing for a life of threescore
and ten years, and neglecting to make provision for
that which after many myriads of years will be still
new, and still beginning; especially when we consi-
der that our endeavours for making ourselves great,
or rich, or honourable, or whatever else we place our
happiness in, may after all prove unsuccessful ;
whereas, if we constantly and sincerely endeavour to
make ourselves happy in the other life, we are sure
that our endeavours will succeed, and that we shall
not be disappointed of our hope.

The following question is started by one of the
schoolmen. Supposing the whole body of the earth
were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and that
a single grain or particle of this sand should be anni-
hilated every thousand years? Supposing then that
you had it in your choice to be happy all the while
this prodigious mass of sand was consuming by this
slow method till there was not a grain of it left, on
condition you were to be miserable for ever after?
Or, supposing that you might be happy for ever after,
on condition you would be miserable till the whole
mass of sand were thus annihilated at the rate of one
sand in a thousand years: which of these two cases
would you make your choice ?

It must be confessed in this case, so many thou-
sands of years are ‘to. the imagination as a kind of
eternity, though in reality they. do not bear so great
4 proportion to that duration which is to follow them
as a unit does to the greatest number which you can
put together in figures, or as one of those sands to the
supposed heap. Reason therefore tells us, withoutTHE PRESENT LIFE PREPARATORY. S14

any manner of hesitation, which would be the better
part in this choice. However, as I have before inti-
mated, our reason might in such a case be so overset
by the imagination as to dispose some persons to sink
under the consideration of the great length of the
first part of this duration, and of the great distance of
that second duration which is to succeed it. The
mind, I say, might give itself up to that happiness
which is at hand, considering that it is so very near,
and that it would last so very long. But when the
choice we actually have before us is this, whether we
will choose to be happy for the space of only three-
score and ten, nay, perhaps of only twenty or ten
years, I might say of only a day or an hour, and miser-
able to all eternity ; or, on the contrary, miserable for
this short term of years, and happy for a whole eter-
nity: what words are sufficient to express that folly
and want of consideration which in such a case makes
a wrong choice?

I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing,
what seldom happens, that a course of virtue makes
us miserable in this life: but if we suppose, as it
generally happens, that virtue would make us more
happy even in this life than a contrary course of
vice ; how can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or
madness of those persons who are capable of making
so absurd a choice?

Every wise man therefore will consider this life
only as it may conduce to the happiness of the other,
and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years
to those of an eternity.

177. ON SINGULARITY.

I REMEMBER a young man of very lively parts, and
of a sprightly turn in conversation, who had only one
fault, which was an inordinate desire of appearing

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318 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

fashionable. This ran him into many amours, and
consequently into many distempers. He never went
to bed till two o’clock in the morning, because he
would not be a queer fellow ; and was every now and
then knocked down by a constable, to signalize his
vivacity. He was initiated into half a dozen clubs
before he was one-and-twenty ; and so improved in
them his natural gaiety of temper, that you might
frequently trace him to his lodgings by a range of
broken windows, and other the like monuments of
wit and gallantry. To be short, after having fully
established his reputation of being a very agreeable
rake, he died of old age at five-and-twenty.

There is indeed nothing which betrays a man into
sO many errors and inconveniences as the desire of
not appearing singular; for which reason it is very
necessary to form a right idea of singularity, that we
may know when it is laudable, and when it is vicious.
In the first place, every man of sense will agree with
me, that singularity is laudable when, in contradiction
to a multitude, it adheres to the dictates of conscience,
morality, and honour. In these cases we ought to
consider that it is not custom, but duty, which is the
rule of action; and that we should be only so far
sociable, as we are reasonable creatures. Truth is
never the less so for not being attended to: and it is
the nature of actions, not the number of actors, by
which we ought to regulate our behaviour. Singularity
in concerns..of this kind is to be looked upon as heroic
bravery, in which a man leaves the species only as he
soars above it. What greater instance can there be
of a weak and pusillanimous temper, than for a man
to pass his whole life in opposition to his own senti-
ments; or not to dare to be what he thinks he ought
to be?

Singularity, therefore, is only vicious when it makes
men act contrary to reason, or when it puts themON SINGULARITY. 319

upon distinguishing themselves by trifles. As for the
first of these, who are singular in any thing that is
irreligious, immoral, or dishonourable, I believe every
one will easily give them up. I shall therefore speak
of those only who are remarkable for their singularity
in things of no importance; as in dress, behaviour,
conversation, and all the little intercourses of life. In
these cases there is a certain deference due to custom ;
and, notwithstanding there may be a colour of reason
to deviate from the multitude in some particulars, a
man ought to sacrifice his private inclinations and
opinions to the practice of the public. It must be
confessed that good sense often makes a humourist ;
but then it unqualifies him for being of any moment
in the world, and renders him ridiculous to persons of
a much inferior understanding.

I have heard of a gentleman in the north of Eng-
land, who was a remarkable instance of this foolish
singularity. He had laid it down as a rule within
himself, to act in the most indifferent parts of life
according to the most abstracted notions of reason
and good sense, without any regard to fashion and
example. This humour broke out at first in many
little oddnesses: he had never any stated hours for
his dinner, supper, or sleep; because, said he, we
ought to attend the calls of nature, and not set our
appetites to our meals, but bring our meals to our
appetites. In his conversation with country gentle-
men he would not make use of a phrase that was not
strictly true: he never told any of them that he was
his humble servant, but that he was his well wisher,
and would rather be thought a malcontent than drink
the king’s health when he was not a dry. He would
thrust his head out of his chamber window every
morning, and, after having gaped for fresh air about
half an hour, repeat fifty verses as loud as he could

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320 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

bawl them, for the benefit of his lungs; to which end
he generally took them out of Homer; the Greek
tongue, especially in that author, being more deep and
sonorous, and more conducive to expectoration than
any other. He had many other particularities, for
which he gave sound and philosophical reasons. As
this humour still grew upon him, he chose to wear a
turban instead of a periwig; coneluding very justly,
that a bandage of clean linen about his head was
much more wholesome, as well as cleanly, than the
caul of a wig which is soiled with frequent perspira-
tions. He afterwards judiciously observed, that the
many ligatures in our English dress must naturally
check the circulation of the blood; for which reason
he made his breeches and his doublet of one continued
piece of cloth, after the manner of the hussars. In
short, by following the pure dictates of reason, he at
length departed so much from the rest of his country-
men, and indeed from his whole species, that his
friends would have clapped him into Bedlam, and
have begged his estate ; but the judge, being informed
that he did no harm, contented himself with issuing
out a commission of lunacy against him, and putting
his estate into the hands of proper guardians.

The fate of this philosopher puts me in mind of.a
remark in Monsieur Fontenelle’s Dialogues of the
Dead. ‘ The ambitious and the covetous,’ says he,
“are madmen to all intents and purposes as much as
those who are shut up in dark rooms; but they have
the good luck to have numbers on their side ; whereas
the frenzy of one who is given up for a lunatic, is a
frenzy hors d’euvre ;’ that is, in other words, some-
thing which is singular in its kind, and does not fall
in with the madness of a multitude.178. ON ADULTERY.

In the reign of King Charles the First the company
of stationers, into whose hands the printing of the
Bible was committed by patent, made a very remark-
able erratum or blunder in one of their editions: for
instead of ¢ Thou shalt not commit adultery,’ they
printed off several thousands of copies with ‘Thou
shalt commit adultery.’ Archbishop Laud, to punish
this their negligence, laid a considerable fine upon
that company in the star-chamber.

By the practice of the world which prevails in this
degenerate age, I am afraid that very many young
profligates of both sexes are possessed of this spurious
edition of the Bible, and observe the commandment
according to that faulty reading.

Adulterers in the first ages of the church were ex-
communicated for ever, and unqualified all their lives
from bearing a part in Christian assemblies, notwith-
standing they might seek it with tears, and all the
appearances of the most unfeigned repentance.

I might here mention some ancient laws among the
heathens, which punished this crime with death: and
others of the same kind, which are now in force
among several governments that have embraced the
reformed religion. But, because a subject of this
nature may be too serious for my ordinary readers,
who are very apt to throw by my papers when they
are not enlivened with something that is diverting or
uncommon, J shall here publish the contents of a
little manuscript lately fallen into my hands, and
which pretends to great antiquity ; though, by reason
of some modern phrases and other particulars in ity J
can by no means allow it to be genuine, but rather
the production of a modern sophist.

It is well known by the learned, that there was
a temple upon Mount tna dedicated to Vulcan,

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222 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

which was guarded by dogs of so exquisite a smell,
say the historians, that they could discern whether
the persons who came thither were chaste or other-
wise. They used to meet and fawn upon such as
were chaste, caressing them as the friends of their
master Vulcan; but flew at those who were polluted,
and never ceased barking at them till they had driven
them from the temple.

My manuscript gives the following account of these
dogs, and was probably designed as a comment upon
this story.

‘These dogs were given to Vulcan by his sister
Diana, the goddess of hunting and of chastity, having
bred them out of some of her hounds, in which she
had observed this natural instinct and sagacity. It
was thought she did it in spite to Venus, who, upon
her return home, always found her husband in a good
or bad humour according to the reception which she
met with from his dogs. They lived in the temple
several years, but were such snappish curs that they
frighted away most of the votaries. The women of
Sicily made a solemn deputation to the priest, by
which they acquainted him, that they would not come
up to the temple with their annual offerings unless
he muzzled his mastiffs, and at last compromised the
matter with him, that the offering should always be
brought by a chorus of young girls, who were none
of them above seven years old. It was wonderful,
says the author, to see how different the treatment
was which the dogs gave to these little misses, from
that which they had shown to their mothers. It is
said that a prince of Syracuse, having married a
young lady, and being naturally of a jealous temper,
made such an interest with the priests of this temple
that he procured a whelp from them of this famous
breed, The young puppy was very troublesome to
the fair lady, at first, insomuch that she solicited herON ADULTERY, 323

husband to send him away; but the good man cut
her short with the old Sicilian proverb, “ Love me,
love my dog.” From which time she lived very
peaceably with both of them. The ladies of Syracuse
were very much annoyed with him, and several of
very good reputation refused to come to court till he
was discarded. There were indeed some of them that
defied his sagacity ; but it was observed, though he
did not actually bite them, he would growl at them
most confoundedly. To return to the dogs of the
temple ; after they had lived here in great repute for
several years, it so happened, thatas one of the priests,
who had been making a charitable visit to a widow
who lived on the promontory of Lilybeum, returned
home pretty late in the evening, the dogs flew at him
with so much fury, that they would have worried him
if his brethren had not come in to his assistance ;
upon which, says my author, the dogs were all of
them hanged, as having lost their original instinct,’

I cannot conclude this paper without wishing that
we had some of this breed of dogs in Great Britain,
which would certainly do justice, I should say ho-
nour, to the ladies of our country, and show the world
the difference between pagan women and those who
are instructed in sounder principles of virtue and
religion.

 

179. ON THE GLORY OF HEAVEN.
“STRi
*‘ I coNsIDERED in my two last letters that awful and
tremendous subject, the ubiquity or omnipresence of
the Divine Being. I have shown that he is equally
present in all places throughout the whole extent of
infinite space. This doctrine is so agreeable to reason,
that we meet with it in the writings of the enlightened
heathens, as I mightshow at large, were it not alreadyeet = ne
ene
es ee

 

 

ene

 

 

324 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

done by other hands. But though the Deity be thus
essentially present through all the immensity of space,
there is one part of it in which he discovers himself
in a most transcendent and visible glory; this is, that
place which is marked out in scripture under the dif-
ferent appellations of ‘ paradise, the third heaven,
the throne of God, and the habitation of his glory.”
It is here where the glorified body of our Saviour
resides, and where all the celestial hierarchies and
the innumerable hosts of angels are represented as
perpetually surrounding the seat of God with halle-
lujahs and hymns of praise. This is that presence
of God which some of the divines call his glorious,
and others his majestatic, presence. He is indeed as
essentially present in all other places as in this; but
it is here where he resides in a sensible magnificence,
and in the midst of all those splendours which can
affect the imagination of created beings.

‘It is very remarkable that this opinion of God
Almighty’s presence in heaven, whether discovered by
the light of nature, or by a general tradition from our
first parents, prevails among all the nations of the
world, whatsoever different notions they entertain of
the Godhead. If you look into Homer, that is the
most ancient of the Greek writers, you see the supreme
power seated in the heavens, and encompassed with
inferior deities, among whom the Muses are repre-
sented as singing incessantly about his throne. Who
does not here see the main strokes and outlines of this
great truth we are speaking of? The same doctrine is
shadowed out in many other heathen authors, though
at the same time, like several other revealed truths,
dashed and adulterated with a mixture of fables and
human inventions. But to pass over the notions of
the Greeks and Romans, those more enlightened parts
of the pagan world, we find there is scarce a people
among the late discovered nations who are not trainedON THE GLORY OF HEAVEN. 325
up in an opinion, that heaven is the habitation of the
divinity whom they worship.

‘As in Solomon’s temple there was the Sanctum
Sanctorum, in which a visible glory appeared among
the figures of the cherubims, and into which none but
the high-priest himself was permitted to enter, after
having made an atonement for the sins of the people;
so if we consider the whole creation as one great
temple, there is in it this Holy of Holies, into which
the High-priest of our salvation entered, and took his
place among angels and archangels, after having
made a propitiation for the sins of mankind.

‘With how much skill must the throne of God be
erected ! with what glorious designs is that habitation
beautified, which is contrived and built by Him who
inspired Hiram with wisdom ! How great must be the
majesty of that place, where the whole art of creation
has been employed, and where God has chosen to
show himself in the most magnificent manner! What
must be the architecture of infinite power under the
direction of infinite wisdom? A spirit cannot but be
transported after an ineffable manner with the sight
of those objects, which were made to affect him by
that Being who knows the inward frame of a soul,
and how to please and ravish it in all its most secret
powers and faculties. It is to this majestic presence
of God we may apply those beautiful expressions in
holy writ: ‘ Behold even to the moon, and it shineth
not; yea the stars are not pure in his sight.” The
light of the sun, and all the glories of the world in
which we live, are but as weak and sickly glimmer-
ings, or rather darkness itself, in comparison of those
splendours which encompass the throne of God.

‘As the glory of this place is transcendent beyond
imagination, so probably is the extent of it. There is
light behind light, and glory within glory. How far
that space may reach, in which God thus appears in

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mone ra reaenream as
ig
fe

 

 

A rn

 

 

326 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

perfect majesty, we cannot possibly conceive. Though
it is not infinite, it may be indefinite: and, though not
immeasurable in itself, it may be so with regard to
any created eye of imagination. If he has made these
lower regions of matter so inconceivably wide and
magnificent for the habitation of mortal and perish-
able beings, how great may we suppose the courts of
his house to be, where he makes his residence in a
more especial manner, and displays himself in the
fulness of his glory, among an innumerable company
of angels and spirits of just men made perfect ?

‘ This is certain, that our imaginations cannot be
raised too high, when we think on a place where om-
nipotence and omniscience have so signally exerted
themselves, because that they are able to produce a
scene infinitely more great and glorious than what
we are able to imagine. It is not impossible but at
the consummation of all things, these outward apart-
ments of nature, which are now suited to those beings
who inhabit them, may be taken in and added to that
glorious place of which I am here speaking, and by
that means made a proper habitation for beings who
are exempt from mortality, and cleared of their im-
perfections: for so the scripture seems to intimate
when it speaks of “‘ new heavens and of a new earth,
wherein dwelleth righteousness.”

“1 have only considered this glorious place with
regard to the sight and imagination, though it is
highly probable that our other senses may here like-
wise enjoy their highest gratifications. There is no-
thing which more ravishes and transports the soul
than harmony ; and we have great reason to believe,
from the descriptions of this place in holy scripture,
that this is one of the entertainments of it. And if
the soul of man can be so wonderfully affected with
those strains of music which human art is capable of
producing, how much more will it be raised and ele-ON THE GLORY OF HEAVEN, oor

vated by those in which is exerted the whole power
of harmony? The senses are faculties of the human
soul, though they cannot be employed, during this
our vital union, without proper instruments in the
body. Why therefore should we exclude the satis-
faction of these faculties, which we find by experi-
ence are inlets of great pleasure to the soul, from
among those entertainments which are to make up
our happiness hereafter? Why should we suppose
that our hearing and seeing will not be gratified with
those objects which are most agreeable to them, and
which they cannot meet with in these lower regions
of nature ; objects, “ which neither eye hath seen, nor
ear heard, nor can it enter into the heart of man to
conceive? I knew a man in Christ (says St. Paul,
speaking of himself) above fourteen years ago (whe-
ther in the body, I cannot tell, or whether out of the
body, I cannot tell: God knoweth), such a one
caught up to the third heaven. And I knew sucha
man (whether in the body, or out of the body, I can-
not tell: God knoweth), how that he was caught up
into Paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which
it is not possible for man to utter.’”’ By this is meant
that what he heard was so infinitely different from
any thing which he had heard in this world, that it
was impossible to express it in such words as might
convey a notion of it to his hearers.

‘It is very natural for us to take delight in inqui-
ries concerning any foreign country, where we are
some time or other to make our abode; and as we all
hope to.be admitted into this glorious place, it is both
a laudable and useful curiosity, to get what informa-
tions we can of it, whilst we make use of revelation
for our guide. When these everlasting doors shall
be open to us, we may be sure that the pleasures and
beauties of this place will infinitely transcend our
present hopes and expectations, and that the glorious
appearance of the throne of God will rise infinitely

A atte hin acme fg ee catePe A OREN LI IE ATED

So eee tte™

ee

etree ea re RT ps

STAR

 

 

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328 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

beyond whatever we are able to conceive of it. We
might here entertain ourselves with many other spe-
culations on this subject, from those several hints
which we find of it in the holy scriptures; as, whe-
ther there may not be different mansions and apart-
ments of glory to beings of different natures ; whether,
as they excel one another in perfection, they are not
admitted nearer to the throne of the Almighty, and
enjoy greater manifestations of his presence ; whether
there are not solemn times and occasions, when all
the multitude of heaven celebrate the presence of
their Maker in more extraordinary forms of praise
and adoration; as Adam, though he had continued
in a state of innocence, would, in the opinion of our
divines, have kept holy the sabbath-day in a more
particular manner than any other of the seven. These
and the like speculations we may very innocently
indulge, so long as we make use of them to inspire us
with a desire of becoming inhabitants of this delight-
ful place.

‘T have in this and in two foregoing letters treated
on the most serious subject that can employ the mind
of man, the omnipresence of the Deity; a subject
which, if possible, should never depart from our me-
ditations. We have considered the Divine Being, as
he inhabits infinitude, as he dwells among his works,
as he is present to the mind of man, and as he dis-
covers himself in a more glorious manner among the
regions of the blessed. Such a consideration should
be kept awake in us at all times, and in all places,
and possess our minds with a perpetual awe and
reverence. It should be interwoven with all our
thoughts and perceptions, and become one with the
consciousness of our own being. It is not to be re-
flected on in coldness of philosophy, but ought to sink
us into the lowest prostration before Him, who is so
astonishingly great, wonderful, and holy.’180. ON THE CONTAGION OF WRITING.

THERE is a certain distemper, which is mentioned
neither by Galen nor Hippocrates, nor to be met with
in the London Dispensary. Juvenal terms it a Ca-
coethes; which is a hard word for a disease called in
plain English ‘ The itch of writing.’ This cacoethes
is as epidemical as the smallpox, there being very few
who are not seized with it some time or other in their
lives. There is, however, this difference in these two
distempers, that the first, after having indisposed you
for a time, never returns again; whereas this I am
speaking of, when it is once got into the blood, seldom
comes out of it. The British nation is very much
afflicted with this malady; and though very many
remedies have been applied to persons infected with
it, few of them have ever proved successful. Some
have been cauterized with satires and lampoons, but
have received little or no benefit from them; others
have had their heads fastened for an hour together
between a cleft board, which is made use of as a cure
for the disease when it appears in its greatest malig-
nity *. There is indeed one kind of this malady which
has been sometimes removed, like the biting of a
tarantula, with the sound of a musical instrument,
which is commonly known by the name of a catcall.
But if you have a patient of this kind under your
care, you may assure yourself there is no other way
of recovering him effectually, but by forbidding him
the use of pen, ink, and paper.

But, to drop the allegory before I have tired it out,
there is no species of scribblers more offensive and
more incurable than your periodical writers, whose
works return upon the public on certain days and at
stated times. We have not the consolation in the

* Put in the pillory.

ee

  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

ae ne eee eene na SS REE TPS

teenies

ag tA

 

 

    

330 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

perusal of these authors which we find at the reading
of all others; namely, that we are sure if we have but
patience we may come to the end of their labours. I
have often admired a humorous saying of Diogenes,
who, reading a dull author to several of his friends,
when every one began to be tired, finding he was
almost come to a blank leaf at the end of it, cried,
‘ Courage, lads, I see land.’ On the contrary, our
progress through that kind of writers | am now speak-
ing of is never at an end. One day makes work for
another—we do not know when to promise ourselves
rest.

It is a melancholy thing to consider that the art of
printing, which might be the greatest blessing to
mankind, should prove detrimental to us, and that it
should be made use of to scatter prejudice and igno-
rance through a people, instead of conveying to them
truth and knowledge.

I was lately reading a very whimsical treatise, en-
titled William Ramsey’s Vindication of Astrology.
This profound author, among many mystical passages,
has the following one: ‘ The absence of the sun is not
the cause of night, forasmuch as his light is so great
that it may illuminate the earth all over at once as
clear as broad day; but there are tenebrificous and
dark stars, by whose influence night is brought on,
and which do ray out darkness and obscurity upon
the earth as the sun does light.’

I consider writers in the same view this sage astro-
loger does the heavenly bodies. Some of them are
stars that scatter light as others do darkness. I could
mention several authors who are tenebrificous stars of
the first magnitude, and point out a knot of gentlemen,
who have been dull in consort, and may be looked
upon as a dark constellation. The nation has been a
great while benighted with several of these antilumi-
naries. I suffered them to ray out their darkness asON THE CONTAGION OF WRITING. 331

long as I was able to endure it, till at length I came
to a resolution of rising upon them, and hope in a
little time to drive them quite out of the British
hemisphere.

181. ON PLANTING.

Every station of life has duties which are proper to
it. Those who are determined by choice to any par-
ticular kind of business, are indeed more happy than
those who are determined by necessity; but both are
under an equal obligation of fixing on employments
which may be either useful to themselves or beneficial
to others: no one of the sons of Adam ought to think
himself exempt from that labour and industry which
were denounced to our first parent, and in him to all
his posterity. Those to whom birth or fortune may
seem to make such an application unnecessary ought
to find out some calling or profession for themselves,
that they may not lie.as a burden on the species, and
be the only useless part of the creation.

Many of our country gentlemen in their busy hours
apply themselves wholly to the chase, or to some other
diversion which they find in the fields and woods.
This gave occasion to one of our most eminent English
writers to represent every one of them as lying under
a kind of curse pronounced to them in the words of
Goliath, ‘1 will give thee to the fowls of the air, and
to the beasts of the field.’

Though exercises of this kind, when indulged with
moderation, may have a good influence both on the
mind and body, the country affords many other amuse-
ments of a more noble kind.

Among these I know none more delightful in itself,
and beneficial to the public, than that of planting. I
could mention a nobleman whose fortune has placed
him in several parts of England, and who has alwaysa a EN EET EP ND

a

seventeen sea ner Pe

Pts

 

wpe -

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

532 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

left these visible marks behind him, which show he
has been there: he never hired a house in his life,
without leaving all about it the seeds of wealth, and
bestowing legacies on the posterity of the owner.
Had all the gentlemen of England made the same
improvements upon their estates, our whole country
would have been at this time as one great garden.
Nor ought such an employment to be looked upon
as too inglorious for men of the highest rank. There
have been heroes in this art, as well as in others. We
are told in particular of Cyrus the Great, that he
planted all the Lesser Asia. There is indeed some-
thing truly magnificent in this kind of amusement ;
it gives a nobler air to several parts of nature; it fills
the earth with a variety of beautiful scenes, and has
something in it like creation. For this reason the
pleasure of one who plants is something like that of
a poet, who, as Aristotle observes, is more delighted
with his productions than any other writer or artist
whatsoever.

Plantations have one advantage in them which is
not to be found in most other works, as they give a
pleasure of a more lasting date, and continually im-
prove in the eye of the planter. When you have
finished a building, or any other undertaking of the
like nature, it immediately decays upon your hands ;
you see it brought to its utmost point of perfection,
and from that time hastening to its ruin. On the con-
trary, when you have finished your plantations, they
are still arriving at greater degrees of perfection as
long as you live, and appear more delightful in every
succeeding year than they did in the foregoing.

But I do not only recommend this art to men of
estates as a pleasing amusement, but as it is a kind
of virtuous employment, and may therefore be incul-
cated by moral motives; particularly from the love
which we ought to have for our country, and theON PLANTING. 333
regard which we ought to bear to our posterity. As
for the first, I need only mention what is frequently
observed by others, that the increase of forest trees
does by no means bear a proportion to the destruction
of them, insomuch that in a few ages the nation may
be at a loss to supply itself with timber sufficient for
the fleets of England. I know when a man talks of
posterity in matters of this nature, he is looked upon
with an eye of ridicule by the cunning and selfish
part of mankind. Most people are of the humour of
an old fellow of a college, who, when he was pressed
by the society to come into something that might
redound to the good of their successors, grew very
peevish; ‘ We are always doing,’ says he, ‘ some-
thing for posterity, but I would fain see posterity do
something for us.’

But I think men are inexcusable, who fail in a duty
of this nature, since it is so easily discharged. When
a man considers that the putting a few twigs into the
ground is doing good to one who will make his ap-
pearance in the world about fifty years hence, or that
he is perhaps making one of his own descendants
easy or rich by so inconsiderable an expense, if he
finds himself averse to it, he must conclude that he
has a poor and base heart, void of all generous prin-
ciples and love to mankind.

There is one consideration which may very much
enforce what I have here said. Many honest minds,
that are naturally disposed to do good in the world,
and become beneficial to mankind, complain within
themselves that they have not talents for it. This
therefore is a good office, which is suited to the
meanest capacities, and which may be performed by
multitudes, who have not abilities sufficient to deserve
well of their country, and to recommend themselves
to their posterity, by any other method. It is the
phrase of a friend of mine, when any useful country
neighbour dies, that ‘ you may trace him;’ which ISateen tact

 

RRB

ee

 

     
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
    

334 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

look upon as a good funeral oration at the death of
an honest husbandman, who has left the impressions
of his industry behind him in the place where he has
lived.

Upon the foregoing considerations, I can scarce
forbear representing the subject of this paper as a
kind of moral virtue; which, as I have already shown,
recommends itself likewise by the pleasure that attends
it. It must be confessed that this is none of those
turbulent pleasures which is apt to gratify a man in
the heats of youth; but, if it be not so tumultuous,
it is more lasting. Nothing can be more delightful
than to entertain ourselves with prospects of our own
making, and to walk under those shades which our
own industry has raised. Amusements of this nature
compose the mind, and lay at rest all those passions
which are uneasy to the soul of man, besides that
they naturally engender good thoughts, and dispose
us to laudable contemplations. Many of the old
philosophers passed away the greatest parts of their
lives among their gardens. Epicurus himself could
not think sensual pleasure attainable in any other
scene. Every reader who is acquainted with Homer,
Virgil, and Horace, the greatest geniuses of all an-
tiquity, knows very well with how much rapture they
have spoken on this subject; and that Virgil in par-
ticular has written a whole book on the art of planting.

This art seems to have been more especially adapted
to the nature of man in his primeval state, when he
had life enough to see his productions flourish in their
utmost beauty, and gradually decay with him. One
who lived before the flood might have seen a wood of
the tallest oaks in the acorn. But I only mention
this particular, in order to’ introduce, in my next
paper, a history which I have found among the ac-
counts of China, and which may be looked upon as
an antediluvian novel.182. STORY OF HILPA.

firipa was one of the hundred and fifty daughters of
Zilpah, of the race of Cohu, by whom some of the
learned think is meant Cain. She was exceedingly
beautiful; and, when she was but a girl of threescore
and ten years of age, received the addresses of several
who made love to her. Among these were two bro-
thers, Harpath and Shalum. Harpath, being the first-
born, was master of that fruitful region which lies at
the foot of Mount Tirzah, in the southern parts of
China. Shalum (which is to say the planter, in the
Chinese language) possessed all the neighbouring
hills; and that great range of mountains which goes
under the name of Tirzah. Harpath was of a haughty
contemptuous spirit; Shalum was of a gentle dispo-
sition, beloved both by God and man.

It is said, that among the antediluvian women, the
daughters of Cohu had their minds wholly set upon
riches ; for which reason the beautiful Hilpa preferred
Harpath to Shalum, because of his numerous flocks
and. herds that covered all the low country which
runs along the foot of Mount Tirzah, and is watered
by several fountains and streams breaking out of the
sides of that mountain.

Harpath made so quick a despatch of his courtship,
that he married Hilpa in the hundredth year of her
age; and, being of an insolent temper, laughed to
scorn his brother Shalum for having pretended to the
beautiful Hilpa, when he was master of nothing but
a long chain of rocks and mountains. This so much
provoked Shalum, that he is said to have cursed his
brother in the bitterness of his heart, and to have
prayed that one of his mountains might fall upon his
head if ever he came within the shadow of it.

From this time forward Harpath would never ven-
ture out of the valleys, but came to an untimely endA, LE ATG SIRI

nei nneaantte ene

 

SRNR

tine EE REE ae reap ag TO

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
 

33 ADDISON’S ESSAYS,

in the two hundred and fiftieth year of his age, being
drowned in a river as he attempted to cross it. This
river is called to this day, from his name who perished
in it, the river Harpath: and, what is very remark-
able, issues out of one of those mountains which
Shalum wished might fall upon his brother, when he
cursed him in the bitterness of his heart.

Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year of her
age at the death of her husband, having brought him
but fifty children before he was snatched away, as
has been already related. Many of the antediluvians
made love to the young widow ; though no one was
thought so likely to succeed in her affections as her
first lover Shalum, who renewed his court to her about
ten years after the death of Harpath; for it was not
thought decent in those days that a widow should be
seen by a man within ten years after the decease of
her husband.

Shalum falling into a deep melancholy, and re-
solving to take away that objection which had. been
raised against him when he made his first addresses
to Hilpa, began, immediately after her. marriage with
Harpath, to plant all that mountainous region which
fell to his lot in the division of this. country. He
knew how to adapt every plant to its proper soil, and
is thought to have inherited many traditional secrets
of that art from the first man. This employment
turned at length to his profit as well as to his amuse-
ment; his mountains were in a few years shaded with
young trees, that gradually shot up into groves, woods,
and forests, intermixed with walks, and lawns, and
gardens; insomuch that the whole region, from a
naked and desolate prospect, began now to look like
a second Paradise. The pleasantness of the place,
and the agreeable disposition of Shalum, who was
reckoned, one of the mildest and wisest of all who
lived before the flood, drew into. it multitudes ofSTORY OF HILPA,.

people, who were perpetually employed in the sinking
of wells, the digging of trenches, and the hollowing
of trees, for the better distribution of water through
every part of this spacious plantation.

The habitations of Shalum looked every year more
beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, after the space
of seventy autumns, was wonderfully pleased with
the distant prospect of Shalum’s hills, which were
then covered with innumerable tufts of trees and
gloomy scenes, that gave a magnificence to the place,
and converted it into one of the finest landscapes the
eye of man could behold.

The Chinese record a letter which Shalum is said

have written to Hilpa in the eleventh year of her
widowhood. I shall here translate it, without depart-
ing from that noble simplicity of sentiments and
plamness of manners which appear in the original.

Shalum was at this time one hundred and eighty
years old, and Hilpa one hundred and seventy.

‘ Shalum, Master of Mount T. wzah, to Hilpa, Mis-
tress of the Valleys.

* In the 788th year of the creation.
‘ Wuar have I not suffered, O thou daughter of
Zilpah, since thou gavest thyself away in marriage
to my rival! I grew weary of the light of the sun,
and have been ever since covering myself with woods
and forests. These threescore and ten years have [
bewailed the loss of thee on the top of Mount Tirzah,
and soothed my melancholy among a thousand gloomy
shades of my own raising. My dwellings are at presen
as the garden of God; every part of them is filled
with fruits, and flowers, and fountains. The whole
mountain is perfumed for thy reception. Come up
into it, O my beloved, and let us people this spot of
the new world with a beautiful race of mortals ; let
us multiply exceedingly among these delightful shades,
VOL. II, Qne TET AE HOF

 

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2 Ot mp

 

a seaeaiieeEeeeee

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(Terence ai

 

338 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

and fill every quarter of them with sons and daughters.
Remember, O thou daughter of Zilpah, that the age
of man is but a thousand years; that beauty is the
admiration but of a few centuries. It flourishes as a
mountain oak, or as a cedar on the top of Tirzah,
which in three or four hundred years will fade away,
and never be thought of by posterity, unless a young
wood springs from its roots. Think well on this, and
remember thy neighbour in the mountains.’

Having here inserted this letter, which I look upon
as the only antediluvian billet-doux now extant, I
shall in my next paper give the answer to it, and the
sequel of this story.

183. THE SEQUEL OF THE STORY OF HILPA.

Tue letter inserted in my last had so good an effect
upon Hilpa, that she answered it in less than a twelve=
month, after the following manner:

‘ Hilpa, Mistress of the Valleys, to Shalum, Master
of Mount Tirzah.

© In the 789th year of the creation.
‘Wuar have I to do with thee, O Shalum? Thou
oraisest Hilpa’s beauty, but art thou not secretly
enamoured with the verdure of her meadows? Art
thou not more affected wth the prospect of her green
valleys than thou wouldest be with the sight of her
person? The lowings of my herds and the bleatings
of my flocks make a pleasant echo in thy mountains,
and sound sweetly in thy ears. What though I am
delighted with the wavings of thy forests, and those
breezes of perfumes which flow from the top of Tirzah,

are these like the riches of the valley ?

‘1 know thee, O Shalum; thou art more wise and
happy than any of the sons of men. Thy dwellingsSTORY OF HILPA. 339

are among the cedars; thou searchest out the diversity
of soils, thou understandest the influences of the stars,
and markest the change of seasons. Can a woman
appear lovely in the eyes of such a one? Disquiet
me not, O Shalum; let me alone, that I may enjoy
those goodly possessions which are fallen to my lot.
Win me not by thy enticing words. May thy trees
increase and multiply! mayest thou add wood to wood,
and shade to shade! but tempt not Hilpa to destroy
thy solitude, and make thy retirement populous,’

The Chinese say that a little time afterwards she
accepted of a treat in one of the neighbouring hills
to which Shalum had invited her. This treat lasted
for two years, and is said to have cost Shalum five
hundred antelopes, two thousand ostriches, and a
thousand tun of milk; but what most of all recom-
mended it, was that variety of delicious fruits and
pot-herbs, in which no person then living could any
way equal Shalum.

He treated her in the bower which he had planted
amidst the wood of nightingales. The wood was
made up of such fruit trees and plants as are most
agreeable to the several kinds of singing-birds; so
that it had drawn into it all the music of the country,
and was filled from one end of the year to the other
with the most agreeable concert in season.

He showed her every day some beautiful and sur-
prising scene in this new region of woodlands ; and,
as by this means he had all the opportunities he could
wish for of opening his mind to her, he succeeded so
well, that upon her departure she made hima kind
of promise, and gave him her word to return him a
positive answer in less than fifty years. .

She had not been long among her own people in
the valleys, when she received new overtures, and at
the same time a most splendid visit from Mishpach,i a psa.

 

err nas Terese

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840 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

who was a mighty man of old, and had built a grea
city, which he called after his own name. Every
house was made for at least a thousand years, nay,
there were some that were leased out for three lives ;
so that the quantity of stone and timber consumed in
this building is scarce to be imagined by those who
live in the present age of the world. This great man
entertained her with the voice of musical instruments
which had been lately invented, and danced before
her to the sound of the timbrel. He also presented
her with several domestic utensils wrought in brass
and iron, which had been newly found out for the
conveniency of life. In the mean time Shalum grew
very uneasy with himself, and was sorely displeased
at Hilpa for the reception which she had given to
Mishpach, insomuch that he never wrote to her or
spoke of her during a whole revolution of Saturn ;
but, finding that this intercourse went no farther than
a visit, he again renewed his addresses to her; who,
during his long silence, is said very often to have cast
a wishing eye upon Mount Tirzah.

Her mind continued wavering about twenty years
longer between Shalum and Mishpach; for though
her inclinations favoured the former, her interest
pleaded very powerfully for the other. While her
heart was in this unsettled condition, the following
accident happened, which determined her choice. A
high tower of wood that stood in the city of Mishpach
having caught fire by a flash of lightning, in a few
days reduced the whole town to ashes. Mishpach
resolved to rebuild the place whatever it should cost
him; and, having already destroyed all the timber
of the country, he was forced to have recourse to
Shalum, whose forests were now two hundred years
old. He purcha8ed these woods with so many herds
of cattle and flocks of sheep, and with such a vast
extent of fields and pastures, that Shalum was nowSTORY OF HILPA. oa
grown more wealthy than Mishpach; and therefore
appeared so charming in the eyes of Zilpah’s daugh-
ter, that she no longer refused him in marriage. On
the day in which he brought her up into the moun-
tains he raised a most prodigious pile of cedar, and
of every sweet smelling wood, which reached above
three hundred cubits in height; he also cast into the
pile bundles of myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, en-
riching it with every spicy shrub, and making it fat
with the gums of his plantations: This was the
burnt-offering which Shalum offered in the day of his
espousals ; the smoke of it ascended up to heaven, and
filled the whole country with incense and perfume.

 

184, ON ETERNITY.

‘ WE consider infinite space as an expansion without
a circumference: we consider eternity, or infinite
duration, as a line that has neither a beginning nor
an end. In our speculations of infinite space, we
consider that particular place in which we exist as a
kind of centre to the whole expansion. In our spe-
culations of eternity, we consider the time which is
present to us as the middle which divides the whole
line into two equal parts. For this reason many witty
authors compare the present time to an isthmus or
narrow neck of land, that rises in the midst of an
ocean, immeasurably diffused on either side of it.

‘ Philosophy, and indeed common sense, naturally
throws eternity under two divisions, which we may
call in English that eternity which is past, and that
eternity which is to come. The learned terms of
“Eternitas a parte ante, and Atternitas a parte post,
may be more amusing to the reader, but can have no
ther idea affixed to them than what is conveyed to us
y those words, an eternity that is past and an eternity

b
that is to come. Each of these eternities is bounded

 

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342 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

at the one extreme, or, in other words, the former has
an end, and the latter a beginning.

‘ Let us first of all consider that eternity which is
past, reserving that which is to come for the subject
of another paper. The nature of this eternity is utterly
inconceivable by the mind of man: our reason de-
monstrates to us that it has been, but at the same
time can frame no. idea of it but what is big with
absurdity and contradiction. We can have no other
conception of any duration which is. past, than that
all of it was once present; and whatever was once
present is at some certain distance from us; and
whatever is at any certain distance from us, be the
distance never so remote, cannot be eternity. The very
notion of any duration’s being past, implies that it was
once present; for the idea of being once present is
actually incladed in the idea of its being past. This
therefore is a depth not to be sounded by human un-
derstanding. We are sure that there has been an
eternity, and yet contradict ourselves when we mea-
sure this eternity by any notion which we can frame
of it.

‘ If we go to the bottom of this matter, we shall find
that the difficulties we meet with in our conceptions
of eternity proceed from this single reason, that we
can have no other idea of any kind of duration, than
that by which we ourselves, and all other created
beings do exist; which is a successive duration made
up of past, present, and to come. There is nothing
which exists after this manner, all the parts of whose
existence were not once actually present, and con-
sequently may be reached by a certain number of
years applied to it. We may ascend as high as we
please, and employ our being to that eternity which
1s to come, in adding millions of years to millions of
years, and we can never come up to any fountain head
of duration, to any beginning in eternity: but at theON ETERNITY. 343
same time we are sure, that whatever was once pre-
sent does lie within the reach of numbers, though per-
haps we can never be able to put enough* of them
together for that purpose. We may as well say, that
any thing may be actually present in any part of infi-
nite space which does not le at a certain distance
from us, as that any part of infinite duration was once
actually present, and does not also lie at some deter-
mined distance from us. The distance in both cases
may be immeasurable and indefinite as to our facul-
ties, but our reason tells us that it cannot be so in
itself. Here therefore is that difficulty which human
understanding is not capable of surmounting. We
are sure that something must have existed from eter-
nity, and are at the same time unable to conceive that
any thing which exists, according to our notion of
existence, can have existed from eternity.

“It is hard for a reader, who has not rolled this
thought in his own mind, to follow in such an ab-
stracted speculation; but I have been the longer on
it, because I think it is a demonstrative argument of
the being and eternity of a God: and, though there
are many other demonstrations which Jead us to this
great truth, I do not think we ought to lay aside any
proofs in this matter, which the light of reason has
suggested to us, especially when it is such a one as
has been urged by men famous for their penetration
and force of understanding, and which appears alto-
gether conclusive to those who will be at the pains to
examine it.

‘Having thus considered that eternity which is
past, according to the best idea we can frame of it,
I shall now draw up those several articles on this sub-
ject, which are dictated to us by the light of reason,
and which may be looked upon as the creed of a phi-
Josopher in this great point.

* Enow. The singular number is here used for the plural.Se

 

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34

Ae

ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

‘First, It is certain that no being could have made
itself; for, if so, it must have acted before it was,
which is a contradiction.

‘Secondly, That therefore some being must have
existed from all eternity.

‘ Thirdly, That whatever exists after the manner
of created beings, or according to any notions which
we have of existence, could not have existed from
eternity.

‘ Fourthly, That this Eternal Being must therefore
be the great Author of nature, ‘ the Ancient of Days,”
who, being at an infinite distance in his perfections
from all finite and created beings, exists in a quite
different manner from them, and in a manner of which
they can have no idea.

‘I know that several of the schoolmen, who would
not be thought ignorant of any thing, have pretended
to explain the manner of God’s existence, by telling
us that he comprehends infinite duration in every
noment; that eternity is with him a punctum stans,
a fixed point; or, which is as good sense, an infinite
instant; that nothing with reference to his existence
is either past or to come: to which the ingenious
‘Mr. Cowley alludes in his description of heaven:

*€ Nothing is there to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal now does always last.”

‘ For my own part, I look upon these propositions
as words that have no ideas annexed to them; and
think men had better own their ignorance than ad-
vance doctrines by which they mean nothing, and
which, indeed, are selfcontradictory. We cannot be
too modest in our disquisitions when we meditate on
Tim who is environed with so much glory and per-
fection, who is the source of being, the fountain of all
that existence which we and his whole creation derive
from him. Let us, therefore, with the utmost humi-
lity acknowledge that, as some being must necessarilyON ETERNITY. 345

have existed from eternity, so this being does exist
after an incomprehensible manner, since it is impos-
sible for a being to have existed from eternity after
our manner or notions of existence. Revelation con-
firms these natural dictates of reason in the accounts
which it gives us of the Divine existence, where it
tells us, that he is the same yesterday, to-day, and for
ever; that he is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning
and the ending; that a thousand years are with him
as one day, and one day as a thousand years; by
which, and the like expressions, we are taught that
his existence with relation to time or duration is infi-
nitely different from the existence of any of his crea-
tures, and consequently that it is impossible for us to
frame any adequate conceptions of it.

‘In the first revelation which he makes of his own
being, he entitles himself, “I AM that lam;” and
when Moses desires to know what name he shall give
bim in his embassy to Pharaoh, he bids him say that
‘““T AM hath sent you.’ Our great Creator, by this
revelation of himself, does in a manner exclude every
thing else from a real existence, and distinguishes
himself from his creatures as the only being which
truly and really exists. The ancient Platonic notion,
which was drawn from speculations of eternity, won-
derfully agrees with this revelation which God has
made of himself. There is nothing, say they, which
in reality exists, whose existence, as we call it, is
pieced up of past, present, and to come. Such a
flitting and successive existence is rather a shadow of
existence, and something which is like it, than exist-
ence itself. He only properly exists whose existence
is entirely present; that is, in other words, who exists
in the most perfect manner, and in such a manner as
we have no idea of.

‘T shall conclude this speculation with one useful
inference. How can we sufficiently prostrate our-
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346 ADDISON'S ESSAYS.

selves and fall down before our Maker, when we
consider that ineffable goodness and wisdom which
contrived this existence for finite natures! What
must be the overflowings of that good-will, which
prompted our Creator to adapt existence to beings,
in whom it is not necessary; especially when we
consider that he himself was before in the complete
possession of existence and of happiness, and in the
full enjoyment of eternity! What man can think of
himself as called out and separated from nothing, of
his being made a conscious, areasonable, and a happy
creature, in short, of being taken in as a sharer of
existence, and a kind of partner in eternity, without
being swallowed up in wonder, in praise, in adora-
tion! It is indeed a thought too big for the mind of
man, and rather to be entertained in the secrecy of
devotion, and in the silence of the soul, than to be
expressed by words. The Supreme Being has not
given us powers of faculties sufficient to extol and
magnify such unutterable-goodness.

‘Itis however some comfort to us, that we shall
be always doing what we shall be never able to do,
and that a work which cannot be finished will how-
ever be the work of an eternity.’

185. ON DRAMATIC CRITICISM.

I Look upon the playhouse as a world within iéself.
They have lately furnished the middle region of it
with a new set of meteors, in order to give the sub-
lime to many modern tragedies. I was there last
winter at the first rehearsal of the new thunder, which
is much more deep and sonorous than any hitherto
made use of. They have a Salmoneus behind the
scenes, who plays it off with great success. Their
lightnings are made to flash more briskly than here-

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|
tofore; their clouds are also better furbelowed, andON DRAMATIC CRITICISM. Ont

more voluminous; not to mention a violent storm
locked up in a great chest that is designed for the
tempest. They are also provided with above a dozen
showers of snow, which, as I am informed, are the
plays of many unsuccessful poets artificially cut and
shredded for that use. Mr. Rymer’s Edgar is to fall
in snow at the next acting of King Lear, in order to
heighten, or rather to alleviate, the distress of that
unfortunate prince; and to serve by way of decora-
tion to a piece which that great critic has written
against.

I do not indeed wonder that the actors should be
such professed enemies-to those among our nation
who are commonly known by the name of critics,
since it is a rule among these gentlemen to fall upon
a play, not because it is ill written, but because it
takes. Several of them lay it downas a maxim, that
whatever dramatic performance has a long run must
of necessity be good for nothing: as though the first
precept in poetry were ‘ not to please.’ Whether this
rule holds good or not, I shall leave to the determina-
tion of those who are better judges than myself; if it
does, | am sure it tends very much to the honour of
those gentlemen who have established it; few of their
pieces having been disgraced by a run of three days,
and most of them being so exquisitely written, that
the town would never give them more than one night’s
hearing.

I have a great esteem for a true critic, such as
Aristotle and Longinus among the Greeks; Horace
and Quintilian among the Romans; Boileau and
Dacier among the French. But it is our misfortune
that some, who set up for professed critics among us,
are so stupid, that they do not know how to put ten
words together with elegance or common propriety ;
and withal so illiterate, that they have no taste of the
learned languages, and therefore criticise upon old

    
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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348 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

authors only at secondhand. They judge of them by
what others have written, and not by any notions they
have of the authors themselves. The words unity,
action, sentiment, and diction, pronounced with an
air of authority, give them a figure among unlearned
readers, who are apt to believe they are very deep,
because they are unintelligible. The ancient critics
are full of the praises of their contemporaries; they
discover beauties which escaped the observation of
the vulgar, and very often found out reasons for pal-
liating and excusing such little slips and oversights as
were committed in the writings of eminent authors.
On the contrary, most of the smatterers in criticism
who appear among us make it their business to vilify
and depreciate every new production that gains ap-
plause, to descry imaginary blemishes, and to prove,
by far-fetched arguments, that what pass for beauties
in any celebrated piece are faults and errors. In short,
the writings of these critics, compared with those of
the ancients, are hke the works of the sophists com-
pared with those of the old philosophers.

Envy and cavil are the natural fruits of laziness and
ignorance; which was probably.the reason that in
the heathen mythology Momus is said to be the son
of Nox and Somnus, of darkness and sleep. Idle
men, who have not been at the pains to accomplish
or distinguish themselves, are very apt to detract from
others; as ignorant men are very subject to decry
those beauties in a celebrated work which they have
not eyes to discover. Many of our sons of Momus,
who dignify themselves by the name of critics, are
the genuine descendants of these two illustrious an-
cestors. They are often led into those numerous
absurdities in which they daily instruct the people,
by not considering that, first, there is sometimes a
greater judgment shown in deviating from the rules
of art than in adhering to them; and, secondly, thatON DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 349

there is more beauty in the works of a great genius
who is ignorant of all the rules of art, than in the
works of a little genius who not only knows but scru-
pulously observes them.

First, We may often take notice of men who are
perfectly acquainted with all the rules of good writing,
and, notwithstanding, choose to depart from them on
extraordinary occasions. I could give instances out
of all the tragic writers of antiquity who have shown
their judgment in this particular; and purposely re-
ceded from an established rule of the drama, when it
has made way for a much higher beauty than the
observation of such a rule would have been. Those
who have surveyed the noblest pieces of architecture
and statuary, both ancient and modern, know very
well that there are frequent deviations from art im the
works of the greatest masters, which have produced a
much nobler effect than a more accurate and exact
way of proceeding could have done. This often arises
from what the Italians call the gusto grande in these
arts, which is what we call the sublime in writing.

In the next place, our critics do not seem sensible
that there is more beauty in the works of a great
genius who is ignorant of the rules of art, than in
those of a little genius who knows and observes them.
It is of these men of genius that Terence speaks, in
opposition to the little artificial cavillers of his time ;

© Quorum emulari exoptat negligentiam
Potius, quam istorum obscuram diligentiam’ Prot. And.

‘ Whose negligence he would rather imitate than these men’s
obscure diligence.’

A critic may have the same consolation in the ill
success of his play as Dr. South tells us a physician
has at the death of a patient, that he was killed secun-
dum artem. Our inimitable Shakspeare is a stum-
bling-block to the whole tribe of these rigid critics.
Who would not rather read one of his plays, whereon i EO IE PARED

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50 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

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there is not a single rule of the stage observed, than
any production of a modern critic, where there is not
one of them violated? Shakspeare was indeed born
with all the seeds of poetry, and may be compared to
the stone in Pyrrhus’s ring, which, as Pliny tells us,
had the figure of Apollo and the nine Muses in the
veins of it, produced by the spontaneous hand of
nature, without any help from art.

 

186. THE MERRY AND THE SERIOUS.

MankiInD may be divided into the merry and the
serious, who both of them make a very good figure
in the species so long as they keep their respective
humours from degenerating into the neighbouring
extreme; there being a natural tendency in the one
to a melancholy moroseness, and in the other to a
fantastic levity.

The merry part of the world are very amiable, whilst
they diffuse a cheerfulness through conversation at
proper seasons and on proper occasions; but, on the
contrary, a great grievance to society when they infect
every discourse with insipid mirth, and turn into ridi-
cule such subjects as are not suited to it. Forthough
laughter is looked upon by the philosophers as the
property of reason, the excess of it has been always
considered as the mark of folly.

On the other side, seriousness has its beauty whilst
it 1s attended with cheerfulness and humanity, and
does not come in unseasonably to pall the good
humour of those with whom we converse.

These two sets of men, notwithstanding they each
of them shine in their respective characters, are apt
to bear a natural aversion and antipathy to one
another.

What is more usual than to hear men of serious
tempers and austere morals, enlarging upon theTHE MERRY AND THE SERIOUS. 351
vanities and follies of the young and gay part of the
species, whilst they look with a kind of horror upon
such pomps and diversions as are innocent in them-
selves, and only culpable when they draw the mind
too much !

I could not but smile upon reading the passage in
the account which Mr. Baxter gives of his own life,
wherein he represents it as a great blessing that in
his youth he very narrowly escaped getting a place at
court.

It must indeed be confessed, that levity of temper
takes a man off his guard, and opens a pass to his
soul for any temptation that assaults it. It favours
all the approaches of vice, and weakens all the resist-
ance of virtue: for which reason a renowned states-
man in Queen Elizabeth’s days, after having retired
from court and public business in order to give him-
self up to the duties of religion, when any of his old
friends used to visit him, had still this word of advice
in his mouth, ¢ Be serious.’

An eminent Italian author of this cast of mind,
speaking of the great advantage of a serious and com-
posed temper, wishes very gravely, that for the benefit
of mankind he had Trophonius’s cave in his posses-
sion; which, says he, would contribute more to the
reformation of manners than all the workhouses and
bridewells in Europe.

We have a very particular description of this cave
in Pausanias, who tells us that it was made in the
form of a huge oven, and had many particular cir-
cumstances, which disposed the person who was in it
to be more pensive and thoughtful than ordinary ;
insomuch, that no man was ever observed to laugh
all his life after, who had once made his entry into
this cave. It was usual in those times, when any one
carried a more than ordinary gloominess in his fea-

  

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352 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

tures, to tell him that he looked like one just come
out of Trophonius’s cave.

On the other hand, writers of a more merry com-
plexion have been no less severe on the opposite
party ; and have had one advantage above them, that
they have attacked them with more turns of wit and
humour.

After all, if a man’s temper were at his own dis-
posal, I think he would not choose to be of either of
these parties; since the most perfect character is that
which is formed out of both of them. A man would
neither choose to be a hermit nor a buffoon: human
nature 1s not so miserable as that we should be always
melancholy, nor so happy as that we should be always
merry. In aword, a man should not live as if there
was no God in the world, nor at the same time as if
there were no men in it.

187. ON FUTURE HAPPINESS.

I wave always taken a particular pleasure in examin-
ing the opinions which men of different religions, dif-
ferent ages, and different countries, have entertained
concerning the immortality of the soul, and the state
of happiness which they promise themselves in ano-
ther world. For, whatever prejudices and errors
human nature lies under, we find that either reason, .
or tradition from our first parents, has discovered to
all people something in these great points which bears
analogy to truth, and to the doctrines opened to us
by divine revelation. I was lately discoursing on this
subject with a learned person, who has been very
much conversant among the inhabitants of the more
western parts of Africa. Upon his conversing with
several in that country, he tells me that their notion
of heaven or of a future state of happiness is this, thatON. FUTURE HAPPINESS. 303
every thing we there wish for will immediately present
itself to us. We find, say they, Our souls are of such
a nature that they require variety, and are not capable
of being always delighted with the same objects. The
Supreme Being, therefore, in compliance with this
taste of happiness which he has planted in the soul of
man, will raise up from time to time, say they, every
gratification which it is in the humour to be pleased
with. If we wish to be in groves or bowers, among
running streams or falls of water, we shall immedi-
ately find ourselves in the midst of such a scene as
we desire. If we would be entertained with music
and the melody of sounds, the concert arises upon
our wish, and the whole region about us is filled with
harmony. In short, every desire will be followed by
fruition; and whatever a man’s inclination directs
him to will be present with him. Nor is it material
whether the Supreme Power creates in conformity
to our wishes, or whether he only produces such a
change in our imagination as makes us believe our-
selves conversant among those scenes which delight
us. Our happiness will be the same, whether it pro-
ceed from external objects, or from the impressions
of the Deity upon our own private fancies. This is
the account which I have received from my learned
friend. Notwithstanding this system of belief be in
general very chimerical and visionary, there is some-
thing sublime in its manner of considering the influ-
ence of a Divine Being ona human soul. It has also,
like most other opinions of the heathen world upon
these important points; it has, I say, its foundation
in truth, as it supposes the souls of good men after
this‘life to be in a state of perfect happiness; that in
this state there will be no barren hopes, nor fruitless
wishes, and that we shall enjoy every thing we can
desire. But the particular circumstance which I am
most pleased with inthis scheme, and which arises from

saat eernernieeeeetiieeeen eiemsnmen eames cet te aa AA Sg

 

354 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
a just reflection upon human nature, is that variety of

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pleasures which it supposes the souls of good men will
be possessed of in another world. This I think highly
probable, from the dictates both of reason and reve-
lation. The soul consists of many faculties, as the
understanding, and the will, with all the senses both
outward and inward; or, to speak more philosophi-
cally, the soul can exert herself in many different
ways of action. She can understand, will, imagine,
see, and hear, love, and discourse, and apply herself
to many other the like exercises of different kinds and
natures; but what is more to be considered, the soul
is capable of receiving a most exquisite pleasure and
satisfaction from the exercise of any of these its
powers, when they are gratified with their proper
objects; she can be entirely happy by the satisfac-
tion of the memory, the sight, the hearing, or any
other mode of perception. Every faculty is a distinct
taste in the mind, and hath objects accommodated to
its proper relish. Doctor Tillotson somewhere says,
that he will not presume to determine in what con-
sists the happiness of the blessed, because God Al-
mighty is capable of making the soul happy by ten
thousand different ways. Besides those several ave-
nues to pleasure which the soul is endowed with in
this life, it is not impossible, according to the opinions
of many eminent divines, but there may be new facul-
ties in the souls of good men made perfect, as well
as new senses in their glorified bodies. This we are
sure of, that there will be new objects offered to all
those faculties which are essential to us.

We are likewise to take notice that every particular
faculty is capable of being employed on a very great
variety of objects. The understanding, for example,
may be happy in the contemplation of moral, natu-
ral, mathematical, and other kinds of truth. The
memory likewise may turn itself to an infinite multi-ON FUTURE HAPPINESS. SoD

tude of objects, especially when the soul shall have
passed through the space of many millions of years,
and shall reflect with pleasure on the days of eternity.
Every other faculty may be considered in the same
extent.

We cannot question but that the happiness of a
soul will be adequate to its nature; and that it is
not endowed with any faculties which are to lie use-
less and unemployed. The happiness is to be the
happiness of the whole man; and we may easily
conceive to ourselves the happiness of the soul whilst
any one of its faculties is in the fruition of its chief
good. The happiness may be of a more exalted
nature in proportion as the faculty employed is so:
but, as the whole soul acts in the exertion of any of
its particular powers, the whole soul is happy in the
pleasure which arises from any of its particular acts.
For, notwithstanding, as has been before hinted, and
as it has been taken notice of by one of the greatest
modern philosophers *, we divide the soul into several
powers and faculties, there is no such division in the
soul itself, since it is the whole soul that remembers,
understands, wills, or imagines. Our manner of
considering the memory, understanding, will, imagi-
nation, and the like faculties, is for the better ena-
bling us to express ourselves in such abstracted sub-
jects of speculation, not that there is any such division
in the soul itself.

Seeing then that the soul has many different facul-
ties; or, in other words, many different ways of act-
ing; that it can be intensely pleased or made happy
by all these different faculties, or ways of acting ; that
it may be endowed with several latent faculties, which
it is not at present in a condition to exert; that we
cannot believe the soul is endowed with any faculty
which is of no use to it; that, whenever any one of
* Locke.

tinea ee a Te

ee eee tea356 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.
these faculties is transcendently pleased, the soul is
in a state of happiness; and, in the last place, consi-
dering that the happiness of another world is to be
the happiness of the whole man; who can question
but that there is an infinite variety in those pleasures
we are speaking of; and that this fulness of joy will
be made up of all those pleasures which the nature of
the soul is capable of receiving?

We shall be the more confirmed in this doctrine
if we observe the nature of variety with regard to the
mind of man. The soul does not care to be always
in the same bent. The faculties relieve one another
by turns, and receive an additional pleasure from
the novelty of those objects about which they are
conversant.

Revelation likewise very much confirms this no-
tion, under the different views which it gives us of
our future happiness. In the description of the
throne of God, it represents to us all those objects
which are able to gratify the senses and imagination:
in very many places it intimates to us all the happi-
ness which the understanding can possibly receive in
that state where all things shall be revealed to us, and
we shall know even as we are known: the raptures
of devotion, of divine love, the pleasure of conversing
with our blessed Saviour, with an innumerable host
of angels, and with the spirits of just men made per-
fect, are likewise revealed to us in several parts of the
holy writings. There are also mentioned those hier-
archies or governments in which the blessed shall be
ranged one above another, and in which we may be
sure a great part of our happiness will likewise con-
sist: for it will not be there as in this world, where
every one is aiming at power and superiority ; but,
on the contrary, every one will find that station the
most proper for him in which he is placed, and will
probably think that he could not have been so happyON FUTURE HAPPINESS. 357
in any other station. These, and many other parti-
culars, are marked in divine revelation as the several
ingredients of our happiness in heaven, which all
imply such a variety of joys, and such a gratification
of the soul in all its different faculties, as I have been
here mentioning.

Some of the rabbins tell us that the cherubims are
a set of angels who know most, and the seraphims a
set of angels who love most. Whether this distinc-
tion be not altogether imaginary, I shall not here
examine; but it is highly probable that, among the
spirits of good men, there may be some who will be
more pleased with the employment of one faculty
than of another; and this perhaps according to those
innocent and virtuous habits or inclinations which
have here taken the deepest root.

I might here apply this consideration to the spirits
of wicked men, with relation to the pain which they
shall suffer in every one of their faculties, and the
respective miseries which shall be appropriated to
each faculty in particular. But, leaving this to the
reflection of my readers, I shall conclude with ob-
serving how we ought to be thankful to our great
Creator, and rejoice in the being which he has be-
stowed upon us, for having made the soul susceptible
of pleasure by so many different ways. We see by
what a variety of passages joy and gladness may
enter into the thoughts of man; how wonderfully a
human spirit is framed to imbibe its proper satisfac-
tions, and taste the goodness of its Creator. We may
therefore look into ourselves with rapture and amaze-
ment, and cannot sufficiently express our gratitude to
fim who has.encompassed us with such a profusion
of blessings, and opened in us so many capacities of
enjoying them.

There cannot be a stronger argument that God has
designed us for a state of future happiness, and for

   
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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358 ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

that heaven which he has revealed to us, than that he
has thus naturally qualified the soul for it, and made
it a being capable of receiving so much bliss. He
would never have made such faculties in vain, and
have endowed us with powers that were not to be
exerted on such objects as are suited to them. It is
very manifest, by the inward frame and constitution
of our minds, that he has adapted them to an infinite
variety of pleasures and gratifications which are not
to be met with in this life. We should therefore at all
times take care that we do not disappoint this his
gracious purpose and intention towards us, and make
those faculties, which he formed as so many qualifica-
tions for happiness and rewards, to be the instruments
of pain and punishment.

THE END.

CHISWICK ;
PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM.i
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