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a Lucilius and a Lucretius, before Virgil and Horace; even after Chaucer there was a Spenser, a Harrington, a Fairfax, before Waller and Denham were in being, and our numbers were in their nonage till these last appeared.‡

He must have been a man of a most won

derful comprehensive nature, because, as it has been truly observed of him, he has taken into the compass of his Canterbury Tales the various manners and humours (as we now call them) of the whole English nation in his age. Not a single character has escaped him. All his pilgrims are severally distinguished from each other, and not only in their inclinations but in their very physiognomies and persons. Baptista Portas could not have described their natures better than by the marks which the poet gives them.

The matter and manner of their tales and of their telling are so suited to their different educations, humours, and callings that each of them would be improper in any other mouth.

SA Neapolitan physiognomist.

Even the grave and serious characters are dis-
tinguished by their several sorts of gravity;
their discourses are such as belong to their
age, their calling, and their breeding, such as
are becoming of them and of them only. Some
of his persons are vicious and some virtuous;
some are unlearned, or (as Chaucer calls them)
lewd, and some are learned. Even the ribaldry
of the low characters is different: the Reeve,
the Miller, and the Cook are several men, and
distinguished from each other as much as the
mincing Lady Prioress and the broad-speaking,
But enough of
gap-toothed Wife of Bath.
this: there is such a variety of game springing
up before me that I am distracted in my

choice and know not which to follow. It is

sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God's plenty. We have our forefathers and great-grand-dames all before us as they were in Chaucer's days: their general characters are still remaining in mankind, and even in England, though they are called by other names than those of monks and friars and canons and lady abbesses and nuns; for mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out

Posterity has not sustained this verdict. But see of nature though everything is altered.

Eng. Lit., pp. 141, 165.

EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

SIR RICHARD STEELE

(1672-1729)

PROSPECTUS.

sider, that I am at a very great charge for proper materials for this work, as well as that, before I resolved upon it, I had settled a correspondence in all parts of the known and knowing world. And forasmuch as this globe

The Tatler, No. 1. Tuesday, April 12, 1709. is not trodden upon by mere drudges of busi

Quicquid agunt homines

nostri est farrago libelli.

Juv. Sat. i. 85, 86.

Whate'er men do, or say, or think, or dream, Our motley Paper seizes for its theme.

Though the other papers, which are published for the use of the good people of England,* have certainly very wholesome effects, and are laudable in their particular kinds, they do not seem to come up to the main design of such narrations, which, I humbly presume, should be principally intended for the use of politic persons, who are so public-spirited as to neglect their own affairs to look into trans

actions of state. Now these gentlemen, for

the most part, being persons of strong zeal, and weak intellects, it is both a charitable and necessary work to offer something, whereby such worthy and well-affected members of the commonwealth may be instructed, after their reading, what to think; which shall be the end and purpose of this my paper, wherein I shall, from time to time, report and consider all

matters of what kind soever that shall occur to me, and publish such my advices and reflec tions every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in the week, for the convenience of the post. I resolve to have something which may be of entertainment to the fair sex, in honour of whom I have invented the title of this paper. I therefore earnestly desire all persons, with out distinction, to take it in for the present gratis, and hereafter at the price of one penny, forbidding all hawkers to take more for it at their peril. And I desire all persons to con

Newspapers had been published for nearly a century. Steele proposed in The Tatler to pubIsh periodical essays. stories. etc.. which should serve something more than a merely practical purpose. See Eng. Lit., p. 176.

ness only, but that men of spirit and genius are justly to be esteemed as considerable agents in it, we shall not, upon a dearth of news, present you with musty foreign edicts, and dull proclamations, but shall divide our relation of the passages which occur in action or discourse throughout this town, as well as elsewhere, under such dates of places as may prepare you for the matter you are to expect in the following manner.

All accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and enWhite's Chocolate-house; † poetry under that tertainment, shall be under the article of of Will's Coffee-house; Learning, under the title of Grecian; foreign and domestic news,

you will have from St. James's Coffee-house;

and what else I have to offer on any other subject shall be dated from my own Apartment.

I once more desire my reader to consider, that as I cannot keep an ingenious man to go daily to Will's under two-pence each day, merely for his charges; to White's under sixhim some plain Spanish,11 to be as able as pence; nor to the Grecian, without allowing others at the learned table; and that a good observer cannot speak with even Kidney2 at considerations will, I hope, make all persons St. James's without clean linen; I say, these willing to comply with my humble request (when my gratis stock is exhausted) of a penny apiece; especially since they are sure of sible for me to want means to entertain them, some proper amusement, and that it is imposhaving, besides the force of my own parts, the

1 Probably wine (which according to The Tatler, No. 252, "heightens conversation"). 2 A waiter. The public coffee and chocolate houses of London were used as headquarters for the meetings of clubs. White's and St. James's were frequented by statesmen and men of fashion; Will's was a rendezvous for men of letters, and The Grecian for lawyers and scholars.

t

have long been blended with common earth.

power of divination, and that I can, by cast-ing adventures I have had with some, who ing a figure,3 tell you all that will happen before it comes to pass.

But this last faculty I shall use very sparingly, and speak but of few things until they are passed, for fear of divulging matters which may offend our superiors.

MEMORIES

The Tatler, No. 181. Tuesday, June 6, 1710.
Dies, ni fallor, adest, quem semper acer-
bum,

Semper honoratum, sic dii voluistis habebo.
Virg. Æn. v. 49.

And now the rising day renews the year,
A day for ever sad, for ever dear.

Though it is by the benefit of nature, that length of time thus blots out the violence of afflictions; yet with tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary to revive the old places of grief in our memory; and ponder step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the heart, and makes it beat with due time, without being quickened with desire, or retarded with despair, from its proper and equal motion. When we wind up a clock that is out of order, to make it go well for the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present instant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours, before it can recover the regularity of its time. Such, thought I, shall be my method this evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life There are those among mankind, who can as I much delighted in when living, an hour enjoy no relish of their being, except the world or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their is made acquainted with all that relates to memory, while I run over all the melancholy them, and think every thing lost that passes circumstances of this kind which have ocunobserved; but others find a solid delight incurred to me in my whole life. The first sense stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of after such a manner, as is as much above the my father, at which time I was not quite five approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life years of age; but was rather amazed at what being too short to give instances great enough all the house meant, than possessed with a real of true friendship or good will, some sages understanding why nobody was willing to play have thought it pious to preserve a certain with me. I remember I went into the room reverence for the Manes of their deceased where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping friends; and have withdrawn themselves from alone by it. I had my battledore in my hand, the rest of the world at certain seasons, to com- and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling papa; memorate in their own thoughts such of their for, I know not how, I had some slight idea acquaintance who have gone before them out that he was locked up there. My mother of this life. And indeed, when we are ad- catched me in her arms, and, transported bevanced in years, there is not a more pleasing yond all patiences of the silent grief she was entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy before in, she almost smothered me in her moment the many we have parted with, that embraces; and told me, in a flood of tears, have been dear and agreeable to us, and to "Papa could not hear me, and would play cast a melancholy thought or two after those, with me no more, for they were going to put with whom, perhaps, we have indulged our him under ground, whence he could never come selves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. to us again.'' She was a very beautiful With such inclinations in my heart I went to woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a digmy closets yesterday in the evening, and re-nity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her solved to be sorrowful; upon which occasion I transport, which, methought, struck me with could not but look with disdain upon myself, an instinct of sorrow, that, before I was sensithat though all the reasons which I had to ble of what it was to grieve, seized my very lament the loss of many of my friends are soul, and has made pity the weakness of my now as forcible as at the moment of their de- heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, meparture, yet did not my heart swell with the thinks, like the body in embryo, and receives same sorrow which I felt at that time; but I impressions so forcible, that they are as hard could, without tears, reflect upon many pleas to be removed by reason, as any mark, with which a child is born, is to be taken away by 6 endurance

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any future application. Hence it is, that goodnature in me is no merit; but having been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of any affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an un manly gentleness of mind, which has since insnared me into ten thousand calamities; from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that, in such a humour as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past afflictions.

We, that are very old, are better able to remember things which befel us in our distant youth, than the passages of later days. For this reason it is, that the companions of my strong and vigorous years present themselves more immediately to me in this office of sor row. Untimely and unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament; so little are we able to make it indifferent when a thing happens, though we know it must happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved from it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises different passions, according to the circumstances of their departure. Who can have lived in an army, and in a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and agreeable men that might long have flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the im

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

THE CLUB.

precations of the fatherless and widow on the The Spectator, No. 2, Friday, March 2, 1711.

tyrant to whose ambition they fell sacrifices? But gallant men, who are cut off by the sword, move rather our veneration than our pity; and we gather relief enough from their own contempt of death, to make that no evil, which was approached with so much cheerfulness, and attended with so much honour. But when we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions, and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death to those from whom they had the fortune to receive it; I say, when we let our thoughts wander from such noble objects, and consider the havoc which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once.

Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence and untimely death, of the first object my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous virgin! how ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel! Oh, Death! thou hast right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty;

--

-Ast alii sex

Et plures uno conclamant ore

Juv. Sat. vii. 167. Six more at least join their consenting voice. The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His great grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance which is called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to modes and forms, makes him but the readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he lives in

This was a place where periodical auctions were The fashionable dinner hour was four o'clock. held, and lotteries conducted.

Soho Square.? It is said, he keeps himself a the neighborhood; all which questions he agrees bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a with an attorney to answer and take care perverse beautiful widow of the next county of in the lump. He is studying the passions to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger themselves, when he should be inquiring into was what you call a fine gentleman, had often the debates among men which arise from them. supped with my Lord Rochesters and Sir He knows the argument of each of the orations George Etherege," fought a duel upon his first of Demosthenes and Tully,15 but not one case coming to town, and kicked bully Dawson10 in in the reports of our own courts. No one ever a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. took him for a fool; but none, except his inBut being ill-used by the above-mentioned timate friends, know he has a great deal of widow, he was very serious for a year and a wit. This turn makes him at once both disinhalf; and though, his temper being naturally terested and agreeable. As few of his thoughts jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless are drawn from business, they are most of of himself, and never dressed afterwards. He them fit for conversation. His taste of books continues to wear a coat and doublet of the is a little too just for the age he lives in; he same cut that were in fashion at the time of has read all, but approves of very few. His his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, tells us, has been in and out twelve times since and writings of the ancients, makes him a very he first wore it. . . . He is now in his fifty- delicate observer of what occurs to him in the sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a present world. He is an excellent critic, and good house both in town and country; a great the time of the play is his hour of business: lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful exactly at five he passes through New-Inn,16 cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved crosses through Russel-court, and takes a turn than esteemed. at Will's till the play begins; he has his shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at the barber's as you go into the Rose.17 It is for the good of the audience when he is at the play, for the actors have an ambition to please him.

His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a house, he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way upstairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum;* that he fills the chair at a quarter-session with great abilities, and, three months ago, gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the game

act.

The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city of London: a person of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually some sly way of jesting, which would make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea the British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in all its parts; and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion by arms; for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will often argue that, if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain from one nation; and if another, from another. I have heard

The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple;11 a man of great probity, wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his place of residence rather to obey the direction of an old humoursome father, than in pursuit of his own inclinations. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle and Longinus12 are much bet-him prove, that diligence makes more lasting ter understood by him than Littleton or Coke.13 The father sends up every post questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in

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acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, among which the greatest favourite is, "A penny saved is a penny got." A general trader of good sense is pleasanter company than a general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives

14 engages

15 Cicero.

16 Part of one of the law colleges.
17 A dissolute tavern-resort.

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