Books: Isaac Bickerstaff
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Richard Steele >> Isaac Bickerstaff
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VII.--THE DREAM OF FAME.
From my own Apartment, October 14.
There are two kinds of immortality, that which the soul really
enjoys after this life, and that imaginary existence by which men
live in their fame and reputation. The best and greatest actions
have proceeded from the prospect of the one or the other of these;
but my design is to treat only of those who have chiefly proposed to
themselves the latter as the principal reward of their labours. It
was for this reason that I excluded from my Tables of Fame all the
great founders and votaries of religion; and it is for this reason
also that I am more than ordinarily anxious to do justice to the
persons of whom I am now going to speak, for, since fame was the
only end of all their enterprises and studies, a man cannot be too
scrupulous in allotting them their due proportion of it. It was
this consideration which made me call the whole body of the learned
to my assistance; to many of whom I must own my obligations for the
catalogues of illustrious persons which they have sent me in upon
this occasion. I yesterday employed the whole afternoon in
comparing them with each other, which made so strong an impression
upon my imagination, that they broke my sleep for the first part of
the following night, and at length threw me into a very agreeable
vision, which I shall beg leave to describe in all its particulars.
I dreamed that I was conveyed into a wide and boundless plain, that
was covered with prodigious multitudes of people, which no man could
number. In the midst of it there stood a mountain, with its head
above the clouds. The sides were extremely steep, and of such a
particular structure, that no creature which was not made in a human
figure could possibly ascend it. On a sudden there was heard from
the top of it a sound like that of a trumpet, but so exceeding sweet
and harmonious, that it filled the hearts of those who heard it with
raptures, and gave such high and delightful sensations, as seemed to
animate and raise human nature above itself. This made me very much
amazed to find so very few in that innumerable multitude who had
ears fine enough to hear or relish this music with pleasure; but my
wonder abated when, upon looking round me, I saw most of them
attentive to three Syrens, clothed like goddesses, and distinguished
by the names of Sloth, Ignorance, and Pleasure. They were seated on
three rocks, amidst a beautiful variety of groves, meadows, and
rivulets that lay on the borders of the mountain. While this base
and grovelling multitude of different nations, ranks, and ages were
listening to these delusive deities, those of a more erect aspect
and exalted spirit separated themselves from the rest, and marched
in great bodies towards the mountain from whence they heard the
sound, which still grew sweeter the more they listened to it.
On a sudden methought this select band sprang forward, with a
resolution to climb the ascent, and follow the call of that heavenly
music. Every one took something with him that he thought might be
of assistance to him in his march. Several had their swords drawn,
some carried rolls of paper in their hands, some had compasses,
others quadrants, others telescopes, and others pencils. Some had
laurels on their heads, and others buskins on their legs; in short,
there was scarce any instrument of a mechanic art, or liberal
science, which was not made of use on this occasion. My good demon,
who stood at my right hand during this course of the whole vision,
observing in me a burning desire to join that glorious company, told
me, "he highly approved that generous ardour with which I seemed
transported; but at the same time advised me to cover my face with a
mask all the while I was to labour on the ascent." I took his
counsel, without inquiring into his reasons. The whole body now
broke into different parties, and began to climb the precipice by
ten thousand different paths. Several got into little alleys, which
did not reach far up the hill before they ended, and led no further;
and I observed that most of the artizans, which considerably
diminished our number, fell into these paths.
We left another considerable body of adventurers behind us who
thought they had discovered byways up the hill, which proved so very
intricate and perplexed, that after having advanced in them a little
they were quite lost among the several turns and windings; and
though they were as active as any in their motions, they made but
little progress in the ascent. These, as my guide informed me, were
men of subtle tempers, and puzzled politics, who would supply the
place of real wisdom with cunning and artifice. Among those who
were far advanced in their way there were some that by one false
step fell backward, and lost more ground in a moment, than they had
gained for many hours, or could be ever able to recover. We were
now advanced very high, and observed that all the different paths
which ran about the sides of the mountain began to meet in two great
roads, which insensibly gathered the whole multitude of travellers
into two great bodies. At a little distance from the entrance of
each road there stood a hideous phantom, that opposed our further
passage. One of these apparitions had his right hand filled with
darts, which he brandished in the face of all who came up that way.
Crowds ran back at the appearance of it, and cried out, "Death!"
The spectre that guarded the other road was Envy. She was not armed
with weapons of destruction, like the former, but by dreadful
hissings, noises of reproach, and a horrid distracted laughter; she
appeared more frightful than Death itself, insomuch that abundance
of our company were discouraged from passing any further, and some
appeared ashamed of having come so far. As for myself, I must
confess my heart shrunk within me at the sight of these ghastly
appearances; but, on a sudden, the voice of the trumpet came more
full upon us, so that we felt a new resolution reviving in us, and
in proportion as this resolution grew the terrors before us seemed
to vanish. Most of the company, who had swords in their hands,
marched on with great spirit, and an air of defiance, up the road
that was commanded by Death; while others, who had thought and
contemplation in their looks, went forward in a more composed manner
up the road possessed by Envy. The way above these apparitions grew
smooth and uniform, and was so delightful, that the travellers went
on with pleasure, and in a little time arrived at the top of the
mountain. They here began to breathe a delicious kind of ether, and
saw all the fields about them covered with a kind of purple light,
that made them reflect with satisfaction on their past toils, and
diffused a secret joy through the whole assembly, which showed
itself in every look and feature. In the midst of these happy
fields there stood a palace of a very glorious structure. It had
four great folding-doors that faced the four several quarters of the
world. On the top of it was enthroned the goddess of the mountain,
who smiled upon her votaries, and sounded the silver trumpet which
had called them up, and cheered them in their passage to her palace.
They had now formed themselves into several divisions, a band of
historians taking their stations at each door, according to the
persons whom they were to introduce.
On a sudden the trumpet, which had hitherto sounded only a march, or
a point of war, now swelled all its notes into triumph and
exultation. The whole fabric shook, and the doors flew open. The
first who stepped forward was a beautiful and blooming hero, and, as
I heard by the murmurs round me, Alexander the Great. He was
conducted by a crowd of historians. The person who immediately
walked before him was remarkable for an embroidered garment, who,
not being well acquainted with the place, was conducting him to an
apartment appointed for the reception of fabulous heroes. The name
of this false guide was Quintus Curtius. But Arrian and Plutarch,
who knew better the avenues of this palace, conducted him into the
great hall, and placed him at the upper end of the first table. My
good demon, that I might see the whole ceremony, conveyed me to a
corner of this room, where I might perceive all that passed without
being seen myself. The next who entered was a charming virgin,
leading in a venerable old man that was blind. Under her left arm
she bore a harp, and on her head a garland. Alexander, who was very
well acquainted with Homer, stood up at his entrance, and placed him
on his right hand. The virgin, who it seems was one of the Nine
Sisters that attended on the Goddess of Fame, smiled with an
ineffable grace at their meeting, and retired.
Julius Caesar was now coming forward; and though most of the
historians offered their service to introduce him, he left them at
the door, and would have no conductor but himself.
The next who advanced was a man of a homely but cheerful aspect, and
attended by persons of greater figure than any that appeared on this
occasion. Plato was on his right hand, and Xenophon on his left.
He bowed to Homer, and sat down by him. It was expected that Plato
would himself have taken a place next to his master Socrates: but
on a sudden there was heard a great clamour of disputants at the
door, who appeared with Aristotle at the head of them. That
philosopher, with some rudeness, but great strength of reason,
convinced the whole table that a title to the fifth place was his
due, and took it accordingly.
He had scarce sat down, when the same beautiful virgin that had
introduced Homer brought in another, who hung back at the entrance,
and would have excused himself, had not his modesty been overcome by
the invitation of all who sat at the table. His guide and behaviour
made me easily conclude it was Virgil. Cicero next appeared, and
took his place. He had inquired at the door for Lucceius to
introduce him, but not finding him there, he contented himself with
the attendance of many other writers, who all, except Sallust,
appeared highly pleased with the office.
We waited some time in expectation of the next worthy, who came in
with a great retinue of historians, whose names I could not learn,
most of them being natives of Carthage. The person thus conducted,
who was Hannibal, seemed much disturbed, and could not forbear
complaining to the board of the affronts he had met with among the
Roman historians, "who attempted," says he, "to carry me into the
subterraneous apartment, and perhaps would have done it, had it not
been for the impartiality of this gentleman," pointing to Polybius,
"who was the only person, except my own countrymen, that was willing
to conduct me hither."
The Carthaginian took his seat, and Pompey entered, with great
dignity in his own person, and preceded by several historians.
Lucan the poet was at the head of them, who, observing Homer and
Virgil at the table, was going to sit down himself, had not the
latter whispered him that whatever pretence he might otherwise have
had, he forfeited his claim to it by coming in as one of the
historians. Lucan was so exasperated with the repulse, that he
muttered something to himself, and was heard to say that since he
could not have a seat among them himself, he would bring in one who
alone had more merit than their whole assembly: upon which he went
to the door and brought in Cato of Utica. That great man approached
the company with such an air that showed he contemned the honour
which he laid a claim to. Observing the seat opposite to Caesar was
vacant, he took possession of it, and spoke two or three smart
sentences upon the nature of precedency, which, according to him,
consisted not in place, but in intrinsic merit: to which he added,
"that the most virtuous man, wherever he was seated, was always at
the upper end of the table." Socrates, who had a great spirit of
raillery with his wisdom, could not forbear smiling at a virtue
which took so little pains to make itself agreeable. Cicero took
the occasion to make a long discourse in praise of Cato, which he
uttered with much vehemence. Caesar answered him with a great deal
of seeming temper, but, as I stood at a great distance from them, I
was not able to hear one word of what they said. But I could not
forbear taking notice that in all the discourse which passed at the
table a word or nod from Homer decided the controversy.
After a short pause Augustus appeared, looking round him, with a
serene and affable countenance, upon all the writers of his age, who
strove among themselves which of them should show him the greatest
marks of gratitude and respect. Virgil rose from the table to meet
him; and though he was an acceptable guest to all, he appeared more
such to the learned than the military worthies.
The next man astonished the whole table with his appearance. He was
slow, solemn, and silent in his behaviour, and wore a raiment
curiously wrought with hieroglyphics. As he came into the middle of
the room, he threw back the skirt of it, and discovered a golden
thigh. Socrates, at the sight of it, declared against keeping
company with any who were not made of flesh and blood, and,
therefore, desired Diogenes the Laertian to lead him to the
apartment allotted for fabulous heroes and worthies of dubious
existence. At his going out he told them, "that they did not know
whom they dismissed; that he was now Pythagoras, the first of
philosophers, and that formerly he had been a very brave man at the
Siege of Troy." "That may be true," said Socrates, "but you forget
that you have likewise been a very great harlot in your time." This
exclusion made way for Archimedes, who came forward with a scheme of
mathematical figures in his hand, among which I observed a cone and
a cylinder.
Seeing this table full, I desired my guide, for variety, to lead me
to the fabulous apartment, the roof of which was painted with
Gorgons, Chimeras, and Centaurs, with many other emblematical
figures, which I wanted both time and skill to unriddle. The first
table was almost full. At the upper end sat Hercules, leaning an
arm upon his club; on his right hand were Achilles and Ulysses, and
between them AEneas; on his left were Hector, Theseus, and Jason:
the lower end had Orpheus, AEsop, Phalaris, and Musaeus. The ushers
seemed at a loss for a twelfth man, when, methought, to my great joy
and surprise, I heard some at the lower end of the table mention
Isaac Bickerstaff; but those of the upper end received it with
disdain, and said, "if they must have a British worthy, they would
have Robin Hood!"
While I was transported with the honour that was done me, and
burning with envy against my competitor, I was awakened by the noise
of the cannon which were then fired for the taking of Mons. I
should have been very much troubled at being thrown out of so
pleasing a vision on any other occasion; but thought it an agreeable
change, to have my thoughts diverted from the greatest among the
dead and fabulous heroes to the most famous among the real and the
living.
VIII.--LOVE AND SORROW.
From my own Apartment, October 17.
After the mind has been employed on contemplations suitable to its
greatness, it is unnatural to run into sudden mirth or levity; but
we must let the soul subside, as it rose, by proper degrees. My
late considerations of the ancient heroes impressed a certain
gravity upon my mind, which is much above the little gratification
received from starts of humour and fancy, and threw me into a
pleasing sadness. In this state of thought I have been looking at
the fire, and in a pensive manner reflecting upon the great
misfortunes and calamities incident to human life, among which there
are none that touch so sensibly as those which befall persons who
eminently love, and meet with fatal interruptions of their happiness
when they least expect it. The piety of children to parents, and
the affection of parents to their children, are the effects of
instinct; but the affection between lovers and friends is founded on
reason and choice, which has always made me think the sorrows of the
latter much more to be pitied than those of the former. The
contemplation of distresses of this sort softens the mind of man,
and makes the heart better. It extinguishes the seeds of envy and
ill-will towards mankind, corrects the pride of prosperity, and
beats down all that fierceness and insolence which are apt to get
into the minds of the daring and fortunate.
For this reason the wise Athenians, in their theatrical
performances, laid before the eyes of the people the greatest
afflictions which could befall human life, and insensibly polished
their tempers by such representations. Among the moderns, indeed,
there has arisen a chimerical method of disposing the fortune of the
persons represented, according to what they call poetical justice;
and letting none be unhappy but those who deserve it. In such
cases, an intelligent spectator, if he is concerned, knows he ought
not to be so, and can learn nothing from such a tenderness, but that
he is a weak creature, whose passions cannot follow the dictates of
his understanding. It is very natural, when one is got into such a
way of thinking, to recollect these examples of sorrow which have
made the strongest impression upon our imaginations. An instance or
two of such you will give me leave to communicate.
A young gentleman and lady of ancient and honourable houses in
Cornwall had from their childhood entertained for each other a
generous and noble passion, which had been long opposed by their
friends, by reason of the inequality of their fortunes; but their
constancy to each other, and obedience to those on whom they
depended, wrought so much upon their relations, that these
celebrated lovers were at length joined in marriage. Soon after
their nuptials the bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign
country, to take care of a considerable fortune, which was left him
by a relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moderate
circumstances. They received the congratulations of all the country
on this occasion; and I remember it was a common sentence in
everyone's mouth, "You see how faithful love is rewarded."
He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home every post fresh
accounts of his success in his affairs abroad; but at last, though
he designed to return with the next ship, he lamented in his letters
that "business would detain him some time longer from home," because
he would give himself the pleasure of an unexpected arrival.
The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every evening on
the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a familiar friend, her
husband's kinswoman, and diverted herself with what objects they met
there, or upon discourses of the future methods of life, in the
happy change of their circumstances. They stood one evening on the
shore together in a perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of
the sun, the calm face of the deep, and the silent heaving of the
waves, which gently rolled towards them, and broke at their feet,
when at a distance her kinswoman saw something float on the waters,
which she fancied was a chest, and with a smile told her, "she saw
it first, and if it came ashore full of jewels she had a right to
it." They both fixed their eyes upon it, and entertained themselves
with the subject of the wreck, the cousin still asserting her right,
but promising, "if it was a prize, to give her a very rich coral for
the child which she was then expecting, provided she might be
godmother." Their mirth soon abated when they observed upon the
nearer approach that it was a human body. The young lady, who had a
heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many
melancholy reflections on the occasion. "Who knows," said she, "but
this man may be the only hope and heir of a wealthy house; the
darling of indulgent parents, who are now in impertinent mirth, and
pleasing themselves with the thoughts of offering him a bride they
had got ready for him? or, may not he be the master of a family that
wholly depended upon his life? There may, for aught we know, be
half-a-dozen fatherless children and a tender wife, now exposed to
poverty by his death. What pleasure might he have promised himself
in the different welcome he was to have from her and them! But let
us go away; it is a dreadful sight! The best office we can do is to
take care that the poor man, whoever he is, may be decently buried."
She turned away, when the wave threw the carcass on the shore. The
kinswoman immediately shrieked out, "Oh, my cousin!" and fell upon
the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her friend, when she saw
her own husband at her feet, and dropped in a swoon upon the body.
An old woman, who had been the gentleman's nurse, came out about
this time to call the ladies in to supper, and found her child, as
she always called him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman
both lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her
young master to life, soon awaked the friend from her trance, but
the wife was gone for ever.
When the family and neighbourhood got together round the bodies, no
one asked any question, but the objects before them told the story.
Incidents of this nature are the more moving when they are drawn by
persons concerned in the catastrophe, notwithstanding they are often
oppressed beyond the power of giving them in a distinct light,
except we gather their sorrow from their inability to speak it.
I have two original letters, written both on the same day, which are
to me exquisite in their different kinds. The occasion was this. A
gentleman who had courted a most agreeable young woman, and won her
heart, obtained also the consent of her father, to whom she was an
only child. The old man had a fancy that they should be married in
the same church where he himself was, in a village in Westmoreland,
and made them set out while he was laid up with the gout at London.
The bridegroom took only his man, the bride her maid: they had the
most agreeable journey imaginable to the place of marriage, from
whence the bridegroom writ the following letter to his wife's
father:--
"Sir,
"After a very pleasant journey hither, we are preparing for the
happy hour in which I am to be your son. I assure you the bride
carries it, in the eye of the vicar who married you, much beyond her
mother though he says your open sleeves, pantaloons, and
shoulder-knot made a much better show than the finical dress I am
in. However, I am contented to be the second fine man this village
ever saw, and shall make it very merry before night, because I shall
write myself from thence,
"Your most dutiful son,
"T. D.
"March 18, 1672.
"The bride gives her duty, and is as handsome as an angel. I
am the happiest man breathing."
The villagers were assembling about the church, and the happy couple
took a walk in a private garden. The bridegroom's man knew his
master would leave the place on a sudden after the wedding, and
seeing him draw his pistols the night before, took this opportunity
to go into his chamber and charge them. Upon their return from the
garden, they went into that room, and, after a little fond raillery
on the subject of their courtship, the lover took up a pistol, which
he knew he had unloaded the night before, and, presenting it to her,
said, with the most graceful air, whilst she looked pleased at his
agreeable flattery, "Now, madam, repent of all those cruelties you
have been guilty of to me; consider, before you die, how often you
have made a poor wretch freeze under your casement; you shall die,
you tyrant, you shall die, with all those instruments of death and
destruction about you, with that enchanting smile, those killing
ringlets of your hair--" "Give fire!" said she, laughing. He did
so, and shot her dead. Who can speak his condition? but he bore it
so patiently as to call up his man. The poor wretch entered, and
his master locked the door upon him. "Will," said he, "did you
charge these pistols?" He answered, "Yes." Upon which, he shot him
dead with that remaining. After this, amidst a thousand broken
sobs, piercing groans, and distracted motions, he writ the following
letter to the father of his dead mistress:--
"Sir,
"I, who two hours ago told you truly I was the happiest man
alive am now the most miserable. Your daughter lies dead at my
feet, killed by my hand, through a mistake of my man's charging my
pistols unknown to me. Him I have murdered for it. Such is my
wedding day. I will immediately follow my wife to her grave, but
before I throw myself upon my sword, I command my distraction so far
as to explain my story to you. I fear my heart will not keep
together till I have stabbed it. Poor good old man! Remember, he
that killed your daughter died for it. In the article of death, I
give you my thanks and pray for you, though I dare not for myself.
If it be possible, do not curse me."
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