Books: Isaac Bickerstaff
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Richard Steele >> Isaac Bickerstaff
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We were pleasing ourselves with this fantastical preferment of the
young lady, when on a sudden we were alarmed with the noise of a
drum, and immediately entered my little godson to give me a point of
war. His mother, between laughing and chiding, would have put him
out of the room; but I would not part with him so. I found upon
conversation with him, though he was a little noisy in his mirth,
that the child had excellent parts, and was a great master of all
the learning on the other side eight years old. I perceived him a
very great historian in AEsop's Fables: but he frankly declared to
me his mind, that he did not delight in that learning, because he
did not believe they were true; for which reason I found he had very
much turned his studies for about a twelve-month past, into the
lives and adventures of Don Bellianis of Greece, Guy of Warwick, the
Seven Champions, and other historians of that age. I could not but
observe the satisfaction the father took in the forwardness of his
son; and that these diversions might turn to some profit, I found
the boy had made remarks which might be of service to him during the
course of his whole life. He would tell you the mis-managements of
John Hickathrift, find fault with the passionate temper in Bevis of
Southampton, and loved Saint George for being the champion of
England; and by this means had his thoughts insensibly moulded into
the notions of discretion, virtue, and honour. I was extolling his
accomplishments, when the mother told me that the little girl who
led me in this morning was in her way a better scholar than he.
"Betty," says she, "deals chiefly in fairies and sprites, and
sometimes in a winter-night will terrify the maids with her
accounts, till they are afraid to go up to bed."
I sat with them till it was very late, sometimes in merry, sometimes
in serious, discourse, with this particular pleasure, which gives
the only true relish to all conversation, a sense that every one of
us liked each other. I went home, considering the different
conditions of a married life and that of a bachelor; and I must
confess it struck me with a secret concern, to reflect, that
whenever I go off I shall leave no traces behind me. In this
pensive mood I return to my family; that is to say, to my maid, my
dog, and my cat, who only can be the better or worse for what
happens to me.
XIII.--DEAD FOLK.
From my own Apartment, November 17.
It has cost me very much care and thought to marshal and fix the
people under their proper denominations, and to range them according
to their respective characters. These my endeavours have been
received with unexpected success in one kind, but neglected in
another; for though I have many readers, I have but few converts.
This must certainly proceed from a false opinion, that what I write
is designed rather to amuse and entertain than convince and
instruct. I entered upon my Essays with a declaration that I should
consider mankind in quite another manner than they had hitherto been
represented to the ordinary world, and asserted that none but a
useful life should be, with me, any life at all. But, lest this
doctrine should have made this small progress towards the conviction
of mankind, because it may appear to the unlearned light and
whimsical, I must take leave to unfold the wisdom and antiquity of
my first proposition in these my essays, to wit, that "every
worthless man is a dead man." This notion is as old as Pythagoras,
in whose school it was a point of discipline, that if among the
Akoustikoi, * or probationers, there were any who grew weary of
studying to be useful, and returned to an idle life, the rest were
to regard them as dead, and upon their departing, to perform their
obsequies and raise them tombs, with inscriptions, to warn others of
the like mortality, and quicken them to resolutions of refining
their souls above that wretched state. It is upon a like
supposition that young ladies, at this very time, in Roman Catholic
countries, are received into some nunneries with their coffins, and
with the pomp of a formal funeral, to signify that henceforth they
are to be of no further use, and consequently dead. Nor was
Pythagoras himself the first author of this symbol, with whom, and
with the Hebrews, it was generally received. Much more might be
offered in illustration of this doctrine from sacred authority,
which I recommend to my reader's own reflection; who will easily
recollect, from places which I do not think fit to quote here, the
forcible manner of applying the words dead and living to men, as
they are good or bad.
* Anglicised version of the author's original Greek text.
I have, therefore, composed the following scheme of existence for
the benefit both of the living and the dead; though chiefly for the
latter, whom I must desire to read it with all possible attention.
In the number of the dead I comprehend all persons, of what title or
dignity soever, who bestow most of their time in eating and
drinking, to support that imaginary existence of theirs which they
call life; or in dressing and adorning those shadows and
apparitions, which are looked upon by the vulgar as real men and
women. In short, whoever resides in the world without having any
business in it, and passes away an age without ever thinking on the
errand for which he was sent hither, is to me a dead man to all
intents and purposes, and I desire that he may be so reputed. The
living are only those that are some way or other laudably employed
in the improvement of their own minds, or for the advantage of
others; and even among these, I shall only reckon into their lives
that part of their time which has been spent in the manner above
mentioned. By these means, I am afraid we shall find the longest
lives not to consist of many months, and the greatest part of the
earth to be quite unpeopled. According to this system we may
observe that some men are born at twenty years of age, some at
thirty, some at threescore, and some not above an hour before they
die; nay, we may observe multitudes that die without ever being
born, as well as many dead persons that fill up the bulk of mankind,
and make a better figure in the eyes of the ignorant, than those who
are alive, and in their proper and full state of health. However,
since there may be many good subjects, that pay their taxes, and
live peaceably in their habitations, who are not yet born, or have
departed this life several years since, my design is to encourage
both to join themselves as soon as possible to the number of the
living. For as I invite the former to break forth into being and
become good for something, so I allow the latter a state of
resuscitation, which I chiefly mention for the sake of a person who
has lately published an advertisement, with several scurrilous terms
in it, that do by no means become a dead man to give. It is my
departed friend, John Partridge, who concludes the advertisement of
his next year's almanack with the following note:
"Whereas it has been industriously given out by Bickerstaff,
Esquire, and others, to prevent the sale of this year's almanack,
that John Partridge is dead: this may inform all his loving
countrymen, that he is still living in health, and they are knaves
that reported it otherwise.
"J. P."
-----
From my own Apartment, November
25.
I have already taken great pains to inspire notions of honour and
virtue into the people of this kingdom, and used all gentle methods
imaginable, to bring those who are dead in idleness, folly, and
pleasure, into life, by applying themselves to learning, wisdom, and
industry. But, since fair means are ineffectual, I must proceed to
extremities, and shall give my good friends, the Company of
Upholders, full power to bury all such dead as they meet with, who
are within my former descriptions of deceased persons. In the
meantime the following remonstrance of that corporation I take to be
very just.
"WORTHY SIR,
"Upon reading your Tatler of Saturday last, by which we
received the agreeable news of so many deaths, we immediately
ordered in a considerable quantity of blacks, and our servants have
wrought night and day ever since to furnish out the necessaries for
these deceased. But so it is, Sir, that of this vast number of dead
bodies that go putrifying up and down the streets, not one of them
has come to us to be buried. Though we should be loth to be any
hindrance to our good friends the physicians, yet we cannot but take
notice what infection Her Majesty's subjects are liable to from the
horrible stench of so many corpses. Sir, we will not detain you;
our case in short is this: Here are we embarked in this undertaking
for the public good. Now, if people should be suffered to go on
unburied at this rate, there is an end of the usefullest
manufactures and handicrafts of the kingdom; for where will be your
sextons, coffin-makers, and plumbers? What will become of your
embalmers, epitaph-mongers, and chief-mourners? We are loth to
drive this matter any farther, though we tremble at the consequences
of it; for if it shall be left to every dead man's discretion not to
be buried till he sees his time, no man can say where that will end;
but thus much we will take upon us to affirm, that such a toleration
will be intolerable.
"What would make us easy in this matter is no more but that
your Worship would be pleased to issue out your orders to ditto Dead
to repair forthwith to our office, in order to their interment,
where constant attendance shall be given to treat with all persons
according to their quality, and the poor to be buried for nothing.
And, for the convenience of such persons as are willing enough to be
dead, but that they are afraid their friends and relations should
know it, we have a back door into Warwick Street, from whence they
may be interred with all secrecy imaginable, and without loss of
time or hindrance of business. But in case of obstinacy, for we
would gladly make a thorough riddance, we desire a farther power
from your Worship, to take up such deceased as shall not have
complied with your first orders wherever we meet them; and if, after
that, there shall be complaints of any person so offending, let them
lie at our doors.
"We are your Worship's till death,
"The MASTER and COMPANY of UPHOLDERS.
"P.S. We are ready to give in our printed proposals at large,
and if your Worship approves of our undertaking, we desire the
following advertisement may be inserted in your next paper:
"Whereas a commission of interment has been awarded against
Doctor John Partridge, philomath, professor of physic and astrology,
and whereas the said Partridge hath not surrendered himself, nor
shown cause to the contrary: These are to certify that the Company
of Upholders will proceed to bury him from Cordwainer's Hall, on
Tuesday the twenty-ninth instant, where any six of his surviving
friends, who still believe him to be alive, are desired to come
prepared to hold up the pall.
"Note. We shall light away at six in the evening, there being
to be a sermon.
"From our Office near the Haymarket, Nov. 23."
XIV.--THE WIFE DEAD.
Sheer Lane, December 30.
I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very gay humour,
when I saw a coach stop at my door, and a youth about fifteen
alighting out of it, who I perceived to be the eldest son of my
bosom friend, that I gave some account of in a previous paper. I
felt a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of him, my
acquaintance having begun with his father when he was just such a
stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he took
me by the hand, and burst into tears. I was extremely moved, and
immediately said, "Child, how does your father do?" He began to
reply, "My mother--" but could not go on for weeping. I went down
with him into the coach, and gathered out of him, "That his mother
was then dying; and that, while the holy man was doing the last
offices to her, he had taken that time to come and call me to his
father, who, he said, would certainly break his heart, if I did not
go and comfort him." The child's discretion in coming to me of his
own head, and the tenderness he showed for his parents would have
quite overpowered me, had I not resolved to fortify myself for the
seasonable performances of those duties which I owed to my friend.
As we were going, I could not but reflect upon the character of that
excellent woman, and the greatness of his grief for the loss of one
who has ever been the support to him under all other afflictions.
How, thought I, will he be able to bear the hour of her death, that
could not, when I was lately with him, speak of a sickness, which
was then past, without sorrow! We were now got pretty far into
Westminster, and arrived at my friend's house. At the door of it I
met Favonius, not without a secret satisfaction to find he had been
there. I had formerly conversed with him at his house; and as he
abounds with that sort of virtue and knowledge which makes religion
beautiful, and never leads the conversation into the violence and
rage of party disputes, I listened to him with great pleasure. Our
discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death, which he treated
with such a strength of reason, and greatness of soul, that, instead
of being terrible, it appeared to a mind rightly cultivated,
altogether to be contemned, or rather to be desired. As I met him
at the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief and
humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and resolution, which,
as I afterwards found, had such an irresistible force, as to suspend
the pains of the dying, and the lamentation of the nearest friends
who attended her. I went up directly to the room where she lay, and
was met at the entrance by my friend, who, notwithstanding his
thoughts had been composed a little before, at the sight of me
turned away his face and wept. The little family of children
renewed the expressions of their sorrow according to their several
ages and degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter was in
tears, busied in attendance upon her mother; others were kneeling
about the bedside: and what troubled me most, was, to see a little
boy, who was too young to know the reason, weeping only because his
sisters did. The only one in the room who seemed resigned and
comforted was the dying person. At my approach to the bedside, she
told me, with a low broken voice, "This is kindly done--take care of
your friend--do not go from him!" She had before taken leave of her
husband and children, in a manner proper for so solemn a parting,
and with a gracefulness peculiar to a woman of her character. My
heart was torn to pieces, to see the husband on one side suppressing
and keeping down the swellings of his grief, for fear of disturbing
her in her last moments; and the wife even at that time concealing
the pains she endured, for fear of increasing his affliction. She
kept her eyes upon him for some moments after she grew speechless,
and soon after closed them for ever. In the moment of her
departure, my friend, who had thus far commanded himself, gave a
deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her bedside. The distraction
of the children, who thought they saw both their parents expiring
together, and now lying dead before them, would have melted the
hardest heart; but they soon perceived their father recover, whom I
helped to remove into another room, with a resolution to accompany
him till the first pangs of his affliction were abated. I knew
consolation would now be impertinent; and, therefore, contented
myself to sit by him, and condole with him in silence. For I shall
here use the method of an ancient author, who in one of his
epistles, relating the virtues and death of Macrinus's wife,
expresses himself thus: "I shall suspend my advice to this best of
friends, till he is made capable of receiving it by those three
great remedies (necessitas ipsa, dies longa, et satietas doloris),
the necessity of submission, length of time, and satiety of grief."
In the meantime, I cannot but consider, with much commiseration, the
melancholy state of one who has had such a part of himself torn from
him, and which he misses in every circumstance of life. His
condition is like that of one who has lately lost his right arm, and
is every moment offering to help himself with it. He does not
appear to himself the same person in his house, at his table, in
company, or in retirement; and loses the relish of all the pleasures
and diversions that were before entertaining to him by her
participation of them. This additional satisfaction, from the taste
of pleasures in the society of one we love, is admirably described
in Milton, who represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further
pleased with the beautiful objects around her, than as she sees them
in company with Adam, in that passage so inexpressibly charming:
"With thee conversing, I forget all time;
All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After short showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; the silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train.
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet."
The variety of images in this passage is infinitely pleasing; and
the recapitulation of each particular image, with a little varying
of the expression, makes one of the finest turns of words that I
have ever seen: which I rather mention because Mr. Dryden has said,
in his preface to Juvenal, that he could meet with no turn of words
in Milton.
It may further be observed, that though the sweetness of these
verses has something in it of a pastoral, yet it excels the ordinary
kind, as much as the scene of it is above an ordinary field or
meadow. I might here, as I am accidentally led into this subject,
show several passages in Milton that have as excellent turns of this
nature as any of our English poets whatsoever; but shall only
mention that which follows, in which he describes the fallen angels
engaged in the intricate disputes of predestination, free-will, and
fore-knowledge; and, to humour the perplexity, makes a kind of
labyrinth in the very words that describe it.
"Others apart sat on a hill retired,
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high
Of providence, fore-knowledge, will, and fate,
Fixed fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute,
And found no end, in wandering mazes lost."
XV.--THE CLUB AT "THE TRUMPET."
Sheer Lane, February 1O, 171O.
After having applied my mind with more than ordinary attention to my
studies, it is my usual custom to relax and unbend it in the
conversation of such as are rather easy than shining companions.
This I find particularly necessary for me before I retire, to rest,
in order to draw my slumbers upon me by degrees, and fall asleep
insensibly. This is the particular use I make of a set of heavy
honest men, with whom I have passed many hours with much indolence,
though not with great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of
preparative for sleep; it takes the mind down from its abstractions,
leads it into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it into that
state of tranquillity, which is the condition of a thinking man,
when he is but half-awake. After this, my reader will not be
surprised to hear the account which I am about to give of a club of
my own contemporaries, among whom I pass two or three hours every
evening. This I look upon as taking my first nap before I go to
bed. The truth of it is, I should think myself unjust to posterity,
as well as to the society at "The Trumpet," of which I am a member,
did not I in some part of my writings give an account of the persons
among whom I have passed almost a sixth part of my time for these
last forty years. Our club consisted originally of fifteen; but,
partly by the severity of the law in arbitrary times, and partly by
the natural effects of old age, we are at present reduced to a third
part of that number: in which, however, we have this consolation
that the best company is said to consist of five persons. I must
confess, besides the aforementioned benefit which I meet with in the
conversation of this select society, I am not the less pleased with
the company, in that I find myself the greatest wit among them, and
am heard as their oracle in all points of learning and difficulty.
Sir Jeoffery Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has been in
possession of the right-hand chair time out of mind, and is the only
man among us that has the liberty of stirring the fire. This our
foreman is a gentleman of an ancient family, that came to a great
estate some years before he had discretion, and run it out in
hounds, horses, and cock-fighting; for which reason he looks upon
himself as an honest, worthy gentleman, who has had misfortunes in
the world, and calls every thriving man a pitiful upstart.
Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the last civil
wars, and has all the battles by heart. He does not think any
action in Europe worth talking of, since the fight of Marston Moor;
and every night tells us of his having been knocked off his horse at
the rising of the London apprentices; for which he is in great
esteem among us.
Honest old Dick Reptile is the third of our society. He is a
good-natured indolent man, who speaks little himself, but laughs at
our jokes; and brings his young nephew along with him, a youth of
eighteen years old, to show him good company, and give him a taste
of the world. This young fellow sits generally silent; but whenever
he opens his mouth, or laughs at anything that passes, he is
constantly told by his uncle, after a jocular manner, "Ay, ay, Jack,
you young men think us fools; but we old men know you are."
The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a Bencher, of
the neighbouring Inn, who in his youth frequented the ordinaries
about Charing Cross, and pretends to have been intimate with Jack
Ogle. He has about ten distichs of Hudibras without book, and never
leaves the club till he has applied them all. If any modern wit be
mentioned, or any town-frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the
dulness of the present age, and tells us a story of Jack Ogle.
For my own part, I am esteemed among them, because they see I am
something respected by others; though at the same time I understand
by their behaviour, that I am considered by them as a man of a great
deal of learning, but no knowledge of the world; insomuch, that the
Major sometimes, in the height of his military pride, calls me the
philosopher; and Sir Jeoffery, no longer ago than last night, upon a
dispute what day of the month it was then in Holland, pulled his
pipe out of his mouth, and cried, "What does the Scholar say to it?"
Our club meets precisely at six o'clock in the evening; but I did
not come last night till half an hour after seven, by which means I
escaped the battle of Naseby, which the Major usually begins at
about three-quarters after six. I found also, that my good friend
the Bencher had already spent three of his distichs; and only
waiting an opportunity to hear a sermon spoken of that he might
introduce the couplet where "a stick" rhymes to "ecclesiastic." At
my entrance into the room, they were naming a red petticoat and a
cloak, by which I found that the Bencher had been diverting them
with a story of Jack Ogle.
I had no sooner taken my seat, but Sir Jeoffery, to show his good
will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco, and stirred up
the fire. I look upon it as a point of morality, to be obliged by
those who endeavour to oblige me; and therefore, in requital for his
kindness, and to set the conversation a-going, I took the best
occasion I could to put him upon telling us the story of old
Gantlett, which he always does with very particular concern. He
traced up his descent on both sides for several generations,
describing his diet and manner of life, with his several battles,
and particularly that in which he fell. This Gantlett was a
game-cock, upon whose head the knight, in his youth, had won five
hundred pounds, and lost two thousand. This naturally set the Major
upon the account of Edge-hill fight, and ended in a duel of Jack
Ogle's.
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