Chapter 21

When my great predecessor Cato the elder stood for the Censorship of Rome, there were several other competitors who offered themselves; and to get an interest among the people, gave them great promises of the mild and gentle treatment which they would use towards them in that office. Cato on the contrary told them, he presented himself as a candidate, because he knew the age was sunk in immorality and corruption; and that if they would give him their votes, he would promise them to make use of such a strictness and severity of discipline as should recover them out of it. The Roman historians, upon this occasion, very much celebrate the public-spiritedness of that people, who chose Cato for their censor, notwithstanding his method of recommending himself. I may in some measure extol my own countrymen upon the same account, who, without any respect to party, or any application from myself, have made such generous subscriptions for the Censor of Great Britain, as will give a magnificence to my old age, and which I esteem more than I would any post in Europe of a hundred times the value. I shall only add, that upon looking into my catalogue of subscribers, which I intend to print alphabetically in the front of my Lucubrations, I find the names of the greatest beauties and wits in the whole island of Great Britain, which I only mention for the benefit of any of them who have not subscribed, it being my design to close the subscription in a very short time.

[Footnote 212: See No. 85.]

[Footnote 213: See Nos. 26, 28.]

[Footnote 214: See Nos. 27, 143.]

[Footnote 215: See Nos. 21, 22, 24.]

[Footnote 216: See No. 158.]

[Footnote 217: See No. 61.]

[Footnote 218: See Nos. 13, 14, 15, 56, &c.]

[Footnote 219: See Nos. 40, 155.]

[Footnote 220: See No. 25.]

[Footnote 221: See Nos. 108, 111, 135.]

[Footnote 222: See Nos. 35, 141.]

[Footnote 223: See Nos. 25, 26, 28, 29, 30, 39.]

[Footnote 224: See Nos. 19, 115.]

[Footnote 225: See No. 148.]

[Footnote 226: See No. 26.]

[Footnote 227: See No. 116.]

[Footnote 228: See Nos. 96, 110.]

[Footnote 229: See No. 26.]

[Footnote 230: See No. 88.]

[Footnote 231: See No. 153.]

[Footnote 232: See Nos. 62, 127.]

No. 163. [ADDISON.

From _Saturday, April 22_, to _Tuesday, April 25, 1710_.

Idem inficeto est inficetior rure, Simul poemata attigit; neque idem unquam Æque est beatus, ac poema cum scribit: Tam gaudet in se, tamque se ipse miratur. Nimirum idem omnes fallimur; neque est quisquam, Quem non in aliqua re videre Suffenum Possis.--CATULLUS, xxii. 14.

* * * * *

_Will's Coffee-house, April 24._

I yesterday came hither about two hours before the company generally make their appearance, with a design to read over all the newspapers; but upon my sitting down, I was accosted by Ned Softly, who saw me from a corner in the other end of the room, where I found he had been writing something. "Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "I observe by a late paper of yours, that you and I are just of a humour; for you must know, of all impertinences, there is nothing which I so much hate as news. I never read a Gazette in my life; and never trouble my head about our armies, whether they win or lose, or in what part of the world they lie encamped." Without giving me time to reply, he drew a paper of verses out of his pocket, telling me, that he had something which would entertain me more agreeably, and that he would desire my judgment upon every line, for that we had time enough before us till the company came in.

Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great admirer of easy lines. Waller is his favourite: and as that admirable writer has the best and worst verses of any among our great English poets, Ned Softly has got all the bad ones without book, which he repeats upon occasion, to show his reading, and garnish his conversation. Ned is indeed a true English reader, incapable of relishing the great and masterly strokes of this art; but wonderfully pleased with the little Gothic ornaments of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, and quibbles, which are so frequent in the most admired of our English poets, and practised by those who want genius and strength to represent, after the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its natural beauty and perfection.

Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation, I was resolved to turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as well as I could with so very odd a fellow. "You must understand," says Ned, "that the sonnet I am going to read to you was written upon a lady, who showed me some verses of her own making, and is perhaps the best poet of our age. But you shall hear it." Upon which he began to read as follows:

"_To Mira on her Incomparable Poems._

I.

"_When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine, And tune your soft melodious notes, You seem a sister of the Nine, Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._

II.

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

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

"_When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine._

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

"_And tune your soft melodious notes._

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

"_You seem a sister of the Nine._

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

"_Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._

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

"_Or Phoebus' self in petticoats._"

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

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

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

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

Or,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. 164. [STEELE.

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

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

* * * * *

_From my own Apartment, April 26._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DEAR WIFE,

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

"Yours till death, "W. B."

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

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

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

[Footnote 236: See No. 151.]

[Footnote 237: See No. 75.]

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

No. 165. [ADDISON.

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

* * * * *

_From my own Apartment, April 28._

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

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

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