EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

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

power of divination, and that I can, by cast-ing adventures I have had with some, who ing a figure, 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.

have long been blended with common earth.

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 after such a manner, as is as much above the approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great enough of true friendship or good will, some sages have thought it pious to preserve a certain reverence for the Manes of their deceased friends; and have withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at certain seasons, to commemorate in their own thoughts such of their acquaintance who have gone before them out of this life. And indeed, when we are advanced in years, there is not a more pleasing entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy moment the many we have parted with, that have been dear and agreeable to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two after those, with whom, perhaps, we have indulged our selves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such inclinations in my heart I went to my closets yesterday in the evening, and resolved to be sorrowful; upon which occasion I could not but look with disdain upon myself, that though all the reasons which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now as forcible as at the moment of their departure, yet did not my heart swell with the same sorrow which I felt at that time; but I could, without tears, reflect upon many pleas

of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling papa; for, I know not how, I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and, transported beyond all patiences of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embraces; and told me, in a flood of tears, "Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again."' She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport, which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, that, before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo, and receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any mark, with which a child is born, is to be taken away by 6 endurance

un

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 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.

but why this cruelty to the humble, to the
meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtless?
Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can eras
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 ser-
vant knocked at my closet-door, and inter-
rupted me with a letter, attended with a ham-
per 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 what-
ever state of mind we meet, and can entertain
each other without expecting always to re-
joice. The wine we found to be generous and
warming, but with such an heat as moved us
rather to be cheerful than frolicsome.
vived the spirits, without firing the blood. We
commended it until two of the clock this morn-
ing; and having to-day met a little before din-
ner,† we found, that though we drank two bot-
tles a man, we had much more reason to recol·
lect than forget what had passed the night
before.

It re

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 sorrow. 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 imprecations 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;

THE CLUB.

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 sourmodes and forms, makes him but the readier ness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to 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 with14 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 disin. half; 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

...

ber'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 satis-rubbed and his periwig powdered at the barfied, 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 The gentleman rext in esteem and authority great figure were he not a rich man) he calls among us is another bachelor, who is a member the sea the British Common. He is acquainted of the Inner Temple; 11 a man of great probity, with commerce in all its parts; and will tell wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to place of residence rather to obey the direction extend dominion by arms; for true power is of an old humoursome father, than in pursuit to be got by arts and industry. He will often of his own inclinations. He was placed there argue that, if this part of our trade were well to study the laws of the land, and is the most cultivated, we should gain from one nation; learned of any of the house in those of the and if another, from another. I have heard stage. Aristotle and Longinus12 are much bet-him prove, that diligence makes more lasting ter understood by him than Littleton or Coke.13 acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has The father sends up every post questions relat- | ing to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in

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