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- Semper honoratum, sic dii voluistis habebo. And now the rising day renews the year, 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the room reverence for the Manest of their deceased where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping friends; and have withdrawn themselves from alone by it.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." 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 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 e endurance 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 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 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 n ind 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 şex Et plures uno conclamant ore All 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. 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 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. IIe 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 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 ter understood by him than Littleton or Coke.13 The father sends up every post questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in 7 Then a fashionable part of London. 8 A favorite of Charles II. 9 A Restoration dramatist. 10 A notorious character of the time. 11 One of the four great colleges of law in London. turies respectively. * Justices of the peace presided over the criminal courts or quarter sessions. Those chosen to sit with the higher court which met twice a year were called "justices of the quorum.” 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 him prove, that diligence makes more lasting 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. the same pleasure that wit would in another | mian. He has made his fortune himself; and says, that England may be richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself is richer than other men; though at the same time I can say this of him, that there is not a point in the compass but blows home a ship in which he is an owner. Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but invincible modesty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents withir the observation of such as should take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in several engagements and at several sieges; but having a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of life in which no man can rise suitably to his merit who is not something of a courtier as well as a soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a profession, where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to this purpose, I never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left the world because he was not fit for it. A strict honesty and an even regular behaviour are in themselves obstacles to him that must press through crowds, who endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour of a commander. He will, however, in his way of talk, excuse generals for not disposing according to men's desert, or inquiring into it; for, says he, that great man who has a mind to help me has as many to break through to come at me, as I have to come at him: therefore, he will conclude, that a man who would make a figure, especially in a military way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be backward in asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking when it is. your duty. With this candour does the gentleman speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through all his conversation. The military part of his life has furnished him with many adventures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable to the company; for he is never overbearing, though accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of obeying men highly above him. But that our society may not appear a set of humourists,18 unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman, who, according to his years, should be in the decline of his life; but having ever been very careful of his person, and always had a very easy fortune, time has made but very little impression, either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces in his brain. His person is well turned, and of a good height. He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed very well; and remembers habits, 19 as others do men. He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the history of every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king's wenches our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that way of placing their hoods; whose frailty was covered by such a sort of petticoat; and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of the dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conversation and knowledge has been in the female world. As other men of his age will take notice to you what such a minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you, when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman was then smitten, another was taken with him at the head of his troop in the park. In all these important relations, he has ever about the same time received a kind glance, or a blow of a fan, from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present Lord Such-a-one. If you speak of a young commoner that said a lively thing in the house, he starts up, "He has good blood in his veins; Tom Mirabel begot him; the rogue cheated me in that affair: that young fellow's mother used me more like a dog than any woman I ever made advances to." This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is not one of the company, but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks of him as of that sort of man who is usually called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are not concerned he is an honest worthy man. I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next to speak of as one of ou company, for he visits us but seldom; but when he does, it adds to every man else a new enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, very philosophic man, of general learning 18 queer fellows 19 costumes great sanctity of life, and the most exact good | breeding. He has had the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution, and, consequently, cannot accept of such cares and business as preferments in his function would oblige him to; he is therefore among divines, what a chamber-counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind and the integrity of his life create him followers, as being eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject he speaks upon; but we are so far gone in years, that he observes, when he is among us, an earnestness to have him fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much authority, as one who has no interest in this world, as one who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordinary companions. JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) SIR ROGER AT CHURCH. The Spectator, No. 112. Monday, July 9, 1711. First, in obedience to thy country's rites, I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the whole parish-politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell rings. My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a common prayerbook; and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms: upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servant to them. Several other of the old knight's peculiarities break out upon these occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer: and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend in the midst of the service calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews it seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his 1 polished |