No. 157
[Addison. 194
Saturday, April 8, to Tuesday, April 11, 1710
——Facile est inventis addere.
From my own Apartment, April 10
I was last night in an assembly of very fine women. How I came among them is of no great importance to the reader. I shall only let him know, that I was betrayed into so good company by the device of an old friend, who had promised to give some of his female acquaintance a sight of Mr. Bickerstaff. Upon hearing my name mentioned, a lady who sat by me told me, they had brought together a female concert for my entertainment. "You must know," says she, "that we all of us look upon ourselves to be musical instruments,195 though we do not yet know of what kind, which we hope to learn from you, if you will give us leave to play before you." This was followed by a general laugh, which I always look upon as a necessary flourish in the opening of a female concert. They then struck up together, and played a whole hour upon two grounds, viz., the Trial,196 and the Opera. I could not but observe, that several of their notes were more soft, and several more sharp, than any that ever I heard in a male concert; though I must confess, there was not any regard to time, nor any of those rests and pauses which are frequent in the harmony of the other sex: besides, that the music was generally full, and no particular instrument permitted to play long by itself.
I seemed so very well pleased with what every one said, and smiled with so much compliance at all their pretty fancies, that though I did not put one word into their discourse, I have the vanity to think they looked upon me as very agreeable company. I then told them, that if I were to draw the picture of so many charming musicians, it should be like one I had seen of the Muses, with their several instruments in their hands. Upon which the lady kettledrum tossed back her head, and cried, "A very pretty simile!" The concert again revived; in which, with nods, smiles, and approbations, I bore the part rather of one who beats the time, than of a performer.
I was no sooner retired to my lodgings, but I ran over in my thoughts the several characters of this fair assembly, which I shall give some account of, because they are various in their kind, and may each of them stand as a sample of a whole species.
The person who pleased me most was a flute, an instrument that, without any great compass, has something exquisitely sweet and soft in its sound: it lulls and soothes the ear, and fills it with such a gentle kind of melody, as keeps the mind awake without startling it, and raises a most agreeable passion between transport and indolence. In short, the music of the flute is the conversation of a mild and amiable woman, that has nothing in it very elevated, or at the same time anything mean or trivial.
I must here observe, that the hautboy is the most perfect of the flute species, which, with all the sweetness of the sound, has a great strength and variety of notes; though at the same time I must observe, that the hautboy in one sex is as scarce as the harpsichord in the other.
By the side of the flute there sat a flageolet, for so I must call a certain young lady, who fancied herself a wit, despised the music of the flute as low and insipid, and would be entertaining the company with tart ill-natured observations, pert fancies, and little turns, which she imagined to be full of life and spirit. The flageolet therefore does not differ from the flute so much in the compass of its notes, as in the shrillness and sharpness of the sound. We must however take notice, that the flageolets among their own sex are more valued and esteemed than the flutes.
There chanced to be a coquette in the concert, that with a great many skittish notes, affected squeaks, and studied inconsistencies, distinguished herself from the rest of the company. She did not speak a word during the whole trial; but I thought she would never have done upon the opera. One while she would break out upon, "That hideous king!" then upon the "charming blackmoor!" Then, "Oh that dear lion!" Then would hum over two or three notes; then run to the window to see what coach was coming. The coquette therefore I must distinguish by that musical instrument which is commonly known by the name of a kit, that is more jiggish than the fiddle itself, and never sounds but to a dance.
The fourth person who bore a part in the conversation was a prude, who stuck to the trial, and was silent upon the whole opera. The gravity of her censures, and composure of her voice, which were often attended with supercilious casts of the eye, and a seeming contempt for the lightness of the conversation, put me in mind of that ancient serious matronlike instrument the virginal.
I must not pass over in silence a Lancashire hornpipe, by which I would signify a young country lady, who with a great deal of mirth and innocence diverted the company very agreeably; and, if I am not mistaken, by that time the wildness of her notes is a little softened, and the redundancy of her music restrained by conversation and good company, will be improved into one of the most amiable flutes about the town. Your romps and boarding-school girls fall likewise under this denomination.
On the right hand of the hornpipe sat a Welsh harp, an instrument which very much delights in the tunes of old historical ballads, and in celebrating the renowned actions and exploits of ancient British heroes. By this instrument I therefore would describe a certain lady, who is one of those female historians that upon all occasions enters into pedigrees and descents, and finds herself related, by some offshoot or other, to almost every great family in England: for which reason she jars and is out of tune very often in conversation, for the company's want of due attention and respect to her.
But the most sonorous part of our concert was a shedrum, or (as the vulgar call it) a kettledrum, who accompanied her discourse with motions of the body, tosses of the head, and brandishes of the fan. Her music was loud, bold, and masculine. Every thump she gave, alarmed the company, and very often set somebody or other in it a-blushing.
The last I shall mention was a certain romantic instrument called a dulcimer, who talked of nothing but shady woods, flowery meadows, purling streams, larks and nightingales, with all the beauties of the spring, and the pleasures of a country life. This instrument has a fine melancholy sweetness in it, and goes very well with the flute.
I think most of the conversable part of womankind may be found under one of the foregoing divisions; but it must be confessed, that the generality of that sex, notwithstanding they have naturally a great genius for being talkative, are not mistresses of more than one note; with which however, by frequent repetition, they make a greater sound than those who are possessed of the whole gamut, as may be observed in your larums or household scolds, and in your castanets or impertinent tittle-tattles, who have no other variety in their discourse but that of talking slower or faster.
Upon communicating this scheme of music to an old friend of mine, who was formerly a man of gallantry and a rover, he told me, that he believed he had been in love with every instrument in my concert. The first that smit him was a hornpipe, who lived near his father's house in the country; but upon his failing to meet her at an assize, according to appointment, she cast him off. His next passion was for a kettledrum, whom he fell in love with at a play; but when he became acquainted with her, not finding the softness of her sex in her conversation, he grew cool to her; though at the same time he could not deny, but that she behaved herself very much like a gentlewoman. His third mistress was a dulcimer, who he found took great delight in sighing and languishing, but would go no farther than the preface of matrimony; so that she would never let a lover have any more of her than her heart, which, after having won, he was forced to leave her, as despairing of any further success. "I must confess," says my friend, "I have often considered her with a great deal of admiration; and I find her pleasure is so much in this first step of an amour, that her life will pass away in dream, solitude, and soliloquy, till her decay of charms makes her snatch at the worst man that ever pretended to her. In the next place," says my friend, "I fell in love with a kit,197 who led me such a dance through all the varieties of a familiar, cold, fond, and indifferent behaviour, that the world began to grow censorious, though without any cause: for which reason, to recover our reputations, we parted by consent. To mend my hand," says he, "I made my next application to a virginal, who gave me great encouragement, after her cautious manner, till some malicious companion told her of my long passion for the kit, which made her turn me off as a scandalous fellow. At length, in despair," says he, "I betook myself to a Welsh harp, who rejected me with contempt, after having found that my great-grandmother was a brewer's daughter." I found by the sequel of my friend's discourse, that he had never aspired to a hautboy; that he had been exasperated by a flageolet; and that to this very day, he pines away for a flute.
Upon the whole, having thoroughly considered how absolutely necessary it is, that two instruments, which are to play together for life, should be exactly tuned, and go in perfect concert with each other, I would propose matches between the music of both sexes, according to the following table of marriage:
1. Drum and kettledrum.
2. Lute and flute.
3. Harpsichord and hautboy.
4. Violin and flageolet.
5. Bass-viol and kit.
6. Trumpet and Welsh harp.
7. Hunting-horn and hornpipe.
8. Bagpipe and castanets.
9. Passing-bell and virginal.
Mr. Bickerstaff, in consideration of his ancient friendship and acquaintance with Mr. Betterton,198 and great esteem for his merit, summons all his disciples, whether dead or living, mad or tame, Toasts, Smarts, Dappers, Pretty Fellows, Musicians or Scrapers, to make their appearance at the playhouse in the Haymarket on Thursday next; when there will be a play acted for the benefit of the said Mr. Betterton.
No. 158
[Addison.
Tuesday, April 11, to Thursday, April 13, 1710
Faciunt næ intelligendo, ut nihil intelligant.
Ter., Andria, Prologue, 17.
From my own Apartment, April 12
Tom Folio199 is a broker in learning, employed to get together good editions, and stock the libraries of great men. There is not a sale of books begins till Tom Folio is seen at the door. There is not an auction where his name is not heard, and that too in the very nick of time, in the critical moment, before the last decisive stroke of the hammer. There is not a subscription goes forward, in which Tom is not privy to the first rough draught of the proposals; nor a catalogue printed, that does not come to him wet from the press. He is an universal scholar, so far as the title-page of all authors, knows the manuscripts in which they were discovered, the editions through which they have passed, with the praises or censures which they have received from the several members of the learned world. He has a greater esteem for Aldus and Elzevir, than for Virgil and Horace. If you talk of Herodotus, he breaks out into a panegyric upon Harry Stephans. He thinks he gives you an account of an author, when he tells you the subject he treats of, the name of the editor, and the year in which it was printed. Or if you draw him into further particulars, he cries up the goodness of the paper, extols the diligence of the corrector, and is transported with the beauty of the letter. This he looks upon to be sound learning and substantial criticism. As for those who talk of the fineness of style, and the justness of thought, or describe the brightness of any particular passages; nay, though they write themselves in the genius and spirit of the author they admire, Tom looks upon them as men of superficial learning, and flashy parts.
I had yesterday morning a visit from this learned idiot (for that is the light in which I consider every pedant), when I discovered in him some little touches of the coxcomb which I had not before observed. Being very full of the figure which he makes in the republic of letters, and wonderfully satisfied with his great stock of knowledge, he gave me broad intimations, that he did not "believe" in all points as his forefathers had done. He then communicated to me a thought of a certain author upon a passage of Virgil's account of the dead, which I made the subject of a late paper.200 This thought has taken very much among men of Tom's pitch and understanding, though universally exploded by all that know how to construe Virgil, or have any relish of antiquity. Not to trouble my reader with it, I found upon the whole, that Tom did not believe a future state of rewards and punishments, because Æneas, at his leaving the empire of the dead, passed through the gate of ivory, and not through that of horn. Knowing that Tom had not sense enough to give up an opinion which he had once received, that he might avoid wrangling, I told him, that Virgil possibly had his oversights as well as another author. "Ah! Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "you would have another opinion of him, if you would read him in Daniel Heinsius' edition. I have perused him myself several times in that edition," continued he; "and after the strictest and most malicious examination, could find but two faults in him: one of them is in the 'Æneids,' where there are two commas instead of a parenthesis; and another in the third 'Georgic,' where you may find a semicolon turned upside down." "Perhaps," said I, "these were not Virgil's thoughts, but those of the transcriber." "I do not design it," says Tom, "as a reflection on Virgil: on the contrary, I know that all the manuscripts 'reclaim' against such a punctuation. Oh! Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "what would a man give to see one simile of Virgil writ in his own hand?" I asked him which was the simile he meant; but was answered, "Any simile in Virgil." He then told me all the secret history in the commonwealth of learning; of modern pieces that had the names of ancient authors annexed to them; of all the books that were now writing or printing in the several parts of Europe; of many amendments which are made, and not yet published; and a thousand other particulars, which I would not have my memory burdened with for a Vatican.
At length, being fully persuaded that I thoroughly admired him, and looked upon him as a prodigy of learning, he took his leave. I know several of Tom's class who are professed admirers of Tasso without understanding a word of Italian; and one in particular, that carries a "Pastor Fido" in his pocket, in which I am sure he is acquainted with no other beauty but the clearness of the character.
There is another kind of pedant, who, with all Tom Folio's impertinences, has greater superstructures and embellishments of Greek and Latin, and is still more unsupportable than the other, in the same degree as he is more learned. Of this kind very often are editors, commentators, interpreters, scholiasts, and critics; and in short, all men of deep learning without common sense. These persons set a greater value on themselves for having found out the meaning of a passage in Greek, than upon the author for having written it; nay, will allow the passage itself not to have any beauty in it, at the same time that they would be considered as the greatest men of the age for having interpreted it. They will look with contempt upon the most beautiful poems that have been composed by any of their contemporaries; but will lock themselves up in their studies for a twelvemonth together, to correct, publish, and expound, such trifles of antiquity as a modern author would be contemned for. Men of the strictest morals, severest lives, and the gravest professions, will write volumes upon an idle sonnet that is originally in Greek or Latin; give editions of the most immoral authors, and spin out whole pages upon the various readings of a lewd expression. All that can be said in excuse for them, is, that their works sufficiently show they have no taste of their authors; and that what they do in this kind, is out of their great learning, and not out of any levity or lasciviousness of temper.
A pedant of this nature is wonderfully well described in six lines of Boileau,201 with which I shall conclude his character:
"Un Pédant enivré de sa vaine science,
Tout hérissé de grec, tout bouffi d'arrogance,
Et qui, de mille auteurs retenus mot pour mot,
Dans sa tête entassés, n'a souvent fait qu'un sot,
Croit qu'un livre fait tout, et que, sans Aristote,
La raison ne voit goutte, et le bon sens radote."
No. 159
[Steele.
Thursday, April 13, to Saturday, April 15, 1710
Nitor in adversum, nec me qui cætera, vincit
Impetus.—Ovid., Met. ii. 72.
From my own Apartment, April 14
The wits of this island, for above fifty years past, instead of correcting the vices of the age, have done all they could to inflame them. Marriage has been one of the common topics of ridicule that every stage-scribbler has found his account in; for whenever there is an occasion for a clap, an impertinent jest upon matrimony is sure to raise it. This has been attended with very pernicious consequences. Many a country squire, upon his setting up for a man of the town, has gone home in the gaiety of his heart and beat his wife. A kind husband has been looked upon as a clown, and a good wife as a domestic animal, unfit for the company or conversation of the beau monde. In short, separate beds, silent tables, and solitary homes have been introduced by your men of wit and pleasure of the age.
As I shall always make it my business to stem the torrents of prejudice and vice, I shall take particular care to put an honest father of a family in countenance, and endeavour to remove all the evils out of that state of life, which is either the most happy, or most miserable, that a man can be placed in. In order to this, let us, if you please, consider the wits and well-bred persons of former times. I have shown in another paper,202 that Pliny, who was a man of the greatest genius, as well as of the first quality of his age, did not think it below him to be a kind husband, and to treat his wife as a friend, companion and counsellor. I shall give the like instance of another, who in all respects was a much greater man than Pliny, and has written a whole book of letters to his wife. They are not so full of turns as those translated out of the former author, who writes very much like a modern, but are full of that beautiful simplicity which is altogether natural, and is the distinguishing character of the best ancient writers. The author I am speaking of, is Cicero; who, in the following passages which I have taken out of his letters,203 shows, that he did not think it inconsistent with the politeness of his manners, or the greatness of his wisdom, to stand upon record in his domestic character.
These letters were written at a time when he was banished from his country, by a faction that then prevailed at Rome.
Cicero to Terentia
I
"I learn from the letters of my friends, as well as from common report, that you give incredible proofs of virtue and fortitude, and that you are indefatigable in all kinds of good offices. How unhappy a man am I, that a woman of your virtue, constancy, honour, and good nature, should fall into so great distresses upon my account; and that my dear Tulliola should be so much afflicted for the sake of a father, with whom she had once so much reason to be pleased! How can I mention little Cicero, whose first knowledge of things began with the sense of his own misery? If all this had happened by the decrees of fate, as you would kindly persuade me, I could have borne it. But, alas! it is all befallen me by my own indiscretion, who thought I was beloved by those who envied me, and did not join with them who sought my friendship.–At present, since my friends bid me hope, I shall take care of my health, that I may enjoy the benefit of your affectionate services.–Plancius hopes we may some time or other come together into Italy. If I ever live to see that day; if I ever return to your dear embraces; in short, if I ever again recover you and myself, I shall think our conjugal piety very well rewarded.–As for what you write to me about selling your estate, consider (my dear Terentia), consider, alas! what would be the event of it. If our present fortune continues to oppress us, what will become of our poor boy? My tears flow so fast, that I am not able to write any further; and I would not willingly make you weep with me.–Let us take care not to undo the child that is already undone: if we can leave him anything, a little virtue will keep him from want, and a little fortune raise him in the world. Mind your health, and let me know frequently what you are doing.–Remember me to Tulliola and Cicero.
II
"Don't fancy that I write longer letters to any one than to yourself, unless when I chance to receive a longer letter from another, which I am indispensably obliged to answer in every particular. The truth of it is, I have no subject for a letter at present: and as my affairs now stand, there is nothing more painful to me than writing. As for you and our dear Tulliola, I cannot write to you without abundance of tears, for I see both of you miserable, whom I always wished to be happy, and whom I ought to have made so.–I must acknowledge, you have done everything for me with the utmost fortitude, and the utmost affection; nor indeed is it more than I expected from you; though at the same time it is a great aggravation of my ill fortune, that the afflictions I suffer can be relieved only by those which you undergo for my sake. For honest Valerius has written me a letter, which I could not read without weeping very bitterly; wherein he gives me an account of the public procession which you have made for me at Rome. Alas! my dearest life, must then Terentia, the darling of my soul, whose favour and recommendations have been so often sought by others; must my Terentia droop under the weight of sorrow, appear in the habit of a mourner, pour out floods of tears, and all this for my sake; for my sake, who have undone my family, by consulting the safety of others!—As for what you write about selling your house, I am very much afflicted, that what is laid out upon my account may any way reduce you to misery and want. If we can bring about our design, we may indeed recover everything; but if Fortune persists in persecuting us, how can I think of your sacrificing for me the poor remainder of your possessions? No, my dearest life, let me beg you to let those bear my expenses who are able, and perhaps willing to do it; and if you would show your love to me, do not injure your health, which is already too much impaired. You present yourself before my eyes day and night; I see you labouring amidst innumerable difficulties; I am afraid lest you should sink under them; but I find in you all the qualifications that are necessary to support you: be sure therefore to cherish your health, that you may compass the end of your hopes and your endeavours.–Farewell, my Terentia, my heart's desire, farewell."
III
"Aristocritus has delivered to me three of your letters, which I have almost defaced with my tears. Oh! my Terentia, I am consumed with grief, and feel the weight of your sufferings more than of my own. I am more miserable than you are, notwithstanding you are very much so; and that for this reason, because though our calamity is common, it is my fault that brought it upon us. I ought to have died rather than have been driven out of the city: I am therefore overwhelmed not only with grief, but with shame. I am ashamed that I did not do my utmost for the best of wives, and the dearest of children. You are ever present before my eyes in your mourning, your affliction, and your sickness. Amidst all which, there scarce appears to me the least glimmering of hope.–However, so long as you hope, I will not despair.–I will do what you advise me. I have returned my thanks to those friends whom you mentioned, and have let them know, that you have acquainted me with their good offices. I am sensible of Piso's extraordinary zeal and endeavours to serve me. Oh! would the gods grant that you and I might live together in the enjoyment of such a son-in-law, and of our dear children.–As for what you write of your coming to me if I desire it, I would rather you should be where you are, because I know you are my principal agent at Rome. If you succeed, I shall come to you: if not–. But I need say no more. Be careful of your health, and be assured, that nothing is, or ever was, so dear to me as yourself. Farewell, my Terentia; I fancy that I see you, and therefore cannot command my weakness so far as to refrain from tears."
IV
"I don't write to you as often as I might, because notwithstanding I am afflicted at all times, I am quite overcome with sorrow whilst I am writing to you, or reading any letters that I receive from you.–If these evils are not to be removed, I must desire to see you, my dearest life, as soon as possible, and to die in your embraces; since neither the gods, whom you always religiously worshipped; nor the men, whose good I always promoted, have rewarded us according to our deserts.–What a distressed wretch am I! should I ask a weak woman, oppressed with cares and sickness, to come and live with me, or shall I not ask her? Can I live without you? But I find I must. If there be any hopes of my return, help it forward, and promote it as much as you are able. But if all that is over, as I fear it is, find out some way or other of coming to me. This you may be sure of, that I shall not look upon myself as quite undone whilst you are with me. But what will become of Tulliola? You must look to that; I must confess, I am entirely at a loss about her. Whatever happens, we must take care of the reputation and marriage of that dear unfortunate girl. As for Cicero, he shall live in my bosom and in my arms. I cannot write any further, my sorrows will not let me.–Support yourself, my dear Terentia, as well as you are able. We have lived and flourished together amidst the greatest honours: it is not our crimes, but our virtues that have distressed us.–Take more than ordinary care of your health; I am more afflicted with your sorrows than my own. Farewell, my Terentia, thou dearest, faithfullest, and best of wives."
Methinks it is a pleasure to see this great man in his family, who makes so different a figure in the Forum or Senate of Rome. Every one admires the orator and the consul; but for my part, I esteem the husband and the father. His private character, with all the little weaknesses of humanity, is as amiable as the figure he makes in public is awful and majestic. But at the same time that I love to surprise so great an author in his private walks, and to survey him in his most familiar lights, I think it would be barbarous to form to ourselves any idea of mean-spiritedness from these natural openings of his heart, and disburdening of his thoughts to a wife. He has written several other letters to the same person, but none with so great passion as these of which I have given the foregoing extracts.
It would be ill-nature not to acquaint the English reader, that his wife was successful in her solicitations for this great man, and saw her husband return to the honours of which he had been deprived, with all the pomp and acclamation that usually attended the greatest triumph.