Samuel Johnson :

The Decay of Friendship:~

from The Idler, Number 23, September 23, 1758

by Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)

Life has no pleasure higher or nobler than that of friendship. It is painful to

consider that this sublime enjoyment may be impaired or destroyed by
innumerable causes, and that there is no human possession of which the
duration is less certain.

Many have talked in very exalted language, of the perpetuity of friendship, of

invincible constancy, and unalienable kindness; and some examples have been
seen of men who have continued faithful to their earliest choice, and whose
affection has predominated over changes of fortune, and contrariety of opinion.

But these instances are memorable, because they are rare. The friendship which
is to be practiced or expected by common mortals, must take its rise from
mutual pleasure, and must end when the power ceases of delighting each other.

Many accidents therefore may happen by which the ardor of kindness will be
abated, without criminal baseness or contemptible inconstancy on either part.
To give pleasure is not always in our power; and little does he know himself
who believes that he can be always able to receive it.

Those who would gladly pass their days together may be separated by the
different course of their affairs; and friendship, like love, is destroyed by long
absence, though it may be increased by short intermissions. What we have
missed long enough to want it, we value more when it is regained; but that
which has been lost till it is forgotten, will be found at last with little gladness,
and with still less if a substitute has supplied the place. A man deprived of the
companion to whom he used to open his bosom, and with whom he shared the
hours of leisure and merriment, feels the day at first hanging heavy on him; his
difficulties oppress, and his doubts distract him; he sees time come and go
without his wonted gratification, and all is sadness within, and solitude about
him.

But this uneasiness never lasts long; necessity produces expedients, new
amusements are discovered, and new conversation is admitted.

No expectation is more frequently disappointed, than that which naturally

arises in the mind from the prospect of meeting an old friend after long
separation. We expect the attraction to be revived, and the coalition to be
renewed; no man considers how much alteration time has made in himself, and
very few inquire what effect it has had upon others. The first hour convinces
them that the pleasure which they have formerly enjoyed, is forever at an end;
different scenes have made different impressions; the opinions of both are
changed; and that similitude of manners and sentiment is lost which confirmed
them both in the approbation of themselves.
Friendship is often destroyed by opposition of interest, not only by the
ponderous and visible interest which the desire of wealth and greatness forms
and maintains, but by a thousand secret and slight competitions, scarcely
known to the mind upon which they operate. There is scarcely any man without
some favorite trifle which he values above greater attainments, some desire of
petty praise which he cannot patiently suffer to be frustrated. This minute
ambition is sometimes crossed before it is known, and sometimes defeated by
wanton petulance; but such attacks are seldom made without the loss of
friendship; for whoever has once found the vulnerable part will always be
feared, and the resentment will burn on in secret, of which shame hinders the
discovery.
This, however, is a slow malignity, which a wise man will obviate as inconsistent
with quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary to virtue; but human
happiness is sometimes violated by some more sudden strokes.

A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which a moment before was on both
parts regarded with careless indifference, is continued by the desire of
conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, and opposition rankles into enmity.
Against this hasty mischief, I know not what security can be obtained; men will
be sometimes surprised into quarrels; and though they might both haste into
reconciliation, as soon as their tumult had subsided, yet two minds will seldom
be found together, which can at once subdue their discontent, or immediately
enjoy the sweets of peace without remembering the wounds of the conflict.

Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is always hardening the cautious, and
disgust repelling the delicate. Very slender differences will sometimes part
those whom long reciprocation of civility or beneficence has united. Lonelove
and Ranger retired into the country to enjoy the company of each other, and
returned in six weeks, cold and petulant; Ranger's pleasure was to walk in the
fields, and Lonelove's to sit in a bower; each had complied with the other in his
turn, and each was angry that compliance had been exacted.

The most fatal disease of friendship is gradual decay, or dislike hourly increased
by causes too slender for complaint, and too numerous for removal. Those who
are angry may be reconciled; those who have been injured may receive a
recompense: but when the desire of pleasing and willingness to be pleased is
silently diminished, the renovation of friendship is hopeless; as, when the vital
powers sink into languor, there is no longer any use of the physician.

************** ***************
No. 53. Mischief of Good Company:~
TO THE IDLER.

Sir,

I have a wife that keeps good company. You know that the word good varies its
meaning according to the value set upon different qualities in different places.
To be a good man in a college, is to be learned; in a camp, to be brave; and in
the city, to be rich. By good company in the place which I have the misfortune to
inhabit, we understand not only those from whom any good can be learned,
whether wisdom or virtue; or by whom any good can be conferred, whether
profit or reputation:—good company is the company of those whose birth is
high, and whose riches are great; or of those whom the rich and noble admit to
familiarity.

I am a gentleman of a fortune by no means exuberant, but more than equal to

the wants of my family, and for some years equal to our desires. My wife, who
had never been accustomed to splendour, joined her endeavours to mine in the
superintendence of our economy; we lived in decent plenty, and were not
excluded from moderate pleasures.

But slight causes produce great effects. All my happiness has been destroyed by
change of place: virtue is too often merely local; in some situations the air
diseases the body, and in others poisons the mind. Being obliged to remove my
habitation, I was led by my evil genius to a convenient house in a street where
many of the nobility reside. We had scarcely ranged our furniture, and aired our
rooms, when my wife began to grow discontented, and to wonder what the
neighbours would think, when they saw so few chairs and chariots at her door.

Her acquaintance, who came to see her from the quarter that we had left,
mortified her without design, by continual inquiries about the ladies whose
houses they viewed from our windows. She was ashamed to confess that she
had no intercourse with them, and sheltered her distress under general
answers, which always tended to raise suspicion that she knew more than she
would tell; but she was often reduced to difficulties, when the course of talk
introduced questions about the furniture or ornaments of their houses, which,
when she could get no intelligence, she was forced to pass slightly over, as
things which she saw so often that she never minded them.

To all these vexations she was resolved to put an end, and redoubled her visits
to those few of her friends who visited those who kept good company; and, if
ever she met a lady of quality, forced herself into notice by respect and
assiduity. Her advances were generally rejected; and she heard them, as they
went down stairs, talk how some creatures put themselves forward.

She was not discouraged, but crept forward from one to another; and, as
perseverance will do great things, sapped her way unperceived, till,
unexpectedly, she appeared at the card-table of lady Biddy Porpoise, a
lethargick virgin of seventy-six, whom all the families in the next square visited
very punctually when she was not at home.

This was the first step of that elevation to which my wife has since ascended.
For five months she had no name in her mouth but that of lady Biddy, who, let
the world say what it would, had a fine understanding, and such a command of
her temper, that, whether she won or lost, she slept over her cards.

At lady Biddy’s she met with lady Tawdry, whose favour she gained by
estimating her ear-rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the value of real
diamonds. When she had once entered two houses of distinction, she was easily
admitted into more, and in ten weeks had all her time anticipated by parties
and engagements. Every morning she is bespoke, in the summer, for the
gardens, in the winter, for a sale; every afternoon she has visits to pay, and
every night brings an inviolable appointment, or an assembly in which the best
company in the town are to appear.
You will easily imagine that much of my domestick comfort is withdrawn. I
never see my wife but in the hurry of preparation, or the languor of weariness.
To dress and to undress is almost her whole business in private, and the
servants take advantage of her negligence to increase expense. But I can supply
her omissions by my own diligence, and should not much regret this new course
of life, if it did nothing more than transfer to me the care of our accounts. The
changes which it has made are more vexatious. My wife has no longer the use of
her understanding. She has no rule of action but the fashion. She has no opinion
but that of the people of quality. She has no language but the dialect of her own
set of company. She hates and admires in humble imitation; and echoes the
words charming and detestable without consulting her own perceptions.

If for a few minutes we sit down together, she entertains me with the repartees
of lady Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler and Miss Quick, and wonders
to find me receiving with indifference sayings which put all the company into
laughter.

By her old friends she is no longer very willing to be seen, but she must not rid
herself of them all at once; and is sometimes surprised by her best visitants in
company which she would not show, and cannot hide; but from the moment
that a countess enters, she takes care neither to hear nor see them: they soon
find themselves neglected, and retire; and she tells her ladyship that they are
somehow related at a great distance, and that, as they are a good sort of
people, she cannot be rude to them.

As by this ambitious union with those that are above her, she is always forced
upon disadvantageous comparisons of her condition with theirs, she has a
constant source of misery within; and never returns from glittering assemblies
and magnificent apartments but she growls out her discontent, and wonders
why she was doomed to so indigent a state. When she attends the duchess to a
sale, she always sees something that she cannot buy; and, that she may not
seem wholly insignificant, she will sometimes venture to bid, and often make
acquisitions which she did not want at prices which she cannot afford.

What adds to all this uneasiness is, that this expense is without use, and this
vanity without honour; she forsakes houses where she might be courted, for
those where she is only suffered; her equals are daily made her enemies, and
her superiors will never be her friends.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

*************

Expectations of Pleasure Frustrated :~

Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought. Our

brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by
unexpected sparks. The flowers which scatter their odours,
from time to time, in the paths of life, grow up without
culture from seeds scattered by chance.

Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of merriment. Wits

and humourists are brought together from distant quarters by
preconcerted invitations; they come, attended by their
admirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud; they gaze awhile
on each other, ashamed to be silent, and afraid to speak;
every man is discontented with himself, grows angry with
those that give him pain, and resolves that he will contribute
nothing to the merriment of such worthless company. Wine
inflames the general malignity, and changes sullenness to
petulance, till at last none can bear any longer the presence of
the rest. They retire to vent their indignation in safer places,
where they are heard with attention; their importance is
restored, they recover their good humour, and gladden the
night with wit and jocularity.

Merriment is always the effect of a sudden impression. The

jest which is expected is already destroyed. The most active
imagination will be sometimes torpid, under the frigid
influence of melancholy, and sometimes occasions will be
wanting to tempt the mind, however volatile, to sallies and
excursions. Nothing was ever said with uncommon felicity,
but by the co-operation of chance; and, therefore, wit, as well
as valour, must be content to share its honours with fortune.

All other pleasures are equally uncertain; the general remedy

of uneasiness is change of place; almost every one has some
journey of pleasure in his mind, with which he flatters his
expectation. He that travels in theory has no inconvenience;
he has shade and sunshine at his disposal, and wherever he
alights finds tables of plenty and looks of gaiety. These ideas
are indulged till the day of departure arrives, the chaise is
called, and the progress of happiness begins.
A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagination. The road is
dusty, the air is sultry, the horses are sluggish, and the
postillion brutal. He longs for the time of dinner, that he may
eat and rest. The inn is crowded, his orders are neglected, and
nothing remains but that he devour in haste what the cook
has spoiled, and drive on in quest of better entertainment. He
finds at night a more commodious house, but the best is
always worse than he expected.

He at last enters his native province, and resolves to feast his

mind with the conversation of his old friends, and the
recollection of juvenile frolicks. He stops at the house of his
friend, whom he designs to overpower with pleasure by the
unexpected interview. He is not known till he tells his name,
and revives the memory of himself by a gradual explanation.
He is then coldly received, and ceremoniously feasted. He
hastes away to another, whom his affairs have called to a
distant place, and, having seen the empty house, goes away
disgusted by a disappointment which could not be intended,
because it could not be foreseen. At the next house he finds
every face clouded with misfortune, and is regarded with
malevolence as an unreasonable intruder, who comes not to
visit but to insult them. It is seldom that we find either men or
places such as we expect them. He that has pictured a
prospect upon his fancy, will receive little pleasure from his
eyes; he that has anticipated the conversation of a wit, will
wonder to what prejudice he owes his reputation. Yet it is
necessary to hope, though hope should always be deluded;
for hope itself is happiness, and its frustrations, however
frequent, are less dreadful than its extinction.

******** ********

Oliver Goldsmith :~

Man in Black :~

I believe that this essay by Oliver Goldmith is an excellent display of

exemplification. In this essay, the author talks of a man who is remorseful of his
charitable actions. The man is an obvious philanthropist, but he is ashamed of
it. Goldmith lays out the ways, and gives examples,

of how “he is the only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his natural
benevolence.”

First Paragraph:
The man is a charitable man. He cares about others, gives to others, and shares
with others, but he pretends to not care about the well-being of others. He is
“ashamed of his natural benevolence.” While he pretends to have a disliking for
mankind, he’s not very good at pretending to be. The author reveals that his
poker face is not up to par. “… While his looks were softened into pity, I have
heard him use the language of the most unbounded ill-nature.”

Second Paragraph :

The “Man in Black” is so concerned with the place of the poor, that he
complains to the author of how ignorant the countrymen, or wealthy, are to the
state of living of the poorer people. He says that the poor only want a few
things – food, housing, clothes, and warmth but cannot obtain those things due
to the negligence of the fortunate.

Third Paragraph:

The man in black gives a beggar a piece of silver, but when doing so, he
appeared “ashamed” to present his weakness to the author; the man has too
much pride to show his soft spot for the less fortunate.

Fourth paragraph:

When a man with a wooden leg passed the author and the man in black, the
author ignored him. The man in black showed much attention to him, but
instead of giving him alms, he called him out to be a poser of the needy. But
once hearing the sailor’s story of fighting in defense of the country while others
“did nothing at home”, the man gave alms to him.

Fifth paragraph:
The man in black and the author ran into a woman who was an obvious
example of helpless, but he had no money to give her. He became shameful, as
it was presented in his face, but once he found a “shilling’s worth of matches”,
and placed it in her hands, he was pleased with himself seeing the smile in the
woman’s face. This anonymous man, the Man In Black, is a man of benevolence,
and is bluntly shameful of it. There is no understanding of why.

The man is one who cannot exhibit generous behavior without being ashamed
of it. He wants the world to see him as a man who does not care too much
about the well-being of others; much less, the unfortunate. He is the “Man In
Black”, because he hides his benevolence. He does not want to be noticed for it.
He is, the Man in Black.

************ *************

A City Night Piece :~

The clock has just struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in the socket, the
watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious and the happy are at rest,
and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard
once more fills the destroying bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and
the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person.

Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity or the sallies of
contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where Vanity, ever
changing, but a few hours past walked before me, where she kept up the
pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own
importunities.

What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no
sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. All the bustle
of human pride is forgotten; an hour like this may well display the emptiness of
human vanity.

There will come a time when this temporary solitude may be made continual,
and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert in its room.

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence! had their
victories as great, joy as just and as "Unbounded, and, with short-sighted
presumption, promised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the
situation of some; the sorrowful traveller wanders over the lawful ruins of
others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every
sublunary possession.

"Here," he cries, "stood their citadel, now grown over with, weeds; there, their
senate house, but now the haunt of every noxious,reptile; temples and theatres
stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen: for luxury
and avarice first made them feeble. The rewards of the state were conferred on
amusing and not on useful members of society. Their riches and opulence
invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, returned again, conquered
by perseverance, and at last swept the defendants into undistinguished
destruction."

How few appear in those streets which, but some few hours ago, were
crowded! and those who appear now no longer wear their daily mask, nor
attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery.

But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short repose
from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? These are strangers,
wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect
redress, and whose distresses are too great even for pity. Their wretchedness
rather excites horror than pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and
others emaciated with disease: the world has disclaimed them; society turns its
back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and hunger.
These poor shivering females have once seen happier days and been flattered
into beauty. They have been prostituted to the gay, luxurious villain, and are
now turned out to meet the severity of Winter. Perhaps, now lying at the doors
of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are insensible, to
debauchees who may curse but will not relieve them.

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of wretches I cannot
relieve! Poor houseless creatures! the world will give you reproaches, but will
not give you relief. The slightest misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary
uneasinesses of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and
held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep
unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny; and every law,
which gives others security, becomes an enemy to them.

Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility! or why was not my
fortune adapted to its impulse! Tenderness, without a capacity of relieving, only
makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object which sues for
assistance. Adieu.

-- Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74).

********* **********

Richard Steele:~

Recollections:~
'The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was
upon the death of my father'

Born in Dublin, Richard Steele is best known as

the founding editor of the Tatler and—with his
friend —Spectator. Steele wrote popular
essays (often addressed "From my own
Apartment") for both periodicals. The Tatler
was a British literary and society paper which
was published for two years. Steele was
attempting a new approach to journalism
which was more focused on the essay. The
periodical was released three times a week, its
name came from its habit of publishing things
overheard in the high society coffee houses in
London. Although, Steele did have a habit of
inventing stories as well as printing real
gossip.
 Though less highly regarded than Addison as
an essayist, Steele has been described as
"more human and at his best a greater
writer." In the following essay, he reflects on
the pleasure of remembering the lives of
friends and family members who have died.
Recollections
from the Tatler, Number 181, June 6, 1710

by Richard Steele

There are those among mankind, who can

enjoy no relish of their being, except the
world, is made acquainted with all that relates
to them, and think every thing lost that passes
unobserved; but others find a solid delight in
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 names 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 ourselves in
whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such
inclinations in my heart I went to my closet
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 the time; but I could, without tears, reflect
upon many pleasing adventures I have had
with some, who 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 as I much delighted in when living,
an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and
their memory, while I run over all the
melancholy circumstances of this kind which
have occurred to me in my whole life.
The first sense 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 caught me in
her arms, and, transported beyond all
patience 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 any future
application.
Hence it is, that good-nature 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 judgement, I imbibed
commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly
gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared
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 befell 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 circumstance 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 widows on
the 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
honor.
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;
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 mind
we meet, and can entertain each other
without expecting always to rejoice.
The wine we found to be generous and
warming, but with such a 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.

********* **********

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of

the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men
are afraid of the light.” --Plato
On Long-Winded People - Richard Steele
Favete linguis.
(Horace Odes. iii. 2.2)
Favour your tongues.

Boccalini, in his Parnassus, indicts a laconic

writer for speaking that in three words which
he might have said in two, and sentences him
for his punishment to read over all the works
of Guicciardini. This Guicciardini is so very
prolix and circumstantial in his writings, that I
remember our countryman, Doctor Donne,
speaking of that majestic and concise manner
in which Moses has described the creation of
the world, adds, "that if such an author as
Guicciardini were to have written on such a
subject, the world itself would not have been
able to have contained the books that gave
the history of its creation."

I look upon a tedious talker, or what is

generally known by the name of a story-teller,
to be much more insufferable than even a
prolix writer. An author may be tossed out of
your hand, and thrown aside when he grows
dull and tiresome; but such liberties are so far
from being allowed towards your orators in
common conversation, that I have known a
challenge sent a person for going out of the
room abruptly, and leaving a man of honour in
the midst of a dissertation. This evil is at
present so very common and epidemical, that
there is scarce a coffee-house in town that has
not some speakers belonging to it, who utter
their political essays, and draw parallels out of
Baker's Chronicle, to almost every part of her
Majesty's reign. It was said of two ancient
authors, who had very different beauties in
their style, "that if you took a word from one
of them, you only spoiled his eloquence; but if
you took a word from the other, you spoiled
his sense." I have often applied the first part of
this criticism to several of these coffee-house
speakers whom I have at present in my
thoughts, though the character that is given to
the last of those authors, is what I would
recommend to the imitation of my loving
countrymen. But it is not only public places of
resort, but private clubs and conversations
over a bottle, that are infested with this
loquacious kind of animal, especially with that
species which I comprehend under the name
of a story-teller. I would earnestly desire these
gentlemen to consider, that no point of wit or
mirth at the end of a story can atone for the
half-hour that has been lost before they come
at it. I would likewise lay it home to their
serious consideration, whether they think that
every man in the company has not a right to
speak as well as themselves? and whether
they do not think they are invading another
man's property, when they engross the time
which should be divided equally among the
company to their own private use?

What makes this evil the much greater in

conversation is, that these humdrum
companions seldom endeavour to wind up
their narrations into a point of mirth or
instruction, which might make some amends
for the tediousness of them; but think they
have a right to tell anything that has happened
within their memory. They look upon matter
of fact to be a sufficient foundation for a story,
and give us a long account of things, not
because they are entertaining or surprising,
but because they are true.

My ingenious kinsman, Mr. Humphry

Wagstaff, used to say, "the life of man is too
short for a storyteller."

Methusalem might be half an hour in telling

what o'clock it was: but as for us
postdiluvians, we ought to do everything in
haste; and in our speeches, as well as actions,
remember that our time is short. A man that
talks for a quarter of an hour together in
company, if I meet him frequently, takes up a
great part of my span. A quarter of an hour
may be reckoned the eight and fortieth part of
a day, a day the three hundred and sixtieth
part of a year, and a year the threescore and
tenth part of life. By this moral arithmetic,
supposing a man to be in the talking world one
third part of the day, whoever gives another a
quarter of an hour's hearing, makes him a
sacrifice of more than the four hundred
thousandth part of his conversable life.

I would establish but one great general rule to

be observed in all conversation, which is this,
"that men should not talk to please
themselves, but those that hear them." This
would make them consider, whether what
they speak be worth hearing; whether there
be either wit or sense in what they are about
to say; and, whether it be adapted to the time
when, the place where, and the person to
whom, it is spoken.
For the utter extirpation of these orators and
story-tellers, which I look upon as very great
pests of society, I have invented a watch which
divides the minute into twelve parts, after the
same manner that the ordinary watches are
divided into hours: and will endeavour to get a
patent, which shall oblige every club or
company to provide themselves with one of
these watches, that shall lie upon the table, as
an hourglass is often placed near the pulpit, to
measure out the length of a discourse.

I shall be willing to allow a man one round of

my watch, that is, a whole minute, to speak in;
but if he exceeds that time, it shall be lawful
for any of the company to look upon the
watch, or to call him down to order.
Provided, however, that if any one can make it
appear he is turned of threescore, he may take
two, or, if he pleases, three rounds of the
watch without giving offence. Provided, also,
that this rule be not construed to extend to
the fair sex, who shall still be at liberty to talk
by the ordinary watch that is now in use. I
would likewise earnestly recommend this little
automaton, which may be easily carried in the
pocket without any incumbrance, to all such
as are troubled with this infirmity of speech,
that upon pulling out their watches, they may
have frequent occasion to consider what they
are doing, and by that means cut the thread of
the story short, and hurry to a conclusion. I
shall only add, that this watch, with a paper of
directions how to use it, is sold at Charles
Lillie's.
I am afraid a Tatler will be thought a very
improper paper to censure this humour of
being talkative; but I would have my readers
know that there is a great difference between
tattle and loquacity, as I shall show at large in
a following lucubration; it being my design to
throw away a candle upon that subject, in
order to explain the whole art of tattling in all
its branches and subdivisions.

********* *********
10. Reflections In Westminster Abbey
Essays From Addison edited by J H Fowler Spectator No. 26,
March 30, 1711

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas

Regumque turres, O beate Sexti.
Vitae summa brevis spem nes vetat inchoare longam:
Jam te premet nox, fabulaeque manes,
Et domus exilis Plutonia —Horace
Pale Death with foot impartial tramples down
The man's cot, the kingly tower and throne.
Thrice-happy Sestius ! Life's brief span denies
Far-reaching hopes and flattering auguries.
Long night awaits as all. The ghostly crew
And Pluto's gloomy mansions loom in view.—Stephen De Vere

WHEN I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by myself in

Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess of the place, and
the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the
building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt
to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather
thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a
whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the
church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions
that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of
them recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that he
was born upon one day, and died upon another: the whole
history of his life being comprehended in those two
circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not
but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or
marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons; who
bad left no other memorial of them, but that they were born
and that they died. They put me in mind of several persons
mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding
names given them, for no other reason but that they may be
killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knocked on
the head.

Ancient greek—HOMER.
Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque —VIRGIL

The life of these men is finely described in holy writ by "the

path of an arrow," which is immediately closed up and lost.

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the

digging of a grave; and saw in every shovelful of it that was
thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixt with a
kind of fresh mouldering earth, that some time or other had a
place in the composition of a human body. Upon this I began
to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes of
people lay confused together under the pavement of that
ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies,
priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled
amongst one another, and blended together in the same
common mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age,
weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same
promiscuous heap of matter.

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality,

as it were, in the lump; I examined it more particularly by the
accounts which I found on several of the monuments which
are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of
them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it
were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with
them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have
bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest,
that they deliver the character of the person departed in
Greek or Hebrew, and by that means are not understood once
in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter, I found there were
poets who had no monuments, and monuments which had no
poets. I observed, indeed, that the present war had filled the
church with many of these uninhabited monuments, which
had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies
were perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the
bosom of the ocean.

I could not but be very much delighted with several modern

epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expression
and justness of thought, and therefore do honour to the living
as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive
an idea of the ignorance or politeness of a nation, from the
turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should
be submitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius,
before they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel's
monument has very often given me great offence: instead of
the brave rough English Admiral, which was the distinguishing
character of that plain gallant man, he is represented on his
tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and
reposing himself upon velvet cushions under a canopy of
state. The inscription is answerable to the monument; for
instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions he had
performed in the service of his country, it acquaints us only
with the manner of his death, in which it was impossible for
him to reap any honour. The Dutch, whom we are apt to
despise for want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste of
antiquity and politeness in their buildings and works of this
nature, than what we meet with in those of our own country.
The monuments of their admirals, which have been erected at
the public expense, represent them like themselves; and are
adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with
beautiful festoons of seaweed, shells, and coral.

But to return to our subject. I have left the repository of our

English kings for the contemplation of another day, when I
shall find my mind disposed for so serious an amusement. I
know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark
and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy
imaginations; but for my own part, though I am always
serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy; and can
therefore take a view of nature in her deep and solemn
scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and
delightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with those
objects which others consider with terror. When I look upon
the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me
when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate
desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a
tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the
tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of
grieving for those whom we must quickly follow; when I see
kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival
wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the
world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow
and astonishment on the little competitions. factions, and
debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the
tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred
years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be
contemporaries, and make our appearance together.