am the more pleased with having
Love
made the principal End and
Design of these Meetings, as it seems to be most agreeable to the Intent
for which they were at first instituted, as we are informed by the
learned Dr.
Kennet
, with whose Words I shall conclude my present
Paper.
These Wakes, says he, were in Imitation of the ancient
Greek (transliterated): agápai or Love-Feasts; and were first established in England
by Pope Gregory the Great, who in an Epistle to Melitus the Abbot
gave Order that they should be kept in Sheds or Arbories made up with
Branches and Boughs of Trees round the Church.
He adds, That this laudable Custom of Wakes prevailed for many Ages,
till the nice Puritans began to exclaim against it as a Remnant of
Popery; and by degrees the precise Humour grew so popular, that at an
Exeter Assizes the Lord Chief Baron Walter made an Order for the
Suppression of all Wakes; but on Bishop Laud's complaining of this
innovating Humour, the King commanded the Order to be reversed.
X.
Parochial Antiquities
(1795), pp. 610, 614.
Contents
Contents p.6
|
Wednesday,
September 5, 1711 |
Addison |
... Servetur ad imum,
Qualis ab incœpto processerit, et sibi constet.
Hor.
Nothing that is not a real Crime makes a Man appear so contemptible and
little in the Eyes of the World as Inconstancy, especially when it
regards Religion or Party. In either of these Cases, tho' a Man perhaps
does but his Duty in changing his Side, he not only makes himself hated
by those he left, but is seldom heartily esteemed by those he comes over
to.
In these great Articles of Life, therefore, a Man's Conviction ought to
be very strong, and if possible so well timed that worldly Advantages
may seem to have no Share in it, or Mankind will be ill natured enough
to think he does not change Sides out of Principle, but either out of
Levity of Temper or Prospects of Interest. Converts and Renegadoes of
all Kinds should take particular care to let the World see they act upon
honourable Motives; or whatever Approbations they may receive from
themselves, and Applauses from those they converse with, they may be
very well assured that they are the Scorn of all good Men, and the
publick Marks of Infamy and Derision.
on the Schemes of Life
which
offer themselves to our
Choice, and Inconstancy in pursuing them, are the greatest and most
universal Causes of all our Disquiet and Unhappiness. When
Ambition
pulls
Way, Interest another, Inclination a third, and perhaps
Reason contrary to all, a Man is likely to pass his Time but ill who has
so many different Parties to please. When the Mind hovers among such a
Variety of Allurements, one had better settle on a Way of Life that is
not the very best we might have chosen, than grow old without
determining our Choice, and go out of the World as the greatest Part of
Mankind do, before we have resolved how to live in it. There is but one
Method of setting our selves at Rest in this Particular, and that is by
adhering stedfastly to one great End as the chief and ultimate Aim of
all our Pursuits. If we are firmly resolved to live up to the Dictates
of Reason, without any Regard to Wealth, Reputation, or the like
Considerations, any more than as they fall in with our principal Design,
we may go through Life with Steadiness and Pleasure; but if we act by
several broken Views, and will not only be virtuous, but wealthy,
popular, and every thing that has a Value set upon it by the World, we
shall live and die in Misery and Repentance.
One would take more than ordinary Care to guard ones self against this
particular Imperfection, because it is that which our Nature very
strongly inclines us to; for if we examine ourselves throughly, we shall
find that we are the most changeable Beings in the Universe. In respect
of our Understanding, we often embrace and reject the very same
Opinions; whereas Beings above and beneath us have probably no Opinions
at all, or at least no Wavering and Uncertainties in those they have.
Our Superiors are guided by Intuition, and our Inferiors by Instinct. In
respect of our Wills, we fall into Crimes and recover out of them, are
amiable or odious in the Eyes of our great Judge, and pass our whole
Life in offending and asking Pardon. On the contrary, the Beings
underneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those above us of
repenting. The one is out of the Possibilities of Duty, and the other
fixed in an eternal Course of Sin, or an eternal Course of Virtue.
There is scarce a State of Life, or Stage in it which does not produce
Changes and Revolutions in the Mind of Man. Our Schemes of Thought in
Infancy are lost in those of Youth; these too take a different Turn in
Manhood, till old Age often leads us back into our former Infancy. A new
Title or an unexpected Success throws us out of ourselves, and in a
manner destroys our Identity. A cloudy Day, or a little Sunshine, have
as great an Influence on many Constitutions, as the most real Blessings
or Misfortunes. A Dream varies our Being, and changes our Condition
while it lasts; and every Passion, not to mention Health and Sickness,
and the greater Alterations in Body and Mind, makes us appear almost
different Creatures. If a Man is so distinguished among other Beings by
this Infirmity, what can we think of such as make themselves remarkable
for it even among their own Species? It is a very trifling Character to
be one of the most variable Beings of the most variable Kind, especially
if we consider that He who is the great Standard of Perfection has in
him no Shadow of Change, but is the same Yesterday, To-day, and for
ever.
As this Mutability of Temper and Inconsistency with our selves is the
greatest Weakness of human Nature, so it makes the Person who is
remarkable for it in a very particular Manner more ridiculous than any
other Infirmity whatsoever, as it sets him in a greater Variety of
foolish Lights, and distinguishes him from himself by an Opposition of
party-coloured Characters. The most humourous Character in
Horace
is
founded upon this Unevenness of Temper and Irregularity of Conduct.
... Sardus habebat
Ille Tigellius hoc: Cæsar qui cogere posset
Si peteret per amicitiam patris, atque suam, non
Quidquam proficeret: Si collibuisset, ab ovo
Usque ad mala citaret, Io Bacche, modò summâ
Voce, modò hâc, resonat quæ; chordis quatuor ima.
Nil æquale homini fuit illi: Sæpe velut qui
Currebat fugiens hostem: Persæpe velut qui
Junonis sacra ferret: Habebat sæpe ducentos,
Sæpe decem servos: Modò reges atque tetrarchas,
Omnia magna loquens: Modò sit mihi mensa tripes, et
Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus,
Quamvis crassa, queat. Decies centena dedisses
Huic parco paucis contento, quinque diebus
Nil erat in loculis. Noctes vigilabat ad ipsum
Manè: Diem totam stertebat. Nil fuit unquam
Sic impar sibi ...
Hor. Sat. 3, Lib. 1.
of translating this Passage in
Horace
, I shall entertain
my
English
Reader with the Description of a Parallel Character,
that is wonderfully well finished by Mr.
Dryden
, and raised
upon the same Foundation.
In the first Rank of these did Zimri stand:
A Man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all Mankind's Epitome.
Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong;
Was ev'ry thing by Starts, and nothing long;
But, in the Course of one revolving Moon,
Was Chemist, Fidler, Statesman, and Buffoon:
Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming, Drinking:
Besides ten thousand Freaks that dy'd in thinking.
Blest Madman, who cou'd ev'ry flour employ,
With something New to wish, or to enjoy!
C.
that
Honour
In his
Absalom and Achitophel.
The character of Villiers,
Duke of Buckingham.
Contents
Contents p.6
|
Thursday,
September 6, 1711 |
Addison |
... Si quid ego adjuero, curamve levasso,
Quæ nunc te coquit, et versat sub pectore fixa,
Ecquid erit pretii?
Enn. ap. Tullium.
after Happiness, and Rules for attaining it, are not so
necessary and useful to Mankind as the Arts of Consolation, and
supporting
ones
self under Affliction. The utmost we can hope for
in this World is Contentment; if we aim at any thing higher, we shall
meet with nothing but Grief and Disappointments. A Man should direct all
his Studies and Endeavours at making himself easie now, and happy
hereafter.
The Truth of it is, if all the Happiness that is dispersed through the
whole Race of Mankind in this World were drawn together, and put into
the Possession of any single Man, it would not make a very happy Being.
Though on the contrary, if the Miseries of the whole Species were fixed
in a single Person, they would make a very miserable one.
I am engaged in this Subject by the following Letter, which, though
subscribed by a fictitious Name, I have reason to believe is not
Imaginary.
Mr.
Spectator2,
'I
am one of your Disciples, and endeavour to live up to your Rules,
which I hope will incline you to pity my Condition: I shall open it to
you in a very few Words. About three Years since a Gentleman, whom, I
am sure, you yourself would have approved, made his Addresses to me.
He had every thing to recommend him but an Estate, so that my Friends,
who all of them applauded his Person, would not for the sake of both
of us favour his Passion. For my own part, I resigned my self up
entirely to the Direction of those who knew the World much better than
my self, but still lived in hopes that some Juncture or other would
make me happy in the Man, whom, in my Heart, I preferred to all the
World; being determined if I could not have him, to have no Body else.
About three Months ago I received a Letter from him, acquainting me,
that by the Death of an Uncle he had a considerable Estate left him,
which he said was welcome to him upon no other Account, but as he
hoped it would remove all Difficulties that lay in the Way to our
mutual Happiness. You may well suppose, Sir, with how much Joy I
received this Letter, which was followed by several others filled with
those Expressions of Love and Joy, which I verily believe no Body felt
more sincerely, nor knew better how to describe than the Gentleman I
am speaking of. But Sir, how shall I be able to tell it you! by the
last Week's Post I received a letter from an intimate Friend of this
unhappy Gentleman, acquainting me, that as he had just settled his
Affairs, and was preparing for his Journey, he fell sick of a Fever
and died. It is impossible to express to you the Distress I am in upon
this Occasion. I can only have Recourse to my Devotions; and to the
reading of good Books for my Consolation; and as I always take a
particular Delight in those frequent Advices and Admonitions which you
give to the Publick, it would be a very great piece of Charity in you
to lend me your Assistance in this Conjuncture. If after the reading
of this Letter you find your self in a Humour, rather to Rally and
Ridicule, than to Comfort me, I desire you would throw it into the
Fire, and think no more of it; but if you are touched with my
Misfortune, which is greater than I know how to bear, your Counsels
may very much Support, and will infinitely Oblige the afflicted
Leonora.'
A Disappointment in Love is more hard to get over than any other; the
Passion itself so softens and subdues the Heart, that it disables it
from struggling or bearing up against the Woes and Distresses which
befal it. The Mind meets with other Misfortunes in her whole Strength;
she stands
within her self, and sustains the Shock with all
the Force
which
is natural to her; but a Heart in Love has its
Foundations sapped, and immediately sinks under the Weight of Accidents
that are disagreeable to its Favourite Passion.
In Afflictions Men generally draw their Consolations out of Books of
Morality, which indeed are of great use to fortifie and strengthen the
Mind against the Impressions of Sorrow.
St.
Evremont
, who
does not approve of this Method, recommends Authors
who
are apt to
stir up Mirth in the Mind of the Readers, and fancies
Don Quixote
can
give more Relief to an heavy Heart than
Plutarch
or
Seneca
, as it is
much easier to divert Grief than to conquer it. This doubtless may have
its Effects on some Tempers. I should rather have recourse to Authors of
a quite contrary kind, that give us Instances of Calamities and
Misfortunes, and shew Human Nature in its greatest Distresses.
If the Affliction we groan under be very heavy, we shall find some
Consolation in the Society of as great Sufferers as our selves,
especially when we find our Companions Men of Virtue and Merit. If our
Afflictions are light, we shall be comforted by the Comparison we make
between our selves and our Fellow Sufferers. A Loss at Sea, a Fit of
Sickness, or the Death of a Friend, are such Trifles when we consider
whole Kingdoms laid in Ashes, Families put to the Sword, Wretches shut
up in Dungeons, and the like Calamities of Mankind, that we are out of
Countenance for our own Weakness, if we sink under such little Stroaks
of Fortune.
Let the Disconsolate
Leonora
consider, that at the very time in which
she languishes for the Loss of her deceased Lover, there are Persons in
several Parts of the World just perishing in a Shipwreck; others crying
out for Mercy in the Terrors of a Death-bed Repentance; others lying
under the Tortures of an Infamous Execution, or the like dreadful
Calamities; and she will find her Sorrows vanish at the Appearance of
those which are so much greater and more astonishing.
I would further propose to the Consideration of my afflicted Disciple,
that possibly what she now looks upon as the greatest Misfortune, is not
really such in it self. For my own part, I question not but our Souls in
a separate State will look back on their Lives in quite another View,
than what they had of them in the Body; and that what they now consider
as Misfortunes and Disappointments, will very often appear to have been
Escapes and Blessings.
The Mind that hath any Cast towards Devotion, naturally flies to it in
its Afflictions.
When I was in
France
I heard a very remarkable Story of two
Lovers, which I shall relate at length in my to-Morrow's Paper, not only
because the Circumstances of it are extraordinary, but because it may
serve as an Illustration to all that can be said on this last Head, and
shew the Power of Religion in abating that particular Anguish which
seems to lie so heavy on
Leonora
. The Story was told me by a
Priest, as I travelled with him in a Stage-Coach. I shall give it my
Reader as well as I can remember, in his own Words, after having
premised, that if Consolations may be drawn from a wrong Religion and a
misguided Devotion, they cannot but flow much more naturally from those
which are founded upon Reason, and established in good Sense.
L.
one
This letter is by Miss Shepheard, the 'Parthenia' of
that
that
Contents
Contents p.6
|
Friday,
September 7, 1711 |
Addison |
Illa; Quis et me, inquit, miseram, et te perdidit, Orpheu? Jamque vale: feror ingenti circumdata nocte, Invalidasque tibi tendens, heu! non tua, palmas.
Virg.
Constantia
was a Woman of extraordinary Wit and Beauty, but very unhappy
in a Father, who having arrived at great Riches by his own Industry,
took delight in nothing but his Money.
Theodosius
was the younger
Son of a decayed Family of great Parts and Learning, improved by a
genteel and vertuous Education. When he was in the twentieth year of his
Age he became acquainted with
Constantia
, who had not then passed
her fifteenth.
he lived but a few Miles Distance from her Father's
House, he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; and by the
Advantages of a good Person and a pleasing Conversation, made such an
Impression in her Heart as it was impossible for time to
efface
:
He was himself no less smitten with
Constantia
. A long
Acquaintance made them still discover new Beauties in each other, and by
Degrees raised in them that mutual Passion which had an Influence on
their following Lives. It unfortunately happened, that in the midst of
this intercourse of Love and Friendship between
Theodosius
and
Constantia
, there broke out an irreparable Quarrel between their
Parents, the one valuing himself too much upon his Birth, and the other
upon his Possessions. The Father of
Constantia
was so incensed at the
Father of
Theodosius
, that he contracted an unreasonable Aversion
towards his Son, insomuch that he forbad him his House, and charged his
Daughter upon her Duty never to see him more. In the mean time to break
off all Communication between the two Lovers, who he knew entertained
secret Hopes of some favourable Opportunity that should bring them
together, he found out a young Gentleman of a good Fortune and an
agreeable Person, whom he pitched upon as a Husband for his Daughter. He
soon concerted this Affair so well, that he told
Constantia
it
was his Design to marry her to such a Gentleman, and that her Wedding
should be celebrated on such a Day.
Constantia
, who was over-awed
with the Authority of her Father, and unable to object anything against
so advantageous a Match, received the Proposal with a profound Silence,
which her Father commended in her, as the most decent manner of a
Virgin's giving her Consent to an Overture of that Kind: The Noise of
this intended Marriage soon reached
Theodosius
, who, after a long
Tumult of Passions which naturally rise in a Lover's Heart on such an
Occasion, writ the following letter to
Constantia
.
'The Thought of my Constantia, which for some years has been my
only Happiness, is now become a greater Torment to me than I am able
to bear. Must I then live to see you another's? The Streams, the
Fields and Meadows, where we have so often talked together, grow
painful to me; Life it self is become a Burden. May you long be happy
in the World, but forget that there was ever such a Man in it as
Theodosius.'
This Letter was conveyed to
Constantia
that very Evening, who
fainted at the Reading of it; and the next Morning she was much more
alarmed by two or three Messengers, that came to her Father's House one
after another to inquire if they had heard any thing of
Theodosius
, who it seems had left his Chamber about Midnight, and
could nowhere be found. The deep Melancholy, which had hung upon his
Mind some Time before, made them apprehend the worst that could befall
him.
Constantia
, who knew that nothing but the Report of her
Marriage could have driven him to such Extremities, was not to be
comforted: She now accused her self for having so tamely given an Ear to
the Proposal of a Husband, and looked upon the new Lover as the Murderer
of
Theodosius:
In short, she resolved to suffer the utmost
Effects of her Father's Displeasure, rather than comply with a Marriage
which appeared to her so full of Guilt and Horror. The Father seeing
himself entirely rid of
Theodosius,
and likely to keep a
considerable Portion in his Family, was not very much concerned at the
obstinate Refusal of his Daughter; and did not find it very difficult to
excuse himself upon that Account to his intended Son-in-law, who had all
along regarded this Alliance rather as a Marriage of Convenience than of
Love.
Constantia
had now no Relief but in her Devotions and
Exercises of Religion, to which her Afflictions had so entirely
subjected her Mind, that after some Years had abated the Violence of her
Sorrows, and settled her Thoughts in a kind of Tranquillity, she
resolved to pass the Remainder of her Days in a Convent.
Father was
not displeased with
a
Resolution,
which
would save Money in
his Family, and readily complied with his Daughter's Intentions.
Accordingly in the Twenty-fifth Year of her Age, while her Beauty was
yet in all its Height and Bloom, he carried her to a neighbouring City,
in order to look out a Sisterhood of Nuns among whom to place his
Daughter. There was in this Place a Father of a Convent who was very
much renowned for his Piety and exemplary Life; and as it is usual in
the Romish Church for those who are under any great Affliction, or
Trouble of Mind, to apply themselves to the most eminent Confessors for
Pardon and Consolation, our beautiful Votary took the Opportunity of
confessing herself to this celebrated Father.
We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very Morning that the
above-mentioned Inquiries had been made after him, arrived at a
religious House in the City, where now Constantia resided; and desiring
that Secresy and Concealment of the Fathers of the Convent, which is
very usual upon any extraordinary Occasion, he made himself one of the
Order, with a private Vow never to enquire after
Constantia
; whom
he looked upon as given away to his Rival upon the Day on which,
according to common Fame, their Marriage was to have been solemnized.
in his Youth made a good Progress in Learning, that he might
dedicate
himself
more entirely to Religion, he entered into holy
Orders, and in a few Years became renowned for his Sanctity of Life, and
those pious Sentiments which he inspired into all
who
conversed
with him. It was this holy Man to whom
Constantia
had determined
to apply her self in Confession, tho' neither she nor any other besides
the Prior of the Convent, knew any thing of his Name or Family.
gay,
the amiable
Theodosius
had now taken upon him the Name of Father
Francis
, and was so far concealed in a long Beard, a
shaven
Head, and a religious Habit, that it was impossible to discover the Man
of the World in the venerable Conventual.
As he was one Morning shut up in his Confessional,
Constantia
kneeling by him opened the State of her Soul to him; and after having
given him the History of a Life full of Innocence, she burst out in
Tears, and entred upon that Part of her Story in which he himself had so
great a Share. My Behaviour, says she, has I fear been the Death of a
Man who had no other Fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only
knows how dear he was to me whilst he liv'd, and how bitter the
Remembrance of him has been to me since his Death. She here paused, and
lifted up her Eyes that streamed with Tears towards the Father; who was
so moved with the Sense of her Sorrows, that he could only command his
Voice, which was broke with Sighs and Sobbings, so far as to bid her
proceed. She followed his Directions, and in a Flood of Tears poured out
her Heart before him. The Father could not forbear weeping aloud,
insomuch that in the Agonies of his Grief the Seat shook under him.
Constantia
, who thought the good Man was thus moved by his
Compassion towards her, and by the Horror of her Guilt, proceeded with
the utmost Contrition to acquaint him with that Vow of Virginity in
which she was going to engage herself, as the proper Atonement for her
Sins, and the only Sacrifice she could make to the Memory of
Theodosius
. The Father, who by this time had pretty well composed
himself, burst out again in Tears upon hearing that Name to which he had
been so long disused, and upon receiving this Instance of an
unparallel'd Fidelity from one who he thought had several Years since
given herself up to the Possession of another. Amidst the Interruptions
of his Sorrow, seeing his Penitent overwhelmed with Grief, he was only
able to bid her from time to time be comforted — To tell her that her
Sins were forgiven her — That her Guilt was not so great as she
apprehended — That she should not suffer her self to be afflicted above
Measure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her the
Absolution in Form; directing her at the same time to repair to him
again the next Day, that he might encourage her in the pious
Resolution