s
she had taken, and give her suitable Exhortations for her
Behaviour in it.
Constantia
retired, and the next Morning renewed
her Applications.
Theodosius
having manned his Soul with proper
Thoughts and Reflections exerted himself on this Occasion in the best
Manner he could to animate his Penitent in the Course of Life she was
entering upon, and wear out of her Mind those groundless Fears and
Apprehensions which had taken Possession of it; concluding with a
Promise to her, that he would from time to time continue his Admonitions
when she should have taken upon her the holy Veil. The Rules of our
respective Orders, says he, will not permit that I should see you, but
you may assure your self not only of having a Place in my Prayers, but
of receiving such frequent Instructions as I can convey to you by
Letters. Go on chearfully in the glorious Course you have undertaken,
and you will quickly find such a Peace and Satisfaction in your Mind,
which it is not in the Power of the World to give.
Constantia's
Heart was so elevated with the Discourse of Father
Francis
, that the very next Day she entered upon her Vow. As soon
as the Solemnities of her Reception were over, she retired, as it is
usual, with the Abbess into her own Apartment.
The Abbess had been informed the Night before of all that had passed
between her Noviciate and Father
Francis:
From whom she now
delivered to her the following Letter.
'As the First-fruits of those Joys and Consolations which you may
expect from the Life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you that
Theodosius, whose Death sits so heavy upon your Thoughts, is
still alive; and that the Father, to whom you have confessed your
self, was once that Theodosius whom you so much lament. The
love which we have had for one another will make us more happy in its
Disappointment than it could have done in its Success. Providence has
disposed of us for our Advantage, tho' not according to our Wishes.
Consider your Theodosius still as dead, but assure your self of
one who will not cease to pray for you in Father.'
Francis.
Constantia
saw that the Hand-writing agreed with the Contents of
the Letter: and upon reflecting on the Voice of the Person, the
Behaviour, and above all the extreme Sorrow of the Father during her
Confession, she discovered
Theodosius
in every Particular. After
having wept with Tears of Joy, It is enough, says she,
Theodosius
is still in Being: I shall live with Comfort and die in Peace.
The Letters which the Father sent her afterwards are yet extant in the
Nunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young Religious, in
order to inspire them with good Resolutions and Sentiments of Virtue. It
so happened, that after
Constantia
had lived about ten Years in
the Cloyster, a violent Feaver broke out in the Place, which swept away
great Multitudes, and among others
Theodosius.
Upon his Deathbed
he sent his Benediction in a very moving Manner to
Constantia,
who at that time was herself so far gone in the same fatal Distemper,
that she lay delirious. Upon the Interval which generally precedes Death
in Sicknesses of this Nature, the Abbess, finding that the Physicians
had given her over, told her that
Theodosius
was just gone before
her, and that he had sent her his Benediction in his last Moments.
Constantia
received it with Pleasure: And now, says she, If I do
not ask anything improper, let me be buried by
Theodosius.
My Vow
reaches no farther than the Grave. What I ask is, I hope, no Violation
of it. — She died soon after, and was interred according to her Request.
Their Tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin Inscription over
them to the following Purpose.
Here lie the Bodies of Father
Francis
and Sister
Constance.
They were lovely in their Lives, and in their Deaths they were not
divided.
C.
deface
her
that
himself up
that
shaved
Contents
Contents p.6
|
Saturday,
September 8, 1711 |
Addison |
... Si fortè necesse est,
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis
Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.1
Hor.
I have often wished, that as in our Constitution there are several
Persons whose Business it is to watch over our Laws, our Liberties and
Commerce, certain Men might be set apart as Superintendants of our
Language, to hinder any Words of a Foreign Coin from passing among us;
and in particular to prohibit any
French
Phrases from becoming Current
in this Kingdom, when those of our own Stamp are altogether as valuable.
The present War has so Adulterated our Tongue with strange Words that it
would be impossible for one of our Great Grandfathers to know what his
Posterity have been doing, were he to read their Exploits in a Modern
News Paper. Our Warriors are very industrious in propagating the
French
Language, at the same time that they are so gloriously
successful in beating down their Power. Our Soldiers are Men of strong
Heads for Action, and perform such Feats as they are not able to
express. They want Words in their own Tongue to tell us what it is they
Atchieve, and therefore send us over Accounts of their Performances in a
Jargon of Phrases, which they learn among their Conquered Enemies. They
ought however to be provided with Secretaries, and assisted by our
Foreign Ministers, to tell their Story for them in plain
English
, and
to let us know in our Mother-Tongue what it is our brave Country-Men are
about. The
French
would indeed be in the right to publish the
News of the present War in
English
Phrases, and make their
Campaigns unintelligible. Their People might flatter themselves that
Things are not so bad as they really are, were they thus palliated with
Foreign Terms, and thrown into Shades and Obscurity: but the
English
cannot be too clear in their Narrative of those Actions,
which have raised their Country to a higher Pitch of Glory than it ever
yet arrived at, and which will be still the more admired the better they
are explained.
For my part, by that time a Siege is carried on two or three Days, I am
altogether lost and bewildered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable
Difficulties, that I scarce know what Side has the better of it, till I
am informed by the Tower Guns that the Place is surrendered.
do indeed
make some Allowances for this Part of the War, Fortifications having
been foreign Inventions, and upon that Account abounding in foreign
Terms. But when we have won Battels
which
may be described in our
own Language, why are our Papers filled with so many unintelligible
Exploits, and the
French
obliged to lend us a Part of their
Tongue before we can know how they are Conquered? They must be made
accessory to their own Disgrace, as the
Britons
were formerly so
artificially wrought in the Curtain of the
Roman
Theatre, that
they seemed to draw it up in order to give the Spectators an Opportunity
of seeing their own Defeat celebrated upon the Stage: For so Mr.
Dryden
has translated that
in
Virgil
.
Purpurea intexti3 tollunt aulœa Britanni.
Georg. 3, v. 25.
Which interwoven Britains
seem to raise,
And shew the Triumph that their Shame displays.
Histories of all our former Wars are transmitted to us in our
Vernacular Idiom, to use the Phrase of a great Modern Critick
. I do
not find in any of our Chronicles, that
Edward
the Third ever
reconnoitred the Enemy, tho' he often discovered the Posture of the
French
, and as often vanquished them in Battel. The
Black
Prince
passed many a River without the help of Pontoons, and filled
a Ditch with Faggots as successfully as the Generals of our Times do it
with Fascines. Our Commanders lose half their Praise, and our People
half their Joy, by means of those hard Words and dark Expressions in
which our News Papers do so much abound. I have seen many a prudent
Citizen, after having read every Article, inquire of his next Neighbour
what News the Mail had brought.
I remember in that remarkable Year when our Country was delivered from
the greatest Fears and Apprehensions, and raised to the greatest Height
of Gladness it had ever felt since it was a Nation, I mean the Year of
Blenheim
, I had the Copy of a Letter sent me out of the Country,
which was written from a young Gentleman in the Army to his Father, a
Man of a good Estate and plain Sense: As the Letter was very modishly
chequered with this Modern Military Eloquence, I shall present my Reader
with a Copy of it.
Sir,
Upon the Junction of the
French and
Bavarian Armies they
took Post behind a great Morass which they thought impracticable.
Our
General the next Day sent a Party of Horse to reconnoitre them from a
little Hauteur, at about a
Quarter of an Hour's5 distance from
the Army, who returned again to the Camp unobserved through several
Defiles, in one of which they met with a Party of
French that
had been Marauding, and made them all Prisoners at Discretion. The Day
after a Drum arrived at our Camp, with a Message which he would
communicate to none but the General; he was followed by a Trumpet, who
they say behaved himself very saucily, with a Message from the Duke of
Bavaria. The next Morning our Army being divided into two
Corps, made a Movement towards the Enemy: You will hear in the Publick
Prints how we treated them, with the other Circumstances of that
glorious Day. I had the good Fortune to be in that Regiment that
pushed the
Gens d'Arms. Several
French Battalions, who
some say were a Corps de Reserve, made a Show of Resistance; but it
only proved a Gasconade, for upon our preparing to fill up a little
Fossé, in order to attack them, they beat the Chamade, and sent us
Charte Blanche. Their Commandant, with a great many other
General Officers, and Troops without number, are made Prisoners of
War, and will I believe give you a Visit in
England, the Cartel
not being yet settled. Not questioning but these Particulars will be
very welcome to you, I congratulate you upon them, and am your most
dutiful Son, &c.'
The Father of the young Gentleman upon the Perusal of the Letter found
it contained great News, but could not guess what it was. He immediately
communicated it to the Curate of the Parish, who upon the reading of it,
being vexed to see any thing he could not understand, fell into a kind
of a Passion, and told him that his Son had sent him a Letter that was
neither Fish, nor Flesh, nor good Red-Herring. I wish, says he, the
Captain may be
Compos Mentis
, he talks of a saucy Trumpet, and a
Drum that carries Messages; then who is this
Charte Blanche
? He
must either banter us or he is out of his Senses. The Father, who always
looked upon the Curate as a learned Man, began to fret inwardly at his
Son's Usage, and producing a Letter which he had written to him about
three Posts afore, You see here, says he, when he writes for Mony he
knows how to speak intelligibly enough; there is no Man in England can
express himself clearer, when he wants a new Furniture for his Horse. In
short, the old Man was so puzzled upon the Point, that it might have
fared ill with his Son, had he not seen all the Prints about three Days
after filled with the same Terms of Art, and that
Charles
only
writ like other Men.
L.
The motto in the original edition was
Semivirumque bovem Semibovemque virum.
Ovid.
that
Atique
Dr Richard Bentley
Mile
Contents
Contents p.6
|
Monday,
September 10, 1711 |
Addison |
... Quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis,
Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas.
Ovid.
Aristotle tells us that the World is a Copy or Transcript of those Ideas
which are in the Mind of the first Being, and that those Ideas, which
are in the Mind of Man, are a Transcript of the World: To this we may
add, that Words are the Transcript of those Ideas which are in the Mind
of Man, and that Writing or Printing are the Transcript of words.
As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it were printed his Ideas in
the Creation, Men express their Ideas in Books, which by this great
Invention of these latter Ages may last as long as the Sun and Moon, and
perish only in the general Wreck of Nature. Thus
Cowley
in his
Poem on the Resurrection, mentioning the Destruction of the Universe,
has those admirable Lines.
Now all the wide extended Sky,
And all th' harmonious Worlds on high,
And Virgil's sacred Work shall die.
There is no other Method of fixing those Thoughts which arise and
disappear in the Mind of Man, and transmitting them to the last Periods
of Time; no other Method of giving a Permanency to our Ideas, and
preserving the Knowledge of any particular Person, when his Body is
mixed with the common Mass of Matter, and his Soul retired into the
World of Spirits. Books are the Legacies that a great Genius leaves to
Mankind, which are delivered down from Generation to Generation, as
Presents to the Posterity of those who are yet unborn.
All other Arts of perpetuating our Ideas continue but a short Time:
Statues can last but a few Thousands of Years, Edifices fewer, and
Colours still fewer than Edifices.
Michael Angelo
,
Fontana
, and
Raphael
, will hereafter be what
Phidias
,
Vitruvius
, and
Apelles
are at present; the
Names of great Statuaries, Architects and Painters, whose Works are
lost. The several Arts are expressed in mouldring Materials: Nature
sinks under them, and is not able to support the Ideas which are imprest
upon it.
The Circumstance which gives Authors an Advantage above all these great
Masters, is this, that they can multiply their Originals; or rather can
make Copies of their Works, to what Number they please, which shall be
as valuable as the Originals themselves. This gives a great Author
something like a Prospect of Eternity, but at the same time deprives him
of those other Advantages which Artists meet with. The Artist finds
greater Returns in Profit, as the Author in Fame. What an Inestimable
Price would a
Virgil
or a
Homer
, a
Cicero
or an
Aristotle
bear, were their Works like a Statue, a Building, or a
Picture, to be confined only in one Place and made the Property of a
single Person?
If Writings are thus durable, and may pass from Age to Age throughout
the whole Course of Time, how careful should an Author be of committing
any thing to Print that may corrupt Posterity, and poison the Minds of
Men with Vice and Error? Writers of great Talents, who employ their
Parts in propagating Immorality, and seasoning vicious Sentiments with
Wit and Humour, are to be looked upon as the Pests of Society, and the
Enemies of Mankind: They leave Books behind them (as it is said of those
who die in Distempers which breed an Ill-will towards their own Species)
to scatter Infection and destroy their Posterity. They act the
Counterparts of a
Confucius
or a
Socrates
; and seem to
have been sent into the World to deprave human Nature, and sink it into
the Condition of Brutality.
I have seen some Roman-Catholick Authors, who tell us that vicious
Writers continue in Purgatory so long as the Influence of their Writings
continues upon Posterity: For Purgatory, say they, is nothing else but a
cleansing us of our Sins, which cannot be said to be done away, so long
as they continue to operate and corrupt Mankind. The vicious Author, say
they, sins after Death, and so long as he continues to sin, so long must
he expect to be punished. Tho' the Roman Catholick Notion of Purgatory
be indeed very ridiculous, one cannot but think that if the Soul after
Death has any Knowledge of what passes in this World, that of an immoral
Writer would receive much more Regret from the Sense of corrupting, than
Satisfaction from the Thought of pleasing his surviving Admirers.
To take off from the Severity of this Speculation, I shall conclude this
Paper with a Story of an Atheistical Author, who at a time when he lay
dangerously sick, and desired the Assistance of a neighbouring Curate,
confessed to him with great Contrition, that nothing sat more heavy at
his Heart than the Sense of his having seduced the Age by his Writings,
and that their evil Influence was likely to continue even after his
Death. The Curate upon further Examination finding the Penitent in the
utmost Agonies of Despair, and being himself a Man of Learning, told
him, that he hoped his Case was not so desperate as he apprehended,
since he found that he was so very sensible of his Fault, and so
sincerely repented of it. The Penitent still urged the evil Tendency of
his Book to subvert all Religion, and the little Ground of Hope there
could be for one whose Writings would continue to do Mischief when his
Body was laid in Ashes. The Curate, finding no other Way to comfort him,
told him, that he did well in being afflicted for the evil Design with
which he published his Book; but that he ought to be very thankful that
there was no danger of its doing any Hurt: That his Cause was so very
bad, and his Arguments so weak, that he did not apprehend any ill
Effects of it: In short, that he might rest satisfied his Book could do
no more Mischief after his Death, than it had done whilst he was living.
To which he added, for his farther Satisfaction, that he did not believe
any besides his particular Friends and Acquaintance had ever been at the
pains of reading it, or that any Body after his Death would ever enquire
after it. The dying Man had still so much the Frailty of an Author in
him, as to be cut to the Heart with these Consolations; and without
answering the good Man, asked his Friends about him (with a Peevishness
that is natural to a sick Person) where they had picked up such a
Blockhead? And whether they thought him a proper Person to attend one in
his Condition? The Curate finding that the Author did not expect to be
dealt with as a real and sincere Penitent, but as a Penitent of
Importance, after a short Admonition withdrew; not questioning but he
should be again sent for if the Sickness grew desperate. The Author
however recovered, and has since written two or three other Tracts with
the same Spirit, and very luckily for his poor Soul with the same
Success.
C.
Contents
Contents p.6
|
Tuesday,
September 11, 1711 |
Steele |
Fuit haud ignobilis Argis,
Qui se credebat miros audire tragœdos,
In vacuo lætus sessor plausorque theatro;
Cætera qui vitæ servaret munia recto
More; bonus sanè vicinus, amabilis hospes,
Comis in uxorem; posset qui ignoscere servis,
Et signo læso non insanire lagenæ;
Posset qui rupem et puteum vitare patentem.
Hic ubi cognatorum opibus curisque refectus
Expulit elleboro morbum bilemque meraco,
Et redit ad sese: Pol me occidistis, amici,
Non servastis, ait; cui sic extorta valuptas,
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus Error.
Hor.
The unhappy Force of an Imagination, unguided by the Check of Reason and
Judgment, was the Subject of a former Speculation. My Reader may
remember that he has seen in one of my Papers a Complaint of an
Unfortunate Gentleman, who was unable to contain himself, (when any
ordinary matter was laid before him) from adding a few Circumstances to
enliven plain Narrative. That Correspondent was a Person of too warm a
Complexion to be satisfied with things merely as they stood in Nature,
and therefore formed Incidents which should have happened to have
pleased him in the Story. The same ungoverned Fancy which pushed that
Correspondent on, in spite of himself, to relate publick and notorious
Falsehoods, makes the Author of the following Letter do the same in
Private; one is a Prating, the other a Silent Liar.
There is little pursued in the Errors of either of these Worthies, but
mere present Amusement: But the Folly of him who lets his Fancy place
him in distant Scenes untroubled and uninterrupted, is very much
preferable to that of him who is ever forcing a Belief, and defending
his Untruths with new Inventions. But I shall hasten to let this Liar in
Soliloquy, who calls himself a
Castle-builder
, describe himself with the
same Unreservedness as formerly appeared in my Correspondent
above-mentioned. If a Man were to be serious on this Subject, he might
give very grave Admonitions to those who are following any thing in this
Life, on which they think to place their Hearts, and tell them that they
are really
Castle-builders
. Fame, Glory, Wealth, Honour, have in the
Prospect pleasing Illusions; but they who come to possess any of them
will find they are Ingredients towards Happiness, to be regarded only in
the second Place; and that when they are valued in the first Degree,
they are as dis-appointing as any of the Phantoms in the following
Letter.
Sept. 6, 1711.
Mr. Spectator,
'I am a Fellow of a very odd Frame of Mind, as you will find by the
Sequel; and think myself Fool enough to deserve a Place in your Paper.
I am unhappily far gone in Building, and am one of that Species of Men
who are properly denominated Castle-Builders, who scorn to be beholden
to the Earth for a Foundation, or dig in the Bowels of it for
Materials; but erect their Structures in the most unstable of
Elements, the Air, Fancy alone laying the Line, marking the Extent,
and shaping the Model. It would be difficult to enumerate what august
Palaces and stately Porticoes have grown under my forming Imagination,
or what verdant Meadows and shady Groves have started into Being, by
the powerful Feat of a warm Fancy. A Castle-builder is even just what
he pleases, and as such I have grasped imaginary Scepters, and
delivered uncontroulable Edicts, from a Throne to which conquered
Nations yielded Obeysance. I have made I know not how many Inroads
into
France, and ravaged the very Heart of that Kingdom; I have
dined in the
Louvre, and drank Champaign at
Versailles;
and I would have you take Notice, I am not only able to vanquish a
People already cowed and accustomed to Flight,
but I could,
Almanzor-like
1, drive the
British General from the
Field, were I less a Protestant, or had ever been affronted by the
Confederates. There is no Art or Profession, whose most celebrated
Masters I have not eclipsed. Where-ever I have afforded my Salutary
Preference, Fevers have ceased to burn, and Agues to shake the Human
Fabrick. When an Eloquent Fit has been upon me, an apt Gesture and
proper Cadence has animated each Sentence, and gazing Crowds have
found their Passions work'd up into Rage, or soothed into a Calm. I am
short, and not very well made; yet upon Sight of a fine Woman, I have
stretched into proper Stature, and killed with a good Air and Mein.
These are the gay Phantoms that dance before my waking Eyes and
compose my Day-Dreams. I should be the most contented happy Man alive,
were the Chimerical Happiness which springs from the Paintings of the
Fancy less fleeting and transitory. But alas! it is with Grief of Mind
I tell you, the least Breath of Wind has often demolished my
magnificent Edifices, swept away my Groves, and left no more Trace of
them than if they had never been. My Exchequer has sunk and vanished
by a Rap on my Door, the Salutation of a Friend has cost me a whole
Continent, and in the same Moment I have been pulled by the Sleeve, my
Crown has fallen from my Head. The ill Consequence of these Reveries
is inconceivably great, seeing the loss of imaginary Possessions makes
Impressions of real Woe. Besides, bad Œconomy is visible and apparent
in Builders of invisible Mansions. My Tenant's Advertisements of Ruins
and Dilapidations often cast a Damp on my Spirits, even in the Instant
when the Sun, in all his Splendor, gilds my Eastern Palaces. Add to
this the pensive Drudgery in Building, and constant grasping Aerial
Trowels, distracts and shatters the Mind, and the fond Builder of
Babells is often cursed with an incoherent Diversity and
Confusion of Thoughts. I do not know to whom I can more properly apply
my self for Relief from this Fantastical Evil, than to your self; whom
I earnestly implore to accommodate me with a Method how to settle my
Head and cool my Brain-pan. A Dissertation on Castle-Building may not
only be serviceable to my self, but all Architects, who display their
Skill in the thin Element. Such a Favour would oblige me to make my
next Soliloquy not contain the Praises of my dear Self but of the
Spectator, who shall, by complying with this, make me.'
His Obliged, Humble Servant.
Vitruvius.
"(unreadable on original page) in Dryden's