exposed; in cases of this nature, Eucrate was the patron, and enjoyed this part of the royal favour so much without being envied, that it was never inquired into by whose means, what no one else cared for doing, was brought about. 'One evening when Pharamond came into the apartment of Eucrate, he found him extremely dejected, upon which he asked, with a smile which was natural to him, "What, is there any one too miserable to be relieved by Pharamond, that Eucrate is melancholy?" "I fear there is," answered the favourite; "a person without, of a good air, well dressed, and though a man in the strength of his life, seems to faint under some inconsolable calamity; all his features seem suffused with agony of mind; but I can observe in him, that it is more inclined to break away in tears than rage. I asked him what he would have; he said he would speak to Pharamond. I desired his business; he could hardly say to me, 'Eucrate, carry me to the king; my story is not to be told twice, I fear I shall not be able to speak it at all.'" Pharamond commanded Eucrate to let him enter; he did so, and the gentleman approached the king with an air which spoke him under the greatest concern in what manner to demean himself.1 The king, who had a quick discerning, relieved him from the oppression he was under; and with the most beautiful complacency said to him, "Sir, do not add to that load of sorrow I see in your countenance, the awe of my presence; think you are speaking to your friend; if the circumstances of your distress will admit of it, you shall find me so." To whom the stranger: "Oh excellent Pharamond, 1 An air which spoke the utmost sense of his majesty without the ability to express it' (folio). name not a friend to the unfortunate Spinamont; I had one, but he is dead by my own hand; but, O Pharamond, though it was by the hand of Spinamont, it was by the guilt of Pharamond. I come not, oh excellent prince, to implore your pardon; I come to relate my sorrow, a sorrow too great for human life to support from henceforth shall all occurrences appear dreams or short intervals of amusement, from this one affliction which has seized my very being. Pardon me, O Pharamond, if my griefs give me leave, that I lay before you in the anguish of a wounded mind, that you, good as you are, are guilty of the generous blood spilt this day by this unhappy hand; oh that it had perished before that instant!" Here the stranger paused, and recollecting his mind after some little meditation, he went on in a calmer tone and gesture as follows: 1 This is a reference to a duel between Mr. Thornhill and Sir Cholmondeley Dering, Bart., on the 9th of May 1711, when Sir Cholmondeley was killed. Thornhill was tried and acquitted; but shortly afterwards he was stabbed by two men, who bid him remember Sir Cholmondeley Dering (Swift's Journal to Stella,' May 9 and August 21, 1711). The following account of the duel, in a letter from Lady Dupplin to her aunt, Abigail Harley, has recently been published (Hist. MSS. Comm., Fifteenth Report, Part IV. p. 686): A sad accident happened yesterday; Sir Cholmondeley Dering was killed in a duel by one Mr. Thornhill. They fought with pistols; he died in the evening. They were relations and had been great friends. The quarrel was ten days ago at a drinking bout. Mr. Thornhill affronted my Lord Scarsdale, Sir Ch. would have had him beg my lord's pardon, told him he was very drunk; he said he was not. Sir Ch. knocked him down, set his foot on his mouth, broke his jaw, and dashed out several teeth. He lay very ill, but they say Tuesday night sent the knight a challenge, and he called him up, and they went to Tothill Fields. The first shot killed Sir Cholmondeley; he has left two very little boys. Thornhill is in Newgate.' "There is an authority due to distress; and as none of human race is above the reach of sorrow, none should be above the hearing the voice of it: I am sure Pharamond is not. Know, then, that I have this morning unfortunately killed in a duel the man whom of all men living I most loved. I command myself too much in your royal presence to say, 'Pharamond, give me my friend! Pharamond has taken him from me!' I will not say, 'Shall the merciful Pharamond destroy his own subjects? Will the father of his country murder his people?' But the merciful Pharamond does destroy his subjects, the father of his country does murder his people. Fortune is so much the pursuit of mankind, that all glory and honour is in the power of a prince, because he has the distribution of their fortunes. It is therefore the inadvertency, negligence, or guilt of princes to let anything grow into custom which is against their laws. A court can make fashion and duty walk together; it can never, without the guilt of a court, happen that it shall not be unfashionable to do what is unlawful. But, alas! in the dominions of Pharamond, by the force of a tyrant custom which is misnamed a point of honour, the duellist kills his friend whom he loves, and the judge condemns the duellist, while he approves his behaviour. Shame is the greatest of all evils; what avail laws when death only attends the breach of them and shame obedience to them? As for me, O Pharamond! were it possible to describe the nameless kinds of compunctions and tendernesses I feel when I reflect upon the little accidents in our former familiarity, my mind swells into sorrow which cannot be resisted enough to be silent in the presence of Pharamond." With that he fell into a flood of tears and wept aloud. "Why should not Pharamond hear the anguish he only can relieve others from in time to come. Let him hear from me what they feel who have given death by the false mercy of his administration, and form to himself the vengeance called for by those who have perished by his negligence."' No. 85. Thursday, June 7, 1711 R. [ADDISON. Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte -HOR., Ars Poet. 319. T is the custom of the Mahomedans, if they see any printed or written paper upon the ground, to take it up and lay it aside carefully, as not knowing but it may contain some piece of their Alcoran. I must confess I have so much of the Mussulman in me, that I cannot forbear looking into every printed paper which comes in my way, under whatsoever despicable circumstances it may appear; for as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, knows to what use his works may some time or other be applied, a man may often meet with very celebrated names in a paper of tobacco. I have lighted my pipe more than once with the writings of a prelate, and know a friend of mine who for these several years has converted the essays of a man of quality into a kind of fringe for his candlesticks. I remember, in particular, after having read over a poem of an eminent author on a victory, I met with several fragments of it upon the next rejoicing day which had been employed in squibs and crackers, and by that means celebrated its subject in a double capacity. I once met with a page of Mr. Baxter1 under a Christmas pie. Whether or not the pastrycook had made use of it through chance or waggery, for the defence of that superstitious viand, I know not; but upon the perusal of it I conceived so good an idea of the author's piety, that I bought the whole book. I have often profited by these accidental readings, and have sometimes found very curious pieces, that are either out of print or not to be met with in the shops of our London booksellers. For this reason, when my friends take a survey of my library, they are very much surprised to find, upon the shelf of folios, two long bandboxes standing upright among my books, till I let them see that they are both of them lined with deep erudition and abstruse literature. I might likewise mention a paper-kite from which I have received great improvement, and a hat-case which I would not exchange for all the beavers in Great Britain. This my inquisitive temper, or rather impertinent humour of prying into all sorts of writing, with my natural aversion to loquacity, give me a good deal of employment when I enter any house in the country; for I can't, for my heart, leave a room before I have thoroughly studied the walls of it, and examined the several printed papers which are usually pasted upon them. The last piece that I met with upon this occasion gave me a most exquisite pleasure. My reader will think I am not serious when I acquaint him that the piece I am going to speak of was the old ballad of the Two Children in the Wood,' which is one of the darling 1 Richard Baxter, of the Saints' Everlasting Rest.' |