knowledge of human nature as well as life. Mr Bickerstaff's own history is so interwoven with the whole work as to give it something of the air of an autobiography, and that of his half-sister, Jenny Distaff, who is introduced as the exponent of the views and interests of her sex, is a sort of novelette, forming occasional episodes in his own story. His three nephews are introduced for the purpose of illustrating his views on education and the bringing up of youth, and the dramatis persona is completed with a familiar spirit or good genius named Pacolet, who is the vehicle of conveying a variety of information beyond human ken or experience. "Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., astrologer," says Lord Macaulay, writing on Addison, "was an imaginary person almost as well known in that age as Mr Paul Pry or Mr Samuel Pickwick is in ours." The notoriety, however, is the chief point of resemblance; for, though Mr Bickerstaff is a humorist of the most delightful description, yet his humour is that of genteel comedy, not farce, combined with the teaching of a philosopher and scholar, which is at the same time imparted with the air of an agreeable friend. Mr Bickerstaff's themes are of the most various description, but such as (to use Bacon's expression) come home to men's business and bosoms," and are treated with such a charm of manner as would have made any subjects interesting, even though they had been as unpromising as that of Swift when he wrote upon a broomstick. Bickerstaff's sympathy with humanity was unlimited, and he dwelt on topics which are universally interesting. Combining the humorist with the moralist, he brought the most agreeable sort of raillery to bear upon the follies of men, from which he sought to divorce them by getting them to Mr laugh with him at their absurdity. His teaching is never delivered in a dry didactic way, or in an oracular tone, but insinuated in a dramatic form, and illustrated with sketches of character. The pervading aim of the writer cannot be so well or briefly stated as in the words of his concluding paper, "To allure my readers with the variety of my subjects, and insinuate, if I could, the weight of reason with the agreeableness of wit." The writers were the founders of our periodical literature. The novel did not then exist, unless in French translations. Swift, indeed, produced a satirical work of fiction, and De Foe became the founder of the English novel, at a later period of the same age; but Steele inaugurated the classical tale in a style not unlike that which on a larger scale has delighted so many readers in "The Vicar of Wakefield." Of these narratives and sketches an eminent living writer thus speaks:-"All these tales have an artless, unpretending simplicity, and a charm quite unpremeditated, but which is yet combined with a reality and intensity of pathos, affecting to a degree that the equally brief narrations of any other writer have never, in our judgment, equalled."* * Forster's Biog. Essays, vol. iii., pp. 192, 193. Mr Thackeray, in his " 'Humorists," has quoted as a specimen a domestic picture, one of Steele's narrative sketches, with these words of applause:-"He wrote so richly, so gracefully often, so kindly always, with such a gush of good spirits and good humour, that his early papers may be compared to Addison's own, and are to be read with quite an equal pleasure." Indeed, we do not know where we should go to look for such a paper of Addison's as that he has quoted. Though of a more tragic cast, we give the sequel of the same narrative, in order not to repeat that portion already given in a work so well-known : "I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very gay humour, when I saw a coach stop at my door, and a youth about fifteen alighting out of it, whom I perceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend, that I gave some account of in my paper of the 17th of last month. I felt a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of him, my acquaintance having begun with his father when To the good accomplished by the Tatler we have the testimony of the poet Gay, a contributor to some of its he was just such a stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he took me by the hand, and burst out in tears. I was extremely moved, and immediately said, Child, how does your father do?' He began to reply, 'My mother'—but could not go on for weeping. I went down with him into the coach, and gathered out of him that his mother was then dying, and that while the holy man was doing the last offices to her, he had taken that time to come and call me to his father, who, he said, would certainly break his heart if I did not go and comfort him. The child's discretion in coming to me of his own head, and the tenderness he shewed for his parents, would have quite overpowered me, had I not resolved to fortify myself for the seasonable performance of those duties which I owed to my friend. As we were going, I could not but reflect upon the character of that excellent woman, and the greatness of his grief for the loss of one who has ever been the support to him under all other afflictions. How (thought I) will he be able to bear the hour of her death, that could not, when I was lately with him, speak of a sickness that was then past without sorrow. We were now got pretty far into Westminster, and arrived at my friend's house. At the door of it I met Favonius, [Rev. Dr Smalridge,] not without a secret satisfaction to find he had been there. I had formerly conversed with him at his house; and as he abounds with that sort of virtue and knowledge that makes religion beautiful, and never leads the conversation into the violence and rage of party disputes, I listened to him with great pleasure. Our discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death, which he treated with such a strength of reason and greatness of soul, that, instead of being terrible, it appeared to a mind altogether to be contemned, or rather, to be desired. As I met him at the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief and humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and resolution, which, as I afterwards found, had such an irresistible force as to suspend the pains of the dying, and the lamentations of the nearest friends who attended her. I went up directly to the room where she lay, and was met at the entrance by my friend, who, notwithstanding his thoughts had been composed a little before, at the sight of me turned away his face and wept. The little family of children renewed the expressions of their sorrow, according to their several ages and degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter was in tears, busied in attendance upon her mother; others were kneeling about the bedside: and what troubled me most was to see a little boy, who was too young to know the reason, weeping only because his sisters did. The only one in the room who seemed resigned and comforted was the dying person. At my approach to the bedside she told me, with a low, broken voice, 'This is kindly done-take care of your friend-do not go from him.' She had before taken leave of her husband and children, in a manner proper for so solemn a parting, and with a gracefulness peculiar to a woman of her character. My heart was torn in pieces to see the husband on one side suppressing and keeping down the swellings of his grief, for fear of disturbing her in her last moments, successors, who in a tract published anonymously, but generally attributed to him, says of Bickerstaff— and the wife even at that time concealing the pain she endured for fear of increasing his affliction. She kept her eyes upon him for some moments after she grew speechless, and soon after closed them for ever. In the moment of her departure, my friend (who had thus far commanded himself) gave a deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her bedside. The distraction of the children, who thought they saw both their parents expiring together, and now lying dead before them, would have melted the hardest heart; but they soon perceived their father recover, whom I helped to remove into another room, with a resolution to accompany him till the first pangs of his affliction were abated. I knew consolation would now be impertinent, and therefore contented myself to sit by him, and condole with him in silence, . . till made capable of receiving it by those three great remedies—the necessity of submission, length of time, and satiety of grief. "In the meantime, I cannot but consider with much commiseration the melancholy state of one who has had such a part of himself torn from him, and which he misses in every circumstance of life. His condition is like one who has lately lost his right arm, and is every moment offering to help himself with it. He does not appear to himself the same person in his house, at his table, in company, or in retirement; and loses the relish of all the pleasures and diversions that were before entertaining to him, by her participation of them. The most agreeable objects recall the sorrow for her with whom he used to enjoy them. This additional satisfaction from the taste of pleasures in the society of one we love is admirably described in Milton, who represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further pleased with the beautiful around her, than as she sees them in company with Adam, in that passage so inexpressibly charming :— With thee conversing, I forget all time, All seasons, and their change; all please alike. |