FOOTNOTES:
[112] Nos. 214 and 220.
[113] "Next Tuesday morning will be published the account of the alterations of wind and weather, by the discoveries of the portable barometer; from what quarter the wind will blow, clouds or rain, wind and weather, clear and cloudy, wet and dry, come every day and night for the month of October, all over England, and also when the quicksilver weather-glasses will rise in wet, and sink in fair weather, and rise and sink without any alteration at all. Whereas there was a false impression of the last month, to the great damage of the author, who has been at vast charge and expense to being so useful an invention to perfection, and to prevent the like for the future, it is hoped that those ingenious persons who are lovers of so useful a discovery will not encourage the false one, the true one being only to be had at W. Hawes, at the Rose in Ludgate Street, and A. Baldwin in Warwick Lane, where they shall be sent to any gentleman, if desired, monthly" (Post-Man, September 26, 1700). These "barometer papers" are ridiculed in The Infallible Astrologer, a paper published in 1700.
[114] This almanac was first published in 1663. The title of it was assumed in ridicule of Dr. Robert Pory, a pluralist of the last century, who, amongst other preferments (such as the archdeaconry of Middlesex, a residentiaryship of St. Paul's, &c.), enjoyed the rectory of Lambeth. Pory died in 1669, and "Poor Robin's Almanac" professed to bear his imprimatur (see Wood's "Fasti," Part II., col. 267).
[115] No. 224.
[No. 229. [Addison.]
From Saturday, Sept. 23, to Tuesday, Sept. 26, 1710.
——Sume superbiam
Quæsitam meritis——
Hor., 3 Od. xxx. 14.
From my own Apartment, Sept. 25.
The whole creation preys upon itself: every living creature is inhabited. A flea has a thousand invisible insects that tease him as he jumps from place to place, and revenge our quarrels upon him. A very ordinary microscope shows us that a louse is itself a very lousy creature. A whale, besides those seas and oceans in the several vessels of his body, which are filled with innumerable shoals of little animals, carries about it a whole world of inhabitants; insomuch that, if we believe the calculations some have made, there are more living creatures which are too small for the naked eye to behold about the leviathan, than there are of visible creatures upon the face of the whole earth. Thus every nobler creature is as it were the basis and support of multitudes that are his inferiors.
This consideration very much comforts me, when I think on those numberless vermin that feed upon this paper, and find their sustenance out of it: I mean, the small wits and scribblers that every day turn a penny by nibbling at my Lucubrations. This has been so advantageous to this little species of writers, that, if they do me justice, I may expect to have my statue erected in Grub Street, as being a common benefactor to that quarter.
They say, when a fox is very much troubled with fleas, he goes into the next pool with a little lock of wool in his mouth, and keeps his body under water till the vermin get into it, after which he quits the wool, and diving, leaves his tormentors to shift for themselves, and get their livelihood where they can. I would have these gentlemen take care that I do not serve them after the same manner; for though I have hitherto kept my temper pretty well, it is not impossible but I may some time or other disappear; and what will then become of them? Should I lay down my paper, what a famine would there be among the hawkers, printers, booksellers, and authors? It would be like Dr. B——'s[116] dropping his cloak, with the whole congregation hanging upon the skirts of it. To enumerate some of these my doughty antagonists, I was threatened to be answered weekly Tit for Tat: I was undermined by the Whisperer, haunted by Tom Brown's Ghost, scolded at by a Female Tatler, and slandered by another of the same character, under the title of Atalantis. I have been annotated, re-tattled, examined, and condoled;[117] but it being my standing maxim never to speak ill of the dead, I shall let these authors rest in peace, and take great pleasure in thinking that I have sometimes been the means of their getting a bellyful. When I see myself thus surrounded by such formidable enemies, I often think of the Knight of the Red Cross in Spenser's "Den of Error," who after he has cut off the dragon's head, and left it wallowing in a flood of ink, sees a thousand monstrous reptiles making their attempts upon him, one with many heads, another with none, and all of them without eyes.
The same so sore annoyèd has the knight,
That well-nigh chokèd with the deadly stink,
His forces fail, he can no longer fight;
Whose courage when the fiend perceived to shrink,
She pourèd forth out of her hellish sink
Her fruitful cursèd spawn of serpents small,
Deformèd monsters, foul, and black as ink;
Which swarming all about his legs did crawl,
And him encumbered sore, but could not hurt at all.
As gentle shepherd in sweet eventide,
When ruddy Phœbus 'gins to welk in West,
High on an hill, his flock to viewen wide,
Marks which do bite their hasty supper best;
A cloud of cumbrous gnats do him molest,
All striving to infix their feeble stings,
That from their 'noyance he nowhere can rest;
But with his clownish hands their tender wings
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.[118]
If ever I should want such a fry of little authors to attend me, I shall think my paper in a very decaying condition. They are like ivy about an oak, which adorns the tree at the same time that it eats into it; or like a great man's equipage, that do honour to the person on whom they feed. For my part, when I see myself thus attacked, I do not consider my antagonists as malicious, but hungry, and therefore am resolved never to take any notice of them.
As for those who detract from my labours without being prompted to it by an empty stomach, in return to their censures I shall take pains to excel, and never fail to persuade myself, that their enmity is nothing but their envy or ignorance.
Give me leave to conclude, like an old man and a moralist, with a fable:
The owls, bats, and several other birds of night, were one day got together in a thick shade, where they abused their neighbours in a very sociable manner. Their satire at last fell upon the sun, whom they all agreed to be very troublesome, impertinent, and inquisitive. Upon which the sun, who overheard them, spoke to them after this manner: "Gentlemen, I wonder how you dare abuse one that you know could in an instant scorch you up, and burn every mother's son of you: but the only answer I shall give you, or the revenge I shall take of you, is, to shine on."[119]