Recollections from The Tatler, Number 181, June 6, 1710, by Richard Steele : Summary And Analysis

Mankind is split into two types. The first group believes that it is the world’s good fortune to have them and make it a point to be noticed. When they fail to draw attention to all their attributes they begin to lose their capability of appreciating life itself and assume that much is lost due to it. The other part spend most of their lives emulating those around them; an act which is as appreciable as the practice of the vulgar. The wise have often excused themselves from time to time to reminisce about their deceased friends and honor the sanctity of this priceless relationship that came to be even with the little time they had. And towards the end of our life there is nothing more gratifying than revisiting those sweet memories of the past, the friends we have had and laughs we have shared.

With the same intention the writer tries to visit his past but is disappointed with his reaction to his losses. He looks at himself with contempt because even though the loss is the same his grief has eroded over time but the pleasure of the pleasant still please the same. Though in nature ‘healing with time’ is a benefit, occasionally it helps to remember the pain. When your temper is all too good it sobers you up and puts on the right track of life. It helps keep both your desire and your disappointments at an arm’s length, thereby lessening the magnitude of effect they have on your life. When you wind up your clock you can’t make an instant correction, you have to go a whole circle before you set it right. And that’s what the writer wants to do now, speak of his every sorrow, right from the first instance of pain to the most hurtful and recent.

The first sense of sorrow the writer ever felt was when his father died. He was 4 years old then and was rather amazed by the demeanor of his family and couldn’t understand why no one was playing with him. When he went room where his father’s coffin lay, he saw his mom weeping and forgot all about the battledore (a precursor to tennis) in his hands and tried to get his father out of the coffin. (How he knew his father was in there perplexes him.) His mother almost snapped out of her world of grief and held him tightly in her arms and told him that his papa was never coming back; he was now gone, never to return. She was a beautiful woman, a noble spirit and there was dignity in her grief. It was her stumbling to come terms with reality that got to the writer. He for the first time realized how vulnerable his heart was and how it would always be haunted by the impending pains of life. Any influence of stimuli of this kind to a child’s mind is like a birth mark, never to be lost. The writer claims that the goodness in him is not a merit of his; he was bound to be that way. It was his mother’s tears caused by a pain unknown to him, (thus leaving him in no position to shield himself from the ache) that lead to his immense compassion. He has since then been trapped in plenty of disasters because of his nature. These instances of pain have served him no good except give him a truck load of bitter sweet memories and acquaint him with human weakness.

The misfortunes of our youth are often more clearer in our memories and that’s why he recalls the lost companions of his youth immediately. The unexpected deaths are mourned the most because we as human beings never truly accept that there is only one constant in every future; death.

And so we whine in life lamenting those lost. Every instance that we remember arouses different emotions all dependent on the circumstance we are in. Nobody in the army can sit and ponder about the men lost in a serious hour. In a time of crisis they are just not in a position to accept that they are being cursed every day by a widow or an orphan because they fell prey to the ambitions of a tyrant. But the valiant men are more deserving of our reverence than our pity and it is their disdain for death that comforts us. It lets us know that there is no evil in the world that is welcome even when it is all for a cause. Yet when we remove the filter of nobility we can’t help but feel pity for all those innocent lives lost.

The writer goes on to say that he runs short of words with the tenderness necessary to express the pain he wants to. He then speaks of his first love and his next loss. She was a beautiful virgin, who had no understanding of her charms and was effortlessly excellent. He says that it is fair for death to have a claim upon the bold, the ambitious, the high and the haughty; all people who had their fair share of success in life and some corrupted by it. But how is it fair to cut short the life of the meek, powerless and naïve; who have yet to discover the essence of life? Nothing can erase her from his memories, not time, not work, not pain. He saw her dressed for a ball and in a shroud in the same week. Saw her in all glory and then to bid adieu. How demented must death be to act as frivolously as to steal his love and then gift him a long hearty life! Just as the writer starts to recollect more of such painful memories his servant interrupts the process by bringing him a letter and a wine hamper along with it. This was the same kind of wine that was to be on sale at Garraway’s coffee house on the next Thursday. (This maybe something of a promotional run, not that it’s important). On receiving the wine he sent for three of his friends, they were close enough to just enjoy each other’s presence. For the four of them companionship took precedence over simple merry making. And the wine for was perfect for them cause it warmed the heart without firing the blood; it gave comfort but not impel (drive) them to act out. They went on to drink about till 2 in the night and almost drank two bottles each and though the night was vague it was something invaluable to hold on to. It was a memory to be cherished.

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Toodles :D