Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Dryden, recites what he terms "_a wild story, relating to some vexatious events, that happened, at his funeral_."

Dryden's widow, and his son, Charles, had accepted the offer of Lord Halifax, to pay the expenses of the funeral, and five hundred pounds, for a monument. The company came--the corpse was placed in a velvet hea.r.s.e--eighteen coaches were in attendance, filled with mourners.--As they were about to move, the young Lord Jeffries, son of the Chancellor, with a band of rakes, coming by, and learning that the funeral was Dryden's, said the ornament of the nation should not so be buried, and proceeded, accompanied by his a.s.sociates, in a body, to wait upon the widow, and beg her to permit him to bear the expense of the interment, and to pay one thousand pounds, for a monument, in the Abbey.

The gentlemen in the coaches, being ignorant of the liberal offers of the Dean and Lord Halifax, readily descended from their carriages, and attended Lord Jeffries and his party to the bedside of the lady, who was sick, where he repeated his offers; and, upon her positive refusal, got upon his knees, as did the whole party; and he there swore that he would not rise, till his entreaty was granted. At length, affecting to understand some word of the lady's, as giving permission, he rushed out, followed by the rest, proclaiming her consent, and ordered the corpse to be left at Russell's, an undertaker's, in Cheapside, till he gave orders for its embalmment. During this proceeding, the Abbey having been lighted up, Lord Halifax and the Dean, who was also Bishop of Rochester, to use the tea-table phrase, waited and waited, and waited. The ground was opened, the choir attending, and an anthem set. When Mr. Dryden went, next day, to offer excuses, neither Lord Halifax, nor the Dean, would accept of any apology. After waiting three days for orders, the undertaker called on Lord Jeffries, who said he knew nothing about it, and that it was only a tipsy frolic, and that the undertaker might do what he pleased with the corpse. The undertaker threatened to set the corpse before the widow's door. She begged a day's respite. Mr. Charles Dryden wrote to Lord Jeffries, who replied, that he knew nothing about it. He then addressed the Dean and Lord Halifax, who refused to have anything to do with it. He then challenged Lord Jeffries, who refused to fight. He went himself, and was refused admittance. He then resolved to horsewhip his Lordship; upon notice of which design, the latter left town. In the midst of this misery, Dr. Garth sent for the body, to be brought to the college of physicians; proposed a subscription; and set a n.o.ble example. The body was finally buried, about three weeks after the decease, and Dr. Garth p.r.o.nounced a fine Latin oration. At the close of the narrative, which, as repeated by Dr. Johnson, covers more than three octavo pages of Murphy's edition, the Doctor remarks, that he once intended to omit it entirely, and that he had met with no confirmation, but in a letter of Farquhar's.

The tale is simply alluded to, by Gorton, and told, at some length, by Chalmers. Both, however, consider it a fabrication, by Mrs. Thomas, the auth.o.r.ess, whom Dryden styled _Corinna_, and whom Pope lampooned, in his comatose and vicious performance, the Dunciad, probably because she provoked his wrath, by publishing his letters to H. Cromwell.

In the earlier editions of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the tale is told, as sober matter of fact: in the last, Napier's, of 1842, it is wholly omitted. Malone, in his Life of Dryden, page 347, ascribes the whole to Mrs. Thomas.

Dryden died, in 1700. The first four volumes of Johnson's Lives of the Poets, containing Dryden's, went to the press in 1779. Considering the nature of this outrage; the eminence, not only of the dead, but of some of the living, whose names are involved; its alleged publicity; and its occurrence in the very city, where all the parties flourished; it is remarkable, that this "_wild story_," as Johnson fitly calls it, should have obtained any credit, and survived for nine-and-seventy years.

No. CXIX.

Deeply to be commiserated are all those, who have not read, from beginning to end, the writings of the immortal Oliver--a repast, _ab ovo usque ad mala_, to be swallowed, and inwardly digested, while our intellectual stomachs are young and vigorous, and to be regurgitated, and chewed over, a thousand times, when the almond tree begins to flourish, and even the gra.s.shopper becomes a burden. Who does not remember his story of the Chinese matron--the widow with the great fan!

The original of this pleasant tale is not generally known. The brief legend, related by Goldsmith, is an imperfect epitome of an interesting story, ill.u.s.trating the power of magic, among the followers of Laou-keun, the founder of a religious sect, in China, resembling that of Epicurus.

The original tale was translated from the Chinese, by Pere Dentrecolles, who was at the head of the French missionaries, in China, and died at Pekin, in 1741. The following liberal version, from the French, which may, perhaps, be better called a paraphrase, will not fail, I think, to interest the reader.

Wealth, and all the blessings it can procure, for man, are brief and visionary. Honors, glory, fame are gaudy clouds, that flit by, and are gone. The ties of blood are easily broken; affection is a dream. The most deadly hate may occupy the heart, which held the warmest love. A yoke is not worth wearing, though wrought of gold. Chains are burdensome, though adorned with jewels. Let us purge our minds; calm our pa.s.sions; curb our wishes; and set not our hearts upon a vain world. Let our highest aim be liberty--pleasure.

Chuang-tsze took unto himself a wife, whose youth and beauty seduced him from the busy world. He retired, among the delightful scenery of Soong, his native province, and gave himself up, entirely, to the delights of philosophy and love. A sovereign, who had become acquainted with the fame of Chuang-tsze, for superior wisdom, invited him to become his wuzzeer, or prime minister. Chuang-tsze declined, in the language of parable--"A heifer," said he, "pampered for the sacrifice, and decked with ornaments, marched triumphantly along, looking, as she pa.s.sed, with mingled pride and contempt, upon some humble oxen, that were yoked to the plough. She proudly entered the temple--but when she beheld the knife, and comprehended that she was a victim, how gladly would she have exchanged conditions with the humblest of those, upon whom she had so lately looked down with pity and contempt."

Chuang-tsze walked by the skirts of the mountain, absorbed in thought--he suddenly came among many tombs--the city of the dead. "Here then," he exclaimed, "all are upon a level--caste is unknown--the philosopher and the fool sleep, side by side. This is eternity! From the sepulchre there is no return!"

He strolled among the tombs; and, erelong, perceived a grave, that had been recently made. The mound of moistened clay was not yet thoroughly dry. By the side of that grave sat a young woman, clad in the deepest mourning. With a white fan, of large proportions, she was engaged, in fanning the earth, which covered this newly made grave. Chuang-tsze was amazed; and, drawing near, respectfully inquired, who was the occupant of that grave, and why this mourning lady was so strangely employed. Tears dropped from her eyes, as she uttered a few inaudible words, without rising, or ceasing to fan the grave. The curiosity of Chuang-tsze was greatly excited--he ascribed her manner, not to fear, but to some inward sense of shame--and earnestly besought her to explain her motives, for an act, so perfectly novel and mysterious.

After a little embarra.s.sment, she replied, as follows: "Sir, you behold a lone woman--death has deprived me of my beloved husband--this grave contains his precious remains. Our love was very great for each other. In the hour of death, his agony, at the thought of parting from me, was immoderate. These were his dying words--'My beloved, should you ever think of a second marriage, it is my dying request, that you remain a widow, at least till my grave is thoroughly dry; then you have my permission to marry whomsoever you will.' And now, as the earth, which is quite damp still, will take a long time to dry, I thought I would fan it a little, to dissipate the moisture."

Chuang-tsze made great efforts, to suppress a strong disposition to laugh outright, in the woman's face. "She is in a feverish haste," thought he.

"What a hypocrite, to talk of their mutual affection! If such be love, what a time there would have been, had they hated each other."

"Madam," said the philosopher, "you are desirous, that this grave should dry, as soon as possible; but, with your feeble strength, it will require a long time, to accomplish it; let me a.s.sist you." She expressed her deep sense of the obligation, and rising, with a profound courtesy, handed the philosopher a spare fan, which she had brought with her. Chuang-tsze, who possessed the power of magic, struck the ground with the fan repeatedly; and it soon became perfectly dry. The widow appeared greatly surprised, and delighted, and presented the philosopher with the fan, and a silver bodkin, which she drew from her tresses. He accepted the fan only; and the lady retired, highly gratified, with the speedy accomplishment of her object.

Chuang-tsze remained, for a brief s.p.a.ce, absorbed in thought; and, at length, returned slowly homeward, meditating, by the way, upon this extraordinary adventure. He sat down in his apartment, and, for some time, gazed, in silence, upon the fan. At length, he exclaimed--"Who, after having witnessed this occurrence, can hesitate to draw the inference, that marriage is one of the modes, by which the doctrine of the metempsychosis is carried out. People, who have hated each other heartily, in some prior condition of being, are made man and wife, for the purpose of mutual vexation--that is it, undoubtedly."

The wife of the philosopher had approached him, un.o.bserved; and, hearing his last words, and noticing the fan, which he was still earnestly gazing upon--"Pray, be so good, as to inform me," said she, "what is the meaning of all this; and where, I should like to know, did you obtain that fine fan, which appears to interest you so much?" Chuang-tsze, very faithfully, narrated to his wife the story of the young widow, and all the circ.u.mstances, which had taken place, at the tomb.

As soon as the philosopher had finished the narrative, his wife, her countenance inflamed with the severest indignation, broke forth, with a torrent of contemptuous expressions, and unmeasured abuse, against the abominable, young widow. She considered her a scandal to her s.e.x. "Aye,"

she exclaimed, "this vile widow must be a perfect monster, devoid of every particle of feeling."

"Alas," said the philosopher, "while the husband is in the flesh, there is no wife, that is not ready to flatter and caress him--but no sooner is the breath out of his body, than she seizes her fan, and forthwith proceeds to dry up his grave."

This greatly excited the ire of his wife--"How dare you talk in this outrageous manner," said she, "of the whole s.e.x? You confound the virtuous with such vile wretches, as this unprincipled widow, who deserves to be annihilated. Are you not ashamed of yourself, to talk in this cruel way? I should think you might be restrained, by the dread of future punishment."

"Why give way," said Chuang-tsze, "to all this pa.s.sionate outcry? Be candid--you are young, and extremely beautiful--should I die, this day--do you pretend, that, with your attractions, you would suffer much time to be lost, before you accepted the services of another husband?"

"Good G.o.d," cried the lady, "how you talk! Who ever heard of a truly faithful wuzzeer, that, after the death of his master, served another prince? A widow _indeed_ never accepts a second partner. Did you ever know a case, in which such a wife as I have been--a woman of my qualities and station, after having lost her tenderly beloved, forsook his memory, and gave herself to the embraces of a second husband! Such an act, in my opinion, would be infamous. Should you be taken from me, today, be a.s.sured, that I should follow you, with my imperishable love, and die, at last, your disconsolate widow."

"It is easy to promise, but not always so easy to perform," replied the philosopher. At this speech, the lady was exasperated--"I would have you to know," said she, "that women are to be found, without much inquiry, quite as n.o.ble-hearted and constant, as _you_ have ever been. What a pattern of constancy you have been! Dear me! Only think of it! When your first wife died, you soon repaired your loss: and, becoming weary of your second, you obtained a divorce from her, and then married me! What a constant creature you have been! No wonder you think so lightly of women!"

Saying this, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the fan out of her husband's hand, and tore it into innumerable pieces; by which act she appeared to have obtained very considerable relief; and, in a somewhat gentler tone, she told her husband, that he was in excellent health, and likely to live, for very many years; and that she could not, for the soul of her, see what could induce him to torment her to death, by talking in this manner.

"Compose yourself, my dear," said Chuang-tsze, "I confess that your indignation delights me. I rejoice to see you exhibit so much feeling and fire, upon such a theme." The wife of the philosopher recovered her composure; and their conversation turned upon ordinary affairs.

Before many days, Chuang-tsze became suddenly and severely attacked, by some unaccountable disease. The symptoms

No. CXX.

Let us continue the story of Chuang-tsze, the great master of magic.

Before many days, as I have stated, Chuang-tsze became suddenly and severely attacked, by some unaccountable disease. The symptoms were full of evil. His devoted wife was ever near her sick husband, sobbing bitterly, and bathing him in tears. "It is but too plain," said the philosopher, "that I cannot survive--I am upon the bed of death--this very night, perhaps--at farthest, tomorrow--we shall part forever--what a pity, that you should have destroyed that fan--it would have answered so well, for the purpose of drying the earth upon my tomb!"

"For heaven's sake," exclaimed the weeping wife, "do not, weak and feeble as you are, harra.s.s yourself, with these horrible fancies. You do me great wrong. Our books I have carefully perused. I know my duties well. You have received my troth--it shall never be another's. Can you doubt my sincerity! Let me prove it, by dying first. I am ready." "Enough," said the philosopher--"I now die in peace--I am satisfied of your constancy.

But the world is fading away--the cold hand of death is upon me." The head of Chuang-tsze fell back--the breath had stopped--the pulse had ceased to beat--he was already with the dead.

If the piercing cries of a despairing, shrieking widow could have raised the dead, Chuang-tsze would have arisen, on the spot. She sprang upon the corpse, and held it long, in her fond embrace. She then arrayed her person in the deepest mourning, a robe of seamless white, and made the air resound with her cries of anguish and despair. She abjured food; abstained from slumber; and refused to be comforted.

Chuang-tsze had the wide-spread fame of an eminent sage--crowds gathered to his obsequies. After their performance, and when the vast a.s.semblage had all, well nigh, departed--a youth of comely face, and elegantly arrayed, was observed, lingering near the spot. He proclaimed himself to be of most honorable descent, and that he had, long before, declared to Chuang-tsze his design of becoming the pupil of that great philosopher.

"For that end," said he, "and that alone, I have come to this place--and behold Chuang-tsze is no more. Great is my misfortune!"

This splendid youth cast off his colored garments, and a.s.sumed the robes of lamentation--he bowed himself to the earth, before the coffin of the defunct--four times, he touched the ground with his forehead; and, with an utterance choked by sobs, he exclaimed--"Oh Chuang-tsze, learned and wise, your ill-fated disciple cannot receive wisdom and knowledge from your lips; but he will signify his reverence for your memory, by abiding here an hundred days, to mourn, for one he so truly revered." He then again bent his forehead, four times, to the earth, and moistened it with his tears.

The youthful disciple, after a few days, desired permission to offer his condolence to the widow, which she, at first declined: but, upon his reference to the ancient rites, which allow a widow to receive the visits of her late husband's friends, and especially of his disciples, she finally consented. She moved with slow and solemn steps to the hall of reception, where the young gentleman acquitted himself, with infinite grace and propriety, and tendered the usual expressions of consolation.

The elegant address and fine person of this young disciple were not lost upon the widow of Chuang-tsze. She was fascinated. A sentiment of tenderness began to rise in her bosom, whose presence she had scarcely the courage to recognize. She ventured, in a right melancholy way, to suggest a hope, that it was not his purpose immediately to leave the valley of Soong. "I have endured much in the loss of my great master," he replied.

"Precious forever be his memory. It will be grateful to my heart to seek here a brief home, wherein I may pa.s.s those hundred days of mourning, which our rites prescribe, and then to take part in the obsequies, which will follow. I may also solace myself the while, by perusing the works of my great master, of whose living instructions I am so unhappily deprived."

"We shall feel ourselves highly honored, by your presence, under our roof," replied the lady; "it seems to me entirely proper, that you should take up your abode here, rather than elsewhere." She immediately directed some refreshments to be brought, and caused the works of Chuang-tsze to be exhibited, on a large table, together with a copy of the learned Taou-te-King, which had been a present to her late husband, from Laou-keun himself.

The coffin of Chuang-tsze was deposited, in a large hall; and, on one side, was a suite of apartments, opening into it, which was a.s.signed to the visitor. This devoted widow came, very frequently, to weep over the remains of her honored husband; and failed not to say a civil word to the youth, who, notified of her presence, by her audible sobs, never omitted to come forth, and mingle his lamentations with hers. Mutual glances were exchanged, upon such occasions. In short, each, already, was effectually smitten with the other.

One day, the pretty, little widow sent privately for the old domestic, who attended upon the young man, in the capacity of body servant, and inquired, all in a seemingly casual way, if his master was married. "Not yet"--he replied.--"He is very fastidious, I suppose"--said the lady, with an inquiring look.--"It is even so, madam," replied the servant--"my master is, indeed, not easily suited, in such a matter. His standard is very high. I have heard him say, that he should, probably, never be married, as he despaired of ever finding a female resembling yourself, in every particular."--"Did he say so?" exclaimed the widow, as the warm blood rushed into her cheeks.--"He certainly did," replied the other, "and much more, which I do not feel at liberty to repeat."--"Dear me," said the widow, "what a bewitching young man he is! go to him, and if he really loves me, as you say, tell him he may open the subject, without fear, for his pa.s.sion is amply returned, by one, who is willing, if he so wishes, to become his wife."

The young widow, from day to day, threw herself repeatedly, and as if by accident, into the old servant's way; and began, at last, to feel surprised, and somewhat nettled, that he brought her no message from his master. At length, she became exceedingly impatient, and asked him directly, if he had spoken to his master on the subject. "Yes, madam," the old man replied.--"And pray," asked the widow, eagerly, "what said he?"--"He said, madam, that such an union would place him upon the pinnacle of human happiness; but that there was one fatal objection."--"And do, for pity's sake, tell me," said she, hastily interrupting the old man, "what that objection can be."--"He said,"

rejoined the old domestic, "that, being a disciple of your late husband, such a marriage, he feared, would be considered scandalous."--"But," said she, briskly, "there is just nothing in that. He was never a disciple of Chuang-tsze--he only proposed to become one, which is an entirely different thing. If any other frivolous objections arise, I beg you to remove them; and you may count upon being handsomely rewarded."

Her anxiety caused her to become exceedingly restless. She made frequent visits to the hall, and, when she approached the coffin, her sobs became more audible than ever--but the young disciple came not forth, as usual.

Upon one occasion, after dark, as she was standing near the coffin, she was startled, by an unusual noise. "Gracious Heaven!" she exclaimed, "can it be so! Is the old philosopher coming back to life!" The cold sweat came upon her lovely brow, as she started to procure a light. When she returned, the mystery was readily explained. In front of the coffin there was a table, designed as an altar, for the reception of such emblems and presents, as were placed there by visitors. The old servant, had become tipsy, and finding no more convenient place, in which to bestow himself, while waiting his master's bidding, he had thrown himself, at full length, upon this altar; and, in turning over, had occasioned the noise, which had so much alarmed the young widow. Under other circ.u.mstances, the act would have been accounted sacrilegious, and the fellow would have been subjected to the bastinado. But, as matters stood, the widow pa.s.sed it by, and even suffered the sot to remain undisturbed.

On the morning of the following day, the widow encountered the old domestic, who was pa.s.sing her, with as much apparent indifference, as though she had never entrusted him, with any important commission.

Surprised by his behavior, she called him to her private apartment--"Well," said she, "have you executed the business, which I gave you in charge?"--"Oh," said he, with an air of provoking indifference, "that is all over, I believe."--"How so," inquired the widow--"did you deliver my message correctly?"--"In your own words," he replied--"my master would make any sacrifice to make you his wife; and is entirely persuaded, by your arguments, to give up the objection he stated, in regard to his being the disciple of Chuang-tsze; but there are three other objections, which it will be impossible to overcome; and which his sense of delicacy forbids him to exhibit before you."--"Poh, poh," said the widow, "let me hear what they are, and we shall then see, whether they are insurmountable or not."--"Well, madam," said the old man, "since you command me, I will state them, as nearly as I can, in the words of my young master. The first of these three objections is this----"