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Men are not punished for their sins, but by them.
Expression is necessary to life. The spirit grows through exercise of
its faculties, just as a muscle grows strong through use. Life is
expression and repression is stagnation—death.
Yet there is right expression and wrong expression. If a man allows his
life to run riot, and only the animal side of his nature is allowed to
express itself, he is repressing his highest and best, and therefore those
qualities, not used, atrophy and die.
Sensuality, gluttony and the life of license repress the life of the
spirit, and the soul never blossoms; and this is what it is to lose one's
soul. All adown the centuries thinking men have noted these truths, and
again and again we find individuals forsaking, in horror, the life of the
senses and devoting themselves to the life of the spirit.
The question of expression through the spirit or through the
senses—through the soul or the body—has been the pivotal point of all
philosophies and the inspiration of all religions. Asceticism in our day
finds an interesting manifestation in the Trappists, who live on a
mountain, nearly inaccessible, and deprive themselves of almost every
vestige of bodily comfort; going without food for days, wearing
uncomfortable garments, suffering severe cold. So here we find the extreme
instance of men repressing the faculties of the body in order that the
spirit may find ample time and opportunity for exercise.
Between this extreme repression and the license of the sensualist lies
the truth. But just where, is the great question; and the desire of one
person, who thinks he has discovered the norm, to compel all other men to
stop there, has led to war and strife untold. All law centers around this
point—what shall men be allowed to do? And so we find statutes to punish
"strolling play-actors," "players on fiddles,"
"disturbers of the public conscience," "persons who dance
wantonly," "blasphemers," etc. In England there were, in
the year Eighteen Hundred, sixty-seven offenses punishable with death.
What expression is right and what is not is largely a matter of
opinion. Instrumental music has been to some a rock of offense, exciting
the spirit, through the sense of hearing, to wrong thoughts—through
"the lascivious pleasing of a lute." Others think dancing
wicked, while a few allow square dances, but condemn the waltz. Some sects
allow pipe-organ music, but draw the line at the violin; while others,
still, employ a whole orchestra in their religious service. Some there may
be who regard pictures as implements of idolatry, while the Hook-and-Eye
Baptists look upon buttons as immoral.
Strange evolutions are often witnessed within the life of one
individual, as to what is right and what wrong. For instance, Leo Tolstoy,
that great and good man, once a worldling, has now turned ascetic, a not
unusual evolution in the lives of the saints. Not caring for harmony as
expressed in color, form and sounds, Tolstoy is now quite willing to
deprive all others of these things which minister to their well-being.
There is in most souls a hunger for beauty, just as there is a physical
hunger. Beauty speaks to their spirits through the senses; but Tolstoy
would have his house barren to the verge of hardship, and he advocates
that all other houses should be likewise. My veneration for Count Tolstoy
is profound, but I mention him here simply to show the danger that lies in
allowing any man, even one of the best, to dictate to us what is right.
Most of the frightful cruelties inflicted on mankind during the past
have arisen out of a difference of opinion arising through a difference in
temperament. The question is as live today as it was two thousand years
ago—what expression is best? That is, what shall we do to be saved? And
concrete absurdity consists in saying we must all do the same thing.
Whether the race will ever grow to a point where men will be willing to
leave the matter of life-expression to the individual is a question. Most
men are anxious to do what is best for themselves and least harmful for
others. The average man now has intelligence enough!
Utopia is not far off, if the self-appointed folk who govern us for a
consideration would only be willing to do unto others as they would be
done by, and cease coveting things that belong to other people. War among
nations, and strife among individuals, is a result of the covetous spirit
to possess either power or things, or both. A little more patience, a
little more charity for all, a little more devotion, a little more love;
with less bowing down to the past, a brave looking forward to the future,
with more confidence in ourselves, and more faith in our fellows, and the
race will be ripe for a great burst of light and life.
Macaulay has said that the Puritan did not condemn bear-baiting because
it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectator.
The Puritan regarded beauty as a pitfall and a snare: that which gave
pleasure was a sin; he found his gratification in doing without things.
Puritanism was a violent oscillation of the pendulum of life to the other
side. From the vanity, pretense, affectation and sensualism of a Church
and State bitten by corruption, we find the recoil in Puritanism.
Asceticism to the verge of hardship, frankness bordering on rudeness,
and a stolidity that was impolite; or soft, luxurious hypocrisy in a
moth-eaten society—which shall it be? And Joseph Addison comes upon the
scene and by the sincerity, graciousness and gentle excellence of his life
and work, says, "Neither!"
The little village of Wiltshire is noted as the birthplace of Addison,
who was the son of a clergyman, afterward the Dean of Lichfield. An
erstwhile resident of Lichfield, Samuel Johnson by name, once said of
Joseph Addison, "Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar
but not coarse, elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and
nights to the volumes of Addison."
For elegance, simplicity, insight, and a wit that is sharp but which
never wounds, Addison has no rival, although more than two hundred years
have come and gone since he ceased to write.
Addison was a gentleman—the best example of a perfect gentleman that
the history of English literature affords. And in letters it is much
easier to find a genius than a gentleman. The field today is not at all
over-worked; and those who wish to cultivate the art of being gentlemen
will find no fearsome competition. In fact, the chief reason for not
engaging in this line is the discomfort of isolation, and the lack of
comradeship one is sure to suffer. To be gentle, generous, kind; to win by
few words; and to disarm criticism and prejudice through the potency of a
gracious presence, is a fine art. Books on etiquette will not serve the
end, nor studious attempts to smile at the proper time, nor zealous
efforts to avoid jostling the whims of those we meet; for to attempt to
please is often to antagonize.
Sympathy, Knowledge and Poise seem the three ingredients
most needed in forming the gentle man. I place these elements according to
their value. No man is great who does not possess Sympathy plus, and the
greatness of men can safely be gauged by their sympathies. Sympathy and
imagination are twin sisters. Your heart must go out to all men, the high,
the low, the rich, the poor, the learned, the unlearned, the good, the
bad, the wise, the foolish—you must be one with them all, else you can
never comprehend them. Sympathy! It is the touchstone to every secret, the
key to all knowledge, the open sesame of all hearts. Put yourself in the
other man's place, and then you will know why he thinks certain thoughts
and does certain deeds. Put yourself in his place, and your blame will
dissolve itself into pity, and your tears will wipe out the record of his
misdeeds. The saviors of the world have simply been men with wondrous
Sympathy.
But Knowledge must go with Sympathy, else the emotions will become
maudlin and pity may be wasted on a poodle instead of a child; on a
field-mouse instead of a human soul. Knowledge in use is wisdom, and
wisdom implies a sense of values—you know a big thing from a little one,
a valuable fact from a trivial one. Tragedy and comedy are simply
questions of value: a little misfit in life makes us laugh, a great one is
tragedy and cause for grief.
Poise is the strength of body and strength of mind to control your
Sympathy and your Knowledge. Unless you control
your emotions they run over and you stand in the slop. Sympathy must not
run riot, or it is valueless and tokens weakness instead of strength. In
every hospital for nervous disorders are to be found many instances of
this loss of control. The individual has Sympathy, but not Poise, and
therefore his life is worthless to himself and to the world.
He symbols inefficiency, not helpfulness. Poise reveals itself more in
voice than in words; more in thought than in action; more in atmosphere
than in conscious life. It is a spiritual quality, and is felt more than
it is seen. It is not a matter of size, nor bodily attitude, nor attire,
nor personal comeliness: it is a state of inward being, and of knowing
your cause is just. And so you see it is a great and profound subject
after all, great in its ramifications, limitless in extent, implying the
entire science of right living. I once met a man who was deformed in body
and little more than a dwarf, but who had such Spiritual Gravity—such
Poise—that to enter a room where he was, was to feel his presence and
acknowledge his superiority. To allow Sympathy to waste itself on unworthy
subjects is to deplete one's life-forces. To conserve is the part of
wisdom. No great orator ever exerts himself to his fullest, and reserve is
a necessary element in all good literature, as well as in everything else.
Poise being the control of your Sympathy and Knowledge implies the
possession of these attributes, for without Sympathy and Knowledge you have
nothing to control but your physical body. To practise Poise as a mere
gymnastic exercise, or a study in etiquette, is to be self-conscious,
stiff, preposterous and ridiculous. Those who cut such fantastic tricks
before high heaven as make angels weep are men void of Sympathy and
Knowledge trying to cultivate Poise. Their science is a mere matter of
what to do with arms and legs. Poise is a question of spirit controlling
flesh, heart controlling attitude. And so in the cultivation of Poise it
is well to begin quite aways back. Let perfect love cast out fear; get rid
of all secrets; have nothing in your heart to conceal; be gentle,
generous, kind; do not bother to forgive your enemies—it is better to
forget them, and cease conjuring them forth from your inner consciousness.
The idea that you have enemies is egotism gone to seed. Get Knowledge by
coming close to Nature, listening to her heart-beats, studying her ways.
And let your heart go out to humanity by a desire to serve.
That man is greatest who best serves his kind. Sympathy and Knowledge
are for use—you acquire that you may give out; you accumulate that you
may bestow. And as God has given you the sublime blessings of Sympathy and
Knowledge, there will come to you the wish to reveal your gratitude by
giving them out again, for the wise man knows that we retain spiritual
qualities only as we give them away. Let your light shine. To him that
hath shall be given. The exercise of wisdom brings
wisdom; and at the last the infinitesimal quantity of man's knowledge,
compared with the Infinite, and the meagerness of man's Sympathy when
compared with the source from which ours is absorbed, will evolve an
abnegation and a humility that will lend a perfect Poise. The Gentleman is
a man with Sympathy, Knowledge and Poise; and as I sit here in this quiet
corner, Joseph Addison seems to me to fit the requirements a little better
than any other name I can recall.
Born into a family where economy was a necessity, yet Addison had every
advantage that good breeding and thorough tutorship could give.
At Charterhouse School he won the affection of his teachers by his
earnest wish to comply. The receptive spirit and the desire to please were
his by inheritance. When fifteen he went to Queen's College, Oxford,
where, within a year, his beauty, good nature and intelligence made his
presence felt.
In another year he was elected a scholar at Magdalen College, his
recommendation being his skill in Latin versification.
It was the hope and expectation of his parents that he should become a
clergyman and follow in his father's footsteps. This also seems to have
been the bent of the young man's mind. But the grace of his personality,
his obliging disposition, with a sort of furtive ability to peer into a
millstone as far as any, had attracted the attention of several statesmen.
One of these, Charles Montague, afterward Lord Halifax, remarked, "I
am a friend of the Church, but I propose to do it the injury of keeping
Addison out of it."
Montague discussed the matter with Lord Somers, and these two concluded
that just a trifle more maturity of that gently ironical mind, a little
more seasoning of the gracious personality, and the State would have in
Joseph Addison a servant of untold value.
Thus we see that England's policy of selecting and training men for the
consular and diplomatic service is no new thing. It is a wonder that
America has not ere this profited by the example. The tradition holds that
we must at least have a scholar and a gentleman for the Court of Saint
James, and several times we have been put to straits to find the man. The
only way is to breed them and then bring them up in the way they should
go.
But beyond the zealous desire of Montague and Lord Somers to educate
good men for the diplomatic service, lurked the still more eager wish to
secure able writers to plead and defend the party cause. With this phase
of the question America is more familiar; the policy of rewarding able
speakers and ready writers with offices ready made or made to order has
come to us ably backed by precedent untold.
Addison set himself to literary tasks, but still regarded himself as a
scholar. Leisure fitted his temperament—he was never in haste, even when
he was in a hurry, and he carried with him the air of having all the time
there was. Nothing is so ungraceful as haste. Addison always had time to
listen; and we make friends, not by explaining things to other folks, but
by allowing others to explain to us.
The habit of attentive, sympathetic listening came to Addison early in
life. From his twenty-first to his twenty-seventh year he lived a studious
life—idle, his father called it—writing
essays, political pamphlets and Latin verse. His political friends took
care that some of the output was purchased, so that he was assured a
comfortable living; but his success was not sufficient to inflate his
cosmos with an undue amount of ego.
One small book of criticism which he produced about this time was
entitled, "Account of the English Poets." A significant feature
of the work is that Shakespeare is not mentioned, even once, while Dryden
is placed as the standard of excellence, just as in "Modern
Painters," Ruskin takes Turner and lets him stand for one hundred,
and all other artists grade down from this.
Addison merely reflected the taste of his time. Shakespeare was not
thought any more of two hundred years ago than we think of him now, with
this difference—that he is the author we now talk about and seldom read,
but then they did not discuss him any more than we now go to see him
played.
An interesting character by the name of Jacob Tonson appears upon the
scene, as a friend of Addison in his early days. Tonson enjoyed the
distinction of being the father of the modern publishing business—the
first man to bring out the works of authors at his own risk and then sell
the product to bookstores. I believe it is Mr. Le Gallienne who has been
so unkind as to speak of "Barabbas Tonson." Among Tonson's many
good strokes was his act in buying the copyright of "Paradise
Lost" from Simmons, the bookseller, who had purchased all rights in
the manuscript from the bereaved widow on a payment of eight pounds.
Tonson appreciated good things in a literary way. He was on friendly
terms with all the principal writers, and did much in bringing some shy
writers to the front. Addison and Tonson laid great plans, few of which
materialized, and some were carried out by other people—notably the
compilation of an English Dictionary. In Sixteen Hundred Ninety-nine we
find Addison, in possession of a pension of three hundred pounds a year,
crossing the Channel into France with the object "to travel and
qualify himself to serve His Majesty."
The diplomatic language of the world was French. With intent to learn
the language, Addison made his home with a modest French family; and a
better way of acquiring a language than this has never been devised. A
young friend of mine, however, recently returned from Europe, tells me
that the ideal plan is to make love to a vivacious French girl who can not
speak English. Of the excellence of this plan I know nothing—it may be a
mere barren ideality.
A little over a year in France and we are told that "Addison spoke
the language like a native "—a glib expression, still able-bodied,
that means little or much. From France Addison followed down into Italy,
and spent a year there, residing in various small towns with the same
object in view that took him to France.
And one of his admirers relates that "he learned to speak Italian
perfectly, his pronunciation being marred only by a slight French
accent." Addison's three years of foreign travel, and the friendly
society of the highest and best wherever he journeyed, had caused him to
blossom out into a most exceptional man. Nature had done much for him, but
her best gift was the hospitable mind. Travel to many young men is the
opportunity to indulge in a line of conduct not possible at home. But
Addison, ripening slowly, appreciated the fact that the Puritan has a deal
of truth on his side. There is a manly abstinence that is most becoming,
and to moderate one's desires and partake of the good things of earth
sparingly is the best way to garner their benefit. No doubt, too,
Addison's modesty and tendency to shyness saved him from many a danger.
"Bashfulness is the tough husk in which genius ripens," says
Emerson.
Thus do we find our man at thirty, strong, manly, gifted, handsome,
chivalrous, proud, yet tender, sympathetic, knowing—ready to serve his
country in whatsoever capacity he could serve it best. When lo! the death
of the King cut off his pension, a new party came in, his influential
friends were thrown out of power, and Addison's prospects wilted in a
single night.
The fact is that Addison from his thirtieth to his fortieth year was
little better than a denizen of Grub Street. Fortunately he was a
bachelor, with no one but himself to support, else actual hardship might
have entered. Several flattering offers to act as tutor or companion to
rich men's sons came his way, and were declined in polite and gracious
language; and once a suggestion that he wed a woman of wealth was tabled
in a manner not quite so gracious. In passing, it is well to state that
all of Addison's relations with women seem to have occupied a lofty plane
of chivalry. His respect for the good name of woman was profound, and
whether any woman ever broke through that fine reserve and exquisite
formality is a question. He was intensely admired by women, of course, but
it was from the other side of the drawing-room. He kept gush at bay, and
never tempted to indiscretion.
Addison's youth was past; he was creeping well into the thirties, and
still with no prospects. He was out of money, with no profession, and no
special reputation as a writer. The popular poets of the time were Sedley,
Rochester, Buckingham and Dorset—and you have never heard of them? Well,
it only shows how a literary reputation is a shadow that fades in a night.
Addison had written his "Cato" several years before, but no
one had seen it. He carried the manuscript about with him, as Goethe did
his "Faust," for years, and added to
it, or erased, all according to the moods that came to him. And we have
reason to believe that the sublime soliloquy in "Cato" was
written by Addison when the blankness of his prospects and the blackness
of the future had forced the question of self-destruction upon him.
Cato made a great mistake in committing suicide—he did the deed right
on the eve of success—he should have waited. Addison waited.
At this time Lord Godolphin, who had the happiness to have a great
racehorse named after him, occupied the chief place in the Ministry.
Marlborough had just fought the battle of Blenheim, and it was Godolphin's
wish to have the victory sung in adequate verse, for history's sake and
for the sake of the political party. But he could not think of a poet who
was equal to the task; so in his dilemma he called in Lord Halifax, who
had a reputation for knowing good things in a literary way.
Lord Halifax was unfortunate in having his portrait transmitted by two
poets who hated him thoroughly, each for the amply sufficient reason that
he failed to confer the favors that were much desired. Swift calls Halifax
"a would-be Mæcenas"; and Pope refers to him as
"penurious, mean and chicken-hearted," satirizing him in the
well-known character of Bufo.
Do not take the poets too seriously: all good men have had mud-balls
thrown at them—sometimes bricks—and Halifax
was not a bad man by any means. Let the poets make copy of their thwarted
hopes.
In reply to Lord Godolphin's inquiries, Halifax said he did indeed know
the man who could celebrate the victory in verse, and in fact there was
only one man in England who could do the task justice. He, however,
refused to divulge his man's identity until a suitable reward for the poet
was fixed upon.
Godolphin finally thought of an office in the Excise, worth three
hundred pounds a year or more.
Halifax then stipulated that the negotiations must be carried on
directly between the Government and the poet, otherwise the poet's pride
would rebel. Godolphin agreed to shield Halifax from all mention in the
matter, and the name and address of Joseph Addison were then taken down.
Godolphin had never heard of Addison, but relying on Halifax, he sent
Boyle, Chancellor of the Exchequer, to the address named, where Addison
was found over a haberdasher's, up three flights, back. The account comes
from Pope, who was the enemy of both Addison and Halifax, and can
therefore be relied upon.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer broached the subject, was gently
repulsed, the case was argued, and being put on the plane of duty the poet
surrendered, and as a result we have Addison's poem, "The
Campaign." It was considered a great literary feat in its day, but
like all things performed to order, comes tardy off. Only work
done in love lives. But Addison slid into the Excise office, taking it as
legal tender. This brought him into relationship with Godolphin, who one
day exclaimed, "I thought that man Addison was nothing but a
poet—I'm a rogue if he isn't really a great man!" Lord Godolphin
was needing a good man, a man of address, polish, tact and education. And
Addison was selected to fill the office of Under-Secretary of State, the
place for which he had fitted himself and to which he had aspired eight
years before. Moral: Be prepared.
The party that called Addison was not the one to which he was supposed
to be attached, but his merits were recognized, his help was needed, and
so he was sent for. It was a great compliment. But good men are always
needed—they were then, and the demand is greater now than ever before.
The highest positions are hard to fill—good men are scarce.
Addison's knowledge, his modesty, his willingness, his caution, his
grace of manner, fitted him exactly for the position; and we have reason
to believe that the salary of one thousand pounds a year was very
acceptable to one in his situation.
In another year the Whigs had grown stronger; Halifax was again a
recognized power; and erelong we find Addison entering Parliament. So
great was his popularity that he was elected from one district six times,
representing Malmesbury until his death.
It was stated by Congreve that Addison's habit of shyness
was an affectation. If so, it was a good stroke, for nothing is so
becoming in a man known to be versatile and strong as a half-embarrassment
when in society. The Duke of Wellington's awkwardness in a drawing-room
put all others at their ease. The eternal fitness of things demands that
when greatness is in evidence some one should be embarrassed, and if the
celebrity is "it," so much the better.
Personally, I feel sure that Addison's shyness was not feigned, for on
the only occasion he ever attempted to speak ex-tempore in Parliament he
muffed the subject, forgot his theme, and sat down in confusion. With all
his incisive thought and fine command of language, Addison could not think
on his feet. And as if aware of his limitations, in one of the
"Spectator" essays he said, with more or less truth, "The
fluent orator, ready to speak on any topic, is never profound, and when
once his thought is cold it will seldom repay examination—it was only a
skyrocket."
Without Addison's literary reputation, resting upon his essays
published in the "Tatler" and the "Spectator," it is
very possible that we would now know about as much concerning him as we do
about Sir John Hawkins. The "Tatler" and the
"Spectator" allowed him to express his best, and in his own way.
With the name of Addison is inseparably coupled that of Richard Steele.
These men had a literary style which they held in partnership. The nearest
approach to it in our time is the "Easy Chair" of George William
Curtis. Curtis was once called by Lowell, with a goodly degree of justice,
"our modern Addison."
Steele and Addison had been schoolmates at the Charterhouse, and
friends for a lifetime. They were of the same age within a year. Steele
had been a soldier and an adventurer, and his disposition was decidedly
convivial. He was a clever writer, knowing the world of politics and
society, but he lacked the spiritual and artistic qualities which
Addison's moderate and studious life had fostered. But on simple themes,
where the argument did not rise above the commonplace, Addison and Steele
wrote exactly alike, just as all writers on the "Sun" used to
write like Dana. Steele had filled the lowest office in the Ministry, the
office of "Gazeteer": the duties of the office being to issue a
newspaper giving the official news of the day. It was a licensed monopoly,
and all infringers were severely punished.
Steele, however, did not like the office, because the Powers demanded
that all writing in the "Gazette" be very innocent and very
insipid. "To publish a newspaper and say nothing is no easy
task," said Steele. Had he lived in our day he could have seen the
trick performed on every hand.
Finally the office of Gazetteer was abolished, and any man who wished
might issue a "gazette," provided he kept within proper bounds.
The result was a flight of small leaflet periodicals, quite like the
Chapbook Renaissance of Eighteen Hundred Ninety-five and Eighteen Hundred
Ninety-six, when over eleven hundred "brownie" and
"chipmunk" magazines were started in America. Every man with two
or three ideas and ten dollars' capital started a magazine. Steele,
teeming with thoughts demanding expression, at war with smug society, and
possessing wit withal, started the "Tatler," to be issued three
times a week, price one penny. Seizing upon a creation of Swift's,
"Isaac Bickerstaff," a character already known to the public,
was introduced as editor. Bickerstaff announced his assistants, and among
others named as authority in Foreign Affairs a waiter at Saint James
Coffeehouse known as "Kidney." The spirit of rollicking freedom
in the publication, with a touch of philosophy, and a dash of culture,
caught the public fancy at once. The "Tatler" was the theme in
every coffeehouse, and in the drawing-rooms, as well. Those who understood
it laughed and passed it along to others who
pretended they understood, and so it became the fad. Then the anonymity
lent the charm of mystery—who could it be who was into all the secrets,
and knew the world so thoroughly?
Addison read each issue with surprise and amusement, but it was not
until the fifth number that he located the author positively, by reading
an observation of his own that he had voiced to Steele some weeks before.
Steele absorbed everything, digested it, and gave the good out as his own,
innocent and probably unmindful of where he got it. This accounts for his
wonderful versatility: he made others grub and used the net result.
Some years ago Francis Wilson made a mock complaint to the effect that
whenever he met Eugene Field in the "Saints and Sinners Corner"
for a half-hour's chat, any good thing he might voice was duly printed
next day in the "Sharps and Flats" column as Field's very own,
and thus did the genial Eugene acquire his reputation as a genius. All of
which gentle gibing contains more fact than fiction.
When Addison saw his bright thoughts appearing in the "Tatler,"
he went to Steele and said, "Here, I'll write that out myself and
save you the trouble." Steele welcomed him with open arms. The first
"Tatler" article written by Addison relates to the distress of
news-writers at the prospect of peace. This is exactly in Steele's style;
but we find erelong in the "Tatler" a
spiritual quality that was not a part of Steele's nature. From current
gossip and easy society commonplace, the tone is exalted, and this we know
was the result of Addison's influence. Out of two hundred seventy-one
articles in the "Tatler," one hundred eighty-eight were produced
by Steele and forty-two by Addison. Yet Steele was wise enough to perceive
the superior quality of Addison's work, and this dictated the key in which
the magazine was pitched. Yet the fertility of Steele surpassed that of
Addison. Steele initiated the crusade against gambling, dueling and vice;
and this was all very natural, for he simply inveighed against sins with
which experience had made him familiar. His moral essays were all written
in periods of repentance. His sharp tirades on dueling in one instance
approached the point of personality, and on being criticized, he resented
the interference and expressed a willingness to fight his man with pistols
at ten paces. It must not be forgotten that Richard Steele was an
Irishman.
The political tone of the "Tatler" favored the Marlborough
administration, and on this account Steele was rewarded with a snug office
under the wing of the State. In Seventeen Hundred Ten, the Whig Ministry
fell, but Lord Harley knew the value of Steele as a writer, and so
notified him that he would not be disturbed in possession of his Stamp
Office.
Now, a complete silence concerning things political in the "Tatler"
was hardly possible, and a change of front would
be humiliating, and whether to give up the "Tatler" or the
office—that was the question! Addison was in the same box. The offices
they held brought them in twice as much money as the little periodical,
and either the patronage or the paper would have to go. They decided to
abandon the "Tatler."
But the habit of writing sticks to a man; and after two months Steele
and Addison began to feel the necessity of some outlet for their pent-up
thoughts. They had each grown with their work, and were aware of it. They
would start a new paper, and make it a daily; and they would keep clear of
politics. So we find the "Spectator" duly launched with the
intended purpose of forming "a rational standard of conduct in
morals, manners, art and literature."
Every good thing has its prototype, and Addison in Italy had become
familiar with the force of "Manners" by Casa, and the
"Courtier" by Castiglione. Then he knew the character of La
Bruyere, and this gave the cue for the Spectator Club, with Sir Roger de
Coverley, Sir Andrew Freeport, Will Honeycomb, Captain Sentry and the
Templar.
Swift had contributed several papers to the "Tatler," but he
found the "Spectator" too soft and feminine for his fancy.
Probably Steele and Addison were afraid of the doughty Dean's style; there
was too much vitriol in it for popularity—and they kept the Irish parson
at a distance, as certain letters to "Stella" seem to indicate.
The "Spectator" was a notable success from the start and soon
put Steele and Addison in comfortable financial shape.
After the first year the daily issue amounted to fourteen thousand
copies. Addison introduced the "Answers to Correspondents"
scheme.
He has had many imitators along this line, some of whom yet endure, but
they are not Addisons.
An imitation of the "Spectator" was started as a daily in New
York in Eighteen Hundred Ninety-eight. In one week it ran short on
phosphorus and was obliged to quit. It took two years for Steele and
Addison to write themselves out, and rather than let the quality of the
periodical decline they discontinued its publication, quitting like the
wise men they were at the height of their success.
When Addison's tragedy of "Cato" was produced in Seventeen
Hundred Thirteen, he occupied the first place in English letters. The play
was a dazzling success; and it is a great play yet. It lives as literature
among the best things men have ever done—a masterpiece!
Addison still continued in the service of the State, and wrote more or
less in a political way. The strain of carrying on the
"Spectator" and the stress of political affairs had tired the
man. The spring had gone out of his intellect, and he began to talk of
some quiet retreat in the country. In Seventeen Hundred Sixteen, in his
forty-fourth year, he married the Countess of Warwick, a widow of fifteen
years' standing. We have reason to believe that the worthy widow did the
courting and literally took our good man captive. He was depressed and
worn, and longed for rest and gentle, sympathetic companionship. She
promised all these—the buxom creature—and married him, taking him to
her home at Holland House. Yes, it would be unjust to blame her; doubtless
she wished to do for the man what was best; and so report has it that she
exercised a discipline over his hours of work and recreation and curtailed
a little there and issued orders here, until the poor patient rebelled and
fled to the coffeehouses. There he found the rollicking society that he so
despised—and loved, for there was comradeship in it, and comradeship was
what he prayed for. His wife did not comprehend that
delicate, spiritual quality of his heart: that craving for sympathy which
came after he had given out so much. He wanted peace, quiet and rest; but
she wished to take him forth and exhibit him to the throng. Yet all of her
admonitions that he "brace up" were in vain. His work was done.
He foresaw the end, and grew impatient that it did not come. Placid,
resigned, sane to the last hour, he passed away at Holland House, June
Seventeenth, Seventeen Hundred Nineteen, aged forty-seven. His body, lying
in state, was viewed by more than ten thousand people, and then it was
laid to rest in the Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey.
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