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Addison had not been consulted about this scheme: but as soon as he heard of it,
he determined to give his assistance. The effect of that assistance cannot be
better described than in Steele's own words. "I fared," he said, "like a
distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbor to his aid. I was undone by
my auxiliary. When I had once called him in, I could not subsist without
dependence on him." "The paper," he says elsewhere, "was advanced indeed. It was
raised to a greater thing than I intended it."
It is probable that Addison, when he sent across St. George's channel his first
contributions to the Tatler, had no notion of the extent and variety of his own
powers. He was the possessor of a vast mine, rich with a hundred ores. But he
had been acquainted only with the least precious part of his treasures, and had
hitherto contented himself with producing sometimes copper and sometimes lead,
intermingled with a little silver. All at once, and by mere accident, he had
lighted on an inexhaustible vein of the finest gold.
The mere choice and arrangement of his words would have sufficed to make his
essays classical. For never, not even by Dryden, not even by Temple, had the
English language been written with such sweetness, grace, and facility. But this
was the smallest part of Addison's praise. Had he clothed his thoughts in the
half French style of Horace Walpole, or in the half Latin style of Dr. Johnson,
or in the half German jargon of the present day, his genius would have triumphed
over all faults of manner. As a moral satirist he stands unrivalled. If ever the
best Tatlers and Spectators were equaled in their own kind, we should be
inclined to guess that it must have been by the lost comedies of Menander.
In wit properly so called, Addison was not inferior to Cowley or Butler. No
single ode of Cowley contains so many happy analogies as are crowded into the
lines to Sir Godfrey Kneller; and we would undertake to collect from the
Spectators as great a number of ingenious illustrations as can be found in
Hudibras. The still higher faculty of invention Addison possessed in still
larger measure. The numerous fictions, generally original, often wild and
grotesque, but always singularly graceful and happy, which are found in his
essays, fully entitle him to the rank of a great poet, a rank to which his
metrical compositions give him no claim. As an observer of life, of manners, of
all the shades of human character, he stands in the first class. And what he
observed he had the art of communicating in two widely different ways. He could
describe virtues, vices, habits, whims, as well as Clarendon. But he could do
something better. He could call human beings into existence, and make them
exhibit themselves. If we wish to find anything more vivid than Addison's best
portraits, we must go either to Shakespeare or to Cervantes.
But what shall we say of Addison's humor, of his sense of the ludicrous, of his
power of awakening that sense in others, and of drawing mirth from incidents
which occur every day, and from little peculiarities of temper and manner, such
as may be found in every man? We feel the charm: we give ourselves up to it; but
we strive in vain to analyze it.
Perhaps the best way of describing Addison's peculiar pleasantry is to compare
it with the pleasantry of some other great satirists. The three most eminent
masters of the art of ridicule, during the eighteenth century, were, we
conceive, Addison, Swift, and Voltaire. Which of the three had the greatest
power of moving laughter may be questioned. But each of them, within his own
domain, was supreme.
Voltaire is the prince of buffoons. His merriment is without disguise or
restraint. He gambols; he grins; he shakes his sides; he points the finger; he
turns up the nose; he shoots out the tongue. The manner of Swift is the very
opposite to this. He moves laughter, but never joins in it. He appears in his
works such as he appeared in society. All the company are convulsed with
merriment, while the Dean, the author of all the mirth, preserves an invincible
gravity, and even sourness of aspect, and gives utterance to the most eccentric
and ludicrous fancies, with the air of a man reading the commination service.
The manner of Addison is as remote from that of Swift as from that of Voltaire.
He neither laughs out like the French wit, nor, like the Irish wit, throws a
double portion of severity into his countenance while laughing inwardly; but
preserves a look peculiarly his own, a look of demure serenity, disturbed only
by an arch sparkle of the eye, an almost imperceptible elevation of the brow, an
almost imperceptible curl of the lip. His tone is never that either of a Jack
Pudding or of a Cynic. It is that of a gentleman, in whom the quickest sense of
the ridiculous is constantly tempered by good nature and good breeding.
We own that the humor of Addison is, in our opinion, of a more delicious flavor
than the humor of either Swift or Voltaire. Thus much, at least, is certain,
that both Swift and Voltaire have been successfully mimicked, and that no man
has yet been able to mimic Addison. The letter of the Abbe Coyer to Pansophe is
Voltaire all over, and imposed, during a long time, on the Academicians of
Paris. There are passages in Arbuthnot's satirical works which we, at least,
cannot distinguish from Swift's best writing. But of the many eminent men who
have made Addison their model, though several have copied his mere diction with
happy effect, none has been able to catch the tone of his pleasantry. In the
World, in the Connoisseur, in the Mirror, in the Lounger, there are numerous
Papers written in obvious imitation of his Tatlers and Spectators. Most of those
papers have some merit; many are very lively and amusing; but there is not a
single one which could be passed off as Addison's on a critic of the smallest
perspicacity.
But that which chiefly distinguishes Addison from Swift, from Voltaire, from
almost all the other great masters of ridicule, is the grace, the nobleness, the
moral purity, which we find even in his merriment. Severity, gradually hardening
and darkening into misanthropy, characterizes the works of Swift. The nature of
Voltaire was, indeed, not inhuman; but he venerated nothing. Neither in the
masterpieces of art nor in the purest examples of virtue, neither in the Great
First Cause nor in the awful enigma of the grave, could he see anything but
subjects for drollery. The more solemn and august the theme, the more
monkey-like was his grimacing and chattering. The mirth of Swift is the mirth of
Mephistopheles; the mirth of Voltaire is the mirth of Puck. If, as, Soame Jenyns
oddly imagined, a portion of the happiness of Seraphim and just men made perfect
be derived from an exquisite perception of the ludicrous, their mirth must
surely be none other than the mirth of Addison; a mirth consistent with tender
compassion for all that is frail, and with profound reverence for all that is
sublime. Nothing great, nothing amiable, no moral duty, no doctrine of natural
or revealed religion, has ever been associated by Addison with any degrading
idea. His humanity is without a parallel in literary history. The highest proof
of virtue is to possess boundless power without abusing it. No kind of power is
more formidable than the power of making men ridiculous; and that power Addison
possessed in boundless measure. How grossly that power was abused by Swift and
by Voltaire is well known. But of Addison it may be confidently affirmed that he
has blackened no man's character, nay, that it would be difficult if not
impossible, to find in all the volumes which he has left us a single taunt which
can be called ungenerous or unkind. Yet he had detractors, whose malignity might
have seemed to justify as terrible a revenge as that which men, not superior to
him in genius, wreaked on Bettesworth and on Franc de Pompignan. He was a
politician; he was the best writer of his party; he lived in times of fierce
excitement, in times when persons of high character and station stooped to
scurrility such as is now practiced only by the basest of mankind. Yet no
provocation and no example could induce him to return railing for railing.
On the service which his Essays rendered to morality it is difficult to speak
too highly. It is true that, when the Tatler appeared, that age of outrageous
profaneness and licentiousness which followed the Restoration had passed away.
Jeremy Collier had shamed the theatres into something which, compared with the
excesses of Etherege and Wycherley, might be called decency. Yet there still
lingered in the public mind a pernicious notion that there was some connection
between genius and profligacy, between the domestic virtues and the sullen
formality of the Puritans. That error it is the glory of Addison to have
dispelled. He taught the nation that the faith and the morality of Hale and
Tillotson might be found in company with wit more sparkling than the wit of
Congreve, and with humor richer than the humor of Vanbrugh. So effectually
indeed, did he retort on vice the mockery which had recently been directed
against virtue, that, since his time, the open violation of decency has always
been considered among us as the mark of a fool. And this revolution, the
greatest and most salutary ever effected by any satirist, he accomplished, be it
remembered, without writing one personal lampoon.
In the earlier contributions of Addison to the Tatler his peculiar powers were
not fully exhibited. Yet from the first, his superiority to all his coadjutors
was evident. Some of his later Tatlers are fully equal to anything that he ever
wrote. Among the portraits we most admire "Tom Folio," "Ned Softly," and the
"Political Upholsterer." "The Proceedings of the Court of Honor," the
"Thermometer of Zeal," the story of the "Frozen Words," the "Memoirs of the
Shilling," are excellent specimens of that ingenious and lively species of
fiction in which Addison excelled all men. There is one still better paper of
the same class. But though that paper, a hundred and thirty-three years ago, was
probably thought as edifying as one of Smalridge's sermons, we dare not indicate
it to the squeamish readers of the nineteenth century.
During the session of Parliament which commenced in November 1709, and which the
impeachment of Sacheverell has made memorable, Addison appears to have resided
in London, The Tatler was now more popular than any periodical paper had ever
been; and his connection with it was generally known. It was not known, however,
that almost everything good in the Tatler was his. The truth is, that the fifty
or sixty numbers which we owe to him were not merely the best, but so decidedly
the best that any five of them are more valuable than all the two hundred
numbers in which he had no share.
He required, at this time, all the solace which he could derive from literary
success. The Queen had always disliked the Whigs. She had during some years
disliked the Marlborough family. But, reigning by a disputed title, she could
not venture directly to oppose herself to a majority of both Houses of
Parliament; and, engaged as she was in a war on the event of which her own Crown
was staked, she could not venture to disgrace a great and successful general.
But at length, in the year 1710, the causes which had restrained her from
showing her aversion to the Low Church party ceased to operate. The trial of
Sacheverell produced an outbreak of public feeling scarcely less violent than
the outbreaks which we can ourselves remember in 1820 and 1831. The country
gentlemen, the country clergymen, the rabble of the towns, were all, for once,
on the same side. It was clear that, if a general election took place before the
excitement abated, the Tories would have a majority. The services of Marlborough
had been so splendid that they were no longer necessary. The Queen's throne was
secure from all attack on the part of Lewis. Indeed, it seemed much more likely
that the English and German armies would divide the spoils of Versailles and
Marli than that a Marshal of France would bring back the Pretender to St.
James's. The Queen, acting by the advice of Harley, determined to dismiss her
servants. In June the change commenced. Sunderland was the first who fell. The
Tories exulted over his fall. The Whigs tried, during a few weeks, to persuade
themselves that her Majesty had acted only from personal dislike to the
Secretary, and that she meditated no further alteration. But, early in August,
Godolphin was surprised by a letter from Anne, which directed him to break his
white staff. Even after this event, the irresolution or dissimulation of Harley
kept up the hopes of the Whigs during another month; and then the ruin became
rapid and violent. The Parliament was dissolved. The Ministers were turned out.
The Tories were called to office. The tide of popularity ran violently in favor
of the High Church party. That party, feeble in the late House of Commons, was
now irresistible. The power which the Tories had thus suddenly acquired, they
used with blind and stupid ferocity. The howl which the whole pack set up for
prey and for blood appalled even him who had roused and unchained them. When, at
this distance of time, we calmly review the conduct of the discarded Ministers,
we cannot but feel a movement of indignation at the injustice with which they
were treated. No body of men had ever administered the Government with more
energy, ability, and moderation; and their success had been proportioned to
their wisdom. They had saved Holland and Germany. They had humbled France. They
had, as it seemed, all but torn Spain from the House of Bourbon. They had made
England the first power in Europe. At home they had united England and Scotland.
They had respected the rights of conscience and the liberty of the subject. They
retired, leaving their country at the height of prosperity and glory. And yet
they were pursued to their retreat by such a roar of obloquy as was never raised
against the Government which threw away thirteen colonies, or against the
Government which sent a gallant army to perish in the ditches of Walcheren.
None of the Whigs suffered more in the general wreck than Addison. He had just
sustained some heavy pecuniary losses, of the nature of which we are imperfectly
informed, when the Secretaryship was taken from him. He had reason to believe
that he should also be deprived of the small Irish office which he held by
patent. He had just resigned his Fellowship. It seems probable that he had
already ventured to raise his eyes to a great lady, and that, while his
political friends were in power, and while his own fortunes were rising, he had
been, in the phrase of the romances which were then fashionable, permitted to
hope. But Mr. Addison the ingenious writer, and Mr. Addison the Chief Secretary,
were, in her ladyship's opinion, two very different persons. All these
calamities united, however, could not disturb the serene cheerfulness of a mind
conscious of innocence, and rich in its own wealth. He told his friends, with
smiling resignation, that they ought to admire his philosophy, that he had lost
at once his fortune, his place, his Fellowship, and his mistress, that he must
think of turning tutor again, and yet that his spirits were as good as ever.
He had one consolation. Of the unpopularity which his friends had incurred, he
had no share. Such was the esteem with which he was regarded that, while the
most violent measures were taken for the purpose of forcing Tory members on Whig
corporations, he was returned to Parliament without even a contest. Swift, who
was now in London, and who had already determined on quitting the Whigs, wrote
to Stella in these remarkable words. "The Tories carry it among the new members
six to one. Mr. Addison's election has passed easy and undisputed; and I believe
if he had a mind to be king he would hardly be refused."
The goodwill with which the Tories regarded Addison is the more honorable to
him, because it had not been purchased by any concession on his part. During the
general election he published a political journal, entitled the Whig Examiner.
Of that journal it may be sufficient to say that Johnson, in spite of his strong
political prejudices, pronounced it to be superior in wit to any of Swift's
writings on the other side. When it ceased to appear, Swift, in a letter to
Stella, expressed his exultation at the death of so formidable an antagonist.
"He might well rejoice," says Johnson, "at the death of that which he could not
have killed." "On no occasion," he adds, "was the genius of Addison more
vigorously exerted, and on none did the superiority of his powers more evidently
appear."
The only use which Addison appears to have made of the favor with which he was
regarded by the Tories was to save some of his friends from the general ruin of
the Whig party. He felt himself to be in a situation which made it his duty to
take a decided part in politics. But the case of Steele and of Ambrose Phillips
was different. For Phillips, Addison even condescended to solicit, with what
success we have not ascertained. Steele held two places. He was Gazetteer, and
he was also a Commissioner of Stamps. The Gazette was taken from him. But he was
suffered to retain his place in the Stamp Office, on an implied understanding
that he should not be active against the new Government; and he was, during more
than two years, induced by Addison to observe this armistice with tolerable
fidelity.
Isaac Bickerstaff accordingly became silent on politics, and the article of news
which had once formed about one-third of his paper, altogether disappeared. The
Tatler had completely changed its character. It was now nothing but a series of
essays on books, morals, and manners. Steele therefore resolved to bring it to a
close, and to commence a new work on an improved plan. It was announced that
this new work would be published daily. The undertaking was generally regarded
as bold, or rather rash; but the event amply justified, the confidence with
which Steele relied on the fertility of Addison's genius. On the second of
January 1711, appeared the last Tatler. At the beginning of March following
appeared the first of an incomparable series of papers containing observations
on life and literature by an imaginary Spectator.
The Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addison; and it is not easy to
doubt that the portrait was meant to be in some features a likeness of the
painter. The Spectator is a gentleman who, after passing a studious youth at the
university, has traveled on classic ground, and has bestowed much attention on
curious points of antiquity. He has, on his return, fixed his residence in
London, and has observed all the forms of life which are to be found in that
great city, has daily listened to the wits of Will's, has smoked with the
philosophers of the Grecian, and has mingled with the parsons at Child's, and
with the politicians at the St. James's. In the morning, he often listens to the
hum of the Exchange; in the evening, his face is constantly to be seen in the
pit of Drury Lane Theatre. But an insurmountable bashfulness prevents him from
opening his mouth, except in a small circle of intimate friends.
These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club, the templar, the
clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant, were uninteresting figures, fit only
for a background. But the other two, an old country baronet and an old town
rake, though not delineated with a very delicate pencil, had some good strokes.
Addison took the rude outlines into his own hands, retouched them, colored them,
and is in truth the creator of the Sir Roger de Coverley and the Will Honeycomb
with whom we are all familiar.
The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both original and eminently
happy. Every valuable essay in the series may be read with pleasure separately;
yet the five or six hundred essays form a whole, and a whole which has the
interest of a novel. It must be remembered, too, that at that time no novel,
giving a lively and powerful picture of the common life and manners of England,
had appeared. Richardson was working as a compositor. Fielding was robbing
birds' nests. Smollett was not yet born. The narrative, therefore, which
connects together the Spectator's Essays, gave to our ancestors their first
taste of an exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative was indeed
constructed with no art or labor. The events were such events as occur every
day. Sir Roger comes up to town to see Eugenio, as the worthy baronet always
called Prince Eugene, goes with the Spectator on the water to Spring Gardens,
walks among the tombs in the Abbey, and is frightened by the Mohawks, but
conquers his apprehension so far as to go to the theatre when the Distressed
Mother is acted. The Spectator pays a visit in the summer to Coverley Hall, is
charmed with the old house, the old butler, and the old chaplain, eats a jack
caught by Will Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law discussed
by Tom Touchy. At last a letter from the honest butler brings to the club the
news that Sir Roger is dead. Will Honeycomb marries and reforms at sixty. The
club breaks up; and the Spectator resigns his functions. Such events can hardly
be said to form a plot; yet they are related with such truth, such grace, such
wit, such humor, such pathos, such knowledge of the human heart, such knowledge
of the ways of the world, that they charm us on the hundredth perusal. We have
not the least doubt that if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan, it
would have been superior to any that we possess. As it is, he is entitled to be
considered, not only as the greatest of the English essayists, but as the
forerunner of the greatest English novelists.
We say this of Addison alone; for Addison is the Spectator. About three-sevenths
of the work are his; and it is no exaggeration to say, that his worst essay is
as good as the best essay of his coadjutors. His best essays approach near to
absolute perfection; nor is their excellence more wonderful than their variety.
His invention never seems to flag; nor is he ever under the necessity of
repeating himself, or of wearing out a subject. There are no dregs in his wine.
He regales us after the fashion of that prodigal nabob who held that there was
only one good glass in a bottle. As soon as we have tasted the first sparkling
foam of a jest, it is withdrawn, and a fresh draught of nectar is at our lips.
On the Monday we have an allegory as lively and ingenious as Lucian's Auction of
Lives; on the Tuesday an Eastern apologue, as richly colored as the Tales of
Scherezade; on the Wednesday, a character described with the skill of La
Bruyere; on the Thursday, a scene from common life, equal to the best chapters
in the Vicar of Wakefield; on the Friday, some sly Horatian pleasantry on
fashionable follies, on hoops, patches, or puppet shows; and on the Saturday a
religious meditation, which will bear a comparison with the finest passages in
Massillon.
It is dangerous to select where there is so much that deserves the highest
praise. We will venture, however, to say, that any person who wishes to form a
just notion of the extent and variety of Addison's powers, will do well to read
at one sitting the following papers, the two " Visits to the Abbey," the "Visit
to the Exchange," the "Journal of the Retired Citizen," the "Vision of Mirza,"
the "Transmigrations of Pug the Monkey," and the "Death of Sir Roger de
Coverley."1
The least valuable of Addison's contributions to the Spectator are, in the
judgment of our age, his critical papers. Yet his critical papers are always
luminous, and often ingenious. The very worst of them must be regarded as
creditable to him, when the character of the school in which he had been trained
is fairly considered. The best of them were much too good for his readers. In
truth, he was not so far behind our generation as he was before his own. No
essays in the Spectator were more censured and derided than those in which he
raised his voice against the contempt with which our fine old ballads were
regarded, and showed the scoffers that the same gold which, burnished and
polished, gives luster to the Aeneid and the Odes of Horace, is mingled with the
rude dross of Chevy Chace.
It is not strange that the success of the Spectator should have been such as no
similar work has ever obtained. The number of copies daily distributed was at
first three thousand. It subsequently increased, and had risen to near four
thousand when the stamp tax was imposed. The tax was fatal to a crowd of
journals. The Spectator, however, stood its ground, doubled its price, and,
though its circulation fell off, still yielded a large revenue both to the State
and to the authors. For particular papers, the demand was immense; of some, it
is said, twenty thousand copies were required. But this was not all. To have the
Spectator served up every morning with the bohea and rolls was a luxury for the
few. The majority were content to wait till essays enough had appeared to form a
volume. Ten thousand copies of each volume were immediately taken off, and new
editions were called for. It must be remembered, that the population of England
was then hardly a third of what it now is. The number of Englishmen who were in
the habit of reading, was probably not a sixth of what it now is. A shopkeeper
or a farmer who found any pleasure in literature, was a rarity. Nay, there was
doubtless more than one knight of the shire whose country seat did not contain
ten books, receipt books and books on farriery included. In these circumstances,
the sale of the Spectator must be considered as indicating a popularity quite as
great as that of the most successful works of Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Dickens
in our own time.
At the close of 1712 the Spectator ceased to appear. It was probably felt that
the short-faced gentleman and his club had been long enough before the town; and
that it was time to withdraw them, and to replace them by a new set of
characters. In a few weeks the first number of the Guardian was published. But
the Guardian was unfortunate both in its birth and in its death. It began in
dulness, and disappeared in a tempest of faction. The original plan was bad.
Addison contributed nothing till sixty-six numbers had appeared; and it was then
impossible to make the Guardian what the Spectator had been. Nestor Ironside and
the Miss Lizards were people to whom even he could impart no interest. He could
only furnish some excellent little essays, both serious and comic; and this he
did.
Why Addison gave no assistance to the Guardian, during the first two months of
its existence is a question which has puzzled the editors and biographers, but
which seems to us to admit of a very easy solution. He was then engaged in
bringing his Cato on the stage.
The first four acts of this drama had been lying in his desk since his return
from Italy. His modest and sensitive nature shrank from the risk of a public and
shameful failure; and, though all who saw the manuscript were loud in praise,
some thought it possible that an audience might become impatient even of very
good rhetoric, and advised Addison to print the play without hazarding a
representation. At length, after many fits of apprehension, the poet yielded to
the urgency of his political friends, who hoped that the public would discover
some analogy between the followers of Caesar and the Tories, between Sempronius
and the apostate Whigs, between Cato, struggling to the last for the liberties
of Rome, and the band of patriots who still stood firm around Halifax and
Wharton.
Addison gave the play to the managers of Drury Lane Theatre, without stipulating
for any advantage to himself. They, therefore, thought themselves bound to spare
no cost in scenery and dresses. The decorations, it is true, would not have
pleased the skilful eye of Mr. Macready. Juba's waistcoat blazed with gold lace;
Marcia's hoop was worthy of a Duchess on the birthday; and Cato wore a wig worth
fifty guineas. The prologue was written by Pope, and is undoubtedly a dignified
and spirited composition. The part of the hero was excellently played by Booth.
Steele undertook to pack a house. The boxes were in a blaze with the stars of
the Peers in Opposition. The pit was crowded with attentive and friendly
listeners from the Inns of Court and the literary coffee-houses. Sir Gilbert
Heathcote, Governor of the Bank of England, was at the head of a powerful body
of auxiliaries from the city, warm men and true Whigs, but better known at
Jonathan's and Garraway's than in the haunts of wits and critics.
These precautions were quite superfluous. The Tories, as a body, regarded
Addison with no unkind feelings. Nor was it for their interest, professing, as
they did, profound reverence for law and prescription, and abhorrence both of
popular insurrections and of standing armies, to appropriate to themselves
reflections thrown on the great military chief and demagogue, who, with the
support of the legions and of the common people, subverted all the ancient
institutions of his country. Accordingly, every shout that was raised by the
members of the Kit Cat was echoed by the High Churchmen of the October; and the
curtain at length fell amidst thunders of unanimous applause.
The delight and admiration of the town were described by the Guardian in terms
which we might attribute to partiality, were it not that the Examiner, the organ
of the Ministry, held similar language. The Tories, indeed, found much to sneer
at in the conduct of their opponents. Steele had on this, as on other occasions,
shown more zeal than taste or judgment. The honest citizens who marched under
the orders of Sir Gibby, as he was facetiously called, probably knew better when
to buy and when to sell stock than when to clap and when to hiss at a play, and
incurred some ridicule by making the hypocritical Sempronius their favorite, and
by giving to his insincere rants louder plaudits than they bestowed on the
temperate eloquence of Cato. Wharton, too, who had the incredible effrontery to
applaud the lines about flying from prosperous vice and from the power of
impious men to a private station, did not escape the sarcasms of those who
justly thought that he could fly from nothing more vicious or impious than
himself. The epilogue, which was written by Garth, a zealous Whig, was severely
and not unreasonably censured as ignoble and out of place. But Addison was
described, even by the bitterest Tory writers, as a gentleman of wit and virtue,
in whose friendship many persons of both parties were happy, and whose name
ought not to be mixed up with factious squabbles.
1 Nos. 26, 329, 69, 317, 159, 343, 517. These papers are all
in the first seven volumes. The eighth must be considered as a separate work.
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