FullReads

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?