Part 14

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.

ROBERT SOUTHEY

Let no man write Thy epitaph, Emmett; thou shalt not go Without thy funeral strain! O young and good, And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go Unhonored or unsung. And better thus Beneath that undiscriminating stroke, Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn, As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse, Thine own disastrous triumph * * * * How happier thus, in that heroic mood That takes away the sting of death, to die, By all the good and all the wise forgiven! Yea, in all ages by the wise and good To be remembered, mourned, and honored still! --_Southey to Robert Emmett_

[Illustration: ROBERT SOUTHEY]

Most generally, when I travel, I go alone--this to insure being in good company. To travel with another is a terrible risk: it puts a great strain on the affections.

I once made the tour of Scotland with a man who was traveling for his health. He had kidney-trouble belief. I had known the man in a casual way for several years, and we started out the best of friends, anticipating a good time. We were gone three weeks, and when we got back I hated the fellow thoroughly, and I have every reason to believe that he fully reciprocated the sentiment.

And yet he was an honest man, and I am, too, although not an extremist. There was nothing to quarrel about; it began at Euston Station, where I bought third-class tickets. He said he preferred to ride first-class, or second, at least--there was such a thing as false economy.

I asked him why he had not said something along this line before I had purchased the tickets.

He retorted that I had not consulted his preference in the matter. I brought in a mild rejoinder by moving the previous question, and showing that he, himself, had proposed that I should take entire charge of the arrangements, using my own good judgment at all times.

He said something about his error in supposing he was traveling with a discerning person. Just then the guard came along, slamming the doors, and we were pushed into a third-class carriage, where we enjoyed an all-day journey together.

At Edinburgh my companion wished to ascend the Scott monument, visit a friend at the University, and buy a plaid rug at one of the shops in Princess Street; while I proposed to look up the footprints of Bobbie Burns and John Knox. He said, "Confound John Knox!" I answered, "You evidently think I am referring to Knox the Hatter!" He grew mad as a hatter, and I had to defend John Knox, and later had to do the same for Rab and his friends, as well as for Christopher North.

And so it went--he pooh-poohed my heroes; and I scorned the friend he wished to find at the University, smiled patronizingly on the Scott monument, and said, "hoot mon" at the idea of buying a plaid rug in Princess Street.

All this was many years ago; since then I have been very cautious about entering into any Anglo-American alliances. Yet to travel alone often seems to be dropping something out of your life. When the voyage is rough, the weather bad and the fare below par, my spirits always rise. I say to myself: "My son, this is certainly tough--but who cares! We can stand it, we have had this way right along year after year--but just imagine your plight if there were some one in your charge expecting a good time!"

Then I drink to Boreas and all the fiends of Gehenna, and am supremely content.

But suppose the night is resplendent with stars, the waves tremulous with reflected beauty, and as the great ship goes gliding across the deep--proud, strong and tireless--there come to you thoughts sublime and emotions such as Wagner knew when he wrote the "Pilgrims' Chorus."

But you are not happy, simply because you want to tell some one how happy you are. What is the starlight for, save to call some one's attention to, or the phosphorescent sheen except to be pointed out and enjoyed by two? Exquisite beauty, as revealed in music, painting, sculpture or beautiful scenery, affects me at times to tears; and there always comes creeping into my life a profound sadness, a dread homesickness, to think that in this wealth of peace and joy I am alone--alone.

Can you stand by yourself on a hillside and look across a beautiful little lake to the woods beyond; or walk through a pine-forest, where the needles sink as a carpet beneath your feet, and the air is full of the pungent odor of the pine, and the gently swaying tree-tops overhead croon you a lullaby--can you enjoy all this without an exquisite melancholy, and a joy that hurts, piercing your soul? It's homesickness, that's all; you want to go home and tell some one how happy you are. Give me solitude, sweet solitude, but in my solitude give me still one friend to whom I may murmur, Solitude is sweet.

* * * * *

That about the sea and the forest, the wooded hillside and the little lake may not be the exact words, but the thought is there just as White Pigeon expressed it to me that evening when we sat on the mossy bank of the lake at Grasmere and threw pebbles into the water.

I had come up from Liverpool to Bowness, walked over to Ambleside and along the lake to Grasmere. My luggage consisted of a comb, a toothbrush and a stout second-growth East Aurora hickory stick.

At Grasmere I applied at the Red Lion Inn for supper and lodging. The landlady looked at my dusty, rusty corduroys, paused, coughed and asked where my luggage was. Wishing to be honest, I displayed the luggage aforementioned. She did not smile. She was a large person, sober, sedate, sincere and also serious, with a big bunch of keys dangling from a waist that once was Grecian. And she told me right there that if I wanted accommodations I would have to pay in advance. I demurred, pleaded and finally explained that I had lost my money and had sent to New York for a remittance, I was a remittance-man. Had this been true, it were sad, yet I had a hundred pounds sterling in my belt; but it just came to me to see how it would feel to be penniless and friendless and plead for charity. It is not hard to plead for charity when one has a pocket full of money.

So I pleaded. But it was of no avail.

I requested a drink of water. This was denied. Then I asked if I could wash in the lake; and this favor was granted, and the advice volunteered that it would be a good thing to do. And further the kind lady made a motion toward a dangling red tassel that hung from a rope, and suggested that I get me to a gunnery and quickly, too, otherwise she would have to call the porter.

I felt to see that my money was all right--to assure myself it was no jest in earnest--and departed. Being singularly psychic to suggestion I followed the thought that I wash in the lake, and started in that direction, along a footpath that led across a meadow, over a stile. A thick growth of bushes lined the lake for aways, and then the footpath seemed to follow right through the undergrowth. I pushed the green branches aside, and continued along for about a hundred feet, when I stood on the green, grass-covered bank of the beautiful "Windermere." Daffodils lined the water's edge--the daffodils of Wordsworth--down the lake were the white wings of several sailboats; the sun had gone down, but his long rays of gold still pierced the sky, while across the water arose, silent and majestic, the dark purple hills.

It was a beautiful sight--so full of quiet and peace and rest. I stood with hat in hand, the evening breeze fanning my face, enjoying the scene. Just then there was a little splash in the water, and looking down I saw a woman with back toward me sitting on a boulder, tossing pebbles into the lake. By the side of the woman were her hat and book. I was on the point of softly backing out through the bushes, when it came to me that I had seen that head with its big coil of brown hair somewhere else--but where, ah, where!

Why, in Paris, two years before. It was White Pigeon.

She had not seen me. I retraced my steps, and then came crashing through the juniper, straight over to the bankside, where I sat down about twenty feet from the good lady. I was whistling violently and throwing pebbles into the water, not even glancing toward her. She let me whistle for a full minute and then said gently: "Do not be absurd! I know you." Then we both laughed, and I, of course, did the regulation thing, and asked, "When did you arrive, and where are you going, and how do you like it?"

"You see what I am doing here, and as for when I arrived and how long I'll stay, and how I like it--what difference is it? There, you are surprised to see me, aren't you? I thought you had gotten past being surprised at anything, long ago--only silly people are surprised--you once said it, yourself!"

Then White Pigeon ceased to speak and we simply gazed into each other's eyes. White Pigeon has gray eyes that sometimes are blue and sometimes amber--it all depends upon her mood and the thoughts reflected there. The long, sober gaze stole off into a half-smile and she said, "You got things awfully mixed up in that Rosa Bonheur booklet--why not stick to truth?"

"Truth," I replied, "is hideous, and facts are like some men, stubborn things. But what was the matter with the Bonheur Little Journey?"

"You will not be angry with me?"

"How could I be?"

"You promise?"

"Yes."

"Well, you said my cousin was a conductor on the Lake Shore--you knew perfectly well it was the Michigan Central!"

I apologized.

It had been two years since I had seen this woman, and not a letter had passed between us. I had sent her a book now and then, and she had sent me a sketch or two.

White Pigeon knows nothing about me, and never asked concerning my history, which is a blank, my lord! Does the lily inquire of the humming-bird, "Hast hummed and fluttered about other flowers?"

That is a charming friendship that asks nothing, makes no demands, needs no assurances, never falters, and is so frank that it disarms prudery and pretense.

I said as much.

White Pigeon made no answer, but flung a pebble into the lake.

And all I know of White Pigeon is that she was born in White Pigeon, Michigan, and had left there ten years before to study art for a short time in Paris. The short time extended to ten years.

White Pigeon does not call herself an artist--she only copies pictures in the Louvre and gives lessons. "Not being able to paint, I give lessons," she once said to me. The first pictures she copied were sold to kind gentlemen who make many wagons at South Bend, Indiana; other pictures went to men who have interests at Ivorydale; and some have gone to the mill-owner at Ypsilanti, for the mill-owner is interested in art, as all patrons of the "Hum Journal" know.

White Pigeon lived at Paris because one must needs live somewhere, and rich Americans sometimes send her their daughters to "finish." That was what took her over to the Lake District--she was traveling with two young women from Grand Rapids. And so these three women were doing Great Britain, and White Pigeon was acting as courier, chaperone and instructor.

"I need 'finish,'" I suggested in one of the long pauses.

"I was just going to suggest it," said the lady.

"You say you are going to Southey's old home tomorrow--may I go, too?" I ventured.

And the answer was, "Of course--if you will promise not to work me up into copy."

I promised.

I found lodgings that night at "Nab Cottage." Being well recommended, the landlady did not hesitate, but gave me the best accommodations her house afforded.

Hartley Coleridge does not live at "Nab Cottage" now--a moss-covered slab marks his resting-place up at the Grasmere Churchyard, and only a step away in a very straight row are similar old headstones that token the graves of William, Dorothy and Mary Wordsworth. Hartley Coleridge had most of the weaknesses of his father, and only a few of his better traits. Yet Southey brought up the children of Coleridge and gave them just as good advantages as he did his own.