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.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
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
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.
"It is not 'advantages' that make great men—it is disadvantages!" said White Pigeon. We were eating breakfast at the table set out under the arbor, back of the Coleridge cottage—Grace, Myrtle, White Pigeon and I.
Grace and Myrtle were the Grand Rapids girls, and fine girls, too—pink and twenty, with diaries and autograph-fans. Girls of that age are charming, but they only interest me as do beautiful kittens or colts. Women do not become wise or discreet until they are past thirty. White Pigeon was past thirty.
We took the stage that morning at nine o'clock for Keswick. The stage started from the Red Lion Inn. It is a great event—the starting of a four-horse stage. The guests came out, and so did the boots, and chamber-maids and waiters, and the cook came also. They stood in line and bade the parting guests godspeed, and all the guests were supposed to express gratitude tangibly. The landlady was busy, flying about like a Plymouth Rock hen with a brood of ducks. She saw me handing up the pink-and-white Grace and Myrtle and the dignified, tailor-made White Pigeon, and she came out and apologized profusely for not having had room to accommodate me the night before.
At last all the hatboxes and bloomin' luggage were safely stowed, the trunks were lashed in place behind, and I climbed to the top of the stage and took my seat beside my charges. A merry blast was blown from the tallyho horn. A man with a red coat, high white hat, kid gloves and a brick-dust complexion mounted the box and gathered up a big handful of reins. The hostlers at the heads of the leaders let go, twenty feet of whiplash went singing through the air—and we were off!
We swung through the village with more majesty and clatter than the Empire State Express ever assumed, stopping just an instant at the post-office for a bag of mail that the brick-dusty driver caught with his feet, and then away we went.
I am sorry I did not live in stagecoach times—things are now so dead and dreary and prosaic. Yet I sometimes have imagined that today the stagecoach business in England is a little stagey—many things are done to heighten effects. For instance, the intense excitement of starting is not exactly necessary—why the mad rush? No one is really in a hurry to reach a certain place at a certain time! And all this is apparent when you notice that a mile out of town the pace subsides to a lazy dog-trot, and the boots has jumped down and unchecked each horse so as to make things easy. I was glad the boots got down, for whenever I see a horse's head checked up in the air my impulse is to uncheck him—and once on Wabash Avenue in Chicago I did.
I was arrested, and it cost me five.
The road to Keswick bristles with history. Coleridge, Wordsworth and Southey tramped it many a time, and since their day, thousands of literary pilgrims have come this way. That two poets-laureate should have come from this beautiful corner of the earth of course is interesting, but the honor of being poet-laureate to the King is a shifting honor, depending upon the poet. No title can ever really honor a man, although a man may honor a title, and no King by taking thought can add a cubit to a subject's stature. The man is what he is. Southey succeeded the poet Pye, who was laureate before him.
A weaker nature than mine might here succumb to temptation and play pleasant philological pranks concerning the poet Pye, but I am above all that. Pye was a good man, and if I could remember any of the lines he wrote, I would here introduce them; but this is doubtless unnecessary, for the gentle reader can recall to suit.
White Pigeon claimed that Pye was greater than Southey, and she further said that Tennyson's reputation suffered by consenting to act as successor to this line of men in whom felicity and insight were the exception. The tierce of Canary was no pay for acting as successor to Pye, but Southey jumped at the Canary and slipped his last vestige of radicalism quickly.
"Oh, what a funny little church," exclaimed Myrtle; "can't we stop and go in?"
It is a curious little building—that church at Wythburn.
It looks like a little girl's playhouse, that might have belonged to her great-great-grandmother.
Opposite this lovely little church is a tavern, where a lovely barmaid in white apron and lovely collar and cuffs stood in the doorway, ready to serve the thirsty. The red-coated driver pulled in on the tavern side, and men in neckerchiefs, hobnailed shoes, blue woolen stockings and knee-breeches made fussy haste to water the horses. Old Brick-Dusty climbed down to see a man in the tavern, and the Michigan contingent and Colonel Littlejourneys slid down the other side and went into Wythburn Church. There isn't another church in England so peculiar and so interesting. A pew is marked sacred to Wordsworth, and one also to Harriet Martineau, who I did not know before ever went to church. The silver service was the gift of Southey, and is inscribed with his name and crest. Southey was a vestryman of Wythburn Church for many years, and sometimes read the service there. I stood in the pulpit where Southey stood, and so did White Pigeon, and I reminded her that she would never be allowed there on Sunday, for Deity is most easily approached and influenced by men, as all theologians know and have ever stoutly held. One of the busy hostlers came in, pulling his forelock, and apologizing, in a voice full of cobwebs, said that the coach was ready to start. We did the proper thing, and also as much for the red-coated driver, who, in spite of great dignity, we saw was open to reward for well-doing. It was a great mistake, though, to "cross his palm," for he began a lecture on the Cumberland Kings, that lasted until we got to Thirlmere, where he stopped at the Pumping-Station, and told us how the city of Manchester got its water-supply from here. To him all things were equally interesting. He was still deep in the fight between Manchester aldermen and the 'Ouse of Commons when we reached Castle Rigg. The Vale of Keswick opened before us. We implored the well-informed driver to stop, and then we got down and begged him to go on without us.
Seated there on the bankside we viewed the beautiful scene of lake, valley and village stretching out so peacefully before us, all framed in the dark towering hills. Even Grace forgot to say, "How lovely!" but sat there, chin in hand, rapt and speechless.
Down in that valley, just a little to one side of the village, Southey lived for over forty years, and all the visitors he really liked he took to Castle Rigg, to show them as he said, "the kingdoms of the earth." It was a view of which he never tired. Coleridge came up this way first, and took lodgings with a Mr. Johnson, who owned Greta Hall. It is not on record that Coleridge paid any rent, but he was so charmed with the location that he induced Southey to come and visit him. Southey came and liked it so well that he remained. He performed here a life-task that staggers one to contemplate: fifty volumes or more of closely set type are shown you at the Keswick Museum, duly labeled, "The Works of Southey," Charles Lamb's "Works" were the East India ledgers, but he wrote one little book of Essays that are still sweet and fresh as wood-violets—essays written hot from the heart, often in tears; written because he could not help it, or to please Mary—he did not know which.
No man ever divided his time up more systematically than Southey. He produced political and theological essays, histories, poems, diatribes, apologies and criticisms, and worked as men work in the Carnegie Consolidated Steel Works.
Robert Southey was the precocious son of a Bristol linen-draper. Being rather delicate, his parents did not set him to work in a drygoods-store, but gave him the benefit of Oxford. The thing that brought him first into prominence was an article he wrote for "The Flaggellant," a college paper, wherein he ridiculed the idea of a devil. Now the powers did not like that—the creed called for a "personal devil," and they wanted one. They summoned young Southey before them to account for speaking disrespectfully of the devil. The youth was found guilty and expelled.
He was a reckless young man, but recklessness is its own check—in fact, all things in life are self-regulating, everything is limited. Southey's secret marriage with Edith Fricker tamed him. Nothing tames men like marriage; and when babies came, and Coleridge went to Germany, leaving Mrs. Coleridge and young Hartley in his charge, Southey realized he was dealing with a condition, not a theory. Then soon he had the widowed Mrs. Lovell with her brood on his hands, and his old dream of pantisocracy was realized, only not just as he expected.
Too much can not be said for the patience and unflinching fidelity shown by Southey in shouldering the burdens that Fate sent him.
"Any man can succeed with three good women to help him!" said White Pigeon.
"True," said I, "and next in importance to the person who originates a good thing is the one who quotes it." Men weighted with responsibilities fight for the established order. Southey's pension and his steady income came from the men in power, and he made it his business not to offend them. Southey was a scholar; he associated with educated people; and once he complained because he could not get acquainted with workingmen—they shut up like clams on his approach. Of course they did, for we are simple and sincere only with our own.
Learned, scholarly and cultured men are to be pitied, for they are ever the butt, byword and prey of the untaught, who are often the knowing. As success came to Southey he lost the sense of values, that is to say, the sense of humor. He attacked Byron with great severity, and Byron's reply was the dedication of Don Juan, "To the illustrious Poet-Laureate, Robert Southey, LL.D." It was as if the play of "Sappho" were dedicated to the Reverend Doctor Parkhurst.
Southey came out with a card declaring he had given Lord Byron no permission to dedicate any of his detestable works to him. Byron replied, acknowledging all this, but saying he had a right to honor the name of Southey, if he chose, just the same. No taint of excess or folly marks the name of Southey; his life was filled with good work and kind deeds. His name is honored by a monument in the village of Keswick, and in Crosthwaite Church is another monument to his memory, the inscription being written by Wordsworth.