The main facts in Addison’s life could be compressed within the compass
of an ordinary telegram, thus:
Joseph Addison was born in Wiltshire, England, in 1672, had a grammar
school education, and went to Oxford University. Between the ages of
twenty-seven and thirty-one he traveled in Europe. Later, he held
public offices, but, in 1710 devoted himself seriously to literature,
and, in five years, gained lasting fame. He died in 1719.
If, in the style of the modern journalist, you chose to add a spice
of mild scandal, you might say that he was married to the Countess of
Warwick, but the union was not a happy one. Should a little extra tang
be required, it would be quite in order to say that on occasion he
drank too much.
Or, supposing that you were very narrow and chose to run a dark smear
across his name, you might make much of the fact that he sometimes
loaned money to his best friend, Richard Steele, and on one such
occasion, sent the sheriff’s officer with an order for the debtor’s
arrest, two days after the loan had been made. This story, be it said,
you may not find in any existing biography, at least I have not been
able to find it, but, nevertheless, it is true, for Dick Steele told it
to his friend Richard Savage the poet, who, in turn, told it to Doctor
Johnson. Then, of course, James Boswell got hold of it and gave it to
the world.
Still, as you know and as I know, and as Nietzsche said, men’s
wickedness is much less than the fame of it, so, rightly understood and
fairly told, even this, which might be denounced by the thoughtless
as an act of base treachery, turns out to be a very ordinary affair,
the like of which might easily have befallen me. For the fact is that
Richard Steele was Richard Steele, a mighty good fellow, as also was
Addison. You see the character of the man as soon as you look at his
picture. Ruddy and strong, full of boisterous health is he, one in
whom the sap of life rises swiftly. At a glance you see that he can
laugh heartily, like Rabelais, like Scarron. If you are supersensitive,
if you are timid, you would not go abroad with him, for he is, it is
plain to be seen, one who would take you into taverns, into baignoires
on occasion, into places where are jovial companions who love a good
song, or a jolly story over a bottle. With his kind, you may wind up
the night with either a broken head or a belly full, but which ever it
was, you would have had a good time. And Addison, a quieter sort, a
fine, sensitive type, liked his Irish friend. They had been school boys
together, and, later, college chums. They were the same age, too. It
was a friendship like that of William of Orange for Bentick, or Queen
Anne for Lady Churchill. But Dick Steele was not born with a silver
spoon in his mouth, and being a genius, was bold, reckless of life, of
health, of which the unco’ guid call honor. So his wealthy relative
cast him off before he had graduated from college, and he became a kind
of vagrant. He joined the army, soon tired of the discipline, bought
himself out, and lived by his wits. He loved women and he loved wine,
but he loved wine more than women. He was an easy going, good natured
adventurer with a strong literary gift and a tremendous imagination.
Like _Tom Jones_, he lived his life in a manner far from perfect, knew
it and regretted it. He had spurts of virtue, he made good resolutions,
then straightway forgot all about them and went on in the same old way.
Give him a guinea and immediately he went about to find a friend to
share it. A good meal and an evening spent in jolly company seemed to
him a far more attractive way to dispose of gold than the uninteresting
payment of tradesmen’s bills. Besides, do what he would, at one time in
his career, to pay off all that he owed seemed an utter impossibility.
So, as a palliative measure, he would borrow from Peter to pay Paul.
But Richard Steele was also a letter writer. His winning personality,
his charm of manner shone on the written page. He was as irresistible
as _Micawber_, as charming as _Esmond_. Judge for yourself. I take,
almost at random, four letters of twenty. They are written to his wife,
and, as most men know, to write to a wife is not easy, and less so when
one is long overdue, or too late for dinner, and, to boot, a little far
gone in one’s cups. Then it requires both dexterity and diplomacy. The
letters are, of course, of subsequent date to the Addison loan affair,
but serve to show the peculiar, persuasive qualities of the writer.
_To Mrs. Steele._
Monday, seven at night,
Sept. 27, 1708.
Dear Prue:
You see you are obeyed in everything, and that I write overnight
for the following day. I shall now in earnest, by Mr. Clay’s good
conduct, manage my business with that method as shall make me easy.
The news, I am told, you had last night, of the taking of Lille,
does not prove true; but I hope we shall have it soon. I shall send
by tomorrow’s coach. I am, dear Prue, a little in drink, but at all
times your faithful husband,