On that I rest my case, as the lawyers say, as having amply proved the
persuasive powers of Richard Steele. Such letters would turn a heart of
stone.
One day, when Addison was in funds, there came to him a touching letter
from his old school fellow. Dick was in trouble again. The letter told
all. His flint-hearted creditors pressed. His grate was fireless and
there was not as much as a candle in the house. Butcher and baker cast
a cold eye upon him. The wolf was at the door, and, eke, the bailiff
with a writ. “Impatient people who take all advantage” beset him. For
twenty-four hours he had fasted, and starvation stared him in the face.
A hundred pounds would save his life.
Picture Addison his friend, a man of wealth and position; Under
Secretary of State; a little king surrounded by his circle of admirers;
a coffee-house wit; a conversationalist able to keep a “few friends
listening and laughing around a table from the time when a play ended
till the clock of St. Paul’s struck four o’ the morning”; the guest of
the brilliant Lady Mary Montague; collector of Elzevirs and ancient
medals. He read the letter once, twice, thrice. There is a rabble of
reasons why he should help Dick and a rabble why he should not. He
ponders awhile in doubt.... But it is his old Irish school friend in
trouble again. It is Dick the luckless. But here is sincere repentance,
and, anyway, Dick is under a cloud. Moreover, he is through with “the
well-fed wits” who batten on him. So the messenger is called in,
presently leaves with the money and Addison sleeps well.
But not with monetary aid alone is Addison satisfied. He has some
knowledge of life in Grub Street--a knowledge also possessed by
Goldsmith who told how the luckless author in dark days
views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the freeze is scored
And five cracked tea cups dress the chimney board;
A night cap dress his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night--a stocking all the day!
So, the next day, Addison climbs Steele’s stairway. He is astonished
to find porters running up and down bearing trays loaded with soups,
fish, entrees and sweetmeats. He, himself, is elbowed out of the way
by servants. There are lights everywhere and, from within, the sound
of fiddles. It is long past sunset and no black-hearted bailiff may do
his full work. Through the open door is seen the long, crowded table,
piled high with wines and meats, champagnes and burgundies, and at the
head, brimming with happiness and good humor, without a present care in
the world, sits Dick Steele. Small wonder then that the good nature of
Addison received a shock and that he determined to give Steele and his
“well-fed wits” a lesson.
But big men find it easy to forgive. Vindictiveness is for small
minds alone. Indeed, Addison the gentleman never told the story. He,
doubtless, soon considered it a closed incident and so forgot all about
it. It was Steele the gentleman who gave the tale to the world, and, as
a gentleman should, to illustrate his friend’s generosity.
One day a notion struck Steele. He decided to publish a journal on a
new plan. It is true there were news sheets in plenty, but, the times
were, in some respects, very like our own, and the self-imposed task of
the journalist seemed then, as now, to be to provide the weak-minded
section of the public with a new variety of mental dissipation each
day. Then, as now, too, the spirit of sensationalism was abroad. Then,
as now, there was a very active championship of bad causes and the
only care of the journal’s owner was to increase his circulation and
keep out of the clutches of the law. Every blind popular prejudice and
every brutal fanaticism was seized upon avidly and every consideration
of decency disregarded. To cater to the baser appetites, the lowest
curiosities, the shallowest mind, was the rule. Today, picturing the
people of England as of then, from the current news sheets, you see
a nation of Yahoos that hate each other, tear each other with their
talons with hideous contortions and yells. You see, very much as you
see today with us, foul sheets doing lip service, darkening counsel by
words without knowledge, fawning on the wealthy, flattering the men in
power. To use Swift’s picture as applicable, (Gulliver’s Travels, Part
4, chap. 7):
In most herds there was a sort of ruling Yahoo who was always more
deformed in body, and mischievous in disposition, than any of the
rest; that this ruler had usually a favorite as like himself as he
could get, whose employment was to lick his master’s feet ... and
drive the female yahoos to his kennel; for which he was now and then
rewarded with a piece of ass’s flesh....
I can well imagine Dick Steele, his mind busy with the idea of some
new play perhaps, turning into some coffee-house to rest, or, if
possible, to find some companion with whom he could have a pleasant
talk. It is the Cocoa Tree that he chooses, and it has a back room,
long, and low, and brown paneled, and through the window is to be seen
the red-walled rose garden. There he finds gathered company. Steele
notes the general picture, the browns and grays, here and there a coat
of brighter color, this face strongly illuminated and that in shadow,
and he also notes that there is a great deal of “goose gabble” by way
of conversation. Nothing there to interest him. He picks up the news
sheet. It is _Dawk’s Protestant Mercury_, a popular paper. It has been
well read as the coffee stains and finger marks show. He turns it over,
passing impatiently the two columns of flamboyant boastings which tell
how at any time, “one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen,” scanning
swiftly, and rejecting impatiently, its pretended statements of facts
as entirely unworthy; then his eye falls on the stirring item of the
day, the item to which men first turn as children of a low order of
intellect turn today to the funny sheet of a Sunday supplement, and he
reads this: