The De Coverley Papers, From 'The Spectator' Part 1

The De Coverley Papers.

by Joseph Addison and Others.

INTRODUCTION

No character in our literature, not even Mr. Pickwick, has more endeared himself to successive generations of readers than Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley: there are many figures in drama and fiction of whom we feel that they are in a way personal friends of our own, that once introduced to us they remain a permanent part of our little world. It is the abiding glory of d.i.c.kens, it is one of Shakespeare's abiding glories, to have created many such: but we look to find these characters in the novel or the play: the essay by virtue of its limitations of s.p.a.ce is unsuited for character-studies, and even in the subject of our present reading the difficulty of hunting the various Coverley Essays down in the great number of _Spectator_ Papers is some small drawback. But here before the birth of the modern English novel we have a full-length portrait of such a character as we have described, in addition to a number of other more sketchy but still convincing delineations of English types. We are brought into the society of a fine old-fas.h.i.+oned country gentleman, simple, generous, and upright, with just those touches of whimsicality and those lovable faults which go straight to our hearts: and all so charmingly described that these Essays have delighted all who have read them since they first began to appear on the breakfast-tables of the polite world in Queen Anne's day.

"Addison's" Sir Roger we have called him, and be sure that honest d.i.c.k Steele, even if he drew the first outlines of the figure, would not bear us a grudge for so doing. Whoever first thought of Sir Roger, and however many little touches may have been added by other hands, he remains Addison's creation: and furthermore it does not matter a snap of the fingers whether any actual person served as the model from which the picture was taken. Of all the bootless quests that literary criticism can undertake, this search for "the original" is the least valuable. The artist's mind is a crucible which trans.m.u.tes and re-creates: to vary the metaphor, the marble springs to life under the workman's hands: we can almost see it happening in these Essays: and we know how often enough a writer finds his own creation kicking over the traces, as it were, and becoming almost independent of his volition. There is no original for Sir Roger or Falstaff or Mr. Micawber: they may not have sprung Athena-like fully armed out of the author's head, and they may have been suggested by some one he had in mind. But once created they came into a full-blooded life with personalities entirely of their own.

A vastly more useful quest, one in fact of absorbing interest, is the attempt to follow the artist's method, to trace the devices which he adopts to bring to our notice all those various traits by which we judge of character. The prose writer has this much advantage over the playwright, that he can represent his _dramatis personae_ in a greater number of different situations, and furthermore can criticise them and draw our special attention to what he wishes to have stressed: he can even say that such and such thoughts and motives are in their minds. Not so the dramatist: his s.p.a.ce is limited and he is cribbed, cabined, and confined by having to give a convincing imitation of real life, where we cannot tell what is going on in the minds of even our most intimate friends. Thus the audience is often left uncertain of the purport of what it sees and hears: the ugly and inartistic convention of the aside must be used very sparingly if the play is to ring true; and so it is that we shall find voluminous discussions on the subject, for instance, of how Shakespeare meant such and such a character to be interpreted. It stands to reason that the character in fiction can to this same extent be more artificial. It is a test of the self-control and artistic restraint of the novelist if he can refrain from diving too deep into the unknown and arrogating to himself an impossibly full knowledge of the mental processes of other people. And now notice how Addison gives us just such revelations of the old Knight's character as the observant spectator would gather from friendly intercourse with him. We see Sir Roger at home, ruling his household and the village with a genial if somewhat autocratic sway: we see him in London, taking the cicerone who pilots him round Westminster Abbey for a monument of wit and learning: and so on and so forth. There is no need to catalogue these occasions: what we have said should suffice to point out a very fruitful line of study which may help the reader to a full appreciation of Addison's work. "Good wine needs no bush," and the Coverley Essays are good wine if ever there was such.

The study of the style is also of the greatest value. Addison lived at a time when our modern English prose had recently found itself. We admire the splendour of the Miltonic style, and lose ourselves in the rich harmonies of Sir Thomas Browne's work; but after all prose is needed for ordinary every-day jog-trot purposes and must be clear and straightforward. It can still remain a very attractive instrument of speech or writing, and in Addison's hands it fulfilled to perfection the needs of the essay style. He avoids verbiage and excessive adornment, he is content to tell what he sees or knows or thinks as simply as possible (and even with a tendency towards the conversational), and he has an inimitable feeling for just the right word, just the most elegantly turned phrase and period. Do not imagine this sort of thing is the result of a mere gift for style: true, it could not happen without that, but neither can it happen without a great deal of careful thought, a scrupulous choice, and balancing of word against word, phrase against phrase. Because all this is done and because the result is so clear and runs so smoothly, it requires an effort on our part to realise the great amount of work involved: _Ars est celare artem_: and in such an essay as that describing the picture gallery in Sir Roger's house we can see the pictures in front of our eyes precisely because the description is so clear-cut, so free from unnecessary decoration, and yet so picturesque and attractive.

A very short acquaintance will enable the reader to appreciate Addison's charming humour and sane grasp of character. The high moral tone of his work, the common-sense and broad culture and literary insight which caused the _Spectator_ to exert a profound influence over a dissolute age, these can only be seen by a more extended reading of the Essays, and those who are interested cannot do better than obtain some general selection such as that of Arnold.

Biographical and historical details are somewhat outside the scope of the present Essay. A short Chronological Table is appended, and the reader cannot be too strongly recommended to study Johnson's Life of Addison, which is one of the best of the Lives of the Poets, and in which the literary criticism is in Johnson's best vein. And Thackeray's _Esmond_ contains some delightful pa.s.sages introducing Richard Steele and his entourage, with an interesting scene in Addison's lodgings. It is perhaps as well to mention that the _Spectator_ grew out of Addison's collaboration with Steele in a similar periodical ent.i.tled the _Tatler_.

There were several writers besides these two concerned in the _Spectator_, notably Budgell. (The letters at the end of most of the papers are signatures: C., L., I. and O. are the marks of Addison's work, R. and T. of Steele's, and X. of Budgell's.) We have stories of Addison's resentment of their tampering with his favourite character; it is even said that he killed the Knight off in his annoyance at one paper which represented him in an unfitting situation. We cannot judge of the truth of such stories. In any case it was Addison who controlled the whole tenor and policy of the paper, wisely steering as clear as possible of politics, and thereby broadening his appeal and reaching a wider public, and it was Addison's kindly and mellow criticism of life that informed the whole work. His remaining literary productions, popular at the time, have receded into the background: but the _Spectator_ will keep his name alive as long as English literature survives.

(In this selection only those essays have been chosen which bear directly on Sir Roger or the _Spectator_ Club: several have been omitted which refer to him only _en pa.s.sant_ or as a peg on which to hang some disquisition, and also one other which is wholly out of keeping with Sir Roger's character.)

CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE

1672. Birth of Addison and Steele.

1697. Addison elected Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford.

1701, 3, 5, 22. Steele's Plays.

1702. Accession of Queen Anne.

1704. Addison's _Campaign_ (poem celebrating Blenheim).

1706. Addison's _Rosamond_ (opera).

1709-11. Steele's _Tatler_.

1711-12-14. The _Spectator_.

1713. Addison's _Cato_ (play).

1714. Accession of George I.

1717. Addison appointed Secretary of State.

1719. Death of Addison.

1729. Death of Steele.

THE DE COVERLEY PAPERS

NO. 1. THURSDAY, MARCH 1, 1710-11

_Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dart lucem Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat._

HOR. _Ars Poet._ ver. 143.

One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke; The other out of smoke brings glorious light, And (without raising expectation high) Surprises us with dazzling miracles.

ROSCOMMON.

I have observed, that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure, until he knows whether the writer of it be a black[1] or a fair man, of a mild or choleric[2] disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper and my next as prefatory discourses to my following writings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compiling, digesting[3], and correcting will fall to my share, I must do myself the justice to open the work with my own history.

I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, according to the tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that it is at present, and has been delivered down from father to son whole and entire, without the loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow, during the s.p.a.ce of six hundred years. There runs a story in the family, that before my birth my mother dreamt that she was brought to bed of a judge: whether this might proceed from a lawsuit which was then depending[4] in the family, or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in my future life, though that was the interpretation which the neighbourhood put upon it. The gravity of my behaviour at my very first appearance in the world, and all the time that I sucked, seemed to favour my mother's dream: for, as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and would not make use of my coral until they had taken away the bells from it.

As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it remarkable, I shall pa.s.s it over in silence. I find, that, during my nonage[5], I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was always a favourite of my schoolmaster, who used to say, that my parts[6] were solid, and would wear well. I had not been long at the University, before I distinguished myself by a most profound silence; for during the s.p.a.ce of eight years, excepting in the public exercises[7] of the college, I scarce uttered the quant.i.ty of an hundred words; and indeed do not remember that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I was in this learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my studies, that there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned or the modern tongues, which I am not acquainted with.

Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the University, with the character of an odd unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would but show it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all the countries of Europe, in which there was anything new or strange to be seen; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that having read the controversies of some great men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the measure of a pyramid: and, as soon as I had set myself right in that particular, returned to my native country with great satisfaction.

I have pa.s.sed my latter years in this city, where I am frequently seen in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know me; of whom my next paper shall give a more particular account. There is no place of general resort, wherein I do not often make my appearance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of politicians at Will's[8], and listening with great attention to the narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at Child's[8], and, whilst I seem attentive to nothing but the _Postman_[9], overhear the conversation of every table in the room. I appear on Sunday nights at St. James's[8] coffee-house, and sometimes join the little committee of politics in the inner room, as one who comes there to hear and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the Grecian[8], the Cocoa-Tree, and in the theatres both of Drury Lane and the Hay-Market. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Exchange for above these ten years, and sometimes pa.s.s for a Jew in the a.s.sembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's: in short, wherever I see a cl.u.s.ter of people, I always mix with them, though I never open my lips but in my own club.

Thus I live in the world rather as a spectator of mankind, than as one of the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a husband or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy[10], business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them, as standers-by discover blots[11], which are apt to escape those who are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am resolved to observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostilities of either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on, which is the character I intend to preserve in this paper.

I have given the reader just so much of my history and character, as to let him see I am not altogether unqualified for the business I have undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the meantime, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to blame my own taciturnity; and, since I have neither time nor inclination to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, if possible, before I die. I have been often told by my friends, that it is pity so many useful discoveries which I have made should be in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a sheet-full of thoughts every morning, for the benefit of my contemporaries; and if I can any way contribute to the diversion or improvement of the country in which I live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not lived in vain.

There are three very material points which I have not spoken to[12] in this paper; and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to myself, at least for some time: I mean, an account of my name, my age, and my lodgings. I must confess, I would gratify my reader in anything that is reasonable; but as for these three particulars, though I am sensible they might tend very much to the embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution of communicating them to the public. They would indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many years, and expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities, which have been always very disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain I can suffer, is the being talked to, and being stared at. It is for this reason likewise, that I keep my complexion[13] and dress as very great secrets; though it is not impossible, but I may make discoveries[14] of both in the progress of the work I have undertaken.

After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall, in to-morrow's paper, give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in this work; for, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters of importance are) in a club. However, as my friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a mind to correspond with me, may direct their letters to the _Spectator_, at Mr. Buckley's in Little Britain. For I must further acquaint the reader, that, though our club meets only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have appointed a committee to sit every night, for the inspection of all such papers as may contribute to the advancement of the public weal.

C.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Black._ Dark.

[2] _Choleric._ Liable to anger.

[3] _Digesting._ Arranging methodically.

[4] _Depending._ Modern English _pending_.

[5] _Nonage._ Minority.

[6] _Parts._ Powers.

[7] _Public exercises._ Examinations for degrees at Oxford and Cambridge formerly took the form of public debates.

[8] _Will's_, _Child's_, _St. James's_, _Grecian_. Coffee-houses; all these, and the cocoa-houses too, tended to become the special haunts of members of some particular party, profession, etc.; _e.g._, Will's was literary, St. James's Whig.

[9] _Postman._ A weekly newspaper.