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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d69c8c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53644 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53644) diff --git a/old/53644-0.txt b/old/53644-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d153ddc..0000000 --- a/old/53644-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7218 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Historical Characters in the Reign of Queen -Anne, by Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Historical Characters in the Reign of Queen Anne - -Author: Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant - -Release Date: December 1, 2016 [EBook #53644] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORICAL CHARACTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - [Illustration: PRINCESS ANNE OF DENMARK. - - ENGRAVED BY H. DAVIDSON, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, AFTER THE - PAINTING BY W. WISSING AND I. VANDERVAART.] - - - - - HISTORICAL CHARACTERS - OF THE REIGN OF - QUEEN ANNE - - BY - MRS. M. O. W. OLIPHANT - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - THE CENTURY CO. - 1894 - - COPYRIGHT, 1893, 1894, - BY THE CENTURY CO. - - THE DE VINNE PRESS. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -CHAPTER I - - PAGE - -THE PRINCESS ANNE 1 - -CHAPTER II -THE QUEEN AND THE DUCHESS 43 - -CHAPTER III -THE AUTHOR OF “GULLIVER” 83 - -CHAPTER IV -THE AUTHOR OF “ROBINSON CRUSOE” 129 - -CHAPTER V -ADDISON, THE HUMORIST 167 - - - - -INDEX OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - -PRINCESS ANNE OF DENMARK FRONTISPIECE - -Engraved by H. DAVIDSON, from mezzotint by JOHN SMITH, after the -painting by W. WISSING and I. VANDERVAART. - - - FACING PAGE - - -ANNE HYDE, DUCHESS OF YORK 4 - -Engraved by T. JOHNSON, after the painting by Sir PETER LELY, in possession -of Earl Spencer. - - -JOHN EVELYN 8 - -Engraved by E. HEINEMANN, after copperplate by F. BARTOLOZZI in the -British Museum. - - -PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK 12 - -Engraved by R. A. MULLER, from mezzotint in the British Museum by -JOHN SMITH, after the painting by Sir GODFREY KNELLER. - - -CHARLES II. 16 - -Engraved by T. JOHNSON, after original painting by SAMUEL COOPER, in -the gallery of the Duke of Richmond and Gordon. - - -HENRY COMPTON, BISHOP OF LONDON 20 - -Engraved from life by DAVID LOGGAN, from print in the British Museum. -Engraved by E. HEINEMANN. - - -JAMES II. IN HIS CORONATION ROBES 24 - -Engraved by T. JOHNSON, after the painting by Sir PETER LELY, in possession -of the Duke of Northumberland. - - -MARY, PRINCESS OF ORANGE 28 - -Engraved by C. A. POWELL, after the painting by Sir PETER LELY, in possession -of the Earl of Crawford. - - -QUEEN MARY OF MODENA 32 - -Engraved by CHARLES STATE, after the painting by Sir PETER LELY, in -possession of Earl Spencer. - - -WILLIAM III. 40 - -From copperplate engraving by CORNELIS VERMEULEN, after the Painting -by ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF. - - -THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER 44 - -Engraved by R. G. TIETZE, From mezzotint by JOHN SMITH, after the painting -by Sir GODFREY KNELLER. - - -GARDEN FRONT, HAMPTON COURT 48 - -Drawn by JOSEPH PENNELL. Engraved by J. F. JUNGLING. - - -THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER 52 - -Engraved by R. A. MULLER, from miniature by LEWIS CROSSE, in the collection -at Windsor Castle; by special permission of Queen Victoria. - - -QUEEN ANNE 56 - -From copperplate engraving by PIETER VAN GUNST, after the painting by -Sir GODFREY KNELLER. - - -WINDSOR TERRACE, LOOKING WESTWARD 60 - -Engraved by J. W. EVANS, after aquatint by P. SANDBY. - - -THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH 64 - -Engraved by J. H. E. WHITNEY, from an engraving by PIETER VAN GUNST, -after painting by ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF. - - -THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH 72 - -Engraved by R. G. TIETZE, from mezzotint after painting by Sir GODFREY -KNELLER. - - -BISHOP GILBERT BURNET 80 - -Engraved by R. A. MULLER, from mezzotint in the British Museum by -JOHN SMITH, after the painting by JOHN RILEY. - - -JONATHAN SWIFT 84 - -From photograph of original Marble Bust of Swift by ROUBILLIAC -(1695-1762), now in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin. - - -MOOR PARK, RESIDENCE OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE AND OF -SWIFT 88 - -Drawn by CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY. Engraved by R. VARLEY. - - -DEAN SWIFT 92 - -From copperplate engraving by PIERRE FOURDRINIER, after a painting by -CHARLES JERVAS. - - -STELLA’S COTTAGE, ON THE BOUNDARY OF THE MOOR PARK -ESTATE 96 - -Drawn by CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY. Engraved by S. DAVIS. - - -HESTER JOHNSON, SWIFT’S “STELLA,” PAINTED FROM LIFE BY -MRS. DELANY, ON THE WALL OF THE TEMPLE AT DELVILLE, AND -ACCIDENTALLY DESTROYED 100 - -Engraved by M. HAIDER, from copy of the original by HENRY MACMANUS, -R. H. A., now in possession of Professor Dowden. - - -SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE 104 - -Engraved by R. A. MULLER, from an engraving in the British Museum, after -a painting by Sir PETER LELY. - - -DELANY’S HOUSE AT DELVILLE, WHERE SWIFT STAYED 108 - -Drawn by HARRY FENN. Engraved by C. A. POWELL. - - -MARLEY ABBEY, THE RESIDENCE OF VANESSA, NOW CALLED -SELBRIDGE ABBEY 112 - -Drawn by HARRY FENN. Engraved by R. C. COLLINS. - - -GEORGE, EARL OF BERKELEY 120 - -From an unfinished engraving, in the British Museum, attributed to DAVID -LOGGAN. - - -ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN 124 - -Drawn by HARRY FENN. Engraved by C. A. POWELL. - - -DANIEL DEFOE 136 - -Engraved by C. A. POWELL, after copperplate by M. VAN DER GUCHT, in -the British Museum. - - -CHURCH OF ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE, WHERE DEFOE IS SUPPOSED -TO HAVE BEEN BAPTIZED 144 - -Drawn by HARRY FENN. Engraved by H. E. SYLVESTER. - - -ROBERT HARLEY, EARL OF OXFORD 152 - -Engraved by JOHN P. DAVIS, after the original painting by Sir GODFREY -KNELLER, in the British Museum. - - -JOSEPH ADDISON 176 - -Engraved by T. JOHNSON, from mezzotint by JEAN SIMON, after painting by -Sir GODFREY KNELLER. - - -SIDNEY, EARL OF GODOLPHIN 192 - -Engraved by PETER AITKEN, from mezzotint by JOHN SMITH, in British -Museum. Painted by Sir GODFREY KNELLER. - - - - -THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE PRINCESS ANNE - - -The reign of Queen Anne is one of the most illustrious in English -history. In literature it has been common to call it the Augustan age. -In politics it has all the interest of a transition period, less -agitating, but not less important, than the actual era of revolution. In -war, it is, with the exception of the great European wars of the -beginning of this century, the most glorious for the English arms of any -that have elapsed since Henry V. set up his rights of conquest over -France. Opinions change as to the advantage of such superiorities; and, -still more, as to the glory which is purchased by bloodshed; yet, -according to the received nomenclature, and in the language of all the -ages, the time of Marlborough cannot be characterized as anything but -glorious. A great general, statesmen of eminence, great poets, men of -letters of the first distinction--these are points in which this period -cannot easily be excelled. It pleases the fancy to step historically -from queen to queen, and to find in each a center of national greatness -knitting together the loose threads of the great web. “The spacious -times of great Elizabeth” bulk larger and more magnificently in history -than those of Anne, but the two eras bear a certain balance which is -agreeable to the imagination. And we can scarcely help regretting that -the great age of Wordsworth and Scott, Byron and Wellington, should not -have been deferred long enough to make the reign of Victoria the third -noblest period of modern English history. But time has here balked us. -This age is not without its own greatness, but it is not the next in -national sequence to that of Anne, as Anne’s was to that of Elizabeth. - -In the reigns of both these queens this country was trembling between -two dynasties, scarcely yet removed from the convulsion of great -political changes, and feeling that nothing but the life of the -sovereign on the throne stood between it and unknown rulers and dangers -to come. The deluge, in both cases, was ready to be let loose after the -termination of the life of the central personage in the state. And thus -the reign of Anne, like that of Elizabeth, was to her contemporaries the -only piece of solid ground amid a sea of evil chances. What was to come -after was clear to none. - -But in the midst of its agitations and all its exuberant life--the wars -abroad, the intrigues at home, the secret correspondences, the plots, -the breathless hopes and fears--it is half ludicrous, half pathetic, to -turn to the harmless figure of Queen Anne in the center of the scene--a -fat, placid, middle-aged woman full of infirmities, with little about -her of the picturesque yet artificial brightness of her time, and no -gleam of reflection to answer to the wit and genius which have made her -age illustrious. A monarch has the strangest fate in this respect: as -long as she or he lives, the conscious center of everything whose notice -elates and elevates the greatest; but as soon as his day is over, a mere -image of state visible among his courtiers only as some unthought-of -lackey or faded gentleman usher throws from his little literary lantern -a ray of passing illumination upon him. The good things of their lives -are thus almost counterbalanced by the insignificance of their -historical position. Anne was one of the sovereigns who may, without -too great a strain of hyperbole, be allowed to have been beloved in her -day. She did nothing to repel the popular devotion. She was the best of -wives, the most sadly disappointed of childless mothers. She made -pecuniary sacrifices to the weal of her kingdom such as few kings or -queens have thought of making. And she was a Stuart, Protestant, and -safe, combining all the rights of the family with those of orthodoxy and -constitutionalism, without even so much offense as lay in a foreign -accent. There was indeed nothing foreign about her, a circumstance in -her favor which she shared with the other great English queen regnant, -who, like her, was English on both sides of the lineage. - -All these points made her popular and, it might be permissible to say, -beloved. If she had been indifferent to her father’s deprivation, she -had not at least shocked popular feeling by any immediate triumph in -succeeding him, as Mary had done; and her mild Englishism was delightful -to the people after grim William with his Dutch accent and likings. But -the historians have not been kind to Anne. They have lavished ill names -upon her: a stupid woman,--“a very weak woman, always governed blindly -by some female favorite,”--nobody has a civil word to say for her. Yet -there is a mixture of the amusing and the tragic in the appearance of -this passive figure seated on high, presiding over all the great events -of the epoch, with her humble feminine history, her long anguish of -motherhood, her hopes so often raised and so often shattered, her -stifled family feeling, her profound and helpless sense of misfortune. - -There is one high light in the picture, however, though but one, and it -comes from one of the rarest and highest sentiments of humanity: the -passion of friendship, of which women are popularly supposed to be -incapable, but which never existed in more complete and disinterested -exhibition than in the bosom of this poor queen. It is sad that it -should have ended in disloyalty and estrangement; but, curiously enough, -it is not the breach of this close union, but the union itself, which -has exposed Anne to the censure and contempt of all her biographers and -historians. To an impartial mind we think few things can be more -interesting than the position of these two female figures in the -foreground of English life. Their friendship brought with it no harm to -England; no scandal, such as lurks about the antechamber of kings, and -which has made the name of a favorite one of the most odious titles of -reproach, could attach in any way to such a relationship. And nothing -could be better adapted to enhance the dramatic features of the scene -than the contrast between the two friends whose union for many years was -so intimate and so complete. - -Yet her friend was as like to call forth such devotion as ever woman -was. Seldom has there been a more brilliant figure in history than that -of the great duchess, a woman beloved and hated as few have ever been; -holding on one side in absolute devotion to her the greatest hero of the -time, and on the other rousing to the height of adoration the mild and -obtuse nature of her mistress; keeping her place on no ground but that -of her own sense and spirit, amid all intrigues and opposition, for many -of the most remarkable years of English history, and defending herself -with such fire and eloquence when attacked, that her plea is as -interesting and vivid as any controversy of to-day, and it is impossible -to read it without taking a side, with more or less vehemence, in the -exciting quarrel. Such a woman, standing like a beautiful Ishmael with -every man’s hand against her, yet fearing no man, and ready to meet -every assailant, makes a welcome variety amid the historical scenes -which so seldom exhibit anything so living, so imperious, so bold and -free. That she has got little mercy and no - -[Illustration: ANNE HYDE, DUCHESS OF YORK. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF EARL SPENCER.] - -indulgence, that all chivalrous sentiment has been mute in respect to -her, and an angry ill-temper takes possession of every historian who -names her name, rather adds to the interest than takes from it. Women in -history, strangely enough, seem always to import into the chronicle a -certain heat of personal feeling unusual and undesirable in that region -of calm. Whether it is that the historian is impatient at finding -himself arrested by the troublesome personalities of a woman, and that a -certain resentment of her intrusion colors his appreciation of her, or -that her appearance naturally possesses an individuality which breaks -the line, it is difficult to tell; but the calmest chronicler becomes a -partizan when he treats of Mary and Elizabeth, and no man can name Sarah -of Marlborough without a heat of indignation or scorn, almost -ridiculous, as being so long after date. - -To us the unfailing vivacity and spirit of the woman, the dauntless -stand she makes, her determination not to be overcome, make her -appearance always enlivening; and art could not have designed a more -complete contrast than that of the homely figure by her side, with -appealing eyes fixed upon her, a little bewildered, not always quick to -understand--a woman born for other uses, but exposed all her harmless -life to the fierce light that beats upon a throne. For her part, she has -no defense to make, no word to say; let them spend all their jibes upon -her, Anne knows no reply. Her slow understanding and want of perception -give her a certain composure which in a queen answers very well for -dignity; yet there is something whimsically pathetic, pitiful, -incongruous in the fate which has placed her there, which can scarcely -fail to soften the heart of the spectators. - -The tragedy of Anne’s life, unlike that of her friend, had no utterance, -and there was nothing romantic in her appearance or surroundings to -attract the lovers of the picturesque. Yet in the blank of her humble -intellect she discharged not amiss the duties that were so much too -great for her; and if she was disloyal to her friend in the end, that -betrayal only adds another touch of pathos to the spectacle of -helplessness and human weakness. It is only the favored few of mankind -who are wiser and better, not feebler and less noble, as life draws -toward its end. - -Anne was, like Elizabeth, the daughter of a subject. Her mother, Anne -Hyde, the daughter of the great Clarendon, though naturally subjected to -the hot criticism of the moment on account of that virtue which refused -anything less from her prince than the position of wife, was not a woman -of much individual character, nor did she live long enough to influence -much the training of her daughters. Historians have not hesitated to -sneer at the prudence with which this young lady secured herself by -marriage, when so many fairer than she were less scrupulous--a reproach -which is somewhat unfair, considering what would certainly have been -said of her had she not done so. Curiously enough, her own father, -whether in sincerity or pretense, seems at the moment to have been her -most severe critic, exculpating himself with unnecessary energy from all -participation in the matter, and declaring that if it were true “the -king should immediately cause the woman to be sent to the Tower” till -Parliament should have time to pass an act cutting off her head. It -would appear, however, from the contemporary narratives of Pepys and -Evelyn that he was not so bad as his words, for he seems to have -supported and shielded his daughter during the period of uncertainty -which preceded the acknowledgment of her marriage, and to have shared in -the general satisfaction afterward. But this great marriage was not of -much advantage to her family. It did not hinder Clarendon’s disgrace and -banishment, nor were his sons after him anything advantaged by their -close relationship to two queens. - -The Duchess of York does not seem to have been remarkable in any way. -She is said to have governed her husband; and she died a Roman -Catholic,--the first of the royal family to lead the way in that fatal -particular: but did not live long enough to affect the belief or -training of her children. - -There was an interval of three years in age between Mary and Anne. The -eldest, Mary, was like the Stuarts, with something of their natural -grace of manner; the younger was a fair English child, rosy and plump -and blooming; in later life they became more like each other. But the -chief thing they inherited from their mother was what is called in fine -language, “a tendency to embonpoint,” with, it is said, a love of good -eating, which helped to produce the other peculiarity. - -The religious training of the princesses is the first thing we hear of -them. They were put under the charge of a most orthodox tutor, Compton, -Bishop of London, with much haste and ostentation--their uncle, Charles -II., probably feeling with his usual cynicism that the sop of two -extra-Protestant princesses would please the people, and that the souls -of a couple of girls could not be of much importance one way or another. -How they fared in respect to the other features of education is not -recorded. Lord Dartmouth, in his notes on Bishop Burnet’s history, -informs us that King Charles II., struck by the melodious voice of the -little Lady Anne, had her trained in elocution by Mrs. Barry, an -actress; while Colley Cibber adds that she and her sister were -instructed by the well-known Mrs. Betterton to take their parts in a -little court performance when Anne was but ten and Mary thirteen; but -whether these are two accounts of the same incident, or refer to -distinct events, seems doubtful. - -The residence of the girls was chiefly at Richmond, where they were -under the charge of Lady Frances Villiers, who had a number of daughters -of her own, one of whom, Elizabeth, went with Mary to Holland, and was, -in some respects, her evil genius. We have, unfortunately, no court -chronicle to throw any light upon the lively scene at Richmond, where -this little bevy of girls grew up together, conning their divinity, -whatever other lessons might be neglected; taking the air upon the river -in their barges; following the hounds in the colder season, for this -robust exercise seems to have been part of their training. When their -youthful seclusion was broken by such a great event as the court mask, -in which they played their little parts,--Mrs. Blogge, the saintly -beauty, John Evelyn’s friend, Godolphin’s wife, acting the chief -character, in a blaze of diamonds,--or that state visit to the city when -King Charles in all his glory took the girls, his heirs, with him, no -doubt the old withdrawing-rooms and galleries of Richmond rang with the -story for weeks after. Princess Mary, her mind perhaps beginning to own -a little agitation as to royal suitors, would have other distractions; -but as to the Lady Anne, it soon came to be her chief holiday when the -young Duchess of York, her stepmother, came from town in her chariot, or -by water, in a great gilded barge breasting up the stream, to pay the -young ladies a visit. For in the train of that princess was the young -maid of honor, a delightful, brilliant _espiègle_, full of spirit and -wilfulness, who bore the undistinguished name of Sarah Jennings, and -brought with her such life and stir and movement as dispersed the -dullness wherever she went. - -There is no such love as a young girl’s adoration for a beautiful young -woman, a little older than herself, whom she can admire and imitate and -cling to, and dream of with visionary passion. This was the kind of -sentiment with which the little princess regarded the bright and -animated creature in her young stepmother’s train. Mary of Modena was -herself only a few years older than her stepchildren. They were all -young together, accustomed to the perpetual gaiety of the court of -Charles II., though, let us hope, kept apart from its license, and - -[Illustration: JOHN EVELYN. - -ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMANN, AFTER COPPERPLATE BY F. BARTOLOZZI IN THE -BRITISH MUSEUM.] - -no shadow of fate seems to have fallen upon the group of girls in their -early peaceful days. Anne in particular would seem to have been left to -hang upon the arm and bask in the smiles of her stepmother’s young lady -in waiting at her pleasure--with many a laugh at premature favoritism. -“We had used to play together when she was a child,” said the great -duchess long after. “She even then expressed a particular fondness for -me; this inclination increased with our years. I was often at court, and -the princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honor -me preferably to others with her conversation and confidence. In all her -parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.” - -Mistress Sarah was one of the actors in the mask above referred to; she -was in the most intimate circle of the Duke of York’s household, closely -linked to all its members, in that relationship, almost as close as -kindred, which binds a court together. - -And no doubt it added greatly to the attractions which the bright and -animated girl exercised over her playmates and companions, that she had -already a romantic love-story, and, at a period when matches were -everywhere arranged, as at present in continental countries, by the -parents, made a secret marriage, under the most romantic circumstances, -with a young hero already a soldier of distinction. He was not an -irreproachable hero. Court scandal had not spared him. He was said to -have founded his fortune upon the bounty of one of the shameless women -of Charles’s court. But the imagination of the period was not -over-delicate, and probably had he not become so great a man, and -acquired so many enemies, we should have heard little of John -Churchill’s early vices. About his sister, Arabella Churchill, -unfortunately there could not be any doubt; and it is a curious instance -of the sudden efflorescence now and then of a race which neither before -nor after is of particular note, that Marlborough’s sister should have -been the mother of that one illustrious Stuart who might, had he been -legitimate, have changed the fortunes of the house--the Duke of Berwick. -Had she, instead of Anne Hyde, been James’s duchess, what a difference -might have been made in history! Nobody had heard of the Churchills -before--they have not been a distinguished race since. It is curious -that they should have produced, all unawares, without preparation or -warning, the two greatest soldiers of the age. - -Young Churchill was attached to the Duke of York’s service, as Sarah -Jennings was to that of the duchess. He had served abroad with -distinction. In 1672, when France and England for once, in a way, were -allies against Holland, he had served under the great Turenne, who -called him “my handsome Englishman,” and vaunted his gallantry. He was -but twenty-two when he thus gave proofs of his future greatness. When he -returned, after various other exploits, and resumed his court service, -the brilliant maid of honor, whom the little princess adored, attained a -complete dominion over the spirit of the young soldier. There were -difficulties about the marriage, for he had no fortune, and his -provident parents had secured an heiress for him. But it was at length -accomplished so secretly that even the bride was never quite certain of -the date, in the presence and with the favor of Mary of Modena herself. -Sarah, if the dates are correct, must have been eighteen at this period, -and her little princess fourteen. What a delightful interruption to the -dullness of Richmond to hear all about it when the Duchess of York came -with her train and the two girls could wander away together in some -green avenue till Lady Frances sent a page or an usher after them! - -Mary of Modena must have been a lover of romances, and true love also, -though her youth had fallen to such a gruesome bridegroom as James -Stuart; for not only Sarah Jennings and her great general, who were to -have so great a hand in keeping that poor lady’s son from his kingdom, -but Mary Blogge and her statesman, who was to rule England so wisely in -the interest of the opposing side, were both secretly married under the -young duchess’s wing, she helping, planning, and sanctioning the secret. -How many additional bitternesses must this have put into her cup when -she was sitting, a shadow queen, at St.-Germain, and all those people -whom she had loved and caressed were swaying the fortunes of England! -And who can tell what tender recollections of his secret wedding and the -sweet and saintly prude whom King James’s young wife gave him, may have -touched the soul of Godolphin in those hankerings after his old -master--if it were not, as scandal said, to his old mistress--which -moved him from time to time, great minister as he was, almost to the -verge of treachery! The Churchills, it must be owned, showed little -gratitude to their royal patrons. - -When the Princess Mary married and went to Holland with her husband, the -position of her sister at home became a more important one. Anne was not -without some experience of travel and those educational advantages which -the sight of foreign countries are said to bring. She went to The Hague -to visit her sister. She accompanied her father, sturdy little -Protestant as she was, when he was in disgrace for his religious views, -and spent some time in Brussels, from which place she wrote to one of -the ladies about the court a letter which has been preserved,--with just -as much and as little reason as any other letter of a fifteen-year-old -girl with her eyes about her, at a distance of two hundred years,--in -which the young lady describes a ball she had seen, herself _incognita_, -at which some gentlemen “danced extremely well--as well if not better -than the Duke of Monmouth or Sir E. Villiers, which I think is very -extraordinary,” says the girl, no doubt sincerely believing that the -best of all things was to be found at home. She had little difficulties -about her spelling, but that was common enough. “As for the town,” says -the Princess Anne, “methinks tho’ the streets are not so clean as in -Holland, yet they are not so dirty as ours; they are very well paved and -very easy--they only have od smells.” This is a peculiarity which has -outlived her day, and it would seem to imply that England, even before -the invention of sanitary science, was superior in this respect at least -to the towns of the Continent. - -After these unusual dissipations Anne remained in the shade until she -married, in 1683, George, Prince of Denmark, a perfectly inoffensive and -insignificant person, to whom she gave, during the rest of her life, a -faithful, humdrum, but unbroken attachment, such as shows to little -advantage in print, but makes the happiness of many a home. This -marriage was another sacrifice to the Protestantism of England, and in -that point of view pleased the people much. King Charles, glad to -satisfy the country by any act which cost him nothing, thought it “very -convenient and suitable.” James, unwilling, but powerless, grumbled to -himself that “he had little encouragement in the conduct of the Prince -of Orange to marry another daughter in the same interest,” but made no -effort against it. The prince himself produced no very great impression, -one way or another, as indeed he was little fitted to do. “He has the -Danish countenance, blonde,” says Evelyn, in his diary; “of few words; -spoke French but ill; seemed somewhat heavy, but is reported to be -valiant.” He had never any occasion to show his valor during his long -residence in England, but many to prove the former quality,--the -heaviness,--which was only too evident; but Anne herself was not -brilliant, and she was made for friendship, not for passion in the -ordinary sense of the word. She never seems to have been in the smallest -way dissatisfied with her heavy, honest goodman. He was fond of eating -and - -[Illustration: PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK. - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MEZZOTINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM BY JOHN -SMITH, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.] - -drinking, but of no more dangerous pleasures. Her peace of mind was -fluttered by no rival, nor her feminine pride touched. Her attendants -might be as seductive as they pleased, this steady, stolid husband was -immovable, and there is no doubt that the princess appreciated the -advantages of this immunity from one of the thorns which were planted in -every other royal pillow. - -Her marriage had another advantage of giving her a household and court -of her own, and enabled her at once to secure for herself the -companionship of her always beloved friend. “So desirous was she,” says -Duchess Sarah, “of having me always near her, that upon her marriage -with the Prince of Denmark, in 1683, it was at her own earnest request -to her father I was made one of the ladies of her bedchamber. What -conduced to make me the more agreeable to her in this station was, -doubtless,” she adds with candor, “the dislike she conceived to most of -the other persons about her, and particularly for her first lady of the -bedchamber--the Countess of Clarendon, a lady whose discourse and manner -could not possibly recommend her to so young a mistress; for she looked -like a mad-woman and talked like a scholar. Indeed, her highness’s court -was so oddly composed that I think it would be making myself no great -compliment if I should say her choosing to spend more of her time with -me than with any of her other servants did no discredit to her taste.” - -Lady Clarendon was the wife of the great chancellor’s son, and was thus -the aunt, by marriage, of the princess--not always a very endearing -relationship. She was not a great lady by birth, and though a friend of -Evelyn’s and a highly educated woman, might easily be supposed to be a -little oppressive in a young household where her relationship gave her a -certain authority. - -The prince was dull, the princess had not many resources. They settled -down in homely virtue, close to the court with all its scandals and -gaieties, but not quite of it; and nothing could be more natural than -that Anne should eagerly avail herself of the always amusing, always -lively companion who had been the friend of her youth. The Cockpit, -which was Anne’s residence, had been built as a royal playhouse, first -for the sport indicated by its name, then for the more refined -amusements of the theater, but had been afterward turned into a private -residence, and bought by Charles II. for his niece on her marriage. It -formed part of the old palace of Whitehall, and must have been within -sight and sound of the constant gaieties going on in that lawless -household, in the best of which the princess and her attendant would -have their natural share. No doubt to hear Lady Churchill’s lively -satirical remarks upon all this, and the flow of her brilliant malice, -must have kept the household lively, and brightened the dull days and -tedious waitings of maternity, into which Anne was immediately plunged, -drawing a laugh even from stupid George in the chimney-corner. And there -was this peculiarity to make the whole more piquant; that it was virtue, -irreproachable, and no doubt pleasantly self-conscious of its -superiority, which thus got its fun out of vice. The two young couples -on the other side of the way were immaculate, devoted exclusively to -each other, thinking of neither man nor woman save their lawful mates. -Probably neither the princess nor her lady in waiting were disgusted by -gossip about the Portsmouths and Castlemaines, but took these ladies to -pieces with indignant zest and spared no jibe. And though the remarks -might be too broad for modern liking, and the fun somewhat unsavory, we -cannot but think that amidst the noisy and picturesque life of that wild -Restoration era, full of corruption, yet so gay and sparkling to the -spectator, this little household of the Cockpit is not without its -claims upon our attention. There was not in all Charles’s court so -splendid a couple as the young Churchills: he already one of the most -distinguished soldiers of the age, she a beautiful young woman -overflowing with wit and energy. And Princess Anne was very young; in -full possession of that _beauté de diable_ which, so long as it lasts, -has its own charm, the beauty of color and freshness and youthful -contour. She had a beautiful voice, the prettiest hands, and the most -affectionate heart. If she were not clever, that matters but little to a -girl of twenty, taught by love to be receptive, and called upon for no -effort of genius. Honest George behind backs was not much more than a -piece of still life, but an inoffensive and amiable one, taking nothing -upon him. If there was calculation in the steadfastness with which the -abler pair possessed themselves of the confidence, and held fast to the -service of their royal friends, it would be hard to assert that there -was not some affection too, at least on the part of Sarah, who had known -every thought of her little princess’s heart since she was a child, and -could not but be flattered and pleased by the love showered upon her. At -all events, in Anne there was no unworthy sentiment; everything about -her appeals to our tenderness. When she attained what seems to have been -the summit of her desires and secured her type of excellence, the -admired and adored paragon of her childhood, for her daily companion, -the formal titles and addresses which her rank made necessary became -irksome beyond measure to the simple-hearted young woman whose hard fate -it was to have been born a princess. The impetuosity of her affection, -her rush, so to speak, into the arms of her friend, her pretty youthful -sentiment, so fresh and natural, her humility and simplicity, are all -pleasant to contemplate. Little more than a year after her marriage, -after the closer union had begun, she writes thus: - - If you will let me have the satisfaction of hearing from you again - before I see you, let me beg of you not to call me “your highness” - at every word, but to be as free with me as one friend ought to be - with another. And you can never give me any greater proof of your - friendship than in telling me your mind freely in all things, which - I do beg of you to do: and if it ever were in my power to serve - you, nobody would be more ready than myself. I am all impatience - for Wednesday. Till then farewell. - -Upon this there ensued a little sentimental bargain between the two -young women. It was not according to the manners of the time that they -should call each other Anne and Sarah, and the fashion of the Aramintas -and Dorindas had not yet arrived from Paris. They managed the -transformation necessary in a curiously matter-of-fact and English way: - - She grew uneasy to be treated by me with the form and ceremony due - to her rank; nor could she bear from me the sound of words which - implied in them distance and superiority. It was this turn of mind - which made her one day propose to me that whenever I should happen - to be absent from her we might in all our letters write ourselves - by feigned names, such as would import nothing of distinction of - rank between us. Morley and Freeman were the names her fancy hit - upon, and she left me to choose by which of them I should be - called. My frank open temper led me naturally to pitch upon - Freeman, and so the princess took the other; and from this time - Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman began to converse as equals, made so - by affection and friendship. - -Very likely these were the names in some young lady’s book which had -been in the princess’s childish library,--something a generation before -the “Spectator,”--in which rural virtues and the claims of friendship -were the chief subjects. Morley is one of the typical names of -sentimental literature in the eighteenth century, and might be -originally introduced by some precursor of those proper little romances -which have in all ages been considered the proper reading for “the -fair.” - -Mrs. Morley could be no other than the gentle _ingénue_, the type of -modest virtue, and Freeman was of all others the title most suitable for -Sarah, the bright and brave. Historians have not been able to contain -themselves for angry ridicule of this - -[Illustration: CHARLES II. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER ORIGINAL PAINTING BY SAMUEL COOPER, IN THE -GALLERY OF THE DUKE OF RICHMOND AND GORDON.] - -little friendly treaty. To us it seems a pretty incident. The princess -was twenty, the bedchamber woman twenty-four. Their friendly traffic had -not to their own consciousness attained the importance of a historical -fact. - -The locality in which the royal houses in London stood was very -different then from its appearance now. Whitehall at present is a great -thoroughfare, full of life and movement, with but one remnant of the old -palace,--once the banqueting-hall, now the chapel royal, where the -window out of which Charles I. is supposed to have passed to the -scaffold is pointed out to strangers,--and still presenting a bit of -gloomy, stately front to the street. - -St. James’s Park opposite is screened off and separated now by the Horse -Guards and other public buildings, a long and heavy line which forms one -side of the way. But in those days there were neither public buildings -nor busy street. The palace, straggling and irregular, with walls and -roofs on many different levels, stood like a sort of royal village -between the river and the park, with the turrets of St. James twinkling -in the distance, in the sunshine, over the trees of the Mall, where King -Charles with all his dogs and gentlemen would stream forth daily for his -saunter or his game. The Cockpit was one of the outlying portions of -Whitehall upon the edge of the park. - -Anne had been but two years married when King Charles died. And then the -aspect of affairs changed. The mass in the private chapel, and the -presence here and there of somebody who looked like a priest, at once -started into prominence and began to alarm the gazers more than the -dissolute amusements of the court had ever done. James was not virtuous -any more than his brother. One of the first acts which the excellent -Evelyn, one of the best of men, had to do as commissioner of the privy -seal, was to affix that imperial stamp to a patent by which one of the -new king’s favorites was made Countess of Dorchester; but James’s -immoralities were not his chief characteristics. He was a more dangerous -king than Charles, who was merely selfish, dissolute, and -pleasure-loving. James was more; he was a bigoted Roman Catholic, eager -to raise his faith to its old supremacy, and the mere thought that the -door which had been so bolted and barred against popery was now set open -filled all England with the wildest panic. The nation felt itself caught -by the torrent which must carry it to destruction. Men saw the dungeons -of the Inquisition, the fires of Smithfield, before them as soon as the -proscribed priest was readmitted and mass once more openly said at an -unconcealed altar. Never was there a more universal or all-influential -sentiment. The terror, the unanimity, are things to wonder at. Sancroft -and his bishops were not constitutionalists. The personal rule of the -king had nothing in it that alarmed them; but the idea of the -reintroduction of popery awoke such a panic in their bosoms as drove -them, in spite of their own tenets, into resistance; and, for the first -time absolutely unanimous, England was at their back. When we take -history piecemeal, and read it through the individual lives of the chief -actors, we perceive with the strangest sensations of surprise that at -these great crises not one of the leaders of the nation was sure what he -wanted or what he feared, or was even entirely sincere in his adherence -to one party against another. They were the courtiers of James, and -invited William; they were William’s ministers, and kept up a -correspondence with James. The best of them was not without a -treacherous side. They were never certain which was safest, which would -last; always liable to lend an ear to temptations from the other party, -never sure that they might not to-morrow morning find themselves in open -rebellion against the master of to-day. Yet, while almost every -individual of note was subject to this strange uncertainty, this -confused and troubled vacillation, there was such a sweep of national -conviction, so strong a current of the general will, that the supposed -leaders of opinion were carried away by it, and compelled to assume and -act upon a conviction which was England’s, but which individually they -did not possess. Nothing can be made more remarkable, more unexplainable -under any other interpretations, than the way in which his entire court, -statesmen, soldiers, all who were worth counting, and so many who were -not, abandoned King James--some with a sort of consternation, not -knowing why they did it, driven by a force they could not resist. No -example of this can be more remarkable than that of Clarendon, who -received the news of his son’s defection to the Prince of Orange with -what seems to be a heartbroken cry: “O God! that my son should be a -rebel!” yet, presently, ten days afterward, is drawn away himself in a -kind of extraordinary confusion, like a man in a dream, like a subject -of mesmeric influence, although in all the following negotiations he -maintained James’s cause as far as a man could who did not accept ruin -as a consequence. Scarcely one of these men was whole-hearted or had any -determined principle in the matter. But in the mass of the nation behind -them was a force of conviction, of panic, of determination, that carried -them off their feet. The chief names of England appear little more than -straws upon the current, indicating its course, but forced along by its -fierce sweep and impetus, and not by any impulse of their own. - -The Princess Anne occupied a very different position from that of these -bewildered statesmen. She had been brought up in the strictest sect of -her religion, Protestant almost more than Christian, a churchwoman above -all. To those who are capable of thinking about their faith it is always -possible to believe in the thoughts of other people, and conceive the -likelihood, at least, that they, in their own esteem, if not in any one -else’s, may be right--which is the only true foundation of toleration. -But it is the people who believe without thinking, who receive what they -are taught without exercising any judgment of their own upon the -subject, and cling to it in exactly the same form in which they received -it, with a conviction that its least important detail is as necessary as -its first principle, who furnish that _sancta simplicitas_ which makes -the cruelest persecution possible without turning the persecutors into -fiends and barbarians. Though her mother had been a Roman Catholic, and -her father was one, and though many of her relations belonged to the old -church, Anne was a Protestant of the most unyielding kind. She was in -herself as good a type of the England of her time as could have been -found, far better than her abler and larger-minded advisers. The -narrowness of her mind and the rigidity of her faith were above all -reassurances of reason, all guarantees of possibility. She was as much -dismayed by her father’s determination to liberate and tolerate popery -as the least enlightened of his subjects. “Methinks it has a very dismal -prospect,” she wrote as early as 1686, only the year after James’s -accession. “Attempts,” Lady Marlborough tells us, “were made to draw his -daughter into his designs. The king, indeed, used no harshness with her; -he only discovered his wishes by putting into her hands some books and -papers which he hoped might induce her to a change of religion, and had -she had any inclination that way the chaplains about were such divines -as could have said but little in defense of their own religion or to -secure her against the pretenses of Popery recommended to her by a -father and a king.” This low estimate of the princess’s spiritual -advisers is whimsically supported by Evelyn’s opinion of Anne’s first -religious preceptor,--Bishop Compton,--of whom the courtly philosopher -declared after hearing a sermon from him that “this worthy person’s -talent is not preaching.” - -[Illustration: HENRY COMPTON, BISHOP OF LONDON. - -ENGRAVED FROM LIFE BY DAVID LOGGAN, FROM PRINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM. -ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMANN.] - -But Anne required no persuading to stimulate her in the fear of popery -and narrow devotion to the church, outside of which she knew of no -salvation. No doubt her father’s popish tracts, things which in that age -were held to possess many of the properties of the dynamite of to-day, -scared the inflexible and unimaginative churchwoman as much as if they -had been capable of exploding and doing her actual damage. Her training, -so wisely adapted to please the Protestant party, had probably been -thought by her father and uncle to be a matter of complete indifference -on any other ground; but in this way they reckoned altogether without -their princess. With both James’s daughters the process was too -successful. They feared popery more than they loved their father. There -seems not the slightest reason to suppose that Anne was insincere in her -anxiety for the church, or that the panic which she shared with the -whole country was affected or unreal. It is impossible that she could -expect her own position to be improved by the substitution of her sister -and her sister’s husband for the father who had always been kind to her. -The Churchills, whose church principles were not perhaps so undeniable, -and whose regard for their own interest was great, are more difficult to -divine; and yet it appears an unnecessary thing to refer their action to -unworthy motives. It is asserted by some that they had some visionary -plan after they had overturned the existing economy by the help of -William, of bringing in their princess by a side wind and reigning -through her over the startled and subjugated nation. But granting that -such an imagination might have been conceived in the fertile and -restless brain of a young and sanguine woman, it seems impossible to -imagine that Churchill--a man of some experience in the world, and some -knowledge of William--could even for a moment have believed that the -grave and ambitious prince, who was so near the throne, could have been -persuaded or forced to waive his wife’s claims, and those still more -imperative ones which his position of Deliverer gave him, in order to -advance the fortunes of any one else, least of all of the sister-in-law -whom he despised. - -It is half ludicrous, half pathetic, in the midst of all the tumult and -confusion of the time, to note the constant allusions to the princess’s -condition, which recurs whenever she is mentioned. There were always -reasons why it should be especially cruel to disturb her, and her state -had constantly to be taken into account. It was very natural in such -circumstances that she should more and more cling to her stronger -friend, and find no comfort out of her presence. “Whatever changes there -are in the world, I hope you will never forsake me, and I shall be -happy,” she writes during this period of excitement and distress. She -herself was weak and not very wise. In a sudden emergency neither she -nor her husband were good for much. They could carry on the routine of -life well enough, but when unforeseen necessities came they stood -helpless and bewildered; but Lady Churchill was quick of wit and full of -inexhaustible resource. To her it was always given to know what to do. - -It is unnecessary here to enter into the history of what is called the -Great Revolution. It is the great modern turning-point of English -history, and no doubt it is one of the reasons why we have been exempted -in later days from the agitations of desperate and bloody revolutions -which have shaken all neighboring nations. Glorious and happy, however, -scarcely seem to be fit words to describe this extraordinary event. A -more painful era does not exist in history. There is scarcely an -individual in the front of affairs who was not guilty of treachery at -one time or another. They betrayed one another on every hand; they were -perplexed, uncertain, full of continual alarms. The king who went away -was a gloomy bigot; the king who came was a cold and melancholy alien. -Enthusiasm there was none, nor even conviction, except of the necessity -of doing something of a wide-reaching and undeniable change. The part -which the ladies at the Cockpit played brings the hurry and excitement -of the movement to its crisis. Both in their way were anxious for their -respective husbands, absent in the suite of James, and still in his -power. When the report came that Lord Feversham had begged of James “on -his knees two hours” to order the arrest of Churchill, Mrs. Freeman must -have needed all her courage; while the faithful Morley wept, yet tried -to emulate the braver woman, wondering in her excitement what her own -heavy prince was doing, and eager for William’s advance, which, somehow -or other, was to bring peace and quiet. That heavy prince meanwhile was -mooning about with the perplexed and unhappy king, uttering out of his -blond mustache with an atrocious accent his dull wonder, “Est il -possible?” as every new desertion was announced, till mounting heavily -one evening after dinner, warmed and encouraged by a good deal of King -James’s wine, and riding through the cold and dark, in his turn he -deserted too. When this event happened, the excitement at the Cockpit -was overwhelming. The princess was “in a great fright.” “She sent for -me,” says Lady Churchill, “told me her distress, and declared that -rather than see her father, she would jump out of window.” King James -was coming back to London, sad and wroth, and perhaps the rumor that he -would have her arrested lent additional terrors to the idea of -encountering his angry countenance. Lady Churchill went immediately to -Bishop Compton, the princess’s early tutor and confidential adviser, and -instant means were taken to secure her flight. That very night, after -her attendants were in bed, Anne rose in the dark, and with her beloved -Sarah’s arm and support stole down the back stairs to where the bishop, -in a hackney coach, was waiting for her. Other princesses in similar -situations have owned to a thrill of pleasure in such an adventure. No -doubt at least she breathed the freer when she was out of the palace -where King James with his dark countenance might have come any day to -demand from her an account of her husband’s behavior, or to upbraid her -with her own want of affection. Anyhow, the sweep of the current had now -reached her tremulous feet, and she had no power any more than stronger -persons of resisting it. - -Anne’s position was very much changed by the Revolution. If any -ambitious hopes had been entertained or plans formed by her household, -they were speedily and very completely brought to an end. The dull royal -pair with their two brilliant guides and counselors now found themselves -confronted by another couple of very different mark: the serious, -somewhat gloomy, determined, and self-concentrated Dutchman, and the new -queen, Mary, a person far more attractive and imposing than Anne; two -people full of character and power. We have no space here, however, to -appropriate to these remarkable persons. William, in particular, belongs -to larger annals and a history more important than these sketches. Mary -has left an epitome of herself in her letters which is among the most -wonderful of individual revelations; but this cannot now be our theme, -though the subject is a most attractive one. - -Two persons so remarkable threw into the shade even Churchill and Sarah, -much more good Anne and George. We have no reason to suppose that Mary -entertained any particular sentiment whatever toward her sister, from -whom she had been entirely separated for the greater part of her life, -and the history of their relations is a painful one from beginning to -end. No doubt the queen regarded the household of the princess with the -contempt which a woman with so entirely different a code would naturally -entertain for a family in which the heads were so lax and secondary, the -counselors so prominent. There was nothing in Mary which would help her -to understand the feeling with which Anne regarded her friend - -[Illustration: JAMES II. IN HIS CORONATION ROBES. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND.] - -Mary. She had herself made use of their influence in the time when it -was all important to secure every power in England for William’s -service, but a proud distaste for the woman whom the princess trusted as -her equal soon awoke in the bosom of the queen. The Churchills, however, -served the new sovereigns signally by persuading the princess to yield -her own rights, and consent to the conjoint reign, and to William’s life -sovereignty--no small concession on the part of the next heir, and one -which only the passive character of Anne could have made to appear -insignificant. - -Had she been a stronger and more intellectual woman, this act would have -borne the aspect of a magnanimous and noble sacrifice to the good of the -country, of her own interests, and that of her children. As it was, her -self-renunciation has got her very little credit, either then or now, -and it has been considered rather an evidence of the discretion of the -Churchills than of the generosity and patriotism of the princess. These, -perhaps, are rather large words to use in speaking of Anne, but it must -be remembered that a narrow mind is usually not less, but more, -tenacious of personal honor and advantage than a great one, and that the -dimmer an understanding may be, the less it is accessible to high reason -and noble motive. This sacrifice accomplished, however, there commenced -a petty war between Whitehall and the Cockpit, in which perhaps Mary and -Lady Churchill (now Marlborough) were the chief combatants, but which -from henceforward until her sister’s death became the principal feature -in Anne’s life. Continued squabbling is never lovely even when it is -between queens and princesses, but in this case the injured person has -had no little injustice, and the offender so many partizans that it may -not be amiss to make Anne’s side of the question a little more apparent. - -If her friend was to blame for embroiling Anne with the queen, it can -scarcely be believed that the princess’s case would have been more -satisfactory had she been left in her helplessness to the tender mercies -of William, and entirely dependent upon his kindness, which must have -happened had there been no bold and strong adviser in the matter. There -was no generosity in the treatment which Anne received from the royal -pair. She had made a sacrifice to the security of their throne which -deserved some grace in return. But her innocent fancy for the palace at -Richmond, where the sisters had been brought up together, was not -indulged, nor would there be much excuse even if she were in the wrong -for the squabblings about her lodging at Whitehall. But she cannot be -said to have been in the wrong in the next question which occurred, -which was the settlement of her own income. This she had previously -drawn from her father, according to the existing custom in the royal -family, and James had been always liberal and kind to her. But it was a -different thing to depend upon the somewhat grudging hand of an -economical brother-in-law, who had a number of foreign dependents to -provide for, and a great deal to do with the money granted to him. He -alarmed her friends on this point at once by a remark made to Clarendon -as to what the princess could want with so large an income as thirty -thousand a year; and he does not seem at any time or in any particular -to have shown consideration for her. Perhaps the Churchills were afraid -that their mistress would be less able than usual to help and further -their own fortunes, as is universally alleged against them; but, had -they been the most disinterested couple in the world, it would still -have been their duty to do what they could to secure her against any -caprice of the new king, who had no right to be the arbiter of her fate. -Lady Marlborough’s strenuous action to bring the question to the -decision of Parliament was nothing less than her mistress’s interests -demanded. And the sense of the country was so far with them that the -princess’s income was settled with very little difficulty upon a more -liberal basis than her father’s allowance; which, considering that she, -and the children of whom she was every year becoming the mother, were -the only acknowledged heirs of the throne, was a perfectly natural and -just arrangement. - -But the king and queen did not see it in this light. “Friends! what -friends have you but the king and me?” Queen Mary asked with -indignation. It is not to be supposed that she meant any harm to her -sister, but with also a sufficiently natural sentiment could not see -what Anne’s objection was to dependence upon herself. - -The position on both sides is so clearly comprehensible that the -strength of party feeling which makes Lord Macaulay defend the somewhat -petty attitude of his favorite monarch on the occasion is very -extraordinary. It requires no very subtle penetration to see the -difference between an allowance that comes from a father and that which -depends upon the doubtful friendship of a brother-in-law. Anne had fully -proved her capacity to consider the public weal above her own, and it -was unworthy of William even to wish to keep in the position of a -hanger-on a woman who had so greatly promoted the harmony of his own -settlement. - -Parliament finally voted her a revenue of fifty thousand pounds a year, -as a sort of compromise between the thirty thousand pounds which King -William grudged her and the unreasonably large sum which some of her -supporters hoped to obtain; but the king and queen never forgave her, -and still less her advisers, for what they chose to consider a want of -confidence in themselves. - -But William was always impatient of the incapable, and the permission -was absolutely denied to him. In all these claims and refusals the -position of Lady Marlborough as the princess’s right hand had been -completely acknowledged by Queen Mary and her husband, who indeed -attempted secret negotiations with her on more than one occasion to -induce her to moderate Anne’s claims and to persuade her into compliance -with their wishes. “She [the queen] sent a great lord to me to desire I -would persuade the Princess to keep the Prince from going to sea; and -this I was to compass without letting the Princess know it was the -Queen’s desire ... after this the Queen sent Lord Rochester to me to -desire much the same thing. The Prince was not to go to sea, and this -not going was to appear his own choice.” - -Similar attempts were made in the matter of the allowance. And it is -scarcely possible to believe that Mary, a queen who was not without some -of the absolutism of the Stuart mind, should have failed to feel a -certain exasperation with the bold woman who thus upheld her sister’s -little separate court and interest, and was neither to be flattered nor -frightened into subservience. And very likely this little separate court -was a thorn in the side of the royal pair, keeping constant watch upon -all their actions, maintaining a perpetual criticism, no doubt leveling -many a jibe at the Dutch retainers, and still more at the Dutch master. -Good-natured friends, even in the capacity of courtiers, were no doubt -found to whisper in the presence-chamber the witticisms with which Sarah -of Marlborough would entertain her mistress--utterances not very -brilliant, perhaps, but sharp enough. It would not sweeten the temper of -the queen if she found out, for instance, that her great William was -known as Caliban in the correspondence of Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman. -A hundred petty irritations always come in in such circumstances to -increase a breach. What the precise occurrence was which brought about -the final explosion is not known, but one day after a stormy scene, in -which the queen had in vain demanded from her sister the dismissal of -Lady Marlborough, an event occurred which took away everybody’s breath. - -[Illustration: MARY, PRINCESS OF ORANGE. - -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF THE EARL OF CRAWFORD.] - -This was the sudden dismissal, without reason assigned, at least so far -as the public knew, of Lord Marlborough from all his offices. He was -lieutenant-general of the army, and he was a gentleman of the king’s -bedchamber. Up to this time there had been nothing to find fault with in -his conduct. William was too good a soldier himself not to appreciate -Marlborough’s military talents, and he had behaved, if not with any -enthusiasm for the new order of affairs, with good taste at least in -very difficult circumstances. His desertion of James and his powerful -presence and influence on the opposite side had contributed much to the -bloodless victory of the Prince of Orange; but except so far as this -went, Marlborough had shown no hostility to his old master. In the -convention he had voted for a regency, and when it became evident that -William’s terms must be accepted unconditionally or not at all, he had -refrained from voting altogether; so that his support might be -considered lukewarm. But, on the other hand, he had served with great -distinction abroad, acting with perfect loyalty to his new chief while -in command of the English forces. In short, his public aspect up to this -time would seem on the face of it to have been irreproachable. - -This being the case, his sudden dismissal from court filled his friends -with astonishment and dismay. Nobody understood its why or wherefore. -“An incident happened which I unwillingly mention,” says Bishop Burnet, -“because it cannot be told without some reflection on the memory of the -queen, whom I always honored beyond all the persons whom I have ever -known.” This regretful preface affords an excellent guarantee of the -bishop’s sincerity; but Lord Macaulay omits his statement of the case -altogether while quoting passages from the then unpublished manuscript -which seemed to support his own views. “The Earl of Nottingham,” Burnet -continues, “came to the Earl of Marlborough with a message from the King -telling him that he had no more use for his services, and therefore he -demanded all his commissions. What drew so sudden and hard a message was -not known, for he had been with the King that morning and had parted -with him in the ordinary manner. It seemed some letter was intercepted -that gave suspicions: it is certain that he thought he was too little -considered, and that he had upon many occasions censured the King’s -conduct and reflected on the Dutch.” Lord Macaulay, on the other hand, -ignoring this statement, assures his readers that the real ground of the -dismissal had been communicated to Anne on the previous night -(notwithstanding that the great general had been privileged to put on -the king’s shirt next morning as if nothing had happened), and that it -was in reality the discovery of a plot for James’s restoration, -conceived by Marlborough, and in which the princess herself was -implicated. It was reported to be Marlborough’s intention to move in the -House of Lords an address to William, requesting him to dismiss the -foreign servants who surrounded him, and of whom the English were -bitterly jealous. Such a scheme of reprisals would have had a certain -humor in its summary reversal of the position, and no doubt must Sarah -herself have had some hand in its construction, if it ever existed. -William was as little likely to give up Bentinck and Keppel as Anne was -to sacrifice the friends whom she loved, and a breach between the -Parliament and the king would have been, it was hoped, the natural -result--to be followed by a _coup d’état_, in which James might be -replaced under stringent conditions upon the throne. The sole evidence -for this plot is King James himself, who describes it in his diary. Lord -Macaulay adds that it is strongly confirmed by Burnet, but this, we take -leave to think, is not the case. At the same time there seems no reason -to doubt King James, who adds that the plan was defeated by the -indiscreet zeal of some of his own _fidèles_, who feared that -Marlborough, were he once master of the situation, would put Anne on -the throne instead of her father. - -Whether, however, this supposed proposal was, or was not, the reason of -Marlborough’s dismissal, it is clear enough that he had resumed a secret -correspondence with the banished king at St.-Germain, whom, not very -long before, he had deserted. But so had most of the statesmen who -surrounded William, even the admiral in whose hands the English -reputation at sea was soon to be placed. The sins of the others were -winked at while Maryborough was thus made an example of: perhaps because -he was the most dangerous; perhaps because he had involved the princess -in his treachery, persuading her to send a letter and make affectionate -overtures to her father. Is it possible that it was this very letter -which Burnet says was intercepted, inclosed most likely in one from -Marlborough more distinct in its offers? Here is Anne’s simple -performance, a thing not calculated to do either harm or good: - - I have been very desirous of some safe opportunity to make you a - sincere and humble offer of my duty and submission, and to beg you - will be assured that I am both truly concerned for the misfortunes - of your condition, and sensible as I ought to be of my own - unhappiness: as to what you may think I have contributed to it, if - wishes could recall what is past, I had long since redeemed my - fault. I am sensible that it would have been a great relief to me - if I could have found means to have acquainted you earlier with my - repentant thoughts, but I hope they may find the advantage of - coming late--of being less suspected of insincerity than perhaps - they would have been at any time before. It will be a great - addition to the ease I propose to my own mind by this plain - confession, if I am so happy as to find that it brings any real - satisfaction to yours, and that you are as indulgent and easy to - receive my humble submissions as I am to make them in a free - disinterested acknowledgment of my fault, for no other end but to - deserve and receive your pardon. - -These involved and halting sentences by themselves could afford but -little satisfaction to the anxious banished court at St.-Germain. To -say so much, yet to say so little, though easy to a confused -intelligence, not knowing very well what it meant, is a thing which -would have taxed the powers of the most astute conspirators. But there -could be little doubt that a penitent princess thus ready to implore her -father’s pardon, would be a powerful auxiliary, with the country just -then in the stage of natural disappointment which is prone to follow a -great crisis, and that Marlborough was doubly dangerous with such a card -in his hands to play. - -A little pause occurred after his dismissal. The court by this time had -gone to Kensington, out of sight and hearing of the Cockpit, Whitehall -having been burned in the previous year. The princess continued, no -doubt in no very friendly mood, to take her way to the suburban palace -in the evenings and make one at her sister’s game of basset, showing by -her abstraction, and the traces of tears about her eyes, her state of -depression yet revolt. But about three weeks after that great event, -something suggested to Lady Marlborough the idea of accompanying her -princess to the royal presence. It was strictly within her right to do -so, in attendance on her mistress, and perhaps it was considered in the -family council at the Cockpit that the existing state of affairs could -not go on, and that it was best to end it one way or another. One can -imagine the stir in the ante-chambers, the suppressed excitement in the -drawing-room, when the princess, less subdued than for some weeks past, -her eyes no longer red, nor the corners of her mouth drooping, came -suddenly in out of the night, with the well-known buoyant figure after -her, proud head erect and eyes aflame, her mistress’s train upon her -arm, but the air of a triumphant queen on her countenance. There would -be a pause of consternation--and for a moment it would seem as if Mary, -thus defied, must burst forth in wrath upon the culprit. What glances -must have passed between the court ladies behind their fans! What -whispers in the - -[Illustration: QUEEN MARY OF MODENA. - -ENGRAVED BY CHARLES STATE, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF EARL SPENCER.] - -corners! The queen, in the midst, pale with anger, restraining herself -with difficulty; the princess, perhaps beginning to quake; but Sarah, -undaunted, knowing no reason why she should not be there--“since to -attend the princess was only paying her duty where it was owing.” - -But next morning brought, as they must have foreseen it would bring, a -royal missive, meant to carry dismay and terror, in which Mary commanded -her sister to dismiss her friend and make instant submission. “I tell -you plainly Lady Marlborough must not continue with you in the -circumstances in which her lord is,” the queen wrote; “never anybody was -suffered to live at court in my Lord Marlborough’s circumstances.” There -is nothing undignified in Mary’s letter. She was in all respects more -capable of expressing herself than her sister, and she had so far right -on her side that Lady Marlborough’s appearance at court was little less -than a deliberate insult to her. “I have all the reason imaginable to -look upon you bringing her here as the strangest thing that ever was -done, nor could all my kindness for you have hindered me showing you -that moment, but I considered your condition, and that made me master of -myself so far as not to take notice of it there,” the queen said. The -princess’s condition had often to be taken into consideration, and -perhaps she was not unwilling that her superiority in this respect to -her childless sister should be fully evident. She was then within a few -weeks of her confinement--not a moment when an affectionate and very -dependent woman could lightly be parted from her bosom friend. - -Thus the situation was brought to a climax. It was not to be expected, -however, that Anne could have submitted to a mandate which in reality -would have taken from her all power to choose her own friends; and her -affections were so firmly fixed upon her beloved companion that it is -evident life without Sarah would have been a blank to her. She answered -in a letter studiously compiled in defense both of herself and her -retainer. “I am satisfied she cannot have been guilty of any fault to -you, and it would be extremely to her advantage if I could here repeat -every word that ever she had said to me of you in her whole life,” says -the princess; and she ends entreating her sister to “recall your severe -command,” and declaring that there is no misery “that I cannot readily -resolve to suffer rather than the thought of parting with her.” But -things had gone too far to be stopped by any such appeal. The letter was -answered by the lord chamberlain in person with a message forbidding -Lady Marlborough to continue at the Cockpit. This was arbitrary in the -highest degree, for the house was Anne’s private property, bought for -and settled upon her by Charles III.; and it was unreasonable, for -Whitehall was lying in ruins, and Queen Mary’s sight at Kensington could -not be offended by the spectacle of the couple who had so annoyed her. -The princess’s spirit was roused. She wrote to her sister that she -herself would be “obliged to retire,” since such were the terms of her -continuance, and sent immediately to the Duke of Somerset to ask for a -lease of Sion House. It is said that William so far interfered in the -squabble--in which indeed he had been influential all along--as to ask -the duke to refuse this trifling favor. But of all English noble houses -the proud Somersets were the last to be dictated to; and Anne -established herself triumphantly in her banishment on the banks of the -Thames with her favorite at her side. - -A child was born a little later, and the queen paid Anne an angry visit -of ceremony a day or two after the event, saying nothing to her but on -the vexed subject. “I have made the first step by coming to you,” Mary -said, approaching the bed where the poor princess lay, sad and -suffering, for her baby had died soon after its birth, “and I now expect -you should make the next by removing Lady Marlborough.” The princess, -“trembling, and as white as her sheet,” stammered forth her plaintive -protest that this was the only thing in which she had disobliged her -sister, and that “it was unreasonable to ask it of her,” whereupon Mary, -without another word, left the room and the house. It was the last time -they ever met, unlikely as such a thing seemed. Anne made various -overtures of reconciliation, but as unconditional obedience was promised -in none, Mary’s heart was not softened. - -The only justification that can be offered for the queen’s behavior was -that they had been long separated and had little but the formal tie of -relationship to bind them to each other. Anne had been but a child when -Mary left England. They were both married and surrounded by other -affections when they met again. They had so much resemblance of nature -that each seems to have been capable of but one passion. It was Mary’s -good fortune to love her husband with all her heart--but to all -appearance no one else. She had not a friend among all the ladies who -had shared her life for years--no intimate or companion who could give -her any solace when he was absent. Natural affection was not strong in -their family. They had no mother, nor bond of common relationship except -the father whom they both superseded. All this explains to a certain -extent her coldness to Anne, and it is very likely she thought she was -doing the best thing possible for her sister in endeavoring to separate -her from an evil influence, an inferior who was her mistress. But this -does not excuse the paltry and cruel persecution to which the younger -sister was henceforward exposed. Every honor that belonged to her rank -was taken from her, from the sentry at her door to the text upon her -cushion at church. She was allowed no guard; when she went into the -country the rural mayors were forbidden to present addresses to her and -pay the usual honors which mayors delight to pay. The great court ladies -were given to understand that whoever visited her would not be received -by the queen. A more irritating and miserable persecution could not be, -nor one more lowering to the character of the chief performer in it. - -Anne was but recovering from the illness that followed her confinement, -and with which her sister’s angry visit was supposed to have something -to do, when another blow fell upon the band of friends. Marlborough was -suddenly arrested and sent to the Tower. There was reason enough perhaps -for his previous disgrace in the secret relations with St.-Germain which -he was known to have resumed; but the charge afterward made was a purely -fictitious one, and he and the other great personages involved had -little difficulty in proving this innocence. The correspondence which -took place while Lady Marlborough was in town with her husband on this -occasion reveals Anne very clearly in her affectionate simplicity. - - I hear Lord Marlborough is sent to the Tower; and though I am - certain they have nothing against him, and expected by your letter - it would be so, yet I was struck when I was told it; for methinks - it is a dismal thing to have one’s friends sent to that place. I - have a thousand melancholy thoughts, and cannot help fearing they - hinder you from coming to me; though how they can do that without - making you a prisoner, I cannot imagine. I am just told by pretty - good hands that as soon as the wind turns westerly there will be a - guard set upon the prince and me. If you hear there is any such - thing designed and that ’tis easy to you, pray let me see you - before the wind changes: for afterward one does not know whether - they will let one have opportunities of speaking to one another. - But let them do what they please, nothing shall ever vex me, so I - can have the satisfaction of seeing dear Mrs. Freeman; and I swear - I would live on bread and water between four walls with her without - repining; for so long as you continue kind, nothing can ever be a - real mortification to your faithful Mrs. Morley, who wishes she may - never enjoy a moment’s happiness in this world or the next if ever - she proves false to you. - -Whether the wind proving “westerly” was a phrase understood between the -correspondents, or if it had anything to do with the event of the -impending battle on which the fate of England was hanging, it is -difficult to tell. If it was used in the latter sense, the victorious -battle of La Hogue, by which all recent discomfitures were redeemed, -soon restored the government to calm and the consciousness of triumph, -and made conspiracy comparatively insignificant. Before this great -deliverance was known, Anne had written a submissive letter to her -sister, informing her that she had now recovered her strength “well -enough to go abroad,” and asking leave to pay her respects to the queen. -To which Mary returned a stern answer declaring that such civilities -were unnecessary as long as her sister declined to do the thing required -of her. Anne sent a copy of this letter to Lady Marlborough, announcing, -as she was now “at liberty to go where I please by the queen refusing to -see me,” her intention of coming to London to see her friend, but this -intention does not seem to have been carried out. “I am very sensibly -touched with the misfortune that my dear Mrs. Freeman has had in losing -her son, knowing very well what it is to lose a child,” the princess -writes, “but she, knowing my heart so well and how great a share I have -in all her concerns, I will not say any more on this subject for fear of -renewing her passion too much.” Throughout this separation these little -billets were continually coming and going, and we cannot do better than -transcribe for the reader some of those innocent letters, so natural and -full of the writer’s heart. - - Though I have nothing to say to my dear Mrs. Freeman I cannot help - inquiring how she and her Lord does. If it be not convenient for - you to write when you receive this, either keep the bearer till it - is, or let me have a word from you by the next opportunity when it - is easy to you, for I would not be a constraint to you at any time, - much less now when you have so many things to do and think of. All - I desire to hear from you at such a time is that you and yours are - well, which next to having my Lord Marlborough out of his enemies’ - power, is the best news that can come to her, who to the last - moment of her life will be dear to Mrs. Freeman’s.... - - I give dear Mrs. Freeman a thousand thanks for her letter which - gives me an account of her concerns; and that is what I desire more - to know than other news. I shall reckon the days and hours and - think it very long till the time is out, both for your sake and my - Lord Marlborough’s, and that he may be at liberty and your mind at - ease. And, dear Mrs. Freeman, don’t say when I can see you if I - come to town, therefore I ask which day will be most convenient for - you. I confess I long to see you, but am not so unreasonable to - desire that satisfaction till it is easy to you. I wish with all my - soul that you may not be a true prophetess, and that it may soon be - in our power to enjoy one another’s company more than it has been - of late, which is all I covet in this world.... - - I am sorry with all my heart Mrs. Freeman meets with so many - delays, but it is a comfort they cannot keep my Lord Marlborough in - the Tower longer than the end of the term, and I hope when the - Parliament sits care will be taken that people may not be clapt up - for nothing, or else there will be no living in quiet for anybody - but insolent Dutch and sneaking mercenary Englishmen. Dear Mrs. - Freeman, farewell--be assured your faithful Mrs. Morley can never - change, and I hope you do not in the least doubt of her kindness, - which, if it be possible, increases every day, and that can never - have an end but with her life. Mrs. Morley hopes her dear Mrs. - Freeman will let her have the satisfaction of hearing again from - her to-morrow.... - - Dear Mrs. Freeman may easily imagine I cannot have much to say - since I saw her. However, I must write two words, for though I - believe she does not doubt of my constancy, feeling how base and - false all the world is, I am of that temper I think I can never say - enough to assure you of it. Therefore give me leave to assure you - they can never change me. And there is no misery I cannot readily - resolve to suffer rather than the thoughts of parting from you. And - I do swear I would sooner be torn in pieces than alter this my - resolution. My dear Mrs. Freeman, I long to hear from you. - -This pretty correspondence changed a little, but only to grow more -impassioned, when the princess had gone to Bath and the friends were -less near each other. - -Anne was, however, pursued by the royal displeasure even in her invalid -journey to Bath, and no less a person than Lord Nottingham, the lord -chamberlain, was employed to warn the mayor of that city that his -civilities to the princess were ill-timed. Such a disclosure of the -family quarrel evinced a determination and bitterness which perhaps -frightened even Lady Marlborough, courageous as she was; and she seems -to have offered and even pressed her resignation as a means of making -peace. But nothing altered the devotion of her faithful princess. - - I really long to know how my dear Mrs. Freeman got home, and now I - have this opportunity of writing she must give me leave to tell her - if she should ever be so cruel as to leave her faithful Mrs. Morley - she will rob her of all the joy and quiet of her life; for if that - day should come, I could never enjoy a happy minute, and I swear to - you I would shut myself up and never see a creature. If you do but - remember what the queen said to me the night before your lord was - turned out of all; then she began to pick quarrels; and if they - should take off twenty or thirty thousand pounds, have I not lived - upon as little before? When I was first married we had but twenty - (it is true indeed the king was so kind to pay my debts) and if it - should come to that again what retrenchment is there in my family I - would not willingly make and be glad of that pretence to do it? - Never fancy, my dear Mrs. Freeman, if what you fear should happen, - that you are the occasion; no, I am very well satisfied, and so is - the prince, too, that it would have been so however, for Caliban is - capable of doing nothing but injustice; therefore rest satisfied - you are noways the cause, and let me beg once more for God’s sake - that you would not mention parting more, no, not so much as think - of it, and if you should ever leave me, be assured it would break - your faithful Mrs. Morley’s heart. - -A still stronger expression of the same sentiment, with a little gleam -of self-assertion and sense of injured dignity, follows, after the -princess had, as would seem, taken counsel with her George. That heavy -prince fully acquiesced at least, if nothing more, in his wife’s -devotion. - - In obedience to dear Mrs. Freeman I have told the prince all she - desired me, and he is so far from being of another opinion, if - there had been occasion, he would have strengthened me in my - resolutions, and we both beg you would never mention so cruel a - thing again. Can you think either of us so wretched that for the - sake of twenty thousand pounds, and to be tormented from morning to - night with flattering knaves and fools, we should forsake those we - have such obligations to, and that we are so certain we are the - occasion of all their misfortunes? Besides, will you believe we - will truckle to Caliban, who from the first moment of his coming - has used us at that rate as we are sensible he has done, and that - all the world can witness that will not let their interest weigh - more with them than their reason? But suppose I did submit, and - that the king could change his nature so much as to use me with - humanity, how would all reasonable people despise me? How would - that Dutch monster laugh at me, and please himself with having got - the better! and which is much more, how would my conscience - reproach me for having sacrificed it--my honor, reputation, and all - the substantial comforts of this life--for transitory interest, - which even to those who make it their idol, can never afford any - real satisfaction, much less to a virtuous mind? No, my dear Mrs. - Freeman, never believe that your faithful Mrs. Morley will ever - submit. She can wait with patience for a sunshine day, and if she - does not live to see it, yet she hopes England will flourish again. - Once more give me leave to beg you would be so kind never to speak - of parting more, for, let what will happen, that is the only thing - that can make me miserable. - -Such are the letters which Lord Macaulay describes as expressing “the -sentiments of a fury in the style of a fish-woman.” It was not indeed -pretty to call great William Caliban, but Anne was fond of nicknames, -and the king’s personal appearance was not his strong point. To us the -above outburst of indignation seems both natural and allowable. She had -been subject to an inveterate and petty persecution--her little -magnanimities had been answered by exactions. We are all so ready to -believe that when a woman is involved she must be the offender, that -most readers will have set down the insults to which Anne was subject to -the account of Mary. But it is curious to note that in these letters all -the blame is thrown upon the harsh brother-in-law, the Dutch monster, -the alien, who had made so many strangers into English noblemen, and who -identified Marlborough, among all the other courtiers who had been as - -[Illustration: WILLIAM III. - -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY CORNELIS VERMEULEN, AFTER THE PAINTING BY -ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF.] - -little steadfast to him, as the object of a pertinacious persecution. -The princess says nothing of her sister. It is Caliban who is capable of -nothing but injustice. It is he who will laugh if he gets the better of -her. Anne’s style is perhaps not quite worthy of the Augustan age, but -it is at least very intelligible and full of little individual turns -which are more characteristic than the smoother graces. That she loved -her friend with her whole heart, that she had a generous contempt for -interested motives, and, humble as she was, a just sense of her own -dignity, are all abundantly and very simply manifest in them. They will -give to the impartial reader the impression of a natural and artless -character, with much generous feeling and much tender affectionateness: -tenacious of her rank and its observances, yet willing to throw all -these trifles down at the feet of her friend. Poor young lady! When we -recollect how constantly the princess’s “condition” had to be thought -of, how her long patience and many pains ended constantly in the little -waxen image of a dead baby and nothing more, who can wonder that the -world seemed falling to pieces about her when she was threatened with -the loss of the one strong sustaining prop upon which she had hung from -her childhood--the friend who had helped her through all the first -experiences of life, the companion who had amused so many weary days and -made the time pass as no one else could do! - -All these miserable disputes, however, were ended in a moment when -brought into the cold twilight of a death-chamber, where even kings and -queens are constrained to see things at their true value. Of all the -royal personages in the kingdom, Mary’s would have seemed to any outside -spectator the soundest and safest life. William had never been healthy, -and was consumed by the responsibilities and troubles into which he had -plunged. Anne had these ever-succeeding maternities to keep her at a low -level; but Mary was young, vigorous, and happy--happy at least in her -devotion to her husband and his love for her. It was she, however, who, -to the awe and consternation of the world, was cut down in her prime -after a few days’ illness, in the midst of her greatness. Such a -catastrophe no one could behold without the profoundest impulse of pity. -Whatever she had done a week before, there she lay now helpless, all her -splendors gone from her, the promise of a long career ended, and her -partner left heartbroken upon the solitary throne to which she had given -him the first right. - -The sight of so forlorn a man,--so powerful, yet as impotent when his -happiness was concerned as the meanest,--left thus heartbroken without -courage or strength, his sole companion gone, and nothing but strangers, -alien minds, and doubtful counselors round, is enough to touch any -heart. Anne, like the rest of the world, was shocked and startled by the -sudden calamity. She sent anxious messages asking to be admitted to her -sister’s bedside; and, when all was over, partly no doubt from policy, -but we may be at least permitted to believe partly from good feeling, -presented herself at Kensington Palace to show at least that rancor was -not in her heart. Unfortunately, there was no reconciliation between the -sisters: the breach continued to the end of the queen’s life, Burnet -informs us. But when the forlorn and solitary king was roused in his -misery to receive his sister-in-law’s message, a sort of peace was -patched up between them over that unthought-of grave. There was no -longer any public quarrel or manifestation of animosity--and with this -melancholy event the first half of Anne’s history may be brought to an -end. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE QUEEN AND THE DUCHESS - - -A year after the accession of William and Mary, and before any of the -bitternesses and conflicts above recorded had openly begun, the only -child of Anne on whose life any hopes could be built was born. Her many -babies had died at birth or immediately after, and their quick and -constant succession, as has been said, was the distinguishing feature of -her personal life. But after the Revolution, when everything was -settling out of the confusion of the crisis, and when as yet no further -family troubles had disclosed the family rancors and disagreements, in -the country air of Hampton Court, where the new king and queen were -living, a little prince was born. Though he was sickly at first, like -all the rest, he survived the dangers of infancy, and, called William -after the king, and bearing from the first day of his life the title of -Duke of Gloucester, was received joyfully by the nation at large and -everybody concerned as the authentic heir to the crown. This child kept, -it would seem, a little hold on the affections of the childless Mary -during the whole course of the quarrel with his mother, bitter as it -was, and continued an object of interest and kindness to William as long -as he lived. The interposition of the quaint and precocious boy, with -his big head, his premature enlightenment as to what it was and was not -prudent to say, his sparkle of childish ambition, and all his -old-fashioned ways, made a curious and welcome diversion in the troubled -scene where nothing was happy, not even the child. He was the chief -occupation of Anne’s life when comparative peace followed the warlike -interval above related, and a cold and forced civility replaced the -active hostilities which for years had been raging between the court and -the household of the princess. - -Anne has never got much credit for her forbearance and self-effacement -at the critical moments of her career. But it is certain that she might -have given William a great deal of trouble had she asserted her rights -as Mary’s successor, as she might also have done at the time of the -first settlement. No doubt he would on both occasions have carried the -day, and with this certainty the historians have been satisfied, without -considering that a woman who was not of a lofty character, and who was a -Stuart, must have felt it doubly bitter to find herself the subject of a -gloomy brother-in-law who slighted her, and who, her rasher partizans -did not hesitate to say, ought to have been her subject so long as he -remained in England after her sister’s death, and not she his. The -absence of any attempt on her part to disturb or molest, nay, her little -advances, her letters of condolence, and of congratulation the first -time that a victory gave occasion for it, showed no inconsiderable -magnanimity on the part of the prosaic princess--all the more that she -had not been in the habit, as is usual among women, of putting the -scorns she had suffered to another woman’s account, and holding Mary -responsible, but had uniformly attributed to the “Dutch monster,” the -Caliban of her correspondence, all the slights that were put on her--all -the more that William did very little to encourage any overtures of -friendship. He received her after his wife’s death, and they are said by -one of her attendants to have wept together when the unwieldy princess, -then unable to walk, was carried in her chair into the very -presence-chamber. But if a common emotion drew them together at this -moment, it did not last; and in the diminished - -[Illustration: THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER. - -ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, AFTER THE -PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.] - -ceremonial of the bereaved court, Anne had but scant respect and no -welcome. But she made no further complaint, and did what she could to -keep on terms of civility at least with her brother-in-law, writing to -him little letters of politeness, notwithstanding the disapproval of -Lady Marlborough, who was of no such gentle temper, and the absence of -all response from William. He, with all his foreign wars and home -troubles, solitary, sad, broken in health and in life, had little heart, -we may suppose, for those commonplace advances from a woman he had never -been able to tolerate. But though Anne’s relations with the king were -scarcely improved, her position in respect to the courtiers who had -abandoned her in her sister’s lifetime was different indeed. Lady -Marlborough describes this with her usual force. - - And now it being quickly known that the quarrel was made up, - nothing was to be seen but crowds of people of all sorts flocking - to Berkeley House to pay their respects to the prince and princess; - a sudden alteration which I remember occasioned the half-witted - Lord Carnarvon to say one night to the princess as he stood close - by her in the circle, “I hope your highness will remember that I - came to wait upon you when none of this company did,” which caused - a great deal of mirth. - -Meanwhile, the little boy, the heir of England, interposes his quaint -little figure with that touch of nature which always belongs to a child, -in the midst of all the excitement and dullness, awakening a certain -interest even in the solitary and bereaved life of William, and filling -his mother’s house with tender anxieties and pleasures. He was sickly -and feeble from his childhood, but early learned the royal lesson of -self-concealment, and was cuffed and hustled by the anxious cruelty of -love into the use of his poor little legs years after his contemporaries -had been in full enjoyment of their liberty. It is characteristic of the -self-absorbed and belligerent chronicler of the princess’s household, -whose narrative of all the quarrels and struggles of royal personages -is so vivid, that she has very little to say about either the living or -dying of the only child who was of such importance both to her mistress -and to the country. His little existence is pushed aside in Lady -Marlborough’s record, and but for a little squabble over the appointment -of the duke’s “family,” which she gives with great detail, we should -scarcely have known from her that Anne had tasted that happiness of -maternity which is so largely weighted with pains and cares. But the -story of little Gloucester’s life, as found in the more familiar record -of his waiting-gentleman, Lewis Jenkins, is both attractive and -entertaining. The little fellow seems to have been full of lively spirit -and observation, active and restless in spite of his feebleness, full of -a child’s interest in everything about him, and of precocious judgment -and criticism. Some of the stories that are told of him put these gifts -in a startling light. “Who has taught you to say such words?” his mother -asks him when the child has been betrayed into innocent repetition of -the oaths he had heard from his attendants. The boy pauses before he -replies. “If I say Dick Dewey,” he whispers to a favorite lady, “he will -be sent down-stairs. Mama, I invented them myself,” he adds aloud. The -little being moving among worlds not realized, learning to play his -little part, taking his cue from the countenances round him, forming his -little policy in the twinkling of an eye, could not have had a better -representative. His careless indifference to his chaplain’s religious -services, but happy learning of little prayers and verses with the old -lady to whom he takes a fancy, his weariness of lessons, yet eager -interest in the diagrams that drop from Lewis Jenkins’s pocket-book, and -in all the bits of history he can induce his Welsh usher to tell him, -and all the rest of his innocent childlike perversities, awaken in us an -amused yet pathetic interest. A troublesome, lovable, perverse, -delightful child, not always easy to manage, constantly asking the most -awkward questions, full of ambition and energy and spirit and -foolishness, the dull prince’s somewhat tedious house brightens into -hope and sweetness so long as he is there. - -In every respect this was the brightest moment of Anne’s life. There was -no longer any possibility of treating the next heir to the crown, the -mother of the only prince in whom the imagination of England could take -pleasure, with slighting or contumely. She was permitted to have her -share of the honors and comforts of English royalty. St. James’s old -red-brick palace was given over to her as became her position; and, what -was more wonderful, Windsor Castle, one of the noblest of royal -dwellings, became the country-house of Anne and her boy. King William -preferred Hampton Court, with its Dutch gardens, in which he could -imagine himself at home: the great feudal castle, erecting its massive -towers from the crest of the gentle hill which has the value of a much -greater eminence in the midst of the broad plain that sweeps forth in -every direction round, was not, apparently, to his taste. And few -prettier or more innocent scenes have been associated with its long -history than those in which little Gloucester was the chief actor. He -had a little regiment of boys of his own age whom it was his delight to -drill and lead through a hundred mock battles and rapid skirmishings, -mischievous little urchins who called themselves the Duke of -Gloucester’s men, and played their little pranks like their elders, as -favorites will. When he went to Windsor, four Eton boys were sent for to -be his playmates, one of them being young Churchill, the son of Lady -Marlborough. The little prince chose St. George’s Hall for the scene of -his mimic battles, and there the little army stormed and besieged one -another to their hearts’ content. When his mother’s marriage-day was -celebrated, he received his parents with salvos of his small artillery, -and, stepping forth in his little birthday-suit, paid them his -compliment: “Papa, I wish you and Mama unity, peace, and concord, not -for a time, but forever,” said the serious little hero. One can fancy -Anne, smiling and triumphant in her joy of motherhood, with her -beautiful chestnut curls and sweet complexion and placid roundness, -leaning on good George’s arm,--her peaceful companion, with whom she had -never a quarrel,--and admiring her son’s infant wisdom. It was their -happy time: no cares of state upon their heads, no quarrels on hand, -Sarah of Marlborough, let us hope, smiling too, and at peace with -everybody, her own boy taking part in the ceremonial. - -The little smoke and whiff of gunpowder, the little gunners at their toy -artillery, the great hall still slightly athrill with the mimic salute, -add something still to the boundless hopefulness of the scene; for why -should not this little English William grow up as great a soldier and -more fortunate than his grim godfather, and subdue France under the feet -of England, and be the conqueror of the world? All this was possible in -those pleasant days. - -On another occasion there was a great chapter of Knights of the Garter -to witness the installation of little Gloucester in knightly state as -one of the order. The little figure, seven years old, seated under the -noble canopywork in St. George’s beautiful chapel, scarcely visible over -the desk upon which his prayer-book was spread out, gazing with blue -eyes intent, in all the gravity of a child, upon the great English -nobles in their stalls around him, listening to the voices of the -choristers pealing high into space, makes another touching picture. King -William himself had buckled the garter round the child’s knee and hung -the jewel about his neck,--St. George slaying his dragon, that -immemorial emblem of the victory over evil; and no doubt in the vague -grandeur of childish anticipation, the boy felt himself ready to emulate -the feat of the patron saint. He was a little patriot too, eager to lend -the aid of his small squadron to his uncle when William went away to the -wars, and bringing a - -[Illustration: GARDEN FRONT, HAMPTON COURT. - -DRAWN BY JOSEPH PENNELL, ENGRAVED BY J. F. JUNGLING.] - -smile even upon that worn and melancholy face as he manœuvered his -little company and showed how they would fight in Flanders when the -moment came. When William was threatened with assassination and the -country woke up to feel that though she did not love him it would be -much amiss to lose him, little Gloucester, at eight, was one of the most -loyal. Taking counsel with his little regiment, he drew up a memorial, -written out, no doubt, by the best master of the pen among them, with -much shedding of ink, if not of more precious fluid. “We, your Majesty’s -subjects, will stand by you while we have a drop of blood,” was the -address to which the Duke of Gloucester’s men set all their tiny fists. -The little duke himself, not content with this, added to it another -address of his own: - - I, your Majesty’s most dutiful subject, had rather lose my life in - your Majesty’s cause than in any man’s else; and I hope it will not - be long ere you conquer France. - -GLOUCESTER. - -Heroic little prince!--a Protestant William, yet a gallant and gentle -Stuart. With this heart of enthusiasm and generous valor in him, what -might he not have done had he ever lived to be king? These marred -possibilities, which are so common in life, are almost the saddest -things in it, and that must be a heart very strong in faith that is not -struck dumb by the withdrawal from earth’s extreme need of so much -faculty that seemed created for her help and succor. It certainly awoke -a smile, and might have drawn an iron tear down William’s cheek, to see -this faithful little warrior ready to “lose his life” in his defense. -And the good pair behind, George and Anne, who had evidently suffered no -treacherous suggestion to get to the ear of the boy,--no hint that -William was a usurper, and little Gloucester had more right than he to -be uppermost,--how radiant they stand in the light of their happiness -and hope! The spectator is reluctant to turn the page to the coming -gloom. - -“When the Duke of Gloucester was arrived at an age to be put into men’s -hands,” William’s relenting and change of mind was proved by the fact -that Marlborough, who had been in disgrace all these years, and whom -only the constant favor of Anne had kept out of entire obscurity, was -recalled into the front of affairs in order to be made “governor” of the -young prince. It is true that this gracious act was partially -neutralized by the appointment of Bishop Burnet as little Gloucester’s -tutor, a choice which was supposed to be as disagreeable to Anne as the -other was happy. No distinct reason appears for this sudden and -extraordinary change. Marlborough’s connection with the family of the -princess made him indeed peculiarly suitable to have the charge of her -son, but William had not hitherto shown any desire to honor her likings; -and this was not reason enough for all the other marks of favor bestowed -upon him, bringing him back at once from private life and political -disgrace to a position as high as any in the kingdom. Burnet himself did -by no means relish the honor thus thrust upon him. He was almost -disposed, he tells us, “to retire from the court and town,” much as that -would have cost him, rather than take upon him such a charge. But the -pleasure of believing that “the king would trust that care only to me,” -and also an unexpected “encouragement” received from the princess, -decided him to make the experiment. The little pupil was about nine when -he came into the bishop’s hands, and he gives the following account of -his charge: - - I had been trusted with his education now for two years, and he had - made amazing progress. I had read over the Psalms, Proverbs, and - Gospels with him, and had explained things that fell in my way very - copiously; and was often surprised with the questions that he put - to me, and the reflections that he made. He came to understand - things relating to religion beyond imagination. I went through - geography so often with him that he knew all the maps very - particularly. I explained to him the forms of government in every - country, with the interests and trades of that country, and what - was both bad and good in it. I acquainted him with all the great - revolutions that had been in the world, and gave him a copious - account of the Greek and Roman histories of Plutarch’s lives; the - last thing I explained to him was the Gothic constitution and the - beneficiary and feudal laws: I talked of these things at different - times more than three hours a day; this was both easy and - delighting to him. The king ordered five of his chief ministers to - come once a quarter and examine the progress he made; they seemed - amazed both at his knowledge and the good understanding that - appeared in him; he had a wonderful memory and a very good - judgment. - -Poor little Gloucester! The genial bishop breaking down all this -knowledge into pleasant talks so that it should be “both easy and -delighting,” and his lessons in fortification, which were more -delightful still, and his own little private princelike observation of -men’s faces and minds, were all to come to naught. On his eleventh -birthday, amid the feastings and joy, a sudden illness seized him, and, -a few days after, the promising boy had ended his bright little career. -As a matter of course, blame was attached to the doctor who attended -him, and who had bled him in the beginning of a fever; but this was -almost universally the case in the then state of medical science. “He -was the only remaining child,” the bishop says, “of seventeen the -princess had borne, some to the full time and the rest before it. She -attended on him during his sickness with great tenderness, but with a -grave composedness that amazed all who saw it. She bore his death with a -resignation and piety that were indeed very singular.” It would be small -wonder indeed if Anne had been altogether crushed by such a calamity. It -is said by some historians of the Jacobite party that her mind was -overwhelmed by a sense of her guilt toward her own father, and of just -judgment executed upon her in the loss of her child, and that she -immediately wrote to James, pouring out her whole heart in penitence, -and pledging herself to support the claims of her brother should she -ever come to the throne. This letter, however, was never found, and -does not seem to be vouched for by witnesses beyond suspicion. But for -the fact that Anne was stricken to the dust, no parent will need any -further evidence. Her good days and hopes were over; henceforward, when -she wrote to her dearest friend in the old confidential strain, it was -as “your poor unfortunate Morley” that the bereaved mother signed -herself. Nothing altered these sad adjectives. She felt herself as poor -and unfortunate in her unutterable loss when she was queen as if she had -been the humblest woman that ever lost an only child. - -Marlborough was absent when his little pupil fell ill, but hurried back -to Windsor in time to see him die. It was etiquette in those days that -in case of a death the survivors should instantly leave the place in -which it had happened, leaving the dead in possession, to lie in state -there and receive the homage of curious or interested spectators. But -Anne would not be persuaded to leave the place where her child was, and, -four or five days after, the little prince was carried solemnly by -torchlight through the summer woods, through Windsor Park, and by the -river, and under the trees of Richmond, to Westminster: a silent -procession pouring slowly through the odorous August night. His little -body lay in state in Westminster Hall--a noble chamber for such a tiny -sleeper--for five days more, when it was laid with the kings in the -great abbey which holds all the greatest of England. A more heartrending -episode is not in history. - -William did not take any notice of the announcement of the death for a -considerable time, which embarrassed the ambassador at Paris greatly on -the subject of mourning, and has given occasion for much denunciation of -his hardness and heartlessness. When he answered at last, -however--though this was not till more than two months after, in a -letter to Marlborough--it was with much subdued feeling. “I do not think -it - -[Illustration: THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MINIATURE BY LEWIS CROSSE IN THE -COLLECTION AT WINDSOR CASTLE; BY SPECIAL PERMISSION OF QUEEN -VICTORIA.] - -necessary to employ many words,” he writes, “in expressing my surprise -and grief at the death of the Duke of Gloucester. It is so great a loss -to me as well as to all England, that it pierces my heart with -affliction.” It seems impossible that the loss of a child who had shown -so touching an allegiance to himself should not have moved him; but -perhaps there was in him, too, a touch of satisfaction that the rival -pair who had been thorns in his flesh since ever he came to England, -were not to have the satisfaction of founding a new line. At St.-Germain -the satisfaction was more marked still, and it was supposed that the -most dangerous obstacle in the way of the young James Stuart was removed -by the death of his sister’s heir. We know now how futile that -anticipation was; but at the time this was not so clear, and the anxiety -of the English parliament to secure before William’s death a formal -abjuration of the so-called Prince of Wales shows that the hope was not -without foundation. - -This and the new and exciting combination of European affairs produced -by what is called the “Spanish Succession,” occupied all minds during -the two years that remained of William’s suffering life. It was a moment -of great excitement and uncertainty. Louis XIV., into whose hands, as -seemed likely, a sort of universal power must fall if his grandson were -permitted to succeed to the throne of Spain, had just vowed at the -death-bed of James his determination to support the claims of the -exile’s son, and, on James’s death, had proclaimed the boy King of -England. Thus England had every reason of personal irritation and even -alarm for joining in the alliance against the threatening supremacy of -France, whose power--had she been allowed to place one of her princes -peaceably on the Spanish throne, to which the rich Netherlands still -belonged--would have been paramount in Europe. It was on the eve of the -great struggle that William died. With a determination equal to that -with which he had made head against failing fortune in many a -battle-field, he fought for his life, which, at such a crisis, was -doubly important to the countries of his birth and of his crown, and to -the cause of the Protestant religion and all that we have been taught to -consider as freedom throughout Europe. There is something pathetic in -the struggle, in the statement of his case, under one name or another as -a private individual, that there might be no doubt as to the frankness -of the opinions which he caused to be made among the great physicians of -Europe. His life in itself could not have been a very happy or desirable -one. He had no longer his popular and beloved Mary to leave behind him -in England as his representative when he set out for the wars, and there -were few in England whom he trusted fully, or who trusted him. To die at -the beginning of a great European struggle, leaving the dull people whom -he disliked to take his place in England, and the soldier whom he had -crushed and subdued and sternly held in the shade as long as he was -able, to assume his baton, and win the victories it had never been -William’s fortune to gain, must have been bitter indeed. It would appear -even that he had entertained some idea of disturbing the natural order -of events to prevent this, and that it had been suggested to the -Electress Sophia, after poor little Gloucester’s death, that her family -should at once be nominated as his immediate successors, to the -exclusion of Anne, a proposal which the prudent electress evaded with -great skill and ingenuity by representing that the Prince of Wales--who -must surely have learned, he and his counselors, wisdom from the failure -of his father--was the natural heir, and would, no doubt, do well enough -on a trial. Bishop Burnet denies that such a design was ever -entertained, but Lord Dartmouth, in his notes upon Burnet, gives the -following very distinct evidence on the subject: - - I do not know how far the Whig party would trust a secret of that - consequence to such a blab as the bishop was known to be: but the - Dukes of Bolton and Newcastle both proposed it to me, and used the - strongest arguments to induce me to come into it; which was that it - would be making Lord Marlborough King at least for the time if the - Princess succeeded; and that I had reason to expect nothing but - ill-usage during such a reign. Lord Marlborough asked me afterward - in the House of Lords if I had ever heard of such a design. I told - him Yes, but did not think it very likely. He said it was very - true: but by God if ever they attempted it we would walk over their - bellies. - -Thus until the last moment Anne’s position would seem to have been -menaced; but a more impossible scheme was never suggested, for even the -idea of Marlborough’s triumph was unable to raise the smallest party -against the princess, and to the country in general she was the object -of a kind of enthusiasm. The people loved everything in her, even the -fact that she was not clever, which of itself is often highly -ingratiating with the masses. William, it is said, with a magnanimity -which was infinitely to his credit, named Marlborough as his most fit -successor in the command of the allied armies before he died. The formal -abjuration of the Prince of Wales was made by Parliament only just in -time to have his assent, and then all obstacles were removed out of the -princess’s way. It was thought by the populace that everything -brightened for the new reign. There had been an unexampled continuance -of gloomy weather, bad harvests, and clouds and storms. But to great -Queen Anne the sun burst forth, the gloom dispelled, the country broke -out into gaiety and rejoicing. A new reign full of new possibilities has -always something exhilarating in it. William’s greatness was marred by -externals and never heartily acknowledged by the mass of the people, but -Anne had many claims upon the popular favor. She was a woman, and a kind -and simple one. That desertion of her father which some historical -writers have condemned so bitterly, had no great effect upon the -contemporary imagination, nor, so far as can be judged, upon her own; -and it was the only offense that could be alleged against her. She had -been unkindly treated and threatened with wrong, which naturally made -the multitude strenuous in her cause; and everything conspired to make -her accession happy. She was only thirty-seven, and though somewhat -unwieldy in person, still preserved her English comeliness, her -abundant, beautiful hair, and, above all, the melodious voice by which -even statesmen and politicians were impressed. “She pronounced this,” -says Bishop Burnet, describing her address to the Privy Council when -they first presented themselves before her, “as she did all her other -speeches, with great weight and authority, and with a softness of voice -and sweetness in the pronunciation that added much life to all she -spoke.” The commentators who criticize so sorely the bishop’s chronicles -are in entire agreement with him on this subject. “It was a real -pleasure to hear her,” says Lord Dartmouth, “though she had a -bashfulness that made it very uneasy to herself to say much in public.” -Speaker Onslow unites in the same testimony: “I have heard the queen -speak from the throne, and she had all the author says here. I never saw -an audience more affected; it was a sort of charm. She received all that -came to her in so gracious a manner that they went from her highly -satisfied with her goodness and her obliging deportment; for she -hearkened with attention to everything that was said to her.” Thus all -smiled upon Anne in the morning of her reign. Her coronation was marked -with unusual splendor and enthusiasm, and though the queen herself had -to be carried in a chair to the Abbey, her state of health being such -that she could not walk, this did not affect the splendid ceremonial in -which even to the Jacobites themselves there was little to complain of, -since their hopes that Anne’s influence might advance her father’s young -son to the succession after her were still high, notwithstanding that -the settlement of the crown upon Sophia of Brunswick and her heirs had -already been made. - -[Illustration: QUEEN ANNE. - -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY PIETER VAN GUNST, AFTER THE PAINTING BY -SIR GODFREY KNELLER.] - -It is needless for us to attempt a history of the great war which was -one of the most important features in Anne’s reign. No student of -history can be ignorant of its general course, nor of the completeness -with which Marlborough’s victories crushed the exorbitant power of -France and raised the prestige of England. There is no lack of histories -of the great general and his career of victory: how he out-fought, -out-marched, and out-generaled all his rivals, and scarcely in his ten -years of active warfare encountered one check; how, though he did not -accomplish the direct object for which all the bloodshed and toil were -undertaken, he yet secured such respect for the English name and valor -as renewed our old reputation and made all interference with our natural -settlement or intrusion into our private economy impossible forever. -“What good came of it at last?” says the poet. But the inquiry, though -so plausible, appealing at once to humanity and common sense, is not -perhaps so hard to answer as it seems. Up to this time it has been -impossible to procure in the intercourse of nations any other effectual -arbiter but the sword: a terrible one, indeed, but apparently as yet the -only means of keeping a check upon the rapacity of some, and protecting -the weakness of others. At all events, whatever individual opinion may -be on the point now, there was a unanimous conviction then, and no one -doubted at the opening of the war that it was most necessary and just. -And of its conduct there has been but one opinion. Contemporaries -accused Marlborough of every conceivable wickedness,--of peculation, -treachery, even personal cowardice; but no one ventured to say that he -was not a great general. And as we have got further and further from the -infuriated politics of his time, his gifts and graces, his wisdom and -moderation, as well as his wonderful military genius, have been done -more and more justice to. Coxe, his special biographer, may be supposed -to look with partiality upon his hero; but this cannot be said of more -recent writers,--of Lord Stanhope in his tolerant and sensible history, -or of Dr. Hill Burton in his sagacious volumes on the reign of Queen -Anne. - -It is, however, with Marlborough’s wife and not with himself that we are -chiefly concerned, and with the stormy course of Anne’s future -intercourse with her friend rather than the battles that were fought in -her name. It is said that by the time she came to the throne her -faithful affection to her lifelong companion had begun to be impaired, -but the date of the first beginning of their severance will probably -never be determined, nor its immediate cause. Miss Strickland professes -to have ascertained that certain impatient words used by Sarah of -Marlborough, which were overheard by the queen, were the occasion of the -breach; but as there is no very satisfactory foundation for the story, -and it is added that Anne kept her feelings undisclosed for long after, -we may dismiss the legend as possible enough, but no more. - -All the great hopes which the pair must have formed seemed likely to be -fulfilled in the early part of Queen Anne’s reign. A very short time -after her accession, Marlborough, who had at once entered upon the -conduct of foreign affairs and the preparations for war, according to -William’s appointment, received the garter which Anne and her husband -had vainly asked for him in the previous reign; and when he returned -from his first campaign, a dukedom was bestowed upon him, with many -pretty expressions on Anne’s part. - -Indeed, the queen’s gift of “writing pretty, affectionate letters,” -which was the only thing, according to the duchess’s opinion of her -expressed in later days, that she could do well, is still abundantly -proved by the correspondence. Anne was as anxious as ever to serve and -please her friend and favorite. She prays God, in her little note of -congratulation after the siege of Bonn in 1703, to send Marlborough -“safe home to his and my dear adored Mrs. Freeman,” with all the grace -of perfect sympathy; for the great duke was as abject in his adoration -of that imperious, bewitching, and triumphant Sarah as the queen -herself. With the tenderest recollection of her friend’s whims, the -queen gave her the rangership of Windsor Park (strange office for a -woman to hold!), in which was included “a lodge in the great park,” -which the duchess describes as “a very agreeable place to live in,” ... -“remembering that when we used in former days to ride by it, I had often -wished for such a place,” although it was necessary to turn out -Portland, King William’s friend and favorite, in order to replace him by -Lady Marlborough; no doubt, however, this summary displacement of the -Dutchman added to the pleasure both of giving and receiving. Lady -Marlborough had a multiplicity of other offices in addition to -this,--such as those of mistress of the robes, groom of the stole, and -keeper of the privy purse,--offices, however, which she had virtually -held for years in the household of the princess. All these brought in a -great deal of money, a matter to which she was never indifferent; and -along with the dukedom, the queen bestowed upon Marlborough a pension of -£5000 a year; so that the resources of the new ducal house were -abundant. They would seem by their posts and perquisites alone to have -had an income between them not far short of £60,000 a year, an enormous -sum for those times, not to speak of less legitimate profits--presents -from contractors, and percentages on the pay of the troops, which -Marlborough took, as everybody did, as a matter of course, though it was -afterward charged against him as if he had invented the custom. The -queen also promised a little fortune to each of their daughters as they -married--a promise certainly fulfilled in the case of Henrietta, who -married the son of Godolphin, thus uniting the colleagues in the closest -family bonds. Anne also offered a pension of £2000 a year to the -duchess from the privy purse, a bounty declined at first, but of which -afterward, in the final breaking up of their relations, Sarah was mean -enough to demand the arrears, amounting to no less a sum than £18,000. -Thus every kind of gift and favor was pressed upon the royal favorite in -the early days of Anne’s reign. - -Before this the means of the pair had been but small. Marlborough had -been long deprived of all preferment, and the duchess informs us that -she had discharged in the princess’s household all the offices for which -afterward she was so highly paid on an allowance of £400 a year. It was -for this reason that the dukedom was unwelcome to her. “I do agree with -you,” her husband writes to her, “that we ought not to wish for a -greater title till we have a better estate,” and he assures her that “I -shall have a mind to nothing but as it may be easy to you.” It was in -this strain that the great conqueror always addressed his wife, and it -would be difficult to say which of her two adorers, her husband or her -queen, showed the deepest devotion. When Marlborough set out for his -first campaign in the war which was to cover him with glory, and in -which for the first time he had full scope, this is how he writes to the -companion of his life (she had gone with him to Margate to see him -embark): - - It is impossible to express with what a heavy heart I parted from - you when I was by the water’s side. I could have given my life to - have come back though I knew my own weakness so much that I durst - not, for I know I should have exposed myself to the company. I did - for a great while with a perspective glass look out upon the cliffs - in hopes I might have had one sight of you. We are now out of sight - of Margate and I have neither soul nor spirits, but I do at this - time suffer so much that nothing but being with you can recompense - it. - -These lover-like words were written by a man of fifty-two to his wife of -forty-two, to whom he had been married for nearly a quarter of a -century. In all the pauses of these wars, amid the - -[Illustration: WINDSOR TERRACE, LOOKING WESTWARD. - -ENGRAVED BY J. W. EVANS AFTER AQUATINT BY P. SANDBY] - -plans and combinations of armies, and all the hard thinking and hard -fighting, the perpetual activity and movement of his life for the next -ten years, the same voice of passionate attachment, love, and longing -penetrates for us the tumults of the time. She was flattered to the top -of her bent both by husband and mistress; and it is not much to be -wondered at if she came to think herself indispensable and above all -law. - -In the midst, however, of this prosperity and quickly growing greatness, -the same crushing calamity which had previously fallen upon Anne, -overwhelmed these companions of her life. Their only son, a promising -boy of seventeen, died at Cambridge, and both father and mother were -bowed to the dust. The queen’s letter on this occasion expresses her -sense of yet another melancholy bond between them. It is evident that -she had offered to go to her friend in her affliction. “It would be a -great satisfaction to your poor unfortunate faithful Morley if you would -have given me leave to come to St. Alban’s,” she writes, “for the -unfortunate ought to come to the unfortunate.” With a heavy heart -Marlborough changed his will, leaving the succession of the titles and -honors, so suddenly deprived of all value to him, to the family of his -eldest daughter, and betook himself sadly to his fighting, deriving a -gleam of satisfaction from the thought that other children might yet be -granted to him, yet adjuring his wife to bear their joint calamity with -patience, whatever might befall. She herself says nothing on this -melancholy subject. Perhaps in her old age, as she sat surveying her -life, that great but innocent sorrow no longer seemed to her of the -first importance in a record crossed by so many tempests--or perhaps it -was of so much importance that she would not trust herself to speak of -it at all. The partizans of the exiled Stuarts were eager to point out -how both she and her mistress had suffered the penalty of their sin -against King James and his son, by being thus deprived of their -respective heirs. It was a “judgment”--a thing dear to the popular -imagination and most easily concluded upon at all times. - -It would not seem, however, that this natural drawing of “the -unfortunate to the unfortunate” had the effect it might have had in -further cementing the union of the queen and the duchess. The - - little rift within the lute - That by and by will make the music mute - -began to be apparent shortly after, though not at first showing itself -by any lessening of warmth or tenderness. The existence of a division of -opinion is the first thing visible. “I cannot help being extremely -concerned that you are so partial to the Whigs, because I would not have -you and your poor unfortunate faithful Morley differ in the least thing. -And, upon my word, my dear Mrs. Freeman,” adds Queen Anne, “you are -mightily mistaken in your notion of a true Whig. For the character you -give of them does not in the least belong to them.” - -We need not discuss here the difference between the meaning of the names -Tory and Whig as understood then and now. Lord Mahon and Lord Macaulay -both consider a complete transposition of terms to be the easiest way of -making the matter clear, but in one particular at least this seems -scarcely necessary; for the Tories, then as now, were emphatically the -church party, which was to Anne the only party in which safety could be -found. The queen had little understanding of history or politics in the -wider sense of the words, but she was an excellent churchwoman, and in -the sentiments of the Tory leaders she found, when brought into close -contact with them, something more in accord with her own, the one -sympathy in which her bosom friend had been lacking. - -“These were men who had all a wonderful zeal for the Church, a sort of -public merit that eclipsed all others in the eye of the Queen.... For -my own part,” the duchess adds, “I had not the same prepossessions. The -word _Church_ had never any charm for me in the mouths of those who made -the most noise with it, for I could not perceive that they gave any -other proof of their regard for the thing than a frequent use of the -word, like a spell to enchant weak minds, and a persecuting zeal against -dissenters and against the real friends of the Church who would not -admit that persecution was agreeable to its doctrine.” - -This difference had not told for very much so long as neither the queen -nor her friend had any share in public affairs, but it became strongly -operative now. How much the queen had actually to do with the business -of the nation, and how entirely it depended upon the influence brought -to bear upon her limited mind who should be the guide of England at this -critical moment, is abundantly evident from every detail of history. -Queen Victoria, great as her experience is, and notwithstanding the -respectful attention which all classes of politicians naturally give to -her opinion, changes her ministry only when the majority in Parliament -requires it, and has only the very limited choice which the known and -acknowledged heads of the two parties permit when she transfers office -and power from one side to the other. But Queen Anne had no compact body -of statesmen, one replacing the other as occasion required, to deal -with; but put in here one high official and there another, according as -intrigue or impulse gained the upper hand. - -There is something about a quarrel of women which excites the scorn of -every chronicler, an insidious contempt for the weaker half of the -creation which probably no one would own to, lying dormant in the minds -of the race generally, even of women themselves. Had Anne been a king of -moderate abilities, and Marlborough the friend and guide to whom he owed -his prosperity and fame, the relationship would have been noble and -honorable to both; and when the struggle began, the strenuous efforts -of the great general to secure the coöperation of ministers with whom he -could work, and whose support would have helped toward the carrying out -of his great plans for the glory of his country and the destruction of -her enemies, would, whether the historical critic approved of them or -not, have at least secured his respect and a dignified treatment. But -when it is Sarah of Marlborough, with all the defects of temper that we -know in her, who, while her lord fights abroad, has to fight for him at -home, to scheme his enemies out of, and his friends into, power, to keep -her hold upon her mistress by every means that her imagination can -devise, the idea that some nobler motive than mere self-aggrandizement -may be in the effort occurs to no one, and the hatred of political -enmity is mingled with all the ridicule that spiteful wit can discharge -upon a feminine squabble. Lady Marlborough was far from being a perfect -woman. She had a fiery temper and a stinging tongue. When she was -thwarted at the very moment of apparent victory, and found herself -impotent where she had been all-powerful, her fury was like a torrent -against which there was no standing. But with these patent defects it -ought to be allowed her that the object for which she struggled was not -only a perfectly legitimate, but a noble one. What the great William had -spent his life and innumerable campaigns in endeavoring to do, against -all the discouragements of frequent failure, Marlborough was doing, with -a matchless and almost unbroken success. It was no shame to either the -general or the general’s wife to believe, as William did, that this was -the greatest work of the time, and could alone secure the safety of -England as well as of her allies. And the gallant stand of Lady -Marlborough for the party and the statesmen who were likely to carry out -this object, deserved some better interpretation from history than it -has ever received. - -And it cannot be said that there was anything petty in Anne’s - -[Illustration: THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. - -ENGRAVED BY J. H. E. WHITNEY, FROM AN ENGRAVING BY PIETER VAN GUNST, -AFTER PAINTING BY ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF.] - -public acts while she remained under the influence of her first friend. -The beginning of her reign showed no ignoble spirit. One of the first -things the queen did was to abolish the old and obstinate practice of -selling places, which had hitherto been accepted as the course of -nature; so much so that when Marlborough fell into disgrace under King -William, he had been bidden to “sell or dispose of” the places he held, -and the princess had herself informed Sarah at least on one occasion of -vacancies, in order that her friend should have the profit of filling -them up. “Afterwards, I began to consider in my own mind this practice,” -the lady says; but whether she took the initiative in so honorable a -measure, it would be rash to pronounce upon the authority of her own -word alone. It certainly, however, was one of the first acts of the -queen, and the credit of such a departure from the use and wont of -courts should at least be allowed to the new reign. Anne did various -other things for which there was no precedent. As soon as her civil list -was settled, she gave up voluntarily £100,000 a year to aid the public -expenses, then greatly increased by the war, and, shortly after, she -made a still more important and permanent sacrifice by giving up the -ecclesiastical tribute of first-fruits and tithes; namely, the first -year’s stipend of each cure to which a new incumbent was appointed, and -the tenth of all livings--to which the crown, as succeeding the Pope in -the headship of the church, had become entitled. Her object was the -augmentation of small livings, and better provision for the necessities -of the church, and there can be little doubt that this act at least was -exclusively her own. The fund thus formed continues to this day under -the name of Queen Anne’s Bounty, but unfortunately remained quite -inefficacious during her reign, in consequence of various practical -difficulties; and it has never been by any means the important agency -she intended it to be. But the intention was munificent and the desire -sincere. Throughout her life the church was the word which most moved -Anne. She was willing to do anything to strengthen it, and to sacrifice -any one, even as turned out her dear friend, in its cause. - -The first subject which quickened a vague and suspicious disagreement -into opposition was the bill against what was called occasional -conformity, a bill which was aimed at the dissenters and abolished the -expedient formerly taken advantage of in order to admit nonconformists -to some share in public life--of periodical compliance with the -ceremonies of the church. The new law not only did away with this -important “easement,” but was weighted with penal enactments against -those who, holding office under government, should be present at any -conventicle or assembly for worship in any form but that of the Church -of England. Upon this subject the queen writes as follows: - - I must own to you that I never cared to mention anything on this - subject to you because I knew you would not be of my mind, but - since you have given me the occasion, I can’t forbear saying that I - see nothing like persecution in the bill. You may think it is a - notion Lord Nottingham has just put into my head, but upon my word - it is my own thought. I promise my dear Mrs. Freeman faithfully I - will read the book she sent me, and beg she will never let - differences of opinion hinder us from living together as we used to - do. Nothing shall ever alter your poor unfortunate faithful Morley, - who will live and die with all truth and tenderness yours. - -As the differences go on increasing, however, Queen Anne gradually -changes her ground. At first she “hopes her not agreeing with anything -you say will not be imputed to want of value, esteem, or tender -kindness, for my dear, dear Mrs. Freeman”; but at last, as the argument -goes on, plucks up a spirit and finds courage enough to declare roundly -that whenever public affairs are in the hands of the Whigs, “I shall -think the Church beginning to be in danger.” Thus the political -situation became more and more difficult, and gradually embittered even -the personal relations between the friends, and the duchess had not even -the support of her husband in her political preferences. He had himself -belonged to the moderate Tory party, and, even though they thwarted and -discouraged him, showed no desire to throw himself into the arms of the -Whigs, whither his wife would so fain have led him. He was almost as -little encouraging to her in this point as the queen was. “I know,” he -says, “they would be as unreasonable as the others in their expectations -if I should seek their friendship,--for all parties are alike.” It was -thus a hard part she had to play between the queen’s determination that -the Whigs were the enemies of the church, and her husband’s conviction -that all parties were alike. He, perhaps, was the more hard to manage of -the two. He voted for the occasional conformity bill, against which she -was so hot, and trusted in Harley, who indeed owed his first beginning -to Marlborough’s favor, but whom the duchess saw through. In young St. -John, too, the great general had perfect faith; “I am very confident he -will never deceive you,” he wrote to Godolphin. Thus the husband warmed -in his bosom the vipers that were to sting him and bring a hasty end to -his career. He, too, remained obstinately indifferent, while she stormed -and entreated and wrote a hundred letters and used every art both of war -and peace in vain. It is easy to see how this perpetual letter-writing, -her determination to prove that her correspondent was in error and she -right, and her continual reiteration of the same charges and reproaches, -must have exasperated the queen and troubled Marlborough, in the midst -of the practical difficulties of his career. But yet there are many -points on which Sarah has a just claim to our sympathy. For she foresaw -what actually did happen, and perceived whither the current was tending, -but was refused any credit for her prognostications or help in subduing -the dangerous forces she dreaded. How irritating this position must have -been to a fiery temper it is needless to point out, and the duchess -would not permit herself to be silenced by either husband or queen. Lord -Macaulay’s description of the astonishing state of affairs which -compelled two of the ablest statesmen in Europe to have recourse for the -conduct of the imperial business to the influence of one woman over -another, was thus far less true even than it seems on the surface; for -Sarah of Marlborough suspected the real state of the case when no one -else did, fighting violently against her husband’s enemies before they -had disclosed themselves, and her final overthrow was as much the result -of a new tide in political affairs as of the straining of the personal -relations between her and her queen. - -Meanwhile, Marlborough was going on in his career of conquest. It was a -very costly luxury; but the pride of England had never been so fed with -triumphs. Queen Anne was in her closet one day at Windsor, a little -turret-chamber with windows on every side looking over the green and -fertile valley of the Thames, with all the trees in full summer foliage -and the harvest beginning to be gathered in from the fields, when there -was brought to her a scrap of crumpled paper bearing upon it the few -hurried lines which told of the “glorious victory” of the battle of -Blenheim. It had been torn off in haste from a memorandum book on the -field, and was scribbled over with an inn-reckoning on the other side. -The commotion it caused was not one of unmixed joy; for though the queen -wrote her thanks and congratulations, and there was a great thanksgiving -service at St. Paul’s, which she attended in state, the party in power -did all that in them lay to depreciate the importance of the victory. -When, however, Marlborough appeared in England with his prisoners and -trophies,--a marshal of France among the former,--and many standards -taken in the field, the popular sentiment burst all bounds, and his -reception was enthusiastic. The crown lands of Woodstock were bestowed -upon him as a further reward, and the queen herself commanded that a -palace should be built upon the estate at the expense of the crown, to -be called Blenheim in commemoration of the extraordinary victory. A -curious relic of ancient custom religiously carried out to the present -day was involved in this noble gift. The quit-rent which every holder of -a royal fief has to pay, was appointed to be a banner embroidered with -three _fleurs-de-lis_, the arms then borne by France, to be presented on -every anniversary of the battle. Not very long ago the present writer -accompanied a French lady of distinction through some part of Windsor -Castle under the guidance of an important member of the queen’s -household. When the party came into the armory, on each side of which, a -vivid spot of color, hung a little standard fresh in embroidery of gold, -the kind cicerone smiled, and whispered aside, “We need not point out -these to her.” One of them was the Blenheim, the other the Waterloo -banner, both yearly acknowledgments, after the old feudal fashion, for -fiefs held of the crown. - -Among the honors done to Marlborough at this triumphant moment, when, an -English duke, a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and, still more -splendid title, the greatest soldier of his time, he came home in glory -to England, were the verses with which Addison saluted him. There were -plenty of odes piping to all the winds in his honor, but this alone -worthy of record. Every reader will recollect the simile of the great -angel who “drives the furious blast;” - - And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform, - Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. - -The compliment might be supposed to be somewhat magnificent even for the -greatest of commanders. And yet whatever Marlborough’s faults may have -been, his attitude during this wonderful war is scarcely too splendidly -described by the image of a calm and superior spirit beholding -contemporary events from a higher altitude than that of common humanity, -executing vengeance and causing destruction without either rage or fear, -in serene fulfilment of a great command and in pursuance of a mighty -purpose. His unbroken temper, his patience and courtesy in the midst of -all contentions, the firm composure with which he supports all the -burdens thrown upon him, appeals from home as well as necessities -abroad, might well suggest a spirit apart, independent, not moved like -lesser men. No man ever bore so many conflicting claims more calmly. -Even the adjurations, the commands, the special pleadings of his -“dearest soul” do not lead him a step farther than he thinks wise. “When -I differ from you,” he says, “it is not that I think those are in the -right whom you say are always in the wrong, but it is that I would be -glad not to enter into the unreasonable reasoning of either party; for I -have trouble enough for my little head in the business which of -necessity I must do here.” There could not be a greater contrast than -between the commotion and whirlwind that surrounds Duchess Sarah and the -great general’s calm. - -It is not necessary for our purpose to enter into those changes of -ministry which first temporarily consolidated the Marlborough interest -and afterward wrought its destruction, nor into the intrigues by which -Harley and St. John gradually secured the reins of state. It is not to -be supposed that these fluctuations were wholly owing to the influences -brought to bear upon the queen; but that her prevailing disposition to -uphold the party which to her represented the church kept the -continuance of the war and the foreign policy of the country in constant -danger, there can be no doubt. It is only in 1707, however, that we are -made aware of the entry of a new actor upon the scene, in the person of -a smooth and noiseless woman, always civil, always soft-spoken, -apologetic, and plausible, whose sudden appearance in the vivid -narrative of her great rival is in the highest degree dramatic and -effective. This was the famous Abigail who has given her name, somewhat -injuriously to her own position, to the class of waiting-women ever -since. She was in reality bedchamber-woman to the queen--a post now very -far removed from that of a waiting-maid, and even then by no means on a -level, notwithstanding the duchess’s scornful phrases, with that of the -class which ever since has been distinguished by Mrs. Hill’s remarkable -name. Her introduction altogether, and the vigorous _mise en scène_ of -this new episode in history, are fine examples of the graphic power of -Duchess Sarah. Her suspicions, she informs us, were roused by the -information that Abigail Hill, a relation of her own, and placed by -herself in the royal household, had been married without her knowledge -to Mr. Masham, who was one of the queen’s pages; but there are allusions -before this in her letters to the queen to “flatterers,” which point at -least to some suspected influence undermining her own. She tells us -first in a few succinct pages who this was whose private marriage -excited so much wonder and indignation in her mind. Abigail and all her -family owed their establishment in life to the active exertions of the -duchess, who had taken them in their poverty upon her shoulders--or -rather had succeeded in passing them on to the broader shoulders of the -public, which was still more satisfactory. Thus she had been the making -of the whole band, henceforward through other members besides Abigail to -prove thorns in her flesh. Harley, who was at this time secretary of -state, and aiming at higher place, was related in the same degree on the -father’s side to Mrs. Abigail; so that, first cousin to the great -duchess on one hand and to the leader of the House of Commons on the -other, though it suits the narrator’s purpose to humble her, Mrs. Hill -was no child of the people. It is curious to remark here that Harley too -came to his first advancement by Marlborough’s patronage. - -From the moment of this discovery, and of the further facts that the -marriage had taken place under Anne’s auspices, and that Abigail had -already taken advantage of her favor to bring Harley into close -relations with the queen, the duchess gave her mistress little peace. -Fiery letters were showered daily upon the queen. She let nothing pass -without a hasty visit, or a long epistle. If it were not for the -pertinacity with which she returns again and again to one subject, these -letters have so much force of character in them that it would be -impossible not to enter with sympathetic excitement into the fray. The -reader is carried along by the passionate absorption of the writer’s -mind as she pours forth page upon page, flying to her desk at every new -incident, transmitting copies of every epistle to Godolphin to secure -his coöperation, and to Marlborough, though so much farther off, to show -him how she had confuted all his adversaries. And then there follows a -record of stormy scenes, remonstrances, and appeals that lose their -effect by repetition. The duchess would never accept defeat. Every new -affront, every symptom of failure in the policy which she supported with -so much zeal, made her rush, if possible, to the presence of the queen, -with a storm of reproaches and invectives, with tears of fury and -outcries of wrath,--or to the pen, with which she reiterated the same -burning story of her wrongs. Anne is represented to us throughout in an -attitude of stolid and passive resistance, which increases our sympathy -with the weeping, raging, passionate woman, whose eloquence, whose -arguments, whose appeals and entreaties all dash unheeded against the -rock of tranquil obstinacy which is no more moved by them than the cliff -is moved by the petulance of the rising tide; although, on the other -hand, a similar sympathy is not - -[Illustration: THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. - -ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE, FROM MEZZOTINT AFTER PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY -KNELLER.] - -wanting for the dull and placid soul which could get no peace, and which -longed above all things for tranquillity, for gentle attentions and soft -voices, and the privilege of nominating bishops and playing basset in -peace. Poor lady! on the whole it is Queen Anne who is most to be -pitied. She was often ill, always unwieldly and uncomfortable. She had -nobody but a soft, gliding, smooth-tongued Abigail to fall back upon, -while the duchess had half the great men of the time fawning upon her, -putting themselves at her feet: her husband prizing a word of kindness -from her more than anything in the world; her daughters describing -her as the dearest mother that ever was; money--which she -loved--accumulating in her coffers; and great Blenheim still a-building, -and all kinds of noble hangings, cut velvets and satins, pictures, and -every fine thing that could be conceived, getting collected for the -adornment of that great house. - -Nevertheless, there can be little doubt that Duchess Sarah represented a -nobler idea and grander national policy than that into which her -mistress was betrayed. Her later intercourse with Anne was little more -than a persecution; and yet what she aimed at was better than the -dishonoring and selfish policy by which she was finally conquered. The -Marlboroughs were not of those who pressed the German heir upon the -queen, or would have compelled her to receive his visit, which she -passionately declared she could not bear; but they were determined, all -treasonable correspondence notwithstanding, upon the maintenance of the -Protestant succession, upon the firm establishment of English -independence and greatness,--those objects which alone had justified the -Revolution and made the stern chapter of William’s life and reign -anything better than an incidental episode. Though he had been false to -William, as everybody was false in those days, and had lain so long in -the cold shade of his displeasure, Marlborough had, in his whole -magnificent career, been little more than the executor of William’s -plans, the fulfiller of his policy. The duchess, on her side, with much -love of power and of gain, with all the drawbacks of her temper and -pertinacity, still bent every faculty to the work of backing up that -policy, as embodied in her husband, keeping his friends in power, -neutralizing the efforts of his enemies, and bringing the war to an -entirely successful conclusion. A certain enlightenment was in all her -passionate interferences with the course of public affairs. The men whom -she labored to thrust into office were the best men of the time; the -ascendency she endeavored so violently to retain was one under which -England had been elevated in the scale of nations and all her liberties -confirmed. Such persecuting and intolerant acts as the bill against -occasional conformity, which was a test of exceptional severity, had her -strenuous opposition. In short, had there been no Marlborough to carry -on the half-begun war at William’s death, and no Sarah at Anne’s ear to -inspire the queen’s sluggish nature with spirit and to keep her up to -the mark of the large plans of her predecessor, England might have -fallen into another driveling period of foreign subserviency, into a new -and meaner Restoration. - -That the reader may see, however, to what an extraordinary pass the -friendship had come which had been so intimate and close, we add the -duchess’s account of the concluding interview. Every kind of -exasperating circumstance had accumulated in the mean time between the -former friends. There had been violent meetings, violent letters by the -score; even in the midst of a thanksgiving service Sarah had taken her -mistress to task and imperiously bidden her not to answer. Indeed, the -poor queen was more or less hunted down, pursued to her last corner of -defense, when the mistress of the robes made her sudden appearance at -Kensington one April afternoon in the year 1710, when everything was -tending toward her downfall. - - As I was entering, the Queen said she was just going to write to - me, and when I began to speak she interrupted me four or five times - with these repeated words, “Whatever you have to say you may put it - in writing.” I said her Majesty never did so hard a thing to any as - to refuse to hear them speak, and assured her that I was not going - to trouble her upon the subject which I knew to be so ungrateful to - her, but that I could not possibly rest until I had cleared myself - from some particular calumnies with which I had been loaded. I then - went on to speak (though the Queen turned away her face from me) - and to represent my hard case, that there were those about her - Majesty that had made her believe that I said things of her which I - was no more capable of saying than of killing my own children. The - Queen said without doubt there were many lies told. I then begged, - in order to make this trouble the shorter and my own innocence the - plainer, that I might know the particulars of which I had been - accused, because if I were guilty that would quickly appear, and if - I were innocent this method alone would clear me. The Queen replied - that she would give me no answer, laying hold on a word in my - letter that what I had to say in my own vindication _need have no - consequence in obliging her Majesty to answer_, etc., which surely - did not at all imply that I did not desire to know the particular - things laid to my charge, without which it was impossible for me to - clear myself. This I assured her Majesty was all I desired, and - that I did not ask the names of the authors or relaters of these - calumnies, saying all that I could think reasonably to enforce my - just request. I protested to her Majesty that I had no design in - giving her this trouble, to solicit the return of her favor, but - that my sole view was to clear myself: which was too just a design - to be wholly disappointed by her Majesty. Upon this the Queen - offered to go out of the room, I following her, and begging leave - to clear myself, and the Queen repeating over and over again, “You - desired no answer and shall have none.” When she came to the door I - fell into great disorder; streams of tears flow’d down against my - will and prevented my speaking for some time. At length I recovered - myself and appealed to the Queen in the vehemence of my concern - whether I might not still have been happy in her Majesty’s favour - if I could have contradicted or dissembled my real opinion of men - or things? whether I had ever, during our long friendship, told her - one lie, or play’d the hypocrite once? whether I had offended in - anything, unless in a very zealous pressing upon her that which I - thought necessary for her service and security? I then said I was - informed by a very reasonable and credible person about the court - that things were laid to my charge of which I was wholly incapable; - that this person knew that such stories were perpetually told to - her Majesty to incense her, and had beg’d of me to come and - vindicate myself: that the same person had thought me of late - guilty of some omissions towards her Majesty, being entirely - ignorant how uneasy to her my frequent attendance must be after - what had happened between us. I explained some things which I had - heard her Majesty had taken amiss of me, and then, with a fresh - flood of tears and a concern sufficient to move compassion, even - where all love was absent, I beg’d to know what other particulars - she had heard of me, that I might not be denied all power of - justifying myself. But the only return was, “You desired no answer - and you shall have none.” I then beg’d to know if her Majesty would - tell me some other time? “You desired no answer and you shall have - none.” I then appealed to her Majesty again, if she did not herself - know that I had often despised interest in comparison of serving - her faithfully and doing right? And whether she did not know me to - be of a temper incapable of disowning anything which I knew to be - true? “You desired no answer and you shall have none.” This usage - was so severe, and these words, so often repeated, were so shocking - (being an utter denial of common justice to one who had been a most - faithful servant, and now asked nothing more) that I could not - conquer myself, but said the most disrespectful thing I ever spoke - to the Queen in my life, and yet what such an occasion and such - circumstances might well excuse if not justify, and that was, that - “I was confident her Majesty would suffer for such an instance of - inhumanity.” The Queen answered, “That will be to myself.” Thus - ended this remarkable conversation, the last I ever had with her - Majesty [the duchess adds]. - -After this there was no more possibility of reconciliation. Attempts of -all kinds were made, and there is even a record of a somewhat pitiful -scene in which great Marlborough himself, on his return from the wars, -appears on his knees pleading with Queen Anne to take back her old -companion into favor, but without effect. Unfortunately for himself, he -did not resign at this turning-point, being persuaded both by friends -and foes not to do so; and with the evident risk before his eyes of -hazarding all the combinations of the war and giving a distinct -advantage to the enemy against whom he had hitherto operated so -forcibly. He kept his command, therefore, for the public interest rather -than his own, and returned, when the season of warfare recommenced, to -the post which all these events made uneasy for him, and where his -credit was shaken and his prestige diminished by the disfavor of the -court and the opposition of the ministry. The responsibility was -therefore left upon Anne and her ministers of dismissing him, which they -did in the end of 1711, to the consternation of their allies, the -delight of the French, and the bewilderment of the nation. The party -plots by which this came about are far too long and involved to be -capable of explanation here--neither can we enter into the semi-secret -negotiations for the humiliating and disgraceful peace secured by the -treaty of Utrecht, which were carried on unknown to Marlborough, to the -destruction of the alliance and confusion of all his plans. Never, -perhaps, was so great a man treated with such contumely. His associate -in his work, the Lord Treasurer Godolphin, the great financier of his -time, had already fallen, leaving office so poor a man that he would -have been wholly dependent on his relations but for the unexpected death -of a brother who left him a small fortune. He has left an account of his -dismissal by the queen herself and on the ground apparently of personal -offense, which is extraordinary indeed. - -Anne herself was no doubt little more than a puppet in the hands of -successive politicians; but yet the struggle that took place around her -at this unfortunate period--the maintenance by every wile of somebody -who could influence her, the conflict for her ear and favor--shows her -immense importance in the economy of public life. Queen Victoria is the -object of universal veneration and respect, but not the smallest -official in her government need fear the displeasure of the queen as the -highest minister had to fear that of Anne, for whom no one entertained -any particular respect. Yet there was little real power in the -possession of the unfortunate woman who, badgered on all sides, and -refused both peace and rest, sank slowly into disease and decay during -the two years which followed the disgrace of the friend of her youth. - -She had no longer an audacious Freeman to tell her unwelcome truths and -tease her with appeals and reproaches; but it is probable that she soon -found her soft-voiced Abigail, her caressing duchess (of Somerset) -little more satisfactory; never was a head that wore a crown more -uneasy. She held fast to the power which she had been persuaded she was -to get into her own hands when she was delivered from the sway of the -Marlboroughs, and for a little while believed it possible that she could -reign unaided. But this was a delusion that could not last long; and her -death was hastened, it is said, by a violent altercation between Harley -and St. John, when the inevitable struggle between the two who had -pushed all competitors out of place occurred at last. They wrangled over -the staff of office in Anne’s very presence, overwhelming her with -agitation and excitement. Apart from politics, the royal existence was -dull enough. When Dean Swift was at Windsor, following Harley and -waiting for the decision of his Irish business, we have occasional -glimpses through his eyes which show the tedium of the court. “There was -a drawing-room to-day,” he says, “but so few company that the Queen sent -for us into her bedchamber, where we made our bows, and stood, about -twenty of us round the room, while she looked round with her fan in her -mouth, and once a minute said about three words to some that were -nearest her, and then she was told dinner was ready, and went out.” The -same authority mentions her way of taking exercise, which was a strange -one. “The Queen was hunting the stag till four this afternoon,” he says; -“she drove in her chaise about forty miles, and it was five before we -went to dinner.... She hunts in a chaise with one horse, which she -drives herself, and drives furiously like Jehu, and is a mighty hunter -like Nimrod.” Windsor’s great park and forest must have afforded room -and space for some part at least of this course, and a hunt in August -would need to have been confined to ground less cultivated than that of -the smiling plain which skirts the castle hill on the other side. Queen -Anne’s Ride and Queen Anne’s Drive are still well-known names in the -locality where the strange apparition of the queen, solitary in her high -chaise, and “driving furiously” after the hunt, must once have been a -familiar sight. - -The end of this poor queen’s life was disturbed by a new and terrible -struggle, in which natural sentiment and public duty, and all the -prepossessions and prejudices of her nature, were set in conflict one -against the other. This was upon the question of the succession. The -family of Hanover, the Electress Sophia and her son and grandson, had -been chosen solemnly by Parliament as the nearest members of the royal -race who were Protestants, and were recognized as the heirs to the -throne in all public acts and in the prayers of the church. But to Anne -the house of Hanover was of no special interest. She did not love the -idea of successor at all. She had declared to Marlborough passionately -that the proposed visit of the Hanoverian prince was a thing which she -could not bear, and there was no friendship, nor even acquaintance, -between her and relatives so far removed. But apart from all public -knowledge, in the secret chambers and by the back-stairs came whispers -now of another name, that of James Stuart, more familiar and kindly--the -baby-brother about whom Anne had believed the prevailing fable, that he -was a supposititious child, for whom she had invented the name of the -Pretender, but who now in her childless decay began to be presented -before her as the victim of a great wrong. Poor queen! she was torn -asunder by all these contradictions; and if her heart was melting -toward her father’s son, all the dull experience which she had acquired -in spite of herself must have convinced her that this solution of the -difficulty was impossible. Her life of late had been one long conflict; -imperious Sarah first, then Harley and St. John quarrelling in her very -presence-chamber; and when the door was shut and the curtains drawn and -all the world departed save Abigail lying on a mattress on the floor to -be near her mistress, here was the most momentous question of all. She -who desired nothing so much as quiet and to be left in peace, was once -again compelled to face a problem of the utmost importance to England, -and on which she alone had the power to say a decisive word. Little -wonder if Anne was harassed beyond all endurance. But those who pressed -this question upon her waning senses were the instruments of their own -overthrow. The powers of life worn out before their time could bear no -more. The hopes of the Jacobite party were rising higher every day as -the end drew near; but at the last she escaped them, having uttered no -word of support to their cause; and in the confusion which ensued, -George I. was peacefully proclaimed as soon as the queen out of her -lethargy had slipped beyond the boundaries of any earthly kingdom. - -The Marlboroughs, who had been living on the Continent since their -disgrace, came back after this new change. The duke’s entry into London -“in great state, attended by hundreds of gentlemen on horseback and some -of the nobility in their coaches” a few days after, is reported by one -of the chroniclers of the time. The duchess followed him soon after, and -whether her temper and disposition had so far mended as to allow him to -enjoy the peace he had so often longed for by the side of her he loved, -he had at least a tranquil evening-time among his friends and -dependents, and the grandchildren who were to be his heirs--for only one -of his own children survived at his death. Duchess Sarah lived long -after him. - -[Illustration: BISHOP GILBERT BURNET. - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MEZZOTINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM BY JOHN -SMITH, AFTER THE PAINTING BY JOHN RILEY.] - -She was sixty-two when he died, but, nevertheless, in spite of temper -and every other failing, was still charming enough to be sought in -marriage by two distinguished suitors--one of them that proud Duke of -Somerset whose first wife had supplanted her at court. She answered this -potentate in the only way consistent with the dignity of a woman of her -age and circumstances; but added, with a noble pride which sat well upon -her, that had she been but half her age, not the emperor of the world -should ever have filled the place sacred to great Marlborough. It is a -pity we could not leave her here in the glow of this proud tenderness -and constancy. She was capable of that and many other noble things, but -not of holding her tongue, of withdrawing into the background, or -accepting in other ways the natural change from maturity to age. Her -restless energies, however, had some legitimate outlet. She finished -Blenheim, and she wrote innumerable explanations and memoranda, which -finally shaped themselves into that “Account of the Conduct of the -Duchess of Marlborough from her first Coming to Court,” which is one of -the most interesting of all _mémoires pour servir_. This was published -in her eighty-second year, and it is curious to think of the vivacious -and unsubdued spirit which could throw itself back so completely out of -the calm of age into the conflicts and the very atmosphere of what had -passed thirty years before. And she did her best to prepare for a great -life of Marlborough which should set him right with the world. But her -time was not always so innocently employed, and it is to be feared that -she wrangled to the end of her life. The “Characters” of her -contemporaries which she left behind are full of spite and malice. There -was no peace in her soul. A characteristic little story is told of her -in an illness. “Last year she had lain a great while ill without -speaking; her physicians said she must be blistered or she would die. -She called out, ‘I won’t be blistered and I won’t die!’ and apparently -for the moment kept her word.” She lived long enough to be impaled by -Pope in verses which an involuntary admiration for this daring, -dauntless, impassioned woman makes us reluctant to quote. She survived -almost her entire generation, and was capable of living a hundred years -more had nature permitted. She was eighty-four when she succumbed at -last, in the year 1744, thirty years after the death of the queen. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE AUTHOR OF “GULLIVER” - - -There are few figures in history, and still fewer in literature, which -have occupied so great a place in the world’s attention, or which retain -so strong a hold upon its interest, as that of Jonathan Swift, dean of -St. Patrick’s. It is considerably more than a century since he died, old -and mad and miserable: a man who had never been satisfied with life, or -felt his fate equal to his deserts; who disowned and hated (even when he -served it) the country of his birth, and with fierce and bitter passion -denounced human nature itself, and left a sting in almost every -individual whom he loved; a man whose preferment and home were far from -the center of public affairs, and who had no hereditary claim on the -attention of England. Yet when the English reader, or he who in the -farthest corner of the New World has the same right to English -literature as that which the subjects of Queen Victoria hold,--as the -American does--from the subjects of Queen Anne,--reads the title at the -head of this page, neither the one nor the other will have any -difficulty in distinguishing among all the ecclesiastical dignitaries of -that age who it is that stands conspicuous as the dean. Not in royal -Westminster or Windsor is this man to be found; not the ruler of any -great cathedral in the rich English midlands where tradition and wealth -and an almost Catholic supremacy united to make the great official of -the church as important as any official of the state--but far from -those influences, half as far as America is now from the center of -English society and the sources of power, one of a nation which the most -obstinate conservative of to-day will not hesitate to allow was then -deeply wronged and cruelly misgoverned by England, many and anxious as -have been her efforts since to make amends. Yet among the many strange -examples of that far more than republican power (not always most evident -in republics) by which a man of native force and genius, however humble, -finds his way to the head of affairs and impresses his individuality -upon his age, when thousands born to better fortunes are swept away as -nobodies, Swift is one of the most remarkable. His origin, though noted -by himself, not without a certain pride, as from a family of gentry not -unknown in their district, was in his own person almost as lowly and -poor as it was possible to be. The posthumous son of a poor official in -the Dublin law-courts, owing his education to the kindness, or perhaps -less the kindness than the family pride, of an uncle, Swift entered the -world as a hanger-on, waiting what fortune and a patron might do for -him, a position scarcely comprehensible to young Englishmen nowadays, -though then the natural method of advancement. Such a young man in the -present day would betake himself to his books, with the practical aim of -an examination before him, and the hope of immediate admission through -that gate to the public service and all its chances. It is amusing to -speculate what the difference might have been had Jonathan Swift, coming -raw with his degree from Trinity College, Dublin, shouldered his robust -way to the head of an examination list, and thus making himself at a -stroke independent of patronage, gone out to reign and rule and -distribute justice in India, or pushed himself upward among the -gentlemanly mediocrities of a public office. One asks would he have -found that method more successful, and endured the desk and the routine -of his office, and - -[Illustration: JONATHAN SWIFT. - -FROM PHOTOGRAPH OF ORIGINAL MARBLE BUST OF SWIFT BY ROUBILLIAC -(1695-1762), NOW IN THE LIBRARY OF TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN.] - -“got on” with the head of his department, better than he endured the -monotony and subjection, the possible slights and spurns of Sir William -Temple’s household, which he entered, half servant, half equal, the poor -relation, the secretary and companion of that fastidious philosopher? -The question may be cut short by the almost certainty that Swift could -not have gained his promotion in any such way; but his age had not -learned the habit of utilizing education, and he was one of the idle -youths of fame. “He was stopped of his degree,” he himself writes in his -autobiographical notes, “for dullness and insufficiency, and at last -hardly admitted in a manner little to his credit, which is called in -that college _speciali gratia_.” Recent biographers have striven to -prove that this really meant nothing to Swift’s discredit, but it is to -be supposed that in such a matter he is himself the best authority. - -The life of the household of dependents at Moor Park, where young Swift -attended Sir William’s pleasure in the library, while the Johnsons and -Dingleys, the waiting-gentlewomen of a system which now lingers only in -courts, hung about my lady, her relatives, gossips, servants, is to us -extremely difficult to realize, and still more to understand. This -little cluster of secondary personages, scarcely at all elevated above -the servants, with whom they sometimes sat at table, and whose offices -they were always liable to be called on to perform, yet who were all -conscious of gentle blood in their veins, and a relationship more or -less distinct with the heads of the house, is indeed one of the most -curious lingerings of the past in the eighteenth century. When we read -in one of Macaulay’s brilliant sketches, or in Swift’s own words, or in -the indications given by both history and fiction, that the -parson,--perhaps at the great house,--humble priest of the parish, found -his natural mate in the waiting-maid, it is generally forgotten that the -waiting-maid was then in most cases quite as good as the parson: a -gently bred and well-descended woman, like her whom an unkind but not -ignoble fate made into the Stella we all know, the mild and modest star -of Swift’s existence. It was no doubt a step in the transition from the -great medieval household, where the squire waited on the knight with a -lowliness justified by his certainty of believing himself knight in his -turn, and where my lady’s service was a noble education, the only school -accessible to the young gentlewomen of her connection--down to our own -less picturesque and more independent days, in which personal service -has ceased to be compatible with the pretensions of any who can assume, -by the most distant claim, to be “gentle” folk. The institution is very -apparent in Shakspere’s day, the waiting-gentlewomen who surround his -heroines being of entirely different mettle from the soubrettes of -modern comedy. At a later period such a fine gentleman as John Evelyn, -in no need of patronage, was content and proud that his daughter should -enter a great household to learn how to comport herself in the world. In -the end of the seventeenth century the dependents were perhaps more -absolutely dependent. But even this, like most things, had its better -and worst side. - -That a poor widow with her child, like Stella’s mother, should find -refuge in the house of her wealthy kinswoman at no heavier cost than -that of attending to Lady Temple’s linen and laces, and secure thus such -a training for her little girl as might indeed have ended in the rude -household of a Parson Trulliber, but at the same time might fit her to -take her place in a witty and brilliant society, and enter into all the -thoughts of the most brilliant genius of his time, was no ill fate; nor -is there anything that is less than noble and befitting (in theory) in -the association of that young man of genius, whatsoever exercises of -patience he might be put to, with the highly cultured man of the world, -the ex-ambassador and councilor of kings, under whose auspices he could -learn to understand both books and men, see the best company of his -time, and acquire at second hand all the fruits of a ripe experience. So -that, perhaps, there is something to be said after all for the curious -little community at Moor Park, where Sir William, like a god, made the -day good or evil for his people according as he smiled or frowned; where -the young Irish secretary, looking but uneasily upon a world in which -his future fate was so unassured, had yet the wonderful chance once, if -no more, of explaining English institutions to King William, and in his -leisure the amusement of teaching little Hester how to write, and -learning from her baby prattle--which must have been the delight of the -house, kept up and encouraged by her elders--that “little language” -which had become a sort of synonym for the most intimate and endearing -utterances of tenderness. No doubt Sir William himself (who left her a -modest little fortune when he died) must have loved to hear the child -talk, and even Lady Giffard and the rest, having no responsibility for -her parts of speech, kept her a baby as long as possible, and delighted -in the pretty jargon to which foolish child-lovers cling in all ages -after the little ones themselves are grown too wise to use it more. - -Jonathan Swift left Ireland, along with many more, in the commotion that -succeeded the revolution of 1688--a very poor and homely lad, with -nothing but the learning, such as it was, picked up in a somewhat -disorderly university career. Through his mother, then living at -Leicester, and on the score of humble relationship between Mrs. Swift -and Lady Temple, of whom the reader may perhaps remember the romance and -tender history,--a pleasant association,--he was introduced to Sir -William Temple’s household, but scarcely, it would appear, at first to -any permanent position there. He was engaged, an unfriendly writer says, -“at the rate of £20 a year” as amanuensis and reader, but “Sir William -never favoured him with his conversation nor allowed him to sit at table -with him.” Temple’s own account of the position, however, contains -nothing at all derogatory to the young man, for whom, about a year -after, he endeavored, no doubt in accordance with Swift’s own wishes, to -find a situation with Sir Robert Southwell, then going to Ireland as -secretary of state. Sir William describes Swift as “of good family in -Herefordshire.... He has lived in my house, read to me, writ for me, and -kept all my accounts as far as my small occasions required. He has Latin -and Greek, some French, writes a very good current hand, is very honest -and diligent, and has good friends, though they have for the present -lost their fortunes,” the great man says; and he recommends the youth -“either as a gentleman to wait on you, or a clerk to write under you, or -upon any establishment of the College to recommend him to a fellowship -there, which he has a just pretence to.” This shows how little there was -in the position of “a gentleman to wait on you,” of which the young -suitor need have been ashamed. Swift’s own account of this speedy return -to Ireland is that it was by advice of the physicians, “who weakly -imagined that his native air might be of some use to recover his -health,” which he was young enough to have endangered by the temptations -of Sir William’s fine gardens; a “surfeit of fruit” being the innocent -cause to which he attributes the disease which haunted him for all the -rest of his life. - -His absence, however, from the Temple household was of very short -duration, Sir Robert Southwell having apparently had no use for his -services, or means of preferring him to a fellowship, and he returned to -Moor Park in 1690, where he remained for four years. It was quite clear, -whatever his vicissitudes of feeling might have been, that he identified -himself entirely with his patron’s opinions and even prejudices, and -was - -[Illustration: MOOR PARK, RESIDENCE OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, AND OF SWIFT. - -DRAWN BY CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY, ENGRAVED BY R. VARLEY.] - -a loyal and devoted retainer both now and afterward. When Sir William -became involved in a literary quarrel with the great scholar Bentley, -young Swift rushed into the field with a _jeu d’esprit_ which has -outlived all other records of the controversy. The “Battle of the Books” -could hardly have been written in aid of a hard or contemptuous master. -Years after, when he had a house of his own and had entered upon his -independent career, he turned his little rectory garden into a humble -imitation of the Dutch paradise which Temple had made to bloom in the -wilds of Surrey, with a canal and a willow walk like those which were so -dear to King William and his courtiers. And when Temple died, it was to -Swift, and not to any of his nephews, that Sir William committed the -charge of his papers and literary remains. This does not look like a -hard bondage on one side, or any tyrannical sway on the other, -notwithstanding a few often-quoted phrases which are taken as implying -complaint. “Don’t you remember,” Swift asks long after, “how I used to -be in pain when Sir William Temple would look cold and out of temper for -three or four days, and I used to suspect a hundred reasons?” But these -words need not represent anything more than that sensitiveness to the -aspect of the person on whom his prospects and comfort depend which is -inevitable to every individual in a similar position, however -considerate and friendly the patron may be. The hard-headed and -unbending Scotch philosopher, James Mill, was just as sensitive to the -looks of his kind friend and helper in the early struggles of life, -Jeremy Bentham, in whose sunny countenance Mill discovered unspoken -offense with an ingenuity worthy of a self-tormenting woman. It was -natural indeed that Swift, a high-spirited young man, should fret and -struggle as the years went on and nothing happened to enlarge his -horizon beyond the trees of Moor Park. He was sent to King William, as -has been said, when Temple was unable to wait upon his Majesty, to -explain to him the expediency of certain parliamentary measures, and -this was no doubt intended by his patron as a means of bringing him -under the king’s notice. William would seem to have taken a kind of -vague interest in the secretary, which he expressed in an odd way by -offering him a captain’s commission in a cavalry regiment,--a proposal -which did not tempt Swift,--and by teaching him how to cut asparagus “in -the Dutch way,” and to eat up all the stalks, as the dean afterward, in -humorous revenge, made an unlucky visitor of his own do. But William, -notwithstanding these whimsical evidences of favor, neither listened to -the young secretary’s argument nor gave him a prebend as had been hoped. - -Four years, however, is a long time for an ambitious young man to spend -in dependence, watching one hope die out after another; and Swift’s -impatience began to be irrestrainable and to trouble the peace of his -patron’s learned leisure. Although destined from the first to the -church, and for some time waiting in tremulous expectation of -ecclesiastical preferment, Swift had not yet taken orders. The -explanation he gives of how and why he finally determined on doing so is -characteristic. His dissatisfaction and restlessness, probably his -complaints, moved Sir William,--though evidently deeply offended that -his secretary should wish to leave him,--to offer him an employ of about -£120 a year in the Rolls Office in Ireland, of which Temple held the -sinecure office of master. “Whereupon [says Swift’s own narrative] Mr. -Swift told him that since he had now an opportunity of living without -being driven into the Church for a maintenance, he was resolved to go to -Ireland and take Holy Orders.” This arbitrary decision to balk his -patron’s tardy bounty, and take his own way in spite of him, was -probably as much owing to a characteristic blaze of temper as to the -somewhat fantastic disinterestedness here put forward, though Swift was -never a man greedy of money or disposed to sacrifice his pride to the -acquisition of gain, notwithstanding certain habits of miserliness -afterward developed in his character. Sir William was “extremely -angry”--hurt, no doubt, as many a patron has been, by the ingratitude of -the dependent who would not trust everything to him, but claimed some -free will in the disposition of his own life. Had they been uncle and -nephew, or even father and son, the same thing might easily have -happened. Swift set out for Dublin full of indignation and excitement, -“everybody judging I did best to leave him,”--but alas! in this, as in -so many cases, pride was doomed to speedy downfall. - -On reaching Dublin, and taking the necessary steps for his ordination, -Swift found that it was needful for him to have a recommendation and -certificate from the patron in whose house so many years of his life had -been spent. No doubt it must have been a somewhat bitter necessity to -bow his head before the protector whom he had left in anger and ask for -this. Macaulay describes him as addressing his patron in the language -“of a lacquey, or even of a beggar,” but we doubt greatly if apart from -prejudice or the tingle of these unforgettable words, any impartial -reader would form such an impression. “The particulars expected of me,” -Swift writes, “are what relates to morals and learning and the reasons -of quitting your honour’s family, that is whether the last was -occasioned by any ill action.” “Your honour” has a somewhat servile tone -in our days, but in Swift’s the formality was natural. Lady Giffard, -Temple’s sister-in-law, in the further quarrels which followed Sir -William’s death, spoke of this as a penitential letter, and perhaps it -was not wonderful that she should look on the whole matter with an -unfavorable eye. No doubt the ladies of the house thought young Swift an -unnatural monster for wishing to go away and thinking himself able to -set up for himself without their condescending notice and the godlike -philosopher’s society and instruction, and were pleased to find his -pride so quickly brought down. Sir William, however, it would seem, -behaved as a philosopher and a gentleman should, and gave the required -recommendation with magnanimity and kindness. Thus the young man had his -way. - -Swift got a small benefice in the north of Ireland, the little country -parish of Kilroot, in which doubtless he expected that the sense of -independence would make up to him for other deprivations. It was near -Belfast, among those hard-headed Scotch colonists whom he could never -endure; and probably this had something to do with the speedy revulsion -of his mind. He remained there only a year; and it is perhaps the best -proof we could have of his sense of isolation and banishment that this -was the only time in his life in which he thought of marriage. There is -in existence a fervent and impassioned letter addressed to the object of -his affections, a Miss Waring, whom, after the fashion of the time, he -called Varina. He does not seem in this case to have had the usual good -fortune that attended his relationships with women. Miss Waring did not -respond with the same warmth; indeed, she was discouraging and coldly -prudent. And he was still pleading for a favorable answer when there -arrived a letter from Moor Park inviting his return--Sir William’s -pride, too, having apparently broken down under the blank made by -Swift’s departure. He made instant use of this invitation--which must -have soothed his injured feelings and restored his self-satisfaction--to -shake the resolution of the ungrateful Varina. “I am once more offered,” -he says, “the advantage to have the same acquaintance with greatness -which I formerly enjoyed, and with better prospects of interest”; and -though he offers magnanimously “to forego it all for your sake,” yet it -is evident that the proposal had set the blood stirring in his veins, -and that the dependence from which he had broken loose with a kind of -desperation, once more seemed to - -[Illustration: DEAN SWIFT. - -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY PIERRE FOURDRINIER, AFTER A PAINTING BY -CHARLES JERVAS.] - -him, unless Varina had been melted by the sacrifice he would have made -for her, to be the most desirable thing in the world. - -Macaulay, and after him Thackeray and many less distinguished writers, -still persistently represent this part of Swift’s life as one of -unmitigated hardship and suffering. The brilliant historian so much -scorns the guidance of facts as to say that the humble student “made -love to a pretty waiting-maid who was the chief ornament of the -servant’s hall,” by way of explaining the strange yet tender story which -has been more deeply discussed than any great national event, and which -has made the name of Stella known to every reader. - -Hester Johnson was a child of seven when young Swift, “the humble -student,” went first to Moor Park. She was only fifteen when he -returned, no longer as a sort of educated man of all work, but on the -entreaty of the patron who had felt the want of his company so much as -to forget all grievances. He was not now a humble student, Temple’s -satellite and servant, but his friend and coadjutor, fully versed in all -his secrets, and most likely already chosen as the guardian of his fame -and the executor of his purposes and wishes; therefore it is not -possible that Macaulay’s reckless picturesque description could apply to -either time. Such an easy picture, however, has more effect upon the -general imagination than the outcries of all the biographers, and the -many researches made to show that Swift was not a sort of literary -lackey, nor Stella an Abigail, but that he had learned to prize the -advantages of his home there during his absence from it, and that during -the latter part of his life at Moor Park at least his position was as -good as that of a dependent can ever be. - -Sir William Temple died, as Swift records affectionately, on the morning -of January 27, 1699, “and with him all that was good and amiable among -men.” He died, however, leaving the young man who had spent so many -years of his life under his wing, scarcely better for that long -subjection. Swift had a legacy of £100 for his trouble in editing his -patron’s memoirs, and he got the profits of those memoirs, amounting, -Mr. Forster calculates, to no less than £600--no inconsiderable present; -but no one of the many appointments which were then open to the -retainers of the great, and especially to a young man of letters, had -come in Swift’s way. He himself, it is said, “still believed in the -royal pledge for the first prebend that should fall vacant in -Westminster or Canterbury,” but this was a hope which had accompanied -him ever since he explained constitutional law to King William six years -before, and could not be very lively after this long interval. - -Thus Swift’s life came to a sudden and complete break. The great -household, with its easy and uneasy jumble of patrons and dependents, -fell asunder and ceased to be. The younger members of the family were -jealous of the last bequest, which put the fame of their distinguished -relative into the hands of a stranger, and did their best to set Swift -down in his proper place, and to proclaim how much he was the creature -of their uncle’s bounty. In the breaking up which followed, there were -many curious partings and conjunctions. Why Hester Johnson, to whom Sir -William had bequeathed a little independence, should have left her -mother’s care and joined her fortunes to those of Mrs. Dingley instead, -remains unexplained, unless indeed it was Mrs. Johnson’s second marriage -which was the cause, or perhaps some vexation on the part of Lady -Giffard--with whom the girl’s mother remained, notwithstanding her -marriage--at the liberality of her brother to the child brought up in -his house. Mrs. Johnson had other daughters, one of whom Swift saw, and -describes favorably, years after. Perhaps Mrs. Dingley and the girl whom -he had taught and petted from her childhood had taken Swift’s side in -the Giffard-Temple difference, and so got on uneasy terms with the rest -of the household, always faithful to my lady. At all events, at the -breaking up Hester with her little fortune separated herself from the -connection generally, and with her elder friend made an independent new -beginning, as Swift also had to do. The fact seems of no particular -importance, except that it afforded a reason for Swift’s interference in -her affairs, and threw them into a combination which lasted all their -lives. - -Swift was thirty-one, too old to be beginning his career, yet young -enough to turn with eager zest to the unknown, when this catastrophe -occurred. Sir William Temple’s secretary and literary executor must have -known, one would suppose, many people who could have helped him to -promotion, but it would seem as if a kind of irresistible fate impelled -him back to his native country, though he did not love it, and forced -him to be an Irishman in spite of himself. The only post that came in -his way was a chaplaincy, conjoined with a secretaryship, in the suite -of the Earl of Berkeley, newly appointed one of the lords justices in -Ireland, and just then entering upon his duties. Swift accepted the -position in hopes that he should be continued as Lord Berkeley’s -secretary, and possibly go with him afterward to more stirring scenes -and a larger life, but this expectation was not carried out. Neither was -his application--which seems at the moment a somewhat bold one--for the -deanery of Derry successful, and all the preferment he succeeded in -getting was another Irish living, with a better stipend and in a more -favorable position than Kilroot: the parish of Laracor, within twenty -miles of Dublin, which, conjoined with a prebend in St. Patrick’s and -other small additions, brought him in £200 a year; a small promotion, -indeed, yet not a bad income for the place and time. And he was -naturally, as Lord Berkeley’s chaplain, in the midst of the finest -company that Ireland could boast, one of a court more extended than Sir -William Temple’s, yet of a similar description, and affording greater -scope for his hitherto undeveloped social qualities. Satire more -sportive than mere scorn, yet sometimes savage enough; an elephantine -fun, which pleased the age; the puns and quibs in which the men emulated -one another; the merry rhymes that pleased the ladies,--seem suddenly to -have burst forth in him, throwing an unexpected gleam upon his new -sphere. - -Swift was always popular with women. He treated them roughly on many -occasions, with an arrogance that grew with age, but evidently possessed -that charm--a quality by itself and not dependent upon any laws of -amiability--which attracts one sex to the other. Lady Berkeley, whom he -describes as a woman of “the most easy conversation joined with the -truest piety,” and her young daughters were charming and lively -companions with whom the chaplain soon found himself at home. And -notwithstanding his disappointment with respect to the preferment which -Lord Berkeley might have procured for him and did not, it would seem -that this period of hanging on at the little Irish court was amusing at -least. The lively little picture of the inferior members of a great -household which Swift made for the entertainment of the drawing-rooms on -the occasion when Mrs. Frances Harris lost her purse, is one of the most -vivid and amusing possible. - -His stay in Ireland at this period lasted about two years, during which -he paid repeated visits to his living at Laracor, and made trial of -existence there also. The parsonage was in a ruinous condition; the -church a miserable barn; the congregation numbered about twenty persons. -Many are the tales of the new parson’s arrival there like a -thunder-storm, frightening the humble curate and his wife with the -arrogant roughness of manner which they, like many others, found -afterward covered a great deal of genuine practical kindness. His mode -of traveling, his sarcastic rhymes about the places at which he paused -on the journey, the careless swing of imperious good and ill - -[Illustration: STELLA’S COTTAGE, ON THE BOUNDARY OF THE MOOR PARK -ESTATE. - -DRAWN BY CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY, ENGRAVED BY S. DAVIS.] - -humor in which he indulged, contemptuous of everybody’s opinion, have -furnished many amusing incidents. One well-known anecdote, which -describes him as finding his congregation to consist only of his clerk -and beginning the service gravely with, “Dearly beloved Roger,” has -found a permanent place among ecclesiastical pleasantries. In all -probability it is true; but if not so, it is at least so _ben trovato_ -as to be as good as true. There were few claims upon the energies of -such a man in such a sphere, and when Lord Berkeley was recalled to -England his chaplain went with him. But neither did he find any -promotion in London. Up to this time his only literary work had been -that wonderful “Battle of the Books,” which had burst like a bombshell -into the midst of the squabble of the _literati_, but which had only as -yet been handed about in manuscript, and was therefore known to few. No -doubt it was known to various wits and scholars that Sir William -Temple’s late secretary and literary executor was a young man of no -common promise; but statesmen in general, and the king in particular, -sick and worn out with many preoccupations, had no leisure for the -claims of the Irish parson. He hung about the Berkeley household, and -gravely read out of the book of moral essays which the countess loved -those Reflections on a Broomstick which her ladyship found so edifying, -and launched upon the world an anonymous pamphlet or two, which he had -the pleasure of hearing talked about and attributed to names greater -than his own, but made no step toward the advancement for which he -longed. - -The interest of this visit to England was however as great and told for -as much in his life as if it had brought him a bishopric. It determined -that long connection and close intercourse in which Swift’s inner -history is involved. After he had paid in vain his court to the king, -and made various ineffectual attempts to recommend himself in high -quarters, he went on a visit to Farnham, where Hester Johnson and Mrs. -Dingley had settled after Sir William’s death. Swift found the two women -quite undetermined what to do, in an uncomfortable lodging, harassed for -money, and without any object in their lives. Most probably he was -called to advise as to their future plans, where they should settle and -how they were to live, both being entirely inexperienced in the art of -independent existence. They had lived together for years, and knew -everything about each other: Hester had grown up from childhood under -Swift’s eye, his pupil, his favorite and playfellow. She had now, it is -true, arrived at an age when other sentiments are supposed to come in. -She must have been about twenty, while he was thirty-four. There was no -reason in the world why they should not have married then and there, had -they so wished. But there seems no appearance or thought of any such -desire, and the question was what should the ladies do for the -arrangement of their affairs and pleasant occupation of their lives. -Farnham being untenable, where should they go? Why not to Ireland, where -Hester’s property was--where they would be near their friend, who could -help them into society and give them his own companionship as often as -he happened to be there? Here is his own account of the decision: - -“I prevailed with her and her dear friend and companion, the other -lady,” he says, “to draw what money they had into Ireland, a great part -of their fortunes being in annuities upon funds. Money was then ten per -cent. in Ireland, besides the advantage of returning it, and all the -necessaries of life at half the price. They complied with my advice, and -soon after came over; but I happening to continue some time longer in -England, they were much discouraged to live in Dublin, where they were -wholly strangers. But this adventure looked so like a frolic, the -censure held for some time as if there were a secret history in such a -removal; which however soon blew off by her excellent conduct. She came -over with her friend in the year 1700, and they both lived together -until the day [of her death, 1728].” - -This was then the time which decided that which is called the “sad and -mysterious history” of Swift and Stella--a story so strangely told, so -obstinately insisted upon as miserable, unnatural, and tragical, that -the reader or writer of to-day has scarcely the power of forming an -impartial judgment upon it. We have not a word from the woman’s side of -the question, who is supposed to have passed a melancholy existence of -unsatisfied longings and disappointed love by Swift’s side, the victim -of his capricious affections, neglect, cruelty, and fondness. That she -should have wished to marry him, that the love was impassioned on her -side, and her whole life blighted and overcast by his fantastic -repugnance to the common ties of humanity, is taken for granted by every -historian. These writers differ as to Swift’s motives, as to the -character of his feelings, and even as to the facts of the case; but no -one has the slightest doubt of what the woman’s sentiments must have -been. But, as a matter of fact, we have no evidence at all what Stella’s -sentiments were. By so much written testimony as remains we are fully -entitled to form such conclusions as we please on Swift’s side of the -question; but there is actually no testimony at all upon Stella’s side. -Appearances of blighted life or unhappiness there are none in anything -we know of her. As the ladies appear reflected in that “Journal to -Stella”--which is the dean’s only claim upon our affections, but a -strong one--they seem to have lived’ a most cheerful, lively life. They -had a number of friends, they had their little tea-parties, their circle -of witty society, to which the letters of the absent were a continual -amusement and delight. And it is the man, not the woman, who complains -of not receiving letters; it is he, not she, who exhausts every playful -wile, every tender art, to keep himself in vivid recollection. Is it -perhaps a certain mixture of masculine vanity and compassion for the -gentle feminine creature who never succeeded in getting the man she -loved to marry her, and thus failed to attain the highest end of woman, -which has moved every biographer of Swift, each man more compassionate -than his predecessor, thus to exhaust himself in pity for Stella? -Johnson, Scott, Macaulay, Thackeray, not to mention many lesser names, -have all taken her injured innocence to heart. And nobody notes the -curious fact that Stella herself never utters any complaint, nor indeed -seems to feel the necessity of being unhappy at all, but takes her dean -most cheerfully,--laughing, scolding, giving her opinion with all the -delightful freedom of a relationship which was at once nature and -choice, the familiar trust and tenderness of old use and wont with the -charm of voluntary association. We see her only as reflected in his -letters, in the references he makes to hers, and all his tender, -sportive allusions to her habits and ways of thinking. This reflection -and image is not in rigid lines of black and white, but an airy and -radiant vision, the representation of anything in the world rather than -a downcast and disappointed woman. It is not that either of a wife or a -lover; it is more like the wilful, delightful image of a favorite child, -a creature confident that everything she says or does will be received -with admiration from the mere fact that it is she who says or does it, -and who tyrannizes, scoffs, and proffers a thousand comments and -criticisms with all the elastic brightness of unforced and unimpassioned -affection. It is through this medium alone that Stella is ever visible. -And he, too, laughs, teases, fondles, and advises with the same doting, -delightful ease of affection. By what process this attractive -conjunction should have furnished the idea of a victim in Stella, and in -Swift of a tyrannous secret lover crushing her heart, it is difficult to -understand. The external circumstances of their intimacy were, no doubt, -very - -[Illustration: HESTER JOHNSON, SWIFT’S “STELLA,” PAINTED FROM LIFE BY -MRS. DELANY, ON THE WALL OF THE TEMPLE AT DELVILLE, AND ACCIDENTALLY -DESTROYED. - -ENGRAVED BY M. HAIDER FROM COPY OF THE ORIGINAL BY HENRY MACMANUS, R. H. -A., NOW IN POSSESSION OF PROFESSOR DOWDEN.] - -unusual, and might have lent occasion to much evil speaking. But they do -not seem to have done so, after the first moment at least. Nobody -ventured to assail the good fame of Stella, and Swift took every means -to make the perfect innocence of their friendship apparent. She cannot -be made out to have suffered in the vulgar way, and it seems to us one -of the most curious examples of an obstinately maintained theory to -represent her as Swift’s victim in what is supposed to be a long -martyrdom of the heart. - -One can well imagine, however, when the two ladies arrived in Dublin, -where their friend had no doubt represented to them his power to gain -them access into the best society, and found that he did not come and -that they were stranded in a strange place, knowing nobody, how some -annoyance and disappointment, and perhaps anger, must have been in their -thoughts, and that P. D. F. R., as he is called in the little language, -faithless rogue! had his share of abuse. And no doubt it might be -believed by good-natured friends that their object in coming was to -secure the vicar of Laracor either for the young and lovely girl or the -elder woman, who was scarcely older than Swift--if not indeed that some -“secret history” more damaging still was at the bottom of the adventure. -Insensibly, however, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley found a place and -position for themselves. Swift was often away in the following years, -spending about half his time in London, and when he was absent they took -possession of his newly repaired and renovated house, or occupied his -lodging in Dublin, and gathered friends about them, and went out to -their card-parties, and played a little, and talked, and lived a -pleasant life. When he returned, they removed to their own rooms. Thus -there could be no doubt about the close association between them, which, -when it was quite apparent that it meant nothing closer to come, no -doubt made everybody wonder. But we have no contemporary evidence that -Stella was an object of pity, and her aspect as we see it in all Swift -says of her is exactly the reverse, and gives us the impression of a -charming and easy-minded woman, a queen of society in her little circle, -enjoying everything that came her way. - -As Swift’s relations with Stella are the great interests of his life, -the subject which occupies every new writer who so much as touches upon -him, it is needless to make any excuse for entering into the question -with an amount of detail which our limited space would otherwise -scarcely justify. The mystery about it lends it an endless attraction, -and as, whatever it was, it is the one great love of his life, and -represents all the private satisfaction and comfort he got by means of -his affections, it has a permanent interest which most readers will not -find in the “Tale of a Tub,” or any other of the productions which made -this period of his life remarkable. Swift was continually going and -coming to London through these years. Though he had begun at once to -make Laracor a sort of earthly paradise with a Dutch flavor, such as he -had learnt from his early master, and though it was “very much for his -own satisfaction” that he had invited Stella to come to Ireland, yet -neither of these reasons was enough to keep him in the rural quiet among -his willows, though he loved them. He hankered after society, after fame -and power. He liked to meet with great men, to hear the news, to ride -over weaker reasoners in society, to put forth his own vigorous views, -and whip, with sharp satire, the men who displeased him. Tradition and -habit had made him a Whig, but political names were of easy interchange -in those days, and Swift’s objects were much more definite than his -politics. From the moment of Queen Anne’s ascension, when she gratified -the Church of England by the remission of certain dues hitherto paid to -the crown, Swift’s energies were directed to obtaining a similar -remission for the Irish Church, and this was the ostensible object of -his repeated journeys to London. He had also a purpose still nearer to -his heart, which was the advancement of Jonathan Swift to a post more -fitted to his genius. For these great objects he haunted the anterooms -of Halifax and Somers and Godolphin, and did what he could to show them -what they were not wise enough to perceive, that he was himself an -auxiliary well worth securing. The Whig lords played with, flattered, -and neglected the brilliant but importunate envoy of the Irish Church, -holding him upon tenterhooks of expectation, going so far as to make him -believe that his cause for the church was won, and that his bishopric -was certain, till disgust and disappointment overcame Swift’s patience. -Nine years had passed in these vain negotiations. It was in 1701 that he -paid that visit to Farnham which decided Stella’s fate, but his own was -still hanging in the balance when, after almost yearly expeditions in -the interval, he set out for London in the autumn of the year 1710 with -a threat upon his lips. “I will apply to Mr. Harley, who formerly made -some advances toward me, and, unless he be altered, will I believe think -himself in the right to use me well.” The change was sudden, but it had -little in it that could be called political apostasy. Every man was more -or less for his own hand, and the balance of popular feeling fluctuated -between war and peace: between pride and the glory of England on the one -hand, and horror of the sacrifices and misery involved in the -long-continued, never-ending campaigns of Marlborough on the -other--almost as much as Queen Anne wavered between the influence of the -imperious duchess and the obsequious Abigail. There was no shame to -Swift at such a moment in the sudden revolution he made. - -The man who felt himself of sufficient importance to make this threat -seems to have possessed already, notwithstanding the neglect of the Whig -lords, the rank of his intellect rather than of his external position, -and this not entirely because of the anonymous productions which were -more or less known to be his. The “Tale of a Tub,” written while he was -still an inmate of Moor Park, had by this time been before the world six -years. It was published along with the “Battle of the Books” in 1704, -and caused great excitement and sensation among politicians, wits, and -critics. But the careless contempt of fame which mingled in him with so -fierce a hunger for it kept it long a matter of doubt whether the -immense reputation of these works belonged to him or not; and it would -appear that his own personality, the size and rude splendor of his -individual character, had at least as much to do with his position as -the doubtful glory of an anonymous publication. The vicar of Laracor was -not sufficiently important to be chosen as the representative of the -Irish Church--but Jonathan Swift was; and though the bishops schemed -against him in his absence when he seemed to have failed, no one seems -to have ventured to suggest that he was too humble a person to hold that -representative post. The book which dazzled English society and set all -the wits talking was by no means the kind of book to support -ecclesiastical dignity. It was indeed by way of being a vindication of -the superiority of the Anglican Church over Rome on the one hand, and -the dissenters on the other; but the tremendous raid against false -pretenses, hypocrisy, and falsehood which is its real scope, was -executed with such a riot and madness of laughter, and unscrupulous -derision of everything that came in the satirist’s way, as had scarcely -been known in English speech before. The mockery was at once brilliant -and careless, dashed about hither and thither in a sort of giant’s play, -full of the coarsest metaphors, the finest wit, indignation, ridicule, -fun, almost too wild and reckless to be called cynical, though -penetrated with the profoundest cynicism and disbelief of any good. The -power which still lives and asserts itself in those strange and often -detestable pages, must strike even the - -[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM AN ENGRAVING IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM, AFTER -A PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY.] - -reader to whom they are most abhorrent. And the standard of taste was -different in the reign of Anne, and critics were not easily alarmed. To -some readers the most desperate satire that was ever written appeared a -delightful piece of wit. - -William Penn sent to the author from America a gammon of bacon on the -score of having been “often greatly amused by thy _Tale_,” and a hundred -years later it “delighted beyond description” at the robust mind of -William Cobbett, so that he forgot that he had not supped, and preferred -the book to a bed. The effect upon the general mind of his -contemporaries was equally great; and notwithstanding the immense -difference of taste and public feeling it has never lost its place among -English classics. Many indeed were horrified by its audacious treatment -of the most sacred things, and the objection of Queen Anne to give its -author a bishopric would probably have been shared by nine tenths of her -subjects. The “Tale of a Tub” is one of those books which furnish a test -of literary character. Like the man who was bound to hear the Ancient -Mariner, and whom that mystic personage knew whenever he saw him, the -reader of Swift’s great work must be born with the faculty necessary for -due appreciation and understanding. It is not a power communicable, any -more than it is possible to explain the story of the albatross, and the -curse that fell upon its slayer. The greater part of the public take -both for granted, and remain in a respectful ignorance. To such Swift’s -work is little better than a dust-heap of genius, in which there are -diamonds and precious things imbedded, which flash at every turning -over; but the broken bits of treasure are mixed up with choking dust and -dreary rubbish, as well as the offensive garbage which revolts the -searcher. The dedication of the work to Prince Posterity is thus wholly -justified, and at the same time a failure. It stands in the highest rank -of classic satire, and yet to the mass of readers it is nothing but a -name. - -It is characteristic, however, of the man that he should have tossed -into the world without a name a book which made a greater impression -than any contemporary publication, enjoying no doubt the wonders and -queries, yet scorning to make himself dependent upon so small a thing as -a book for his reputation and influence. He was no more disposed than -the most sensitive of authors to let another man claim the credit of it, -yet proud enough in native arrogance to hold himself independent of such -aids to advancement, and thus to prove his scorn of the world’s opinion, -even when he sought its applauses most. Whether this work had anything -to do with his introduction to the society of the coffee-houses, and the -wits of London, we are not told. He was addressed by Addison as “the -most Agreeable Companion, the Truest Friend, and the Greatest Genius of -his age,” very shortly after the publication of his great satire; so -that it is probable he already enjoyed the advantage of its fame, -without seeming to do so. The friendship of Addison was a better thing -than the admiration of the crowd, and notwithstanding Swift’s imperious -temper and arrogant ways, it is just to add that he always numbered -among his friends the best and greatest of his time. - -On a first accost, it would not seem that his manners were ingratiating. -This story, which is told of Swift’s appearance at the St. James -coffee-house is amusing, and may be true. - - They had for several successive days observed a strange clergyman - come into the house who seemed entirely unacquainted with any of - those who frequented it, and whose custom was to lay down his hat - on a table and walk backward and forward at a good pace, for half - an hour or an hour, without speaking to any mortal, or seeming in - the least to attend to anything that was going forward there. He - then used to take up his hat, pay his money at the bar, and walk - away without opening his lips. On one particular evening, as Mr. - Addison and the rest were observing him, they saw him cast his eyes - several times on a gentleman in boots who seemed to be just come - out of the country, and at last advance, as if intending to address - him. Eager to hear what this dumb, mad parson had to say, they all - quitted their seats to get near him. Swift went up to the country - gentleman, and in a very abrupt manner, without any previous - salute, asked him, “Pray, sir, do you remember any good weather in - the world?” The country gentleman, after staring a little at the - peculiarity of his manner, answered, “Yes, sir, I remember a great - deal of good weather in my time.” “That is more,” rejoined Swift, - “than I can say. I never remember any weather that was not too hot - or too cold, or too wet or too dry; but however God Almighty - contrives at the end of the year it is all very well.” With which - remark he took up his hat, and without uttering a syllable more, or - taking the least notice of any one, walked out of the coffee-house. - -His whimsical humor, and love of making the spectators stare, remained a -characteristic of Swift all his life. - -These beginnings of social life were, however, past, and no one was -better known or more warmly welcomed, when he appeared with his wig new -curled, and his azure eyes aglow, than the Irish parson, waiting upon -Providence and the Whigs, whose political pamphlets, and papers in the -“Tatler,” and malicious practical joking with poor Partridge, the -astrologer, made him, at each appearance, a more notable figure to all -the lookers-on. His eyes must have been on fire under those expressive -brows when he came to London in 1710, resolved this time to be put off -by Whig blandishments no longer, but to try what the other side would -do. The other side received him with open arms, and the most instant -appreciation of what he was worth to them and what he could do. Harley -was not great in any sense of the word, but if he had shown as much -insight in the conduct of public affairs as he did in his perception of -the workmen best adapted to his purpose, in the struggle upon which he -had entered, he would have been the most successful of ministers. He -told Swift that his colleagues and himself had been afraid of none but -him in the ranks of their enemies, and that they had resolved to have -him. And in proof that they were ready to do anything to secure his -services, they pushed on and decided as soon as might be his suit for -the church, which had hung in the balance so long, was as good as -granted, now as far off as ever. It was settled at once, to Swift’s -great triumph. And to crown all, the new minister, the greatest man in -England, called him Jonathan!--of all wonderful things, what could be -more wonderful than that this great wit, this powerful and pitiless -satirist, this ambitious man, should be altogether overcome with -pleasure when Harley called him by his Christian name! Was it mere -servility, vanity, the flattered weakness of a hanger-on in a great -man’s familiarity, as everybody says? It is hard to believe this, though -it is taken for granted on all sides. Swift seems, at all events, to -have had a real affection for the shifty minister, who received him in -so different a fashion from that of his former masters. He flung himself -into all the backstair intrigues, and collogued with Abigail Masham, and -took his share in every plot. When Harley was stabbed, Swift felt for -him all the anxiety of a brother. He threw himself into the “Examiner,” -the new Tory organ, with fervor and enthusiasm, and expounded the -principles of his party and set their plans before the public with a -force and clearness which nobody but he, his patrons declared, -possessed. The two statesmen, Harley and Bolingbroke, who were so little -like each other, so ill calculated to draw together, were alike in this: -that neither could be flattering enough or kind enough to the great -vassal whom they had secured. He seems to have thought of himself that -he was a sort of third consul, an unofficial sharer of their power. - -This extraordinary episode in the life of a man of Swift’s profession, -and so little likely to come to such promotion, lasted three years; and -the history of it is not less remarkable than the fact. It was a period -of the greatest intellectual - -[Illustration: DELANY’S HOUSE AT DELVILLE, WHERE SWIFT STAYED. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL.] - -activity and brilliancy in Swift’s career, and besides his hard -political work in the “Examiner” and elsewhere, he flung from him, amid -the exhilarating appreciation of the great world and his patrons, a -number of the best of his lighter productions. But nothing that he ever -wrote can be compared to the letters in which the story of this period -is told, since nowhere else do we find the charm of humanity, which is -more great and attractive even than genius. As if the rule of paradox -was to prevail in his life as well as in his wit, this cynic, -misanthrope, and satirist, ignoring love and every softer thought, -exhibits himself once to us in an abandon and melting of the heart such -as common men are as little capable of as they are of his fierce -laughter and bitter jests. If it is the true man whom we see in these -unpremeditated and careless pages, written before he got up of a -morning, or in the evening when he came home from his entertainments, -with the chairmen still wrangling over their sixpences outside, how -different is that man from the other who storms and laughs and mocks -humanity, and sees through all its miserable pretenses without a thought -of pardon or excuse! The “Journal” letters addressed to the ladies in -Dublin, Madam P. P. T. and Madam Elderby, the two women who shared his -every thought, now so well known as the “Journal to Stella,” are, of all -Swift’s works, the only productions that touch the heart. They are not -to be numbered among his “works” at all: publication of any kind never -seems to have occurred to him, while writing: they are as frank as -Pepy’s[spelling per original], and far more simple and true. They are -English history and London life, and the eighteenth century, with its -mannerisms and quaintness, all in one; and beyond and above every -circumstance, they are Swift as he was in his deepest soul,--not as he -appeared to men,--a human being full of tenderness, full of fun and -innocent humor, full of genius and individual nature, but, above all, -of true affection, the warmest domestic love. Passion is not in those -delightful pages; but the endearing playfulness, the absolute freedom of -self-revelation, the tender intimacy and confidence of members of the -same family, whose interests and subjects of thought and talk and merry -jests and delusions are one. They describe every day--nay, hour--of his -life, every little expedition, all the ups and downs of his occupations -and progress, with the boundless freedom and sportive extravagance, the -unimpassioned, unabashed adoration of something warmer than a father, -more indulgent, more admiring than a brother, yet brother, father, -lover, and friend all in one. - -Only to a woman could such letters have been addressed, and few women -reading them will be disposed to pity Stella or think her life one of -blight or injury. Without these the life of the dean would not have -touched our human sympathies at all, but now that time has let us thus -fully into his confidence, and opened to our sight what was never -intended for any but hers and those of her shadow, her guardian, the -humble third in this profound and perfect union, it is with moistened -eyes that we read the ever living record. There is nothing in the coarse -and struggling potency of those books which critics applaud, that comes -within a hundred miles of the delightful life and ease of these -outpourings of Swift’s innermost soul. The “Tale of a Tub,” the “Battle -of the Books,” retain a sort of galvanic existence, but are for the -greater part insupportable to the honest readers who have no tradition -of superior acumen and perception to maintain. But when we turn to the -“Journal,” the clean and wholesome pages smile with a cordial life and -reality. If there is here and there a phrase too broad for modern ears, -it is nothing more than the language of the time, and has not a ghost of -evil meaning in it. The big arrogant wit--not unused to bluster and -brag, to act like a tyrant and speak like a bully--meets us there -defenseless, with the tenderest light upon his face, in his nightcap and -without his wig, smiling over little M. D.’s letter in the wintry -mornings, snatching a moment at bedtime when he is already “seepy,” and -can do nothing but bid “nite deelest dea M. D. nite deelest loques,” -making his mouth, he says, as if he were saying the broken, childish -words, retiring into the sanctuary of the little language with an -infinite sense of consolation and repose. Outside it may be he swaggered -and defied all men, even his patrons; but here an exquisite softness -comes over him. However he may be judged or mistaken in the world, he is -always understood by the women in that secret world where they make -their comments on whatever happens, and merrily answer back again with -their criticisms, their strictures, no more afraid of that impetuous, -angry genius than if he had been the meekest of rural priests. It is -this that has got Swift his hold upon many a reader, who, beginning by -hating him, the coarse and bitter wit, the scorner of men and crusher of -women’s hearts, has suddenly found his own heart melt in his breast to -see the giant lay by his thunders and prattle like an old gossip, like a -tender mother, father, all in one, in the baby-talk that first had -opened to him the knowledge of all that is sweetest in life. We do not -understand the man, much less the woman, who can read without forgiving -to Swift all his brutalities, as indeed most women who encountered him -seem to have done without that argument. He would treat the fine ladies -with the most imperious rudeness, giving forth his rule that it was they -who should make advances to him, not he to them, yet captivating even -those who resisted in the end. - -The little language which this fierce satirist and cynic dared to put in -writing, the only man ever so bold as to pay such homage to affection, -puzzled beyond measure his first editors and expositors, who, with a -horrified prudery, seem to have done their best to interpret and -restore it to decorum and dignity; but it has now become the point in -his story which is most tenderly recollected, his sacred reconciliation -with mankind. A homeless boy, with none of the traditions of a family, -finding his unlovely life not less but more unpromising in his first -experiences of Temple’s luxurious English home, what a sudden fountain -of sweetness must have opened to him in the prattle of the delightful -child, which was a new revelation to his heart--revelation of all that -kindred meant, and delightful intimacy and familiar love. His little -star of life never waned to Swift: Stella grew old, but never outgrew -the little language, and every young woman had something in her of the -sprightly creature that loved to do his bidding, the P. P. T. who held -her own, and put him upon his best behavior often, yet never was other -than the “deelest little loque” whom he bantered and laughed at with -soft tears of tenderness in his eyes. “Better, thank God, and M. D.’s -prayers,” he says among the private scribbles of his daily diary, which -neither she nor any one was ever meant to see. Nevertheless, even while -he was writing this “Journal,” which is the record of a tender intimacy -so remarkable, Swift was meddling with the education of another girl, -incautiously, foolishly, who was not of the uninflammable nature of -Stella, but a hot-headed, passionate creature who did not at all imagine -that the mere - -... delight he took - To see the virgin mind her book - -was all Dr. Swift meant by his talk and attention. Swift says nothing of -this pupil in the “Journal.” He mentions his dinners at Mrs. -Vanhomrigh’s, and her handsome daughter, but he does not tell Madam P. -P. T. that he had given one of his usual caressing names to this girl, -whose early beauty and frank devotion had pleased him. There is, indeed, -no shadow - -[Illustration: MARLEY ABBEY, THE RESIDENCE OF VANESSA, NOW CALLED -SELBRIDGE ABBEY. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY R. C. COLLINS.] - -of Vanessa anywhere visible, though the brief mention of her name shows -that the second story, which was to be so fatally and painfully mingled -with the first, had already begun. - -The three years of Swift’s stay in England were the climax of his life. -They raised him higher than ever a simple parson had been raised before, -and made of him (or so, at least, he believed) a power in the state. It -has been doubted whether he was really so highly trusted, so much built -upon, as he thought. The great lords who delighted in Swift’s talk, and -called him Jonathan, did not, perhaps, follow his advice and accept his -guidance, as he supposed. He says, jestingly,--yet half, perhaps, with -an uneasy meaning,--that everything that was said between himself and -Harley as they traveled sociably in my Lord Treasurer’s coach to -Windsor, might have been told at Charing Cross; but this was a rare -admission, and generally he was very full of the schemes of the -ministers and their consultations, and his own important share in them. -He seems to have constituted himself the patron of everybody he knew, -really providing for a considerable number, and largely undertaking for -others, though it was long before he got anything for himself. The -following anecdote gives an unpleasant view from outside of his demeanor -and habits. It is from Bishop Kennett’s diary during the year 1713, the -last of Swift’s importance: - - Swift came into the coffee-room, and had a bow from everybody save - me. When I came to the antechamber to wait before prayers, Dr. - Swift was the principal man of talk and business, and acted as - minister of requests. He was soliciting the Earl of Arran to speak - to his brother the Duke of Ormond to get a chaplain’s place - established in the garrison of Hull for Mr. Fiddes, a clergyman in - that neighborhood, who had lately been in jail and published - sermons to pay fees. He was promising Mr. Thorold to undertake with - my Lord Treasurer that according to his position he should obtain a - salary of £200 per annum as minister of the English Church in - Rotterdam. He stopped F. Gwynne, Esq., going in with the red bag - to the Queen, and told him aloud he had something to say to him - from my Lord Treasurer. He talked with the son of Dr. Davenant, to - be sent abroad, and took out his pocket-book, and wrote down - several things as _memoranda_ to do for him. He turned to the fire, - and took out his gold watch, and, telling them the time of day, - complained it was very late. A gentleman said, “It goes too fast.” - “How can I help it,” says the Doctor, “if the courtiers give me a - watch that won’t go right?” Then he instructed a young nobleman - that the best poet in England was Mr. Pope (a papist), who had - begun a translation of Homer into English verse, for which, he - said, he must have them all subscribe. “For,” says he, “the author - shall not begin to print it till I have a thousand guineas for - him.” Lord Treasurer, after leaving the Queen, came through the - room, beckoning Dr. Swift to follow him; both went off just before - prayers. - -But the account of the patronage which he exercised, and the brag and -general “swagger” of his demeanor, though it is by no means invisible in -the “Journal,” has a different aspect there, where he tells all about -his favor and power, to please his correspondents, with a good excuse in -this tender reason for magnifying all that happens to him. It was, -indeed, a position to turn even the soundest head, and Swift had -thirsted all his life for power, for notability, for that buoyant sense -of being on the top of the wave which was so contrary to all his -previous experience. His own satirical account of himself, as desiring -literary eminence only to make up for the mistake of not being born a -lord, is a self-contemptuous way of stating the thirst he had to be -foremost, to be doing, to be capable of moving the world. And he may -very well be excused for thinking now that he had done so. - -Amid the many disappointments of his life he had these three years of -triumph, which are much for a man to have. If there was a certain -vulgarity in his enjoyment of them, there was at the same time a great -deal of active kindness, and though he might brag of the services he -did, he yet did service and remembered his friends, and helped as he -could those hangers-on and waiters upon Providence who, in those days, -were always about a minister’s antechamber. It is unnecessary to attempt -to go over again the story of the politics of the time, in which he was -so powerful an agent. To see Swift moving about in his gown and wig, -with his eyes, “azure as the heavens,” glowing keen from underneath his -deep brows, sometimes full of sport and laughter and tender kindness, -sometimes with something “awful” in their look, sometimes dazzling with -humorous tyranny and command, is more interesting than to fathom over -again for the hundredth time the confusing intrigues of the age. One -thing is evident, that while he served others he got nothing for -himself: the bishopric so long longed for did not come, nor even a fat -English deanery, which would have been worth the having and kept him -near the center of affairs. Was Harley, too, disposed to flatter rather -than promote his Jonathan? or was it the queen’s determined prejudice, -and conviction that the “Tale of a Tub” was no fit foundation for a -miter? The latter would have been little wonderful, for Swift had taken -pains to embroil himself with the court, by a coarse and ineffective -satire called the “Windsor Prophecy,” which no doubt amused the hostile -coteries, yet could not but do the rash writer harm. - -At last, just before the fall of Harley, preferment was found for the -champion who had served him so well. It was the last that Swift would -have chosen for himself--a kind of dignified banishment and exile from -all he loved best. There was a question between the deanery of St. -Patrick’s and that of Windsor, he himself says. Had he gone to the royal -borough, what a curious change might have come to all his after life! -Would Stella, one wonders, have found a red-roofed house under the -cloister walls? and the dean lived, perhaps, to get the confidence of -Queen Caroline, a queen worth pleasing? and looked upon the world with -azure eyes softened by prosperity from the storied slopes, and worn his -ribbon of the Garter with a proud inflation of the bosom which had -always sighed for greatness? How many differences, how much softening, -expanding, almost elevation, might not the kind hand of Fortune work in -such great but troubled natures were it allowed to smooth and caress the -roughness away! - -When the issue of the conflict between Harley and Bolingbroke became too -evident to be doubted, Swift showed the softer side of his character in -a very unexpected way. He ran away from the catastrophe like a nervous -woman, hiding himself in a country parsonage till the blow should be -struck and the calamity be overpast, a very curious piece of moral -timidity or nervous over-sensitiveness, for which we are entirely -unprepared. It was less extraordinary that he should write to offer -himself to Harley as a companion in his solitude when the minister was -fairly ousted, although even then Bolingbroke was bidding eagerly for -his services. But whether Swift would have accepted these offers, or -would have carried his evidently genuine attachment to Harley so far as -permanently to withdraw with him from public life, was never known. For -the victory of St. John was short indeed. “The Earl of Oxford was -removed on Tuesday, the Queen died on Sunday. What a world is this, and -how does Fortune banter us!” writes Bolingbroke. It was such a stroke of -the irony of fate as Swift himself might have invented, and St. John -applauded with the laughter of the philosopher. There was an end of -political power for both, and the triumph and greatness of Swift’s -reflected glory was over without hope of renewal. - -He had now nothing to do but to return to Ireland, so long neglected, -the country of his disappointments, which did not love him, and which he -did not love, where his big genius (he thought) had not room enough to -breathe, where society was small and provincial, and life flat and bare, -and only a few familiar friends appreciated him or knew what he was. -How he was to make himself the idol of that country, a kind of king in -it, and gain power of a different kind from any he had yet wielded, was -as yet a secret hidden in the mists of the future to Swift and everybody -around. His account of himself when he got home to his dull deanery, “a -vast unfurnished house,” with a few servants in it, “all on board -wages,” is melancholy enough. “I live a country life in town, see -nobody, and go every day once to prayers, and hope in a few months to -grow as stupid as the present situation of affairs will require,” but he -consoles himself: “after all, parsons are not such bad company, -especially when they are _under subjection; and I let none but such come -near me_,” a curious statement, in which the great satirist, as often -before, gives a stroke of his idle sword at himself. - -But Swift was not long left in this stagnation. Extreme quiet is in many -cases but a cover for brewing mischief, and the dean had not long -returned to Ireland when that handsome daughter of Mrs. Vanhomrigh, of -whom he had said so little in his letters, found herself, on her -mother’s death, drawn to Ireland, and the neighborhood of her tutor and -correspondent. It is curious to find so many links to Ireland in this -little company. Stella had a farm in Meath left to her by Sir William -Temple, Vanessa, “a small property at Celbridge,” to which it suited her -to retire. And thus there were gathered together within a short distance -the dean himself in his dull house, the assured and quiet possessor of -his tenderest affections in Dublin near him, and the impassioned girl -who had declared for him love of a very different kind, at Marley Abbey, -within the reach of a ride. That Swift had a heart large enough to admit -on his own terms many women is very evident, and that he had a fondness -for Vanessa among the rest; but how far he was to blame for her fatal -passion, it is scarcely possible to decide. The story of their -connection, as told from his side of the question in the poem of -“Cadenus and Vanessa,” shows an unconsciousness and innocence of purpose -which takes all the responsibility of her infatuation from the dean, and -shows him in a light all too artless. - - The innocent delight he took, - To see the virgin mind her book, - Was but the master’s secret joy - In school to hear the finest boy. - -But this was not the light in which the headstrong young woman, who made -no secret of her love, and filled him with “shame, disappointment, -guilt, remorse,” by the revelation, regarded his attentions. Their -correspondence went on for nearly ten years. It is a painful -correspondence, as the outpouring of a woman’s passion for a man who -does not respond to it must always be; but Swift never seems to have -fostered that passion, nor to have done anything but discourage and -subdue a love so embarrassing and troublesome. - -And now comes in the mystery which everybody has discussed, but which -none have brought to any certain conclusion. In 1716, two years after -Swift’s return to Ireland, it is said that he married Stella, thus -putting himself at once out of all possibility of marrying Miss -Vanhomrigh (which might have been a motive) and satisfying Stella, as -the notion goes. Scott receives the statement as proved; so does Mr. -Craik, Swift’s last, and a most conscientious and careful biographer. -The evidence for it is that Lord Orrery and Dr. Delany, the earliest -writers on the subject, both assert it (“if my informations are right,” -as the former says) as a supposition universally believed in society; -and that the fact was told by the Bishop of Clogher, who performed the -ceremony, to Bishop Berkeley, who told it to his wife, who told it after -her husband’s death, and long after the event, to George Monck Berkeley, -who tells the story. But Bishop Berkeley was in Italy at the time and -could not have been told, though he might have heard it at second-hand -from his pupil, the Bishop of Clogher’s son. We wonder if an inheritance -or the legitimacy of a child would be considered proved by such -evidence, or whether the prevailing sense of society that such a thing -ought to have taken place has not a large share in the common belief. At -all times, as at the present moment, wherever a close friendship between -man and woman exists (and the very fact of such rumors makes it -extremely rare), suggestions of the same description float in the air. -Nobody supposes, if the marriage took place at all, that it was anything -more than a mere form. It was performed, if performed at all, in the -garden without any formal or legal preliminaries. Supposing such a -fictitious rite to have any justification in Irish law, we wonder what -the authorities of the church would have had to say to two high -dignitaries who united to perform an act so disorderly and contrary to -ecclesiastical decorum, if to nothing else. It is totally unlike Swift, -whose feeling for the church was strong, to have used her ordinances so -disrespectfully, and most unlike all we know of Stella that she should -have consented to so utterly false a relationship. However, the question -is one which the reader will decide according to his own judgment, and -upon which no one can speak with authority. Mr. Forster, of all Swift’s -biographers the most elaborate and anxious, did not get so far in his -work as to examine the evidence, yet intimates his disbelief of the -story. We do not need, however, to have recourse to the expedient of a -marriage to explain how the story of Vanessa might have been a pain and -offense to Stella. Swift had not in this particular been frank with his -friends, and the discovery, so near them, of a woman making so -passionate a claim upon his affections must have conveyed the shock at -once of a deception and an unpardonable intrusion to one who was proudly -conscious of being his most trusted confidant and closest companion. -Whatever were the rights of the case, however, nobody can now know. -Whether Vanessa had heard the rumor of the private marriage, whether she -conceived that a desperate appeal to his dearest friend might help her -own claim, or whether mere suspicion and misery, boiling over, found -expression in the hasty letter to Stella which she wrote at the crisis -of her career, is equally unessential. She did write, and Stella, -surprised and offended, showed the letter to Swift. Nothing can be more -tragic than the events that follow. Swift, in one of those wild bursts -of passion which were beyond the control of reason, rode out at once to -the unfortunate young woman’s house. He burst in without a word, threw -her own letter on the table before her, and rode off again like a -whirlwind. Vanessa came of a short-lived race, and was then, at -thirty-four, the last of her family. She never recovered the blow, but, -dying soon after, directed her letters and the poem which contained the -story of her love and his coldness to be published. This was not done -for nearly a century; and now more than half of another has gone, but -the story is as full of passion and misery, as unexplained, as ever. -This was one of the occupations of Swift’s stagnant time. He fled, as he -had done at the moment of Harley’s fall, that, at least, he might not -see what was going to happen. - -But a little while longer was the other, the love of his life, spared to -him. Five years after the tragical end of Vanessa, Stella too died, -after long suffering. There is a second story, of equally doubtful -authenticity and confused and extraordinary details, about a proposed -tardy acknowledgment of the apocryphal marriage; but whether it was he -or she who suggested this, whether it was he or she who found it “too -late,” whether there was any reality in it at all, no one has ever -determined. Stella’s illness grew serious while Swift - -[Illustration: GEORGE, EARL OF BERKELEY. - -FROM AN UNFINISHED ENGRAVING, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM, ATTRIBUTED TO DAVID -LOGGAN.] - -was absent, and his anguish at the news was curiously mingled with an -overwhelming dread lest she should die at the deanery, and thus -compromise her reputation and his own; perhaps, too, lest the house to -which he must return should be made intolerable to him by the shadow of -such an event. That he should have kept away, with his usual terror of -everything painful, was entirely in keeping with his character. But the -first alarm passed away, and Swift was in the deanery when this great -sorrow overtook him. He who had kept a letter for an hour without daring -to open it, in which he trembled to find the news of her death, now shut -himself up heartbroken in his solitary house, and, somewhat calmed by -the irrevocable,--as grief, however desperate, always must -be,--proceeded to give himself what consolation was possible by writing -a “Character,” as was the fashion of the time, of “the truest, most -virtuous, and valuable friend I, or perhaps any other person, was ever -blessed with.” The calm after the storm, but a calm of sober despair and -dread, unreal composure, is in this strange document. He wrote till “my -head aches, and I can write no more,” and on the third day resumed and -completed the strange and melancholy narrative. - - This is the night of her funeral, which my sickness will not suffer - me to attend. It is now nine at night, and I am removed into - another apartment, that I may not see the light in the Church, - which is just over against the window of my bedchamber. - -She was buried in his own cathedral by torchlight, as the custom was; -but he would no more bear the glimpses of that awful light through the -window, than he could witness the putting away of all that remained of -Stella in the double gloom of the vault and the night. In that other -apartment he concluded his sad panegyric, the story of all she was and -did, showing with intense but subdued eloquence that there was no fault -in her. “There is none like her, none.” This is the burden of the old -man’s self-restrained anguish, the tragedy of his age, as it is the -young lover’s pæan of triumph. The truest, most valuable friend that -ever man had--and now her beautiful life was ended, to be his -consolation no more. He had a lock of her hair in his possession -somewhere, either given him then or at some brighter moment, which was -found after his death, as all the world knows, with these words written -upon the paper that contained it: “Only a woman’s hair.” Only all the -softness, the brightness, the love and blessing of a life; only all that -the heart had to rest upon of human solace; only that--no more. He who -had thanked God and M. D.’s prayers for his better health, had now no -one to pray for him, or to receive his confidences. It was over, all -that best of life--as if it had never been. - -It is easy to expand such a text, and many have done it. In the mean -time, before these terrible events had occurred, while Vanessa’s letters -were still disturbing his peace, and death had as yet touched none of -his surroundings, he had accomplished the greatest literary work of his -life, that by which every child knows Swift’s name--the travels of the -famous Gulliver. The children have made their selection with an unerring -judgment which is above criticism, and have taken Lilliput and -Brobdingnag into their hearts, rejecting all the rest. That Swift had a -meaning, bitter and sharp, even in the most innocent part of that -immortal fable, and meant to strike a blow at politicians and generals, -and the human race, with its puny wars, and glories, and endless -vanities and foolishness, is evident enough; and it was for this that -the people of his time seized upon the book with breathless interest, -and old Duchess Sarah in her old age chuckled and forgave the dean. But -the vast majority of his readers have not so much as known that he meant -anything except the most amusing and witty fancy, the keenest comic -delineation of impossible circumstances. That delightful Irish bishop, -if ever he was, who declared that “the book was full of improbable lies, -and for his part he hardly believed a word of it,” is the only critic we -want. “‘Gulliver’s Travels’ is almost the most delightful children’s -book ever written,” says Mr. Leslie Stephen, no small authority. It had -no doubt been talked over and read to the ladies, who, it would -incidentally appear, had not liked the “Tale of a Tub.” But Swift was at -home when he wrote “Gulliver,” and had no need of a journal to -communicate his proceedings. - -Between 1714 and 1726, for a dozen years, he remained in Ireland without -intermission, altogether apart from public life. At the latter date he -went to London, probably needing, after the shock of Miss Vanhomrigh’s -death, and the grievous sense he must have had that it was he who had -killed her, a change of scene; and it was then that “Gulliver” was -published. The latter portions of it which the children have rejected we -are glad to have no space to dwell upon. The bitterness, passion, and -misery of them are beyond parallel. One would like to have any ground -for believing that the Houyhnhms and the rest came into being after -Stella’s death; but this was not the case. She was only a woman, and was -not, after all, of such vital importance in the man’s existence. -Withdrawal from the life he loved, confinement in a narrow sphere, the -disappointment of a soul which felt itself born for greatness, and had -tasted the high excitements of power, but now had nothing to do but -fight over the choir with his archbishop, and give occasion for a -hundred anecdotes in the Dublin coteries, had matured the angry passion -in him and soured the sweetness of nature. Few people now when they take -up their “Gulliver” go beyond Brobdingnag. The rest is like a succession -of bad dreams, the confused miseries of a fever. To think that in a -deanery, that calm seat of ecclesiastical luxury, within sound of the -cathedral bells and the choristers’ chants, a brain so dark and -distracted, and dreams so terrible, should have found shelter! They are -all the more bitter and appalling from their contrast with the -surroundings among which they had their disastrous birth. - -The later part of Swift’s life, however, had occupation of a very -different and nobler kind. The Ireland he knew was so different from the -Ireland with which we are acquainted, that to contemplate the two is apt -to give a sort of moral vertigo, a giddiness of the intellect, to the -observer. Swift’s Ireland was the country of the English-Irish, -ultra-Protestant, like the real Ireland only in the keenness of its -politics and the sharpness of its opposition to imperial measures. It -was Ireland with a parliament of her own, and many of the privileges -which are now her highest aspirations, yet she was not content. Swift, -in speaking of the people, the true Irish, the Catholic masses, who at -that moment bore their misery with a patience inconceivable, said of -them that they were no more considerable than the women and children, a -race so utterly trodden down and subdued that there was no need for the -politician to take them into account. The position of the predominant -class was almost like that of white men among the natives of a savage -country, or at least like that of the English in India, the confident -and assured rulers of a subject race. Nevertheless, these men were full -of a sort of national feeling, and ready to rise up in hot and not -ineffectual opposition when need was, and reckon themselves Irish, -whereas no sahib has ever reckoned himself Indian. The real people of -Ireland were held under the severest yoke, but those gentlemen who -represented the nation can scarcely be said to have been oppressed. -Their complaint was that Englishmen were put into vacant posts, that -their wishes were disregarded, and their affairs neglected, complaints -which even prosperous Scotland has been known to make. They were -affected, however, as well as the race which - -[Illustration: ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL.] - -they kept under their feet, by the intolerable law which suppressed -woolen manufactures in Ireland, and it was on this subject that Swift -first broke silence, and appeared as the national champion, recommending -to his countrymen such reprisals as the small can employ against the -great, in the form of a proposal that Irishmen should use Irish -manufactures only, a proposal by no means unlikely to be carried out -should an Irish parliament ever exist again. - -The commotion produced by this real and terrible oppression was nothing, -however, to that called forth by an innocent attempt to give a copper -coinage--the most convenient of circulating mediums--to Ireland. Nothing -could have been more harmless, more useful and necessary in reality, and -there is no reason to suppose that dishonesty of any kind was involved. -But the public mind was embittered by the fact that the patent had been -granted to one of King George’s German favorites, and by her sold to -Wood, an Englishman, who was supposed to be about to make an enormous -profit out of the country by half-pence not worth their nominal value. -Such an idea stirred the prejudices and fears of the very lowest, and -would even now rouse the ignorant into rage and panic. Whether Swift -shared that natural and national, if unreasonable, outburst of -indignation and alarm to the full extent, or if he threw himself into it -with the instinct of an agitator foreseeing the capabilities of the -subject, it is difficult to tell. But the “Drapier’s Letters” gave to -the public outcry so powerful a force of resistance, and excited the -entire country into such unanimity and opposition, that the English -Government was forced to withdraw from this attempt, and the position of -the Irish nation, as an oppressed yet not unpowerful entity, still able -to face its tyrants and protest against their careless sway, became -distinctly apparent. It is strange that a man who hated Ireland, and -considered himself an exile in her, should have been the one to claim -for her an independence, a freedom she had never yet possessed, and -should have been able to inspire at once the subject and the ruling race -with the sense that they had found a champion capable of all things, and -through whom for the first time their voice might be heard in the world. -The immediate result was to Swift a popularity beyond bounds. The people -he despised were seized with an adoration for him which was shared by -the class to which he himself belonged--perhaps the first subject on -which they had agreed. “When he returned from England in 1726 bells were -rung, bonfires lighted, and a guard of honor escorted him to the -deanery. Towns voted him their freedom and received him as a prince. -When Walpole spoke of arresting him a prudent friend told the minister -that the messenger would require a guard of 10,000 soldiers.” When the -crowd which had gathered to see an eclipse disturbed him by the hum they -made, Swift sent out to tell them that the event was put off by order of -the dean, and the simple-minded people dispersed obediently! Had he been -so minded, and had he fully understood and loved the race over which his -great and troubled spirit had gained such power, much might perhaps have -been ameliorated in that unfortunate country, so cursed in her friends -as in her foes, and much in the soul consuming itself in angry -inactivity with no fit work in hand. But it would have taken a miracle -indeed to have turned this Englishman born in Ireland, this political -churchman and hater of papists and dissenters, into the savior of the -subject race. That he was, however, deeply struck with an impression of -their misery, and that his soul, always so ready to break forth upon the -cruelty, the falsehood, the barbarous misconception of men by men, found -in their wrongs a subject upon which he could scarcely exaggerate, is -apparent enough. His “Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of the -Poor in Ireland from Being a Burden to their Parents or Country” is one -of those pieces of terrible satire which lacerate the heart. Tears as of -blood are in it, a passion of indignant pity, and fury, and despair. -“Eat them, then, since there’s nothing else to be done with them,” he -says, detailing with elaborate composure the way to do it and the -desirableness of such a supply of delicate food. The reader, unwarned -and simple-minded, might almost, with a gasp of horror, take the -proposal for genuine. But Swift’s meaning was really more terrible than -cannibalism. It was the sense that these children, the noblest fruit of -nature, were in truth the embarrassment, the fatal glut of a miserable -race, that forced this dreadful irony upon him. And what picture could -be more terrible than that of the childless old man with his bleeding -heart, himself deserted of all that made life sweet, thus facing the -world with scorn so infinite that it transcends all symbols of passion, -bidding it consume what it has brought forth? - -But Swift, unfortunately for himself and her, loved Ireland as little -when he thus made himself her champion as he had done throughout his -life. At all times his longing eyes were turned toward the country in -which life was, and power, and friends, and fame. Though he was aware he -was growing old and ought to be “done with this world,” he yet cries -aloud his desire “to get into a better before I was called into the -best, and not die here in a rage like a poisoned rat in a hole,”--a -terrific image, and one of those phrases that burn and glow with a pale -light of despair. But he never got into that better world he longed for. -The slow years crept over him, and he lived on, making existence -tolerable by such expedients as he could, a wonderful proof how the body -will resist all the frettings of the soul, yet growing more angry, more -desperate, more subject to the bitter passions which had broken forth -even in his best days, as he grew older and had fewer reasons for -restraining himself. At last the great dean, the greatest genius of his -age, the man of war and battle, of quip and jest, he who had thirsted to -be doing through all his life, fell into imbecility and stupor, with -occasional wild awakenings into consciousness which were still more -terrible. He died, denuded of all things, in 1745, having lived till -seventy-eight in spite of himself. - - Ubi saeva indignatio - Cor ulterius lacerare nequit - -is written on his tomb. No more can fiery wrath and indignation reach -him where he lies by Stella’s side in the aisle over against his chamber -window. The touch of her quiet dust must have soothed, one would think, -the last fever that lingered still in him even after death had done its -worst. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE AUTHOR OF “ROBINSON CRUSOE” - - -The age of Queen Anne was one which abounded in paradoxes, and loved -them. It was an age when England was full of patriotic policy, yet every -statesman was a traitor; when tradition was dear, yet revolution -practicable; when speech was gross and manners unrefined, yet the laws -of literary composition rigid, and correctness the test of poetry. It -was full of high ecclesiasticism and strict Puritanism, sometimes united -in one person. In it ignorance was most profound, yet learning most -considered and prominent. An age when Parson Trulliber was not an unfit -representative of the rural clergy, yet the public could be interested -in such a recondite pleasantry as the “Battle of the Books,” seems the -strangest self-contradiction; yet so it was in this paradoxical age. No -man lived who was a more complete paradox than Defoe. His fame is -world-wide, yet all that is known of him is one or two of his least -productions, and his busy life is ignored in the permanent place in -literary history which he has secured. His characteristics, as apart -from his conduct, are all those of an honest man, but when that most -important part of him is taken into the question it is difficult to -pronounce him anything but a knave. His distinguishing literary quality -is a minute truthfulness to fact which makes it almost impossible not to -take what he says for gospel. But his constant inspiration is fiction, -not to say, in some circumstances, falsehood. He spent his life in the -highest endeavors that a man can engage in: in the work of persuading -and influencing his country, chiefly for her good; and he is remembered -by a boy’s book, which is indeed the first of boy’s books, yet not much -more. Through these contradictions we must push our way before we can -reach to any clear idea of Defoe, the London tradesman who by times -composed almost all the newspapers in London, wrote all the pamphlets, -had his finger in every pie, and a share in all that was done, yet -brought nothing out of it but a damaged reputation and an unhonored end. - -It is curious that something of a similar fate should have happened to -the other and greater figure, his contemporary, his enemy, in some -respects his fellow-laborer, another and more brilliant slave of the -government, which in itself had so little that was brilliant,--the great -dean whose name has already appeared so often in these sketches. Swift, -too, of all his books, is remembered chiefly by the book of the travels -of “Gulliver,” which, though full of a satirical purpose unknown to -Defoe, has come to rank along with “Robinson Crusoe.” We may say indeed -that these two books form a class by themselves, of perennial -enchantment for the young, and full of a curious and enthralling -illusion which even in age we rarely shake off. Swift rises into bitter -and terrible tragedy, while Defoe sinks into matter of fact and -commonplace; but the shipwrecked sailor on his desolate island, and the -exile at the courts of Lilliput and Brobdingnag, both in the beginnings -of their careers hold our imaginations captive, and are as fresh and as -powerful to-day as when, the one in keen satire, the other in the -legitimate way of business, they first made their appearance in the -world. It is a singular link between the men who both did Harley’s dirty -work for him, and were subject to a leader so much smaller than -themselves. - -Daniel Defoe was born in London in 1661, of what would seem to have -been a respectable burgher family, only one generation out of the -country, which probably was why his father, with yeomen and grazier -relations in Northamptonshire, was a butcher in town. The butcher’s -name, however, was Foe; and whether the Defoe of his son was a mere -pleasantry upon his signature of D. Foe, or whether it embodied an -intention of setting up for something better than the tradesman’s -monosyllable, is a quite futile question upon which nobody can throw any -light. The boy was well educated, according to the capabilities of his -kindred, in a school at Newington, probably intended for the sons of -comfortable dissenting tradesmen, who were to be devoted to the -ministry, with the assistance in some cases of a fund raised for that -purpose. The master was good, and if Defoe attained there even the -rudiments of the information he afterward showed, and laid claim to, the -education must have been excellent indeed. He claims to have known -Latin, Spanish, Italian, French, “and could read the Greek,”--which -latter is as much as could have been expected had he been the most -advanced of scholars,--besides an acquaintance with science, geography, -and history not to be surpassed, apparently, by any man of his time. “If -I am a blockhead,” he says, “it was nobody’s fault but my own,” his -father having “spared nothing” on his education. Much of this -information, however, was no doubt picked up in the travels and much -knocking about of his early years, of which there is little record. He -would seem to have changed his mind about becoming a dissenting minister -at an early age, and was probably a youth of somewhat wandering -tendencies, as he claims to have been “out” with Monmouth, and does not -appear in any recognized occupation till after that unfortunate attempt. -He must have been twenty-four when he first becomes visible as a hosier -in Cornhill, which seems a very natural and indeed rather superior -beginning in life for the son of the butcher in Cripplegate. He laid -claim afterward to having been a trader,--not a shopkeeper,--a claim -supported more or less from a source not favorable to Defoe, by -Oldmixon, who says that his only connection with the trade was that of -“peddling to Portugal,” whatever that may mean. We may take it for -granted that he had occasions of visiting the Continent in connection, -one way or other, with his trade. The volume of advice to shopkeepers -which is entitled the “Complete English Tradesman,” written and -published in the latter part of his life, though it does not seem to be -taken by his biographers in general as any certain indication that he -himself made his beginning in a shop, is nevertheless full of curious -details of the life of the London shopkeeper of his time, to which class -he assuredly belonged. We learn from this curious production that vanity -was even more foolish in the eighteenth century than it is now. We are -acquainted with sporting shopkeepers who ride to hounds, and with -foolish young men who fondly hope to be mistaken for “swells”; but a -shopkeeper in a wig and a sword passes the power of imagination. It is a -droll example of the fallacy of all our fond retrospections and -preference of the good old times to find that in Defoe’s day this was by -no means an extraordinary circumstance. “The playhouses and balls,” he -says, “are more filled with citizens and young tradesmen than with -gentlemen and families of distinction; the shopkeepers wear different -garbs than what they were wont to do, are decked out with long wigs and -swords, and all the frugal badges of trade are quite disdained and cast -aside.” - -We may take from this book as an illustration of the habits of the age -the following description of a young firm which is clearly on the way to -ruin: - - They say there are two partners of them, but there had as good be - none, for they are never at home or in the shop. One wears a long - peruke and a sword, I hear, and you see him often at the ball and - at court, but very seldom in his shop, or waiting on his - customers; and the other, they say, lies abed till eleven o’clock - every day, just comes into the shop and shows himself, then stalks - about to the tavern to take a whet, then to the coffee-house to - hear the news, comes home to dinner at one, takes a long sleep in - his chair after it, and about four o’clock comes into the shop for - half an hour or thereabouts, then to the tavern, where he stays - till two in the morning, gets drunk, and is led home by the watch, - and so lies till eleven again; and thus he walks round like the - hand of a dial. And what will it all come to? They’ll certainly - break. They can’t hold long. - -The account of the shop kept by these two idle masters is equally -characteristic. - - There is a good stock of goods in it, but there is nobody to serve - but a prentice boy or two and an idle journeyman. One finds them - all at play together rather than looking out for customers; and - when you come to buy, they look as if they did not care whether - they showed you anything or no. Then it is a shop always exposed; - it is perfectly haunted with thieves and shoplifters. They are - nobody but raw boys in it that mind nothing, so that there are more - outcries of stop thief! at their door, and more constables fetched - to that shop than to all the shops in the street. - -The households of the soberer and more sensible members of the craft are -also open to grave animadversion. The ladies are too fine; they treat -their friends with wine or punch or fine ale, and have their parlors set -off with the tea-table and the chocolate-pot, and the silver coffee-pot, -and oftentimes an ostentation of plate into the bargain, and they keep -“three or four maid servants, nay, sometimes five,” and some a footman -besides, “for ’tis an ordinary thing to see the tradesmen and -shopkeepers of London keep footmen, as well as the gentlemen. Witness -the infinite number of blue liveries which are so common now that they -are called the tradesmens’ liveries, and few gentlemen care to give blue -to their servants for that very reason.” Of the maids themselves, who -ask “six, seven, nay eight pounds per annum” for their services, a -terrible account is given in a pamphlet published about 1725, where -there is a humorous description in the first person of a young woman who -comes to apply for the place of housemaid, evidently maid of all work to -the speaker, who lives with his sister, with a man and maid for their -household. She is so fine that Defoe himself shows her into the parlor -and keeps her company till his sister is ready, thinking her a -gentlewoman come to pay a visit. Perhaps it is not Defoe, but, with his -usual skill, he makes us think so. All these details bring before us the -London of his time. The mercers had their shops in Paternoster Row, -“where the spacious shops, back warehouses, skylights, and other -conveniences, made on purpose for their trade, are still to be seen,” -where “they all grew rich and very seldom any failed or miscarried,” and -also in Cornhill, where Defoe’s own establishment was, though there, -apparently, business was carried on wholesale. It appears to him that -trade is going downhill fast when this order is changed, when Paul’s -Churchyard is filled with cane-chair makers, and Cornhill with the -meanest of trades, even Cheapside itself, “how is it now filled up with -shoemakers, toy shops, and pastry cooks?” Everything is going to -destruction, the old trader thinks, shaking his head as he goes through -the well-known streets, where once the fine ladies came in their fine -coaches standing in two rows; he cannot think but that trade itself is -coming to an end when such changes can come to pass. Trade, he says, -like vice, has come to a height, and as things decline when they are at -their extremes, so trade not only must decline, but does already -sensibly decline. It ought to be a comfort to the many timid persons who -have lived and prophesied evil since then to hear that Defoe a hundred -and fifty years ago had come to this sad conclusion. - -He was born into a world he thus describes, into the atmosphere of -shops and counting-houses, where the good tradesman lived in the parlor -above or behind his shop, and was called with a bell when need was, and -was constant at business “from seven in the morning till twelve, and -from two to nine at night,” the interval being occupied with dinner; -where the appearance of the long, flowing periwig and the sword and the -man in blue livery were the danger-signals, and showed that he must -break, he could not hold; where the cry of “Stop, thief!” might suddenly -get up in the midst of the traffic, and the constable be called to some -fainting fine lady who had got a piece of taffeta or a lace in her muff -or under her hoop; and where, perhaps the greatest risk of all, a young -man of genius, who was but a hosier, might betray himself in a -coffee-house and be visited afterward by great personages veiling their -lace and embroidery under their cloaks, who wanted a seasonable pamphlet -or a newspaper put into the right way. A strange old London, more -difficult to put on record in its manners and features than it is to -record in pasteboard its outward aspect; where town could be convulsed -by a chance broadsheet, and the Government propped or wounded to death -by an anonymous essayist; when men of letters were secretaries of state, -and other men of letters starved in Grub street, and the masses thanked -God they could not read; when a revolution was made for liberty of -conscience, yet every office and privilege was barred by a test, and -intolerance was the habit of the time. The author of “Robinson Crusoe” -must have got all his ideas in the narrow, bustling streets, full of -rumors, of wars and commotions, and talk about the scandals of the -court, and sight of the finery and license which revolted, yet exercised -some strange fascinations upon the sober dissenting tradesmen who had -found the sway of Oliver a hard one. He was born the year after the -Restoration, and was no doubt carried out of London post-haste with the -rest of his family in the early summer when the roads were crowded with -wagons and carts full of women, children, and servants, all flying from -the plague. The butcher’s little son was but four, but very likely -retained a recollection of the crowded ways and strange spectacles of -the time; and no doubt he saw, with eyes starting out of their little -sockets with excitement and terror, the glare of the great fire which -burned down all the haunts of the pestilence and cured London by -destroying it. Then, both at school, at Newington, and in the parlor -behind the shop, there would be many a grave talk over what was to come -of all the wickedness in high places; and when the papist king came to -the throne, many discussions as to how much his new-born liberality was -good for, and whether there was any safety in trusting to his -indulgences and declarations of liberty of conscience. Defoe by this -time was old enough to speak his own mind. He had left school at -nineteen, and till he was twenty-four there is no appearance that he was -doing anything, save, perhaps, picking up notions on trade in general, -and as much as a young dissenter could, among his own class, or in the -coffee-houses where it was safe, delivering his sentiments upon -questions so vital to the welfare of the country. According to his own -statement, he had written a pamphlet in 1683 to prove that a Christian -power, though popish, was better than the Turk. He was now so bold as to -tell the dissenters “he had rather the Church of England should pull our -clothes off by fines and forfeitures than the papists should fall both -upon the church and the dissenters, and pull our skins off by fire and -faggot.” No doubt he was then about in London noticing everything, -discoursing largely with a wonderful, long-winded, sober enthusiasm, -making every statement that occurred to him look like the most certain -truth; talking everywhere, in the coffee-house, at the street corners, -down in Cripplegate in the paternal parlor, never silent; a swarthy -youth, with quick gray eyes and keen, eager features, - -[Illustration: DANIEL DEFOE. - -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL, AFTER COPPERPLATE BY M. VAN DER GUCHT, IN -THE BRITISH MUSEUM.] - -and large, loquacious mouth. Better be fined and silenced than let in -popery to burn you into the bargain. Better stand fast in all those -deprivations and hold your faith in corners, than accept suspicious -favor from such a source, and help to bring in again the Jesuit and the -Pope. While Penn, with his plausible speech and amiable temper, drew his -Quaker brethren into a strange harmony with the courtier’s arts, and -presented addresses to James, and accepted his grace, the young -tradesman would be pressing his very different argument upon the -suspicious somber groups far from St. James’s, where there was no -finery, but a great deal of determination. And when in the disturbed and -confused wretchedness of the time, no man knowing what was about to -happen, but sure that some change must come, young Monmouth set up his -hapless standard, could it be Defoe’s own impulse, or the catch of some -eddy of feeling into which he had been swept, which carried him off into -the ranks of the adventurer? It is said that three of his -fellow-students at Newington figure among the victims of the Bloody -Assize. Defoe would always be more disposed to talk than fight. He must, -we cannot help thinking, have thought it a feeble proceeding to put -yourself in the way of getting your head cut off, when you could use it -so much more effectually in convincing your fellow-creatures. His mind, -ever so ready to slip through every loophole, carried his body off -safely out of the clutches of Jeffreys. Probably when he turned up at -home against all hope after this unlucky escapade, his friends were too -thankful to thrust him into the hosier’s warehouse, where no doubt he -would give himself the air of having sold and bought hose all his life. - -There is, however, nothing to build any account of his life upon in -these earlier years. The revolution filled him with enthusiasm, and King -William gained his full and honest support--a support both bold and -serviceable, and with nothing in it which was not to his credit. But -apparently a man cannot be so good a talker, so active a politician, and -follow the rules which he himself laid down for a successful tradesman -at the same time. Most likely his mind was never in his hose, and the -world was full of so many more exciting matters. Seven years after he -had been set up in business he “broke,” and had to fly, though no -further than Bristol, apparently, where he made an arrangement with his -creditors. He would seem to have failed for the large sum at that time -of seventeen thousand pounds, which he honestly exerted himself to pay, -and so far succeeded in doing so that he reduced in a few years his -debts to five thousand pounds in all; and, what was still more, finding -certain of the creditors with whom he had compounded to be poor, after -he had paid his composition fully, he made up to them the entire amount -of his debt--an unlooked-for and exceptional example of honorable -sentiment. Some years later, when Defoe had got into notoriety, and was -the object of a great deal of violent criticism, a contemporary gives -this fact, on the authority indeed of an anonymous gentleman in a -coffee-house only, but it seems to have been generally received as true. -The writer was in a company “where I and everybody else were railing at -him,” when “the gentleman took us up with this short speech: - -“‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I know this Defoe as well as any of you, for I -was one of his creditors, compounded with him and discharged him fully. -Several years afterward he sent for me, and, though he was clearly -discharged, he paid me all the remainder of his debt, voluntarily and of -his own accord, and he told me that, as far as God should enable him, he -intended to do so with everybody. When he had done he desired me to set -my hand to a paper to acknowledge it, which I readily did, and found a -great many names to the paper before me, and I think myself bound to own -it.’” - -This has a suspicious resemblance to Defoe’s own style, but the fact -seems to be generally received as true. - -Neither his business nor his failure, however, kept him from the active -exercise of his literary powers, which he used in the service of King -William with what seems to have been a most genuine and hearty sympathy. -Pamphlet after pamphlet came from his pen with an influence upon public -opinion which it is difficult to estimate nowadays, but which was -certainly much greater than any fugitive political publications could -have now. He wrote in defense of a standing army, the curious insular -prejudice against which was naturally astonishing as well as annoying to -the continental prince who had become king of Great Britain. He wrote in -support of the war, which to William was a vital necessity, but which -England was somewhat slow to see in the same light. And, most -effectively of all, he answered the always ready national grumble -against foreigners, which was especially angry and thunderous against -the Dutchmen, by the triumphant doggerel of “The True-born Englishman,” -the first of Defoe’s works which takes a conspicuous place. In this -strange and not very refined production he held up to public admiration -the pedigree of the race which complained so warmly of every new -invasion, and held so high an opinion of itself. “A true-born Englishman -’s a contradiction,” he cries, and sets forth, step by step, the -admixtures of new blood which have gone to the formation of the English -people--Roman, Saxon, Dane, Norman. - - From this amphibious, ill-born mob began - That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman. - -It is not a very delicate hand which traces these, and many another wave -of strange ancestors. “Still the ladies loved the conquerors.” But -Defoe’s rude lines went straight to the mark. The public had no -objection to a coarse touch when it was effective, and Englishmen are -rarely offended by ridicule; never, we may say, when it is home-born. -The stroke was so true that the native sense of humor was hit. Perhaps -England did not, on account of Defoe’s verses, like the Dutchmen any -better, but she acknowledged Tutchin’s seditious assault upon the -foreigners to be fully answered, and the universal laugh cleared the -air. Eighty thousand copies of this publication were sold, it is said, -in the streets, where everybody bought the “lampoon,” which, assailing -everybody, gave no individual sting. It also procured for Defoe a -personal introduction to the king. Whether it was to this or to his -former services that he owed a small appointment he held for some years, -it is difficult to say, but evidently he did not serve King William for -nothing. In the mean time Defoe resumed his business occupations, and -set up a manufactory of pantiles at Tilbury, where he employed a hundred -poor laborers, and throve, or seems to have thriven, in his new -industry, living in something like luxury, and paying off, as described, -his previous debts. His head was full of the projects upon which one of -his most successful pamphlets was written, and he recommended many -sweeping schemes and made many bold suggestions on all subjects, from -the institution of an income tax to that of an academy like the French. -It was a period when the air was swarming with schemes, and Defoe was -not necessarily original in his suggestions; but his brain was teeming -with life and energy, and there is no saying which was absolutely his -own thought, and which the thought of others. He was a man to whom ideas -came as he was writing, and were flung off into the air, to fly or fall -as they might. One thought, one fancy, suggested another. For instance, -after arguing long and well in favor of the war with France, which was -the object of King William’s life, and the only thing that could -save--according to the ideas of his party on the Continent, and -eventually of most sound Protestants in England--the Protestant faith, -Defoe, with a sudden whimsical perception of certain possibilities on -the other side, came out with a pamphlet entitled, “Reasons Against a -War with France,” which was founded on the suggestion that a war with -Spain instead would be very profitable, and that the Spanish Indies were -a booty well worth having: a sudden dash into new fields which must have -brought up the public which he had persuaded to fight France with a -certain gasp of breathless inability to follow this rapid reasoner in -the instantaneous change of front, which meant no real change of -opinion, but only the flash of a sudden happy thought. - -When William died, however, and the times changed, the High Church came -back with Anne into a potency which had been impossible in the -unsympathetic reign of that Dutchman. Defoe had written some time before -against the practice of occasional conformity; that is, the device by -which dissenters managed to hold public offices in despite of existing -tests, by kneeling now and then at the altars of the established church, -and receiving the communion there. Defoe took the highest view of -principle in this respect, and denounced the nonconformists who thus -secured office to themselves by the sacrifice of their consciences, -“bowing in the House of Rimmon.” There seems no reason, in fact, why a -moderate dissenter should not do this, except that any religious duty -specially performed for the sake of a secular benefit is always suspect -and odious. Yet the obvious argument that a man who could reconcile it -with his conscience to attend the worship of the church should not be a -dissenter, was unquestionably sound and unassailable in point of logic. -Defoe had deeply offended the dissenters, to whom he himself belonged, -by his protest; but this did not prevent him from rushing into print in -defense of the expedient of occasional conformity as soon as it was -threatened from the other side. There is little difficulty in following -the action of his mind in such a question. It was wrong and a deflection -from the highest point of duty to sacrifice one’s conscience, even -occasionally, for the sake of office; but, on the other hand, it was -equally wrong to abolish an expedient which broke the severity of the -test, and made life possible to the nonconforming classes. The views -were contradictory, yet both were true, and it was his nature to see -both sides with most impartial good sense, while he felt it to be, if a -breach of external consistency, no wrong to defend or assail one side or -the other, as might seem most necessary. He allowed himself so complete -a license on this point that it is curious he should be found the public -champion of the higher duty. No doubt his utterance to his dissenting -brethren on that question was to himself no reason why he should not -defend their right to use the expedient if they had a mind. But this is -too fine a distinction for the general intelligence. - -The discussions on this subject were the occasion of one of the most -striking episodes in his life. When the bill against occasional -conformity was introduced, to the delight of the High Church party, from -the queen downward, and when the air began to buzz around him with the -bluster, hitherto subdued by circumstances, of the reviving party, who -would have made short work with the dissenters had their power been -equal to their will, a grimly humorous perception of the capabilities of -the occasion seems to have seized Defoe. Notwithstanding that he had -angered all the sects by his plain speaking, he was a dissenter born, -and there is no such way of reconverting a stray Israelite as to hear -the Philistines blaspheme. He seized upon the extremest views of the -high-fliers with characteristic insight, and, with a keen consciousness -of the power of his weapon, used it remorselessly. The “Shortest Way to -Deal with Dissenters” is a grave and elaborate statement of the wild -threats and violent talk in which, in the intoxication of newly -acquired power, the partizans of the church indulged, with noise and -exaggeration proportioned to the self-suppression which had been forced -upon them by the panic of a papal restoration under James, and by the -domination of the more moderate party during William’s unsympathetic -reign. They were now at the top of the wave, and could brandish their -swords in the eyes of their adversaries. Their talk in some of their -public utterances was as bloodthirsty as if they intended a St. -Bartholomew. Defoe took up this frenzied babble, and put it into the -form of a grave and practical proposal. As serious as was Swift when he -proposed to utilize the superabundant babies of the poor by eating them, -Defoe propounded the easy way to get rid of the dissenters and the -necessity of settling this question forever. “Shall any law be given to -such wild creatures? Some beasts are for sport, and the huntsman gives -them advantages of ground, but some are knocked on the head by all -possible ways of violence and surprise.” He says: - - ’T is vain to trifle in this matter. The light, foolish handling of - them by mulcts, fines, etc., ’t is their glory and their advantage. - If the gallows instead of the counter, and the galleys instead of - the fines, were the reward of going to a conventicle to preach or - to hear, there would not be so many sufferers. The spirit of - martyrdom is over. They that will go to church to be chosen - sheriffs and mayors would go to forty churches rather than be - hanged. If one severe law were made and punctually executed, that - whoever was found at a conventicle should be banished, the nation - and the preacher be hanged, we should see an end of the tale. They - would all come to church, and one age would make us all one again. - - To talk of 5s. a month for not coming to this sacrament, and 1s. - per week for not coming to church, this is such a way of converting - people as never was known. This is selling them a liberty to - transgress for so much money. If it be not a crime, why don’t we - give them full license? And if it be, no price ought to compound - for committing it, for that is selling a liberty to people to sin - against God and the government. - - If it be a crime of the highest consequence, both against the peace - and welfare of the nation, the glory of God, the good of the - church, and the happiness of the soul, let us rank it among - capital offences, and let it receive a punishment in proportion to - it. - - We hang men for trifles and banish them for things not worth - naming. But an offence against God and the church, against the - welfare of the world, and the dignity of religion shall be bought - off for 5s.--this is such a shame to a Christian Government that - ’tis with regret I transmit it to posterity. - - If men sin against God, affront his ordinances, rebel against his - church, and disobey the precepts of their superiors, let them - suffer as such capital crimes deserve: so will religion flourish, - and this divided nation be once again united.... I am not supposing - that all the dissenters in England should be hanged or banished, - but as in cases of rebellions and insurrections, if a few of the - ringleaders suffer, the multitude are dismissed; so a few obstinate - people being bad examples, there’s no doubt but the severity of the - law would find a stop in the compliance of the multitude. - -The reader will perceive by what a serious argument the hot-headed -fanatic was betrayed and the wiser public put upon their guard. The -mirror thus held up to nature, with a grotesque twist in it which made -the likeness bewildering, gave London such a sensation as she had not -felt for many a day. The wildest excitement arose. At first all parties -in the shock of surprise took it for genuine. “The wisest churchmen in -the nation were deceived by it,” and while some were even so foolish as -to receive it with unthinking applause, which was the case, according to -Oldmixon, “in our two famous Universities,” the more sensible reader of -the church party was first indignant with the high-flyers for expressing -such opinions, and then furious with the satirist who had insulted the -church by putting them into her mouth. Nobody indeed saw the joke. The -fellow of Cambridge who thanked his bookseller for packing up “so -excellent a treatise” along with the books he had ordered, and -considered it “next to the Sacred Bible and Holy Comments the best book -he ever saw”; the “soberer churchman” who “openly exclaimed against the -proposal, condemned the - -[Illustration: CHURCH OF ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE, - -WHERE DEFOE IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN BAPTIZED. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY H. E. SYLVESTER.] - -warmth that appeared in the clergy, and openly professed that such a man -as Sacheverell and his brethren would blow up the foundations of the -church”; the dissenters who were at once insulted and alarmed by the -extraordinary threats thus set forth against them--all alike turned upon -the perpetrator of the hoax when he was discovered. Some “blushed when -they reflected how far they had applauded,” some labored to prove that -it was “a horrible slander against the church.” The government, sharing -the general commotion, placed Defoe in the position of a revolutionary -leader who, “by the villainous insinuations of that pamphlet, would have -frightened the dissenters into another rebellion.” Defoe himself seems -to have had a moment of panic, and fled. He was proclaimed in the -“Gazette,” and a reward offered for his discovery. His biographers in -general assert that he gave himself up with some generosity to save the -printer and publisher, who had been arrested, but there are public -documents which seem to prove a different procedure, showing how “My -Lord Nottingham hunted him out,” and how “the person who discovered -Daniel Foe” claimed and was paid the reward of fifty pounds offered for -the offender, described as a “middle-aged, spare man, about forty years -old, of a brown complexion and dark brown colored hair (but wears a -wig), a hooked nose, a sharp chin, gray eyes, and a large mole near his -mouth.” However that might be, he was arrested and committed to Newgate -in the spring of 1703, and the obnoxious publication--“this little book, -a contemptible pamphlet of but three sheets of paper,” as he describes -it--was burned by the common hangman. It was not, however, till the -summer, three or four months after his arrest, that he was tried, and -that period he seems to have spent in Newgate in perfect freedom, at -least for literary productions, since he filled the air with a mist of -pamphlets explaining that he meant nothing but a harmless satire at one -moment, at another exhorting the dissenters to be content with -spiritual freedom, and again bursting into the rude but potent strains -of the “Hymn to the Pillory.” He was sentenced to fine and imprisonment, -as well as to that grotesque but sometimes terrible instrument of -torture; but the pillory was no torture to Defoe. On the last three days -of July--once before the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, where his shop had -been, and where no doubt everybody knew him, once in Cheapside, and -again at Temple Bar--he stood aloft with the crowd surging round and -performed his penance. The crowd in those days was not a soft or civil -one when it indorsed the sentence pronounced by law. Its howls and -cries, its missiles and its curses, made the punishment horrible. But -the crowd had by this time found time to take in the joke,--banter, when -it is broad enough to be intelligible, always pleases the general,--and -there must have been some bonhomie about the sufferer, some good repute -as a merry fellow and one who loved a jest, which conciliated the -populace. Instead of dead cats, they flung him nosegays; they gathered -about his platform under the low deep arch which once made a mock gate -to the city, and behind the bustling ’Change, and between the shops of -Cheapside, holding a series of impromptu festivals, drinking his health, -shouting out his new verses, which were sold by thousands in the -streets: - - Hail, hieroglyphic state machine, - Contriv’d to punish fancy in; - Men that are men, in thee can feel no pain, - And all thy insignificants disdain; - Exalted on thy stool of state, - What prospect do I see of sovereign fate. - -The bold satirist, looking through those “lofty loops,” recalls all the -good men that have stood there, reminding himself that even the learned -Selden had the pillory in prospect, and that, had he “triumphed on thy -stage,” no man could have shunned it more. Contempt, “that false new -word for shame,” has no power where there is no crime, he declares. The -lines are rough, but the sentiments are manly and full of honest scorn, -which here and there reaches a high tone. From his platform where he -stood in all the emancipation of feeling that the worst had happened, he -throws a bold glance upon the disorders of the time, political and -social, and summons to this post of scorn the firebrands, the cowards, -the failures of the age. One can imagine those keen gray eyes inspecting -through the loops the hoarse and roaming groups, not sure perhaps what -his reception was to be, gathering courage as the shouts became -intelligible and turned into hurrahs for Defoe. No doubt he marked the -fluctuating crowd as keenly as if he had been a careless spectator at a -window, and saw Colonel Jack and his brother pickpockets threading -devious ways among the multitude, with here and there a gallant from St. -James in his long curled periwig fluttering on the edge, and the -tradesmen, half curious, half unwilling to join in the riot, looking on -from their doors. A pillory is a coign of vantage when the man upon it -has eyes like Defoe’s. “Tell ’em,” he says, apostrophizing his platform -contemptuously-- - - Tell ’em the men that placed him here - Are friends unto the times, - But at a loss to find his guilt, - They can’t commit his crimes. - -Mr. Burton, in his “Reign of Queen Anne,” quotes from manuscript -authority a statement that Penn had been commissioned by Defoe to offer -“an account of all his accomplices in whatsoever he has been concerned,” -on condition that he should be freed from the pillory, which is a very -confusing statement, since it seems impossible to understand what -accomplices he could have had. This, according to the same authority, -was considered important enough to call for a special meeting of the -cabinet council; but “the Queen seems to think that his confession -amounts to nothing.” Another account is that Nottingham visited him in -prison and offered him his liberty if he would say who set him on to do -it. Thus this _jeu d’esprit_--the first exercise of Defoe’s special and -most characteristic gift, that of endowing a fictitious production with -every appearance of reality--set the world aflame. It is almost a more -astonishing feat than the narratives which look so like literal -transcripts of experience; for the subtle power which, by a cunning -fitting together of actual utterances, could thus indicate the alarming -tendency and danger of a great party, is more wonderful than to create -an imaginary man and trace his every action as if he were a real one. -The art may be less noble, but it is more difficult. Indeed, the -“Shortest Way” is about the only example of such an extraordinary -achievement. Swift’s tremendous satire was more bitter, more scathing, -and treated not so much the exaggerated opinions of a class as the cruel -and callous indifference of human nature to the sufferings of its slaves -and victims. - -This curious episode once more ruined Defoe. It is to be supposed that -when he went into hiding his business had to be abandoned, and all his -affairs got into confusion. The official document already quoted -describes him as “living at Newington Green with his father-in-law, who -is a lay elder of a conventicle there.” This description, however, is -evidently drawn up by an enemy, since his previous bankruptcy is spoken -of as fraudulent, an assertion made nowhere else. His biographer, -Wilson, informs us that though he had “kept his coach” before this -period, the pantile works had now to be broken up, and his business was -ruined. He had, though there is no information about her, a wife and six -children--perhaps supported by the elder at Newington, who very likely -thought, like his brethren, but badly of Defoe. - -He lay in Newgate for nearly a year, without, however, to all -appearance, losing any opportunity for a pamphlet during the whole time, -and laying in grist for his mill amid the strange and terrible -surroundings of an eighteenth-century prison. Mr. Minto, in the -admirable sketch of Defoe which he has contributed to the “English Men -of Letters” series, seems to think that his hero must have enjoyed -himself in this teeming world of new experiences, and that “he spent -many pleasant hours” listening to the tales of his fellow-prisoners. No -doubt there must have been some compensation to such a man in making -acquaintance with a new aspect of life, but it is, perhaps, going too -far to attribute a possibility of enjoyment to any undegraded man in the -pandemonium described in so many contemporary narratives. Defoe did, -however, what, so far as we are aware, no other man before or after him -has ever done (except, perhaps, Leigh Hunt, in whose case we have a -vague recollection of similar activity): he originated, wrote, and -published a newspaper in his prison. “The Review,” so called, “of the -Affairs of France”--that is, of the affairs of Europe and the -world--that is, of any political subject that might be uppermost--was -published twice a week, and appeared during the whole time of his -imprisonment. A brilliant, familiar, graphic commentary upon all that -was happening, a dialogue between the imprisoned spectator of life and -the busy world outside, in which he was both questioner and answerer, -pouring out upon the country with the keenest understanding of other -people’s views, and the most complete mastery of his own, his remarks -and criticisms, his judgment and advice. A newspaper in those days was -not, of course, the huge broadsheet which it has now become. The -“Review” was a sheet of eight, but afterward of only four small quarto -pages. It was no assemblage of paragraphs, trivial or important, the -work of many anonymous persons whose profession it is to manufacture a -newspaper, but one man’s eager and lively conversation with his -countrymen, full of the vigor of personal opinion and the unity of an -individual view. A keener intelligence was never brought to the -treatment of public affairs, nor a mind more thoughtful, reasonable, and -practical. His prejudices were few--too few, perhaps. Granted that the -aim was good, Defoe was disdainful of punctilio in the way of carrying -it out. He was not above doing evil that good might come, but he had a -far higher refinement of meaning than could be embraced by any such -vulgar statement in his subtle faculty of discovering, and all but -proving, that what might have seemed evil to a common intelligence was -in reality a good, if not the best, way of carrying his excellent -purpose out. Up to the moment of his leaving Newgate, however, there was -nothing equivocal in the use he made of his extraordinary faculties. He -was a free man discussing boldly on his own responsibility, and without -any _arrière pensée_, the affairs of England. If he had first keenly -assailed the dissenters, who were his own people, in respect of the -compliances by which they made themselves capable of bearing office, and -then exposed to grimmest ridicule the adversaries who aimed at rendering -them altogether incapable, there was in this no real inconsistency. His -championship of King William had been honest and thorough. If he loved -to have a finger in every pie, and let loose his opinion at every -crisis, there was no contemporary opinion which was better worth having. -But now this unwearying critic, this keen observer, this restless, -brilliant casuist, this practical man of business, had come to the -turning-point of his life. - -His liberation from Newgate followed closely upon the advent of Harley -to power. When this event happened, it is said that one of the first -things the new minister did was to send a message to Defoe in prison: -“Pray ask that gentleman what I can do for him.” Whether it was in -direct sequence to this question, or whether the Queen had formed an -independent intention of freeing the prisoner, we need not inquire; but -he was set free, Queen Anne furnishing the means of paying his fine. She -is said also to have taken an interest in his family, and contributed to -their support during his confinement. He declared himself to be -liberated on the condition of writing nothing (further modified as -nothing “which some people might not like”) for some years; a condition -which he immediately fulfilled by publishing an “Elegy on the Author of -the True-born Englishman,” to tell the world so, and took no further -notice of the prohibition, so far as appears. The real meaning of this -curious statement would seem by all evidence to have been that Defoe -there and then accepted the position of a secret servant of the -government, a writer pledged to support their measures and carry out -their views. At the moment, and perhaps in reality during the greater -part of his career, their measures were those which he approved; and -certainly at this period of his history he has never been accused of -writing against his conscience. Even when, after eager championship of -peace, he was obliged by political changes to veer into what looked like -support of war, he was never without the strong defense to fall back -upon, that he demanded peace only after securing certain indispensable -conditions, and that war might be, and was, the only means of gaining -them--an argument most simple and evident to his mind. - -Harley has never appeared in history as a great man, but when we -consider that he was able thus to subjugate and secure to his own -service two of the greatest intelligences of his time, it is impossible -not to respect his influence and judgment. The great and somber genius -of Swift, the daring, brilliant, and ever-ready intellect of Defoe, -became instruments in the hands of this ordinary and scheming statesman. -Once more, with a curious parallelism, these two men stand before us--no -friends to each other. “An illiterate fellow, whose name I forget,” -says Swift, with the almost brutal scorn which was part of his -character; while Defoe replies to the taunt with angry virulence, -setting forth his own acquirements, “though he wrote no bill at his -door, nor set Latin on the front of his productions,” a piece of -pretension, habitual to the time, of which the other was guilty. But -Harley, who was not worthy, so far as intellect went, to clean the shoes -of either, had them both at his command, serving his purposes, doing his -bidding. Which of them suffered most by the connection it is not easy to -say. It turned Swift’s head, and brought into humiliating demonstration -the braggart and the bully in his nature. Defoe had not the demoralizing -chance of being the lord treasurer’s boon companion; but Harley made a -dishonest partizan, a paid and slippery special pleader and secret -agent, out of the free-lance of politics. From this moment the defenders -and champions of Defoe have to turn into casuists, as he himself did. -They have to give specious explanations to suppress and account for his -shifts and changes, though at first they were sufficiently innocent. The -evil grew, however, so that toward the end of his career even the -apologist must keep silence; but this is the nature of all evil. - -If excuses are to be sought for Defoe’s conduct in this first beginning -of his slavery, it will not be difficult to find them. The age, for one -thing, was corrupt through and through. There was not a statesman but -had two strings to his bow, nor a politician of any description who did -not attempt to serve two masters. To hold the balance between Hanover -and St.-Germain, ready to perform a demi-volt in the air at any moment -as the scale should turn, was the science of the day. On the other hand, -Defoe was now a ruined man, with a family to support, and nothing but -his busy and inexhaustible pen to do it with. The material inducement of -a certain income to fall back upon, whatever - -[Illustration: ROBERT HARLEY, EARL OF OXFORD. - -ENGRAVED BY JOHN P. DAVIS, AFTER THE ORIGINAL PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY -KNELLER, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.] - -might be the chances of journalism, must have been very strong. And what -was stronger still was the delight of his own vivacious, restless, ready -mind, with its sense of boundless power and infinite resource, to which -difficulty was a delight and the exercise of walking over hot coals or -dancing on a sword-point the most exhilarating possibility, in making -its triumphant way over obstacles which would have baffled almost all -his contemporaries. “The danger’s self was lure alone” to this skilled -and cunning fencer, this master of all the arts. In a very different -sense from that of Tennyson’s noble hero, “Faith Unfaithful” was -inspiration and strength to him, and to be falsely true the most -delightful situation. He loved to support his principles by a hundred -dodges, and plead them from the other side, and make of himself the -devil’s advocate in the interest of heaven. All this was life to his -mind. He must have had a positive pleasure in proving to himself first, -and then to all England, that the happiest thing a Whig could do was to -find the Tory measures exactly those which he would have recommended, -and that his allegiance to the queen required a change of policy on his -part whenever circumstances compelled her to change her ministry. It was -all devotion--not time-serving, as the vulgar thought. Defoe took -infinite pleasure in proving that it was so, in making everything clear. -The commonplace and humdrum expedient of following your party would have -been dull to him--a proceeding without interest as without danger. He -wanted excitement, obstacles to get over; a position which would make -sudden claims upon his ingenuity to account for and fortify it. Such a -mind is rare, and still more rarely is it accompanied by genius. But -when such a combination does occur it is a very curious spectacle. - -In the mean time, however, all that Defoe had to do was simple enough. -He had to support peace and the union--two things which in his free -estate he had already advocated with all his powers. He did it with the -utmost skill, fervor, and success, and to all appearance contributed -much to the great public act which was the subject of so many struggles -and resistances on the part of the smaller nation--the union. This great -expedient, of which from the first he had seen the advantage, Defoe -worked for with unwearying zeal. He praised and caressed Caledonia--upon -which subject he wrote one of those vigorous essays in verse which he -called poetry--and the tolerance of the Presbyterian Church, and the -good sense of the nation generally, which was not always perceptible to -English politicians; and even risked a visit to Edinburgh in performance -of the orders of the government, though at the risk of rude handling to -himself. In all this there cannot be the slightest doubt that he was -entirely honest and patriotic, and acted from an enlightened personal -view of the necessities of the case. When the curious incident of the -Sacheverell prosecution occurred, he had once more a subject entirely to -his own mind, and expressed his own feelings in supporting with all his -might the measures of the government against that High Church firebrand, -one of the chief of those whom he had held up to public ridicule in the -“Shortest Way.” So far he was fortunate, being employed upon subjects -entirely congenial to his mind, and on which he had already strong -convictions. The equivocal part of the matter is that he never ceased to -assert and insist upon his independence. “Contemn,” he says, “as not -worth mentioning, the suggestions of some people of my being employed to -carry on the interests of a party. I have never loved any party, but -with my utmost zeal have sincerely espoused the great and original -interest of this nation and of all nations--I mean truth and -liberty”--which was the truth, yet not all the truth. Again, with still -more violent protestations, he refers to his private circumstances, of -which nothing is known, to prove how little he was protected by power. -It would seem from this statement that he was still being pursued for -the remnant of old debts, or those new ones with which the failure of -his tile factory and his long imprisonment had saddled him. - - If paid, gentlemen, for writing [he cries], if hired, if employed, - why still harassed with merciless and malicious men; why pursued to - all extremities of law for old accounts which you clear other men - of every day? Why oppressed, distressed, and driven from his - family, and from all his prospects of delivering them and himself? - Is this the fate of men employed and hired? Is this the figure the - agents of courts and princes make? - -The argument is a feeble one for such a practised reasoner as Defoe, -without considering the trifling detail that it was untrue, for debts -are by no means unknown to favorites of the crown. Nor could he have -been saved by Harley’s pay, which probably was never very great, from -the consequences of previous misfortunes. The reader will think that a -judicious silence would have been more appropriate, but that was not -Defoe’s way. The only wonder is that he did not adduce such detailed -evidence of his own freedom as would have deceived any man, and shown to -demonstration that it was he who subsidized the ministry, and not they -him. The wonderful thing is that he was free through all, maintaining -his own favorite opinions, working as an independent power. Servile -journalists have existed in plenty, but seldom one who took the pay of -his masters and served their interests, yet fought under his own flag -with honesty and a good conscience all the while. - -This happy state, however, did not last. Harley fell, but with his last -breath (as a minister) adjured his champion not to sacrifice himself, -but to come to an understanding with his successor, Godolphin. This -necessitated a certain revolution in respect to peace, which Defoe -managed cleverly with the excellent device above mentioned. And there -was still higher ground which he felt himself entitled to take. The -public safety was involved in the stability of the new ministry such as -it was. And he faces the dilemma with boundless pluck and assurance. -“Though I don’t like the crew, I won’t sink the ship; I’ll pump and -heave and haul and do everything I can, though he that pulls with me -were my enemy. The reason is plain. We are all in the ship and must sink -or swim together.” These admirable reasonings brought him at last to the -calm rectitude of the following conclusion: - - It occurred to me instantly as a principle for my conduct that it - was not material to me what ministers her Majesty was pleased to - employ. My duty was to go along with every ministry so far as they - did not break in upon the constitution and the laws and liberties - of my country, my part being only the duty of a subject, viz: to - submit to all lawful commands, and to enter into no service that - was not justifiable by the laws, to all of which I have exactly - obliged myself. - -When Harley returned to power, another modification became necessary, -but Defoe piously felt it was providential that he should thus be thrown -back upon his original protector; and had the matter ended here, as was -long supposed, it is difficult to see what indictment could be brought -against him. It is not expedient certainly that a director of public -opinion should have state pay, and does not look well when the secret is -betrayed. But so long as the scope of all his productions is good, -honest, and patriotic, with only as much submission in trifles as is -inevitable, the bargain is a personal meanness rather than a public -crime, and this was long supposed to have been the case. It was believed -that after the death of Queen Anne and Harley’s final fall, Defoe’s -eloquent mouth was closed, and he disappeared into the calm of private -life to earn a better hire and a more lasting influence through the two -immortal works of fiction by which alone, but for the painful labors of -biographers, his name would have been known. Had the matter been left -so, how much happier would it have been for the hero of this romance of -literary life, how much more edifying for posterity! We could have -imagined the tired warrior retiring from that hot and painful field in -which even the laurels were not worth the plucking, where defeat was -miserable and success mean, and scarcely any combatant could keep his -honor intact, to the quietness of some suburban house in which his three -pretty daughters could care for him and idolize him, and where his -wonderful imagination, no longer a slave to the exigencies of political -warfare, could weave its dreams into a sober certainty of life awake. We -should then have said of the author of “Robinson Crusoe” and the -“Journal of the Plague,” that in his poverty and anxiety and overhaste -he had been beguiled into a bargain which might have been a shameful one -had not his marvelous power of seeing every side of a subject, and that -insight of genius which divines the real unity of honest souls through -all the external diversities which fill the limited vision of common -men, carried him triumphantly through. And upon what real fault there -was we should have thrown a veil. The age would have borne the blame--an -age which was corrupt to the core, and in which men changed their -principles every day. In the garden at Newington, where the young ladies -entertained their lovers, we could have pictured him benevolent and -friendly in the flowing peruke under which his keen eyes sparkled, -looking on at the love-making with prudent, tradesmanlike thoughts of -Sophia’s portion, and how much the young people would have to set up -housekeeping upon, coming in not inappropriately between the pages of -Crusoe--perhaps taking a suggestion about Robinson’s larder from some -passing talk about the storeroom, or modifying for the use of Friday -some rustical remark of the young serving-man from the country, or in -the renewing of old recollections produced by some old friend’s visit -finding an anecdote, a detail, to incorporate into the “Journal of the -Plague.” And we should have asked ourselves by what strange play of -genius the unenchanted island, where all the sober elaborations of fact -clothed so completely the vivid realizations of imagination, should have -risen out of the mists amid those trim, old-fashioned alleys, and green -plots, and stiff parterres of flowers. - -Alas! That demon of research which in its poking and prying sometimes -puts old bones together, and sometimes scatters to the winds the ashes -of the dead, has spoiled this pleasant picture. Impelled by its -influence, an unwary or else too painstaking student, some twenty years -ago, was seized with the idea of roaming the earth in search of relics -of Defoe. And the diabolical powers which put this fatal pursuit into -his mind directed him to a bundle of yellow papers in the State Paper -Office which has, alas! for ever and ever made an end of our man of -genius. These treacherous papers give us to wit under his own hand that -he was in reality in full action in the most traitorous of employments -during the period of his supposed retirement. The following, which is -the first of these fatally self-elucidatory letters, will reveal at once -the inconceivable occupation to which Defoe in his downfall lent -himself. He had perhaps compromised himself too much, and been too -completely identified with Harley at the end to be considered capable of -more honorable and evident employment. The letter is addressed to the -secretary of the minister who had given him his disgraceful office: - - It was proposed by my Lord Townsend that I should appear as if I - were as before under the displeasure of the government, and - separated from the Whigs, and that I might be more serviceable in a - kind of disguise than if I appeared openly. In the interval of - this, Dyer, the “News-Letter” writer, being dead, and Dormer, his - successor, being unable by his troubles to carry on that work, I - had an offer of a share in the property as well as in the - management of that work. - - I immediately acquainted my Lord Townsend of it, who, by Mr. - Buckley, let me know it would be a very acceptable piece of - service, for that letter was really very prejudicial to the - public, and the most difficult to come at in a judicial way in case - of offense given. My Lord was pleased to add, by Mr. Buckley, that - he would consider my service in that case, as he afterwards did. - - Upon this I engaged in it, and that so far, that though the - property was not wholly my own, yet the conduct and government of - the style of news was so entirely in me, that I ventured to assure - His Lordship the sting of that mischievous paper should be entirely - taken out, though it was granted that the style should continue - Tory, as it was, that the party might be amused and not set up - another, which would have destroyed the design, and this part I - therefore take entirely on myself still. - - This went on for a year before my Lord Townsend went out of the - office, and His Lordship, in consideration of the service, made me - the appointment which Mr. Buckley knows of, with promise of a - further allowance as service presented. - - My Lord Sunderland, to whose goodness I had many years ago been - obliged, when I was in a secret commission sent to Scotland, was - pleased to approve and continue this service, and the appointment - annexed, and, with His Lordship’s approbation I introduced myself, - in the disguise of a translator of the foreign news, to be so far - concerned in this weekly paper of Mist’s as to be able to keep it - within the circle of a secret management, also prevent the - mischievous part of it, and yet neither Mist, or any of those - concerned with him, have the least guess or suspicion by whose - direction I do it. - -There is nothing, it seems to us, for any apologist to say in -explanation of this extraordinary statement. The emissary of a Whig and -Hanoverian government acting as editor of a Tory and Jacobite -newspaper,--nay, of three newspapers,--in order to take the harm out of -them, to amuse the Tory party with a pretense of style and subjects -suitable to their views, while balking all their purposes, is at once -the most ingenious and the most shameless of all devices. It continued -for a long period, and was very successful. But when the deceit was -discovered at last, Mist, the deluded publisher, made a murderous -assault upon the deceiver, and the journalists of the period seem to -have risen unanimously against him. That Defoe must have fallen sadly -before he came to this is very evident; but how he fell, except by the -natural vengeance of deterioration, which makes a man who has long -paltered with the truth unable at last to distinguish the gradations -which separate the doubtful from the criminal, no one can say. He must, -however, have fallen indeed in position and importance before he could -be put to such miserable work; and he must have fallen more fatally, -like that other son of the morning, deep down into hades, where he -became the father of lies and the betrayer of mankind, before he could -have been capable of this infamous mission. - -We turn with relief to the work which, of all these manifold labors, is -the only portion which has really survived the effects of time. Defoe’s -political writings, with all their lucidity, their brilliant good sense, -daring satire, and astonishing readiness and variety, are for the -student, and retain a place among the materials of history, studied no -longer for their own sake, but for the elucidations they may give. But -“Robinson Crusoe” lives by his own right, and will, we may confidently -affirm, after the long trial he has had, never die. We need not discuss -the other works of fiction which are all as characteristic as distinct -narratives of apparent fact, as carefully elaborated in every detail. -They are almost all excellent in their beginning, but, a fault which is -shared by Crusoe himself, run into such a prodigality of detail toward -their close, that the absence of dramatic construction and of any real -inspiration of art, becomes painfully (or rather tediously, which is -worse) apparent. We do not, however, share the opinion of those critics -who disparage Defoe’s marvelous power of narrative. “The little art he -is truly master of, of forging a story and imposing it on the world for -truth,” is an art which he possesses in common with but very few who -have ever lived; and even among these few he has it in a very high -degree. The gift is peculiar; we are not moved by it to pity or -tenderness, and not much to admiration of the hero. The inner circle of -our emotions is seldom, if ever, entered; but, on the other hand, there -is nothing in that island where the shipwrecked mariner finds a shelter, -and which he makes into a home, which we do not know and see, as well as -if we had dwelt in it like Robinson. It is an island which is added to -the geography of the world. Not only would no child ever doubt of its -existence, but to the most experienced reader it is far more true and -real than half of those of which we have authentic histories, which our -relatives and countrymen have visited and colonized. Those South Sea -Islands, about which we have so many flowery volumes, are not half so -certain. And every detail of the life of its solitary inhabitant comes -up before us like our own personal proceedings--more than visible, -incontestable experiences. Not one of us but could draw the picture of -the solitary in his furs, with all his odd implements about him; and, -more wonderful still, not a child from four upward but could tell who it -was. The tale does not move us as do imaginative histories on a more -poetic level; but in its humbler range it is as living as the best. And -there is something in this very absence of emotion which gives a still -more wonderful force to the tale. Men in such desperate circumstances, -driven to the use of all their faculties for the mere preservation of -their lives, have presumably but little time for feeling. The absorption -of every faculty in this one primitive need brings a certain serenity, a -calm which is like the hush of the solitude--the silence of the seas. -The atmosphere is full of this stillness. There is the repose of Nature, -not filled with reflections of human sentiment, but imposing her -patience, her calm repetition of endless endeavor upon the solitary -flung into her bosom; and there is a sobriety in the story which adds -immensely to the power. Other unknown islands have been in fiction, but -none where the progress of events was so gradual, where there were so -few miraculous accessories. One of the most able of English romancers, -the late Charles Reade, is the last who has carried us to a desolate -island. His story is full of charm, of humor, and sentiment far beyond -the reach of Defoe. Nothing could be more tender, more delightful, than -the idyl of the two lovers cut off from all mankind, lost in the silence -of the seas. But in every way his isle is an enchanted isle. Not only is -it peopled with love and all the graces, but it is running over with -every convenience,--everything that is useful and beautiful. The -inexhaustible ingenuity of the lover is not more remarkable than the -wealth of necessary articles of every kind that turns up at every step. -He builds his lady a bower lined with mother-of-pearl; he clothes her in -a cloak of sealskin; he finds jewels for her; she has but to wish and to -have, as if Regent street had been within reach. Very different is the -sober sanity of the elder narrative. Defoe knows nothing about lovers; -all his heroes marry with prodigality; but he has no love, any more than -he has pearls or gutta-percha, on his island. Conveniences come very -slowly to Robinson Crusoe; he has to grope his way, and find his living -hardly, patiently. Day after day, and year after year, the story-teller -goes on working out the order of events. It is as leisurely as nature, -as little helped by accident, as sober even as matter of fact, and yet -what a potent, clear, all-realizing fancy--a faculty which in its -limited sphere saw and felt and acted in completest appropriation of the -circumstances--this sober imagination was! - -He was fifty-eight at the time this book was written--a man worn with -endless work and strife, but ever ready for more--a man who had fallen -and failed, and made but little of his life. It is said that he was at -his highest point of external prosperity when he published “Robinson -Crusoe”; but when we remember that he was at that time engaged in the -inconceivable muddle of “Mist’s Journal,” it seems almost impossible to -believe this, or to understand how anything but poverty could drive him -into such a disgraceful employment. No doubt, to a man who at heart had -once been an honest man, and was so no more, it must have been a relief -and blessed deliverance to escape away into the distant seas, to refresh -his ever-active soul with the ingenious devices of the shipwrecked -sailor, and bury himself in that life so different from his own, the -savage necessities, the primitive cares. The goats and the parrot and -poor Friday: what an ease and comfort to escape into their society after -bamboozling Mist, and reporting to my lord at St. James’s! Was it a -desperate expedient of nature to save him from utter self-contempt? Such -a man, even if his conscience had grown callous, must have required some -outlet from the dreadful slavery to which he had bound himself. - -“Robinson Crusoe” is the work by which Defoe is best known, which is, -after all, the most effectual guarantee that it is his best work. But it -is not, to our thinking, worthy of being placed in competition with the -“Journal of the Plague”--a history so real, so solemn and impressive, so -full of the atmosphere and sentiment of the time, that it reaches a far -higher point of literary art than anything else Defoe has written. For -this is not prose alone, nor that art of making fiction look like truth, -which is supposed to be his greatest excellence: it is one of the most -impressive pictures of a historical incident which has struck the poetic -imagination everywhere, and of which we have perhaps more authentic -records than of any other historical episode. Neither Boccaccio nor -Manzoni have equaled Defoe in the story of the plague. To the old -Italian it was a horror from which the life-loving fled with loathing as -well as fear, and which they tried to forget and put out of their sight. -Defoe’s minute description of the argument carried on within his own -mind by the narrator is curiously characteristic of the tendency to -elaborate and explain which enters so largely into all his works. The -mental condition of the respectable citizen, divided between concern for -his life and concern for his property, seeing with reasonable eyes that -death was not certain, but that in case of flight ruin was,--moved by -the divination which he uses in all good faith, yet perhaps not with -sufficient devoutness to have allowed himself to be guided by it had it -been contrary to his previous dispositions, and at bottom by a certain -_vis inertiæ_ and disinclination to move, which is clearly indicated -from the beginning,--is in his best manner, and so real that it is -impossible to resist its air of absolute truthfulness. But the state of -the shut-up streets, the dreadful sounds and sights, the brooding heat -and stillness of the long and awful days, the cloud of fate that is -about the doomed city, are beyond description impressive. This curious -spectator of all things, this impartial yet eager looker-on, determined -to see all that can be seen, prudent yet fearless, adopting every -precaution, yet neglecting no means of investigation, inquiring -everywhere, always with his eyes and ears open, at once a philosophical -inquirer and an eager gossip, is without doubt Defoe himself. But he is -also a marked figure of the time. He is like Pepys; he is almost, but -for the unmistakable difference between the bourgeois and the fine -gentleman, like Evelyn. He is one of the special kind of man born to -illustrate that period. Pepys would have found means for some piece of -junketing even in the midst of his alarm, whereas Defoe thinks of his -property, when he has time to think of anything but the plague, which is -a very natural modification consequent on the changes of the times. But -they are at bottom the same. While, however, this central figure remains -the characteristic but not elevated personage with whom we are already -acquainted, the history which he records is done with a tragic force and -completeness which it is impossible to surpass. In this there is nothing -commonplace, no wearying monotony; the very statistics have a tragic -solemnity in them; the awful unseen presence dominates everything. We -scarcely breathe while we move about the streets emptied of all -passers-by, or with a suspicious throng in the middle of the way keeping -as far apart as possible from the houses. This is not mere prose: it is -poetry in its most rare form; it is an ideal representation, in all its -sober details, of one of the most tragical moments of human suffering -and fate. - -Nothing else that Defoe has done is on the same level. It is pitched on -too high a key perhaps for the multitude. His innocent thief, “Colonel -Jack,” begins with a picture both amusing and touching of the curious -moral denseness and confusion of a street boy; his “Cavalier” is a -charming young man. But both these and all the rest of Defoe’s heroes -and heroines grow heavy and tedious at the end. The “Journal of the -Plague” is not like them in this respect. The conclusion--the sudden -surprise and delicious sense of relief, the joy which makes the -passers-by stop and shake hands with one another in the streets, and the -women call out from windows with tears and outcries of gladness--is -sudden and overwhelming as the reality. We are caught in the growing -despair, and suddenly in a moment deliverance comes. Here alone Defoe is -not too long; the unexpected is brought in with a skill and force not -less remarkable than that which in the previous pages has portrayed the -slow growth and inevitable development of the misery. Up to this -anticlimax of unlooked-for joy the calamity has grown, every new touch -intensifying the awful reality. But the recovery is sudden, and told -without an unnecessary word. It is the only instance in which Defoe has -followed the instinct of a great artist and shown that he knew how to -avail himself of the unwritten code and infallible methods of art. - -We forget his shortcomings when we discuss this which is to our mind -much his greatest work, and it is well that we should leave him in this -disposition. He died mysteriously alone, after a period of wandering and -hiding which nobody can explain. Whether he was in trouble with -creditors, or with political enemies, or with the exasperated party -which he had managed to outwit; whether he kept out of the way that his -family might make better terms for themselves, or that he might keep the -remains of his money out of the hands of an undutiful son, or a grasping -son-in-law, nobody can tell. He died in remote lodgings, all alone, and -his affairs were administered by a stranger, perhaps his landlady, no -one knows. His domestic circumstances have been referred to during his -life only in the vaguest way. He had a wife and a numerous family when -he was put in the pillory; he had a wife, a son who was unkind, and -three daughters at the end; but that is all we know. He died at -seventy-two “of a lethargy,” no doubt fallen into the feebleness and -hopelessness of lonely old age; and that is all. His life overflowed -with activity and business. To be doing seems to have been a necessity -of his being. But he never seems to have enjoyed the importance due to -his powers, and in an age when men of letters filled the highest posts -never would appear to have risen above his citizen circle, his -shop-keeping ways. Something in the man must have accounted for this, -but it is difficult to say what it was; for the age did not require a -high standard of truthfulness, and the worst of his misdoings were kept -secret from the public. Perhaps his manners were not such as society, -though very easy in those days, could tolerate; perhaps--but this is -simple guesswork. All we know of Defoe is that as a writer he was of the -greatest influence and note, but as a man nothing. He died poor and -alone; he had little reward for unexampled labor. When Addison was -secretary of state, and Prior an ambassador, he was nobody--a sword in -the hand of an unscrupulous statesman; a shopkeeper manufacturing his -genius and selling it by the yard. A sadder conclusion never was told. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -ADDISON, THE HUMORIST - - -There is not a name in the entire range of English literature to which -so full and universal an appreciation has been given by posterity as -that of Addison. He had his critics in his day. He had, indeed, more -than critics, and from one quarter at least has received in his breast -the finest and sharpest sting which a friend estranged could put into -poetic vengeance. But the burden even of contemporary voices was always -overwhelmingly in his favor, and nowadays there is no one in the world, -we believe, that has other than gentle words for the gentle writer--the -finest critic, the finest gentleman, the most tender humorist of his -age. It is not only admiration, but a sort of personal affection with -which we look back, detecting in all the bustling companies of that -witty and depraved period his genial figure, with a delightful -simplicity in the midst of all the formalism, and whole-heartedness -among the conceits and pretensions, of the fops and wits, the intriguing -statesmen and busy conspirators, of an age in which public faith can -scarcely be said to have existed at all. He had his little defects, -which were the defects of the time. And perhaps his age would not have -loved him as it did had he been entirely without a share in its -weaknesses. As it was, no one could call him a milksop then, as no one -would venture to record any offensive name against him now. The smile of -benevolent good nature, of indulgent humor, of observation always as -sweet and merciful as it is acute and refined, is never absent from his -countenance. He treats no man hardly; the ideal beings whom he creates -are the friends of all: we could, indeed, more easily spare dozens of -living acquaintances than we could part with Sir Roger de Coverley. -Addison is the very embodiment of that delightful gift of humor on which -we pride ourselves so much as a specially English quality; his soft -laugh touches all the chords of sympathy and loving comprehension with a -tender ridicule in which the applauses of admiration are conveyed with -double effect. That his style is the perfection, in its way, of English -style is less dear and delightful to us than that what it conveys is the -perfection of feeling. His art is the antipodes of that satirical art -which allows human excellence only to gird at it, and insinuate motives -which diminish or destroy. Addison, on the other hand, allows -imperfections which his interpretation turns into something more sweet -than virtue, and throws a delightful gleam of love and laughter upon the -eccentricities and characteristic follies of individual nature. That he -sees everything is one of the conditions of his genial forgiveness of -everything that is not mean or base or cruel. With these he makes no -terms. They are not within the range of his treatment. _Non ragionam di -lor._ He passes by to the genial rural circle where all is honest, -simple, and true; or to town, where in the coffee-houses themselves a -kind soul will find humors enough to keep him cheerful without harm to -any of his fellow-creatures--even the post-writers whom he jocularly -recommends to a supplementary Chelsea as having killed more men in the -wars than any general ever did, or the “needy persons” hungry for news, -whom he promises to keep supplied with good and wholesome sentiments. He -was at the same time the first of his kind. Thackeray associates -Congreve--one does not exactly know why--with this nobler name: but at -once makes it clear that there could be no comparison between them, -since the world of the comedy-writer was an entirely fictitious world, -altogether unlike the human nature of the essayist. Of the humorists we -may venture to say that Addison is the first, as well as the most -refined and complete. Swift draws a heavier shaft, which lacerates and -kills, and Pope sends his needle-pointed arrows, all touched with -poisonous venom, to the most vulnerable points; but Addison has no heart -to slay. He transfixes the veil of folly with light, shining, -irresistible darts, and pins it aloft in triumph, but he lets the fool -go free--perhaps lets you see even, by some reflection from his -swift-flying polished spear, a gleam of human meaning in the poor -wretch’s face which touches your heart. Even when he diverts himself -with Tom Folio or Ned Softly, instead of plunging these bores into a -bottomless gulf of contempt, he plays with them as one might with a -child, a twinkle of soft fun in his eye, drawing out their simple -absurdities. That habit of his which Swift describes to Stella, as one -which she herself shared, of seeming to consent to follies which it is -not worth while contradicting, and which Pope venomously characterizes -as “assents with evil leer,” lures him, and us along with him, into -byways of human nature which the impatient critic closes with a kick, -and in which there is much amusement and little harm. Molière’s -_Trissotin_ is a social conspirator meaning to build advancement upon -his bad verses; but Addison’s poetaster is only an exposition of -harmless vanity, humored by the gently malicious, but kind and patient, -listener, who amid his laughter finds a certain pleasure in pleasing the -victim too. There is sympathy even in the dissection, a conjunction of -feelings which is of the very nature of the true humorist. These, no -doubt, are of a very different caliber from that creation which still -charms the reader--the delightful figure of Sir Roger, and all the -simple folks full of follies and of virtues who surround him; but they -are scarcely less remarkable. The lesser pictures, taken at a sitting in -which the author has had no time to elaborate those features of human -character which always draw forth his tenderness, are yet full of this -instinctive sweetness, as well as of insight, keen, though always -tempered, as the touch of Ithuriel’s spear. The angel, indeed, was far -more severe, disclosing the demon under his innocent disguise; but -Addison has nothing to do with demons, he has no deep-laid plan of -mischief to unveil. The worst he does is to smile and banter the little -absurdities out of us--those curious little delusions which deceive -ourselves as well as the world. - -This most loved of English writers was the son of one of those English -parsons who confuse our belief in the extremely unfavorable account, -given by both the graver and the lighter historians of the time, of the -condition of country clergymen. Neither Parson Adams in his virtue, nor -Parson Trulliber in his grossness, nor Macaulay’s keen and clear -picture, nor Thackeray’s fine disrespectful studies of the chaplain who -marries the waiting-maid, seem to afford us any guidance to the nature -of the household which the Rev. Launcelot Addison, after many wanderings -and experiences, set up in the little parish of Milston in Wiltshire -somewhere about the year 1670. Steele’s description of it has, no doubt, -the artificial form affected by the age, and sets it forth as one of -those models of perfection and examples to the world which nowadays we -are more disposed to distrust and laugh at than to follow. “I remember -among all my acquaintances,” he says, “but one man whom I have thought -to live with his children with equanimity and a good grace”; and he goes -on to describe the “three sons and one daughter whom he bred with all -the care imaginable in a liberal and ingenious way--their thoughts -turned into an emulation for the superiority in kind and generous -affection toward each other,” the boys behaving themselves with a manly -friendship, their sister treated by them with as much complaisance as -any other young lady of their acquaintance. “It was an unspeakable -pleasure to visit or sit at a meal in this family,” he adds. “I have -often seen the old man’s heart flow at his eyes with joy upon occasions -which would appear indifferent to such as were strangers to the turn of -his mind; but a very slight accident wherein he saw his children’s good -will to one another created in him the Godlike pleasure of loving them -because they loved one another.” The family tenderness thus inculcated -no doubt came from a mind full of the milk of human kindness, and -happily transmitting that possession to the gentle soul of the eldest -son, who probably was the one whom the father “had the weakness to love -much better than the others”--a weakness which “he took as much pains to -correct as any other criminal passion that could arise in his mind.” -Such a paternity and training does something to account for the -prevailing gentleness of Addison’s temper and judgments. - -Dr. Addison had seen the world not in a very brilliant or luxurious way. -He had been chaplain at Dunkirk, and afterward at Tangier among the -Moors, upon which latter strange experience he wrote a book: and he rose -afterward to be Dean of Lichfield, a dignified clergyman. One of the -brothers went to India, and attained to some eminence; the other was -eventually, like Joseph, a fellow of Magdalen. They dispersed themselves -in the world as the children of a clergyman might very well do at the -present day, and it is evident belonged distinctly to the caste of -gentlemen. The sons, or at least the son with whom we have specially to -do, after sundry local schoolings went to Charterhouse, which he left at -fifteen for Oxford, perhaps because of his unusual advancement, more -probably because the custom of the time sent boys earlier to the -university, as is still the practice in Scotland. Addison was much -distinguished in that elegant branch of learning, the writing of Latin -verse, a kind of distinction which remains dear to the finest minds, in -spite of all the remarks concerning its inutility and the time wasted -in acquiring the art, which the rest of the world has so largely -indulged in. A copy of verses upon the accession of King William, -written while he was still a very youthful scholar at Queen’s College, -no more than seventeen, got him his first promotion. The boy’s verses -came--perhaps from some proud tutor at Queen’s, boasting what could be -done under the cupola in the High street, finer than anything attempted -in more distinguished seats of learning--into the hands of the Provost -of Magdalen, to the amazement and envy of that more learned corporation. -There had been no election of scholars in the previous year, during the -melancholy time when the college was embroiled with King James, and the -courtly Quaker Penn had all the disturbed and troubled fellows under his -heel; but now that freedom had returned with the revolution and the -heaven-sent William, there was room for a double number of distinguished -poor demies. Dr. Lancaster of Magdalen decided at once that to leave -such Latinity as that of the young author of these verses to a college -never very great in such gifts would be a sin against his own: and young -Addison was accordingly elected to all the privileges of a Magdalen -demyship. It is with this beautiful college that his name is connected -in Oxford. There could be no more fit association. The noble trees and -velvet lawns of Magdalen speckled with deer, shy yet friendly creatures -that embellish the retired and silent glades--the long-winding walk by -the Cherwell round the meadows where the fritillaries grow, the -time-worn dignity of the place with its graceful old-world architecture -and associations, are all in the finest keeping with the shy and silent -student who talked so little and thought so much, living among his books -in his college rooms, keeping his lamp alight half through the night, or -musing under the elms, where the little stream joins the greater. It is -dreadful to think that in all probability Addison thought the imposing -classicism of Queen’s, at which the cultivated scholar of to-day -shudders, much finer than Magdalen: for he had no opinion of Gothic, and -lamented the weakness, if not wickedness, of those mistaken ages which -wasted ornament upon such antiquated forms; but at least he loved his -retired promenade under the trees, with all its sweetness of primrose -and thrush in spring, and the wonderful yellow sunsets over the floods -in winter, and the pleasant illusions of the winding way. There the -stranger may realize still in the quiet of the cloistered shades how the -shy young student wandered in Addison’s Walk and pondered his verses, -and formed the delicate wealth of speech which was to distinguish him -from all his fellows. He spent about ten years in his college, first as -a student and then as a fellow, in the position which, perhaps, is more -ideal for a scholar than any other in Christendom. But the young man was -not much more enlightened than the other young men of his age, -notwithstanding his genius at Latin verses, and that still finer genius -which had not as yet come to utterance. He wrote an “Account of the -Greatest English Poets,” not much wiser than the school-boy essays of -our own day which set Lord Tennyson and Mr. Browning down in their right -places. Addison went further. He leaves out all mention of Shakspere, -and speaks of Cowley as a “mighty genius.” He describes “the spacious -times of great Elizabeth” as “a barbarous age,” amused by “Old Spenser” -with “long-spun allegories” and “dull morals,” which have lost all power -to charm an age of understanding. The youth, indeed, ran amuck among all -the greatest names till we shiver at his temerity. But he knew better -afterward; and, if he still condescended a little to his elders and -betters, learned to love and comprehend them too. - -It would seem that he wavered for a time whether he should not take -orders, a step necessary to retain his fellowship, and dedicate himself -to the church, as was the wish of his father. It would have been -entirely suitable to him one cannot but think; to his meditative mood, -and shy temper, and high moral tone. He would have missed the humors of -town, the coffee-houses, and the wits, and the vagaries of the beaus and -belles; but with still a tenderer and more genial humor might have made -his villagers live before us, and found out all the amusing follies of -the knights and squires, which even in London town did not escape his -smiling observation. The manner in which the question was decided is -curiously characteristic of the age. That he was not himself inclined -that way seems probable, since he bids his muse farewell after the -fashion of the time, when this ending seemed imminent, with something -like regret, and it is said that he distrusted his own fitness for the -sacred office. At all events, the matter came to the ears of Charles -Montague, afterward Lord Halifax, himself an elegant scholar, and at -that time in office. Young Addison had addressed to him, on the occasion -of the Peace of Ryswick in 1697, one of those pieces of Latin verse for -which the young man was known among the scholars of his time. He -accompanied the gift with a letter couched in the hyperbole of the age, -deprecating his patron’s possible disapproval of “the noble subject -debased by my numbers,” and justifying himself by the poverty of the -verses already published on the same theme. “For my part,” he says, “I -never could prevail on myself to offer you a poem written in our native -tongue, since you yourself deter all others by your own Compositions -from such an Attempt, as much as you excite them by your Favour and -Humanity.” Montague returned this compliment by interfering in the young -poet’s concerns as soon as he heard of the danger that so promising a -youth might fall into the gulf of the church, and be lost to the other -kinds of work more useful to statesmen. He wrote to the authorities of -Magdalen begging that Addison might not be urged into holy orders, and -in the mean time took more active measures to secure him for the state. -Lord Somers had also received the dedication of some of Addison’s -verses, and was equally interested in the young man’s career. Between -them the two statesmen secured for him a pension of three hundred a -year, on no pretense of work to be done or duty fulfilled, but merely -that he might be able to prepare himself the better for the public -service, and be thus at hand and ready when his work was wanted. Public -opinion has risen up nowadays against any such arrangement, and much -slighter efforts at patronage would be denounced now over all England as -a job. And yet one wonders whether it was so profitless a proceeding as -we think it. Addison was worth more than the money to England. To be -sure, without the money he would still have been Addison; yet something, -no doubt, of the mellow sweetness of humanity in him was due to this -fostering of his youth. - -He went abroad in 1699, and addressed himself in the first place to the -learning of French, which he did slowly at Blois, without apparently -gaining much enlightenment as to the state of France or the other -countries which he visited in his prolonged tour. No doubt, with his -pension and the income of his fellowship, Addison traveled like a young -man of fortune and fashion in those times of leisure, with excellent -introductions everywhere, seeing the best society, and the greatest men -both in rank and letters. Boileau admired his Latin verses as much as -the English statesmen did, and the young man went upon his way more and -more convinced that Latin verses were the highroad to fame. From France -he went to Italy, making a classical pilgrimage. “Throughout,” says Mr. -Leslie Stephen, quaintly, “if we are to judge by his narrative, he seems -to have considered the scenery as designed to illustrate his beloved -poets.” The much-debated uses of travel receive a new question from the -records of such a journey, pursued with the fullest leisure and under -the best auspices; and one wonders whether the man who hurries across a -continent in a few weeks, catching flying impressions, and forming crude -judgments, is, after all, much less advantaged than he who, oblivious of -all the human interests around him, discusses Rome, for instance, as if -it had no interest later than Martial or Silius Italicus--as if neither -Church, nor Pope, nor all the convulsions of the Middle Ages, nor -Crusader, nor Jesuit, had ever been. This extraordinary impoverishment -of the imagination was the fashion of the time, just as it has been the -fashion in other days to fix upon the vile records of the Renaissance as -the one thing interesting in the history of a noble country. According -to that fashion, however, Addison did everything that a young man of the -highest culture could be expected to do. He traced the footsteps of -Æneas, and remembered every spot on which a classical battle had been -fought, or an ode sung. He wrote an eloquent essay upon medals, and -lingered among the sculptures of the museums; and he picked up a subject -for a heroic tragedy from the suggestion of a foolish play which he saw -at a Venetian theater. With his head full of such themes, he had gone -out from Oxford, and with a deepened sense of their importance he came -back again. Though in after days he touches lightly with his satiric -dart the young man who can talk of nothing better on his return than how -“he had like to have been drowned at such a place; how he fell out of a -chaise at another”; yet in the hymn of praise with which he celebrates -his own return from all the dangers of foreign travel something like the -same record is made, though in a more imposing manner: - - In foreign Realms and Lands remote, - Supported by thy care, - Thro’ burning Climes I passed unhurt, - And breath’d in Tainted Air. - Thy mercy sweetened every Soil, - Made every Region please, - The hoary Alpine Hills it warmed, - And smooth’d the Tyrrhene Seas. - -[Illustration: JOSEPH ADDISON. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JEAN SIMON, AFTER PAINTING -BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.] - -It is only the vulgarity of our modern imagination that makes us think -of hot water-pipes when the idea of warming the Alps is presented to our -profane minds. The burrowing of the railway that climbs the St. Gothard -may be taken as a large contribution to the carrying out of this -suggestion. - -When Addison returned home after these four years of classical -wanderings, it was to prospects sadly overcast. King William had died a -year before, which had stopped his pension; Halifax was out of office, -and all the hopes of public life, for which he had been training -himself, seemed to drop as he came back. It is said that during the last -year he had charge of a pupil; but there is no proof of the statement, -nor has any pupil ever been identified by name. An offer was made to him -to accompany upon his travels a son of the Duke of Somerset, his -services to be paid by the present of a hundred guineas at the year’s -end, which did not seem to Addison an advantageous offer: but this, -which came to nothing, is the only authentic reference to any possible -“bear-leading” such as Thackeray refers to in “Esmond”; and fine as is -the sketch made by that kindred humorist, he seems to exaggerate at once -the poverty and the neglect into which for the moment Addison fell. - -He returned to England in 1703, being then thirty-one, full of every -accomplishment, but with only his fellowship to depend upon, and the -uncertain chances of Jacob Tonson’s favor instead of the king’s. He is -said to have sunk, or rather risen, to a poor lodging in London, in the -Haymarket, up three pairs of stairs, which was indeed a sad change from -the importance of his position as a rich young Englishman making the -grand tour. But if he carried a disappointed or despondent heart to -those elevated quarters, he never made any moan on the subject, and it -is very likely enjoyed his freedom and the happy sense of being at home -like other young men; and he seems to have been at once advanced to the -membership of the Kit-Cat Club, which would supply him with the finest -of company, and a center for the life which otherwise must have appeared -as if it had come to a broken end. It was not long, however, that this -period of neglect was suffered to last, and once more the transaction -which elevated Addison to the sphere in which he passed the rest of his -life is admirably characteristic of the period, and alas! profoundly -unlike anything that could happen to a young man of genius now. - -We will not return again to any bewildering discussion of the Whigs and -Tories of Queen Anne, but only say that Godolphin and Marlborough, those -“great twin brethren” of the state, had come into possession of England -at this great crisis, and that every means by which they could secure -the suffrages of both parties were doubly necessary, considering the -disappointment on one side that the policy of the country remained -unchanged, and on the other that it had to be carried out by Whig, not -Tory, hands. Nothing could be better adapted than the great victory of -Blenheim to arouse an outburst of national feeling, and sweep, for a -time at least, the punctilios of party away. The lord treasurer, who had -everything in his hands at home, while his great partner fought and -conquered abroad, was almost comically at a loss how to sound the -trumpet of warlike success so as to excite the country, and, if -possible, turn the head of the discontented. In one of Leopardi’s fables -there is an account of the tremendous catastrophe with which the world -was threatened when his illustrious excellency the Sun declined one -morning to rise and tread his old-world course around the earth for the -comfort of mankind. “Let her in her turn go round me if she wants my -warmth and light,” says the potentate--with great reason, it must be -allowed, since Copernicus was born, and everything in the celestial -spheres was about to be set right. But how to persuade the earth that -she must now undertake this circuit? Let a poet be found to do it is -the first suggestion. “La via più spedita è la più sicura è di trovare -un poeta ovvero un filosofo che persuada alla Terra di muoversi.” -Godolphin found himself in the same position as that in which the -luckless agencies of the Universe were left when the Sun struck work. A -poet!--but where to find a poet he knew not, being himself addicted to -other modes of exercise and entertainment. He went to Halifax to ask -where he should find what was wanted--a poet. But that statesman was coy -and held back. He could, indeed, produce the very man; but why should he -interfere to betray neglected merit and induce a man of genius to labor -for those who would leave him to perish in obscurity? Godolphin, -however, was ready to promise anything in the great necessity of the -case; and Halifax permitted himself to be persuaded to mention the name -which no doubt was bursting from his lips. He would not, however, -undertake to be the ambassador, but insisted that the real possessors of -power should ask in their own persons, and with immediate and -substantial proofs of their readiness to recompense the service they -demanded. That day, all blazing in gold lace and splendor, the coach of -the chancellor of the exchequer stopped before the little shop in the -Haymarket over which the young scholar had his airy abode: and that -great personage clambered up the long flights of stairs carrying with -him, very possibly, the patent of the appointment which was an earnest -of what the powers that were could do for Addison. This was how the -great poem of the “Campaign,” that illustrious composition, was brought -into being. Poems made to order seldom fulfil expectation, but in this -case there was no disappointment. Godolphin and England alike were -delighted, and Addison’s life and success were at once secured. - -No one now, save as an illustration of history, would think of reading -the “Campaign,” though most readers are familiar with the famous simile -which dazzled a whole generation: - - ’T was there great Marlborough’s mighty soul was proved, - That in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, - Amidst confusion, horror, and despair - Examined all the dreadful scenes of war, - In powerful thought the field of death surveyed, - To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, - Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, - And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. - So when an angel by Divine command - With rising tempest shakes a guilty land, - Such as of late o’er pale Britannia past, - Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; - And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform, - Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. - -Macaulay points out with much felicity how the fact of the Great -Storm--so called in English history--which had passed over England in -the previous year, and was yet full in the memory of all, gave strength -and meaning to this famous simile, which at once opened to Addison the -gates of fortune and of fame. Two years after he was promoted to be one -of the undersecretaries of state, and from that time languished no more -in the cold shade of obscurity where Halifax had upbraided the -Government for leaving him. He was not a man born to linger there. Shy -though he was, and little apt to put himself forward, this favorite of -the muses--to use the phraseology of his time--was also the favorite of -fortune. Everything that he touched throve with him. The gifts he -possessed were all especially adapted to the requirements of his time. -At no other period, perhaps, in history did the rulers of the country -bethink themselves of a poet as the auxiliary most necessary: and his -age was the only one that relished poetry of Addison’s kind. - -This event brought more than mere prosperity to the fortunate young man. -If he had been already of note enough to belong to the Kit-Cat Club, -with what a blaze of modest glory would he now appear--not swelling in -self-conceit, like so many of the wits; not full of silent passion, like -the strange big Irish clergyman who pushed into the chattering company -in the coffee-house and astounded them with his masterful and arrogant -ways: but always modest--never heard at all in a large company, opening -out a little when the group dispersed, and an audience fit but few -gathered around him--but with one companion _half_ divine. The one -companion by and by became often that very same Irishman whose silent -prowl about the room in which he knew nobody had amused all the luckier -members. Swift found himself in a kind of coffee-house paradise when he -got Addison alone, and the two took their wine together, spending their -half-crowns according to the stranger’s thrifty record, and wishing for -no third. They were as unlike as could be conceived in every particular, -and yet what company they must have been, as they sat together, the wine -going a little too freely--though Swift was always temperate, and -Addison, notwithstanding that common peccadillo, the most irreproachable -of men! It was then that the “Travels in Italy” were published, while -still the fame of the “Campaign” was warm; and Addison gave his new -friend a copy inscribed to “Jonathan Swift, the most Agreeable -Companion, the Truest Friend, and the Greatest Genius of his Age.” What -quick understanding, what recognition as of two who had been born to -know each other! They were both in their prime--Swift thirty-eight, -Addison five years younger, still young enough to hope for everything -that can befall a man; the one fully entered upon the path of fortune, -the other surely so much nearer it for being thus received and welcomed. -Addison gave “his little senate laws” for many years in these convivial -meetings, and all who surrounded him adored him. But Swift was never -again so close a member of the little company. Politics, and the curious -part which the Irish parson took in them, separated him from the -consistent and moderate politician, who acted faithfully with his party, -and who was always true whoever might be false. But Swift held fast to -Addison so far at least as feeling was concerned. Over and over he -repeated the sentiment, that “if he had a mind to be king he would -hardly be refused.” Their meetings ceased, and all those outflowings of -wit and wisdom, and the talk long into the night which was the most -delightful thing in life; but for years after Swift still continued to -say that there was nothing his friend might not be if he would: that his -election was carried without a word of opposition when every other -member had to fight for his life, and that he might be king in Ireland, -or anywhere else, had he the mind. They were used to terms of large -applause in those days, but to no one else did it take this particular -form. - -In 1708 Addison lost his post as under-secretary by a change of the -ministry, or rather of the minister, it being the habit in those days to -form a government piecemeal, a Whig here, a Tory there, as favor or -circumstances required, so that it was by no means needful that all -should go out or come in together. In fact, no sooner was the -under-secretary deprived of one place than he obtained another, that of -secretary to the lord lieutenant of Ireland, the same office, we -presume, as that which is now called chief secretary for Ireland, though -its seriousness and power are now so much greater. In those days there -was no Irish people to deal with, but only a very lively, contentious, -pushing, and place-hunting community--the Protestant English-Irish, -which, so far as literature and public knowledge go, has been accepted -as the type of the much darker and less simple character of the Celt. -The wild, mystic, morose, and often cruel nature of the native race, -with its gleams of poetry and dreams of fortune, has turned out a very -different thing to reckon with. No such problem was presented to the -statesmen of that time. The admixture of Irish blood would seem to go to -the head of the Saxon and endow him with a gaiety and sparkle which does -not exist either in one race or the other unmixed; and it was with the -society formed on this basis, the ascendant minority, contemptuous of -every possible power of the people so-called, yet far less unsympathetic -than the anxious politicians of to-day, that Addison had to deal. His -post was “very lucrative,” we are told--in fees and pieces of patronage, -no doubt, for the income was but £2000 a year--and he soon acquired an -even greater popularity on the one side of the channel than on the -other. Something amiable and conciliatory must have rayed out of the -man: otherwise it is curious to understand the popularity in brilliant -and talkative Dublin of a stranger whose chief efforts in conversation -were only to be accomplished _tête-a-tête_. But he had the foil of a -detestable and detested chief--Wharton, whose corrupt and brutal -character gave double acceptance to the secretary’s charm and goodness, -and the Tories contended with the Whigs, says Swift, which should speak -best of this favorite of fortune. “How can you think so meanly of a -kingdom,” he exclaims, “as not to be pleased that every creature in it -who hath one grain of worth has a veneration for you?” It is not often -that even in hyperbole such a thing can be said. - -It was while Addison was in Ireland thus gathering golden opinions that -an event occurred which was of the utmost importance to his reputation, -so far especially as posterity was concerned. Among the little band of -friends over whom he held a kind of genial sway, and who acknowledged -his superiority with boundless devotion, was one who was more nearly his -equal than any other of the band; a friend of youth, one of those -erratic but generous natures whose love of excellence is almost -rapturous, though they are unable themselves to keep up to the high -level they approve. Steele can never be forgotten where Addison is -honored. He had been at Charterhouse and at Oxford along with his -friend, and no doubt it was a wonder among the reading men in their -earlier days how it was that the correct, the polished, the -irreproachable scholar of Magdalen, with his quiet ways, could put up -with that gay scapegrace who was perpetually in trouble. Such alliances, -however, have not been rare. The cheerful, careless Dick, full of -expedients, full of animal spirits, always amusing, friendly, generous -in his impulses, if unintentionally selfish in the constant breaches of -his better meaning, must have had a charm for the steadier and purer -nature which was formed with pulses more orderly. No doubt Steele’s -perpetual self-revelation, his unfolding of a hundred quips and cranks -of human nature, and unsuspicious rendering up of all his natural -anomalies and contradictions to the instinctive spectatorship of his -amused companion, helped to endear him to the humorist, who must have -laughed till he cried on many an occasion over poor Dick’s amazing -wisdoms and follies, without any breach of that indulgent affection -which between two men who have grown up together can rarely be said to -be mingled with anything so keen as contempt. Steele, it is evident, -must have known Addison “at home,” as school-boys say, or he could not -have made that little sketch of the household where brothers and sisters -were taught to be so loving to each other. While the young hero who had, -as in the favorite allegories of the time, chosen the right path, and -taken the steady hand of Minerva, instead of that more lovely one of -fatal Venus to guide him, was reaching the heights of applause and good -fortune, the unlucky youth who chose pleasure for his pursuit had gone -disastrously the other way, and fallen into all sorts of adventures, -extremely amusing for his friend to hear of, though he disapproved, and -no doubt very amusing to the actual actor in them, though he suffered. -But Addison was not a mere “spectator” so far as the friend of his youth -was concerned. When he began to rise there seems little reason to doubt -that he pulled Steele up with him, introducing him to the notice of the -fine people, who in those days might make the fortune of a gentlemanly -and clever adventurer, and that either by his own interest or that of -one of his powerful friends he procured him a place and started him in -public life. Steele had already floated into literature, and, whether it -is true or not that Addison helped him in the concoction of one play at -least, it is clear that he kept his purse and his heart well open to his -friend, now a man about town ruffling at the coffee-houses with the -best, and full of that energy and readiness which so often strike out -new ways of working, though it may require steadier heads to carry them -out. - -It was, however, while Addison was in Ireland that Steele was moved by -the most important of these original impulses, an idea full, as it -proved, of merit and practical use. Journalism was then in its infancy. -A little “News Letter,” or “Flying Post”--a shabby broadsheet containing -the bulletin of a battle, a formal and brief notice of parliamentary -proceedings, an account of some monstrous birth, a child with two heads, -or that perennial gooseberry which has survived into our own time--and -an elaborate list of births, deaths, and marriages, was almost all that -existed in the way of public record. The post to which Steele had been -appointed was that of Gazetteer, which naturally led him to the -consideration of such matters: and among the crowd of projects which -worked together in his “barmy noddle,” there suddenly surged uppermost -the idea of a paper which should come out on the post days, the -Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays which were, up to that time, the only -days of communication with the country; a paper written after the fancy -of the time, in itself a letter from the wits and the knowing persons -in town, revealing not only the existing state of public affairs, but -all those exquisite particulars of society which have always been the -delight of country circles, and which were doubly sure to please at a -time when society was governed by talk, when all public criticism was -verbal, and the echoes of the wits in the coffee-houses were blown about -on all the breezes. Happy the Sir Harry who, sitting mum over his wine -in a corner, could hear these gentlemen discussing what Sunderland or -Somers had said, what my Lord Treasurer intended, or, more delightful, -the newest incident in the tragedy-comedy of the great duchess--how the -queen looked glumly at her over the card-table, or let her stand -unnoticed at a drawing-room; and still more deeply blest the parson who -had Mr. Addison pointed out to him, and heard the young Templars and -scholars pressing him with questions as to when his “Cato” was coming -out, or asking his opinion on a set of verses. Such worthies would go -back to the country full of these reflections from the world, and tell -how the gallants laughed at the mantua which was going out of fashion, -and made fun of the red heels which, perhaps, were just then appearing -at the Manor or the Moated Grange. Steele saw at once what a thing it -would be to convey these impressions at first hand in a privileged -“Tatler” direct to the houses of the gentry all over the country. -Perhaps he did not perceive at first what a still finer thing to have -them served up with the foaming chocolate or fragrant tea at every -breakfast in Mayfair. - -It is an idea that has occurred to a great many heads since with less -success. In these latter days there have been many literary adventurers, -to whom the starting of a new paper has seemed an opening into El -Dorado. But the opening in the majority of cases does not prove a -practicable one--for, in fact, there is no longer any need of news; and -the concise little essays and elegant banterings of those critics of the -time have fallen out of date. News means in our day an elaborate -system, and instantaneous reports from all the world; and one London -newspaper--far more one of the gigantic journals proper to -America--contains as much matter as half a hundred “Tatlers.” One -wonders, if Addison’s genius, and the light hand of Steele, and Swift’s -tremendous and scathing humor could be conjured up again, whether such a -production, with its mingled thread of the finest sentiments and the -pettiest subjects, metaphysics and morals, and the “Eneid” and “Paradise -Lost,” and periwigs and petticoats, would find sufficient acceptance -with “the fair” and the wise to keep it afloat, or would still go up to -sages and fine ladies with their breakfast trays. - -It was on the immediate foundation of one of Swift’s savage _jeux -d’esprits_ that the new undertaking was begun, a mystification which -greatly amused the wits then, but which does not, perhaps, appear -particularly delightful now. Swift had been seized by a freak of -mischief in respect to a certain Partridge, an astrologer, who made an -income out of the public by pretended revelations of the future, as is -still done, we believe, among those masses, beneath the ascertained -audience of literature, who spend their sixpences at Christmas upon -almanacs and year-books containing predictions of what is to happen. It -occurred to Swift in some merry moment to emulate and to doom the Merlin -of the day: and with the prodigious gravity which characterizes his -greatest jests he wrote “Predictions for the year 1708,” in which, among -many other things, he announced that he had consulted the stars on -behalf of Partridge, and had ascertained that the wizard would certainly -die on March 29, at eleven o’clock at night, of a raging fever. The -reader will probably remember that the jest was kept up, and that, -notwithstanding Partridge’s protest that he was not dead at all, Isaac -Bickerstaff insisted on asserting that his prophecy had been fulfilled, -to the grave confusion of various serious affairs, and the -inextinguishable laughter of the wits. It was not a pretty jest, but it -brought into being a visionary critic of public matters, a new personage -in the literary world, in whom other wits saw capabilities. Steele in -particular perceived that Isaac Bickerstaff was just the personality he -wanted, and therewith proceeded to make of that shadowy being the Mentor -of the time. The design was excellent, the immediate execution cleverly -adapted to seize the interest of the public, which had been already -amused and mystified under that name. Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff presented -his readers with the first number of his journal without charge. “I -earnestly desire,” he says, “all persons, without distinction, to take -it in for the present _gratis_, and hereafter at the price of one penny, -forbidding all hawkers to take more for it at their peril.” The idea -took the town. No doubt there would be many an allusion to this and that -which the wits would guess at, and which would to them have a double -meaning; but, to do the “Tatler” justice, the kind of gossip which fills -the so-called society newspapers in our day was unknown to the witty -gentlemen who sometimes satirize a ruffle or a shoe-tie, but never -personally a woman. The types of fine ladies who flutter through his -pages could never raise a pang in any individual bosom; and when he -addressed himself to the reform of the theater, to the difficult duty of -checking play and discouraging duels, he had all the well-thinking on -his side. - -Steele had gone on for some numbers before his new venture attracted the -attention of Addison. He recognized whose the hand was from a classical -criticism in the sixth number which he had himself made to Steele; and -he must have been pleased with the idea, since he soon after appears as -a coadjutor, sending his contributions from the Secretary’s office in -Dublin. There has been a great and prolonged controversy upon the -respective merits of these two friends: some, and first among them -Macaulay, will have it that Addison had all the merit of the -publication. “Almost everything good in the ‘Tatler’ was his,” says the -historian. But there are many who, despite Macaulay’s great authority, -find a certain difficulty in distinguishing Addison from Steele and -Steele from Addison, and are inclined to find the latter writer as -entertaining and as gifted as the former. No question could be more -difficult to settle. As we glance over the little gray volumes which -bring back to us dimly the effect which the little broadsheet must have -had when it appeared day by day, there is no doubt that the eye is -oftenest caught by something which, when we look again, proves to be -from Addison’s hand. We open, it is by chance, and yet not altogether by -chance, upon Tom Folio and his humors; upon the poor poet and his -verses; upon some group of shabby heroes, or stumbling procession of -country gentlemen which there is no mistaking. But on the other hand it -is Steele who gives us that family picture, which reads like the Vicar -of Wakefield, yet with a more tender touch (for Mrs. Primrose was never -her husband’s equal), showing us the good woman among her family, the -husband half distracted with the fear of losing her, the wife for his -sake smiling her paleness away. Indeed, we think, in these early essays -at least, it would be a mistake for the critic to risk his reputation on -the superiority of Addison. He set up no higher standard than that which -his friend had raised, but fell into the same humor, adding his -contribution of social pictures with less force of moral generally, and -more delicacy of workmanship, but no remarkable preëminence. The -character of the publication changed gradually as the great new pen came -into it; but whether by Addison’s influence or by the mere action of -time, and a sense of what suited the audience he had obtained--which a -soul so sympathetic as Steele’s would naturally divine with -readiness--no one can tell. Gradually the news which at first had -regularly filled a column dropped away. It had been, no doubt, well -authenticated news, the freshest and best, as it came from the -authorized hand of the Gazetteer; but either Steele got tired of -supplying it, or a sense of the inexpediency of publishing anything -which might displease his patrons and the government, convinced him that -it was unnecessary. It is scarcely possible, either, to tell why the -“Tatler” came to an end. Mr. Austin Dobson, in his recent life of -Steele, gives sundry reasons which do not seem, however, of any -particular weight. Steele’s own account is that he had become known, and -his warnings and lessons were thus made of no avail: - - I considered [he says] that severity of manners was absolutely - necessary to him who would censure others, and for that reason and - that only chose to talk in a mask. I shall not carry my humility so - far as to call myself a vicious man, but at the same time confess - my life is at best but pardonable. And with no greater character - than this a man could make an indifferent progress in attacking - prevailing and fashionable vices, which Mr. Bickerstaff has done - with a freedom of spirit that would have lost both its beauty and - efficacy had it been pretended to by Mr. Steele. - -This reason is, however,--though pretty and just enough had its writer -renounced the trade,--a somewhat fantastic one when we reflect that -though the “Tatler” ended in January, 1711, the “Spectator” began in -March of the same year. The one died only to be replaced by the other. -It is said that Addison did not know of his friend’s intention to cut -the “Tatler” short, and it was he who was the chief agent in beginning -the “Spectator.” Therefore it may have been that the breach was but an -impatience of Steele’s, which his slow and less impulsive and more -constant comrade could not permanently consent to. No doubt Addison had -by this time learned the advantage of such a mode of utterance, and felt -how entirely it suited his own manner of work and constitution of mind. -The fictitious person of Isaac Bickerstaff was relinquished in the new -series: it no longer assumed to give any news. Its contents were less -varied, consisting generally of a single essay, and, notwithstanding the -impression which the casual reader often has, and which some critics -have largely dwelt upon, that the comments of this critic are upon the -merest vanities of the time, the hoops, the gold-lace, the snuff-boxes, -and patches of the period, it is astonishing how little space is -actually taken up with these lighter details, and how many graver -questions, how many fine sentiments and delicate situations, afford the -moralist occasion for those remarks which he makes in the most beautiful -and picturesque English to the edification of all the generations. There -is, perhaps, no book which is so characteristic of an epoch in history, -and none which gives so clear a conception of the English world of the -time. We sit and look on, always amused, often instructed, while the -delicate panorama unfolds before us--and see everything pass, the fine -coaches, the gentlemen on foot, the parsons in their gowns, the young -Templars jesting in the doorways: but always with the little monologue -going on, which accompanies the movement, and runs off into a hundred -byways of thought, sometimes serious, sometimes gay, often with no -particular connection with the many-colored streams of passers-by, yet -never obscuring our sight of them as they come and go. There is, -perhaps, a noisy group at the door while Mr. Spectator talks, with their -wigs in the last fashion, and their clouded canes hung to a button, -while they discourse. In one corner there are some two or three grave -gentlemen putting their heads together over the latest news; and in -another the young fellows over their wine eager in discussion of Mrs. -Oldfield and Mrs. Bracegirdle at the theater, or of Chloe and Clarissa, -the reigning beauties of society; or perhaps it is a poet, poor Ned -Softly, as the case may be, who is reading his last sonnet to his -mistress’s eyebrow, amid the laughing commentaries or the ridicule of -his companions. What is Mr. Spectator talking of all the while? His -discourse does not prevent us hearing the impertinences of the others. -Perhaps he is talking of honest love, a favorite theme of his, at which -the wits do not dare to laugh in his presence,--or he is telling one of -his fables, to which everybody in the midst of his levity or his -business gives half an ear at least; or by a caprice he has turned aside -to metaphysics, and is discussing the processes of the mind, and how “no -thought can be beautiful that is not just”; how “’t is a property of -the heart of man to be diffusive, its kind wishes spread abroad over the -face of the creation,” and such like; not to speak of graver subjects -still to which he will direct our minds on Saturdays, perhaps to prepare -us for Sunday, when he is silent. Or he will read aloud a letter from -some whimsical correspondent, which the wits will pause to hear, for -gossip is ever sweet, but which before they know lands them in a case of -hardship or trouble which touches their consciences and rouses their -pity. Sometimes the hum of life will stop altogether and even Softly put -his verses in his pocket to listen: and on the brink of tears the fine -gentlemen, and we too along with them, incontinently burst out -a-laughing at some touch that no one expected. But whether we laugh or -cry, or are shamed in our levity, or diverted in our seriousness, -outside the windows the crowd is always streaming on. There is no -separating the “Spectator” from the lively, crowded, troublous, and -perplexing scenes upon which all his reflections are made. The young -lady looking out of her coach--at sight of whom all the young fellows -doff their hats and make their comments, how much her fortune is, who is -in pursuit of her, or if any mud has yet been flung upon her--shows to -the philosopher a face disturbed with all the puzzles of an existence -which nobody will allow her to take seriously. The poor wit who -endeavors so wistfully to amuse my lord in - -[Illustration: SIDNEY, EARL OF GODOLPHIN. - -ENGRAVED BY PETER AITKEN, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, IN BRITISH -MUSEUM. PAINTED BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.] - -his dullness betrays to that critic not so much the soul of a toady, as -that of the anxious father with children that starve at home. His young -fellows, though they look so careless, have their troubles too. Wherever -that keen eye turns another group shows through the crowd, or a lonely -whimsical figure as distinct as if there was no one but he. Save perhaps -on those Saturdays when he plays his soft accompaniment to Milton’s -grand, sonorous organ he is never abstracted or retired from men: on all -other occasions, though he is thinking of a great deal else, and has his -mind absorbed in other themes, this busy world of which he forms a part -is always with him. Sometimes he permits us to see him over their heads -only, seated on his familiar bench at his table, from whence he delivers -his homilies, with all these figures moving and re-moving on the busy -pavement in the foreground; sometimes we are admitted inside, and watch -them through open door and window by his side: but he is never to be -parted from the society in which he finds his models, his subjects, his -audience. Like other men he takes it for granted that the fashion of his -contemporaries is to go on forever. For posterity that smiling, keen -observer takes no thought. - -But of all things else that Addison has done there remains one -preëminent figure which is his chief claim to immortality. The -“Campaign” has disappeared out of literature; “Cato” is known only by a -few well-known lines; the “Spectator” itself, though a work which no -gentleman’s library can be without, dwells generally in dignified -retirement there, and is seldom seen on any table but the student’s, -though we are all supposed to be familiar with it: but Sir Roger de -Coverley is the familiar friend of most people who have read anything at -all, and the acquaintance by sight, if we may so speak, of everybody. -There is no form better known in all literature. His simple rustic -state, his modest sense of his own importance, his kind and genial -patronage of the younger world, which would laugh at him if it were not -overawed by his modesty and goodness, and which still sniggers in its -sleeve at all those kind, ridiculous ways of his as he walks about in -London, taken in on all sides, with his hand always in his purse and his -heart in its right place, are always familiar and delightful. We learn -with a kind of shock that it was Steele who first introduced this -perfect gentleman to the world, and can only hope that it was Addison’s -idea from the first, and that he did not merely snatch out of his -friend’s hands and appropriate a conception so entirely according to his -own heart. To Steele, too, we are indebted for some pretty scenes in the -brief history: for Will the Huntsman’s wooing, which is the most -delicate little enamel, and for the knight’s own love-making, which, -however, is pushed a little too near absurdity. But it is Addison who -leads him forth among his country neighbors, and to the assizes, and -meets the gipsies with him, and brings him up to town, carrying him to -Westminster and to Spring Gardens, in the wherry with the one-legged -waterman, and to the play. The delightful gentleman is never finer than -in this latter scene. He has to be conveyed in his coach, attended by -all his servants, armed with “good oaken plants,” and Captain Sentry in -the sword he had worn at Steinkirk, for fear of the Mohocks, those -brutal disturbers of the public peace whom Addison justly feels it would -be unbecoming to bring within sight of his noble old knight. - - As soon as the house was full and the candles lighted my old friend - stood up and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind - seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself at the sight of a - multitude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake - of the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself - as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit that he made a - very proper centre to a tragick Audience. Upon the entering of - Pyrrhus the Knight told me that he did not believe the King of - France had a better strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old - friend’s remarks because I looked upon them as a piece of natural - criticism and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of - almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the - play would end; one while he appeared much concerned for - Andromache, and a little while after as much for Hermione; and was - extremely puzzled to know what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir - Roger saw Andromache’s obstinate refusal to her lover’s - importunities, he whispered me in the ear that he was sure she - would never have him; to which he added with a more than ordinary - vehemence, “You can’t imagine, sir, what ’t is to have to do with a - widow.” Upon Pyrrhus, his threatening afterwards to leave her, the - Knight shook his head and murmured, “Ay! do it if you can.” This - part dwelt so much upon my friend’s imagination that at the close - of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered - in my ear, “These widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in - the world. But pray,” says he, “you that are a critick, is this - play according to your dramatick rules, as you call them? Should - your People in Tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there is - not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning - of!” - - The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old - gentleman an answer. “Well,” says the Knight, sitting down with - great satisfaction, “I suppose we are now to see Hector’s Ghost?” - He then renewed his attention, and from time to time fell - a-praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one - of her pages, whom, at his first entering, he took for Astyanax; - but we quickly set him right in that particular, though at the same - time he owned he should have been very glad to see the little boy, - who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that - is given of him. - -Could anything be more delightful than this genial picture? We have all -met in later years a certain Colonel Newcome, who is very like Sir -Roger, one of his descendants, though he died a bachelor. But the -Worcestershire knight was the first of his lineage, and few are the -gifted hands who have succeeded in framing men after his model. Those -little follies which are so dear to us, the good faith which makes the -young men laugh, yet feel ashamed of themselves for laughing, and all -the circumstances of that stately simple life which are so different -from anything we know, yet so lifelike and genuine, have grown into the -imagination of the after-generations. We seem to know Sir Roger from -our cradle, though we may never even have read the few chapters of his -history. This is the one infallible distinction of genius above all -commoner endowments. Of all the actors in that stirring time Sir Roger -remains the most living and real. The queen and her court are no more -than shadows moving across the historic stage. Halifax, and Somers, and -Harley, and even the great Bolingbroke, what are they to us? Figures -confused and uncertain, that appear and disappear in one combination or -another, so that our head aches in the effort to follow, to identify, to -make sure what the intrigues and the complications mean. But we have no -difficulty in recollecting all about Sir Roger. We would not have the -old man mocked at any more than Mr. Addison would, but kiss his kind old -hand as we smile at those little foibles which are all ingratiating and -delightful. In that generation, with all its wars and successes, there -was, perhaps, no such gain as Sir Roger. Marlborough’s victories made -England feared and respected, but cost the country countless treasure, -and gave her little advantage; the good knight cost nobody anything, and -made all the world the richer. He is one of those inhabitants who never -grow old or pass away, and he gives us proof undeniable that when we -speak of a corrupt and depraved age, as we have reason to do, we have -still nobler reason for believing--as the despairing prophet was taught -by God himself in far older times: that however dark might be the -prospect there were still seven thousand men in Israel who had never -bowed the knee to Baal--what we learn over again, thank Heaven! from -shining example everywhere, that there are always surviving the seed of -the just, the salt of the earth, by whose silent agency, and pure love, -and honest truth, life is made practicable and the world rolls on. - -Sir Roger is the great point of the “Spectator,” as the “Spectator” is -the truest history of the time. It contains, however, beside, much that -is admirable and entertaining, as well as a good deal that was -temporary, and is now beyond the fashion of our understanding, or, at -least, of our appreciation. Addison’s criticism, or rather exposition, -of Milton, which no doubt taught his age a far more general regard for -that great poet, is well enough known, but yet not nearly so well known -as Sir Roger, and not necessary now as it was then. When these -criticisms began it is evident that Addison, as well as his friend -Steele, had made a great advance from the time when the young Oxford -scholar left Shakspere out of his reckoning altogether, and considered -“Old Spenser” only fit to amuse a barbarous age. Though the balance of -things had not been redressed throughout the English world, yet these -scholars had come to perceive that the greatness of their predecessors -had been, perhaps, a little mixed up; that Cowley was not so mighty a -genius as their boyhood believed, and that there were figures as of gods -behind which it was shame to have misconceived. Throughout all, the -meaning was wholesome, and tended toward the elevation of the time. -Steele had it specially at heart to discourage gambling, and to put down -the hateful tyranny of the duel. And both writers used all their powers -to improve and raise the character of theatrical representations, -keeping a watch not only over the plays that were performed, but also -over the manners of the audience, who crowded the stage so that the -players could scarcely be seen, and played cards in their boxes, and -used the public entertainment for their own private quarrels and -assignations. It is curious, too, to note how these authorities regarded -the opera, the new form of amusement which had pushed its way, against -all the prejudices of the English, into fashion. Addison himself, -indeed, wrote an opera which was not successful; but he did not love -that new-fangled entertainment. He devotes two or three numbers to the -description of it, for, says he, “There is no question our grandchildren -will be very anxious to know the reason why their forefathers used to -sit together like an audience of foreigners in their own country, and to -hear whole plays acted before them in a tongue which they did not -understand.” It is evident by this that his age had not reached to the -further sublimity of believing that when the utterance is musical there -is no need of understanding at all. “One scarce knows how to be -serious,” he adds, “in the confutation of an absurdity that shows itself -at the first sight. It does not want any great measure of sense to see -the ridicule of this monstrous practice. If the Italians have a genius -for music above the English, the English have a genius for other -performances of a much higher nature, and capable of giving the mind a -much nobler entertainment.” We wonder if our “Spectator” would be less -affronted now by the constant adaptation of equivocal French plays to -the English stage, than by the anomaly of a representation given in -language which nobody understood? He would, perhaps, feel it to be an -advantage often not to understand, and doubt whether the English after -all “have a genius for other performances of a much higher nature.” - -We are not informed that the “Tatler” and “Spectator,” the real -foundation of his fame, gave Addison any help in his career. That was -assured by the “Campaign.” He received his first post, that of “a -commissionership with £200 a year,” at once, in the end of 1704: his -pension having ceased at King William’s death in 1702: the interval is -not a very long one, and during this time he had retained his college -fellowship. In 1706 he became under-secretary. In 1708, his chief, Lord -Sunderland, was dismissed, and Addison along with him; but the latter -stepped immediately into the Irish secretaryship, which was worth £2000 -a year. Two years afterward occurred the political convulsions brought -about by the trial of Sacheverell and the intrigues of the back stairs, -which brought Harley into power, and Addison with his leaders was once -more out of office; but in 1714 they came triumphantly back, and he rose -to the height of political elevation as secretary of state with a seat -in the Cabinet. Though he did not retain this position long on account -of his failing health, he retired on a pension of £1500 a year. In 1711, -at a period when he was supposed to be at a low ebb of fortune, in the -cold shade of political opposition, he was able to buy the estate of -Bilton, near Rugby, for which he paid £10,000--which is not bad for a -moment of misfortune. Altogether Addison was provided for as the -deserving and honorable hero--the wise youth of one of his own -allegories, the good apprentice--should be, by poetic justice, but is -not always in the experience of the world. The success of the -“Spectator,” however, which was more his than Steele’s (as the “Tatler” -had been much more Steele’s than Addison’s), was apparently very -considerable; Addison himself says, in an early number, that it had -reached the circulation of three thousand copies a day. On a special -occasion fourteen thousand copies are spoken of; and the passing of the -Stamp Act, which destroyed many of the weaker publications of the time, -did comparatively little harm to the “Spectator,” which doubled its -price without much diminishing its popularity. It had also what no other -daily, and very few periodicals of any time, ever reach, the advantage -of a permanent issue afterward, in a succession of volumes, of which the -first edition seems to have reached an issue of ten thousand copies. -Fortunate writers! pleasant public! The “Times,” and the rest of our -great newspapers, boast a circulation beyond that which the eighteenth -century could have dreamed of; and thirty years ago it was the fashion -among public orators more indebted to genius than education--Mr. Cobden -for one, and, we think, Mr. John Bright--to say that the leading -articles of that day were more than equal to Thucydides and all the -other writers of whom classical scholars made their boast. But we -wonder how the “Times” leaders would read collected into a volume, -against those little dingy books (tobacco paper, as a contemporary says) -with all their wisdom and their wit. “I will not meddle with the -‘Spectator,’” says Swift to Stella, “let him _fair sex_ it to the -world’s end.” And so he has, at least so far as the world has yet -advanced toward that undesirable conclusion. - -The “Spectator” ended with the year 1712, having existed less than two -years. Whether the authors had found their audience beginning to fail, -or their inspiration, or had considered it wise (as is most likely) to -forestall the possibility of either catastrophe, we are not informed. -Almost immediately after the conclusion of this greatest undertaking of -his life, Addison plunged into what probably appeared to the weakness of -contemporary vision a much greater undertaking, the production of his -tragedy “Cato,” which made a commotion in town such as few plays did -even at that period. It was partly as a political movement, to stir up -the patriotism and love of liberty which were supposed to be failing -under the dominion of the Tories, suspected of all manner of evil -designs, that his Whig friends urged Addison to bring out the great play -which had been simmering in his brain since his travels, and which had -no doubt been read in detached acts and pieces of declamation to all his -literary friends. These friends had received several additions in the -mean time, especially in the person of Pope, who was still young enough -to be proud of Addison’s notice, yet remarkable enough to be intrusted -with the composition of a prologue to the great man’s work. Swift, -notwithstanding the coldness which had ensued between them on his change -of politics, was still sufficiently in Addison’s friendship to be -present at a rehearsal, and the whole town on both sides was moved with -excitement and expectation. On the first night, “our house,” says -Cibber, “was in a manner invested and entrance demanded by twelve -o’clock at noon; and before one it was not wide enough for many who came -too late for their places.” The following account of its reception is -given in a letter by Pope: - - The numerous and violent claps of the Whig party on the one side of - the theatre were echoed back by the Tories on the other; while the - author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find their - applause proceeding more from the hand than the head. This was the - case, too, with the Prologue-writer, who was clapped into a sound - Whig at the end of every two lines. I believe you have heard that, - after all the applause of the opposite faction, my lord Bolingbroke - sent for Booth, who played _Cato_, into the box between one of the - acts, and presented him with fifty guineas, in acknowledgment, as - he expressed it, for defending the cause of liberty so well against - a perpetual dictator. The Whigs are unwilling to be distanced this - way, and therefore design a present to the same _Cato_ very - speedily. - -Bolingbroke’s speech about a perpetual dictator was a gibe which -everybody understood, directed against the devotion of the Whigs to -Marlborough, and was quite honest warfare; but what, we wonder, would -Mr. Irving think if Mr. Gladstone sent for him to his box, and -“presented him with fifty guineas”? The actor who considers himself one -of the most distinguished members of good society had not been thought -of in those days. One wonders, too, in passing, where a fine gentleman -kept his money, and whether the purse of the stage, which is always -ready to be flung to a deserving object, was a reality in the days of -Queen Anne? Fifty guineas is a somewhat heavy charge for the pocket; -however, perhaps, Lord Bolingbroke had come specially provided, or he -had a secretary handy who did not mind the bulging of his coat. - -Of this great tragedy, which turned the head of London, and which the -two great political parties vied with each other in applauding, there -are but a few lines virtually existing nowadays. To be sure, it is in -print with the rest of Addison’s works, to be read by whosoever will; -but very few avail themselves of that privilege. - - ’T is not in mortals to command success. - But we ’ll do more, Sempronius; we ’ll deserve it - -is the chief relic, and that of a very prosaic common sense and familiar -kind, which the great tragedy has left us. “Plato, thou reasonest well!” -is another quotation, which is, perhaps, more frequently used in a -jocular than serious sense. But for these scraps _Cato_ is as dead as -most of his contemporaries; and we do not even remember the great -tragedy when we hear the name of its author. We think, indeed, only of -the “Spectator” if we have read a little in the literature of the -period; but if we have no special tastes and studies that way, of Sir -Roger de Coverley alone; for Sir Roger is Addison’s gift to his country -and the world, the creation by which his name will always be known. - -The end of a man’s life is seldom so interesting as its beginning. After -he has achieved all of which he is capable, our interest is more usually -a sad than a cheerful one. Addison made in 1716 what seems to have been -an ambitious marriage, though he was not the man, one would think, to -care for the rank which gave his wife always a distinct personality and -another name than his. The Countess of Warwick, however, was, it would -appear, a beautiful woman. She had the charge of a troublesome boy, for -whom, no doubt, she would be eager to have the advice of such a man as -Mr. Addison, whom all the world respected and admired. The little house -at Chelsea (the house was called Sandford Manor House, and was some -years ago figured against its present doleful background of gasometers, -in the _Century_) which that statesman had acquired, and where he -delighted to withdraw from the noise and contention of town, was within -reach through the fields of Holland House, the residence of Lady -Warwick. They had known each other for years, and Addison had written -exquisite little letters to the boy-earl--no doubt with intentions upon -the heart of the mother, to which, as is well known, that method is a -very successful way--long before. It was, Dr. Johnson says, a long and -anxious courtship; and perhaps--who knows?--when Steele performed that -picture of the beloved knight sitting silent before the two fine ladies -and unable to articulate the desires of his honest heart, it was some -similar performance of the shy man of genius who found utterance with -such difficulty, which was in Dick’s mind. But perhaps Addison grew -bolder when he was a secretary of state. The great Mr. Addison, the -delightful “Spectator,” the author of “Cato,” the man whose praises were -in everybody’s mouth, and whom Whig and Tory delighted to honor, was no -insignificant fine gentleman for a lady of rank to stoop to; and finally -those evening walks over the fields, and pleasant rural encounters--for -Chelsea was the country in those days, and Holland House quite retired -among all the songsters of the grove, and out of town--came to a -legitimate conclusion. Addison was forty, and her ladyship had been a -widow for fifteen years; but there is no reason for concluding that -there was no romance in the wedding, which, however, is always a nervous -sort of business under such circumstances. There was the boy, too, to be -taken into account, who evidently was not a nice boy, but a tale-bearer, -who did not love his mother’s faithful lover, and made mischief when he -could. There seems no evidence, however, that the marriage was unhappy, -beyond a malicious note of Pope’s, which all the commentators have -enlarged. The poor women who have the misfortune to be married to men of -genius, fare badly at the hands of the critics. There seems no warrant -whatever for Thackeray’s picture of the vulgar vixen whom he calls Mrs. -Steele. Steele’s letters exist, but not those of poor Prue, who was so -sadly tried in her husband; and so that suffering woman had to suffer -over again in her reputation after her life’s trouble is over. It is -very unfair to the poor women who have left no champions behind. - -The end of our “Spectator’s” life was, however, clouded with more than -one unfortunate quarrel, the greatest of which has left its sting behind -to quiver in Addison’s name as long as Pope and he are known. It is -neither necessary nor edifying to enter at length into the bitternesses -of the past. Pope fancied himself aggrieved in various ways by the man -who had warmly acknowledged his youthful merits, and received him -(though so much his senior in years and fame) on a footing of equality, -and who all through never spoke an ill-natured word of the waspish -little poet. He believed, or persuaded himself to believe, in his -malignant little soul that Addison was jealous of his greatness, and had -set up Tickell to rival him in the translation of Homer; and he -believed, or pretended to believe, on the supposed authority of young -Warwick, that Addison had hired a vulgar critic to attack him. There -seems not the slightest reason to believe that either of these -grievances was real. Tickell had written simultaneously a translation, -which Addison had read and corrected, on account of which he courteously -declined to read Pope’s translation of the same, telling him the reason, -but accepting the office of critic to the second part of Pope’s work. He -had himself, according to the poet’s brag, accepted Pope’s corrections -of “Cato,” leaving “not a word unchanged that I objected to”; and he was -not moved to any retaliation by Pope’s attack upon him, but continued -serenely to praise his envious little assailant with a magnanimity which -is wonderful if he had seen the brilliant and pitiless picture so -cunningly drawn within the lines of nature, with every feature -travestied so near the real, that even Addison’s most faithful partizan -has to pause with alarm lest the wicked thing so near the truth might -perhaps be true. We hesitate to add to the serene and gentle story of -our man of letters this embittered utterance of spite and malice and -genius. The lines are sufficiently well known. - -Addison did not end his periodical work with the “Spectator.” He took up -that familiar character once again for a short time, long enough to -produce an additional volume,--the eighth,--in which he had no longer -the help of his old vivacious companion. The series is full of fine -things, but we are not sure, though Macaulay thinks otherwise, that we -do not a little miss the light and shade which Steele helped to supply. -And other publications followed. Steele himself set up the “Guardian,” -in which Addison had little share; and various others after that in -which he had no share at all. And Addison himself had a “Freeholder,” in -which he said some notable things; but these are all dead and gone, like -so much of the contemporary furnishings of the age. Students find and -read them in the old, collected editions; but life and recollection have -gone out of them. Perhaps his own time even had by then got as much as -it could enjoy and digest out of Addison. We, at least, have done so -after these hundred and fifty years, and are capable of no more. - -He died in 1719, at the early age of forty-seven. The story goes that he -sent for young Warwick when he was on his death-bed, that he might see -how a Christian could die: which we should say was unlike Addison, save -for the reason that he had been drawing morals all his life, and might -at that supreme moment be beyond seeing the ridicule of a last -exhibition. Perhaps it was in reality a message of charity and -forgiveness to the wayward boy, who, there seems reason to believe, was -not fond of his stepfather. And thus the great writer glided gently out -of a life in which he had more honor than falls to the lot of most men, -and, let us hope, a great deal of mild satisfaction and pleasure. -Thackeray has a little scoff at him as a man without passion. “I doubt -until after his marriage whether he ever lost his night’s rest or his -day’s tranquillity about any woman in his life.” Neither, perhaps, did -Sir Roger, whose forty years’ love-making and unrequited affection was a -sentimental luxury of the most delicate kind, as his maker intended it -to be. But Addison’s fine and meditative genius had no need of passion. -He is the “Spectator” of humankind. He had little temptation in his own -calm nature to descend into the arena; the honors of the fight came to -him somehow without any soil of the actual engagement. No smoke of -gunpowder is about his laurels, no spot of blood upon his sword. He -looks on at the others fighting, always with a nod of encouragement for -the man of honor and virtue, of keen scorn for the selfish and -evil-minded, of pity for the fallen. But it is not his part to fight. He -makes no pretense of any inclination that way. He is the looker-on; and, -as such, more valuable than a thousand men-at-arms. - -He died at Holland House, that fine historical mansion sacred to the -wits of a later age, but which in Addison’s time contained no tyrannical -tribunal of literary patronage, whatever else there might be there which -was contrary to peace. His life and death there make an association more -touching, and at the same time of sweeter meaning, than the -after-struggles of the Whig men of letters for Lady Holland’s arbitrary -favors. The great humorist died in the middle of summer, in June, 1719, -and was carried from that leafy retirement to the Jerusalem Chamber, -where he lay in state: why, it seems difficult to understand--but his -position had in it a kind of gentle royalty unlike that of other men. He -was buried at Westminster by night, the wonderful solemn arches over the -funeral party, half seen by the wavering lights, going off into vistas -of mysterious gloom, echoing with the hymns of the choir, who sang him -to his rest. Did they sing, one wonders, one of those verses which had -been the most intimate utterance of his life: that great hymn of -creation, scarcely inferior to the angelic murmurings of medieval -Francis in his cell at Assisi?-- - - Soon as the evening shades prevail - The moon takes up the wondrous tale, - And nightly to the listening earth - Repeats the story of her birth; - Whilst all the stars that round her burn, - And all the planets in their turn, - Confirm the tidings as they roll, - And spread the truth from pole to pole. - -Or one of those humble and more fervent human utterances of faith and -humility and thanksgiving?-- - - Through every period of my life, - Thy goodness I’ll pursue, - And after death, in distant worlds, - The glorious theme renew. - - When nature fails, and day and night - Divide thy works no more, - My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, - Thy mercy shall adore. - - Through all eternity to thee - A joyful song I’ll raise, - But, oh! eternity’s too short - To utter all thy praise. - -With such a soft, yet rapturous, strain the lofty arches and half-seen -aisles, perhaps with a summer moon looking in, taking up the wondrous -tale, might have echoed over Addison--the gentlest soul of all those -noble comrades who lie together awaiting the restitution of all -things--when our great humorist, our mildest kind “Spectator,” all his -comments over, was laid in the best resting-place England can give to -those whom she loves. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Historical Characters in the Reign of -Queen Anne, by Mrs. M. 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O. W. Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Historical Characters in the Reign of Queen Anne - -Author: Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant - -Release Date: December 1, 2016 [EBook #53644] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORICAL CHARACTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> - -<p class="c"><a href="#CONTENTS">Contents.</a></p> - -<p class="c"><a href="#INDEX_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">Index of Illustrations</a><br /> <span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] -clicking on the image -will bring up a larger version.)</span></p> - -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="figcenter" style="border:none;"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="275" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: book's cover" /></a> -</div> - -<p><a name="front" id="front"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 317px;"> -<a href="images/ill_001_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_001.jpg" width="317" height="500" alt="Image unavailable." /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c">PRINCESS ANNE OF DENMARK. -<br /> -<small>ENGRAVED BY H. DAVIDSON, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, AFTER THE -PAINTING BY W. WISSING AND I. VANDERVAART.</small></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenternbdr" style="width: 312px;"> -<a href="images/ill_002_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_002.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt="Image unavailable." /></a> -</div> - -<h1> -<span class="smcap">Historical Characters<br /> -of the Reign of<br /> -Queen Anne</span></h1> -<p class="c"> -BY<br /> -<span class="smcap">Mrs. M. O. W. OLIPHANT</span><br /> -<br /> -<img src="images/colophon.png" width="85px" alt="Image unavailable." /> -<br /> -<br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -THE CENTURY CO.<br /> -1894<br /> -<br /><br /><small> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1893, 1894,<br /> -By The Century Co.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">The De Vinne Press.</span></small> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="2"><a href="#Chapter_I">CHAPTER I</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Princess Anne</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="2"><a href="#Chapter_II">CHAPTER II</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Queen and the Duchess</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_043">43</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="2"><a href="#Chapter_III">CHAPTER III</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Author of “Gulliver”</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_083">83</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="2"><a href="#Chapter_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Author of “Robinson Crusoe”</span> </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_129">129</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="2"><a href="#Chapter_V">CHAPTER V</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Addison, the Humorist</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="INDEX_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>INDEX OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="margin:auto auto;max-width:75%;"> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#front"><span class="smcap">Princess Anne of Denmark</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#front">FRONTISPIECE</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">H. Davidson</span>, from mezzotint by <span class="smcap">John Smith</span>, after the painting by <span class="smcap">W. Wissing</span> and <span class="smcap">I. Vandervaart</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_004"><span class="smcap">Anne Hyde, Duchess of York</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_004">4</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">T. Johnson</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Peter Lely</span>, in possession of Earl Spencer.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_008"><span class="smcap">John Evelyn</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_008">8</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">E. Heinemann</span>, after copperplate by <span class="smcap">F. Bartolozzi</span> in the British Museum.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_012"><span class="smcap">Prince George of Denmark</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_012">12</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. A. Muller</span>, from mezzotint in the British Museum by <span class="smcap">John Smith</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_016"><span class="smcap">Charles II.</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_016">16</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">T. Johnson</span>, after original painting by <span class="smcap">Samuel Cooper</span>, in the gallery of the Duke of Richmond and Gordon.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_020"><span class="smcap">Henry Compton, Bishop of London</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_020">20</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved from life by <span class="smcap">David Loggan</span>, from print in the British Museum. Engraved by <span class="smcap">E. Heinemann</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_024"><span class="smcap">James II. in his Coronation Robes</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_024">24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">T. Johnson</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Peter Lely</span>, in possession of the Duke of Northumberland.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_028"><span class="smcap">Mary, Princess of Orange</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_028">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">C. A. Powell</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Peter Lely</span>, in possession of the Earl of Crawford.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_032"><span class="smcap">Queen Mary of Modena</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_032">32</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">Charles State</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Peter Lely</span>, in possession of Earl Spencer.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_040"><span class="smcap">William III.</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_040">40</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">From copperplate engraving by <span class="smcap">Cornelis Vermeulen</span>, after the Painting by <span class="smcap">Adriaan Vander Werff</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_044"><span class="smcap">The Duke of Gloucester</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_044">44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. G. Tietze</span>, From mezzotint by <span class="smcap">John Smith</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_048"><span class="smcap">Garden Front, Hampton Court</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_048">48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Joseph Pennell</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">J. F. Jungling</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_052"><span class="smcap">The Duke of Gloucester</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_052">52</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. A. Muller</span>, from miniature by <span class="smcap">Lewis Crosse</span>, in the collection at Windsor Castle; by special permission of Queen Victoria.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_056"><span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_056">56</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">From copperplate engraving by <span class="smcap">Pieter Van Gunst</span>, after the painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_060"><span class="smcap">Windsor Terrace, Looking Westward</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_060">60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">J. W. Evans</span>, after aquatint by <span class="smcap">P. Sandby</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_064"><span class="smcap">The Duke of Marlborough</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_064">64</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">J. H. E. Whitney</span>, from an engraving by <span class="smcap">Pieter Van Gunst</span>, after painting by <span class="smcap">Adriaan Vander Werff</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_072"><span class="smcap">The Duchess of Marlborough</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_072">72</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. G. Tietze</span>, from mezzotint after painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_080"><span class="smcap">Bishop Gilbert Burnet</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_080">80</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. A. Muller</span>, from mezzotint in the British Museum by <span class="smcap">John Smith</span>, after the painting by <span class="smcap">John Riley</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_084"><span class="smcap">Jonathan Swift</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_084">84</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">From photograph of original Marble Bust of Swift by <span class="smcap">Roubilliac</span> (1695-1762), now in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_088"><span class="smcap">Moor Park, Residence of Sir William Temple and of Swift</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_088">88</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Charles Herbert Woodbury</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. Varley</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_092"><span class="smcap">Dean Swift</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_092">92</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">From copperplate engraving by <span class="smcap">Pierre Fourdrinier</span>, after a painting by <span class="smcap">Charles Jervas</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_096"><span class="smcap">Stella’s Cottage, on the Boundary of the Moor Park Estate</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_096">96</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Charles Herbert Woodbury</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">S. Davis</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_100"><span class="smcap">Hester Johnson, Swift’s “Stella,” painted from Life by Mrs. Delany, on the Wall of the Temple at Delville, and accidentally destroyed</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_100">100</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">M. Haider</span>, from copy of the original by <span class="smcap">Henry MacManus, R. H. A.</span>, now in possession of Professor Dowden.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_104"><span class="smcap">Sir William Temple</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_104">104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. A. Muller</span>, from an engraving in the British Museum, after a painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Peter Lely</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_108"><span class="smcap">Delany’s House at Delville, where Swift stayed</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Harry Fenn</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">C. A. Powell</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_112"><span class="smcap">Marley Abbey, the Residence of Vanessa, now called Selbridge Abbey</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Harry Fenn</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">R. C. Collins</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_120"><span class="smcap">George, Earl of Berkeley</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_120">120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">From an unfinished engraving, in the British Museum, attributed to <span class="smcap">David Loggan</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_124"><span class="smcap">St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_124">124</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Harry Fenn</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">C. A. Powell</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_136"><span class="smcap">Daniel Defoe</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_136">136</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">C. A. Powell</span>, after copperplate by <span class="smcap">M. Van der Gucht</span>, in the British Museum.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_144"><span class="smcap">Church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, where Defoe is supposed to have been Baptized</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Drawn by <span class="smcap">Harry Fenn</span>. Engraved by <span class="smcap">H. E. Sylvester</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_152"><span class="smcap">Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_152">152</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">John P. Davis</span>, after the original painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>, in the British Museum.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_176"><span class="smcap">Joseph Addison</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">T. Johnson</span>, from mezzotint by <span class="smcap">Jean Simon</span>, after painting by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_192"><span class="smcap">Sidney, Earl of Godolphin</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_192">192</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="indd">Engraved by <span class="smcap">Peter Aitken</span>, from mezzotint by <span class="smcap">John Smith</span>, in British Museum. Painted by Sir <span class="smcap">Godfrey Kneller</span>.</td></tr> -</table> - -<h1>THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE</h1> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_I" id="Chapter_I"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter I</span><br /><br /> -THE PRINCESS ANNE</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE reign of Queen Anne is one of the most illustrious in English -history. In literature it has been common to call it the Augustan age. -In politics it has all the interest of a transition period, less -agitating, but not less important, than the actual era of revolution. In -war, it is, with the exception of the great European wars of the -beginning of this century, the most glorious for the English arms of any -that have elapsed since Henry V. set up his rights of conquest over -France. Opinions change as to the advantage of such superiorities; and, -still more, as to the glory which is purchased by bloodshed; yet, -according to the received nomenclature, and in the language of all the -ages, the time of Marlborough cannot be characterized as anything but -glorious. A great general, statesmen of eminence, great poets, men of -letters of the first distinction—these are points in which this period -cannot easily be excelled. It pleases the fancy to step historically -from queen to queen, and to find in each a center of national greatness -knitting together the loose threads of the great web. “The spacious -times of great Elizabeth” bulk larger and more magnificently in history -than those of Anne, but the two eras bear a certain balance which is -agreeable to the imagination.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span> And we can scarcely help regretting that -the great age of Wordsworth and Scott, Byron and Wellington, should not -have been deferred long enough to make the reign of Victoria the third -noblest period of modern English history. But time has here balked us. -This age is not without its own greatness, but it is not the next in -national sequence to that of Anne, as Anne’s was to that of Elizabeth.</p> - -<p>In the reigns of both these queens this country was trembling between -two dynasties, scarcely yet removed from the convulsion of great -political changes, and feeling that nothing but the life of the -sovereign on the throne stood between it and unknown rulers and dangers -to come. The deluge, in both cases, was ready to be let loose after the -termination of the life of the central personage in the state. And thus -the reign of Anne, like that of Elizabeth, was to her contemporaries the -only piece of solid ground amid a sea of evil chances. What was to come -after was clear to none.</p> - -<p>But in the midst of its agitations and all its exuberant life—the wars -abroad, the intrigues at home, the secret correspondences, the plots, -the breathless hopes and fears—it is half ludicrous, half pathetic, to -turn to the harmless figure of Queen Anne in the center of the scene—a -fat, placid, middle-aged woman full of infirmities, with little about -her of the picturesque yet artificial brightness of her time, and no -gleam of reflection to answer to the wit and genius which have made her -age illustrious. A monarch has the strangest fate in this respect: as -long as she or he lives, the conscious center of everything whose notice -elates and elevates the greatest; but as soon as his day is over, a mere -image of state visible among his courtiers only as some unthought-of -lackey or faded gentleman usher throws from his little literary lantern -a ray of passing illumination upon him. The good things of their lives -are thus almost counterbalanced by the insignificance of their -historical<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> position. Anne was one of the sovereigns who may, without -too great a strain of hyperbole, be allowed to have been beloved in her -day. She did nothing to repel the popular devotion. She was the best of -wives, the most sadly disappointed of childless mothers. She made -pecuniary sacrifices to the weal of her kingdom such as few kings or -queens have thought of making. And she was a Stuart, Protestant, and -safe, combining all the rights of the family with those of orthodoxy and -constitutionalism, without even so much offense as lay in a foreign -accent. There was indeed nothing foreign about her, a circumstance in -her favor which she shared with the other great English queen regnant, -who, like her, was English on both sides of the lineage.</p> - -<p>All these points made her popular and, it might be permissible to say, -beloved. If she had been indifferent to her father’s deprivation, she -had not at least shocked popular feeling by any immediate triumph in -succeeding him, as Mary had done; and her mild Englishism was delightful -to the people after grim William with his Dutch accent and likings. But -the historians have not been kind to Anne. They have lavished ill names -upon her: a stupid woman,—“a very weak woman, always governed blindly -by some female favorite,”—nobody has a civil word to say for her. Yet -there is a mixture of the amusing and the tragic in the appearance of -this passive figure seated on high, presiding over all the great events -of the epoch, with her humble feminine history, her long anguish of -motherhood, her hopes so often raised and so often shattered, her -stifled family feeling, her profound and helpless sense of misfortune.</p> - -<p>There is one high light in the picture, however, though but one, and it -comes from one of the rarest and highest sentiments of humanity: the -passion of friendship, of which women are popularly supposed to be -incapable, but which never existed in more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> complete and disinterested -exhibition than in the bosom of this poor queen. It is sad that it -should have ended in disloyalty and estrangement; but, curiously enough, -it is not the breach of this close union, but the union itself, which -has exposed Anne to the censure and contempt of all her biographers and -historians. To an impartial mind we think few things can be more -interesting than the position of these two female figures in the -foreground of English life. Their friendship brought with it no harm to -England; no scandal, such as lurks about the antechamber of kings, and -which has made the name of a favorite one of the most odious titles of -reproach, could attach in any way to such a relationship. And nothing -could be better adapted to enhance the dramatic features of the scene -than the contrast between the two friends whose union for many years was -so intimate and so complete.</p> - -<p>Yet her friend was as like to call forth such devotion as ever woman -was. Seldom has there been a more brilliant figure in history than that -of the great duchess, a woman beloved and hated as few have ever been; -holding on one side in absolute devotion to her the greatest hero of the -time, and on the other rousing to the height of adoration the mild and -obtuse nature of her mistress; keeping her place on no ground but that -of her own sense and spirit, amid all intrigues and opposition, for many -of the most remarkable years of English history, and defending herself -with such fire and eloquence when attacked, that her plea is as -interesting and vivid as any controversy of to-day, and it is impossible -to read it without taking a side, with more or less vehemence, in the -exciting quarrel. Such a woman, standing like a beautiful Ishmael with -every man’s hand against her, yet fearing no man, and ready to meet -every assailant, makes a welcome variety amid the historical scenes -which so seldom exhibit anything so living, so imperious, so bold and -free. That she has got little mercy and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 383px;"> -<a href="images/ill_003_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_003.jpg" width="383" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: ANNE HYDE, DUCHESS OF YORK. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF EARL SPENCER." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">ANNE HYDE, DUCHESS OF YORK. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN<br /> -POSSESSION OF EARL SPENCER.</small></span> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">indulgence, that all chivalrous sentiment has been mute in respect to -her, and an angry ill-temper takes possession of every historian who -names her name, rather adds to the interest than takes from it. Women in -history, strangely enough, seem always to import into the chronicle a -certain heat of personal feeling unusual and undesirable in that region -of calm. Whether it is that the historian is impatient at finding -himself arrested by the troublesome personalities of a woman, and that a -certain resentment of her intrusion colors his appreciation of her, or -that her appearance naturally possesses an individuality which breaks -the line, it is difficult to tell; but the calmest chronicler becomes a -partizan when he treats of Mary and Elizabeth, and no man can name Sarah -of Marlborough without a heat of indignation or scorn, almost -ridiculous, as being so long after date.</p> - -<p>To us the unfailing vivacity and spirit of the woman, the dauntless -stand she makes, her determination not to be overcome, make her -appearance always enlivening; and art could not have designed a more -complete contrast than that of the homely figure by her side, with -appealing eyes fixed upon her, a little bewildered, not always quick to -understand—a woman born for other uses, but exposed all her harmless -life to the fierce light that beats upon a throne. For her part, she has -no defense to make, no word to say; let them spend all their jibes upon -her, Anne knows no reply. Her slow understanding and want of perception -give her a certain composure which in a queen answers very well for -dignity; yet there is something whimsically pathetic, pitiful, -incongruous in the fate which has placed her there, which can scarcely -fail to soften the heart of the spectators.</p> - -<p>The tragedy of Anne’s life, unlike that of her friend, had no utterance, -and there was nothing romantic in her appearance or surroundings to -attract the lovers of the picturesque. Yet in the blank of her humble -intellect she discharged not amiss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> the duties that were so much too -great for her; and if she was disloyal to her friend in the end, that -betrayal only adds another touch of pathos to the spectacle of -helplessness and human weakness. It is only the favored few of mankind -who are wiser and better, not feebler and less noble, as life draws -toward its end.</p> - -<p>Anne was, like Elizabeth, the daughter of a subject. Her mother, Anne -Hyde, the daughter of the great Clarendon, though naturally subjected to -the hot criticism of the moment on account of that virtue which refused -anything less from her prince than the position of wife, was not a woman -of much individual character, nor did she live long enough to influence -much the training of her daughters. Historians have not hesitated to -sneer at the prudence with which this young lady secured herself by -marriage, when so many fairer than she were less scrupulous—a reproach -which is somewhat unfair, considering what would certainly have been -said of her had she not done so. Curiously enough, her own father, -whether in sincerity or pretense, seems at the moment to have been her -most severe critic, exculpating himself with unnecessary energy from all -participation in the matter, and declaring that if it were true “the -king should immediately cause the woman to be sent to the Tower” till -Parliament should have time to pass an act cutting off her head. It -would appear, however, from the contemporary narratives of Pepys and -Evelyn that he was not so bad as his words, for he seems to have -supported and shielded his daughter during the period of uncertainty -which preceded the acknowledgment of her marriage, and to have shared in -the general satisfaction afterward. But this great marriage was not of -much advantage to her family. It did not hinder Clarendon’s disgrace and -banishment, nor were his sons after him anything advantaged by their -close relationship to two queens.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span></p> - -<p>The Duchess of York does not seem to have been remarkable in any way. -She is said to have governed her husband; and she died a Roman -Catholic,—the first of the royal family to lead the way in that fatal -particular: but did not live long enough to affect the belief or -training of her children.</p> - -<p>There was an interval of three years in age between Mary and Anne. The -eldest, Mary, was like the Stuarts, with something of their natural -grace of manner; the younger was a fair English child, rosy and plump -and blooming; in later life they became more like each other. But the -chief thing they inherited from their mother was what is called in fine -language, “a tendency to embonpoint,” with, it is said, a love of good -eating, which helped to produce the other peculiarity.</p> - -<p>The religious training of the princesses is the first thing we hear of -them. They were put under the charge of a most orthodox tutor, Compton, -Bishop of London, with much haste and ostentation—their uncle, Charles -II., probably feeling with his usual cynicism that the sop of two -extra-Protestant princesses would please the people, and that the souls -of a couple of girls could not be of much importance one way or another. -How they fared in respect to the other features of education is not -recorded. Lord Dartmouth, in his notes on Bishop Burnet’s history, -informs us that King Charles II., struck by the melodious voice of the -little Lady Anne, had her trained in elocution by Mrs. Barry, an -actress; while Colley Cibber adds that she and her sister were -instructed by the well-known Mrs. Betterton to take their parts in a -little court performance when Anne was but ten and Mary thirteen; but -whether these are two accounts of the same incident, or refer to -distinct events, seems doubtful.</p> - -<p>The residence of the girls was chiefly at Richmond, where they were -under the charge of Lady Frances Villiers, who had a number of daughters -of her own, one of whom, Elizabeth, went with Mary to Holland, and was, -in some respects, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> evil genius. We have, unfortunately, no court -chronicle to throw any light upon the lively scene at Richmond, where -this little bevy of girls grew up together, conning their divinity, -whatever other lessons might be neglected; taking the air upon the river -in their barges; following the hounds in the colder season, for this -robust exercise seems to have been part of their training. When their -youthful seclusion was broken by such a great event as the court mask, -in which they played their little parts,—Mrs. Blogge, the saintly -beauty, John Evelyn’s friend, Godolphin’s wife, acting the chief -character, in a blaze of diamonds,—or that state visit to the city when -King Charles in all his glory took the girls, his heirs, with him, no -doubt the old withdrawing-rooms and galleries of Richmond rang with the -story for weeks after. Princess Mary, her mind perhaps beginning to own -a little agitation as to royal suitors, would have other distractions; -but as to the Lady Anne, it soon came to be her chief holiday when the -young Duchess of York, her stepmother, came from town in her chariot, or -by water, in a great gilded barge breasting up the stream, to pay the -young ladies a visit. For in the train of that princess was the young -maid of honor, a delightful, brilliant <i>espiègle</i>, full of spirit and -wilfulness, who bore the undistinguished name of Sarah Jennings, and -brought with her such life and stir and movement as dispersed the -dullness wherever she went.</p> - -<p>There is no such love as a young girl’s adoration for a beautiful young -woman, a little older than herself, whom she can admire and imitate and -cling to, and dream of with visionary passion. This was the kind of -sentiment with which the little princess regarded the bright and -animated creature in her young stepmother’s train. Mary of Modena was -herself only a few years older than her stepchildren. They were all -young together, accustomed to the perpetual gaiety of the court of -Charles II., though, let us hope, kept apart from its license, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 357px;"> -<a href="images/ill_004_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_004.jpg" width="357" height="456" alt="Image unavailable: JOHN EVELYN. - -ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMANN, AFTER COPPERPLATE BY F. BARTOLOZZI IN THE -BRITISH MUSEUM." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">JOHN EVELYN. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMANN, AFTER COPPERPLATE BY F. BARTOLOZZI IN THE<br /> -BRITISH MUSEUM.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">no shadow of fate seems to have fallen upon the group of girls in their -early peaceful days. Anne in particular would seem to have been left to -hang upon the arm and bask in the smiles of her stepmother’s young lady -in waiting at her pleasure—with many a laugh at premature favoritism. -“We had used to play together when she was a child,” said the great -duchess long after. “She even then expressed a particular fondness for -me; this inclination increased with our years. I was often at court, and -the princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honor -me preferably to others with her conversation and confidence. In all her -parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.”</p> - -<p>Mistress Sarah was one of the actors in the mask above referred to; she -was in the most intimate circle of the Duke of York’s household, closely -linked to all its members, in that relationship, almost as close as -kindred, which binds a court together.</p> - -<p>And no doubt it added greatly to the attractions which the bright and -animated girl exercised over her playmates and companions, that she had -already a romantic love-story, and, at a period when matches were -everywhere arranged, as at present in continental countries, by the -parents, made a secret marriage, under the most romantic circumstances, -with a young hero already a soldier of distinction. He was not an -irreproachable hero. Court scandal had not spared him. He was said to -have founded his fortune upon the bounty of one of the shameless women -of Charles’s court. But the imagination of the period was not -over-delicate, and probably had he not become so great a man, and -acquired so many enemies, we should have heard little of John -Churchill’s early vices. About his sister, Arabella Churchill, -unfortunately there could not be any doubt; and it is a curious instance -of the sudden efflorescence now and then of a race which neither before -nor after is of particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> note, that Marlborough’s sister should have -been the mother of that one illustrious Stuart who might, had he been -legitimate, have changed the fortunes of the house—the Duke of Berwick. -Had she, instead of Anne Hyde, been James’s duchess, what a difference -might have been made in history! Nobody had heard of the Churchills -before—they have not been a distinguished race since. It is curious -that they should have produced, all unawares, without preparation or -warning, the two greatest soldiers of the age.</p> - -<p>Young Churchill was attached to the Duke of York’s service, as Sarah -Jennings was to that of the duchess. He had served abroad with -distinction. In 1672, when France and England for once, in a way, were -allies against Holland, he had served under the great Turenne, who -called him “my handsome Englishman,” and vaunted his gallantry. He was -but twenty-two when he thus gave proofs of his future greatness. When he -returned, after various other exploits, and resumed his court service, -the brilliant maid of honor, whom the little princess adored, attained a -complete dominion over the spirit of the young soldier. There were -difficulties about the marriage, for he had no fortune, and his -provident parents had secured an heiress for him. But it was at length -accomplished so secretly that even the bride was never quite certain of -the date, in the presence and with the favor of Mary of Modena herself. -Sarah, if the dates are correct, must have been eighteen at this period, -and her little princess fourteen. What a delightful interruption to the -dullness of Richmond to hear all about it when the Duchess of York came -with her train and the two girls could wander away together in some -green avenue till Lady Frances sent a page or an usher after them!</p> - -<p>Mary of Modena must have been a lover of romances, and true love also, -though her youth had fallen to such a gruesome bridegroom as James -Stuart; for not only Sarah Jennings<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> and her great general, who were to -have so great a hand in keeping that poor lady’s son from his kingdom, -but Mary Blogge and her statesman, who was to rule England so wisely in -the interest of the opposing side, were both secretly married under the -young duchess’s wing, she helping, planning, and sanctioning the secret. -How many additional bitternesses must this have put into her cup when -she was sitting, a shadow queen, at St.-Germain, and all those people -whom she had loved and caressed were swaying the fortunes of England! -And who can tell what tender recollections of his secret wedding and the -sweet and saintly prude whom King James’s young wife gave him, may have -touched the soul of Godolphin in those hankerings after his old -master—if it were not, as scandal said, to his old mistress—which -moved him from time to time, great minister as he was, almost to the -verge of treachery! The Churchills, it must be owned, showed little -gratitude to their royal patrons.</p> - -<p>When the Princess Mary married and went to Holland with her husband, the -position of her sister at home became a more important one. Anne was not -without some experience of travel and those educational advantages which -the sight of foreign countries are said to bring. She went to The Hague -to visit her sister. She accompanied her father, sturdy little -Protestant as she was, when he was in disgrace for his religious views, -and spent some time in Brussels, from which place she wrote to one of -the ladies about the court a letter which has been preserved,—with just -as much and as little reason as any other letter of a fifteen-year-old -girl with her eyes about her, at a distance of two hundred years,—in -which the young lady describes a ball she had seen, herself <i>incognita</i>, -at which some gentlemen “danced extremely well—as well if not better -than the Duke of Monmouth or Sir E. Villiers, which I think is very -extraordinary,” says the girl, no doubt sincerely believing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> that the -best of all things was to be found at home. She had little difficulties -about her spelling, but that was common enough. “As for the town,” says -the Princess Anne, “methinks tho’ the streets are not so clean as in -Holland, yet they are not so dirty as ours; they are very well paved and -very easy—they only have od smells.” This is a peculiarity which has -outlived her day, and it would seem to imply that England, even before -the invention of sanitary science, was superior in this respect at least -to the towns of the Continent.</p> - -<p>After these unusual dissipations Anne remained in the shade until she -married, in 1683, George, Prince of Denmark, a perfectly inoffensive and -insignificant person, to whom she gave, during the rest of her life, a -faithful, humdrum, but unbroken attachment, such as shows to little -advantage in print, but makes the happiness of many a home. This -marriage was another sacrifice to the Protestantism of England, and in -that point of view pleased the people much. King Charles, glad to -satisfy the country by any act which cost him nothing, thought it “very -convenient and suitable.” James, unwilling, but powerless, grumbled to -himself that “he had little encouragement in the conduct of the Prince -of Orange to marry another daughter in the same interest,” but made no -effort against it. The prince himself produced no very great impression, -one way or another, as indeed he was little fitted to do. “He has the -Danish countenance, blonde,” says Evelyn, in his diary; “of few words; -spoke French but ill; seemed somewhat heavy, but is reported to be -valiant.” He had never any occasion to show his valor during his long -residence in England, but many to prove the former quality,—the -heaviness,—which was only too evident; but Anne herself was not -brilliant, and she was made for friendship, not for passion in the -ordinary sense of the word. She never seems to have been in the smallest -way dissatisfied with her heavy, honest goodman. He was fond of eating -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 373px;"> -<a href="images/ill_005_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_005.jpg" width="373" height="480" alt="Image unavailable: PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK. - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MEZZOTINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM BY JOHN -SMITH, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MEZZOTINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM BY JOHN<br /> -SMITH, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">drinking, but of no more dangerous pleasures. Her peace of mind was -fluttered by no rival, nor her feminine pride touched. Her attendants -might be as seductive as they pleased, this steady, stolid husband was -immovable, and there is no doubt that the princess appreciated the -advantages of this immunity from one of the thorns which were planted in -every other royal pillow.</p> - -<p>Her marriage had another advantage of giving her a household and court -of her own, and enabled her at once to secure for herself the -companionship of her always beloved friend. “So desirous was she,” says -Duchess Sarah, “of having me always near her, that upon her marriage -with the Prince of Denmark, in 1683, it was at her own earnest request -to her father I was made one of the ladies of her bedchamber. What -conduced to make me the more agreeable to her in this station was, -doubtless,” she adds with candor, “the dislike she conceived to most of -the other persons about her, and particularly for her first lady of the -bedchamber—the Countess of Clarendon, a lady whose discourse and manner -could not possibly recommend her to so young a mistress; for she looked -like a mad-woman and talked like a scholar. Indeed, her highness’s court -was so oddly composed that I think it would be making myself no great -compliment if I should say her choosing to spend more of her time with -me than with any of her other servants did no discredit to her taste.”</p> - -<p>Lady Clarendon was the wife of the great chancellor’s son, and was thus -the aunt, by marriage, of the princess—not always a very endearing -relationship. She was not a great lady by birth, and though a friend of -Evelyn’s and a highly educated woman, might easily be supposed to be a -little oppressive in a young household where her relationship gave her a -certain authority.</p> - -<p>The prince was dull, the princess had not many resources.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> They settled -down in homely virtue, close to the court with all its scandals and -gaieties, but not quite of it; and nothing could be more natural than -that Anne should eagerly avail herself of the always amusing, always -lively companion who had been the friend of her youth. The Cockpit, -which was Anne’s residence, had been built as a royal playhouse, first -for the sport indicated by its name, then for the more refined -amusements of the theater, but had been afterward turned into a private -residence, and bought by Charles II. for his niece on her marriage. It -formed part of the old palace of Whitehall, and must have been within -sight and sound of the constant gaieties going on in that lawless -household, in the best of which the princess and her attendant would -have their natural share. No doubt to hear Lady Churchill’s lively -satirical remarks upon all this, and the flow of her brilliant malice, -must have kept the household lively, and brightened the dull days and -tedious waitings of maternity, into which Anne was immediately plunged, -drawing a laugh even from stupid George in the chimney-corner. And there -was this peculiarity to make the whole more piquant; that it was virtue, -irreproachable, and no doubt pleasantly self-conscious of its -superiority, which thus got its fun out of vice. The two young couples -on the other side of the way were immaculate, devoted exclusively to -each other, thinking of neither man nor woman save their lawful mates. -Probably neither the princess nor her lady in waiting were disgusted by -gossip about the Portsmouths and Castlemaines, but took these ladies to -pieces with indignant zest and spared no jibe. And though the remarks -might be too broad for modern liking, and the fun somewhat unsavory, we -cannot but think that amidst the noisy and picturesque life of that wild -Restoration era, full of corruption, yet so gay and sparkling to the -spectator, this little household of the Cockpit is not without its -claims upon our attention. There was not in all Charles’s court so -splendid a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> couple as the young Churchills: he already one of the most -distinguished soldiers of the age, she a beautiful young woman -overflowing with wit and energy. And Princess Anne was very young; in -full possession of that <i>beauté de diable</i> which, so long as it lasts, -has its own charm, the beauty of color and freshness and youthful -contour. She had a beautiful voice, the prettiest hands, and the most -affectionate heart. If she were not clever, that matters but little to a -girl of twenty, taught by love to be receptive, and called upon for no -effort of genius. Honest George behind backs was not much more than a -piece of still life, but an inoffensive and amiable one, taking nothing -upon him. If there was calculation in the steadfastness with which the -abler pair possessed themselves of the confidence, and held fast to the -service of their royal friends, it would be hard to assert that there -was not some affection too, at least on the part of Sarah, who had known -every thought of her little princess’s heart since she was a child, and -could not but be flattered and pleased by the love showered upon her. At -all events, in Anne there was no unworthy sentiment; everything about -her appeals to our tenderness. When she attained what seems to have been -the summit of her desires and secured her type of excellence, the -admired and adored paragon of her childhood, for her daily companion, -the formal titles and addresses which her rank made necessary became -irksome beyond measure to the simple-hearted young woman whose hard fate -it was to have been born a princess. The impetuosity of her affection, -her rush, so to speak, into the arms of her friend, her pretty youthful -sentiment, so fresh and natural, her humility and simplicity, are all -pleasant to contemplate. Little more than a year after her marriage, -after the closer union had begun, she writes thus:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>If you will let me have the satisfaction of hearing from you again -before I see you, let me beg of you not to call me “your highness” -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> every word, but to be as free with me as one friend ought to be -with another. And you can never give me any greater proof of your -friendship than in telling me your mind freely in all things, which -I do beg of you to do: and if it ever were in my power to serve -you, nobody would be more ready than myself. I am all impatience -for Wednesday. Till then farewell.</p></div> - -<p>Upon this there ensued a little sentimental bargain between the two -young women. It was not according to the manners of the time that they -should call each other Anne and Sarah, and the fashion of the Aramintas -and Dorindas had not yet arrived from Paris. They managed the -transformation necessary in a curiously matter-of-fact and English way:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>She grew uneasy to be treated by me with the form and ceremony due -to her rank; nor could she bear from me the sound of words which -implied in them distance and superiority. It was this turn of mind -which made her one day propose to me that whenever I should happen -to be absent from her we might in all our letters write ourselves -by feigned names, such as would import nothing of distinction of -rank between us. Morley and Freeman were the names her fancy hit -upon, and she left me to choose by which of them I should be -called. My frank open temper led me naturally to pitch upon -Freeman, and so the princess took the other; and from this time -Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman began to converse as equals, made so -by affection and friendship.</p></div> - -<p>Very likely these were the names in some young lady’s book which had -been in the princess’s childish library,—something a generation before -the “Spectator,”—in which rural virtues and the claims of friendship -were the chief subjects. Morley is one of the typical names of -sentimental literature in the eighteenth century, and might be -originally introduced by some precursor of those proper little romances -which have in all ages been considered the proper reading for “the -fair.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Morley could be no other than the gentle <i>ingénue</i>, the type of -modest virtue, and Freeman was of all others the title most suitable for -Sarah, the bright and brave. Historians have not been able to contain -themselves for angry ridicule of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 415px;"> -<a href="images/ill_006_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_006.jpg" width="415" height="540" alt="Image unavailable: CHARLES II. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER ORIGINAL PAINTING BY SAMUEL COOPER, IN THE -GALLERY OF THE DUKE OF RICHMOND AND GORDON." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">CHARLES II. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER ORIGINAL PAINTING BY SAMUEL COOPER, IN THE<br /> -GALLERY OF THE DUKE OF RICHMOND AND GORDON.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">little friendly treaty. To us it seems a pretty incident. The princess -was twenty, the bedchamber woman twenty-four. Their friendly traffic had -not to their own consciousness attained the importance of a historical -fact.</p> - -<p>The locality in which the royal houses in London stood was very -different then from its appearance now. Whitehall at present is a great -thoroughfare, full of life and movement, with but one remnant of the old -palace,—once the banqueting-hall, now the chapel royal, where the -window out of which Charles I. is supposed to have passed to the -scaffold is pointed out to strangers,—and still presenting a bit of -gloomy, stately front to the street.</p> - -<p>St. James’s Park opposite is screened off and separated now by the Horse -Guards and other public buildings, a long and heavy line which forms one -side of the way. But in those days there were neither public buildings -nor busy street. The palace, straggling and irregular, with walls and -roofs on many different levels, stood like a sort of royal village -between the river and the park, with the turrets of St. James twinkling -in the distance, in the sunshine, over the trees of the Mall, where King -Charles with all his dogs and gentlemen would stream forth daily for his -saunter or his game. The Cockpit was one of the outlying portions of -Whitehall upon the edge of the park.</p> - -<p>Anne had been but two years married when King Charles died. And then the -aspect of affairs changed. The mass in the private chapel, and the -presence here and there of somebody who looked like a priest, at once -started into prominence and began to alarm the gazers more than the -dissolute amusements of the court had ever done. James was not virtuous -any more than his brother. One of the first acts which the excellent -Evelyn, one of the best of men, had to do as commissioner of the privy -seal, was to affix that imperial stamp to a patent by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> which one of the -new king’s favorites was made Countess of Dorchester; but James’s -immoralities were not his chief characteristics. He was a more dangerous -king than Charles, who was merely selfish, dissolute, and -pleasure-loving. James was more; he was a bigoted Roman Catholic, eager -to raise his faith to its old supremacy, and the mere thought that the -door which had been so bolted and barred against popery was now set open -filled all England with the wildest panic. The nation felt itself caught -by the torrent which must carry it to destruction. Men saw the dungeons -of the Inquisition, the fires of Smithfield, before them as soon as the -proscribed priest was readmitted and mass once more openly said at an -unconcealed altar. Never was there a more universal or all-influential -sentiment. The terror, the unanimity, are things to wonder at. Sancroft -and his bishops were not constitutionalists. The personal rule of the -king had nothing in it that alarmed them; but the idea of the -reintroduction of popery awoke such a panic in their bosoms as drove -them, in spite of their own tenets, into resistance; and, for the first -time absolutely unanimous, England was at their back. When we take -history piecemeal, and read it through the individual lives of the chief -actors, we perceive with the strangest sensations of surprise that at -these great crises not one of the leaders of the nation was sure what he -wanted or what he feared, or was even entirely sincere in his adherence -to one party against another. They were the courtiers of James, and -invited William; they were William’s ministers, and kept up a -correspondence with James. The best of them was not without a -treacherous side. They were never certain which was safest, which would -last; always liable to lend an ear to temptations from the other party, -never sure that they might not to-morrow morning find themselves in open -rebellion against the master of to-day. Yet, while almost every -individual of note was subject to this strange uncertainty, this -confused<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> and troubled vacillation, there was such a sweep of national -conviction, so strong a current of the general will, that the supposed -leaders of opinion were carried away by it, and compelled to assume and -act upon a conviction which was England’s, but which individually they -did not possess. Nothing can be made more remarkable, more unexplainable -under any other interpretations, than the way in which his entire court, -statesmen, soldiers, all who were worth counting, and so many who were -not, abandoned King James—some with a sort of consternation, not -knowing why they did it, driven by a force they could not resist. No -example of this can be more remarkable than that of Clarendon, who -received the news of his son’s defection to the Prince of Orange with -what seems to be a heartbroken cry: “O God! that my son should be a -rebel!” yet, presently, ten days afterward, is drawn away himself in a -kind of extraordinary confusion, like a man in a dream, like a subject -of mesmeric influence, although in all the following negotiations he -maintained James’s cause as far as a man could who did not accept ruin -as a consequence. Scarcely one of these men was whole-hearted or had any -determined principle in the matter. But in the mass of the nation behind -them was a force of conviction, of panic, of determination, that carried -them off their feet. The chief names of England appear little more than -straws upon the current, indicating its course, but forced along by its -fierce sweep and impetus, and not by any impulse of their own.</p> - -<p>The Princess Anne occupied a very different position from that of these -bewildered statesmen. She had been brought up in the strictest sect of -her religion, Protestant almost more than Christian, a churchwoman above -all. To those who are capable of thinking about their faith it is always -possible to believe in the thoughts of other people, and conceive the -likelihood, at least, that they, in their own esteem, if not in any one -else’s,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> may be right—which is the only true foundation of toleration. -But it is the people who believe without thinking, who receive what they -are taught without exercising any judgment of their own upon the -subject, and cling to it in exactly the same form in which they received -it, with a conviction that its least important detail is as necessary as -its first principle, who furnish that <i>sancta simplicitas</i> which makes -the cruelest persecution possible without turning the persecutors into -fiends and barbarians. Though her mother had been a Roman Catholic, and -her father was one, and though many of her relations belonged to the old -church, Anne was a Protestant of the most unyielding kind. She was in -herself as good a type of the England of her time as could have been -found, far better than her abler and larger-minded advisers. The -narrowness of her mind and the rigidity of her faith were above all -reassurances of reason, all guarantees of possibility. She was as much -dismayed by her father’s determination to liberate and tolerate popery -as the least enlightened of his subjects. “Methinks it has a very dismal -prospect,” she wrote as early as 1686, only the year after James’s -accession. “Attempts,” Lady Marlborough tells us, “were made to draw his -daughter into his designs. The king, indeed, used no harshness with her; -he only discovered his wishes by putting into her hands some books and -papers which he hoped might induce her to a change of religion, and had -she had any inclination that way the chaplains about were such divines -as could have said but little in defense of their own religion or to -secure her against the pretenses of Popery recommended to her by a -father and a king.” This low estimate of the princess’s spiritual -advisers is whimsically supported by Evelyn’s opinion of Anne’s first -religious preceptor,—Bishop Compton,—of whom the courtly philosopher -declared after hearing a sermon from him that “this worthy person’s -talent is not preaching.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width: 308px;"> -<a href="images/ill_007_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_007a.jpg" width="308" height="358" alt="Image unavailable: HENRY COMPTON, BISHOP OF LONDON. - -ENGRAVED FROM LIFE BY DAVID LOGGAN, FROM PRINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM. -ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMANN." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">HENRY COMPTON, BISHOP OF LONDON. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED FROM LIFE BY DAVID LOGGAN, FROM PRINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.<br /> -ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMANN.</small></span><br /> -<a href="images/ill_007_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_007b.jpg" alt="Image unavailable: HENRY COMPTON, BISHOP OF LONDON." -/></a> -</div> - -<p>But Anne required no persuading to stimulate her in the fear of popery -and narrow devotion to the church, outside of which she knew of no -salvation. No doubt her father’s popish tracts, things which in that age -were held to possess many of the properties of the dynamite of to-day, -scared the inflexible and unimaginative churchwoman as much as if they -had been capable of exploding and doing her actual damage. Her training, -so wisely adapted to please the Protestant party, had probably been -thought by her father and uncle to be a matter of complete indifference -on any other ground; but in this way they reckoned altogether without -their princess. With both James’s daughters the process was too -successful. They feared popery more than they loved their father. There -seems not the slightest reason to suppose that Anne was insincere in her -anxiety for the church, or that the panic which she shared with the -whole country was affected or unreal. It is impossible that she could -expect her own position to be improved by the substitution of her sister -and her sister’s husband for the father who had always been kind to her. -The Churchills, whose church principles were not perhaps so undeniable, -and whose regard for their own interest was great, are more difficult to -divine; and yet it appears an unnecessary thing to refer their action to -unworthy motives. It is asserted by some that they had some visionary -plan after they had overturned the existing economy by the help of -William, of bringing in their princess by a side wind and reigning -through her over the startled and subjugated nation. But granting that -such an imagination might have been conceived in the fertile and -restless brain of a young and sanguine woman, it seems impossible to -imagine that Churchill—a man of some experience in the world, and some -knowledge of William—could even for a moment have believed that the -grave and ambitious prince, who was so near the throne, could have been -persuaded or forced to waive his wife’s claims, and those still more -imperative ones<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> which his position of Deliverer gave him, in order to -advance the fortunes of any one else, least of all of the sister-in-law -whom he despised.</p> - -<p>It is half ludicrous, half pathetic, in the midst of all the tumult and -confusion of the time, to note the constant allusions to the princess’s -condition, which recurs whenever she is mentioned. There were always -reasons why it should be especially cruel to disturb her, and her state -had constantly to be taken into account. It was very natural in such -circumstances that she should more and more cling to her stronger -friend, and find no comfort out of her presence. “Whatever changes there -are in the world, I hope you will never forsake me, and I shall be -happy,” she writes during this period of excitement and distress. She -herself was weak and not very wise. In a sudden emergency neither she -nor her husband were good for much. They could carry on the routine of -life well enough, but when unforeseen necessities came they stood -helpless and bewildered; but Lady Churchill was quick of wit and full of -inexhaustible resource. To her it was always given to know what to do.</p> - -<p>It is unnecessary here to enter into the history of what is called the -Great Revolution. It is the great modern turning-point of English -history, and no doubt it is one of the reasons why we have been exempted -in later days from the agitations of desperate and bloody revolutions -which have shaken all neighboring nations. Glorious and happy, however, -scarcely seem to be fit words to describe this extraordinary event. A -more painful era does not exist in history. There is scarcely an -individual in the front of affairs who was not guilty of treachery at -one time or another. They betrayed one another on every hand; they were -perplexed, uncertain, full of continual alarms. The king who went away -was a gloomy bigot; the king who came was a cold and melancholy alien. -Enthusiasm there was none, nor even conviction, except of the necessity -of doing something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> of a wide-reaching and undeniable change. The part -which the ladies at the Cockpit played brings the hurry and excitement -of the movement to its crisis. Both in their way were anxious for their -respective husbands, absent in the suite of James, and still in his -power. When the report came that Lord Feversham had begged of James “on -his knees two hours” to order the arrest of Churchill, Mrs. Freeman must -have needed all her courage; while the faithful Morley wept, yet tried -to emulate the braver woman, wondering in her excitement what her own -heavy prince was doing, and eager for William’s advance, which, somehow -or other, was to bring peace and quiet. That heavy prince meanwhile was -mooning about with the perplexed and unhappy king, uttering out of his -blond mustache with an atrocious accent his dull wonder, “Est il -possible?” as every new desertion was announced, till mounting heavily -one evening after dinner, warmed and encouraged by a good deal of King -James’s wine, and riding through the cold and dark, in his turn he -deserted too. When this event happened, the excitement at the Cockpit -was overwhelming. The princess was “in a great fright.” “She sent for -me,” says Lady Churchill, “told me her distress, and declared that -rather than see her father, she would jump out of window.” King James -was coming back to London, sad and wroth, and perhaps the rumor that he -would have her arrested lent additional terrors to the idea of -encountering his angry countenance. Lady Churchill went immediately to -Bishop Compton, the princess’s early tutor and confidential adviser, and -instant means were taken to secure her flight. That very night, after -her attendants were in bed, Anne rose in the dark, and with her beloved -Sarah’s arm and support stole down the back stairs to where the bishop, -in a hackney coach, was waiting for her. Other princesses in similar -situations have owned to a thrill of pleasure in such an adventure. No -doubt at least she breathed the freer when she was out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> the palace -where King James with his dark countenance might have come any day to -demand from her an account of her husband’s behavior, or to upbraid her -with her own want of affection. Anyhow, the sweep of the current had now -reached her tremulous feet, and she had no power any more than stronger -persons of resisting it.</p> - -<p>Anne’s position was very much changed by the Revolution. If any -ambitious hopes had been entertained or plans formed by her household, -they were speedily and very completely brought to an end. The dull royal -pair with their two brilliant guides and counselors now found themselves -confronted by another couple of very different mark: the serious, -somewhat gloomy, determined, and self-concentrated Dutchman, and the new -queen, Mary, a person far more attractive and imposing than Anne; two -people full of character and power. We have no space here, however, to -appropriate to these remarkable persons. William, in particular, belongs -to larger annals and a history more important than these sketches. Mary -has left an epitome of herself in her letters which is among the most -wonderful of individual revelations; but this cannot now be our theme, -though the subject is a most attractive one.</p> - -<p>Two persons so remarkable threw into the shade even Churchill and Sarah, -much more good Anne and George. We have no reason to suppose that Mary -entertained any particular sentiment whatever toward her sister, from -whom she had been entirely separated for the greater part of her life, -and the history of their relations is a painful one from beginning to -end. No doubt the queen regarded the household of the princess with the -contempt which a woman with so entirely different a code would naturally -entertain for a family in which the heads were so lax and secondary, the -counselors so prominent. There was nothing in Mary which would help her -to understand the feeling with which Anne regarded her friend<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 359px;"> -<a href="images/ill_008_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_008.jpg" width="359" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: JAMES II. IN HIS CORONATION ROBES. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">JAMES II. IN HIS CORONATION ROBES. -<br /> -<small>ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN<br /> -POSSESSION OF THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND.</small></span> -</div> - -<p>Mary. She had herself made use of their influence in the time when it -was all important to secure every power in England for William’s -service, but a proud distaste for the woman whom the princess trusted as -her equal soon awoke in the bosom of the queen. The Churchills, however, -served the new sovereigns signally by persuading the princess to yield -her own rights, and consent to the conjoint reign, and to William’s life -sovereignty—no small concession on the part of the next heir, and one -which only the passive character of Anne could have made to appear -insignificant.</p> - -<p>Had she been a stronger and more intellectual woman, this act would have -borne the aspect of a magnanimous and noble sacrifice to the good of the -country, of her own interests, and that of her children. As it was, her -self-renunciation has got her very little credit, either then or now, -and it has been considered rather an evidence of the discretion of the -Churchills than of the generosity and patriotism of the princess. These, -perhaps, are rather large words to use in speaking of Anne, but it must -be remembered that a narrow mind is usually not less, but more, -tenacious of personal honor and advantage than a great one, and that the -dimmer an understanding may be, the less it is accessible to high reason -and noble motive. This sacrifice accomplished, however, there commenced -a petty war between Whitehall and the Cockpit, in which perhaps Mary and -Lady Churchill (now Marlborough) were the chief combatants, but which -from henceforward until her sister’s death became the principal feature -in Anne’s life. Continued squabbling is never lovely even when it is -between queens and princesses, but in this case the injured person has -had no little injustice, and the offender so many partizans that it may -not be amiss to make Anne’s side of the question a little more apparent.</p> - -<p>If her friend was to blame for embroiling Anne with the queen, it can -scarcely be believed that the princess’s case would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> have been more -satisfactory had she been left in her helplessness to the tender mercies -of William, and entirely dependent upon his kindness, which must have -happened had there been no bold and strong adviser in the matter. There -was no generosity in the treatment which Anne received from the royal -pair. She had made a sacrifice to the security of their throne which -deserved some grace in return. But her innocent fancy for the palace at -Richmond, where the sisters had been brought up together, was not -indulged, nor would there be much excuse even if she were in the wrong -for the squabblings about her lodging at Whitehall. But she cannot be -said to have been in the wrong in the next question which occurred, -which was the settlement of her own income. This she had previously -drawn from her father, according to the existing custom in the royal -family, and James had been always liberal and kind to her. But it was a -different thing to depend upon the somewhat grudging hand of an -economical brother-in-law, who had a number of foreign dependents to -provide for, and a great deal to do with the money granted to him. He -alarmed her friends on this point at once by a remark made to Clarendon -as to what the princess could want with so large an income as thirty -thousand a year; and he does not seem at any time or in any particular -to have shown consideration for her. Perhaps the Churchills were afraid -that their mistress would be less able than usual to help and further -their own fortunes, as is universally alleged against them; but, had -they been the most disinterested couple in the world, it would still -have been their duty to do what they could to secure her against any -caprice of the new king, who had no right to be the arbiter of her fate. -Lady Marlborough’s strenuous action to bring the question to the -decision of Parliament was nothing less than her mistress’s interests -demanded. And the sense of the country was so far with them that the -princess’s income was settled with very little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> difficulty upon a more -liberal basis than her father’s allowance; which, considering that she, -and the children of whom she was every year becoming the mother, were -the only acknowledged heirs of the throne, was a perfectly natural and -just arrangement.</p> - -<p>But the king and queen did not see it in this light. “Friends! what -friends have you but the king and me?” Queen Mary asked with -indignation. It is not to be supposed that she meant any harm to her -sister, but with also a sufficiently natural sentiment could not see -what Anne’s objection was to dependence upon herself.</p> - -<p>The position on both sides is so clearly comprehensible that the -strength of party feeling which makes Lord Macaulay defend the somewhat -petty attitude of his favorite monarch on the occasion is very -extraordinary. It requires no very subtle penetration to see the -difference between an allowance that comes from a father and that which -depends upon the doubtful friendship of a brother-in-law. Anne had fully -proved her capacity to consider the public weal above her own, and it -was unworthy of William even to wish to keep in the position of a -hanger-on a woman who had so greatly promoted the harmony of his own -settlement.</p> - -<p>Parliament finally voted her a revenue of fifty thousand pounds a year, -as a sort of compromise between the thirty thousand pounds which King -William grudged her and the unreasonably large sum which some of her -supporters hoped to obtain; but the king and queen never forgave her, -and still less her advisers, for what they chose to consider a want of -confidence in themselves.</p> - -<p>But William was always impatient of the incapable, and the permission -was absolutely denied to him. In all these claims and refusals the -position of Lady Marlborough as the princess’s right hand had been -completely acknowledged by Queen Mary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> and her husband, who indeed -attempted secret negotiations with her on more than one occasion to -induce her to moderate Anne’s claims and to persuade her into compliance -with their wishes. “She [the queen] sent a great lord to me to desire I -would persuade the Princess to keep the Prince from going to sea; and -this I was to compass without letting the Princess know it was the -Queen’s desire ... after this the Queen sent Lord Rochester to me to -desire much the same thing. The Prince was not to go to sea, and this -not going was to appear his own choice.”</p> - -<p>Similar attempts were made in the matter of the allowance. And it is -scarcely possible to believe that Mary, a queen who was not without some -of the absolutism of the Stuart mind, should have failed to feel a -certain exasperation with the bold woman who thus upheld her sister’s -little separate court and interest, and was neither to be flattered nor -frightened into subservience. And very likely this little separate court -was a thorn in the side of the royal pair, keeping constant watch upon -all their actions, maintaining a perpetual criticism, no doubt leveling -many a jibe at the Dutch retainers, and still more at the Dutch master. -Good-natured friends, even in the capacity of courtiers, were no doubt -found to whisper in the presence-chamber the witticisms with which Sarah -of Marlborough would entertain her mistress—utterances not very -brilliant, perhaps, but sharp enough. It would not sweeten the temper of -the queen if she found out, for instance, that her great William was -known as Caliban in the correspondence of Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman. -A hundred petty irritations always come in in such circumstances to -increase a breach. What the precise occurrence was which brought about -the final explosion is not known, but one day after a stormy scene, in -which the queen had in vain demanded from her sister the dismissal of -Lady Marlborough, an event occurred which took away everybody’s breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;"> -<a href="images/ill_009_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_009.jpg" width="394" height="502" alt="Image unavailable: MARY, PRINCESS OF ORANGE. - -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF THE EARL OF CRAWFORD." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">MARY, PRINCESS OF ORANGE.<br /> -<small> -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN<br /> -POSSESSION OF THE EARL OF CRAWFORD.</small></span> -</div> - -<p>This was the sudden dismissal, without reason assigned, at least so far -as the public knew, of Lord Marlborough from all his offices. He was -lieutenant-general of the army, and he was a gentleman of the king’s -bedchamber. Up to this time there had been nothing to find fault with in -his conduct. William was too good a soldier himself not to appreciate -Marlborough’s military talents, and he had behaved, if not with any -enthusiasm for the new order of affairs, with good taste at least in -very difficult circumstances. His desertion of James and his powerful -presence and influence on the opposite side had contributed much to the -bloodless victory of the Prince of Orange; but except so far as this -went, Marlborough had shown no hostility to his old master. In the -convention he had voted for a regency, and when it became evident that -William’s terms must be accepted unconditionally or not at all, he had -refrained from voting altogether; so that his support might be -considered lukewarm. But, on the other hand, he had served with great -distinction abroad, acting with perfect loyalty to his new chief while -in command of the English forces. In short, his public aspect up to this -time would seem on the face of it to have been irreproachable.</p> - -<p>This being the case, his sudden dismissal from court filled his friends -with astonishment and dismay. Nobody understood its why or wherefore. -“An incident happened which I unwillingly mention,” says Bishop Burnet, -“because it cannot be told without some reflection on the memory of the -queen, whom I always honored beyond all the persons whom I have ever -known.” This regretful preface affords an excellent guarantee of the -bishop’s sincerity; but Lord Macaulay omits his statement of the case -altogether while quoting passages from the then unpublished manuscript -which seemed to support his own views. “The Earl of Nottingham,” Burnet -continues, “came to the Earl of Marlborough with a message from the King -telling him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> that he had no more use for his services, and therefore he -demanded all his commissions. What drew so sudden and hard a message was -not known, for he had been with the King that morning and had parted -with him in the ordinary manner. It seemed some letter was intercepted -that gave suspicions: it is certain that he thought he was too little -considered, and that he had upon many occasions censured the King’s -conduct and reflected on the Dutch.” Lord Macaulay, on the other hand, -ignoring this statement, assures his readers that the real ground of the -dismissal had been communicated to Anne on the previous night -(notwithstanding that the great general had been privileged to put on -the king’s shirt next morning as if nothing had happened), and that it -was in reality the discovery of a plot for James’s restoration, -conceived by Marlborough, and in which the princess herself was -implicated. It was reported to be Marlborough’s intention to move in the -House of Lords an address to William, requesting him to dismiss the -foreign servants who surrounded him, and of whom the English were -bitterly jealous. Such a scheme of reprisals would have had a certain -humor in its summary reversal of the position, and no doubt must Sarah -herself have had some hand in its construction, if it ever existed. -William was as little likely to give up Bentinck and Keppel as Anne was -to sacrifice the friends whom she loved, and a breach between the -Parliament and the king would have been, it was hoped, the natural -result—to be followed by a <i>coup d’état</i>, in which James might be -replaced under stringent conditions upon the throne. The sole evidence -for this plot is King James himself, who describes it in his diary. Lord -Macaulay adds that it is strongly confirmed by Burnet, but this, we take -leave to think, is not the case. At the same time there seems no reason -to doubt King James, who adds that the plan was defeated by the -indiscreet zeal of some of his own <i>fidèles</i>, who feared that -Marlborough, were he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> once master of the situation, would put Anne on -the throne instead of her father.</p> - -<p>Whether, however, this supposed proposal was, or was not, the reason of -Marlborough’s dismissal, it is clear enough that he had resumed a secret -correspondence with the banished king at St.-Germain, whom, not very -long before, he had deserted. But so had most of the statesmen who -surrounded William, even the admiral in whose hands the English -reputation at sea was soon to be placed. The sins of the others were -winked at while Maryborough was thus made an example of: perhaps because -he was the most dangerous; perhaps because he had involved the princess -in his treachery, persuading her to send a letter and make affectionate -overtures to her father. Is it possible that it was this very letter -which Burnet says was intercepted, inclosed most likely in one from -Marlborough more distinct in its offers? Here is Anne’s simple -performance, a thing not calculated to do either harm or good:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I have been very desirous of some safe opportunity to make you a -sincere and humble offer of my duty and submission, and to beg you -will be assured that I am both truly concerned for the misfortunes -of your condition, and sensible as I ought to be of my own -unhappiness: as to what you may think I have contributed to it, if -wishes could recall what is past, I had long since redeemed my -fault. I am sensible that it would have been a great relief to me -if I could have found means to have acquainted you earlier with my -repentant thoughts, but I hope they may find the advantage of -coming late—of being less suspected of insincerity than perhaps -they would have been at any time before. It will be a great -addition to the ease I propose to my own mind by this plain -confession, if I am so happy as to find that it brings any real -satisfaction to yours, and that you are as indulgent and easy to -receive my humble submissions as I am to make them in a free -disinterested acknowledgment of my fault, for no other end but to -deserve and receive your pardon.</p></div> - -<p>These involved and halting sentences by themselves could afford but -little satisfaction to the anxious banished court at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> St.-Germain. To -say so much, yet to say so little, though easy to a confused -intelligence, not knowing very well what it meant, is a thing which -would have taxed the powers of the most astute conspirators. But there -could be little doubt that a penitent princess thus ready to implore her -father’s pardon, would be a powerful auxiliary, with the country just -then in the stage of natural disappointment which is prone to follow a -great crisis, and that Marlborough was doubly dangerous with such a card -in his hands to play.</p> - -<p>A little pause occurred after his dismissal. The court by this time had -gone to Kensington, out of sight and hearing of the Cockpit, Whitehall -having been burned in the previous year. The princess continued, no -doubt in no very friendly mood, to take her way to the suburban palace -in the evenings and make one at her sister’s game of basset, showing by -her abstraction, and the traces of tears about her eyes, her state of -depression yet revolt. But about three weeks after that great event, -something suggested to Lady Marlborough the idea of accompanying her -princess to the royal presence. It was strictly within her right to do -so, in attendance on her mistress, and perhaps it was considered in the -family council at the Cockpit that the existing state of affairs could -not go on, and that it was best to end it one way or another. One can -imagine the stir in the ante-chambers, the suppressed excitement in the -drawing-room, when the princess, less subdued than for some weeks past, -her eyes no longer red, nor the corners of her mouth drooping, came -suddenly in out of the night, with the well-known buoyant figure after -her, proud head erect and eyes aflame, her mistress’s train upon her -arm, but the air of a triumphant queen on her countenance. There would -be a pause of consternation—and for a moment it would seem as if Mary, -thus defied, must burst forth in wrath upon the culprit. What glances -must have passed between the court ladies behind their fans! What -whispers in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:384px;"> -<a href="images/ill_010_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_010.jpg" width="384" height="495" alt="Image unavailable: QUEEN MARY OF MODENA. - -ENGRAVED BY CHARLES STATE, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN -POSSESSION OF EARL SPENCER." /></a> -<br /><br /> -<div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">QUEEN MARY OF MODENA. -<br /> -<small>ENGRAVED BY CHARLES STATE, AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY, IN<br /> -POSSESSION OF EARL SPENCER.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">corners! The queen, in the midst, pale with anger, restraining herself -with difficulty; the princess, perhaps beginning to quake; but Sarah, -undaunted, knowing no reason why she should not be there—“since to -attend the princess was only paying her duty where it was owing.”</p> - -<p>But next morning brought, as they must have foreseen it would bring, a -royal missive, meant to carry dismay and terror, in which Mary commanded -her sister to dismiss her friend and make instant submission. “I tell -you plainly Lady Marlborough must not continue with you in the -circumstances in which her lord is,” the queen wrote; “never anybody was -suffered to live at court in my Lord Marlborough’s circumstances.” There -is nothing undignified in Mary’s letter. She was in all respects more -capable of expressing herself than her sister, and she had so far right -on her side that Lady Marlborough’s appearance at court was little less -than a deliberate insult to her. “I have all the reason imaginable to -look upon you bringing her here as the strangest thing that ever was -done, nor could all my kindness for you have hindered me showing you -that moment, but I considered your condition, and that made me master of -myself so far as not to take notice of it there,” the queen said. The -princess’s condition had often to be taken into consideration, and -perhaps she was not unwilling that her superiority in this respect to -her childless sister should be fully evident. She was then within a few -weeks of her confinement—not a moment when an affectionate and very -dependent woman could lightly be parted from her bosom friend.</p> - -<p>Thus the situation was brought to a climax. It was not to be expected, -however, that Anne could have submitted to a mandate which in reality -would have taken from her all power to choose her own friends; and her -affections were so firmly fixed upon her beloved companion that it is -evident life without Sarah would have been a blank to her. She answered -in a letter studiously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> compiled in defense both of herself and her -retainer. “I am satisfied she cannot have been guilty of any fault to -you, and it would be extremely to her advantage if I could here repeat -every word that ever she had said to me of you in her whole life,” says -the princess; and she ends entreating her sister to “recall your severe -command,” and declaring that there is no misery “that I cannot readily -resolve to suffer rather than the thought of parting with her.” But -things had gone too far to be stopped by any such appeal. The letter was -answered by the lord chamberlain in person with a message forbidding -Lady Marlborough to continue at the Cockpit. This was arbitrary in the -highest degree, for the house was Anne’s private property, bought for -and settled upon her by Charles III.; and it was unreasonable, for -Whitehall was lying in ruins, and Queen Mary’s sight at Kensington could -not be offended by the spectacle of the couple who had so annoyed her. -The princess’s spirit was roused. She wrote to her sister that she -herself would be “obliged to retire,” since such were the terms of her -continuance, and sent immediately to the Duke of Somerset to ask for a -lease of Sion House. It is said that William so far interfered in the -squabble—in which indeed he had been influential all along—as to ask -the duke to refuse this trifling favor. But of all English noble houses -the proud Somersets were the last to be dictated to; and Anne -established herself triumphantly in her banishment on the banks of the -Thames with her favorite at her side.</p> - -<p>A child was born a little later, and the queen paid Anne an angry visit -of ceremony a day or two after the event, saying nothing to her but on -the vexed subject. “I have made the first step by coming to you,” Mary -said, approaching the bed where the poor princess lay, sad and -suffering, for her baby had died soon after its birth, “and I now expect -you should make the next by removing Lady Marlborough.” The princess, -“trembling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> and as white as her sheet,” stammered forth her plaintive -protest that this was the only thing in which she had disobliged her -sister, and that “it was unreasonable to ask it of her,” whereupon Mary, -without another word, left the room and the house. It was the last time -they ever met, unlikely as such a thing seemed. Anne made various -overtures of reconciliation, but as unconditional obedience was promised -in none, Mary’s heart was not softened.</p> - -<p>The only justification that can be offered for the queen’s behavior was -that they had been long separated and had little but the formal tie of -relationship to bind them to each other. Anne had been but a child when -Mary left England. They were both married and surrounded by other -affections when they met again. They had so much resemblance of nature -that each seems to have been capable of but one passion. It was Mary’s -good fortune to love her husband with all her heart—but to all -appearance no one else. She had not a friend among all the ladies who -had shared her life for years—no intimate or companion who could give -her any solace when he was absent. Natural affection was not strong in -their family. They had no mother, nor bond of common relationship except -the father whom they both superseded. All this explains to a certain -extent her coldness to Anne, and it is very likely she thought she was -doing the best thing possible for her sister in endeavoring to separate -her from an evil influence, an inferior who was her mistress. But this -does not excuse the paltry and cruel persecution to which the younger -sister was henceforward exposed. Every honor that belonged to her rank -was taken from her, from the sentry at her door to the text upon her -cushion at church. She was allowed no guard; when she went into the -country the rural mayors were forbidden to present addresses to her and -pay the usual honors which mayors delight to pay. The great court ladies -were given to understand that whoever visited her would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> not be received -by the queen. A more irritating and miserable persecution could not be, -nor one more lowering to the character of the chief performer in it.</p> - -<p>Anne was but recovering from the illness that followed her confinement, -and with which her sister’s angry visit was supposed to have something -to do, when another blow fell upon the band of friends. Marlborough was -suddenly arrested and sent to the Tower. There was reason enough perhaps -for his previous disgrace in the secret relations with St.-Germain which -he was known to have resumed; but the charge afterward made was a purely -fictitious one, and he and the other great personages involved had -little difficulty in proving this innocence. The correspondence which -took place while Lady Marlborough was in town with her husband on this -occasion reveals Anne very clearly in her affectionate simplicity.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I hear Lord Marlborough is sent to the Tower; and though I am -certain they have nothing against him, and expected by your letter -it would be so, yet I was struck when I was told it; for methinks -it is a dismal thing to have one’s friends sent to that place. I -have a thousand melancholy thoughts, and cannot help fearing they -hinder you from coming to me; though how they can do that without -making you a prisoner, I cannot imagine. I am just told by pretty -good hands that as soon as the wind turns westerly there will be a -guard set upon the prince and me. If you hear there is any such -thing designed and that ’tis easy to you, pray let me see you -before the wind changes: for afterward one does not know whether -they will let one have opportunities of speaking to one another. -But let them do what they please, nothing shall ever vex me, so I -can have the satisfaction of seeing dear Mrs. Freeman; and I swear -I would live on bread and water between four walls with her without -repining; for so long as you continue kind, nothing can ever be a -real mortification to your faithful Mrs. Morley, who wishes she may -never enjoy a moment’s happiness in this world or the next if ever -she proves false to you.</p></div> - -<p>Whether the wind proving “westerly” was a phrase understood between the -correspondents, or if it had anything to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> with the event of the -impending battle on which the fate of England was hanging, it is -difficult to tell. If it was used in the latter sense, the victorious -battle of La Hogue, by which all recent discomfitures were redeemed, -soon restored the government to calm and the consciousness of triumph, -and made conspiracy comparatively insignificant. Before this great -deliverance was known, Anne had written a submissive letter to her -sister, informing her that she had now recovered her strength “well -enough to go abroad,” and asking leave to pay her respects to the queen. -To which Mary returned a stern answer declaring that such civilities -were unnecessary as long as her sister declined to do the thing required -of her. Anne sent a copy of this letter to Lady Marlborough, announcing, -as she was now “at liberty to go where I please by the queen refusing to -see me,” her intention of coming to London to see her friend, but this -intention does not seem to have been carried out. “I am very sensibly -touched with the misfortune that my dear Mrs. Freeman has had in losing -her son, knowing very well what it is to lose a child,” the princess -writes, “but she, knowing my heart so well and how great a share I have -in all her concerns, I will not say any more on this subject for fear of -renewing her passion too much.” Throughout this separation these little -billets were continually coming and going, and we cannot do better than -transcribe for the reader some of those innocent letters, so natural and -full of the writer’s heart.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Though I have nothing to say to my dear Mrs. Freeman I cannot help -inquiring how she and her Lord does. If it be not convenient for -you to write when you receive this, either keep the bearer till it -is, or let me have a word from you by the next opportunity when it -is easy to you, for I would not be a constraint to you at any time, -much less now when you have so many things to do and think of. All -I desire to hear from you at such a time is that you and yours are -well, which next to having my Lord Marlborough out of his enemies’ -power, is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> best news that can come to her, who to the last -moment of her life will be dear to Mrs. Freeman’s....</p> - -<p>I give dear Mrs. Freeman a thousand thanks for her letter which -gives me an account of her concerns; and that is what I desire more -to know than other news. I shall reckon the days and hours and -think it very long till the time is out, both for your sake and my -Lord Marlborough’s, and that he may be at liberty and your mind at -ease. And, dear Mrs. Freeman, don’t say when I can see you if I -come to town, therefore I ask which day will be most convenient for -you. I confess I long to see you, but am not so unreasonable to -desire that satisfaction till it is easy to you. I wish with all my -soul that you may not be a true prophetess, and that it may soon be -in our power to enjoy one another’s company more than it has been -of late, which is all I covet in this world....</p> - -<p>I am sorry with all my heart Mrs. Freeman meets with so many -delays, but it is a comfort they cannot keep my Lord Marlborough in -the Tower longer than the end of the term, and I hope when the -Parliament sits care will be taken that people may not be clapt up -for nothing, or else there will be no living in quiet for anybody -but insolent Dutch and sneaking mercenary Englishmen. Dear Mrs. -Freeman, farewell—be assured your faithful Mrs. Morley can never -change, and I hope you do not in the least doubt of her kindness, -which, if it be possible, increases every day, and that can never -have an end but with her life. Mrs. Morley hopes her dear Mrs. -Freeman will let her have the satisfaction of hearing again from -her to-morrow....</p> - -<p>Dear Mrs. Freeman may easily imagine I cannot have much to say -since I saw her. However, I must write two words, for though I -believe she does not doubt of my constancy, feeling how base and -false all the world is, I am of that temper I think I can never say -enough to assure you of it. Therefore give me leave to assure you -they can never change me. And there is no misery I cannot readily -resolve to suffer rather than the thoughts of parting from you. And -I do swear I would sooner be torn in pieces than alter this my -resolution. My dear Mrs. Freeman, I long to hear from you.</p></div> - -<p>This pretty correspondence changed a little, but only to grow more -impassioned, when the princess had gone to Bath and the friends were -less near each other.</p> - -<p>Anne was, however, pursued by the royal displeasure even in her invalid -journey to Bath, and no less a person than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> Lord Nottingham, the lord -chamberlain, was employed to warn the mayor of that city that his -civilities to the princess were ill-timed. Such a disclosure of the -family quarrel evinced a determination and bitterness which perhaps -frightened even Lady Marlborough, courageous as she was; and she seems -to have offered and even pressed her resignation as a means of making -peace. But nothing altered the devotion of her faithful princess.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I really long to know how my dear Mrs. Freeman got home, and now I -have this opportunity of writing she must give me leave to tell her -if she should ever be so cruel as to leave her faithful Mrs. Morley -she will rob her of all the joy and quiet of her life; for if that -day should come, I could never enjoy a happy minute, and I swear to -you I would shut myself up and never see a creature. If you do but -remember what the queen said to me the night before your lord was -turned out of all; then she began to pick quarrels; and if they -should take off twenty or thirty thousand pounds, have I not lived -upon as little before? When I was first married we had but twenty -(it is true indeed the king was so kind to pay my debts) and if it -should come to that again what retrenchment is there in my family I -would not willingly make and be glad of that pretence to do it? -Never fancy, my dear Mrs. Freeman, if what you fear should happen, -that you are the occasion; no, I am very well satisfied, and so is -the prince, too, that it would have been so however, for Caliban is -capable of doing nothing but injustice; therefore rest satisfied -you are noways the cause, and let me beg once more for God’s sake -that you would not mention parting more, no, not so much as think -of it, and if you should ever leave me, be assured it would break -your faithful Mrs. Morley’s heart.</p></div> - -<p>A still stronger expression of the same sentiment, with a little gleam -of self-assertion and sense of injured dignity, follows, after the -princess had, as would seem, taken counsel with her George. That heavy -prince fully acquiesced at least, if nothing more, in his wife’s -devotion.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>In obedience to dear Mrs. Freeman I have told the prince all she -desired me, and he is so far from being of another opinion, if -there had been occasion, he would have strengthened me in my -resolutions, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> we both beg you would never mention so cruel a -thing again. Can you think either of us so wretched that for the -sake of twenty thousand pounds, and to be tormented from morning to -night with flattering knaves and fools, we should forsake those we -have such obligations to, and that we are so certain we are the -occasion of all their misfortunes? Besides, will you believe we -will truckle to Caliban, who from the first moment of his coming -has used us at that rate as we are sensible he has done, and that -all the world can witness that will not let their interest weigh -more with them than their reason? But suppose I did submit, and -that the king could change his nature so much as to use me with -humanity, how would all reasonable people despise me? How would -that Dutch monster laugh at me, and please himself with having got -the better! and which is much more, how would my conscience -reproach me for having sacrificed it—my honor, reputation, and all -the substantial comforts of this life—for transitory interest, -which even to those who make it their idol, can never afford any -real satisfaction, much less to a virtuous mind? No, my dear Mrs. -Freeman, never believe that your faithful Mrs. Morley will ever -submit. She can wait with patience for a sunshine day, and if she -does not live to see it, yet she hopes England will flourish again. -Once more give me leave to beg you would be so kind never to speak -of parting more, for, let what will happen, that is the only thing -that can make me miserable.</p></div> - -<p>Such are the letters which Lord Macaulay describes as expressing “the -sentiments of a fury in the style of a fish-woman.” It was not indeed -pretty to call great William Caliban, but Anne was fond of nicknames, -and the king’s personal appearance was not his strong point. To us the -above outburst of indignation seems both natural and allowable. She had -been subject to an inveterate and petty persecution—her little -magnanimities had been answered by exactions. We are all so ready to -believe that when a woman is involved she must be the offender, that -most readers will have set down the insults to which Anne was subject to -the account of Mary. But it is curious to note that in these letters all -the blame is thrown upon the harsh brother-in-law, the Dutch monster, -the alien, who had made so many strangers into English noblemen, and who -identified Marlborough, among all the other courtiers who had been as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:316px;" > -<a href="images/ill_011_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_011.jpg" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: WILLIAM III. - -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY CORNELIS VERMEULEN, AFTER THE PAINTING BY -ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF." /></a> -<br /><div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">WILLIAM III. -<br /><small> -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY CORNELIS VERMEULEN, AFTER THE PAINTING BY -ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">little steadfast to him, as the object of a pertinacious persecution. -The princess says nothing of her sister. It is Caliban who is capable of -nothing but injustice. It is he who will laugh if he gets the better of -her. Anne’s style is perhaps not quite worthy of the Augustan age, but -it is at least very intelligible and full of little individual turns -which are more characteristic than the smoother graces. That she loved -her friend with her whole heart, that she had a generous contempt for -interested motives, and, humble as she was, a just sense of her own -dignity, are all abundantly and very simply manifest in them. They will -give to the impartial reader the impression of a natural and artless -character, with much generous feeling and much tender affectionateness: -tenacious of her rank and its observances, yet willing to throw all -these trifles down at the feet of her friend. Poor young lady! When we -recollect how constantly the princess’s “condition” had to be thought -of, how her long patience and many pains ended constantly in the little -waxen image of a dead baby and nothing more, who can wonder that the -world seemed falling to pieces about her when she was threatened with -the loss of the one strong sustaining prop upon which she had hung from -her childhood—the friend who had helped her through all the first -experiences of life, the companion who had amused so many weary days and -made the time pass as no one else could do!</p> - -<p>All these miserable disputes, however, were ended in a moment when -brought into the cold twilight of a death-chamber, where even kings and -queens are constrained to see things at their true value. Of all the -royal personages in the kingdom, Mary’s would have seemed to any outside -spectator the soundest and safest life. William had never been healthy, -and was consumed by the responsibilities and troubles into which he had -plunged. Anne had these ever-succeeding maternities to keep her at a low -level; but Mary was young, vigorous, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> happy—happy at least in her -devotion to her husband and his love for her. It was she, however, who, -to the awe and consternation of the world, was cut down in her prime -after a few days’ illness, in the midst of her greatness. Such a -catastrophe no one could behold without the profoundest impulse of pity. -Whatever she had done a week before, there she lay now helpless, all her -splendors gone from her, the promise of a long career ended, and her -partner left heartbroken upon the solitary throne to which she had given -him the first right.</p> - -<p>The sight of so forlorn a man,—so powerful, yet as impotent when his -happiness was concerned as the meanest,—left thus heartbroken without -courage or strength, his sole companion gone, and nothing but strangers, -alien minds, and doubtful counselors round, is enough to touch any -heart. Anne, like the rest of the world, was shocked and startled by the -sudden calamity. She sent anxious messages asking to be admitted to her -sister’s bedside; and, when all was over, partly no doubt from policy, -but we may be at least permitted to believe partly from good feeling, -presented herself at Kensington Palace to show at least that rancor was -not in her heart. Unfortunately, there was no reconciliation between the -sisters: the breach continued to the end of the queen’s life, Burnet -informs us. But when the forlorn and solitary king was roused in his -misery to receive his sister-in-law’s message, a sort of peace was -patched up between them over that unthought-of grave. There was no -longer any public quarrel or manifestation of animosity—and with this -melancholy event the first half of Anne’s history may be brought to an -end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_II" id="Chapter_II"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter II</span><br /><br /> -THE QUEEN AND THE DUCHESS</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> YEAR after the accession of William and Mary, and before any of the -bitternesses and conflicts above recorded had openly begun, the only -child of Anne on whose life any hopes could be built was born. Her many -babies had died at birth or immediately after, and their quick and -constant succession, as has been said, was the distinguishing feature of -her personal life. But after the Revolution, when everything was -settling out of the confusion of the crisis, and when as yet no further -family troubles had disclosed the family rancors and disagreements, in -the country air of Hampton Court, where the new king and queen were -living, a little prince was born. Though he was sickly at first, like -all the rest, he survived the dangers of infancy, and, called William -after the king, and bearing from the first day of his life the title of -Duke of Gloucester, was received joyfully by the nation at large and -everybody concerned as the authentic heir to the crown. This child kept, -it would seem, a little hold on the affections of the childless Mary -during the whole course of the quarrel with his mother, bitter as it -was, and continued an object of interest and kindness to William as long -as he lived. The interposition of the quaint and precocious boy, with -his big head, his premature enlightenment as to what it was and was not -prudent to say, his sparkle of childish ambition, and all his -old-fashioned ways, made a curious and welcome diversion in the troubled -scene where nothing was happy, not even the child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> He was the chief -occupation of Anne’s life when comparative peace followed the warlike -interval above related, and a cold and forced civility replaced the -active hostilities which for years had been raging between the court and -the household of the princess.</p> - -<p>Anne has never got much credit for her forbearance and self-effacement -at the critical moments of her career. But it is certain that she might -have given William a great deal of trouble had she asserted her rights -as Mary’s successor, as she might also have done at the time of the -first settlement. No doubt he would on both occasions have carried the -day, and with this certainty the historians have been satisfied, without -considering that a woman who was not of a lofty character, and who was a -Stuart, must have felt it doubly bitter to find herself the subject of a -gloomy brother-in-law who slighted her, and who, her rasher partizans -did not hesitate to say, ought to have been her subject so long as he -remained in England after her sister’s death, and not she his. The -absence of any attempt on her part to disturb or molest, nay, her little -advances, her letters of condolence, and of congratulation the first -time that a victory gave occasion for it, showed no inconsiderable -magnanimity on the part of the prosaic princess—all the more that she -had not been in the habit, as is usual among women, of putting the -scorns she had suffered to another woman’s account, and holding Mary -responsible, but had uniformly attributed to the “Dutch monster,” the -Caliban of her correspondence, all the slights that were put on her—all -the more that William did very little to encourage any overtures of -friendship. He received her after his wife’s death, and they are said by -one of her attendants to have wept together when the unwieldy princess, -then unable to walk, was carried in her chair into the very -presence-chamber. But if a common emotion drew them together at this -moment, it did not last; and in the diminished<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 327px;"> -<a href="images/ill_012_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_012.jpg" width="327" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER. - -ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, AFTER THE -PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, AFTER THE<br /> -PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">ceremonial of the bereaved court, Anne had but scant respect and no -welcome. But she made no further complaint, and did what she could to -keep on terms of civility at least with her brother-in-law, writing to -him little letters of politeness, notwithstanding the disapproval of -Lady Marlborough, who was of no such gentle temper, and the absence of -all response from William. He, with all his foreign wars and home -troubles, solitary, sad, broken in health and in life, had little heart, -we may suppose, for those commonplace advances from a woman he had never -been able to tolerate. But though Anne’s relations with the king were -scarcely improved, her position in respect to the courtiers who had -abandoned her in her sister’s lifetime was different indeed. Lady -Marlborough describes this with her usual force.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>And now it being quickly known that the quarrel was made up, -nothing was to be seen but crowds of people of all sorts flocking -to Berkeley House to pay their respects to the prince and princess; -a sudden alteration which I remember occasioned the half-witted -Lord Carnarvon to say one night to the princess as he stood close -by her in the circle, “I hope your highness will remember that I -came to wait upon you when none of this company did,” which caused -a great deal of mirth.</p></div> - -<p>Meanwhile, the little boy, the heir of England, interposes his quaint -little figure with that touch of nature which always belongs to a child, -in the midst of all the excitement and dullness, awakening a certain -interest even in the solitary and bereaved life of William, and filling -his mother’s house with tender anxieties and pleasures. He was sickly -and feeble from his childhood, but early learned the royal lesson of -self-concealment, and was cuffed and hustled by the anxious cruelty of -love into the use of his poor little legs years after his contemporaries -had been in full enjoyment of their liberty. It is characteristic of the -self-absorbed and belligerent chronicler of the princess’s household, -whose narrative of all the quarrels and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> struggles of royal personages -is so vivid, that she has very little to say about either the living or -dying of the only child who was of such importance both to her mistress -and to the country. His little existence is pushed aside in Lady -Marlborough’s record, and but for a little squabble over the appointment -of the duke’s “family,” which she gives with great detail, we should -scarcely have known from her that Anne had tasted that happiness of -maternity which is so largely weighted with pains and cares. But the -story of little Gloucester’s life, as found in the more familiar record -of his waiting-gentleman, Lewis Jenkins, is both attractive and -entertaining. The little fellow seems to have been full of lively spirit -and observation, active and restless in spite of his feebleness, full of -a child’s interest in everything about him, and of precocious judgment -and criticism. Some of the stories that are told of him put these gifts -in a startling light. “Who has taught you to say such words?” his mother -asks him when the child has been betrayed into innocent repetition of -the oaths he had heard from his attendants. The boy pauses before he -replies. “If I say Dick Dewey,” he whispers to a favorite lady, “he will -be sent down-stairs. Mama, I invented them myself,” he adds aloud. The -little being moving among worlds not realized, learning to play his -little part, taking his cue from the countenances round him, forming his -little policy in the twinkling of an eye, could not have had a better -representative. His careless indifference to his chaplain’s religious -services, but happy learning of little prayers and verses with the old -lady to whom he takes a fancy, his weariness of lessons, yet eager -interest in the diagrams that drop from Lewis Jenkins’s pocket-book, and -in all the bits of history he can induce his Welsh usher to tell him, -and all the rest of his innocent childlike perversities, awaken in us an -amused yet pathetic interest. A troublesome, lovable, perverse, -delightful child, not always easy to manage, constantly asking the most -awkward<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> questions, full of ambition and energy and spirit and -foolishness, the dull prince’s somewhat tedious house brightens into -hope and sweetness so long as he is there.</p> - -<p>In every respect this was the brightest moment of Anne’s life. There was -no longer any possibility of treating the next heir to the crown, the -mother of the only prince in whom the imagination of England could take -pleasure, with slighting or contumely. She was permitted to have her -share of the honors and comforts of English royalty. St. James’s old -red-brick palace was given over to her as became her position; and, what -was more wonderful, Windsor Castle, one of the noblest of royal -dwellings, became the country-house of Anne and her boy. King William -preferred Hampton Court, with its Dutch gardens, in which he could -imagine himself at home: the great feudal castle, erecting its massive -towers from the crest of the gentle hill which has the value of a much -greater eminence in the midst of the broad plain that sweeps forth in -every direction round, was not, apparently, to his taste. And few -prettier or more innocent scenes have been associated with its long -history than those in which little Gloucester was the chief actor. He -had a little regiment of boys of his own age whom it was his delight to -drill and lead through a hundred mock battles and rapid skirmishings, -mischievous little urchins who called themselves the Duke of -Gloucester’s men, and played their little pranks like their elders, as -favorites will. When he went to Windsor, four Eton boys were sent for to -be his playmates, one of them being young Churchill, the son of Lady -Marlborough. The little prince chose St. George’s Hall for the scene of -his mimic battles, and there the little army stormed and besieged one -another to their hearts’ content. When his mother’s marriage-day was -celebrated, he received his parents with salvos of his small artillery, -and, stepping forth in his little birthday-suit, paid them his -compliment: “Papa, I wish you and Mama unity, peace, and concord, not -for a time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> but forever,” said the serious little hero. One can fancy -Anne, smiling and triumphant in her joy of motherhood, with her -beautiful chestnut curls and sweet complexion and placid roundness, -leaning on good George’s arm,—her peaceful companion, with whom she had -never a quarrel,—and admiring her son’s infant wisdom. It was their -happy time: no cares of state upon their heads, no quarrels on hand, -Sarah of Marlborough, let us hope, smiling too, and at peace with -everybody, her own boy taking part in the ceremonial.</p> - -<p>The little smoke and whiff of gunpowder, the little gunners at their toy -artillery, the great hall still slightly athrill with the mimic salute, -add something still to the boundless hopefulness of the scene; for why -should not this little English William grow up as great a soldier and -more fortunate than his grim godfather, and subdue France under the feet -of England, and be the conqueror of the world? All this was possible in -those pleasant days.</p> - -<p>On another occasion there was a great chapter of Knights of the Garter -to witness the installation of little Gloucester in knightly state as -one of the order. The little figure, seven years old, seated under the -noble canopywork in St. George’s beautiful chapel, scarcely visible over -the desk upon which his prayer-book was spread out, gazing with blue -eyes intent, in all the gravity of a child, upon the great English -nobles in their stalls around him, listening to the voices of the -choristers pealing high into space, makes another touching picture. King -William himself had buckled the garter round the child’s knee and hung -the jewel about his neck,—St. George slaying his dragon, that -immemorial emblem of the victory over evil; and no doubt in the vague -grandeur of childish anticipation, the boy felt himself ready to emulate -the feat of the patron saint. He was a little patriot too, eager to lend -the aid of his small squadron to his uncle when William went away to the -wars, and bringing a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width: 463px;"> -<a href="images/ill_013_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_013.jpg" width="463" height="261" alt="Image unavailable: GARDEN FRONT, HAMPTON COURT. - -DRAWN BY JOSEPH PENNELL, ENGRAVED BY J. F. JUNGLING." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">GARDEN FRONT, HAMPTON COURT. -<br /><small> -DRAWN BY JOSEPH PENNELL, ENGRAVED BY J. F. JUNGLING.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">smile even upon that worn and melancholy face as he manœuvered his -little company and showed how they would fight in Flanders when the -moment came. When William was threatened with assassination and the -country woke up to feel that though she did not love him it would be -much amiss to lose him, little Gloucester, at eight, was one of the most -loyal. Taking counsel with his little regiment, he drew up a memorial, -written out, no doubt, by the best master of the pen among them, with -much shedding of ink, if not of more precious fluid. “We, your Majesty’s -subjects, will stand by you while we have a drop of blood,” was the -address to which the Duke of Gloucester’s men set all their tiny fists. -The little duke himself, not content with this, added to it another -address of his own:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I, your Majesty’s most dutiful subject, had rather lose my life in -your Majesty’s cause than in any man’s else; and I hope it will not -be long ere you conquer France.</p> - -<p> -<span class="smcap">Gloucester.</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Heroic little prince!—a Protestant William, yet a gallant and gentle -Stuart. With this heart of enthusiasm and generous valor in him, what -might he not have done had he ever lived to be king? These marred -possibilities, which are so common in life, are almost the saddest -things in it, and that must be a heart very strong in faith that is not -struck dumb by the withdrawal from earth’s extreme need of so much -faculty that seemed created for her help and succor. It certainly awoke -a smile, and might have drawn an iron tear down William’s cheek, to see -this faithful little warrior ready to “lose his life” in his defense. -And the good pair behind, George and Anne, who had evidently suffered no -treacherous suggestion to get to the ear of the boy,—no hint that -William was a usurper, and little Gloucester had more right than he to -be uppermost,—how radiant they stand in the light of their happiness -and hope! The spectator is reluctant to turn the page to the coming -gloom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span></p> - -<p>“When the Duke of Gloucester was arrived at an age to be put into men’s -hands,” William’s relenting and change of mind was proved by the fact -that Marlborough, who had been in disgrace all these years, and whom -only the constant favor of Anne had kept out of entire obscurity, was -recalled into the front of affairs in order to be made “governor” of the -young prince. It is true that this gracious act was partially -neutralized by the appointment of Bishop Burnet as little Gloucester’s -tutor, a choice which was supposed to be as disagreeable to Anne as the -other was happy. No distinct reason appears for this sudden and -extraordinary change. Marlborough’s connection with the family of the -princess made him indeed peculiarly suitable to have the charge of her -son, but William had not hitherto shown any desire to honor her likings; -and this was not reason enough for all the other marks of favor bestowed -upon him, bringing him back at once from private life and political -disgrace to a position as high as any in the kingdom. Burnet himself did -by no means relish the honor thus thrust upon him. He was almost -disposed, he tells us, “to retire from the court and town,” much as that -would have cost him, rather than take upon him such a charge. But the -pleasure of believing that “the king would trust that care only to me,” -and also an unexpected “encouragement” received from the princess, -decided him to make the experiment. The little pupil was about nine when -he came into the bishop’s hands, and he gives the following account of -his charge:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I had been trusted with his education now for two years, and he had -made amazing progress. I had read over the Psalms, Proverbs, and -Gospels with him, and had explained things that fell in my way very -copiously; and was often surprised with the questions that he put -to me, and the reflections that he made. He came to understand -things relating to religion beyond imagination. I went through -geography so often with him that he knew all the maps very -particularly. I explained to him the forms of government in every -country, with the interests<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> and trades of that country, and what -was both bad and good in it. I acquainted him with all the great -revolutions that had been in the world, and gave him a copious -account of the Greek and Roman histories of Plutarch’s lives; the -last thing I explained to him was the Gothic constitution and the -beneficiary and feudal laws: I talked of these things at different -times more than three hours a day; this was both easy and -delighting to him. The king ordered five of his chief ministers to -come once a quarter and examine the progress he made; they seemed -amazed both at his knowledge and the good understanding that -appeared in him; he had a wonderful memory and a very good -judgment.</p></div> - -<p>Poor little Gloucester! The genial bishop breaking down all this -knowledge into pleasant talks so that it should be “both easy and -delighting,” and his lessons in fortification, which were more -delightful still, and his own little private princelike observation of -men’s faces and minds, were all to come to naught. On his eleventh -birthday, amid the feastings and joy, a sudden illness seized him, and, -a few days after, the promising boy had ended his bright little career. -As a matter of course, blame was attached to the doctor who attended -him, and who had bled him in the beginning of a fever; but this was -almost universally the case in the then state of medical science. “He -was the only remaining child,” the bishop says, “of seventeen the -princess had borne, some to the full time and the rest before it. She -attended on him during his sickness with great tenderness, but with a -grave composedness that amazed all who saw it. She bore his death with a -resignation and piety that were indeed very singular.” It would be small -wonder indeed if Anne had been altogether crushed by such a calamity. It -is said by some historians of the Jacobite party that her mind was -overwhelmed by a sense of her guilt toward her own father, and of just -judgment executed upon her in the loss of her child, and that she -immediately wrote to James, pouring out her whole heart in penitence, -and pledging herself to support the claims of her brother should she -ever come to the throne. This letter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> however, was never found, and -does not seem to be vouched for by witnesses beyond suspicion. But for -the fact that Anne was stricken to the dust, no parent will need any -further evidence. Her good days and hopes were over; henceforward, when -she wrote to her dearest friend in the old confidential strain, it was -as “your poor unfortunate Morley” that the bereaved mother signed -herself. Nothing altered these sad adjectives. She felt herself as poor -and unfortunate in her unutterable loss when she was queen as if she had -been the humblest woman that ever lost an only child.</p> - -<p>Marlborough was absent when his little pupil fell ill, but hurried back -to Windsor in time to see him die. It was etiquette in those days that -in case of a death the survivors should instantly leave the place in -which it had happened, leaving the dead in possession, to lie in state -there and receive the homage of curious or interested spectators. But -Anne would not be persuaded to leave the place where her child was, and, -four or five days after, the little prince was carried solemnly by -torchlight through the summer woods, through Windsor Park, and by the -river, and under the trees of Richmond, to Westminster: a silent -procession pouring slowly through the odorous August night. His little -body lay in state in Westminster Hall—a noble chamber for such a tiny -sleeper—for five days more, when it was laid with the kings in the -great abbey which holds all the greatest of England. A more heartrending -episode is not in history.</p> - -<p>William did not take any notice of the announcement of the death for a -considerable time, which embarrassed the ambassador at Paris greatly on -the subject of mourning, and has given occasion for much denunciation of -his hardness and heartlessness. When he answered at last, -however—though this was not till more than two months after, in a -letter to Marlborough—it was with much subdued feeling. “I do not think -it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 252px;"> -<a href="images/ill_014_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_014.jpg" width="252" height="271" alt="Image unavailable: THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MINIATURE BY LEWIS CROSSE IN THE -COLLECTION AT WINDSOR CASTLE; BY SPECIAL PERMISSION OF QUEEN -VICTORIA." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MINIATURE BY LEWIS CROSSE IN THE -COLLECTION AT WINDSOR CASTLE; BY SPECIAL PERMISSION OF QUEEN -VICTORIA.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">necessary to employ many words,” he writes, “in expressing my surprise -and grief at the death of the Duke of Gloucester. It is so great a loss -to me as well as to all England, that it pierces my heart with -affliction.” It seems impossible that the loss of a child who had shown -so touching an allegiance to himself should not have moved him; but -perhaps there was in him, too, a touch of satisfaction that the rival -pair who had been thorns in his flesh since ever he came to England, -were not to have the satisfaction of founding a new line. At St.-Germain -the satisfaction was more marked still, and it was supposed that the -most dangerous obstacle in the way of the young James Stuart was removed -by the death of his sister’s heir. We know now how futile that -anticipation was; but at the time this was not so clear, and the anxiety -of the English parliament to secure before William’s death a formal -abjuration of the so-called Prince of Wales shows that the hope was not -without foundation.</p> - -<p>This and the new and exciting combination of European affairs produced -by what is called the “Spanish Succession,” occupied all minds during -the two years that remained of William’s suffering life. It was a moment -of great excitement and uncertainty. Louis XIV., into whose hands, as -seemed likely, a sort of universal power must fall if his grandson were -permitted to succeed to the throne of Spain, had just vowed at the -death-bed of James his determination to support the claims of the -exile’s son, and, on James’s death, had proclaimed the boy King of -England. Thus England had every reason of personal irritation and even -alarm for joining in the alliance against the threatening supremacy of -France, whose power—had she been allowed to place one of her princes -peaceably on the Spanish throne, to which the rich Netherlands still -belonged—would have been paramount in Europe. It was on the eve of the -great struggle that William died. With a determination equal to that -with which he had made head against failing fortune in many a -battle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span>-field, he fought for his life, which, at such a crisis, was -doubly important to the countries of his birth and of his crown, and to -the cause of the Protestant religion and all that we have been taught to -consider as freedom throughout Europe. There is something pathetic in -the struggle, in the statement of his case, under one name or another as -a private individual, that there might be no doubt as to the frankness -of the opinions which he caused to be made among the great physicians of -Europe. His life in itself could not have been a very happy or desirable -one. He had no longer his popular and beloved Mary to leave behind him -in England as his representative when he set out for the wars, and there -were few in England whom he trusted fully, or who trusted him. To die at -the beginning of a great European struggle, leaving the dull people whom -he disliked to take his place in England, and the soldier whom he had -crushed and subdued and sternly held in the shade as long as he was -able, to assume his baton, and win the victories it had never been -William’s fortune to gain, must have been bitter indeed. It would appear -even that he had entertained some idea of disturbing the natural order -of events to prevent this, and that it had been suggested to the -Electress Sophia, after poor little Gloucester’s death, that her family -should at once be nominated as his immediate successors, to the -exclusion of Anne, a proposal which the prudent electress evaded with -great skill and ingenuity by representing that the Prince of Wales—who -must surely have learned, he and his counselors, wisdom from the failure -of his father—was the natural heir, and would, no doubt, do well enough -on a trial. Bishop Burnet denies that such a design was ever -entertained, but Lord Dartmouth, in his notes upon Burnet, gives the -following very distinct evidence on the subject:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I do not know how far the Whig party would trust a secret of that -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span>consequence to such a blab as the bishop was known to be: but the -Dukes of Bolton and Newcastle both proposed it to me, and used the -strongest arguments to induce me to come into it; which was that it -would be making Lord Marlborough King at least for the time if the -Princess succeeded; and that I had reason to expect nothing but -ill-usage during such a reign. Lord Marlborough asked me afterward -in the House of Lords if I had ever heard of such a design. I told -him Yes, but did not think it very likely. He said it was very -true: but by God if ever they attempted it we would walk over their -bellies.</p></div> - -<p>Thus until the last moment Anne’s position would seem to have been -menaced; but a more impossible scheme was never suggested, for even the -idea of Marlborough’s triumph was unable to raise the smallest party -against the princess, and to the country in general she was the object -of a kind of enthusiasm. The people loved everything in her, even the -fact that she was not clever, which of itself is often highly -ingratiating with the masses. William, it is said, with a magnanimity -which was infinitely to his credit, named Marlborough as his most fit -successor in the command of the allied armies before he died. The formal -abjuration of the Prince of Wales was made by Parliament only just in -time to have his assent, and then all obstacles were removed out of the -princess’s way. It was thought by the populace that everything -brightened for the new reign. There had been an unexampled continuance -of gloomy weather, bad harvests, and clouds and storms. But to great -Queen Anne the sun burst forth, the gloom dispelled, the country broke -out into gaiety and rejoicing. A new reign full of new possibilities has -always something exhilarating in it. William’s greatness was marred by -externals and never heartily acknowledged by the mass of the people, but -Anne had many claims upon the popular favor. She was a woman, and a kind -and simple one. That desertion of her father which some historical -writers have condemned so bitterly, had no great effect upon the -contemporary imagination, nor, so far as can be judged, upon her own; -and it was the only offense that could be alleged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> against her. She had -been unkindly treated and threatened with wrong, which naturally made -the multitude strenuous in her cause; and everything conspired to make -her accession happy. She was only thirty-seven, and though somewhat -unwieldy in person, still preserved her English comeliness, her -abundant, beautiful hair, and, above all, the melodious voice by which -even statesmen and politicians were impressed. “She pronounced this,” -says Bishop Burnet, describing her address to the Privy Council when -they first presented themselves before her, “as she did all her other -speeches, with great weight and authority, and with a softness of voice -and sweetness in the pronunciation that added much life to all she -spoke.” The commentators who criticize so sorely the bishop’s chronicles -are in entire agreement with him on this subject. “It was a real -pleasure to hear her,” says Lord Dartmouth, “though she had a -bashfulness that made it very uneasy to herself to say much in public.” -Speaker Onslow unites in the same testimony: “I have heard the queen -speak from the throne, and she had all the author says here. I never saw -an audience more affected; it was a sort of charm. She received all that -came to her in so gracious a manner that they went from her highly -satisfied with her goodness and her obliging deportment; for she -hearkened with attention to everything that was said to her.” Thus all -smiled upon Anne in the morning of her reign. Her coronation was marked -with unusual splendor and enthusiasm, and though the queen herself had -to be carried in a chair to the Abbey, her state of health being such -that she could not walk, this did not affect the splendid ceremonial in -which even to the Jacobites themselves there was little to complain of, -since their hopes that Anne’s influence might advance her father’s young -son to the succession after her were still high, notwithstanding that -the settlement of the crown upon Sophia of Brunswick and her heirs had -already been made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:389px;"> -<a href="images/ill_015_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_015.jpg" width="389" height="540" alt="Image unavailable: QUEEN ANNE. - -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY PIETER VAN GUNST, AFTER THE PAINTING BY -SIR GODFREY KNELLER." /></a> -<br /><div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">QUEEN ANNE.<br /> -<small> -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY PIETER VAN GUNST, AFTER THE PAINTING BY -SIR GODFREY KNELLER.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p>It is needless for us to attempt a history of the great war which was -one of the most important features in Anne’s reign. No student of -history can be ignorant of its general course, nor of the completeness -with which Marlborough’s victories crushed the exorbitant power of -France and raised the prestige of England. There is no lack of histories -of the great general and his career of victory: how he out-fought, -out-marched, and out-generaled all his rivals, and scarcely in his ten -years of active warfare encountered one check; how, though he did not -accomplish the direct object for which all the bloodshed and toil were -undertaken, he yet secured such respect for the English name and valor -as renewed our old reputation and made all interference with our natural -settlement or intrusion into our private economy impossible forever. -“What good came of it at last?” says the poet. But the inquiry, though -so plausible, appealing at once to humanity and common sense, is not -perhaps so hard to answer as it seems. Up to this time it has been -impossible to procure in the intercourse of nations any other effectual -arbiter but the sword: a terrible one, indeed, but apparently as yet the -only means of keeping a check upon the rapacity of some, and protecting -the weakness of others. At all events, whatever individual opinion may -be on the point now, there was a unanimous conviction then, and no one -doubted at the opening of the war that it was most necessary and just. -And of its conduct there has been but one opinion. Contemporaries -accused Marlborough of every conceivable wickedness,—of peculation, -treachery, even personal cowardice; but no one ventured to say that he -was not a great general. And as we have got further and further from the -infuriated politics of his time, his gifts and graces, his wisdom and -moderation, as well as his wonderful military genius, have been done -more and more justice to. Coxe, his special biographer, may be supposed -to look with partiality upon his hero; but this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> cannot be said of more -recent writers,—of Lord Stanhope in his tolerant and sensible history, -or of Dr. Hill Burton in his sagacious volumes on the reign of Queen -Anne.</p> - -<p>It is, however, with Marlborough’s wife and not with himself that we are -chiefly concerned, and with the stormy course of Anne’s future -intercourse with her friend rather than the battles that were fought in -her name. It is said that by the time she came to the throne her -faithful affection to her lifelong companion had begun to be impaired, -but the date of the first beginning of their severance will probably -never be determined, nor its immediate cause. Miss Strickland professes -to have ascertained that certain impatient words used by Sarah of -Marlborough, which were overheard by the queen, were the occasion of the -breach; but as there is no very satisfactory foundation for the story, -and it is added that Anne kept her feelings undisclosed for long after, -we may dismiss the legend as possible enough, but no more.</p> - -<p>All the great hopes which the pair must have formed seemed likely to be -fulfilled in the early part of Queen Anne’s reign. A very short time -after her accession, Marlborough, who had at once entered upon the -conduct of foreign affairs and the preparations for war, according to -William’s appointment, received the garter which Anne and her husband -had vainly asked for him in the previous reign; and when he returned -from his first campaign, a dukedom was bestowed upon him, with many -pretty expressions on Anne’s part.</p> - -<p>Indeed, the queen’s gift of “writing pretty, affectionate letters,” -which was the only thing, according to the duchess’s opinion of her -expressed in later days, that she could do well, is still abundantly -proved by the correspondence. Anne was as anxious as ever to serve and -please her friend and favorite. She prays God, in her little note of -congratulation after the siege of Bonn in 1703, to send Marlborough -“safe home to his and my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> dear adored Mrs. Freeman,” with all the grace -of perfect sympathy; for the great duke was as abject in his adoration -of that imperious, bewitching, and triumphant Sarah as the queen -herself. With the tenderest recollection of her friend’s whims, the -queen gave her the rangership of Windsor Park (strange office for a -woman to hold!), in which was included “a lodge in the great park,” -which the duchess describes as “a very agreeable place to live in,” ... -“remembering that when we used in former days to ride by it, I had often -wished for such a place,” although it was necessary to turn out -Portland, King William’s friend and favorite, in order to replace him by -Lady Marlborough; no doubt, however, this summary displacement of the -Dutchman added to the pleasure both of giving and receiving. Lady -Marlborough had a multiplicity of other offices in addition to -this,—such as those of mistress of the robes, groom of the stole, and -keeper of the privy purse,—offices, however, which she had virtually -held for years in the household of the princess. All these brought in a -great deal of money, a matter to which she was never indifferent; and -along with the dukedom, the queen bestowed upon Marlborough a pension of -£5000 a year; so that the resources of the new ducal house were -abundant. They would seem by their posts and perquisites alone to have -had an income between them not far short of £60,000 a year, an enormous -sum for those times, not to speak of less legitimate profits—presents -from contractors, and percentages on the pay of the troops, which -Marlborough took, as everybody did, as a matter of course, though it was -afterward charged against him as if he had invented the custom. The -queen also promised a little fortune to each of their daughters as they -married—a promise certainly fulfilled in the case of Henrietta, who -married the son of Godolphin, thus uniting the colleagues in the closest -family bonds. Anne also offered a pension of £2000 a year to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> -duchess from the privy purse, a bounty declined at first, but of which -afterward, in the final breaking up of their relations, Sarah was mean -enough to demand the arrears, amounting to no less a sum than £18,000. -Thus every kind of gift and favor was pressed upon the royal favorite in -the early days of Anne’s reign.</p> - -<p>Before this the means of the pair had been but small. Marlborough had -been long deprived of all preferment, and the duchess informs us that -she had discharged in the princess’s household all the offices for which -afterward she was so highly paid on an allowance of £400 a year. It was -for this reason that the dukedom was unwelcome to her. “I do agree with -you,” her husband writes to her, “that we ought not to wish for a -greater title till we have a better estate,” and he assures her that “I -shall have a mind to nothing but as it may be easy to you.” It was in -this strain that the great conqueror always addressed his wife, and it -would be difficult to say which of her two adorers, her husband or her -queen, showed the deepest devotion. When Marlborough set out for his -first campaign in the war which was to cover him with glory, and in -which for the first time he had full scope, this is how he writes to the -companion of his life (she had gone with him to Margate to see him -embark):</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>It is impossible to express with what a heavy heart I parted from -you when I was by the water’s side. I could have given my life to -have come back though I knew my own weakness so much that I durst -not, for I know I should have exposed myself to the company. I did -for a great while with a perspective glass look out upon the cliffs -in hopes I might have had one sight of you. We are now out of sight -of Margate and I have neither soul nor spirits, but I do at this -time suffer so much that nothing but being with you can recompense -it.</p></div> - -<p>These lover-like words were written by a man of fifty-two to his wife of -forty-two, to whom he had been married for nearly a quarter of a -century. In all the pauses of these wars, amid the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width: 458px;"> -<a href="images/ill_016_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_016.jpg" width="458" height="301" alt="Image unavailable: WINDSOR TERRACE, LOOKING WESTWARD. - -ENGRAVED BY J. W. EVANS AFTER AQUATINT BY P. SANDBY" /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">WINDSOR TERRACE, LOOKING WESTWARD. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY J. W. EVANS AFTER AQUATINT BY P. SANDBY</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">plans and combinations of armies, and all the hard thinking and hard -fighting, the perpetual activity and movement of his life for the next -ten years, the same voice of passionate attachment, love, and longing -penetrates for us the tumults of the time. She was flattered to the top -of her bent both by husband and mistress; and it is not much to be -wondered at if she came to think herself indispensable and above all -law.</p> - -<p>In the midst, however, of this prosperity and quickly growing greatness, -the same crushing calamity which had previously fallen upon Anne, -overwhelmed these companions of her life. Their only son, a promising -boy of seventeen, died at Cambridge, and both father and mother were -bowed to the dust. The queen’s letter on this occasion expresses her -sense of yet another melancholy bond between them. It is evident that -she had offered to go to her friend in her affliction. “It would be a -great satisfaction to your poor unfortunate faithful Morley if you would -have given me leave to come to St. Alban’s,” she writes, “for the -unfortunate ought to come to the unfortunate.” With a heavy heart -Marlborough changed his will, leaving the succession of the titles and -honors, so suddenly deprived of all value to him, to the family of his -eldest daughter, and betook himself sadly to his fighting, deriving a -gleam of satisfaction from the thought that other children might yet be -granted to him, yet adjuring his wife to bear their joint calamity with -patience, whatever might befall. She herself says nothing on this -melancholy subject. Perhaps in her old age, as she sat surveying her -life, that great but innocent sorrow no longer seemed to her of the -first importance in a record crossed by so many tempests—or perhaps it -was of so much importance that she would not trust herself to speak of -it at all. The partizans of the exiled Stuarts were eager to point out -how both she and her mistress had suffered the penalty of their sin -against King James and his son, by being thus deprived of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> their -respective heirs. It was a “judgment”—a thing dear to the popular -imagination and most easily concluded upon at all times.</p> - -<p>It would not seem, however, that this natural drawing of “the -unfortunate to the unfortunate” had the effect it might have had in -further cementing the union of the queen and the duchess. The</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">little rift within the lute<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That by and by will make the music mute<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">began to be apparent shortly after, though not at first showing itself -by any lessening of warmth or tenderness. The existence of a division of -opinion is the first thing visible. “I cannot help being extremely -concerned that you are so partial to the Whigs, because I would not have -you and your poor unfortunate faithful Morley differ in the least thing. -And, upon my word, my dear Mrs. Freeman,” adds Queen Anne, “you are -mightily mistaken in your notion of a true Whig. For the character you -give of them does not in the least belong to them.”</p> - -<p>We need not discuss here the difference between the meaning of the names -Tory and Whig as understood then and now. Lord Mahon and Lord Macaulay -both consider a complete transposition of terms to be the easiest way of -making the matter clear, but in one particular at least this seems -scarcely necessary; for the Tories, then as now, were emphatically the -church party, which was to Anne the only party in which safety could be -found. The queen had little understanding of history or politics in the -wider sense of the words, but she was an excellent churchwoman, and in -the sentiments of the Tory leaders she found, when brought into close -contact with them, something more in accord with her own, the one -sympathy in which her bosom friend had been lacking.</p> - -<p>“These were men who had all a wonderful zeal for the Church, a sort of -public merit that eclipsed all others in the eye of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> Queen.... For -my own part,” the duchess adds, “I had not the same prepossessions. The -word <i>Church</i> had never any charm for me in the mouths of those who made -the most noise with it, for I could not perceive that they gave any -other proof of their regard for the thing than a frequent use of the -word, like a spell to enchant weak minds, and a persecuting zeal against -dissenters and against the real friends of the Church who would not -admit that persecution was agreeable to its doctrine.”</p> - -<p>This difference had not told for very much so long as neither the queen -nor her friend had any share in public affairs, but it became strongly -operative now. How much the queen had actually to do with the business -of the nation, and how entirely it depended upon the influence brought -to bear upon her limited mind who should be the guide of England at this -critical moment, is abundantly evident from every detail of history. -Queen Victoria, great as her experience is, and notwithstanding the -respectful attention which all classes of politicians naturally give to -her opinion, changes her ministry only when the majority in Parliament -requires it, and has only the very limited choice which the known and -acknowledged heads of the two parties permit when she transfers office -and power from one side to the other. But Queen Anne had no compact body -of statesmen, one replacing the other as occasion required, to deal -with; but put in here one high official and there another, according as -intrigue or impulse gained the upper hand.</p> - -<p>There is something about a quarrel of women which excites the scorn of -every chronicler, an insidious contempt for the weaker half of the -creation which probably no one would own to, lying dormant in the minds -of the race generally, even of women themselves. Had Anne been a king of -moderate abilities, and Marlborough the friend and guide to whom he owed -his prosperity and fame, the relationship would have been noble and -honorable to both; and when the struggle began, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> strenuous efforts -of the great general to secure the coöperation of ministers with whom he -could work, and whose support would have helped toward the carrying out -of his great plans for the glory of his country and the destruction of -her enemies, would, whether the historical critic approved of them or -not, have at least secured his respect and a dignified treatment. But -when it is Sarah of Marlborough, with all the defects of temper that we -know in her, who, while her lord fights abroad, has to fight for him at -home, to scheme his enemies out of, and his friends into, power, to keep -her hold upon her mistress by every means that her imagination can -devise, the idea that some nobler motive than mere self-aggrandizement -may be in the effort occurs to no one, and the hatred of political -enmity is mingled with all the ridicule that spiteful wit can discharge -upon a feminine squabble. Lady Marlborough was far from being a perfect -woman. She had a fiery temper and a stinging tongue. When she was -thwarted at the very moment of apparent victory, and found herself -impotent where she had been all-powerful, her fury was like a torrent -against which there was no standing. But with these patent defects it -ought to be allowed her that the object for which she struggled was not -only a perfectly legitimate, but a noble one. What the great William had -spent his life and innumerable campaigns in endeavoring to do, against -all the discouragements of frequent failure, Marlborough was doing, with -a matchless and almost unbroken success. It was no shame to either the -general or the general’s wife to believe, as William did, that this was -the greatest work of the time, and could alone secure the safety of -England as well as of her allies. And the gallant stand of Lady -Marlborough for the party and the statesmen who were likely to carry out -this object, deserved some better interpretation from history than it -has ever received.</p> - -<p>And it cannot be said that there was anything petty in Anne’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 377px;"> -<a href="images/ill_017_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_017.jpg" width="377" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. - -ENGRAVED BY J. H. E. WHITNEY, FROM AN ENGRAVING BY PIETER VAN GUNST, -AFTER PAINTING BY ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY J. H. E. WHITNEY, FROM AN ENGRAVING BY PIETER VAN GUNST,<br /> -AFTER PAINTING BY ADRIAAN VANDER WERFF.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">public acts while she remained under the influence of her first friend. -The beginning of her reign showed no ignoble spirit. One of the first -things the queen did was to abolish the old and obstinate practice of -selling places, which had hitherto been accepted as the course of -nature; so much so that when Marlborough fell into disgrace under King -William, he had been bidden to “sell or dispose of” the places he held, -and the princess had herself informed Sarah at least on one occasion of -vacancies, in order that her friend should have the profit of filling -them up. “Afterwards, I began to consider in my own mind this practice,” -the lady says; but whether she took the initiative in so honorable a -measure, it would be rash to pronounce upon the authority of her own -word alone. It certainly, however, was one of the first acts of the -queen, and the credit of such a departure from the use and wont of -courts should at least be allowed to the new reign. Anne did various -other things for which there was no precedent. As soon as her civil list -was settled, she gave up voluntarily £100,000 a year to aid the public -expenses, then greatly increased by the war, and, shortly after, she -made a still more important and permanent sacrifice by giving up the -ecclesiastical tribute of first-fruits and tithes; namely, the first -year’s stipend of each cure to which a new incumbent was appointed, and -the tenth of all livings—to which the crown, as succeeding the Pope in -the headship of the church, had become entitled. Her object was the -augmentation of small livings, and better provision for the necessities -of the church, and there can be little doubt that this act at least was -exclusively her own. The fund thus formed continues to this day under -the name of Queen Anne’s Bounty, but unfortunately remained quite -inefficacious during her reign, in consequence of various practical -difficulties; and it has never been by any means the important agency -she intended it to be. But the intention was munificent and the desire -sincere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> Throughout her life the church was the word which most moved -Anne. She was willing to do anything to strengthen it, and to sacrifice -any one, even as turned out her dear friend, in its cause.</p> - -<p>The first subject which quickened a vague and suspicious disagreement -into opposition was the bill against what was called occasional -conformity, a bill which was aimed at the dissenters and abolished the -expedient formerly taken advantage of in order to admit nonconformists -to some share in public life—of periodical compliance with the -ceremonies of the church. The new law not only did away with this -important “easement,” but was weighted with penal enactments against -those who, holding office under government, should be present at any -conventicle or assembly for worship in any form but that of the Church -of England. Upon this subject the queen writes as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I must own to you that I never cared to mention anything on this -subject to you because I knew you would not be of my mind, but -since you have given me the occasion, I can’t forbear saying that I -see nothing like persecution in the bill. You may think it is a -notion Lord Nottingham has just put into my head, but upon my word -it is my own thought. I promise my dear Mrs. Freeman faithfully I -will read the book she sent me, and beg she will never let -differences of opinion hinder us from living together as we used to -do. Nothing shall ever alter your poor unfortunate faithful Morley, -who will live and die with all truth and tenderness yours.</p></div> - -<p>As the differences go on increasing, however, Queen Anne gradually -changes her ground. At first she “hopes her not agreeing with anything -you say will not be imputed to want of value, esteem, or tender -kindness, for my dear, dear Mrs. Freeman”; but at last, as the argument -goes on, plucks up a spirit and finds courage enough to declare roundly -that whenever public affairs are in the hands of the Whigs, “I shall -think the Church beginning to be in danger.” Thus the political<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> -situation became more and more difficult, and gradually embittered even -the personal relations between the friends, and the duchess had not even -the support of her husband in her political preferences. He had himself -belonged to the moderate Tory party, and, even though they thwarted and -discouraged him, showed no desire to throw himself into the arms of the -Whigs, whither his wife would so fain have led him. He was almost as -little encouraging to her in this point as the queen was. “I know,” he -says, “they would be as unreasonable as the others in their expectations -if I should seek their friendship,—for all parties are alike.” It was -thus a hard part she had to play between the queen’s determination that -the Whigs were the enemies of the church, and her husband’s conviction -that all parties were alike. He, perhaps, was the more hard to manage of -the two. He voted for the occasional conformity bill, against which she -was so hot, and trusted in Harley, who indeed owed his first beginning -to Marlborough’s favor, but whom the duchess saw through. In young St. -John, too, the great general had perfect faith; “I am very confident he -will never deceive you,” he wrote to Godolphin. Thus the husband warmed -in his bosom the vipers that were to sting him and bring a hasty end to -his career. He, too, remained obstinately indifferent, while she stormed -and entreated and wrote a hundred letters and used every art both of war -and peace in vain. It is easy to see how this perpetual letter-writing, -her determination to prove that her correspondent was in error and she -right, and her continual reiteration of the same charges and reproaches, -must have exasperated the queen and troubled Marlborough, in the midst -of the practical difficulties of his career. But yet there are many -points on which Sarah has a just claim to our sympathy. For she foresaw -what actually did happen, and perceived whither the current was tending, -but was refused any credit for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> prognostications or help in subduing -the dangerous forces she dreaded. How irritating this position must have -been to a fiery temper it is needless to point out, and the duchess -would not permit herself to be silenced by either husband or queen. Lord -Macaulay’s description of the astonishing state of affairs which -compelled two of the ablest statesmen in Europe to have recourse for the -conduct of the imperial business to the influence of one woman over -another, was thus far less true even than it seems on the surface; for -Sarah of Marlborough suspected the real state of the case when no one -else did, fighting violently against her husband’s enemies before they -had disclosed themselves, and her final overthrow was as much the result -of a new tide in political affairs as of the straining of the personal -relations between her and her queen.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Marlborough was going on in his career of conquest. It was a -very costly luxury; but the pride of England had never been so fed with -triumphs. Queen Anne was in her closet one day at Windsor, a little -turret-chamber with windows on every side looking over the green and -fertile valley of the Thames, with all the trees in full summer foliage -and the harvest beginning to be gathered in from the fields, when there -was brought to her a scrap of crumpled paper bearing upon it the few -hurried lines which told of the “glorious victory” of the battle of -Blenheim. It had been torn off in haste from a memorandum book on the -field, and was scribbled over with an inn-reckoning on the other side. -The commotion it caused was not one of unmixed joy; for though the queen -wrote her thanks and congratulations, and there was a great thanksgiving -service at St. Paul’s, which she attended in state, the party in power -did all that in them lay to depreciate the importance of the victory. -When, however, Marlborough appeared in England with his prisoners and -trophies,—a marshal of France among the former,—and many standards -taken in the field, the popular<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> sentiment burst all bounds, and his -reception was enthusiastic. The crown lands of Woodstock were bestowed -upon him as a further reward, and the queen herself commanded that a -palace should be built upon the estate at the expense of the crown, to -be called Blenheim in commemoration of the extraordinary victory. A -curious relic of ancient custom religiously carried out to the present -day was involved in this noble gift. The quit-rent which every holder of -a royal fief has to pay, was appointed to be a banner embroidered with -three <i>fleurs-de-lis</i>, the arms then borne by France, to be presented on -every anniversary of the battle. Not very long ago the present writer -accompanied a French lady of distinction through some part of Windsor -Castle under the guidance of an important member of the queen’s -household. When the party came into the armory, on each side of which, a -vivid spot of color, hung a little standard fresh in embroidery of gold, -the kind cicerone smiled, and whispered aside, “We need not point out -these to her.” One of them was the Blenheim, the other the Waterloo -banner, both yearly acknowledgments, after the old feudal fashion, for -fiefs held of the crown.</p> - -<p>Among the honors done to Marlborough at this triumphant moment, when, an -English duke, a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and, still more -splendid title, the greatest soldier of his time, he came home in glory -to England, were the verses with which Addison saluted him. There were -plenty of odes piping to all the winds in his honor, but this alone -worthy of record. Every reader will recollect the simile of the great -angel who “drives the furious blast;”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The compliment might be supposed to be somewhat magnificent even for the -greatest of commanders. And yet whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> Marlborough’s faults may have -been, his attitude during this wonderful war is scarcely too splendidly -described by the image of a calm and superior spirit beholding -contemporary events from a higher altitude than that of common humanity, -executing vengeance and causing destruction without either rage or fear, -in serene fulfilment of a great command and in pursuance of a mighty -purpose. His unbroken temper, his patience and courtesy in the midst of -all contentions, the firm composure with which he supports all the -burdens thrown upon him, appeals from home as well as necessities -abroad, might well suggest a spirit apart, independent, not moved like -lesser men. No man ever bore so many conflicting claims more calmly. -Even the adjurations, the commands, the special pleadings of his -“dearest soul” do not lead him a step farther than he thinks wise. “When -I differ from you,” he says, “it is not that I think those are in the -right whom you say are always in the wrong, but it is that I would be -glad not to enter into the unreasonable reasoning of either party; for I -have trouble enough for my little head in the business which of -necessity I must do here.” There could not be a greater contrast than -between the commotion and whirlwind that surrounds Duchess Sarah and the -great general’s calm.</p> - -<p>It is not necessary for our purpose to enter into those changes of -ministry which first temporarily consolidated the Marlborough interest -and afterward wrought its destruction, nor into the intrigues by which -Harley and St. John gradually secured the reins of state. It is not to -be supposed that these fluctuations were wholly owing to the influences -brought to bear upon the queen; but that her prevailing disposition to -uphold the party which to her represented the church kept the -continuance of the war and the foreign policy of the country in constant -danger, there can be no doubt. It is only in 1707, however, that we are -made aware of the entry of a new actor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> upon the scene, in the person of -a smooth and noiseless woman, always civil, always soft-spoken, -apologetic, and plausible, whose sudden appearance in the vivid -narrative of her great rival is in the highest degree dramatic and -effective. This was the famous Abigail who has given her name, somewhat -injuriously to her own position, to the class of waiting-women ever -since. She was in reality bedchamber-woman to the queen—a post now very -far removed from that of a waiting-maid, and even then by no means on a -level, notwithstanding the duchess’s scornful phrases, with that of the -class which ever since has been distinguished by Mrs. Hill’s remarkable -name. Her introduction altogether, and the vigorous <i>mise en scène</i> of -this new episode in history, are fine examples of the graphic power of -Duchess Sarah. Her suspicions, she informs us, were roused by the -information that Abigail Hill, a relation of her own, and placed by -herself in the royal household, had been married without her knowledge -to Mr. Masham, who was one of the queen’s pages; but there are allusions -before this in her letters to the queen to “flatterers,” which point at -least to some suspected influence undermining her own. She tells us -first in a few succinct pages who this was whose private marriage -excited so much wonder and indignation in her mind. Abigail and all her -family owed their establishment in life to the active exertions of the -duchess, who had taken them in their poverty upon her shoulders—or -rather had succeeded in passing them on to the broader shoulders of the -public, which was still more satisfactory. Thus she had been the making -of the whole band, henceforward through other members besides Abigail to -prove thorns in her flesh. Harley, who was at this time secretary of -state, and aiming at higher place, was related in the same degree on the -father’s side to Mrs. Abigail; so that, first cousin to the great -duchess on one hand and to the leader of the House of Commons on the -other, though it suits the narrator’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> purpose to humble her, Mrs. Hill -was no child of the people. It is curious to remark here that Harley too -came to his first advancement by Marlborough’s patronage.</p> - -<p>From the moment of this discovery, and of the further facts that the -marriage had taken place under Anne’s auspices, and that Abigail had -already taken advantage of her favor to bring Harley into close -relations with the queen, the duchess gave her mistress little peace. -Fiery letters were showered daily upon the queen. She let nothing pass -without a hasty visit, or a long epistle. If it were not for the -pertinacity with which she returns again and again to one subject, these -letters have so much force of character in them that it would be -impossible not to enter with sympathetic excitement into the fray. The -reader is carried along by the passionate absorption of the writer’s -mind as she pours forth page upon page, flying to her desk at every new -incident, transmitting copies of every epistle to Godolphin to secure -his coöperation, and to Marlborough, though so much farther off, to show -him how she had confuted all his adversaries. And then there follows a -record of stormy scenes, remonstrances, and appeals that lose their -effect by repetition. The duchess would never accept defeat. Every new -affront, every symptom of failure in the policy which she supported with -so much zeal, made her rush, if possible, to the presence of the queen, -with a storm of reproaches and invectives, with tears of fury and -outcries of wrath,—or to the pen, with which she reiterated the same -burning story of her wrongs. Anne is represented to us throughout in an -attitude of stolid and passive resistance, which increases our sympathy -with the weeping, raging, passionate woman, whose eloquence, whose -arguments, whose appeals and entreaties all dash unheeded against the -rock of tranquil obstinacy which is no more moved by them than the cliff -is moved by the petulance of the rising tide; although, on the other -hand, a similar sympathy is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 459px;"> -<a href="images/ill_018_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_018.jpg" width="459" height="565" alt="Image unavailable: THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. - -ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE, FROM MEZZOTINT AFTER PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY -KNELLER." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY R. G. TIETZE, FROM MEZZOTINT AFTER PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY -KNELLER.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">wanting for the dull and placid soul which could get no peace, and which -longed above all things for tranquillity, for gentle attentions and soft -voices, and the privilege of nominating bishops and playing basset in -peace. Poor lady! on the whole it is Queen Anne who is most to be -pitied. She was often ill, always unwieldly and uncomfortable. She had -nobody but a soft, gliding, smooth-tongued Abigail to fall back upon, -while the duchess had half the great men of the time fawning upon her, -putting themselves at her feet: her husband prizing a word of kindness -from her more than anything in the world; her daughters describing her -as the dearest mother that ever was; money—which she -loved—accumulating in her coffers; and great Blenheim still a-building, -and all kinds of noble hangings, cut velvets and satins, pictures, and -every fine thing that could be conceived, getting collected for the -adornment of that great house.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, there can be little doubt that Duchess Sarah represented a -nobler idea and grander national policy than that into which her -mistress was betrayed. Her later intercourse with Anne was little more -than a persecution; and yet what she aimed at was better than the -dishonoring and selfish policy by which she was finally conquered. The -Marlboroughs were not of those who pressed the German heir upon the -queen, or would have compelled her to receive his visit, which she -passionately declared she could not bear; but they were determined, all -treasonable correspondence notwithstanding, upon the maintenance of the -Protestant succession, upon the firm establishment of English -independence and greatness,—those objects which alone had justified the -Revolution and made the stern chapter of William’s life and reign -anything better than an incidental episode. Though he had been false to -William, as everybody was false in those days, and had lain so long in -the cold shade of his displeasure, Marlborough had, in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> whole -magnificent career, been little more than the executor of William’s -plans, the fulfiller of his policy. The duchess, on her side, with much -love of power and of gain, with all the drawbacks of her temper and -pertinacity, still bent every faculty to the work of backing up that -policy, as embodied in her husband, keeping his friends in power, -neutralizing the efforts of his enemies, and bringing the war to an -entirely successful conclusion. A certain enlightenment was in all her -passionate interferences with the course of public affairs. The men whom -she labored to thrust into office were the best men of the time; the -ascendency she endeavored so violently to retain was one under which -England had been elevated in the scale of nations and all her liberties -confirmed. Such persecuting and intolerant acts as the bill against -occasional conformity, which was a test of exceptional severity, had her -strenuous opposition. In short, had there been no Marlborough to carry -on the half-begun war at William’s death, and no Sarah at Anne’s ear to -inspire the queen’s sluggish nature with spirit and to keep her up to -the mark of the large plans of her predecessor, England might have -fallen into another driveling period of foreign subserviency, into a new -and meaner Restoration.</p> - -<p>That the reader may see, however, to what an extraordinary pass the -friendship had come which had been so intimate and close, we add the -duchess’s account of the concluding interview. Every kind of -exasperating circumstance had accumulated in the mean time between the -former friends. There had been violent meetings, violent letters by the -score; even in the midst of a thanksgiving service Sarah had taken her -mistress to task and imperiously bidden her not to answer. Indeed, the -poor queen was more or less hunted down, pursued to her last corner of -defense, when the mistress of the robes made her sudden appearance at -Kensington one April afternoon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> in the year 1710, when everything was -tending toward her downfall.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>As I was entering, the Queen said she was just going to write to -me, and when I began to speak she interrupted me four or five times -with these repeated words, “Whatever you have to say you may put it -in writing.” I said her Majesty never did so hard a thing to any as -to refuse to hear them speak, and assured her that I was not going -to trouble her upon the subject which I knew to be so ungrateful to -her, but that I could not possibly rest until I had cleared myself -from some particular calumnies with which I had been loaded. I then -went on to speak (though the Queen turned away her face from me) -and to represent my hard case, that there were those about her -Majesty that had made her believe that I said things of her which I -was no more capable of saying than of killing my own children. The -Queen said without doubt there were many lies told. I then begged, -in order to make this trouble the shorter and my own innocence the -plainer, that I might know the particulars of which I had been -accused, because if I were guilty that would quickly appear, and if -I were innocent this method alone would clear me. The Queen replied -that she would give me no answer, laying hold on a word in my -letter that what I had to say in my own vindication <i>need have no -consequence in obliging her Majesty to answer</i>, etc., which surely -did not at all imply that I did not desire to know the particular -things laid to my charge, without which it was impossible for me to -clear myself. This I assured her Majesty was all I desired, and -that I did not ask the names of the authors or relaters of these -calumnies, saying all that I could think reasonably to enforce my -just request. I protested to her Majesty that I had no design in -giving her this trouble, to solicit the return of her favor, but -that my sole view was to clear myself: which was too just a design -to be wholly disappointed by her Majesty. Upon this the Queen -offered to go out of the room, I following her, and begging leave -to clear myself, and the Queen repeating over and over again, “You -desired no answer and shall have none.” When she came to the door I -fell into great disorder; streams of tears flow’d down against my -will and prevented my speaking for some time. At length I recovered -myself and appealed to the Queen in the vehemence of my concern -whether I might not still have been happy in her Majesty’s favour -if I could have contradicted or dissembled my real opinion of men -or things? whether I had ever, during our long friendship, told her -one lie, or play’d the hypocrite once? whether I had offended in -anything, unless in a very zealous pressing upon her that which I -thought necessary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> for her service and security? I then said I was -informed by a very reasonable and credible person about the court -that things were laid to my charge of which I was wholly incapable; -that this person knew that such stories were perpetually told to -her Majesty to incense her, and had beg’d of me to come and -vindicate myself: that the same person had thought me of late -guilty of some omissions towards her Majesty, being entirely -ignorant how uneasy to her my frequent attendance must be after -what had happened between us. I explained some things which I had -heard her Majesty had taken amiss of me, and then, with a fresh -flood of tears and a concern sufficient to move compassion, even -where all love was absent, I beg’d to know what other particulars -she had heard of me, that I might not be denied all power of -justifying myself. But the only return was, “You desired no answer -and you shall have none.” I then beg’d to know if her Majesty would -tell me some other time? “You desired no answer and you shall have -none.” I then appealed to her Majesty again, if she did not herself -know that I had often despised interest in comparison of serving -her faithfully and doing right? And whether she did not know me to -be of a temper incapable of disowning anything which I knew to be -true? “You desired no answer and you shall have none.” This usage -was so severe, and these words, so often repeated, were so shocking -(being an utter denial of common justice to one who had been a most -faithful servant, and now asked nothing more) that I could not -conquer myself, but said the most disrespectful thing I ever spoke -to the Queen in my life, and yet what such an occasion and such -circumstances might well excuse if not justify, and that was, that -“I was confident her Majesty would suffer for such an instance of -inhumanity.” The Queen answered, “That will be to myself.” Thus -ended this remarkable conversation, the last I ever had with her -Majesty [the duchess adds].</p></div> - -<p>After this there was no more possibility of reconciliation. Attempts of -all kinds were made, and there is even a record of a somewhat pitiful -scene in which great Marlborough himself, on his return from the wars, -appears on his knees pleading with Queen Anne to take back her old -companion into favor, but without effect. Unfortunately for himself, he -did not resign at this turning-point, being persuaded both by friends -and foes not to do so; and with the evident risk before his eyes of -hazarding all the combinations of the war and giving a distinct -advantage to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> enemy against whom he had hitherto operated so -forcibly. He kept his command, therefore, for the public interest rather -than his own, and returned, when the season of warfare recommenced, to -the post which all these events made uneasy for him, and where his -credit was shaken and his prestige diminished by the disfavor of the -court and the opposition of the ministry. The responsibility was -therefore left upon Anne and her ministers of dismissing him, which they -did in the end of 1711, to the consternation of their allies, the -delight of the French, and the bewilderment of the nation. The party -plots by which this came about are far too long and involved to be -capable of explanation here—neither can we enter into the semi-secret -negotiations for the humiliating and disgraceful peace secured by the -treaty of Utrecht, which were carried on unknown to Marlborough, to the -destruction of the alliance and confusion of all his plans. Never, -perhaps, was so great a man treated with such contumely. His associate -in his work, the Lord Treasurer Godolphin, the great financier of his -time, had already fallen, leaving office so poor a man that he would -have been wholly dependent on his relations but for the unexpected death -of a brother who left him a small fortune. He has left an account of his -dismissal by the queen herself and on the ground apparently of personal -offense, which is extraordinary indeed.</p> - -<p>Anne herself was no doubt little more than a puppet in the hands of -successive politicians; but yet the struggle that took place around her -at this unfortunate period—the maintenance by every wile of somebody -who could influence her, the conflict for her ear and favor—shows her -immense importance in the economy of public life. Queen Victoria is the -object of universal veneration and respect, but not the smallest -official in her government need fear the displeasure of the queen as the -highest minister had to fear that of Anne, for whom no one entertained -any particular respect. Yet there was little real power<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> in the -possession of the unfortunate woman who, badgered on all sides, and -refused both peace and rest, sank slowly into disease and decay during -the two years which followed the disgrace of the friend of her youth.</p> - -<p>She had no longer an audacious Freeman to tell her unwelcome truths and -tease her with appeals and reproaches; but it is probable that she soon -found her soft-voiced Abigail, her caressing duchess (of Somerset) -little more satisfactory; never was a head that wore a crown more -uneasy. She held fast to the power which she had been persuaded she was -to get into her own hands when she was delivered from the sway of the -Marlboroughs, and for a little while believed it possible that she could -reign unaided. But this was a delusion that could not last long; and her -death was hastened, it is said, by a violent altercation between Harley -and St. John, when the inevitable struggle between the two who had -pushed all competitors out of place occurred at last. They wrangled over -the staff of office in Anne’s very presence, overwhelming her with -agitation and excitement. Apart from politics, the royal existence was -dull enough. When Dean Swift was at Windsor, following Harley and -waiting for the decision of his Irish business, we have occasional -glimpses through his eyes which show the tedium of the court. “There was -a drawing-room to-day,” he says, “but so few company that the Queen sent -for us into her bedchamber, where we made our bows, and stood, about -twenty of us round the room, while she looked round with her fan in her -mouth, and once a minute said about three words to some that were -nearest her, and then she was told dinner was ready, and went out.” The -same authority mentions her way of taking exercise, which was a strange -one. “The Queen was hunting the stag till four this afternoon,” he says; -“she drove in her chaise about forty miles, and it was five before we -went to dinner.... She hunts in a chaise with one horse, which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> -drives herself, and drives furiously like Jehu, and is a mighty hunter -like Nimrod.” Windsor’s great park and forest must have afforded room -and space for some part at least of this course, and a hunt in August -would need to have been confined to ground less cultivated than that of -the smiling plain which skirts the castle hill on the other side. Queen -Anne’s Ride and Queen Anne’s Drive are still well-known names in the -locality where the strange apparition of the queen, solitary in her high -chaise, and “driving furiously” after the hunt, must once have been a -familiar sight.</p> - -<p>The end of this poor queen’s life was disturbed by a new and terrible -struggle, in which natural sentiment and public duty, and all the -prepossessions and prejudices of her nature, were set in conflict one -against the other. This was upon the question of the succession. The -family of Hanover, the Electress Sophia and her son and grandson, had -been chosen solemnly by Parliament as the nearest members of the royal -race who were Protestants, and were recognized as the heirs to the -throne in all public acts and in the prayers of the church. But to Anne -the house of Hanover was of no special interest. She did not love the -idea of successor at all. She had declared to Marlborough passionately -that the proposed visit of the Hanoverian prince was a thing which she -could not bear, and there was no friendship, nor even acquaintance, -between her and relatives so far removed. But apart from all public -knowledge, in the secret chambers and by the back-stairs came whispers -now of another name, that of James Stuart, more familiar and kindly—the -baby-brother about whom Anne had believed the prevailing fable, that he -was a supposititious child, for whom she had invented the name of the -Pretender, but who now in her childless decay began to be presented -before her as the victim of a great wrong. Poor queen! she was torn -asunder by all these contradictions; and if her heart was melting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> -toward her father’s son, all the dull experience which she had acquired -in spite of herself must have convinced her that this solution of the -difficulty was impossible. Her life of late had been one long conflict; -imperious Sarah first, then Harley and St. John quarrelling in her very -presence-chamber; and when the door was shut and the curtains drawn and -all the world departed save Abigail lying on a mattress on the floor to -be near her mistress, here was the most momentous question of all. She -who desired nothing so much as quiet and to be left in peace, was once -again compelled to face a problem of the utmost importance to England, -and on which she alone had the power to say a decisive word. Little -wonder if Anne was harassed beyond all endurance. But those who pressed -this question upon her waning senses were the instruments of their own -overthrow. The powers of life worn out before their time could bear no -more. The hopes of the Jacobite party were rising higher every day as -the end drew near; but at the last she escaped them, having uttered no -word of support to their cause; and in the confusion which ensued, -George I. was peacefully proclaimed as soon as the queen out of her -lethargy had slipped beyond the boundaries of any earthly kingdom.</p> - -<p>The Marlboroughs, who had been living on the Continent since their -disgrace, came back after this new change. The duke’s entry into London -“in great state, attended by hundreds of gentlemen on horseback and some -of the nobility in their coaches” a few days after, is reported by one -of the chroniclers of the time. The duchess followed him soon after, and -whether her temper and disposition had so far mended as to allow him to -enjoy the peace he had so often longed for by the side of her he loved, -he had at least a tranquil evening-time among his friends and -dependents, and the grandchildren who were to be his heirs—for only one -of his own children survived at his death. Duchess Sarah lived long -after him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:396px;"> -<a href="images/ill_019_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_019.jpg" width="396" height="483" alt="Image unavailable: BISHOP GILBERT BURNET. - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MEZZOTINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM BY JOHN -SMITH, AFTER THE PAINTING BY JOHN RILEY." /></a> -<br /><br /><div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">BISHOP GILBERT BURNET.<br /> -<small> -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM MEZZOTINT IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM BY JOHN -SMITH, AFTER THE PAINTING BY JOHN RILEY.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p>She was sixty-two when he died, but, nevertheless, in spite of temper -and every other failing, was still charming enough to be sought in -marriage by two distinguished suitors—one of them that proud Duke of -Somerset whose first wife had supplanted her at court. She answered this -potentate in the only way consistent with the dignity of a woman of her -age and circumstances; but added, with a noble pride which sat well upon -her, that had she been but half her age, not the emperor of the world -should ever have filled the place sacred to great Marlborough. It is a -pity we could not leave her here in the glow of this proud tenderness -and constancy. She was capable of that and many other noble things, but -not of holding her tongue, of withdrawing into the background, or -accepting in other ways the natural change from maturity to age. Her -restless energies, however, had some legitimate outlet. She finished -Blenheim, and she wrote innumerable explanations and memoranda, which -finally shaped themselves into that “Account of the Conduct of the -Duchess of Marlborough from her first Coming to Court,” which is one of -the most interesting of all <i>mémoires pour servir</i>. This was published -in her eighty-second year, and it is curious to think of the vivacious -and unsubdued spirit which could throw itself back so completely out of -the calm of age into the conflicts and the very atmosphere of what had -passed thirty years before. And she did her best to prepare for a great -life of Marlborough which should set him right with the world. But her -time was not always so innocently employed, and it is to be feared that -she wrangled to the end of her life. The “Characters” of her -contemporaries which she left behind are full of spite and malice. There -was no peace in her soul. A characteristic little story is told of her -in an illness. “Last year she had lain a great while ill without -speaking; her physicians said she must be blistered or she would die. -She called out, ‘I won’t be blistered and I won’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> die!’ and apparently -for the moment kept her word.” She lived long enough to be impaled by -Pope in verses which an involuntary admiration for this daring, -dauntless, impassioned woman makes us reluctant to quote. She survived -almost her entire generation, and was capable of living a hundred years -more had nature permitted. She was eighty-four when she succumbed at -last, in the year 1744, thirty years after the death of the queen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_III" id="Chapter_III"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter III</span><br /><br /> -THE AUTHOR OF “GULLIVER”</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE are few figures in history, and still fewer in literature, which -have occupied so great a place in the world’s attention, or which retain -so strong a hold upon its interest, as that of Jonathan Swift, dean of -St. Patrick’s. It is considerably more than a century since he died, old -and mad and miserable: a man who had never been satisfied with life, or -felt his fate equal to his deserts; who disowned and hated (even when he -served it) the country of his birth, and with fierce and bitter passion -denounced human nature itself, and left a sting in almost every -individual whom he loved; a man whose preferment and home were far from -the center of public affairs, and who had no hereditary claim on the -attention of England. Yet when the English reader, or he who in the -farthest corner of the New World has the same right to English -literature as that which the subjects of Queen Victoria hold,—as the -American does—from the subjects of Queen Anne,—reads the title at the -head of this page, neither the one nor the other will have any -difficulty in distinguishing among all the ecclesiastical dignitaries of -that age who it is that stands conspicuous as the dean. Not in royal -Westminster or Windsor is this man to be found; not the ruler of any -great cathedral in the rich English midlands where tradition and wealth -and an almost Catholic supremacy united to make the great official of -the church as important as any official of the state—but far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> from -those influences, half as far as America is now from the center of -English society and the sources of power, one of a nation which the most -obstinate conservative of to-day will not hesitate to allow was then -deeply wronged and cruelly misgoverned by England, many and anxious as -have been her efforts since to make amends. Yet among the many strange -examples of that far more than republican power (not always most evident -in republics) by which a man of native force and genius, however humble, -finds his way to the head of affairs and impresses his individuality -upon his age, when thousands born to better fortunes are swept away as -nobodies, Swift is one of the most remarkable. His origin, though noted -by himself, not without a certain pride, as from a family of gentry not -unknown in their district, was in his own person almost as lowly and -poor as it was possible to be. The posthumous son of a poor official in -the Dublin law-courts, owing his education to the kindness, or perhaps -less the kindness than the family pride, of an uncle, Swift entered the -world as a hanger-on, waiting what fortune and a patron might do for -him, a position scarcely comprehensible to young Englishmen nowadays, -though then the natural method of advancement. Such a young man in the -present day would betake himself to his books, with the practical aim of -an examination before him, and the hope of immediate admission through -that gate to the public service and all its chances. It is amusing to -speculate what the difference might have been had Jonathan Swift, coming -raw with his degree from Trinity College, Dublin, shouldered his robust -way to the head of an examination list, and thus making himself at a -stroke independent of patronage, gone out to reign and rule and -distribute justice in India, or pushed himself upward among the -gentlemanly mediocrities of a public office. One asks would he have -found that method more successful, and endured the desk and the routine -of his office, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 254px;"> -<a href="images/ill_020_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_020.jpg" width="254" height="363" alt="Image unavailable: JONATHAN SWIFT. - -FROM PHOTOGRAPH OF ORIGINAL MARBLE BUST OF SWIFT BY ROUBILLIAC -(1695-1762), NOW IN THE LIBRARY OF TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">JONATHAN SWIFT. -<br /><small> -FROM PHOTOGRAPH OF ORIGINAL MARBLE BUST OF SWIFT BY ROUBILLIAC -(1695-1762), NOW IN THE LIBRARY OF TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN.</small></span> -</div> - -<p>“got on” with the head of his department, better than he endured the -monotony and subjection, the possible slights and spurns of Sir William -Temple’s household, which he entered, half servant, half equal, the poor -relation, the secretary and companion of that fastidious philosopher? -The question may be cut short by the almost certainty that Swift could -not have gained his promotion in any such way; but his age had not -learned the habit of utilizing education, and he was one of the idle -youths of fame. “He was stopped of his degree,” he himself writes in his -autobiographical notes, “for dullness and insufficiency, and at last -hardly admitted in a manner little to his credit, which is called in -that college <i>speciali gratia</i>.” Recent biographers have striven to -prove that this really meant nothing to Swift’s discredit, but it is to -be supposed that in such a matter he is himself the best authority.</p> - -<p>The life of the household of dependents at Moor Park, where young Swift -attended Sir William’s pleasure in the library, while the Johnsons and -Dingleys, the waiting-gentlewomen of a system which now lingers only in -courts, hung about my lady, her relatives, gossips, servants, is to us -extremely difficult to realize, and still more to understand. This -little cluster of secondary personages, scarcely at all elevated above -the servants, with whom they sometimes sat at table, and whose offices -they were always liable to be called on to perform, yet who were all -conscious of gentle blood in their veins, and a relationship more or -less distinct with the heads of the house, is indeed one of the most -curious lingerings of the past in the eighteenth century. When we read -in one of Macaulay’s brilliant sketches, or in Swift’s own words, or in -the indications given by both history and fiction, that the -parson,—perhaps at the great house,—humble priest of the parish, found -his natural mate in the waiting-maid, it is generally forgotten that the -waiting-maid was then in most cases quite as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> good as the parson: a -gently bred and well-descended woman, like her whom an unkind but not -ignoble fate made into the Stella we all know, the mild and modest star -of Swift’s existence. It was no doubt a step in the transition from the -great medieval household, where the squire waited on the knight with a -lowliness justified by his certainty of believing himself knight in his -turn, and where my lady’s service was a noble education, the only school -accessible to the young gentlewomen of her connection—down to our own -less picturesque and more independent days, in which personal service -has ceased to be compatible with the pretensions of any who can assume, -by the most distant claim, to be “gentle” folk. The institution is very -apparent in Shakspere’s day, the waiting-gentlewomen who surround his -heroines being of entirely different mettle from the soubrettes of -modern comedy. At a later period such a fine gentleman as John Evelyn, -in no need of patronage, was content and proud that his daughter should -enter a great household to learn how to comport herself in the world. In -the end of the seventeenth century the dependents were perhaps more -absolutely dependent. But even this, like most things, had its better -and worst side.</p> - -<p>That a poor widow with her child, like Stella’s mother, should find -refuge in the house of her wealthy kinswoman at no heavier cost than -that of attending to Lady Temple’s linen and laces, and secure thus such -a training for her little girl as might indeed have ended in the rude -household of a Parson Trulliber, but at the same time might fit her to -take her place in a witty and brilliant society, and enter into all the -thoughts of the most brilliant genius of his time, was no ill fate; nor -is there anything that is less than noble and befitting (in theory) in -the association of that young man of genius, whatsoever exercises of -patience he might be put to, with the highly cultured man of the world, -the ex-ambassador and councilor of kings, under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> whose auspices he could -learn to understand both books and men, see the best company of his -time, and acquire at second hand all the fruits of a ripe experience. So -that, perhaps, there is something to be said after all for the curious -little community at Moor Park, where Sir William, like a god, made the -day good or evil for his people according as he smiled or frowned; where -the young Irish secretary, looking but uneasily upon a world in which -his future fate was so unassured, had yet the wonderful chance once, if -no more, of explaining English institutions to King William, and in his -leisure the amusement of teaching little Hester how to write, and -learning from her baby prattle—which must have been the delight of the -house, kept up and encouraged by her elders—that “little language” -which had become a sort of synonym for the most intimate and endearing -utterances of tenderness. No doubt Sir William himself (who left her a -modest little fortune when he died) must have loved to hear the child -talk, and even Lady Giffard and the rest, having no responsibility for -her parts of speech, kept her a baby as long as possible, and delighted -in the pretty jargon to which foolish child-lovers cling in all ages -after the little ones themselves are grown too wise to use it more.</p> - -<p>Jonathan Swift left Ireland, along with many more, in the commotion that -succeeded the revolution of 1688—a very poor and homely lad, with -nothing but the learning, such as it was, picked up in a somewhat -disorderly university career. Through his mother, then living at -Leicester, and on the score of humble relationship between Mrs. Swift -and Lady Temple, of whom the reader may perhaps remember the romance and -tender history,—a pleasant association,—he was introduced to Sir -William Temple’s household, but scarcely, it would appear, at first to -any permanent position there. He was engaged, an unfriendly writer says, -“at the rate of £20 a year” as amanuensis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> and reader, but “Sir William -never favoured him with his conversation nor allowed him to sit at table -with him.” Temple’s own account of the position, however, contains -nothing at all derogatory to the young man, for whom, about a year -after, he endeavored, no doubt in accordance with Swift’s own wishes, to -find a situation with Sir Robert Southwell, then going to Ireland as -secretary of state. Sir William describes Swift as “of good family in -Herefordshire.... He has lived in my house, read to me, writ for me, and -kept all my accounts as far as my small occasions required. He has Latin -and Greek, some French, writes a very good current hand, is very honest -and diligent, and has good friends, though they have for the present -lost their fortunes,” the great man says; and he recommends the youth -“either as a gentleman to wait on you, or a clerk to write under you, or -upon any establishment of the College to recommend him to a fellowship -there, which he has a just pretence to.” This shows how little there was -in the position of “a gentleman to wait on you,” of which the young -suitor need have been ashamed. Swift’s own account of this speedy return -to Ireland is that it was by advice of the physicians, “who weakly -imagined that his native air might be of some use to recover his -health,” which he was young enough to have endangered by the temptations -of Sir William’s fine gardens; a “surfeit of fruit” being the innocent -cause to which he attributes the disease which haunted him for all the -rest of his life.</p> - -<p>His absence, however, from the Temple household was of very short -duration, Sir Robert Southwell having apparently had no use for his -services, or means of preferring him to a fellowship, and he returned to -Moor Park in 1690, where he remained for four years. It was quite clear, -whatever his vicissitudes of feeling might have been, that he identified -himself entirely with his patron’s opinions and even prejudices, and -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width: 479px;"> -<a href="images/ill_021_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_021.jpg" width="479" height="355" alt="Image unavailable: MOOR PARK, RESIDENCE OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, AND OF SWIFT. - -DRAWN BY CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY, ENGRAVED BY R. VARLEY." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">MOOR PARK, RESIDENCE OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, AND OF SWIFT. -<br /><small> -DRAWN BY CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY, ENGRAVED BY R. VARLEY.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">a loyal and devoted retainer both now and afterward. When Sir William -became involved in a literary quarrel with the great scholar Bentley, -young Swift rushed into the field with a <i>jeu d’esprit</i> which has -outlived all other records of the controversy. The “Battle of the Books” -could hardly have been written in aid of a hard or contemptuous master. -Years after, when he had a house of his own and had entered upon his -independent career, he turned his little rectory garden into a humble -imitation of the Dutch paradise which Temple had made to bloom in the -wilds of Surrey, with a canal and a willow walk like those which were so -dear to King William and his courtiers. And when Temple died, it was to -Swift, and not to any of his nephews, that Sir William committed the -charge of his papers and literary remains. This does not look like a -hard bondage on one side, or any tyrannical sway on the other, -notwithstanding a few often-quoted phrases which are taken as implying -complaint. “Don’t you remember,” Swift asks long after, “how I used to -be in pain when Sir William Temple would look cold and out of temper for -three or four days, and I used to suspect a hundred reasons?” But these -words need not represent anything more than that sensitiveness to the -aspect of the person on whom his prospects and comfort depend which is -inevitable to every individual in a similar position, however -considerate and friendly the patron may be. The hard-headed and -unbending Scotch philosopher, James Mill, was just as sensitive to the -looks of his kind friend and helper in the early struggles of life, -Jeremy Bentham, in whose sunny countenance Mill discovered unspoken -offense with an ingenuity worthy of a self-tormenting woman. It was -natural indeed that Swift, a high-spirited young man, should fret and -struggle as the years went on and nothing happened to enlarge his -horizon beyond the trees of Moor Park. He was sent to King William, as -has been said, when Temple was unable to wait<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> upon his Majesty, to -explain to him the expediency of certain parliamentary measures, and -this was no doubt intended by his patron as a means of bringing him -under the king’s notice. William would seem to have taken a kind of -vague interest in the secretary, which he expressed in an odd way by -offering him a captain’s commission in a cavalry regiment,—a proposal -which did not tempt Swift,—and by teaching him how to cut asparagus “in -the Dutch way,” and to eat up all the stalks, as the dean afterward, in -humorous revenge, made an unlucky visitor of his own do. But William, -notwithstanding these whimsical evidences of favor, neither listened to -the young secretary’s argument nor gave him a prebend as had been hoped.</p> - -<p>Four years, however, is a long time for an ambitious young man to spend -in dependence, watching one hope die out after another; and Swift’s -impatience began to be irrestrainable and to trouble the peace of his -patron’s learned leisure. Although destined from the first to the -church, and for some time waiting in tremulous expectation of -ecclesiastical preferment, Swift had not yet taken orders. The -explanation he gives of how and why he finally determined on doing so is -characteristic. His dissatisfaction and restlessness, probably his -complaints, moved Sir William,—though evidently deeply offended that -his secretary should wish to leave him,—to offer him an employ of about -£120 a year in the Rolls Office in Ireland, of which Temple held the -sinecure office of master. “Whereupon [says Swift’s own narrative] Mr. -Swift told him that since he had now an opportunity of living without -being driven into the Church for a maintenance, he was resolved to go to -Ireland and take Holy Orders.” This arbitrary decision to balk his -patron’s tardy bounty, and take his own way in spite of him, was -probably as much owing to a characteristic blaze of temper as to the -somewhat fantastic disinterestedness here put forward, though Swift was -never a man greedy of money or disposed to sacrifice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> his pride to the -acquisition of gain, notwithstanding certain habits of miserliness -afterward developed in his character. Sir William was “extremely -angry”—hurt, no doubt, as many a patron has been, by the ingratitude of -the dependent who would not trust everything to him, but claimed some -free will in the disposition of his own life. Had they been uncle and -nephew, or even father and son, the same thing might easily have -happened. Swift set out for Dublin full of indignation and excitement, -“everybody judging I did best to leave him,”—but alas! in this, as in -so many cases, pride was doomed to speedy downfall.</p> - -<p>On reaching Dublin, and taking the necessary steps for his ordination, -Swift found that it was needful for him to have a recommendation and -certificate from the patron in whose house so many years of his life had -been spent. No doubt it must have been a somewhat bitter necessity to -bow his head before the protector whom he had left in anger and ask for -this. Macaulay describes him as addressing his patron in the language -“of a lacquey, or even of a beggar,” but we doubt greatly if apart from -prejudice or the tingle of these unforgettable words, any impartial -reader would form such an impression. “The particulars expected of me,” -Swift writes, “are what relates to morals and learning and the reasons -of quitting your honour’s family, that is whether the last was -occasioned by any ill action.” “Your honour” has a somewhat servile tone -in our days, but in Swift’s the formality was natural. Lady Giffard, -Temple’s sister-in-law, in the further quarrels which followed Sir -William’s death, spoke of this as a penitential letter, and perhaps it -was not wonderful that she should look on the whole matter with an -unfavorable eye. No doubt the ladies of the house thought young Swift an -unnatural monster for wishing to go away and thinking himself able to -set up for himself without their condescending notice and the godlike -philosopher’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> society and instruction, and were pleased to find his -pride so quickly brought down. Sir William, however, it would seem, -behaved as a philosopher and a gentleman should, and gave the required -recommendation with magnanimity and kindness. Thus the young man had his -way.</p> - -<p>Swift got a small benefice in the north of Ireland, the little country -parish of Kilroot, in which doubtless he expected that the sense of -independence would make up to him for other deprivations. It was near -Belfast, among those hard-headed Scotch colonists whom he could never -endure; and probably this had something to do with the speedy revulsion -of his mind. He remained there only a year; and it is perhaps the best -proof we could have of his sense of isolation and banishment that this -was the only time in his life in which he thought of marriage. There is -in existence a fervent and impassioned letter addressed to the object of -his affections, a Miss Waring, whom, after the fashion of the time, he -called Varina. He does not seem in this case to have had the usual good -fortune that attended his relationships with women. Miss Waring did not -respond with the same warmth; indeed, she was discouraging and coldly -prudent. And he was still pleading for a favorable answer when there -arrived a letter from Moor Park inviting his return—Sir William’s -pride, too, having apparently broken down under the blank made by -Swift’s departure. He made instant use of this invitation—which must -have soothed his injured feelings and restored his self-satisfaction—to -shake the resolution of the ungrateful Varina. “I am once more offered,” -he says, “the advantage to have the same acquaintance with greatness -which I formerly enjoyed, and with better prospects of interest”; and -though he offers magnanimously “to forego it all for your sake,” yet it -is evident that the proposal had set the blood stirring in his veins, -and that the dependence from which he had broken loose with a kind of -desperation, once more seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 456px;"> -<a href="images/ill_022_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_022.jpg" width="456" height="553" alt="Image unavailable: DEAN SWIFT. - -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY PIERRE FOURDRINIER, AFTER A PAINTING BY -CHARLES JERVAS." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">DEAN SWIFT. -<br /><small> -FROM COPPERPLATE ENGRAVING BY PIERRE FOURDRINIER, AFTER A PAINTING BY -CHARLES JERVAS.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">him, unless Varina had been melted by the sacrifice he would have made -for her, to be the most desirable thing in the world.</p> - -<p>Macaulay, and after him Thackeray and many less distinguished writers, -still persistently represent this part of Swift’s life as one of -unmitigated hardship and suffering. The brilliant historian so much -scorns the guidance of facts as to say that the humble student “made -love to a pretty waiting-maid who was the chief ornament of the -servant’s hall,” by way of explaining the strange yet tender story which -has been more deeply discussed than any great national event, and which -has made the name of Stella known to every reader.</p> - -<p>Hester Johnson was a child of seven when young Swift, “the humble -student,” went first to Moor Park. She was only fifteen when he -returned, no longer as a sort of educated man of all work, but on the -entreaty of the patron who had felt the want of his company so much as -to forget all grievances. He was not now a humble student, Temple’s -satellite and servant, but his friend and coadjutor, fully versed in all -his secrets, and most likely already chosen as the guardian of his fame -and the executor of his purposes and wishes; therefore it is not -possible that Macaulay’s reckless picturesque description could apply to -either time. Such an easy picture, however, has more effect upon the -general imagination than the outcries of all the biographers, and the -many researches made to show that Swift was not a sort of literary -lackey, nor Stella an Abigail, but that he had learned to prize the -advantages of his home there during his absence from it, and that during -the latter part of his life at Moor Park at least his position was as -good as that of a dependent can ever be.</p> - -<p>Sir William Temple died, as Swift records affectionately, on the morning -of January 27, 1699, “and with him all that was good and amiable among -men.” He died, however, leaving the young man who had spent so many -years of his life under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> his wing, scarcely better for that long -subjection. Swift had a legacy of £100 for his trouble in editing his -patron’s memoirs, and he got the profits of those memoirs, amounting, -Mr. Forster calculates, to no less than £600—no inconsiderable present; -but no one of the many appointments which were then open to the -retainers of the great, and especially to a young man of letters, had -come in Swift’s way. He himself, it is said, “still believed in the -royal pledge for the first prebend that should fall vacant in -Westminster or Canterbury,” but this was a hope which had accompanied -him ever since he explained constitutional law to King William six years -before, and could not be very lively after this long interval.</p> - -<p>Thus Swift’s life came to a sudden and complete break. The great -household, with its easy and uneasy jumble of patrons and dependents, -fell asunder and ceased to be. The younger members of the family were -jealous of the last bequest, which put the fame of their distinguished -relative into the hands of a stranger, and did their best to set Swift -down in his proper place, and to proclaim how much he was the creature -of their uncle’s bounty. In the breaking up which followed, there were -many curious partings and conjunctions. Why Hester Johnson, to whom Sir -William had bequeathed a little independence, should have left her -mother’s care and joined her fortunes to those of Mrs. Dingley instead, -remains unexplained, unless indeed it was Mrs. Johnson’s second marriage -which was the cause, or perhaps some vexation on the part of Lady -Giffard—with whom the girl’s mother remained, notwithstanding her -marriage—at the liberality of her brother to the child brought up in -his house. Mrs. Johnson had other daughters, one of whom Swift saw, and -describes favorably, years after. Perhaps Mrs. Dingley and the girl whom -he had taught and petted from her childhood had taken Swift’s side in -the Giffard-Temple difference, and so got on uneasy terms with the rest -of the household, always faithful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> to my lady. At all events, at the -breaking up Hester with her little fortune separated herself from the -connection generally, and with her elder friend made an independent new -beginning, as Swift also had to do. The fact seems of no particular -importance, except that it afforded a reason for Swift’s interference in -her affairs, and threw them into a combination which lasted all their -lives.</p> - -<p>Swift was thirty-one, too old to be beginning his career, yet young -enough to turn with eager zest to the unknown, when this catastrophe -occurred. Sir William Temple’s secretary and literary executor must have -known, one would suppose, many people who could have helped him to -promotion, but it would seem as if a kind of irresistible fate impelled -him back to his native country, though he did not love it, and forced -him to be an Irishman in spite of himself. The only post that came in -his way was a chaplaincy, conjoined with a secretaryship, in the suite -of the Earl of Berkeley, newly appointed one of the lords justices in -Ireland, and just then entering upon his duties. Swift accepted the -position in hopes that he should be continued as Lord Berkeley’s -secretary, and possibly go with him afterward to more stirring scenes -and a larger life, but this expectation was not carried out. Neither was -his application—which seems at the moment a somewhat bold one—for the -deanery of Derry successful, and all the preferment he succeeded in -getting was another Irish living, with a better stipend and in a more -favorable position than Kilroot: the parish of Laracor, within twenty -miles of Dublin, which, conjoined with a prebend in St. Patrick’s and -other small additions, brought him in £200 a year; a small promotion, -indeed, yet not a bad income for the place and time. And he was -naturally, as Lord Berkeley’s chaplain, in the midst of the finest -company that Ireland could boast, one of a court more extended than Sir -William Temple’s, yet of a similar description, and affording greater -scope for his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> hitherto undeveloped social qualities. Satire more -sportive than mere scorn, yet sometimes savage enough; an elephantine -fun, which pleased the age; the puns and quibs in which the men emulated -one another; the merry rhymes that pleased the ladies,—seem suddenly to -have burst forth in him, throwing an unexpected gleam upon his new -sphere.</p> - -<p>Swift was always popular with women. He treated them roughly on many -occasions, with an arrogance that grew with age, but evidently possessed -that charm—a quality by itself and not dependent upon any laws of -amiability—which attracts one sex to the other. Lady Berkeley, whom he -describes as a woman of “the most easy conversation joined with the -truest piety,” and her young daughters were charming and lively -companions with whom the chaplain soon found himself at home. And -notwithstanding his disappointment with respect to the preferment which -Lord Berkeley might have procured for him and did not, it would seem -that this period of hanging on at the little Irish court was amusing at -least. The lively little picture of the inferior members of a great -household which Swift made for the entertainment of the drawing-rooms on -the occasion when Mrs. Frances Harris lost her purse, is one of the most -vivid and amusing possible.</p> - -<p>His stay in Ireland at this period lasted about two years, during which -he paid repeated visits to his living at Laracor, and made trial of -existence there also. The parsonage was in a ruinous condition; the -church a miserable barn; the congregation numbered about twenty persons. -Many are the tales of the new parson’s arrival there like a -thunder-storm, frightening the humble curate and his wife with the -arrogant roughness of manner which they, like many others, found -afterward covered a great deal of genuine practical kindness. His mode -of traveling, his sarcastic rhymes about the places at which he paused -on the journey, the careless swing of imperious good and ill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:347px;"> -<a href="images/ill_023_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_023.jpg" width="347" height="303" alt="Image unavailable: STELLA’S COTTAGE, ON THE BOUNDARY OF THE MOOR PARK -ESTATE. - -DRAWN BY CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY, ENGRAVED BY S. DAVIS." /></a> -<br /><br /><div class="bboxx"> -<span class="caption">STELLA’S COTTAGE, ON THE BOUNDARY OF THE MOOR PARK -ESTATE.<br /> -<small> -DRAWN BY CHARLES HERBERT WOODBURY, ENGRAVED BY S. DAVIS.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">humor in which he indulged, contemptuous of everybody’s opinion, have -furnished many amusing incidents. One well-known anecdote, which -describes him as finding his congregation to consist only of his clerk -and beginning the service gravely with, “Dearly beloved Roger,” has -found a permanent place among ecclesiastical pleasantries. In all -probability it is true; but if not so, it is at least so <i>ben trovato</i> -as to be as good as true. There were few claims upon the energies of -such a man in such a sphere, and when Lord Berkeley was recalled to -England his chaplain went with him. But neither did he find any -promotion in London. Up to this time his only literary work had been -that wonderful “Battle of the Books,” which had burst like a bombshell -into the midst of the squabble of the <i>literati</i>, but which had only as -yet been handed about in manuscript, and was therefore known to few. No -doubt it was known to various wits and scholars that Sir William -Temple’s late secretary and literary executor was a young man of no -common promise; but statesmen in general, and the king in particular, -sick and worn out with many preoccupations, had no leisure for the -claims of the Irish parson. He hung about the Berkeley household, and -gravely read out of the book of moral essays which the countess loved -those Reflections on a Broomstick which her ladyship found so edifying, -and launched upon the world an anonymous pamphlet or two, which he had -the pleasure of hearing talked about and attributed to names greater -than his own, but made no step toward the advancement for which he -longed.</p> - -<p>The interest of this visit to England was however as great and told for -as much in his life as if it had brought him a bishopric. It determined -that long connection and close intercourse in which Swift’s inner -history is involved. After he had paid in vain his court to the king, -and made various ineffectual attempts to recommend himself in high -quarters, he went on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> visit to Farnham, where Hester Johnson and Mrs. -Dingley had settled after Sir William’s death. Swift found the two women -quite undetermined what to do, in an uncomfortable lodging, harassed for -money, and without any object in their lives. Most probably he was -called to advise as to their future plans, where they should settle and -how they were to live, both being entirely inexperienced in the art of -independent existence. They had lived together for years, and knew -everything about each other: Hester had grown up from childhood under -Swift’s eye, his pupil, his favorite and playfellow. She had now, it is -true, arrived at an age when other sentiments are supposed to come in. -She must have been about twenty, while he was thirty-four. There was no -reason in the world why they should not have married then and there, had -they so wished. But there seems no appearance or thought of any such -desire, and the question was what should the ladies do for the -arrangement of their affairs and pleasant occupation of their lives. -Farnham being untenable, where should they go? Why not to Ireland, where -Hester’s property was—where they would be near their friend, who could -help them into society and give them his own companionship as often as -he happened to be there? Here is his own account of the decision:</p> - -<p>“I prevailed with her and her dear friend and companion, the other -lady,” he says, “to draw what money they had into Ireland, a great part -of their fortunes being in annuities upon funds. Money was then ten per -cent. in Ireland, besides the advantage of returning it, and all the -necessaries of life at half the price. They complied with my advice, and -soon after came over; but I happening to continue some time longer in -England, they were much discouraged to live in Dublin, where they were -wholly strangers. But this adventure looked so like a frolic, the -censure held for some time as if there were a secret history in such a -removal; which however soon blew off by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> her excellent conduct. She came -over with her friend in the year 1700, and they both lived together -until the day [of her death, 1728].”</p> - -<p>This was then the time which decided that which is called the “sad and -mysterious history” of Swift and Stella—a story so strangely told, so -obstinately insisted upon as miserable, unnatural, and tragical, that -the reader or writer of to-day has scarcely the power of forming an -impartial judgment upon it. We have not a word from the woman’s side of -the question, who is supposed to have passed a melancholy existence of -unsatisfied longings and disappointed love by Swift’s side, the victim -of his capricious affections, neglect, cruelty, and fondness. That she -should have wished to marry him, that the love was impassioned on her -side, and her whole life blighted and overcast by his fantastic -repugnance to the common ties of humanity, is taken for granted by every -historian. These writers differ as to Swift’s motives, as to the -character of his feelings, and even as to the facts of the case; but no -one has the slightest doubt of what the woman’s sentiments must have -been. But, as a matter of fact, we have no evidence at all what Stella’s -sentiments were. By so much written testimony as remains we are fully -entitled to form such conclusions as we please on Swift’s side of the -question; but there is actually no testimony at all upon Stella’s side. -Appearances of blighted life or unhappiness there are none in anything -we know of her. As the ladies appear reflected in that “Journal to -Stella”—which is the dean’s only claim upon our affections, but a -strong one—they seem to have lived’ a most cheerful, lively life. They -had a number of friends, they had their little tea-parties, their circle -of witty society, to which the letters of the absent were a continual -amusement and delight. And it is the man, not the woman, who complains -of not receiving letters; it is he, not she, who exhausts every playful -wile, every tender art, to keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> himself in vivid recollection. Is it -perhaps a certain mixture of masculine vanity and compassion for the -gentle feminine creature who never succeeded in getting the man she -loved to marry her, and thus failed to attain the highest end of woman, -which has moved every biographer of Swift, each man more compassionate -than his predecessor, thus to exhaust himself in pity for Stella? -Johnson, Scott, Macaulay, Thackeray, not to mention many lesser names, -have all taken her injured innocence to heart. And nobody notes the -curious fact that Stella herself never utters any complaint, nor indeed -seems to feel the necessity of being unhappy at all, but takes her dean -most cheerfully,—laughing, scolding, giving her opinion with all the -delightful freedom of a relationship which was at once nature and -choice, the familiar trust and tenderness of old use and wont with the -charm of voluntary association. We see her only as reflected in his -letters, in the references he makes to hers, and all his tender, -sportive allusions to her habits and ways of thinking. This reflection -and image is not in rigid lines of black and white, but an airy and -radiant vision, the representation of anything in the world rather than -a downcast and disappointed woman. It is not that either of a wife or a -lover; it is more like the wilful, delightful image of a favorite child, -a creature confident that everything she says or does will be received -with admiration from the mere fact that it is she who says or does it, -and who tyrannizes, scoffs, and proffers a thousand comments and -criticisms with all the elastic brightness of unforced and unimpassioned -affection. It is through this medium alone that Stella is ever visible. -And he, too, laughs, teases, fondles, and advises with the same doting, -delightful ease of affection. By what process this attractive -conjunction should have furnished the idea of a victim in Stella, and in -Swift of a tyrannous secret lover crushing her heart, it is difficult to -understand. The external circumstances of their intimacy were, no doubt, -very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 231px;"> -<a href="images/ill_024_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_024.jpg" width="231" height="313" alt="Image unavailable: HESTER JOHNSON, SWIFT’S “STELLA,” PAINTED FROM LIFE BY -MRS. DELANY, ON THE WALL OF THE TEMPLE AT DELVILLE, AND ACCIDENTALLY -DESTROYED. - -ENGRAVED BY M. HAIDER FROM COPY OF THE ORIGINAL BY HENRY MACMANUS, R. H. -A., NOW IN POSSESSION OF PROFESSOR DOWDEN." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">HESTER JOHNSON, SWIFT’S “STELLA,” PAINTED FROM LIFE BY<br /> -MRS. DELANY, ON THE WALL OF THE TEMPLE AT DELVILLE, AND ACCIDENTALLY<br /> -DESTROYED.<br /> -<small> -ENGRAVED BY M. HAIDER FROM COPY OF THE ORIGINAL BY HENRY MACMANUS, R. H. -A., NOW IN POSSESSION OF PROFESSOR DOWDEN.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">unusual, and might have lent occasion to much evil speaking. But they do -not seem to have done so, after the first moment at least. Nobody -ventured to assail the good fame of Stella, and Swift took every means -to make the perfect innocence of their friendship apparent. She cannot -be made out to have suffered in the vulgar way, and it seems to us one -of the most curious examples of an obstinately maintained theory to -represent her as Swift’s victim in what is supposed to be a long -martyrdom of the heart.</p> - -<p>One can well imagine, however, when the two ladies arrived in Dublin, -where their friend had no doubt represented to them his power to gain -them access into the best society, and found that he did not come and -that they were stranded in a strange place, knowing nobody, how some -annoyance and disappointment, and perhaps anger, must have been in their -thoughts, and that P. D. F. R., as he is called in the little language, -faithless rogue! had his share of abuse. And no doubt it might be -believed by good-natured friends that their object in coming was to -secure the vicar of Laracor either for the young and lovely girl or the -elder woman, who was scarcely older than Swift—if not indeed that some -“secret history” more damaging still was at the bottom of the adventure. -Insensibly, however, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley found a place and -position for themselves. Swift was often away in the following years, -spending about half his time in London, and when he was absent they took -possession of his newly repaired and renovated house, or occupied his -lodging in Dublin, and gathered friends about them, and went out to -their card-parties, and played a little, and talked, and lived a -pleasant life. When he returned, they removed to their own rooms. Thus -there could be no doubt about the close association between them, which, -when it was quite apparent that it meant nothing closer to come, no -doubt made everybody wonder. But we have no contemporary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> evidence that -Stella was an object of pity, and her aspect as we see it in all Swift -says of her is exactly the reverse, and gives us the impression of a -charming and easy-minded woman, a queen of society in her little circle, -enjoying everything that came her way.</p> - -<p>As Swift’s relations with Stella are the great interests of his life, -the subject which occupies every new writer who so much as touches upon -him, it is needless to make any excuse for entering into the question -with an amount of detail which our limited space would otherwise -scarcely justify. The mystery about it lends it an endless attraction, -and as, whatever it was, it is the one great love of his life, and -represents all the private satisfaction and comfort he got by means of -his affections, it has a permanent interest which most readers will not -find in the “Tale of a Tub,” or any other of the productions which made -this period of his life remarkable. Swift was continually going and -coming to London through these years. Though he had begun at once to -make Laracor a sort of earthly paradise with a Dutch flavor, such as he -had learnt from his early master, and though it was “very much for his -own satisfaction” that he had invited Stella to come to Ireland, yet -neither of these reasons was enough to keep him in the rural quiet among -his willows, though he loved them. He hankered after society, after fame -and power. He liked to meet with great men, to hear the news, to ride -over weaker reasoners in society, to put forth his own vigorous views, -and whip, with sharp satire, the men who displeased him. Tradition and -habit had made him a Whig, but political names were of easy interchange -in those days, and Swift’s objects were much more definite than his -politics. From the moment of Queen Anne’s ascension, when she gratified -the Church of England by the remission of certain dues hitherto paid to -the crown, Swift’s energies were directed to obtaining a similar -remission for the Irish Church, and this was the ostensible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> object of -his repeated journeys to London. He had also a purpose still nearer to -his heart, which was the advancement of Jonathan Swift to a post more -fitted to his genius. For these great objects he haunted the anterooms -of Halifax and Somers and Godolphin, and did what he could to show them -what they were not wise enough to perceive, that he was himself an -auxiliary well worth securing. The Whig lords played with, flattered, -and neglected the brilliant but importunate envoy of the Irish Church, -holding him upon tenterhooks of expectation, going so far as to make him -believe that his cause for the church was won, and that his bishopric -was certain, till disgust and disappointment overcame Swift’s patience. -Nine years had passed in these vain negotiations. It was in 1701 that he -paid that visit to Farnham which decided Stella’s fate, but his own was -still hanging in the balance when, after almost yearly expeditions in -the interval, he set out for London in the autumn of the year 1710 with -a threat upon his lips. “I will apply to Mr. Harley, who formerly made -some advances toward me, and, unless he be altered, will I believe think -himself in the right to use me well.” The change was sudden, but it had -little in it that could be called political apostasy. Every man was more -or less for his own hand, and the balance of popular feeling fluctuated -between war and peace: between pride and the glory of England on the one -hand, and horror of the sacrifices and misery involved in the -long-continued, never-ending campaigns of Marlborough on the -other—almost as much as Queen Anne wavered between the influence of the -imperious duchess and the obsequious Abigail. There was no shame to -Swift at such a moment in the sudden revolution he made.</p> - -<p>The man who felt himself of sufficient importance to make this threat -seems to have possessed already, notwithstanding the neglect of the Whig -lords, the rank of his intellect rather than of his external position, -and this not entirely because of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> anonymous productions which were -more or less known to be his. The “Tale of a Tub,” written while he was -still an inmate of Moor Park, had by this time been before the world six -years. It was published along with the “Battle of the Books” in 1704, -and caused great excitement and sensation among politicians, wits, and -critics. But the careless contempt of fame which mingled in him with so -fierce a hunger for it kept it long a matter of doubt whether the -immense reputation of these works belonged to him or not; and it would -appear that his own personality, the size and rude splendor of his -individual character, had at least as much to do with his position as -the doubtful glory of an anonymous publication. The vicar of Laracor was -not sufficiently important to be chosen as the representative of the -Irish Church—but Jonathan Swift was; and though the bishops schemed -against him in his absence when he seemed to have failed, no one seems -to have ventured to suggest that he was too humble a person to hold that -representative post. The book which dazzled English society and set all -the wits talking was by no means the kind of book to support -ecclesiastical dignity. It was indeed by way of being a vindication of -the superiority of the Anglican Church over Rome on the one hand, and -the dissenters on the other; but the tremendous raid against false -pretenses, hypocrisy, and falsehood which is its real scope, was -executed with such a riot and madness of laughter, and unscrupulous -derision of everything that came in the satirist’s way, as had scarcely -been known in English speech before. The mockery was at once brilliant -and careless, dashed about hither and thither in a sort of giant’s play, -full of the coarsest metaphors, the finest wit, indignation, ridicule, -fun, almost too wild and reckless to be called cynical, though -penetrated with the profoundest cynicism and disbelief of any good. The -power which still lives and asserts itself in those strange and often -detestable pages, must strike even the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:368px;"> -<a href="images/ill_025_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_025.jpg" width="368" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. - -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM AN ENGRAVING IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM, AFTER -A PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY." /></a> -<br /><div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY R. A. MULLER, FROM AN ENGRAVING IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM, AFTER -A PAINTING BY SIR PETER LELY.</small></span> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind">reader to whom they are most abhorrent. And the standard of taste was -different in the reign of Anne, and critics were not easily alarmed. To -some readers the most desperate satire that was ever written appeared a -delightful piece of wit.</p> - -<p>William Penn sent to the author from America a gammon of bacon on the -score of having been “often greatly amused by thy <i>Tale</i>,” and a hundred -years later it “delighted beyond description” at the robust mind of -William Cobbett, so that he forgot that he had not supped, and preferred -the book to a bed. The effect upon the general mind of his -contemporaries was equally great; and notwithstanding the immense -difference of taste and public feeling it has never lost its place among -English classics. Many indeed were horrified by its audacious treatment -of the most sacred things, and the objection of Queen Anne to give its -author a bishopric would probably have been shared by nine tenths of her -subjects. The “Tale of a Tub” is one of those books which furnish a test -of literary character. Like the man who was bound to hear the Ancient -Mariner, and whom that mystic personage knew whenever he saw him, the -reader of Swift’s great work must be born with the faculty necessary for -due appreciation and understanding. It is not a power communicable, any -more than it is possible to explain the story of the albatross, and the -curse that fell upon its slayer. The greater part of the public take -both for granted, and remain in a respectful ignorance. To such Swift’s -work is little better than a dust-heap of genius, in which there are -diamonds and precious things imbedded, which flash at every turning -over; but the broken bits of treasure are mixed up with choking dust and -dreary rubbish, as well as the offensive garbage which revolts the -searcher. The dedication of the work to Prince Posterity is thus wholly -justified, and at the same time a failure. It stands in the highest rank -of classic satire, and yet to the mass of readers it is nothing but a -name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span></p> - -<p>It is characteristic, however, of the man that he should have tossed -into the world without a name a book which made a greater impression -than any contemporary publication, enjoying no doubt the wonders and -queries, yet scorning to make himself dependent upon so small a thing as -a book for his reputation and influence. He was no more disposed than -the most sensitive of authors to let another man claim the credit of it, -yet proud enough in native arrogance to hold himself independent of such -aids to advancement, and thus to prove his scorn of the world’s opinion, -even when he sought its applauses most. Whether this work had anything -to do with his introduction to the society of the coffee-houses, and the -wits of London, we are not told. He was addressed by Addison as “the -most Agreeable Companion, the Truest Friend, and the Greatest Genius of -his age,” very shortly after the publication of his great satire; so -that it is probable he already enjoyed the advantage of its fame, -without seeming to do so. The friendship of Addison was a better thing -than the admiration of the crowd, and notwithstanding Swift’s imperious -temper and arrogant ways, it is just to add that he always numbered -among his friends the best and greatest of his time.</p> - -<p>On a first accost, it would not seem that his manners were ingratiating. -This story, which is told of Swift’s appearance at the St. James -coffee-house is amusing, and may be true.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>They had for several successive days observed a strange clergyman -come into the house who seemed entirely unacquainted with any of -those who frequented it, and whose custom was to lay down his hat -on a table and walk backward and forward at a good pace, for half -an hour or an hour, without speaking to any mortal, or seeming in -the least to attend to anything that was going forward there. He -then used to take up his hat, pay his money at the bar, and walk -away without opening his lips. On one particular evening, as Mr. -Addison and the rest were observing him, they saw him cast his eyes -several times on a gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> in boots who seemed to be just come -out of the country, and at last advance, as if intending to address -him. Eager to hear what this dumb, mad parson had to say, they all -quitted their seats to get near him. Swift went up to the country -gentleman, and in a very abrupt manner, without any previous -salute, asked him, “Pray, sir, do you remember any good weather in -the world?” The country gentleman, after staring a little at the -peculiarity of his manner, answered, “Yes, sir, I remember a great -deal of good weather in my time.” “That is more,” rejoined Swift, -“than I can say. I never remember any weather that was not too hot -or too cold, or too wet or too dry; but however God Almighty -contrives at the end of the year it is all very well.” With which -remark he took up his hat, and without uttering a syllable more, or -taking the least notice of any one, walked out of the coffee-house.</p></div> - -<p>His whimsical humor, and love of making the spectators stare, remained a -characteristic of Swift all his life.</p> - -<p>These beginnings of social life were, however, past, and no one was -better known or more warmly welcomed, when he appeared with his wig new -curled, and his azure eyes aglow, than the Irish parson, waiting upon -Providence and the Whigs, whose political pamphlets, and papers in the -“Tatler,” and malicious practical joking with poor Partridge, the -astrologer, made him, at each appearance, a more notable figure to all -the lookers-on. His eyes must have been on fire under those expressive -brows when he came to London in 1710, resolved this time to be put off -by Whig blandishments no longer, but to try what the other side would -do. The other side received him with open arms, and the most instant -appreciation of what he was worth to them and what he could do. Harley -was not great in any sense of the word, but if he had shown as much -insight in the conduct of public affairs as he did in his perception of -the workmen best adapted to his purpose, in the struggle upon which he -had entered, he would have been the most successful of ministers. He -told Swift that his colleagues and himself had been afraid of none but -him in the ranks of their enemies, and that they had resolved to have -him. And in proof<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> that they were ready to do anything to secure his -services, they pushed on and decided as soon as might be his suit for -the church, which had hung in the balance so long, was as good as -granted, now as far off as ever. It was settled at once, to Swift’s -great triumph. And to crown all, the new minister, the greatest man in -England, called him Jonathan!—of all wonderful things, what could be -more wonderful than that this great wit, this powerful and pitiless -satirist, this ambitious man, should be altogether overcome with -pleasure when Harley called him by his Christian name! Was it mere -servility, vanity, the flattered weakness of a hanger-on in a great -man’s familiarity, as everybody says? It is hard to believe this, though -it is taken for granted on all sides. Swift seems, at all events, to -have had a real affection for the shifty minister, who received him in -so different a fashion from that of his former masters. He flung himself -into all the backstair intrigues, and collogued with Abigail Masham, and -took his share in every plot. When Harley was stabbed, Swift felt for -him all the anxiety of a brother. He threw himself into the “Examiner,” -the new Tory organ, with fervor and enthusiasm, and expounded the -principles of his party and set their plans before the public with a -force and clearness which nobody but he, his patrons declared, -possessed. The two statesmen, Harley and Bolingbroke, who were so little -like each other, so ill calculated to draw together, were alike in this: -that neither could be flattering enough or kind enough to the great -vassal whom they had secured. He seems to have thought of himself that -he was a sort of third consul, an unofficial sharer of their power.</p> - -<p>This extraordinary episode in the life of a man of Swift’s profession, -and so little likely to come to such promotion, lasted three years; and -the history of it is not less remarkable than the fact. It was a period -of the greatest intellectual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width: 459px;"> -<a href="images/ill_026_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_026.jpg" width="459" height="358" alt="Image unavailable: DELANY’S HOUSE AT DELVILLE, WHERE SWIFT STAYED. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">DELANY’S HOUSE AT DELVILLE, WHERE SWIFT STAYED. -<br /><small> -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">activity and brilliancy in Swift’s career, and besides his hard -political work in the “Examiner” and elsewhere, he flung from him, amid -the exhilarating appreciation of the great world and his patrons, a -number of the best of his lighter productions. But nothing that he ever -wrote can be compared to the letters in which the story of this period -is told, since nowhere else do we find the charm of humanity, which is -more great and attractive even than genius. As if the rule of paradox -was to prevail in his life as well as in his wit, this cynic, -misanthrope, and satirist, ignoring love and every softer thought, -exhibits himself once to us in an abandon and melting of the heart such -as common men are as little capable of as they are of his fierce -laughter and bitter jests. If it is the true man whom we see in these -unpremeditated and careless pages, written before he got up of a -morning, or in the evening when he came home from his entertainments, -with the chairmen still wrangling over their sixpences outside, how -different is that man from the other who storms and laughs and mocks -humanity, and sees through all its miserable pretenses without a thought -of pardon or excuse! The “Journal” letters addressed to the ladies in -Dublin, Madam P. P. T. and Madam Elderby, the two women who shared his -every thought, now so well known as the “Journal to Stella,” are, of all -Swift’s works, the only productions that touch the heart. They are not -to be numbered among his “works” at all: publication of any kind never -seems to have occurred to him, while writing: they are as frank as -Pepy’s[spelling per original], and far more simple and true. They are -English history and London life, and the eighteenth century, with its -mannerisms and quaintness, all in one; and beyond and above every -circumstance, they are Swift as he was in his deepest soul,—not as he -appeared to men,—a human being full of tenderness, full of fun and -innocent humor, full of genius and individual nature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> but, above all, -of true affection, the warmest domestic love. Passion is not in those -delightful pages; but the endearing playfulness, the absolute freedom of -self-revelation, the tender intimacy and confidence of members of the -same family, whose interests and subjects of thought and talk and merry -jests and delusions are one. They describe every day—nay, hour—of his -life, every little expedition, all the ups and downs of his occupations -and progress, with the boundless freedom and sportive extravagance, the -unimpassioned, unabashed adoration of something warmer than a father, -more indulgent, more admiring than a brother, yet brother, father, -lover, and friend all in one.</p> - -<p>Only to a woman could such letters have been addressed, and few women -reading them will be disposed to pity Stella or think her life one of -blight or injury. Without these the life of the dean would not have -touched our human sympathies at all, but now that time has let us thus -fully into his confidence, and opened to our sight what was never -intended for any but hers and those of her shadow, her guardian, the -humble third in this profound and perfect union, it is with moistened -eyes that we read the ever living record. There is nothing in the coarse -and struggling potency of those books which critics applaud, that comes -within a hundred miles of the delightful life and ease of these -outpourings of Swift’s innermost soul. The “Tale of a Tub,” the “Battle -of the Books,” retain a sort of galvanic existence, but are for the -greater part insupportable to the honest readers who have no tradition -of superior acumen and perception to maintain. But when we turn to the -“Journal,” the clean and wholesome pages smile with a cordial life and -reality. If there is here and there a phrase too broad for modern ears, -it is nothing more than the language of the time, and has not a ghost of -evil meaning in it. The big arrogant wit—not unused to bluster and -brag, to act like a tyrant and speak like a bully<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span>—meets us there -defenseless, with the tenderest light upon his face, in his nightcap and -without his wig, smiling over little M. D.’s letter in the wintry -mornings, snatching a moment at bedtime when he is already “seepy,” and -can do nothing but bid “nite deelest dea M. D. nite deelest loques,” -making his mouth, he says, as if he were saying the broken, childish -words, retiring into the sanctuary of the little language with an -infinite sense of consolation and repose. Outside it may be he swaggered -and defied all men, even his patrons; but here an exquisite softness -comes over him. However he may be judged or mistaken in the world, he is -always understood by the women in that secret world where they make -their comments on whatever happens, and merrily answer back again with -their criticisms, their strictures, no more afraid of that impetuous, -angry genius than if he had been the meekest of rural priests. It is -this that has got Swift his hold upon many a reader, who, beginning by -hating him, the coarse and bitter wit, the scorner of men and crusher of -women’s hearts, has suddenly found his own heart melt in his breast to -see the giant lay by his thunders and prattle like an old gossip, like a -tender mother, father, all in one, in the baby-talk that first had -opened to him the knowledge of all that is sweetest in life. We do not -understand the man, much less the woman, who can read without forgiving -to Swift all his brutalities, as indeed most women who encountered him -seem to have done without that argument. He would treat the fine ladies -with the most imperious rudeness, giving forth his rule that it was they -who should make advances to him, not he to them, yet captivating even -those who resisted in the end.</p> - -<p>The little language which this fierce satirist and cynic dared to put in -writing, the only man ever so bold as to pay such homage to affection, -puzzled beyond measure his first editors and expositors, who, with a -horrified prudery, seem to have done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> their best to interpret and -restore it to decorum and dignity; but it has now become the point in -his story which is most tenderly recollected, his sacred reconciliation -with mankind. A homeless boy, with none of the traditions of a family, -finding his unlovely life not less but more unpromising in his first -experiences of Temple’s luxurious English home, what a sudden fountain -of sweetness must have opened to him in the prattle of the delightful -child, which was a new revelation to his heart—revelation of all that -kindred meant, and delightful intimacy and familiar love. His little -star of life never waned to Swift: Stella grew old, but never outgrew -the little language, and every young woman had something in her of the -sprightly creature that loved to do his bidding, the P. P. T. who held -her own, and put him upon his best behavior often, yet never was other -than the “deelest little loque” whom he bantered and laughed at with -soft tears of tenderness in his eyes. “Better, thank God, and M. D.’s -prayers,” he says among the private scribbles of his daily diary, which -neither she nor any one was ever meant to see. Nevertheless, even while -he was writing this “Journal,” which is the record of a tender intimacy -so remarkable, Swift was meddling with the education of another girl, -incautiously, foolishly, who was not of the uninflammable nature of -Stella, but a hot-headed, passionate creature who did not at all imagine -that the mere</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">... delight he took<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To see the virgin mind her book<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">was all Dr. Swift meant by his talk and attention. Swift says nothing of -this pupil in the “Journal.” He mentions his dinners at Mrs. -Vanhomrigh’s, and her handsome daughter, but he does not tell Madam P. -P. T. that he had given one of his usual caressing names to this girl, -whose early beauty and frank devotion had pleased him. There is, indeed, -no shadow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:447px;"> -<a href="images/ill_027_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_027.jpg" width="447" height="442" alt="Image unavailable: MARLEY ABBEY, THE RESIDENCE OF VANESSA, NOW CALLED -SELBRIDGE ABBEY. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY R. C. COLLINS." /></a> -<br /><br /><div class="bboxx"> -<span class="caption">MARLEY ABBEY, THE RESIDENCE OF VANESSA,<br /> NOW CALLED -SELBRIDGE ABBEY.<br /><small> - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY R. C. COLLINS</small>.</span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">of Vanessa anywhere visible, though the brief mention of her name shows -that the second story, which was to be so fatally and painfully mingled -with the first, had already begun.</p> - -<p>The three years of Swift’s stay in England were the climax of his life. -They raised him higher than ever a simple parson had been raised before, -and made of him (or so, at least, he believed) a power in the state. It -has been doubted whether he was really so highly trusted, so much built -upon, as he thought. The great lords who delighted in Swift’s talk, and -called him Jonathan, did not, perhaps, follow his advice and accept his -guidance, as he supposed. He says, jestingly,—yet half, perhaps, with -an uneasy meaning,—that everything that was said between himself and -Harley as they traveled sociably in my Lord Treasurer’s coach to -Windsor, might have been told at Charing Cross; but this was a rare -admission, and generally he was very full of the schemes of the -ministers and their consultations, and his own important share in them. -He seems to have constituted himself the patron of everybody he knew, -really providing for a considerable number, and largely undertaking for -others, though it was long before he got anything for himself. The -following anecdote gives an unpleasant view from outside of his demeanor -and habits. It is from Bishop Kennett’s diary during the year 1713, the -last of Swift’s importance:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Swift came into the coffee-room, and had a bow from everybody save -me. When I came to the antechamber to wait before prayers, Dr. -Swift was the principal man of talk and business, and acted as -minister of requests. He was soliciting the Earl of Arran to speak -to his brother the Duke of Ormond to get a chaplain’s place -established in the garrison of Hull for Mr. Fiddes, a clergyman in -that neighborhood, who had lately been in jail and published -sermons to pay fees. He was promising Mr. Thorold to undertake with -my Lord Treasurer that according to his position he should obtain a -salary of £200 per annum as minister of the English Church in -Rotterdam. He stopped F. Gwynne, Esq.,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> going in with the red bag -to the Queen, and told him aloud he had something to say to him -from my Lord Treasurer. He talked with the son of Dr. Davenant, to -be sent abroad, and took out his pocket-book, and wrote down -several things as <i>memoranda</i> to do for him. He turned to the fire, -and took out his gold watch, and, telling them the time of day, -complained it was very late. A gentleman said, “It goes too fast.” -“How can I help it,” says the Doctor, “if the courtiers give me a -watch that won’t go right?” Then he instructed a young nobleman -that the best poet in England was Mr. Pope (a papist), who had -begun a translation of Homer into English verse, for which, he -said, he must have them all subscribe. “For,” says he, “the author -shall not begin to print it till I have a thousand guineas for -him.” Lord Treasurer, after leaving the Queen, came through the -room, beckoning Dr. Swift to follow him; both went off just before -prayers.</p></div> - -<p>But the account of the patronage which he exercised, and the brag and -general “swagger” of his demeanor, though it is by no means invisible in -the “Journal,” has a different aspect there, where he tells all about -his favor and power, to please his correspondents, with a good excuse in -this tender reason for magnifying all that happens to him. It was, -indeed, a position to turn even the soundest head, and Swift had -thirsted all his life for power, for notability, for that buoyant sense -of being on the top of the wave which was so contrary to all his -previous experience. His own satirical account of himself, as desiring -literary eminence only to make up for the mistake of not being born a -lord, is a self-contemptuous way of stating the thirst he had to be -foremost, to be doing, to be capable of moving the world. And he may -very well be excused for thinking now that he had done so.</p> - -<p>Amid the many disappointments of his life he had these three years of -triumph, which are much for a man to have. If there was a certain -vulgarity in his enjoyment of them, there was at the same time a great -deal of active kindness, and though he might brag of the services he -did, he yet did service and remembered his friends, and helped as he -could those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> hangers-on and waiters upon Providence who, in those days, -were always about a minister’s antechamber. It is unnecessary to attempt -to go over again the story of the politics of the time, in which he was -so powerful an agent. To see Swift moving about in his gown and wig, -with his eyes, “azure as the heavens,” glowing keen from underneath his -deep brows, sometimes full of sport and laughter and tender kindness, -sometimes with something “awful” in their look, sometimes dazzling with -humorous tyranny and command, is more interesting than to fathom over -again for the hundredth time the confusing intrigues of the age. One -thing is evident, that while he served others he got nothing for -himself: the bishopric so long longed for did not come, nor even a fat -English deanery, which would have been worth the having and kept him -near the center of affairs. Was Harley, too, disposed to flatter rather -than promote his Jonathan? or was it the queen’s determined prejudice, -and conviction that the “Tale of a Tub” was no fit foundation for a -miter? The latter would have been little wonderful, for Swift had taken -pains to embroil himself with the court, by a coarse and ineffective -satire called the “Windsor Prophecy,” which no doubt amused the hostile -coteries, yet could not but do the rash writer harm.</p> - -<p>At last, just before the fall of Harley, preferment was found for the -champion who had served him so well. It was the last that Swift would -have chosen for himself—a kind of dignified banishment and exile from -all he loved best. There was a question between the deanery of St. -Patrick’s and that of Windsor, he himself says. Had he gone to the royal -borough, what a curious change might have come to all his after life! -Would Stella, one wonders, have found a red-roofed house under the -cloister walls? and the dean lived, perhaps, to get the confidence of -Queen Caroline, a queen worth pleasing? and looked upon the world with -azure eyes softened by prosperity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> from the storied slopes, and worn his -ribbon of the Garter with a proud inflation of the bosom which had -always sighed for greatness? How many differences, how much softening, -expanding, almost elevation, might not the kind hand of Fortune work in -such great but troubled natures were it allowed to smooth and caress the -roughness away!</p> - -<p>When the issue of the conflict between Harley and Bolingbroke became too -evident to be doubted, Swift showed the softer side of his character in -a very unexpected way. He ran away from the catastrophe like a nervous -woman, hiding himself in a country parsonage till the blow should be -struck and the calamity be overpast, a very curious piece of moral -timidity or nervous over-sensitiveness, for which we are entirely -unprepared. It was less extraordinary that he should write to offer -himself to Harley as a companion in his solitude when the minister was -fairly ousted, although even then Bolingbroke was bidding eagerly for -his services. But whether Swift would have accepted these offers, or -would have carried his evidently genuine attachment to Harley so far as -permanently to withdraw with him from public life, was never known. For -the victory of St. John was short indeed. “The Earl of Oxford was -removed on Tuesday, the Queen died on Sunday. What a world is this, and -how does Fortune banter us!” writes Bolingbroke. It was such a stroke of -the irony of fate as Swift himself might have invented, and St. John -applauded with the laughter of the philosopher. There was an end of -political power for both, and the triumph and greatness of Swift’s -reflected glory was over without hope of renewal.</p> - -<p>He had now nothing to do but to return to Ireland, so long neglected, -the country of his disappointments, which did not love him, and which he -did not love, where his big genius (he thought) had not room enough to -breathe, where society was small and provincial, and life flat and bare, -and only a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> familiar friends appreciated him or knew what he was. -How he was to make himself the idol of that country, a kind of king in -it, and gain power of a different kind from any he had yet wielded, was -as yet a secret hidden in the mists of the future to Swift and everybody -around. His account of himself when he got home to his dull deanery, “a -vast unfurnished house,” with a few servants in it, “all on board -wages,” is melancholy enough. “I live a country life in town, see -nobody, and go every day once to prayers, and hope in a few months to -grow as stupid as the present situation of affairs will require,” but he -consoles himself: “after all, parsons are not such bad company, -especially when they are <i>under subjection; and I let none but such come -near me</i>,” a curious statement, in which the great satirist, as often -before, gives a stroke of his idle sword at himself.</p> - -<p>But Swift was not long left in this stagnation. Extreme quiet is in many -cases but a cover for brewing mischief, and the dean had not long -returned to Ireland when that handsome daughter of Mrs. Vanhomrigh, of -whom he had said so little in his letters, found herself, on her -mother’s death, drawn to Ireland, and the neighborhood of her tutor and -correspondent. It is curious to find so many links to Ireland in this -little company. Stella had a farm in Meath left to her by Sir William -Temple, Vanessa, “a small property at Celbridge,” to which it suited her -to retire. And thus there were gathered together within a short distance -the dean himself in his dull house, the assured and quiet possessor of -his tenderest affections in Dublin near him, and the impassioned girl -who had declared for him love of a very different kind, at Marley Abbey, -within the reach of a ride. That Swift had a heart large enough to admit -on his own terms many women is very evident, and that he had a fondness -for Vanessa among the rest; but how far he was to blame for her fatal -passion, it is scarcely possible to decide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> The story of their -connection, as told from his side of the question in the poem of -“Cadenus and Vanessa,” shows an unconsciousness and innocence of purpose -which takes all the responsibility of her infatuation from the dean, and -shows him in a light all too artless.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The innocent delight he took,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To see the virgin mind her book,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was but the master’s secret joy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In school to hear the finest boy.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>But this was not the light in which the headstrong young woman, who made -no secret of her love, and filled him with “shame, disappointment, -guilt, remorse,” by the revelation, regarded his attentions. Their -correspondence went on for nearly ten years. It is a painful -correspondence, as the outpouring of a woman’s passion for a man who -does not respond to it must always be; but Swift never seems to have -fostered that passion, nor to have done anything but discourage and -subdue a love so embarrassing and troublesome.</p> - -<p>And now comes in the mystery which everybody has discussed, but which -none have brought to any certain conclusion. In 1716, two years after -Swift’s return to Ireland, it is said that he married Stella, thus -putting himself at once out of all possibility of marrying Miss -Vanhomrigh (which might have been a motive) and satisfying Stella, as -the notion goes. Scott receives the statement as proved; so does Mr. -Craik, Swift’s last, and a most conscientious and careful biographer. -The evidence for it is that Lord Orrery and Dr. Delany, the earliest -writers on the subject, both assert it (“if my informations are right,” -as the former says) as a supposition universally believed in society; -and that the fact was told by the Bishop of Clogher, who performed the -ceremony, to Bishop Berkeley, who told it to his wife, who told it after -her husband’s death, and long after the event, to George Monck Berkeley, -who tells the story.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> But Bishop Berkeley was in Italy at the time and -could not have been told, though he might have heard it at second-hand -from his pupil, the Bishop of Clogher’s son. We wonder if an inheritance -or the legitimacy of a child would be considered proved by such -evidence, or whether the prevailing sense of society that such a thing -ought to have taken place has not a large share in the common belief. At -all times, as at the present moment, wherever a close friendship between -man and woman exists (and the very fact of such rumors makes it -extremely rare), suggestions of the same description float in the air. -Nobody supposes, if the marriage took place at all, that it was anything -more than a mere form. It was performed, if performed at all, in the -garden without any formal or legal preliminaries. Supposing such a -fictitious rite to have any justification in Irish law, we wonder what -the authorities of the church would have had to say to two high -dignitaries who united to perform an act so disorderly and contrary to -ecclesiastical decorum, if to nothing else. It is totally unlike Swift, -whose feeling for the church was strong, to have used her ordinances so -disrespectfully, and most unlike all we know of Stella that she should -have consented to so utterly false a relationship. However, the question -is one which the reader will decide according to his own judgment, and -upon which no one can speak with authority. Mr. Forster, of all Swift’s -biographers the most elaborate and anxious, did not get so far in his -work as to examine the evidence, yet intimates his disbelief of the -story. We do not need, however, to have recourse to the expedient of a -marriage to explain how the story of Vanessa might have been a pain and -offense to Stella. Swift had not in this particular been frank with his -friends, and the discovery, so near them, of a woman making so -passionate a claim upon his affections must have conveyed the shock at -once of a deception and an unpardonable intrusion to one who was proudly -conscious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> of being his most trusted confidant and closest companion. -Whatever were the rights of the case, however, nobody can now know. -Whether Vanessa had heard the rumor of the private marriage, whether she -conceived that a desperate appeal to his dearest friend might help her -own claim, or whether mere suspicion and misery, boiling over, found -expression in the hasty letter to Stella which she wrote at the crisis -of her career, is equally unessential. She did write, and Stella, -surprised and offended, showed the letter to Swift. Nothing can be more -tragic than the events that follow. Swift, in one of those wild bursts -of passion which were beyond the control of reason, rode out at once to -the unfortunate young woman’s house. He burst in without a word, threw -her own letter on the table before her, and rode off again like a -whirlwind. Vanessa came of a short-lived race, and was then, at -thirty-four, the last of her family. She never recovered the blow, but, -dying soon after, directed her letters and the poem which contained the -story of her love and his coldness to be published. This was not done -for nearly a century; and now more than half of another has gone, but -the story is as full of passion and misery, as unexplained, as ever. -This was one of the occupations of Swift’s stagnant time. He fled, as he -had done at the moment of Harley’s fall, that, at least, he might not -see what was going to happen.</p> - -<p>But a little while longer was the other, the love of his life, spared to -him. Five years after the tragical end of Vanessa, Stella too died, -after long suffering. There is a second story, of equally doubtful -authenticity and confused and extraordinary details, about a proposed -tardy acknowledgment of the apocryphal marriage; but whether it was he -or she who suggested this, whether it was he or she who found it “too -late,” whether there was any reality in it at all, no one has ever -determined. Stella’s illness grew serious while Swift<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:389px;"> -<a href="images/ill_028_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_028.jpg" width="389" height="465" alt="Image unavailable: GEORGE, EARL OF BERKELEY. - -FROM AN UNFINISHED ENGRAVING, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM, ATTRIBUTED TO DAVID -LOGGAN." /></a> -<br /><div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">GEORGE, EARL OF BERKELEY. -<br /><small> -FROM AN UNFINISHED ENGRAVING, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM,<br /> ATTRIBUTED TO DAVID -LOGGAN.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">was absent, and his anguish at the news was curiously mingled with an -overwhelming dread lest she should die at the deanery, and thus -compromise her reputation and his own; perhaps, too, lest the house to -which he must return should be made intolerable to him by the shadow of -such an event. That he should have kept away, with his usual terror of -everything painful, was entirely in keeping with his character. But the -first alarm passed away, and Swift was in the deanery when this great -sorrow overtook him. He who had kept a letter for an hour without daring -to open it, in which he trembled to find the news of her death, now shut -himself up heartbroken in his solitary house, and, somewhat calmed by -the irrevocable,—as grief, however desperate, always must -be,—proceeded to give himself what consolation was possible by writing -a “Character,” as was the fashion of the time, of “the truest, most -virtuous, and valuable friend I, or perhaps any other person, was ever -blessed with.” The calm after the storm, but a calm of sober despair and -dread, unreal composure, is in this strange document. He wrote till “my -head aches, and I can write no more,” and on the third day resumed and -completed the strange and melancholy narrative.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>This is the night of her funeral, which my sickness will not suffer -me to attend. It is now nine at night, and I am removed into -another apartment, that I may not see the light in the Church, -which is just over against the window of my bedchamber.</p></div> - -<p>She was buried in his own cathedral by torchlight, as the custom was; -but he would no more bear the glimpses of that awful light through the -window, than he could witness the putting away of all that remained of -Stella in the double gloom of the vault and the night. In that other -apartment he concluded his sad panegyric, the story of all she was and -did, showing with intense but subdued eloquence that there was no fault -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> her. “There is none like her, none.” This is the burden of the old -man’s self-restrained anguish, the tragedy of his age, as it is the -young lover’s pæan of triumph. The truest, most valuable friend that -ever man had—and now her beautiful life was ended, to be his -consolation no more. He had a lock of her hair in his possession -somewhere, either given him then or at some brighter moment, which was -found after his death, as all the world knows, with these words written -upon the paper that contained it: “Only a woman’s hair.” Only all the -softness, the brightness, the love and blessing of a life; only all that -the heart had to rest upon of human solace; only that—no more. He who -had thanked God and M. D.’s prayers for his better health, had now no -one to pray for him, or to receive his confidences. It was over, all -that best of life—as if it had never been.</p> - -<p>It is easy to expand such a text, and many have done it. In the mean -time, before these terrible events had occurred, while Vanessa’s letters -were still disturbing his peace, and death had as yet touched none of -his surroundings, he had accomplished the greatest literary work of his -life, that by which every child knows Swift’s name—the travels of the -famous Gulliver. The children have made their selection with an unerring -judgment which is above criticism, and have taken Lilliput and -Brobdingnag into their hearts, rejecting all the rest. That Swift had a -meaning, bitter and sharp, even in the most innocent part of that -immortal fable, and meant to strike a blow at politicians and generals, -and the human race, with its puny wars, and glories, and endless -vanities and foolishness, is evident enough; and it was for this that -the people of his time seized upon the book with breathless interest, -and old Duchess Sarah in her old age chuckled and forgave the dean. But -the vast majority of his readers have not so much as known that he meant -anything except the most amusing and witty fancy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> the keenest comic -delineation of impossible circumstances. That delightful Irish bishop, -if ever he was, who declared that “the book was full of improbable lies, -and for his part he hardly believed a word of it,” is the only critic we -want. “‘Gulliver’s Travels’ is almost the most delightful children’s -book ever written,” says Mr. Leslie Stephen, no small authority. It had -no doubt been talked over and read to the ladies, who, it would -incidentally appear, had not liked the “Tale of a Tub.” But Swift was at -home when he wrote “Gulliver,” and had no need of a journal to -communicate his proceedings.</p> - -<p>Between 1714 and 1726, for a dozen years, he remained in Ireland without -intermission, altogether apart from public life. At the latter date he -went to London, probably needing, after the shock of Miss Vanhomrigh’s -death, and the grievous sense he must have had that it was he who had -killed her, a change of scene; and it was then that “Gulliver” was -published. The latter portions of it which the children have rejected we -are glad to have no space to dwell upon. The bitterness, passion, and -misery of them are beyond parallel. One would like to have any ground -for believing that the Houyhnhms and the rest came into being after -Stella’s death; but this was not the case. She was only a woman, and was -not, after all, of such vital importance in the man’s existence. -Withdrawal from the life he loved, confinement in a narrow sphere, the -disappointment of a soul which felt itself born for greatness, and had -tasted the high excitements of power, but now had nothing to do but -fight over the choir with his archbishop, and give occasion for a -hundred anecdotes in the Dublin coteries, had matured the angry passion -in him and soured the sweetness of nature. Few people now when they take -up their “Gulliver” go beyond Brobdingnag. The rest is like a succession -of bad dreams, the confused miseries of a fever. To think that in a -deanery, that calm seat of ecclesiastical luxury, within sound of the -cathedral<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> bells and the choristers’ chants, a brain so dark and -distracted, and dreams so terrible, should have found shelter! They are -all the more bitter and appalling from their contrast with the -surroundings among which they had their disastrous birth.</p> - -<p>The later part of Swift’s life, however, had occupation of a very -different and nobler kind. The Ireland he knew was so different from the -Ireland with which we are acquainted, that to contemplate the two is apt -to give a sort of moral vertigo, a giddiness of the intellect, to the -observer. Swift’s Ireland was the country of the English-Irish, -ultra-Protestant, like the real Ireland only in the keenness of its -politics and the sharpness of its opposition to imperial measures. It -was Ireland with a parliament of her own, and many of the privileges -which are now her highest aspirations, yet she was not content. Swift, -in speaking of the people, the true Irish, the Catholic masses, who at -that moment bore their misery with a patience inconceivable, said of -them that they were no more considerable than the women and children, a -race so utterly trodden down and subdued that there was no need for the -politician to take them into account. The position of the predominant -class was almost like that of white men among the natives of a savage -country, or at least like that of the English in India, the confident -and assured rulers of a subject race. Nevertheless, these men were full -of a sort of national feeling, and ready to rise up in hot and not -ineffectual opposition when need was, and reckon themselves Irish, -whereas no sahib has ever reckoned himself Indian. The real people of -Ireland were held under the severest yoke, but those gentlemen who -represented the nation can scarcely be said to have been oppressed. -Their complaint was that Englishmen were put into vacant posts, that -their wishes were disregarded, and their affairs neglected, complaints -which even prosperous Scotland has been known to make. They were -affected, however, as well as the race which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width: 479px;"> -<a href="images/ill_029_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_029.jpg" width="479" height="347" alt="Image unavailable: ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN. -<br /><small> -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">they kept under their feet, by the intolerable law which suppressed -woolen manufactures in Ireland, and it was on this subject that Swift -first broke silence, and appeared as the national champion, recommending -to his countrymen such reprisals as the small can employ against the -great, in the form of a proposal that Irishmen should use Irish -manufactures only, a proposal by no means unlikely to be carried out -should an Irish parliament ever exist again.</p> - -<p>The commotion produced by this real and terrible oppression was nothing, -however, to that called forth by an innocent attempt to give a copper -coinage—the most convenient of circulating mediums—to Ireland. Nothing -could have been more harmless, more useful and necessary in reality, and -there is no reason to suppose that dishonesty of any kind was involved. -But the public mind was embittered by the fact that the patent had been -granted to one of King George’s German favorites, and by her sold to -Wood, an Englishman, who was supposed to be about to make an enormous -profit out of the country by half-pence not worth their nominal value. -Such an idea stirred the prejudices and fears of the very lowest, and -would even now rouse the ignorant into rage and panic. Whether Swift -shared that natural and national, if unreasonable, outburst of -indignation and alarm to the full extent, or if he threw himself into it -with the instinct of an agitator foreseeing the capabilities of the -subject, it is difficult to tell. But the “Drapier’s Letters” gave to -the public outcry so powerful a force of resistance, and excited the -entire country into such unanimity and opposition, that the English -Government was forced to withdraw from this attempt, and the position of -the Irish nation, as an oppressed yet not unpowerful entity, still able -to face its tyrants and protest against their careless sway, became -distinctly apparent. It is strange that a man who hated Ireland, and -considered himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> an exile in her, should have been the one to claim -for her an independence, a freedom she had never yet possessed, and -should have been able to inspire at once the subject and the ruling race -with the sense that they had found a champion capable of all things, and -through whom for the first time their voice might be heard in the world. -The immediate result was to Swift a popularity beyond bounds. The people -he despised were seized with an adoration for him which was shared by -the class to which he himself belonged—perhaps the first subject on -which they had agreed. “When he returned from England in 1726 bells were -rung, bonfires lighted, and a guard of honor escorted him to the -deanery. Towns voted him their freedom and received him as a prince. -When Walpole spoke of arresting him a prudent friend told the minister -that the messenger would require a guard of 10,000 soldiers.” When the -crowd which had gathered to see an eclipse disturbed him by the hum they -made, Swift sent out to tell them that the event was put off by order of -the dean, and the simple-minded people dispersed obediently! Had he been -so minded, and had he fully understood and loved the race over which his -great and troubled spirit had gained such power, much might perhaps have -been ameliorated in that unfortunate country, so cursed in her friends -as in her foes, and much in the soul consuming itself in angry -inactivity with no fit work in hand. But it would have taken a miracle -indeed to have turned this Englishman born in Ireland, this political -churchman and hater of papists and dissenters, into the savior of the -subject race. That he was, however, deeply struck with an impression of -their misery, and that his soul, always so ready to break forth upon the -cruelty, the falsehood, the barbarous misconception of men by men, found -in their wrongs a subject upon which he could scarcely exaggerate, is -apparent enough. His “Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of the -Poor in Ireland<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> from Being a Burden to their Parents or Country” is one -of those pieces of terrible satire which lacerate the heart. Tears as of -blood are in it, a passion of indignant pity, and fury, and despair. -“Eat them, then, since there’s nothing else to be done with them,” he -says, detailing with elaborate composure the way to do it and the -desirableness of such a supply of delicate food. The reader, unwarned -and simple-minded, might almost, with a gasp of horror, take the -proposal for genuine. But Swift’s meaning was really more terrible than -cannibalism. It was the sense that these children, the noblest fruit of -nature, were in truth the embarrassment, the fatal glut of a miserable -race, that forced this dreadful irony upon him. And what picture could -be more terrible than that of the childless old man with his bleeding -heart, himself deserted of all that made life sweet, thus facing the -world with scorn so infinite that it transcends all symbols of passion, -bidding it consume what it has brought forth?</p> - -<p>But Swift, unfortunately for himself and her, loved Ireland as little -when he thus made himself her champion as he had done throughout his -life. At all times his longing eyes were turned toward the country in -which life was, and power, and friends, and fame. Though he was aware he -was growing old and ought to be “done with this world,” he yet cries -aloud his desire “to get into a better before I was called into the -best, and not die here in a rage like a poisoned rat in a hole,”—a -terrific image, and one of those phrases that burn and glow with a pale -light of despair. But he never got into that better world he longed for. -The slow years crept over him, and he lived on, making existence -tolerable by such expedients as he could, a wonderful proof how the body -will resist all the frettings of the soul, yet growing more angry, more -desperate, more subject to the bitter passions which had broken forth -even in his best days, as he grew older and had fewer reasons for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> -restraining himself. At last the great dean, the greatest genius of his -age, the man of war and battle, of quip and jest, he who had thirsted to -be doing through all his life, fell into imbecility and stupor, with -occasional wild awakenings into consciousness which were still more -terrible. He died, denuded of all things, in 1745, having lived till -seventy-eight in spite of himself.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Ubi saeva indignatio<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cor ulterius lacerare nequit<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">is written on his tomb. No more can fiery wrath and indignation reach -him where he lies by Stella’s side in the aisle over against his chamber -window. The touch of her quiet dust must have soothed, one would think, -the last fever that lingered still in him even after death had done its -worst.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_IV" id="Chapter_IV"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter IV</span><br /><br /> -THE AUTHOR OF “ROBINSON CRUSOE”</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE age of Queen Anne was one which abounded in paradoxes, and loved -them. It was an age when England was full of patriotic policy, yet every -statesman was a traitor; when tradition was dear, yet revolution -practicable; when speech was gross and manners unrefined, yet the laws -of literary composition rigid, and correctness the test of poetry. It -was full of high ecclesiasticism and strict Puritanism, sometimes united -in one person. In it ignorance was most profound, yet learning most -considered and prominent. An age when Parson Trulliber was not an unfit -representative of the rural clergy, yet the public could be interested -in such a recondite pleasantry as the “Battle of the Books,” seems the -strangest self-contradiction; yet so it was in this paradoxical age. No -man lived who was a more complete paradox than Defoe. His fame is -world-wide, yet all that is known of him is one or two of his least -productions, and his busy life is ignored in the permanent place in -literary history which he has secured. His characteristics, as apart -from his conduct, are all those of an honest man, but when that most -important part of him is taken into the question it is difficult to -pronounce him anything but a knave. His distinguishing literary quality -is a minute truthfulness to fact which makes it almost impossible not to -take what he says for gospel. But his constant inspiration is fiction, -not to say, in some circumstances, falsehood. He spent his life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> in the -highest endeavors that a man can engage in: in the work of persuading -and influencing his country, chiefly for her good; and he is remembered -by a boy’s book, which is indeed the first of boy’s books, yet not much -more. Through these contradictions we must push our way before we can -reach to any clear idea of Defoe, the London tradesman who by times -composed almost all the newspapers in London, wrote all the pamphlets, -had his finger in every pie, and a share in all that was done, yet -brought nothing out of it but a damaged reputation and an unhonored end.</p> - -<p>It is curious that something of a similar fate should have happened to -the other and greater figure, his contemporary, his enemy, in some -respects his fellow-laborer, another and more brilliant slave of the -government, which in itself had so little that was brilliant,—the great -dean whose name has already appeared so often in these sketches. Swift, -too, of all his books, is remembered chiefly by the book of the travels -of “Gulliver,” which, though full of a satirical purpose unknown to -Defoe, has come to rank along with “Robinson Crusoe.” We may say indeed -that these two books form a class by themselves, of perennial -enchantment for the young, and full of a curious and enthralling -illusion which even in age we rarely shake off. Swift rises into bitter -and terrible tragedy, while Defoe sinks into matter of fact and -commonplace; but the shipwrecked sailor on his desolate island, and the -exile at the courts of Lilliput and Brobdingnag, both in the beginnings -of their careers hold our imaginations captive, and are as fresh and as -powerful to-day as when, the one in keen satire, the other in the -legitimate way of business, they first made their appearance in the -world. It is a singular link between the men who both did Harley’s dirty -work for him, and were subject to a leader so much smaller than -themselves.</p> - -<p>Daniel Defoe was born in London in 1661, of what would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> seem to have -been a respectable burgher family, only one generation out of the -country, which probably was why his father, with yeomen and grazier -relations in Northamptonshire, was a butcher in town. The butcher’s -name, however, was Foe; and whether the Defoe of his son was a mere -pleasantry upon his signature of D. Foe, or whether it embodied an -intention of setting up for something better than the tradesman’s -monosyllable, is a quite futile question upon which nobody can throw any -light. The boy was well educated, according to the capabilities of his -kindred, in a school at Newington, probably intended for the sons of -comfortable dissenting tradesmen, who were to be devoted to the -ministry, with the assistance in some cases of a fund raised for that -purpose. The master was good, and if Defoe attained there even the -rudiments of the information he afterward showed, and laid claim to, the -education must have been excellent indeed. He claims to have known -Latin, Spanish, Italian, French, “and could read the Greek,”—which -latter is as much as could have been expected had he been the most -advanced of scholars,—besides an acquaintance with science, geography, -and history not to be surpassed, apparently, by any man of his time. “If -I am a blockhead,” he says, “it was nobody’s fault but my own,” his -father having “spared nothing” on his education. Much of this -information, however, was no doubt picked up in the travels and much -knocking about of his early years, of which there is little record. He -would seem to have changed his mind about becoming a dissenting minister -at an early age, and was probably a youth of somewhat wandering -tendencies, as he claims to have been “out” with Monmouth, and does not -appear in any recognized occupation till after that unfortunate attempt. -He must have been twenty-four when he first becomes visible as a hosier -in Cornhill, which seems a very natural and indeed rather superior -beginning in life for the son of the butcher in Cripplegate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> He laid -claim afterward to having been a trader,—not a shopkeeper,—a claim -supported more or less from a source not favorable to Defoe, by -Oldmixon, who says that his only connection with the trade was that of -“peddling to Portugal,” whatever that may mean. We may take it for -granted that he had occasions of visiting the Continent in connection, -one way or other, with his trade. The volume of advice to shopkeepers -which is entitled the “Complete English Tradesman,” written and -published in the latter part of his life, though it does not seem to be -taken by his biographers in general as any certain indication that he -himself made his beginning in a shop, is nevertheless full of curious -details of the life of the London shopkeeper of his time, to which class -he assuredly belonged. We learn from this curious production that vanity -was even more foolish in the eighteenth century than it is now. We are -acquainted with sporting shopkeepers who ride to hounds, and with -foolish young men who fondly hope to be mistaken for “swells”; but a -shopkeeper in a wig and a sword passes the power of imagination. It is a -droll example of the fallacy of all our fond retrospections and -preference of the good old times to find that in Defoe’s day this was by -no means an extraordinary circumstance. “The playhouses and balls,” he -says, “are more filled with citizens and young tradesmen than with -gentlemen and families of distinction; the shopkeepers wear different -garbs than what they were wont to do, are decked out with long wigs and -swords, and all the frugal badges of trade are quite disdained and cast -aside.”</p> - -<p>We may take from this book as an illustration of the habits of the age -the following description of a young firm which is clearly on the way to -ruin:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>They say there are two partners of them, but there had as good be -none, for they are never at home or in the shop. One wears a long -peruke and a sword, I hear, and you see him often at the ball and -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> court, but very seldom in his shop, or waiting on his -customers; and the other, they say, lies abed till eleven o’clock -every day, just comes into the shop and shows himself, then stalks -about to the tavern to take a whet, then to the coffee-house to -hear the news, comes home to dinner at one, takes a long sleep in -his chair after it, and about four o’clock comes into the shop for -half an hour or thereabouts, then to the tavern, where he stays -till two in the morning, gets drunk, and is led home by the watch, -and so lies till eleven again; and thus he walks round like the -hand of a dial. And what will it all come to? They’ll certainly -break. They can’t hold long.</p></div> - -<p>The account of the shop kept by these two idle masters is equally -characteristic.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>There is a good stock of goods in it, but there is nobody to serve -but a prentice boy or two and an idle journeyman. One finds them -all at play together rather than looking out for customers; and -when you come to buy, they look as if they did not care whether -they showed you anything or no. Then it is a shop always exposed; -it is perfectly haunted with thieves and shoplifters. They are -nobody but raw boys in it that mind nothing, so that there are more -outcries of stop thief! at their door, and more constables fetched -to that shop than to all the shops in the street.</p></div> - -<p>The households of the soberer and more sensible members of the craft are -also open to grave animadversion. The ladies are too fine; they treat -their friends with wine or punch or fine ale, and have their parlors set -off with the tea-table and the chocolate-pot, and the silver coffee-pot, -and oftentimes an ostentation of plate into the bargain, and they keep -“three or four maid servants, nay, sometimes five,” and some a footman -besides, “for ’tis an ordinary thing to see the tradesmen and -shopkeepers of London keep footmen, as well as the gentlemen. Witness -the infinite number of blue liveries which are so common now that they -are called the tradesmens’ liveries, and few gentlemen care to give blue -to their servants for that very reason.” Of the maids themselves, who -ask “six, seven, nay<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> eight pounds per annum” for their services, a -terrible account is given in a pamphlet published about 1725, where -there is a humorous description in the first person of a young woman who -comes to apply for the place of housemaid, evidently maid of all work to -the speaker, who lives with his sister, with a man and maid for their -household. She is so fine that Defoe himself shows her into the parlor -and keeps her company till his sister is ready, thinking her a -gentlewoman come to pay a visit. Perhaps it is not Defoe, but, with his -usual skill, he makes us think so. All these details bring before us the -London of his time. The mercers had their shops in Paternoster Row, -“where the spacious shops, back warehouses, skylights, and other -conveniences, made on purpose for their trade, are still to be seen,” -where “they all grew rich and very seldom any failed or miscarried,” and -also in Cornhill, where Defoe’s own establishment was, though there, -apparently, business was carried on wholesale. It appears to him that -trade is going downhill fast when this order is changed, when Paul’s -Churchyard is filled with cane-chair makers, and Cornhill with the -meanest of trades, even Cheapside itself, “how is it now filled up with -shoemakers, toy shops, and pastry cooks?” Everything is going to -destruction, the old trader thinks, shaking his head as he goes through -the well-known streets, where once the fine ladies came in their fine -coaches standing in two rows; he cannot think but that trade itself is -coming to an end when such changes can come to pass. Trade, he says, -like vice, has come to a height, and as things decline when they are at -their extremes, so trade not only must decline, but does already -sensibly decline. It ought to be a comfort to the many timid persons who -have lived and prophesied evil since then to hear that Defoe a hundred -and fifty years ago had come to this sad conclusion.</p> - -<p>He was born into a world he thus describes, into the atmosphere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> of -shops and counting-houses, where the good tradesman lived in the parlor -above or behind his shop, and was called with a bell when need was, and -was constant at business “from seven in the morning till twelve, and -from two to nine at night,” the interval being occupied with dinner; -where the appearance of the long, flowing periwig and the sword and the -man in blue livery were the danger-signals, and showed that he must -break, he could not hold; where the cry of “Stop, thief!” might suddenly -get up in the midst of the traffic, and the constable be called to some -fainting fine lady who had got a piece of taffeta or a lace in her muff -or under her hoop; and where, perhaps the greatest risk of all, a young -man of genius, who was but a hosier, might betray himself in a -coffee-house and be visited afterward by great personages veiling their -lace and embroidery under their cloaks, who wanted a seasonable pamphlet -or a newspaper put into the right way. A strange old London, more -difficult to put on record in its manners and features than it is to -record in pasteboard its outward aspect; where town could be convulsed -by a chance broadsheet, and the Government propped or wounded to death -by an anonymous essayist; when men of letters were secretaries of state, -and other men of letters starved in Grub street, and the masses thanked -God they could not read; when a revolution was made for liberty of -conscience, yet every office and privilege was barred by a test, and -intolerance was the habit of the time. The author of “Robinson Crusoe” -must have got all his ideas in the narrow, bustling streets, full of -rumors, of wars and commotions, and talk about the scandals of the -court, and sight of the finery and license which revolted, yet exercised -some strange fascinations upon the sober dissenting tradesmen who had -found the sway of Oliver a hard one. He was born the year after the -Restoration, and was no doubt carried out of London post-haste with the -rest of his family in the early summer when the roads were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> crowded with -wagons and carts full of women, children, and servants, all flying from -the plague. The butcher’s little son was but four, but very likely -retained a recollection of the crowded ways and strange spectacles of -the time; and no doubt he saw, with eyes starting out of their little -sockets with excitement and terror, the glare of the great fire which -burned down all the haunts of the pestilence and cured London by -destroying it. Then, both at school, at Newington, and in the parlor -behind the shop, there would be many a grave talk over what was to come -of all the wickedness in high places; and when the papist king came to -the throne, many discussions as to how much his new-born liberality was -good for, and whether there was any safety in trusting to his -indulgences and declarations of liberty of conscience. Defoe by this -time was old enough to speak his own mind. He had left school at -nineteen, and till he was twenty-four there is no appearance that he was -doing anything, save, perhaps, picking up notions on trade in general, -and as much as a young dissenter could, among his own class, or in the -coffee-houses where it was safe, delivering his sentiments upon -questions so vital to the welfare of the country. According to his own -statement, he had written a pamphlet in 1683 to prove that a Christian -power, though popish, was better than the Turk. He was now so bold as to -tell the dissenters “he had rather the Church of England should pull our -clothes off by fines and forfeitures than the papists should fall both -upon the church and the dissenters, and pull our skins off by fire and -faggot.” No doubt he was then about in London noticing everything, -discoursing largely with a wonderful, long-winded, sober enthusiasm, -making every statement that occurred to him look like the most certain -truth; talking everywhere, in the coffee-house, at the street corners, -down in Cripplegate in the paternal parlor, never silent; a swarthy -youth, with quick gray eyes and keen, eager features,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 373px;"> -<a href="images/ill_030_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_030.jpg" width="373" height="444" alt="Image unavailable: DANIEL DEFOE. - -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL, AFTER COPPERPLATE BY M. VAN DER GUCHT, IN -THE BRITISH MUSEUM." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">DANIEL DEFOE. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL, AFTER COPPERPLATE BY M. VAN DER GUCHT,<br /> IN -THE BRITISH MUSEUM.</small></span><br /><br /> -<a href="images/ill_030_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_030a.jpg" width="150" alt="Image unavailable." /></a> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and large, loquacious mouth. Better be fined and silenced than let in -popery to burn you into the bargain. Better stand fast in all those -deprivations and hold your faith in corners, than accept suspicious -favor from such a source, and help to bring in again the Jesuit and the -Pope. While Penn, with his plausible speech and amiable temper, drew his -Quaker brethren into a strange harmony with the courtier’s arts, and -presented addresses to James, and accepted his grace, the young -tradesman would be pressing his very different argument upon the -suspicious somber groups far from St. James’s, where there was no -finery, but a great deal of determination. And when in the disturbed and -confused wretchedness of the time, no man knowing what was about to -happen, but sure that some change must come, young Monmouth set up his -hapless standard, could it be Defoe’s own impulse, or the catch of some -eddy of feeling into which he had been swept, which carried him off into -the ranks of the adventurer? It is said that three of his -fellow-students at Newington figure among the victims of the Bloody -Assize. Defoe would always be more disposed to talk than fight. He must, -we cannot help thinking, have thought it a feeble proceeding to put -yourself in the way of getting your head cut off, when you could use it -so much more effectually in convincing your fellow-creatures. His mind, -ever so ready to slip through every loophole, carried his body off -safely out of the clutches of Jeffreys. Probably when he turned up at -home against all hope after this unlucky escapade, his friends were too -thankful to thrust him into the hosier’s warehouse, where no doubt he -would give himself the air of having sold and bought hose all his life.</p> - -<p>There is, however, nothing to build any account of his life upon in -these earlier years. The revolution filled him with enthusiasm, and King -William gained his full and honest support—a support both bold and -serviceable, and with nothing in -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" -id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> -it which was not to his credit. But -apparently a man cannot be so good a talker, so active a politician, and -follow the rules which he himself laid down for a successful tradesman -at the same time. Most likely his mind was never in his hose, and the -world was full of so many more exciting matters. Seven years after he -had been set up in business he “broke,” and had to fly, though no -further than Bristol, apparently, where he made an arrangement with his -creditors. He would seem to have failed for the large sum at that time -of seventeen thousand pounds, which he honestly exerted himself to pay, -and so far succeeded in doing so that he reduced in a few years his -debts to five thousand pounds in all; and, what was still more, finding -certain of the creditors with whom he had compounded to be poor, after -he had paid his composition fully, he made up to them the entire amount -of his debt—an unlooked-for and exceptional example of honorable -sentiment. Some years later, when Defoe had got into notoriety, and was -the object of a great deal of violent criticism, a contemporary gives -this fact, on the authority indeed of an anonymous gentleman in a -coffee-house only, but it seems to have been generally received as true. -The writer was in a company “where I and everybody else were railing at -him,” when “the gentleman took us up with this short speech:</p> - -<p>“‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I know this Defoe as well as any of you, for I -was one of his creditors, compounded with him and discharged him fully. -Several years afterward he sent for me, and, though he was clearly -discharged, he paid me all the remainder of his debt, voluntarily and of -his own accord, and he told me that, as far as God should enable him, he -intended to do so with everybody. When he had done he desired me to set -my hand to a paper to acknowledge it, which I readily did, and found a -great many names to the paper before me, and I think myself bound to own -it.’”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span></p> - -<p>This has a suspicious resemblance to Defoe’s own style, but the fact -seems to be generally received as true.</p> - -<p>Neither his business nor his failure, however, kept him from the active -exercise of his literary powers, which he used in the service of King -William with what seems to have been a most genuine and hearty sympathy. -Pamphlet after pamphlet came from his pen with an influence upon public -opinion which it is difficult to estimate nowadays, but which was -certainly much greater than any fugitive political publications could -have now. He wrote in defense of a standing army, the curious insular -prejudice against which was naturally astonishing as well as annoying to -the continental prince who had become king of Great Britain. He wrote in -support of the war, which to William was a vital necessity, but which -England was somewhat slow to see in the same light. And, most -effectively of all, he answered the always ready national grumble -against foreigners, which was especially angry and thunderous against -the Dutchmen, by the triumphant doggerel of “The True-born Englishman,” -the first of Defoe’s works which takes a conspicuous place. In this -strange and not very refined production he held up to public admiration -the pedigree of the race which complained so warmly of every new -invasion, and held so high an opinion of itself. “A true-born Englishman -’s a contradiction,” he cries, and sets forth, step by step, the -admixtures of new blood which have gone to the formation of the English -people—Roman, Saxon, Dane, Norman.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From this amphibious, ill-born mob began<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">It is not a very delicate hand which traces these, and many another wave -of strange ancestors. “Still the ladies loved the conquerors.” But -Defoe’s rude lines went straight to the mark. The public had no -objection to a coarse touch when it was effective,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> and Englishmen are -rarely offended by ridicule; never, we may say, when it is home-born. -The stroke was so true that the native sense of humor was hit. Perhaps -England did not, on account of Defoe’s verses, like the Dutchmen any -better, but she acknowledged Tutchin’s seditious assault upon the -foreigners to be fully answered, and the universal laugh cleared the -air. Eighty thousand copies of this publication were sold, it is said, -in the streets, where everybody bought the “lampoon,” which, assailing -everybody, gave no individual sting. It also procured for Defoe a -personal introduction to the king. Whether it was to this or to his -former services that he owed a small appointment he held for some years, -it is difficult to say, but evidently he did not serve King William for -nothing. In the mean time Defoe resumed his business occupations, and -set up a manufactory of pantiles at Tilbury, where he employed a hundred -poor laborers, and throve, or seems to have thriven, in his new -industry, living in something like luxury, and paying off, as described, -his previous debts. His head was full of the projects upon which one of -his most successful pamphlets was written, and he recommended many -sweeping schemes and made many bold suggestions on all subjects, from -the institution of an income tax to that of an academy like the French. -It was a period when the air was swarming with schemes, and Defoe was -not necessarily original in his suggestions; but his brain was teeming -with life and energy, and there is no saying which was absolutely his -own thought, and which the thought of others. He was a man to whom ideas -came as he was writing, and were flung off into the air, to fly or fall -as they might. One thought, one fancy, suggested another. For instance, -after arguing long and well in favor of the war with France, which was -the object of King William’s life, and the only thing that could -save—according to the ideas of his party on the Continent, and -eventually of most sound Protestants in England—the Protestant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> faith, -Defoe, with a sudden whimsical perception of certain possibilities on -the other side, came out with a pamphlet entitled, “Reasons Against a -War with France,” which was founded on the suggestion that a war with -Spain instead would be very profitable, and that the Spanish Indies were -a booty well worth having: a sudden dash into new fields which must have -brought up the public which he had persuaded to fight France with a -certain gasp of breathless inability to follow this rapid reasoner in -the instantaneous change of front, which meant no real change of -opinion, but only the flash of a sudden happy thought.</p> - -<p>When William died, however, and the times changed, the High Church came -back with Anne into a potency which had been impossible in the -unsympathetic reign of that Dutchman. Defoe had written some time before -against the practice of occasional conformity; that is, the device by -which dissenters managed to hold public offices in despite of existing -tests, by kneeling now and then at the altars of the established church, -and receiving the communion there. Defoe took the highest view of -principle in this respect, and denounced the nonconformists who thus -secured office to themselves by the sacrifice of their consciences, -“bowing in the House of Rimmon.” There seems no reason, in fact, why a -moderate dissenter should not do this, except that any religious duty -specially performed for the sake of a secular benefit is always suspect -and odious. Yet the obvious argument that a man who could reconcile it -with his conscience to attend the worship of the church should not be a -dissenter, was unquestionably sound and unassailable in point of logic. -Defoe had deeply offended the dissenters, to whom he himself belonged, -by his protest; but this did not prevent him from rushing into print in -defense of the expedient of occasional conformity as soon as it was -threatened from the other side. There is little difficulty in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> following -the action of his mind in such a question. It was wrong and a deflection -from the highest point of duty to sacrifice one’s conscience, even -occasionally, for the sake of office; but, on the other hand, it was -equally wrong to abolish an expedient which broke the severity of the -test, and made life possible to the nonconforming classes. The views -were contradictory, yet both were true, and it was his nature to see -both sides with most impartial good sense, while he felt it to be, if a -breach of external consistency, no wrong to defend or assail one side or -the other, as might seem most necessary. He allowed himself so complete -a license on this point that it is curious he should be found the public -champion of the higher duty. No doubt his utterance to his dissenting -brethren on that question was to himself no reason why he should not -defend their right to use the expedient if they had a mind. But this is -too fine a distinction for the general intelligence.</p> - -<p>The discussions on this subject were the occasion of one of the most -striking episodes in his life. When the bill against occasional -conformity was introduced, to the delight of the High Church party, from -the queen downward, and when the air began to buzz around him with the -bluster, hitherto subdued by circumstances, of the reviving party, who -would have made short work with the dissenters had their power been -equal to their will, a grimly humorous perception of the capabilities of -the occasion seems to have seized Defoe. Notwithstanding that he had -angered all the sects by his plain speaking, he was a dissenter born, -and there is no such way of reconverting a stray Israelite as to hear -the Philistines blaspheme. He seized upon the extremest views of the -high-fliers with characteristic insight, and, with a keen consciousness -of the power of his weapon, used it remorselessly. The “Shortest Way to -Deal with Dissenters” is a grave and elaborate statement of the wild -threats and violent talk in which, in the intoxication of newly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> -acquired power, the partizans of the church indulged, with noise and -exaggeration proportioned to the self-suppression which had been forced -upon them by the panic of a papal restoration under James, and by the -domination of the more moderate party during William’s unsympathetic -reign. They were now at the top of the wave, and could brandish their -swords in the eyes of their adversaries. Their talk in some of their -public utterances was as bloodthirsty as if they intended a St. -Bartholomew. Defoe took up this frenzied babble, and put it into the -form of a grave and practical proposal. As serious as was Swift when he -proposed to utilize the superabundant babies of the poor by eating them, -Defoe propounded the easy way to get rid of the dissenters and the -necessity of settling this question forever. “Shall any law be given to -such wild creatures? Some beasts are for sport, and the huntsman gives -them advantages of ground, but some are knocked on the head by all -possible ways of violence and surprise.” He says:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>’T is vain to trifle in this matter. The light, foolish handling of -them by mulcts, fines, etc., ’t is their glory and their advantage. -If the gallows instead of the counter, and the galleys instead of -the fines, were the reward of going to a conventicle to preach or -to hear, there would not be so many sufferers. The spirit of -martyrdom is over. They that will go to church to be chosen -sheriffs and mayors would go to forty churches rather than be -hanged. If one severe law were made and punctually executed, that -whoever was found at a conventicle should be banished, the nation -and the preacher be hanged, we should see an end of the tale. They -would all come to church, and one age would make us all one again.</p> - -<p>To talk of 5s. a month for not coming to this sacrament, and 1s. -per week for not coming to church, this is such a way of converting -people as never was known. This is selling them a liberty to -transgress for so much money. If it be not a crime, why don’t we -give them full license? And if it be, no price ought to compound -for committing it, for that is selling a liberty to people to sin -against God and the government.</p> - -<p>If it be a crime of the highest consequence, both against the peace -and welfare of the nation, the glory of God, the good of the -church, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> the happiness of the soul, let us rank it among -capital offences, and let it receive a punishment in proportion to -it.</p> - -<p>We hang men for trifles and banish them for things not worth -naming. But an offence against God and the church, against the -welfare of the world, and the dignity of religion shall be bought -off for 5s.—this is such a shame to a Christian Government that -’tis with regret I transmit it to posterity.</p> - -<p>If men sin against God, affront his ordinances, rebel against his -church, and disobey the precepts of their superiors, let them -suffer as such capital crimes deserve: so will religion flourish, -and this divided nation be once again united.... I am not supposing -that all the dissenters in England should be hanged or banished, -but as in cases of rebellions and insurrections, if a few of the -ringleaders suffer, the multitude are dismissed; so a few obstinate -people being bad examples, there’s no doubt but the severity of the -law would find a stop in the compliance of the multitude.</p></div> - -<p>The reader will perceive by what a serious argument the hot-headed -fanatic was betrayed and the wiser public put upon their guard. The -mirror thus held up to nature, with a grotesque twist in it which made -the likeness bewildering, gave London such a sensation as she had not -felt for many a day. The wildest excitement arose. At first all parties -in the shock of surprise took it for genuine. “The wisest churchmen in -the nation were deceived by it,” and while some were even so foolish as -to receive it with unthinking applause, which was the case, according to -Oldmixon, “in our two famous Universities,” the more sensible reader of -the church party was first indignant with the high-flyers for expressing -such opinions, and then furious with the satirist who had insulted the -church by putting them into her mouth. Nobody indeed saw the joke. The -fellow of Cambridge who thanked his bookseller for packing up “so -excellent a treatise” along with the books he had ordered, and -considered it “next to the Sacred Bible and Holy Comments the best book -he ever saw”; the “soberer churchman” who “openly exclaimed against the -proposal, condemned the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter2bdr" style="width:398px;"> -<a href="images/ill_031_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_031.jpg" width="398" height="523" alt="Image unavailable: CHURCH OF ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE, - -WHERE DEFOE IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN BAPTIZED. - -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY H. E. SYLVESTER." /></a> -<br /><div class="bboxx"> -<span class="caption">CHURCH OF ST. GILES, CRIPPLEGATE, -<br /> -WHERE DEFOE IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN BAPTIZED.<br /> -<small> -DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. ENGRAVED BY H. E. SYLVESTER.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">warmth that appeared in the clergy, and openly professed that such a man -as Sacheverell and his brethren would blow up the foundations of the -church”; the dissenters who were at once insulted and alarmed by the -extraordinary threats thus set forth against them—all alike turned upon -the perpetrator of the hoax when he was discovered. Some “blushed when -they reflected how far they had applauded,” some labored to prove that -it was “a horrible slander against the church.” The government, sharing -the general commotion, placed Defoe in the position of a revolutionary -leader who, “by the villainous insinuations of that pamphlet, would have -frightened the dissenters into another rebellion.” Defoe himself seems -to have had a moment of panic, and fled. He was proclaimed in the -“Gazette,” and a reward offered for his discovery. His biographers in -general assert that he gave himself up with some generosity to save the -printer and publisher, who had been arrested, but there are public -documents which seem to prove a different procedure, showing how “My -Lord Nottingham hunted him out,” and how “the person who discovered -Daniel Foe” claimed and was paid the reward of fifty pounds offered for -the offender, described as a “middle-aged, spare man, about forty years -old, of a brown complexion and dark brown colored hair (but wears a -wig), a hooked nose, a sharp chin, gray eyes, and a large mole near his -mouth.” However that might be, he was arrested and committed to Newgate -in the spring of 1703, and the obnoxious publication—“this little book, -a contemptible pamphlet of but three sheets of paper,” as he describes -it—was burned by the common hangman. It was not, however, till the -summer, three or four months after his arrest, that he was tried, and -that period he seems to have spent in Newgate in perfect freedom, at -least for literary productions, since he filled the air with a mist of -pamphlets explaining that he meant nothing but a harmless satire at one -moment, at another exhorting the dissenters<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> to be content with -spiritual freedom, and again bursting into the rude but potent strains -of the “Hymn to the Pillory.” He was sentenced to fine and imprisonment, -as well as to that grotesque but sometimes terrible instrument of -torture; but the pillory was no torture to Defoe. On the last three days -of July—once before the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, where his shop had -been, and where no doubt everybody knew him, once in Cheapside, and -again at Temple Bar—he stood aloft with the crowd surging round and -performed his penance. The crowd in those days was not a soft or civil -one when it indorsed the sentence pronounced by law. Its howls and -cries, its missiles and its curses, made the punishment horrible. But -the crowd had by this time found time to take in the joke,—banter, when -it is broad enough to be intelligible, always pleases the general,—and -there must have been some bonhomie about the sufferer, some good repute -as a merry fellow and one who loved a jest, which conciliated the -populace. Instead of dead cats, they flung him nosegays; they gathered -about his platform under the low deep arch which once made a mock gate -to the city, and behind the bustling ’Change, and between the shops of -Cheapside, holding a series of impromptu festivals, drinking his health, -shouting out his new verses, which were sold by thousands in the -streets:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hail, hieroglyphic state machine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Contriv’d to punish fancy in;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men that are men, in thee can feel no pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all thy insignificants disdain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Exalted on thy stool of state,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What prospect do I see of sovereign fate.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The bold satirist, looking through those “lofty loops,” recalls all the -good men that have stood there, reminding himself that even the learned -Selden had the pillory in prospect, and that, had he “triumphed on thy -stage,” no man could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> shunned it more. Contempt, “that false new -word for shame,” has no power where there is no crime, he declares. The -lines are rough, but the sentiments are manly and full of honest scorn, -which here and there reaches a high tone. From his platform where he -stood in all the emancipation of feeling that the worst had happened, he -throws a bold glance upon the disorders of the time, political and -social, and summons to this post of scorn the firebrands, the cowards, -the failures of the age. One can imagine those keen gray eyes inspecting -through the loops the hoarse and roaming groups, not sure perhaps what -his reception was to be, gathering courage as the shouts became -intelligible and turned into hurrahs for Defoe. No doubt he marked the -fluctuating crowd as keenly as if he had been a careless spectator at a -window, and saw Colonel Jack and his brother pickpockets threading -devious ways among the multitude, with here and there a gallant from St. -James in his long curled periwig fluttering on the edge, and the -tradesmen, half curious, half unwilling to join in the riot, looking on -from their doors. A pillory is a coign of vantage when the man upon it -has eyes like Defoe’s. “Tell ’em,” he says, apostrophizing his platform -contemptuously—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Tell ’em the men that placed him here<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are friends unto the times,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But at a loss to find his guilt,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They can’t commit his crimes.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Mr. Burton, in his “Reign of Queen Anne,” quotes from manuscript -authority a statement that Penn had been commissioned by Defoe to offer -“an account of all his accomplices in whatsoever he has been concerned,” -on condition that he should be freed from the pillory, which is a very -confusing statement, since it seems impossible to understand what -accomplices he could have had. This, according to the same authority, -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> considered important enough to call for a special meeting of the -cabinet council; but “the Queen seems to think that his confession -amounts to nothing.” Another account is that Nottingham visited him in -prison and offered him his liberty if he would say who set him on to do -it. Thus this <i>jeu d’esprit</i>—the first exercise of Defoe’s special and -most characteristic gift, that of endowing a fictitious production with -every appearance of reality—set the world aflame. It is almost a more -astonishing feat than the narratives which look so like literal -transcripts of experience; for the subtle power which, by a cunning -fitting together of actual utterances, could thus indicate the alarming -tendency and danger of a great party, is more wonderful than to create -an imaginary man and trace his every action as if he were a real one. -The art may be less noble, but it is more difficult. Indeed, the -“Shortest Way” is about the only example of such an extraordinary -achievement. Swift’s tremendous satire was more bitter, more scathing, -and treated not so much the exaggerated opinions of a class as the cruel -and callous indifference of human nature to the sufferings of its slaves -and victims.</p> - -<p>This curious episode once more ruined Defoe. It is to be supposed that -when he went into hiding his business had to be abandoned, and all his -affairs got into confusion. The official document already quoted -describes him as “living at Newington Green with his father-in-law, who -is a lay elder of a conventicle there.” This description, however, is -evidently drawn up by an enemy, since his previous bankruptcy is spoken -of as fraudulent, an assertion made nowhere else. His biographer, -Wilson, informs us that though he had “kept his coach” before this -period, the pantile works had now to be broken up, and his business was -ruined. He had, though there is no information about her, a wife and six -children—perhaps supported by the elder at Newington, who very likely -thought, like his brethren, but badly of Defoe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span></p> - -<p>He lay in Newgate for nearly a year, without, however, to all -appearance, losing any opportunity for a pamphlet during the whole time, -and laying in grist for his mill amid the strange and terrible -surroundings of an eighteenth-century prison. Mr. Minto, in the -admirable sketch of Defoe which he has contributed to the “English Men -of Letters” series, seems to think that his hero must have enjoyed -himself in this teeming world of new experiences, and that “he spent -many pleasant hours” listening to the tales of his fellow-prisoners. No -doubt there must have been some compensation to such a man in making -acquaintance with a new aspect of life, but it is, perhaps, going too -far to attribute a possibility of enjoyment to any undegraded man in the -pandemonium described in so many contemporary narratives. Defoe did, -however, what, so far as we are aware, no other man before or after him -has ever done (except, perhaps, Leigh Hunt, in whose case we have a -vague recollection of similar activity): he originated, wrote, and -published a newspaper in his prison. “The Review,” so called, “of the -Affairs of France”—that is, of the affairs of Europe and the -world—that is, of any political subject that might be uppermost—was -published twice a week, and appeared during the whole time of his -imprisonment. A brilliant, familiar, graphic commentary upon all that -was happening, a dialogue between the imprisoned spectator of life and -the busy world outside, in which he was both questioner and answerer, -pouring out upon the country with the keenest understanding of other -people’s views, and the most complete mastery of his own, his remarks -and criticisms, his judgment and advice. A newspaper in those days was -not, of course, the huge broadsheet which it has now become. The -“Review” was a sheet of eight, but afterward of only four small quarto -pages. It was no assemblage of paragraphs, trivial or important, the -work of many anonymous persons whose profession it is to manufacture a -newspaper, but one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> man’s eager and lively conversation with his -countrymen, full of the vigor of personal opinion and the unity of an -individual view. A keener intelligence was never brought to the -treatment of public affairs, nor a mind more thoughtful, reasonable, and -practical. His prejudices were few—too few, perhaps. Granted that the -aim was good, Defoe was disdainful of punctilio in the way of carrying -it out. He was not above doing evil that good might come, but he had a -far higher refinement of meaning than could be embraced by any such -vulgar statement in his subtle faculty of discovering, and all but -proving, that what might have seemed evil to a common intelligence was -in reality a good, if not the best, way of carrying his excellent -purpose out. Up to the moment of his leaving Newgate, however, there was -nothing equivocal in the use he made of his extraordinary faculties. He -was a free man discussing boldly on his own responsibility, and without -any <i>arrière pensée</i>, the affairs of England. If he had first keenly -assailed the dissenters, who were his own people, in respect of the -compliances by which they made themselves capable of bearing office, and -then exposed to grimmest ridicule the adversaries who aimed at rendering -them altogether incapable, there was in this no real inconsistency. His -championship of King William had been honest and thorough. If he loved -to have a finger in every pie, and let loose his opinion at every -crisis, there was no contemporary opinion which was better worth having. -But now this unwearying critic, this keen observer, this restless, -brilliant casuist, this practical man of business, had come to the -turning-point of his life.</p> - -<p>His liberation from Newgate followed closely upon the advent of Harley -to power. When this event happened, it is said that one of the first -things the new minister did was to send a message to Defoe in prison: -“Pray ask that gentleman what I can do for him.” Whether it was in -direct sequence to this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> question, or whether the Queen had formed an -independent intention of freeing the prisoner, we need not inquire; but -he was set free, Queen Anne furnishing the means of paying his fine. She -is said also to have taken an interest in his family, and contributed to -their support during his confinement. He declared himself to be -liberated on the condition of writing nothing (further modified as -nothing “which some people might not like”) for some years; a condition -which he immediately fulfilled by publishing an “Elegy on the Author of -the True-born Englishman,” to tell the world so, and took no further -notice of the prohibition, so far as appears. The real meaning of this -curious statement would seem by all evidence to have been that Defoe -there and then accepted the position of a secret servant of the -government, a writer pledged to support their measures and carry out -their views. At the moment, and perhaps in reality during the greater -part of his career, their measures were those which he approved; and -certainly at this period of his history he has never been accused of -writing against his conscience. Even when, after eager championship of -peace, he was obliged by political changes to veer into what looked like -support of war, he was never without the strong defense to fall back -upon, that he demanded peace only after securing certain indispensable -conditions, and that war might be, and was, the only means of gaining -them—an argument most simple and evident to his mind.</p> - -<p>Harley has never appeared in history as a great man, but when we -consider that he was able thus to subjugate and secure to his own -service two of the greatest intelligences of his time, it is impossible -not to respect his influence and judgment. The great and somber genius -of Swift, the daring, brilliant, and ever-ready intellect of Defoe, -became instruments in the hands of this ordinary and scheming statesman. -Once more, with a curious parallelism, these two men stand before us—no -friends<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> to each other. “An illiterate fellow, whose name I forget,” -says Swift, with the almost brutal scorn which was part of his -character; while Defoe replies to the taunt with angry virulence, -setting forth his own acquirements, “though he wrote no bill at his -door, nor set Latin on the front of his productions,” a piece of -pretension, habitual to the time, of which the other was guilty. But -Harley, who was not worthy, so far as intellect went, to clean the shoes -of either, had them both at his command, serving his purposes, doing his -bidding. Which of them suffered most by the connection it is not easy to -say. It turned Swift’s head, and brought into humiliating demonstration -the braggart and the bully in his nature. Defoe had not the demoralizing -chance of being the lord treasurer’s boon companion; but Harley made a -dishonest partizan, a paid and slippery special pleader and secret -agent, out of the free-lance of politics. From this moment the defenders -and champions of Defoe have to turn into casuists, as he himself did. -They have to give specious explanations to suppress and account for his -shifts and changes, though at first they were sufficiently innocent. The -evil grew, however, so that toward the end of his career even the -apologist must keep silence; but this is the nature of all evil.</p> - -<p>If excuses are to be sought for Defoe’s conduct in this first beginning -of his slavery, it will not be difficult to find them. The age, for one -thing, was corrupt through and through. There was not a statesman but -had two strings to his bow, nor a politician of any description who did -not attempt to serve two masters. To hold the balance between Hanover -and St.-Germain, ready to perform a demi-volt in the air at any moment -as the scale should turn, was the science of the day. On the other hand, -Defoe was now a ruined man, with a family to support, and nothing but -his busy and inexhaustible pen to do it with. The material inducement of -a certain income to fall back upon, whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:394px;"> -<a href="images/ill_032_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_032.jpg" width="394" height="501" alt="Image unavailable: ROBERT HARLEY, EARL OF OXFORD. - -ENGRAVED BY JOHN P. DAVIS, AFTER THE ORIGINAL PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY -KNELLER, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM." /></a> -<br /><div class="bbox"> -<span class="caption">ROBERT HARLEY, EARL OF OXFORD. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY JOHN P. DAVIS, AFTER THE ORIGINAL PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY -KNELLER, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.</small></span></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">might be the chances of journalism, must have been very strong. And what -was stronger still was the delight of his own vivacious, restless, ready -mind, with its sense of boundless power and infinite resource, to which -difficulty was a delight and the exercise of walking over hot coals or -dancing on a sword-point the most exhilarating possibility, in making -its triumphant way over obstacles which would have baffled almost all -his contemporaries. “The danger’s self was lure alone” to this skilled -and cunning fencer, this master of all the arts. In a very different -sense from that of Tennyson’s noble hero, “Faith Unfaithful” was -inspiration and strength to him, and to be falsely true the most -delightful situation. He loved to support his principles by a hundred -dodges, and plead them from the other side, and make of himself the -devil’s advocate in the interest of heaven. All this was life to his -mind. He must have had a positive pleasure in proving to himself first, -and then to all England, that the happiest thing a Whig could do was to -find the Tory measures exactly those which he would have recommended, -and that his allegiance to the queen required a change of policy on his -part whenever circumstances compelled her to change her ministry. It was -all devotion—not time-serving, as the vulgar thought. Defoe took -infinite pleasure in proving that it was so, in making everything clear. -The commonplace and humdrum expedient of following your party would have -been dull to him—a proceeding without interest as without danger. He -wanted excitement, obstacles to get over; a position which would make -sudden claims upon his ingenuity to account for and fortify it. Such a -mind is rare, and still more rarely is it accompanied by genius. But -when such a combination does occur it is a very curious spectacle.</p> - -<p>In the mean time, however, all that Defoe had to do was simple enough. -He had to support peace and the union—two things which in his free -estate he had already advocated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> with all his powers. He did it with the -utmost skill, fervor, and success, and to all appearance contributed -much to the great public act which was the subject of so many struggles -and resistances on the part of the smaller nation—the union. This great -expedient, of which from the first he had seen the advantage, Defoe -worked for with unwearying zeal. He praised and caressed Caledonia—upon -which subject he wrote one of those vigorous essays in verse which he -called poetry—and the tolerance of the Presbyterian Church, and the -good sense of the nation generally, which was not always perceptible to -English politicians; and even risked a visit to Edinburgh in performance -of the orders of the government, though at the risk of rude handling to -himself. In all this there cannot be the slightest doubt that he was -entirely honest and patriotic, and acted from an enlightened personal -view of the necessities of the case. When the curious incident of the -Sacheverell prosecution occurred, he had once more a subject entirely to -his own mind, and expressed his own feelings in supporting with all his -might the measures of the government against that High Church firebrand, -one of the chief of those whom he had held up to public ridicule in the -“Shortest Way.” So far he was fortunate, being employed upon subjects -entirely congenial to his mind, and on which he had already strong -convictions. The equivocal part of the matter is that he never ceased to -assert and insist upon his independence. “Contemn,” he says, “as not -worth mentioning, the suggestions of some people of my being employed to -carry on the interests of a party. I have never loved any party, but -with my utmost zeal have sincerely espoused the great and original -interest of this nation and of all nations—I mean truth and -liberty”—which was the truth, yet not all the truth. Again, with still -more violent protestations, he refers to his private circumstances, of -which nothing is known, to prove how little he was protected by power. -It would seem from this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> statement that he was still being pursued for -the remnant of old debts, or those new ones with which the failure of -his tile factory and his long imprisonment had saddled him.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>If paid, gentlemen, for writing [he cries], if hired, if employed, -why still harassed with merciless and malicious men; why pursued to -all extremities of law for old accounts which you clear other men -of every day? Why oppressed, distressed, and driven from his -family, and from all his prospects of delivering them and himself? -Is this the fate of men employed and hired? Is this the figure the -agents of courts and princes make?</p></div> - -<p>The argument is a feeble one for such a practised reasoner as Defoe, -without considering the trifling detail that it was untrue, for debts -are by no means unknown to favorites of the crown. Nor could he have -been saved by Harley’s pay, which probably was never very great, from -the consequences of previous misfortunes. The reader will think that a -judicious silence would have been more appropriate, but that was not -Defoe’s way. The only wonder is that he did not adduce such detailed -evidence of his own freedom as would have deceived any man, and shown to -demonstration that it was he who subsidized the ministry, and not they -him. The wonderful thing is that he was free through all, maintaining -his own favorite opinions, working as an independent power. Servile -journalists have existed in plenty, but seldom one who took the pay of -his masters and served their interests, yet fought under his own flag -with honesty and a good conscience all the while.</p> - -<p>This happy state, however, did not last. Harley fell, but with his last -breath (as a minister) adjured his champion not to sacrifice himself, -but to come to an understanding with his successor, Godolphin. This -necessitated a certain revolution in respect to peace, which Defoe -managed cleverly with the excellent device above mentioned. And there -was still higher ground which he felt himself entitled to take. The -public safety was involved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> in the stability of the new ministry such as -it was. And he faces the dilemma with boundless pluck and assurance. -“Though I don’t like the crew, I won’t sink the ship; I’ll pump and -heave and haul and do everything I can, though he that pulls with me -were my enemy. The reason is plain. We are all in the ship and must sink -or swim together.” These admirable reasonings brought him at last to the -calm rectitude of the following conclusion:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>It occurred to me instantly as a principle for my conduct that it -was not material to me what ministers her Majesty was pleased to -employ. My duty was to go along with every ministry so far as they -did not break in upon the constitution and the laws and liberties -of my country, my part being only the duty of a subject, viz: to -submit to all lawful commands, and to enter into no service that -was not justifiable by the laws, to all of which I have exactly -obliged myself.</p></div> - -<p>When Harley returned to power, another modification became necessary, -but Defoe piously felt it was providential that he should thus be thrown -back upon his original protector; and had the matter ended here, as was -long supposed, it is difficult to see what indictment could be brought -against him. It is not expedient certainly that a director of public -opinion should have state pay, and does not look well when the secret is -betrayed. But so long as the scope of all his productions is good, -honest, and patriotic, with only as much submission in trifles as is -inevitable, the bargain is a personal meanness rather than a public -crime, and this was long supposed to have been the case. It was believed -that after the death of Queen Anne and Harley’s final fall, Defoe’s -eloquent mouth was closed, and he disappeared into the calm of private -life to earn a better hire and a more lasting influence through the two -immortal works of fiction by which alone, but for the painful labors of -biographers, his name would have been known. Had the matter been left -so, how much happier would it have been for the hero of this romance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> of -literary life, how much more edifying for posterity! We could have -imagined the tired warrior retiring from that hot and painful field in -which even the laurels were not worth the plucking, where defeat was -miserable and success mean, and scarcely any combatant could keep his -honor intact, to the quietness of some suburban house in which his three -pretty daughters could care for him and idolize him, and where his -wonderful imagination, no longer a slave to the exigencies of political -warfare, could weave its dreams into a sober certainty of life awake. We -should then have said of the author of “Robinson Crusoe” and the -“Journal of the Plague,” that in his poverty and anxiety and overhaste -he had been beguiled into a bargain which might have been a shameful one -had not his marvelous power of seeing every side of a subject, and that -insight of genius which divines the real unity of honest souls through -all the external diversities which fill the limited vision of common -men, carried him triumphantly through. And upon what real fault there -was we should have thrown a veil. The age would have borne the blame—an -age which was corrupt to the core, and in which men changed their -principles every day. In the garden at Newington, where the young ladies -entertained their lovers, we could have pictured him benevolent and -friendly in the flowing peruke under which his keen eyes sparkled, -looking on at the love-making with prudent, tradesmanlike thoughts of -Sophia’s portion, and how much the young people would have to set up -housekeeping upon, coming in not inappropriately between the pages of -Crusoe—perhaps taking a suggestion about Robinson’s larder from some -passing talk about the storeroom, or modifying for the use of Friday -some rustical remark of the young serving-man from the country, or in -the renewing of old recollections produced by some old friend’s visit -finding an anecdote, a detail, to incorporate into the “Journal of the -Plague.” And we should have asked ourselves by what strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> play of -genius the unenchanted island, where all the sober elaborations of fact -clothed so completely the vivid realizations of imagination, should have -risen out of the mists amid those trim, old-fashioned alleys, and green -plots, and stiff parterres of flowers.</p> - -<p>Alas! That demon of research which in its poking and prying sometimes -puts old bones together, and sometimes scatters to the winds the ashes -of the dead, has spoiled this pleasant picture. Impelled by its -influence, an unwary or else too painstaking student, some twenty years -ago, was seized with the idea of roaming the earth in search of relics -of Defoe. And the diabolical powers which put this fatal pursuit into -his mind directed him to a bundle of yellow papers in the State Paper -Office which has, alas! for ever and ever made an end of our man of -genius. These treacherous papers give us to wit under his own hand that -he was in reality in full action in the most traitorous of employments -during the period of his supposed retirement. The following, which is -the first of these fatally self-elucidatory letters, will reveal at once -the inconceivable occupation to which Defoe in his downfall lent -himself. He had perhaps compromised himself too much, and been too -completely identified with Harley at the end to be considered capable of -more honorable and evident employment. The letter is addressed to the -secretary of the minister who had given him his disgraceful office:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>It was proposed by my Lord Townsend that I should appear as if I -were as before under the displeasure of the government, and -separated from the Whigs, and that I might be more serviceable in a -kind of disguise than if I appeared openly. In the interval of -this, Dyer, the “News-Letter” writer, being dead, and Dormer, his -successor, being unable by his troubles to carry on that work, I -had an offer of a share in the property as well as in the -management of that work.</p> - -<p>I immediately acquainted my Lord Townsend of it, who, by Mr. -Buckley, let me know it would be a very acceptable piece of -service,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> for that letter was really very prejudicial to the -public, and the most difficult to come at in a judicial way in case -of offense given. My Lord was pleased to add, by Mr. Buckley, that -he would consider my service in that case, as he afterwards did.</p> - -<p>Upon this I engaged in it, and that so far, that though the -property was not wholly my own, yet the conduct and government of -the style of news was so entirely in me, that I ventured to assure -His Lordship the sting of that mischievous paper should be entirely -taken out, though it was granted that the style should continue -Tory, as it was, that the party might be amused and not set up -another, which would have destroyed the design, and this part I -therefore take entirely on myself still.</p> - -<p>This went on for a year before my Lord Townsend went out of the -office, and His Lordship, in consideration of the service, made me -the appointment which Mr. Buckley knows of, with promise of a -further allowance as service presented.</p> - -<p>My Lord Sunderland, to whose goodness I had many years ago been -obliged, when I was in a secret commission sent to Scotland, was -pleased to approve and continue this service, and the appointment -annexed, and, with His Lordship’s approbation I introduced myself, -in the disguise of a translator of the foreign news, to be so far -concerned in this weekly paper of Mist’s as to be able to keep it -within the circle of a secret management, also prevent the -mischievous part of it, and yet neither Mist, or any of those -concerned with him, have the least guess or suspicion by whose -direction I do it.</p></div> - -<p>There is nothing, it seems to us, for any apologist to say in -explanation of this extraordinary statement. The emissary of a Whig and -Hanoverian government acting as editor of a Tory and Jacobite -newspaper,—nay, of three newspapers,—in order to take the harm out of -them, to amuse the Tory party with a pretense of style and subjects -suitable to their views, while balking all their purposes, is at once -the most ingenious and the most shameless of all devices. It continued -for a long period, and was very successful. But when the deceit was -discovered at last, Mist, the deluded publisher, made a murderous -assault upon the deceiver, and the journalists of the period seem to -have risen unanimously against him. That Defoe must have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> fallen sadly -before he came to this is very evident; but how he fell, except by the -natural vengeance of deterioration, which makes a man who has long -paltered with the truth unable at last to distinguish the gradations -which separate the doubtful from the criminal, no one can say. He must, -however, have fallen indeed in position and importance before he could -be put to such miserable work; and he must have fallen more fatally, -like that other son of the morning, deep down into hades, where he -became the father of lies and the betrayer of mankind, before he could -have been capable of this infamous mission.</p> - -<p>We turn with relief to the work which, of all these manifold labors, is -the only portion which has really survived the effects of time. Defoe’s -political writings, with all their lucidity, their brilliant good sense, -daring satire, and astonishing readiness and variety, are for the -student, and retain a place among the materials of history, studied no -longer for their own sake, but for the elucidations they may give. But -“Robinson Crusoe” lives by his own right, and will, we may confidently -affirm, after the long trial he has had, never die. We need not discuss -the other works of fiction which are all as characteristic as distinct -narratives of apparent fact, as carefully elaborated in every detail. -They are almost all excellent in their beginning, but, a fault which is -shared by Crusoe himself, run into such a prodigality of detail toward -their close, that the absence of dramatic construction and of any real -inspiration of art, becomes painfully (or rather tediously, which is -worse) apparent. We do not, however, share the opinion of those critics -who disparage Defoe’s marvelous power of narrative. “The little art he -is truly master of, of forging a story and imposing it on the world for -truth,” is an art which he possesses in common with but very few who -have ever lived; and even among these few he has it in a very high -degree.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> The gift is peculiar; we are not moved by it to pity or -tenderness, and not much to admiration of the hero. The inner circle of -our emotions is seldom, if ever, entered; but, on the other hand, there -is nothing in that island where the shipwrecked mariner finds a shelter, -and which he makes into a home, which we do not know and see, as well as -if we had dwelt in it like Robinson. It is an island which is added to -the geography of the world. Not only would no child ever doubt of its -existence, but to the most experienced reader it is far more true and -real than half of those of which we have authentic histories, which our -relatives and countrymen have visited and colonized. Those South Sea -Islands, about which we have so many flowery volumes, are not half so -certain. And every detail of the life of its solitary inhabitant comes -up before us like our own personal proceedings—more than visible, -incontestable experiences. Not one of us but could draw the picture of -the solitary in his furs, with all his odd implements about him; and, -more wonderful still, not a child from four upward but could tell who it -was. The tale does not move us as do imaginative histories on a more -poetic level; but in its humbler range it is as living as the best. And -there is something in this very absence of emotion which gives a still -more wonderful force to the tale. Men in such desperate circumstances, -driven to the use of all their faculties for the mere preservation of -their lives, have presumably but little time for feeling. The absorption -of every faculty in this one primitive need brings a certain serenity, a -calm which is like the hush of the solitude—the silence of the seas. -The atmosphere is full of this stillness. There is the repose of Nature, -not filled with reflections of human sentiment, but imposing her -patience, her calm repetition of endless endeavor upon the solitary -flung into her bosom; and there is a sobriety in the story which adds -immensely to the power. Other unknown islands have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> been in fiction, but -none where the progress of events was so gradual, where there were so -few miraculous accessories. One of the most able of English romancers, -the late Charles Reade, is the last who has carried us to a desolate -island. His story is full of charm, of humor, and sentiment far beyond -the reach of Defoe. Nothing could be more tender, more delightful, than -the idyl of the two lovers cut off from all mankind, lost in the silence -of the seas. But in every way his isle is an enchanted isle. Not only is -it peopled with love and all the graces, but it is running over with -every convenience,—everything that is useful and beautiful. The -inexhaustible ingenuity of the lover is not more remarkable than the -wealth of necessary articles of every kind that turns up at every step. -He builds his lady a bower lined with mother-of-pearl; he clothes her in -a cloak of sealskin; he finds jewels for her; she has but to wish and to -have, as if Regent street had been within reach. Very different is the -sober sanity of the elder narrative. Defoe knows nothing about lovers; -all his heroes marry with prodigality; but he has no love, any more than -he has pearls or gutta-percha, on his island. Conveniences come very -slowly to Robinson Crusoe; he has to grope his way, and find his living -hardly, patiently. Day after day, and year after year, the story-teller -goes on working out the order of events. It is as leisurely as nature, -as little helped by accident, as sober even as matter of fact, and yet -what a potent, clear, all-realizing fancy—a faculty which in its -limited sphere saw and felt and acted in completest appropriation of the -circumstances—this sober imagination was!</p> - -<p>He was fifty-eight at the time this book was written—a man worn with -endless work and strife, but ever ready for more—a man who had fallen -and failed, and made but little of his life. It is said that he was at -his highest point of external prosperity when he published “Robinson -Crusoe”; but when we remember that he was at that time engaged in the -inconceivable muddle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> “Mist’s Journal,” it seems almost impossible to -believe this, or to understand how anything but poverty could drive him -into such a disgraceful employment. No doubt, to a man who at heart had -once been an honest man, and was so no more, it must have been a relief -and blessed deliverance to escape away into the distant seas, to refresh -his ever-active soul with the ingenious devices of the shipwrecked -sailor, and bury himself in that life so different from his own, the -savage necessities, the primitive cares. The goats and the parrot and -poor Friday: what an ease and comfort to escape into their society after -bamboozling Mist, and reporting to my lord at St. James’s! Was it a -desperate expedient of nature to save him from utter self-contempt? Such -a man, even if his conscience had grown callous, must have required some -outlet from the dreadful slavery to which he had bound himself.</p> - -<p>“Robinson Crusoe” is the work by which Defoe is best known, which is, -after all, the most effectual guarantee that it is his best work. But it -is not, to our thinking, worthy of being placed in competition with the -“Journal of the Plague”—a history so real, so solemn and impressive, so -full of the atmosphere and sentiment of the time, that it reaches a far -higher point of literary art than anything else Defoe has written. For -this is not prose alone, nor that art of making fiction look like truth, -which is supposed to be his greatest excellence: it is one of the most -impressive pictures of a historical incident which has struck the poetic -imagination everywhere, and of which we have perhaps more authentic -records than of any other historical episode. Neither Boccaccio nor -Manzoni have equaled Defoe in the story of the plague. To the old -Italian it was a horror from which the life-loving fled with loathing as -well as fear, and which they tried to forget and put out of their sight. -Defoe’s minute description of the argument carried on within his own -mind by the narrator is curiously characteristic of the tendency<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> to -elaborate and explain which enters so largely into all his works. The -mental condition of the respectable citizen, divided between concern for -his life and concern for his property, seeing with reasonable eyes that -death was not certain, but that in case of flight ruin was,—moved by -the divination which he uses in all good faith, yet perhaps not with -sufficient devoutness to have allowed himself to be guided by it had it -been contrary to his previous dispositions, and at bottom by a certain -<i>vis inertiæ</i> and disinclination to move, which is clearly indicated -from the beginning,—is in his best manner, and so real that it is -impossible to resist its air of absolute truthfulness. But the state of -the shut-up streets, the dreadful sounds and sights, the brooding heat -and stillness of the long and awful days, the cloud of fate that is -about the doomed city, are beyond description impressive. This curious -spectator of all things, this impartial yet eager looker-on, determined -to see all that can be seen, prudent yet fearless, adopting every -precaution, yet neglecting no means of investigation, inquiring -everywhere, always with his eyes and ears open, at once a philosophical -inquirer and an eager gossip, is without doubt Defoe himself. But he is -also a marked figure of the time. He is like Pepys; he is almost, but -for the unmistakable difference between the bourgeois and the fine -gentleman, like Evelyn. He is one of the special kind of man born to -illustrate that period. Pepys would have found means for some piece of -junketing even in the midst of his alarm, whereas Defoe thinks of his -property, when he has time to think of anything but the plague, which is -a very natural modification consequent on the changes of the times. But -they are at bottom the same. While, however, this central figure remains -the characteristic but not elevated personage with whom we are already -acquainted, the history which he records is done with a tragic force and -completeness which it is impossible to surpass. In this there is nothing -commonplace, no wearying monotony; the very statistics have a tragic -solemnity in them; the awful unseen presence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> dominates everything. We -scarcely breathe while we move about the streets emptied of all -passers-by, or with a suspicious throng in the middle of the way keeping -as far apart as possible from the houses. This is not mere prose: it is -poetry in its most rare form; it is an ideal representation, in all its -sober details, of one of the most tragical moments of human suffering -and fate.</p> - -<p>Nothing else that Defoe has done is on the same level. It is pitched on -too high a key perhaps for the multitude. His innocent thief, “Colonel -Jack,” begins with a picture both amusing and touching of the curious -moral denseness and confusion of a street boy; his “Cavalier” is a -charming young man. But both these and all the rest of Defoe’s heroes -and heroines grow heavy and tedious at the end. The “Journal of the -Plague” is not like them in this respect. The conclusion—the sudden -surprise and delicious sense of relief, the joy which makes the -passers-by stop and shake hands with one another in the streets, and the -women call out from windows with tears and outcries of gladness—is -sudden and overwhelming as the reality. We are caught in the growing -despair, and suddenly in a moment deliverance comes. Here alone Defoe is -not too long; the unexpected is brought in with a skill and force not -less remarkable than that which in the previous pages has portrayed the -slow growth and inevitable development of the misery. Up to this -anticlimax of unlooked-for joy the calamity has grown, every new touch -intensifying the awful reality. But the recovery is sudden, and told -without an unnecessary word. It is the only instance in which Defoe has -followed the instinct of a great artist and shown that he knew how to -avail himself of the unwritten code and infallible methods of art.</p> - -<p>We forget his shortcomings when we discuss this which is to our mind -much his greatest work, and it is well that we should leave him in this -disposition. He died mysteriously alone, after a period of wandering and -hiding which nobody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> can explain. Whether he was in trouble with -creditors, or with political enemies, or with the exasperated party -which he had managed to outwit; whether he kept out of the way that his -family might make better terms for themselves, or that he might keep the -remains of his money out of the hands of an undutiful son, or a grasping -son-in-law, nobody can tell. He died in remote lodgings, all alone, and -his affairs were administered by a stranger, perhaps his landlady, no -one knows. His domestic circumstances have been referred to during his -life only in the vaguest way. He had a wife and a numerous family when -he was put in the pillory; he had a wife, a son who was unkind, and -three daughters at the end; but that is all we know. He died at -seventy-two “of a lethargy,” no doubt fallen into the feebleness and -hopelessness of lonely old age; and that is all. His life overflowed -with activity and business. To be doing seems to have been a necessity -of his being. But he never seems to have enjoyed the importance due to -his powers, and in an age when men of letters filled the highest posts -never would appear to have risen above his citizen circle, his -shop-keeping ways. Something in the man must have accounted for this, -but it is difficult to say what it was; for the age did not require a -high standard of truthfulness, and the worst of his misdoings were kept -secret from the public. Perhaps his manners were not such as society, -though very easy in those days, could tolerate; perhaps—but this is -simple guesswork. All we know of Defoe is that as a writer he was of the -greatest influence and note, but as a man nothing. He died poor and -alone; he had little reward for unexampled labor. When Addison was -secretary of state, and Prior an ambassador, he was nobody—a sword in -the hand of an unscrupulous statesman; a shopkeeper manufacturing his -genius and selling it by the yard. A sadder conclusion never was told.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_V" id="Chapter_V"></a><span class="smcap">Chapter</span> V<br /><br /> -ADDISON, THE HUMORIST</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE is not a name in the entire range of English literature to which -so full and universal an appreciation has been given by posterity as -that of Addison. He had his critics in his day. He had, indeed, more -than critics, and from one quarter at least has received in his breast -the finest and sharpest sting which a friend estranged could put into -poetic vengeance. But the burden even of contemporary voices was always -overwhelmingly in his favor, and nowadays there is no one in the world, -we believe, that has other than gentle words for the gentle writer—the -finest critic, the finest gentleman, the most tender humorist of his -age. It is not only admiration, but a sort of personal affection with -which we look back, detecting in all the bustling companies of that -witty and depraved period his genial figure, with a delightful -simplicity in the midst of all the formalism, and whole-heartedness -among the conceits and pretensions, of the fops and wits, the intriguing -statesmen and busy conspirators, of an age in which public faith can -scarcely be said to have existed at all. He had his little defects, -which were the defects of the time. And perhaps his age would not have -loved him as it did had he been entirely without a share in its -weaknesses. As it was, no one could call him a milksop then, as no one -would venture to record any offensive name against him now. The smile of -benevolent good nature, of indulgent humor, of observation always as -sweet and merciful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> as it is acute and refined, is never absent from his -countenance. He treats no man hardly; the ideal beings whom he creates -are the friends of all: we could, indeed, more easily spare dozens of -living acquaintances than we could part with Sir Roger de Coverley. -Addison is the very embodiment of that delightful gift of humor on which -we pride ourselves so much as a specially English quality; his soft -laugh touches all the chords of sympathy and loving comprehension with a -tender ridicule in which the applauses of admiration are conveyed with -double effect. That his style is the perfection, in its way, of English -style is less dear and delightful to us than that what it conveys is the -perfection of feeling. His art is the antipodes of that satirical art -which allows human excellence only to gird at it, and insinuate motives -which diminish or destroy. Addison, on the other hand, allows -imperfections which his interpretation turns into something more sweet -than virtue, and throws a delightful gleam of love and laughter upon the -eccentricities and characteristic follies of individual nature. That he -sees everything is one of the conditions of his genial forgiveness of -everything that is not mean or base or cruel. With these he makes no -terms. They are not within the range of his treatment. <i>Non ragionam di -lor.</i> He passes by to the genial rural circle where all is honest, -simple, and true; or to town, where in the coffee-houses themselves a -kind soul will find humors enough to keep him cheerful without harm to -any of his fellow-creatures—even the post-writers whom he jocularly -recommends to a supplementary Chelsea as having killed more men in the -wars than any general ever did, or the “needy persons” hungry for news, -whom he promises to keep supplied with good and wholesome sentiments. He -was at the same time the first of his kind. Thackeray associates -Congreve—one does not exactly know why—with this nobler name: but at -once makes it clear that there could be no comparison between them, -since the world<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> of the comedy-writer was an entirely fictitious world, -altogether unlike the human nature of the essayist. Of the humorists we -may venture to say that Addison is the first, as well as the most -refined and complete. Swift draws a heavier shaft, which lacerates and -kills, and Pope sends his needle-pointed arrows, all touched with -poisonous venom, to the most vulnerable points; but Addison has no heart -to slay. He transfixes the veil of folly with light, shining, -irresistible darts, and pins it aloft in triumph, but he lets the fool -go free—perhaps lets you see even, by some reflection from his -swift-flying polished spear, a gleam of human meaning in the poor -wretch’s face which touches your heart. Even when he diverts himself -with Tom Folio or Ned Softly, instead of plunging these bores into a -bottomless gulf of contempt, he plays with them as one might with a -child, a twinkle of soft fun in his eye, drawing out their simple -absurdities. That habit of his which Swift describes to Stella, as one -which she herself shared, of seeming to consent to follies which it is -not worth while contradicting, and which Pope venomously characterizes -as “assents with evil leer,” lures him, and us along with him, into -byways of human nature which the impatient critic closes with a kick, -and in which there is much amusement and little harm. Molière’s -<i>Trissotin</i> is a social conspirator meaning to build advancement upon -his bad verses; but Addison’s poetaster is only an exposition of -harmless vanity, humored by the gently malicious, but kind and patient, -listener, who amid his laughter finds a certain pleasure in pleasing the -victim too. There is sympathy even in the dissection, a conjunction of -feelings which is of the very nature of the true humorist. These, no -doubt, are of a very different caliber from that creation which still -charms the reader—the delightful figure of Sir Roger, and all the -simple folks full of follies and of virtues who surround him; but they -are scarcely less remarkable. The lesser pictures, taken at a sitting in -which the author has had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> no time to elaborate those features of human -character which always draw forth his tenderness, are yet full of this -instinctive sweetness, as well as of insight, keen, though always -tempered, as the touch of Ithuriel’s spear. The angel, indeed, was far -more severe, disclosing the demon under his innocent disguise; but -Addison has nothing to do with demons, he has no deep-laid plan of -mischief to unveil. The worst he does is to smile and banter the little -absurdities out of us—those curious little delusions which deceive -ourselves as well as the world.</p> - -<p>This most loved of English writers was the son of one of those English -parsons who confuse our belief in the extremely unfavorable account, -given by both the graver and the lighter historians of the time, of the -condition of country clergymen. Neither Parson Adams in his virtue, nor -Parson Trulliber in his grossness, nor Macaulay’s keen and clear -picture, nor Thackeray’s fine disrespectful studies of the chaplain who -marries the waiting-maid, seem to afford us any guidance to the nature -of the household which the Rev. Launcelot Addison, after many wanderings -and experiences, set up in the little parish of Milston in Wiltshire -somewhere about the year 1670. Steele’s description of it has, no doubt, -the artificial form affected by the age, and sets it forth as one of -those models of perfection and examples to the world which nowadays we -are more disposed to distrust and laugh at than to follow. “I remember -among all my acquaintances,” he says, “but one man whom I have thought -to live with his children with equanimity and a good grace”; and he goes -on to describe the “three sons and one daughter whom he bred with all -the care imaginable in a liberal and ingenious way—their thoughts -turned into an emulation for the superiority in kind and generous -affection toward each other,” the boys behaving themselves with a manly -friendship, their sister treated by them with as much complaisance as -any other young lady of their acquaintance. “It was an unspeakable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> -pleasure to visit or sit at a meal in this family,” he adds. “I have -often seen the old man’s heart flow at his eyes with joy upon occasions -which would appear indifferent to such as were strangers to the turn of -his mind; but a very slight accident wherein he saw his children’s good -will to one another created in him the Godlike pleasure of loving them -because they loved one another.” The family tenderness thus inculcated -no doubt came from a mind full of the milk of human kindness, and -happily transmitting that possession to the gentle soul of the eldest -son, who probably was the one whom the father “had the weakness to love -much better than the others”—a weakness which “he took as much pains to -correct as any other criminal passion that could arise in his mind.” -Such a paternity and training does something to account for the -prevailing gentleness of Addison’s temper and judgments.</p> - -<p>Dr. Addison had seen the world not in a very brilliant or luxurious way. -He had been chaplain at Dunkirk, and afterward at Tangier among the -Moors, upon which latter strange experience he wrote a book: and he rose -afterward to be Dean of Lichfield, a dignified clergyman. One of the -brothers went to India, and attained to some eminence; the other was -eventually, like Joseph, a fellow of Magdalen. They dispersed themselves -in the world as the children of a clergyman might very well do at the -present day, and it is evident belonged distinctly to the caste of -gentlemen. The sons, or at least the son with whom we have specially to -do, after sundry local schoolings went to Charterhouse, which he left at -fifteen for Oxford, perhaps because of his unusual advancement, more -probably because the custom of the time sent boys earlier to the -university, as is still the practice in Scotland. Addison was much -distinguished in that elegant branch of learning, the writing of Latin -verse, a kind of distinction which remains dear to the finest minds, in -spite of all the remarks concerning its inutility and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> the time wasted -in acquiring the art, which the rest of the world has so largely -indulged in. A copy of verses upon the accession of King William, -written while he was still a very youthful scholar at Queen’s College, -no more than seventeen, got him his first promotion. The boy’s verses -came—perhaps from some proud tutor at Queen’s, boasting what could be -done under the cupola in the High street, finer than anything attempted -in more distinguished seats of learning—into the hands of the Provost -of Magdalen, to the amazement and envy of that more learned corporation. -There had been no election of scholars in the previous year, during the -melancholy time when the college was embroiled with King James, and the -courtly Quaker Penn had all the disturbed and troubled fellows under his -heel; but now that freedom had returned with the revolution and the -heaven-sent William, there was room for a double number of distinguished -poor demies. Dr. Lancaster of Magdalen decided at once that to leave -such Latinity as that of the young author of these verses to a college -never very great in such gifts would be a sin against his own: and young -Addison was accordingly elected to all the privileges of a Magdalen -demyship. It is with this beautiful college that his name is connected -in Oxford. There could be no more fit association. The noble trees and -velvet lawns of Magdalen speckled with deer, shy yet friendly creatures -that embellish the retired and silent glades—the long-winding walk by -the Cherwell round the meadows where the fritillaries grow, the -time-worn dignity of the place with its graceful old-world architecture -and associations, are all in the finest keeping with the shy and silent -student who talked so little and thought so much, living among his books -in his college rooms, keeping his lamp alight half through the night, or -musing under the elms, where the little stream joins the greater. It is -dreadful to think that in all probability Addison thought the imposing -classicism of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> Queen’s, at which the cultivated scholar of to-day -shudders, much finer than Magdalen: for he had no opinion of Gothic, and -lamented the weakness, if not wickedness, of those mistaken ages which -wasted ornament upon such antiquated forms; but at least he loved his -retired promenade under the trees, with all its sweetness of primrose -and thrush in spring, and the wonderful yellow sunsets over the floods -in winter, and the pleasant illusions of the winding way. There the -stranger may realize still in the quiet of the cloistered shades how the -shy young student wandered in Addison’s Walk and pondered his verses, -and formed the delicate wealth of speech which was to distinguish him -from all his fellows. He spent about ten years in his college, first as -a student and then as a fellow, in the position which, perhaps, is more -ideal for a scholar than any other in Christendom. But the young man was -not much more enlightened than the other young men of his age, -notwithstanding his genius at Latin verses, and that still finer genius -which had not as yet come to utterance. He wrote an “Account of the -Greatest English Poets,” not much wiser than the school-boy essays of -our own day which set Lord Tennyson and Mr. Browning down in their right -places. Addison went further. He leaves out all mention of Shakspere, -and speaks of Cowley as a “mighty genius.” He describes “the spacious -times of great Elizabeth” as “a barbarous age,” amused by “Old Spenser” -with “long-spun allegories” and “dull morals,” which have lost all power -to charm an age of understanding. The youth, indeed, ran amuck among all -the greatest names till we shiver at his temerity. But he knew better -afterward; and, if he still condescended a little to his elders and -betters, learned to love and comprehend them too.</p> - -<p>It would seem that he wavered for a time whether he should not take -orders, a step necessary to retain his fellowship, and dedicate himself -to the church, as was the wish of his father.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> It would have been -entirely suitable to him one cannot but think; to his meditative mood, -and shy temper, and high moral tone. He would have missed the humors of -town, the coffee-houses, and the wits, and the vagaries of the beaus and -belles; but with still a tenderer and more genial humor might have made -his villagers live before us, and found out all the amusing follies of -the knights and squires, which even in London town did not escape his -smiling observation. The manner in which the question was decided is -curiously characteristic of the age. That he was not himself inclined -that way seems probable, since he bids his muse farewell after the -fashion of the time, when this ending seemed imminent, with something -like regret, and it is said that he distrusted his own fitness for the -sacred office. At all events, the matter came to the ears of Charles -Montague, afterward Lord Halifax, himself an elegant scholar, and at -that time in office. Young Addison had addressed to him, on the occasion -of the Peace of Ryswick in 1697, one of those pieces of Latin verse for -which the young man was known among the scholars of his time. He -accompanied the gift with a letter couched in the hyperbole of the age, -deprecating his patron’s possible disapproval of “the noble subject -debased by my numbers,” and justifying himself by the poverty of the -verses already published on the same theme. “For my part,” he says, “I -never could prevail on myself to offer you a poem written in our native -tongue, since you yourself deter all others by your own Compositions -from such an Attempt, as much as you excite them by your Favour and -Humanity.” Montague returned this compliment by interfering in the young -poet’s concerns as soon as he heard of the danger that so promising a -youth might fall into the gulf of the church, and be lost to the other -kinds of work more useful to statesmen. He wrote to the authorities of -Magdalen begging that Addison might not be urged into holy orders, and -in the mean time took more active<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> measures to secure him for the state. -Lord Somers had also received the dedication of some of Addison’s -verses, and was equally interested in the young man’s career. Between -them the two statesmen secured for him a pension of three hundred a -year, on no pretense of work to be done or duty fulfilled, but merely -that he might be able to prepare himself the better for the public -service, and be thus at hand and ready when his work was wanted. Public -opinion has risen up nowadays against any such arrangement, and much -slighter efforts at patronage would be denounced now over all England as -a job. And yet one wonders whether it was so profitless a proceeding as -we think it. Addison was worth more than the money to England. To be -sure, without the money he would still have been Addison; yet something, -no doubt, of the mellow sweetness of humanity in him was due to this -fostering of his youth.</p> - -<p>He went abroad in 1699, and addressed himself in the first place to the -learning of French, which he did slowly at Blois, without apparently -gaining much enlightenment as to the state of France or the other -countries which he visited in his prolonged tour. No doubt, with his -pension and the income of his fellowship, Addison traveled like a young -man of fortune and fashion in those times of leisure, with excellent -introductions everywhere, seeing the best society, and the greatest men -both in rank and letters. Boileau admired his Latin verses as much as -the English statesmen did, and the young man went upon his way more and -more convinced that Latin verses were the highroad to fame. From France -he went to Italy, making a classical pilgrimage. “Throughout,” says Mr. -Leslie Stephen, quaintly, “if we are to judge by his narrative, he seems -to have considered the scenery as designed to illustrate his beloved -poets.” The much-debated uses of travel receive a new question from the -records of such a journey, pursued with the fullest leisure and under -the best auspices; and one wonders<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> whether the man who hurries across a -continent in a few weeks, catching flying impressions, and forming crude -judgments, is, after all, much less advantaged than he who, oblivious of -all the human interests around him, discusses Rome, for instance, as if -it had no interest later than Martial or Silius Italicus—as if neither -Church, nor Pope, nor all the convulsions of the Middle Ages, nor -Crusader, nor Jesuit, had ever been. This extraordinary impoverishment -of the imagination was the fashion of the time, just as it has been the -fashion in other days to fix upon the vile records of the Renaissance as -the one thing interesting in the history of a noble country. According -to that fashion, however, Addison did everything that a young man of the -highest culture could be expected to do. He traced the footsteps of -Æneas, and remembered every spot on which a classical battle had been -fought, or an ode sung. He wrote an eloquent essay upon medals, and -lingered among the sculptures of the museums; and he picked up a subject -for a heroic tragedy from the suggestion of a foolish play which he saw -at a Venetian theater. With his head full of such themes, he had gone -out from Oxford, and with a deepened sense of their importance he came -back again. Though in after days he touches lightly with his satiric -dart the young man who can talk of nothing better on his return than how -“he had like to have been drowned at such a place; how he fell out of a -chaise at another”; yet in the hymn of praise with which he celebrates -his own return from all the dangers of foreign travel something like the -same record is made, though in a more imposing manner:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In foreign Realms and Lands remote,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Supported by thy care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thro’ burning Climes I passed unhurt,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And breath’d in Tainted Air.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy mercy sweetened every Soil,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Made every Region please,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hoary Alpine Hills it warmed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And smooth’d the Tyrrhene Seas.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 364px;"> -<a href="images/ill_033_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_033.jpg" width="364" height="500" alt="Image unavailable: JOSEPH ADDISON. - -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JEAN SIMON, AFTER PAINTING -BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">JOSEPH ADDISON. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNSON, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JEAN SIMON, AFTER PAINTING -BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.</small></span> -</div> - -<p>It is only the vulgarity of our modern imagination that makes us think -of hot water-pipes when the idea of warming the Alps is presented to our -profane minds. The burrowing of the railway that climbs the St. Gothard -may be taken as a large contribution to the carrying out of this -suggestion.</p> - -<p>When Addison returned home after these four years of classical -wanderings, it was to prospects sadly overcast. King William had died a -year before, which had stopped his pension; Halifax was out of office, -and all the hopes of public life, for which he had been training -himself, seemed to drop as he came back. It is said that during the last -year he had charge of a pupil; but there is no proof of the statement, -nor has any pupil ever been identified by name. An offer was made to him -to accompany upon his travels a son of the Duke of Somerset, his -services to be paid by the present of a hundred guineas at the year’s -end, which did not seem to Addison an advantageous offer: but this, -which came to nothing, is the only authentic reference to any possible -“bear-leading” such as Thackeray refers to in “Esmond”; and fine as is -the sketch made by that kindred humorist, he seems to exaggerate at once -the poverty and the neglect into which for the moment Addison fell.</p> - -<p>He returned to England in 1703, being then thirty-one, full of every -accomplishment, but with only his fellowship to depend upon, and the -uncertain chances of Jacob Tonson’s favor instead of the king’s. He is -said to have sunk, or rather risen, to a poor lodging in London, in the -Haymarket, up three pairs of stairs, which was indeed a sad change from -the importance of his position as a rich young Englishman making the -grand tour. But if he carried a disappointed or despondent heart to -those elevated quarters, he never made any moan on the subject, and it -is very likely enjoyed his freedom and the happy sense of being at home -like other young men; and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> seems to have been at once advanced to the -membership of the Kit-Cat Club, which would supply him with the finest -of company, and a center for the life which otherwise must have appeared -as if it had come to a broken end. It was not long, however, that this -period of neglect was suffered to last, and once more the transaction -which elevated Addison to the sphere in which he passed the rest of his -life is admirably characteristic of the period, and alas! profoundly -unlike anything that could happen to a young man of genius now.</p> - -<p>We will not return again to any bewildering discussion of the Whigs and -Tories of Queen Anne, but only say that Godolphin and Marlborough, those -“great twin brethren” of the state, had come into possession of England -at this great crisis, and that every means by which they could secure -the suffrages of both parties were doubly necessary, considering the -disappointment on one side that the policy of the country remained -unchanged, and on the other that it had to be carried out by Whig, not -Tory, hands. Nothing could be better adapted than the great victory of -Blenheim to arouse an outburst of national feeling, and sweep, for a -time at least, the punctilios of party away. The lord treasurer, who had -everything in his hands at home, while his great partner fought and -conquered abroad, was almost comically at a loss how to sound the -trumpet of warlike success so as to excite the country, and, if -possible, turn the head of the discontented. In one of Leopardi’s fables -there is an account of the tremendous catastrophe with which the world -was threatened when his illustrious excellency the Sun declined one -morning to rise and tread his old-world course around the earth for the -comfort of mankind. “Let her in her turn go round me if she wants my -warmth and light,” says the potentate—with great reason, it must be -allowed, since Copernicus was born, and everything in the celestial -spheres was about to be set right. But how to persuade the earth that -she must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> now undertake this circuit? Let a poet be found to do it is -the first suggestion. “La via più spedita è la più sicura è di trovare -un poeta ovvero un filosofo che persuada alla Terra di muoversi.” -Godolphin found himself in the same position as that in which the -luckless agencies of the Universe were left when the Sun struck work. A -poet!—but where to find a poet he knew not, being himself addicted to -other modes of exercise and entertainment. He went to Halifax to ask -where he should find what was wanted—a poet. But that statesman was coy -and held back. He could, indeed, produce the very man; but why should he -interfere to betray neglected merit and induce a man of genius to labor -for those who would leave him to perish in obscurity? Godolphin, -however, was ready to promise anything in the great necessity of the -case; and Halifax permitted himself to be persuaded to mention the name -which no doubt was bursting from his lips. He would not, however, -undertake to be the ambassador, but insisted that the real possessors of -power should ask in their own persons, and with immediate and -substantial proofs of their readiness to recompense the service they -demanded. That day, all blazing in gold lace and splendor, the coach of -the chancellor of the exchequer stopped before the little shop in the -Haymarket over which the young scholar had his airy abode: and that -great personage clambered up the long flights of stairs carrying with -him, very possibly, the patent of the appointment which was an earnest -of what the powers that were could do for Addison. This was how the -great poem of the “Campaign,” that illustrious composition, was brought -into being. Poems made to order seldom fulfil expectation, but in this -case there was no disappointment. Godolphin and England alike were -delighted, and Addison’s life and success were at once secured.</p> - -<p>No one now, save as an illustration of history, would think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> of reading -the “Campaign,” though most readers are familiar with the famous simile -which dazzled a whole generation:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’T was there great Marlborough’s mighty soul was proved,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Amidst confusion, horror, and despair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Examined all the dreadful scenes of war,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In powerful thought the field of death surveyed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So when an angel by Divine command<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With rising tempest shakes a guilty land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Such as of late o’er pale Britannia past,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Macaulay points out with much felicity how the fact of the Great -Storm—so called in English history—which had passed over England in -the previous year, and was yet full in the memory of all, gave strength -and meaning to this famous simile, which at once opened to Addison the -gates of fortune and of fame. Two years after he was promoted to be one -of the undersecretaries of state, and from that time languished no more -in the cold shade of obscurity where Halifax had upbraided the -Government for leaving him. He was not a man born to linger there. Shy -though he was, and little apt to put himself forward, this favorite of -the muses—to use the phraseology of his time—was also the favorite of -fortune. Everything that he touched throve with him. The gifts he -possessed were all especially adapted to the requirements of his time. -At no other period, perhaps, in history did the rulers of the country -bethink themselves of a poet as the auxiliary most necessary: and his -age was the only one that relished poetry of Addison’s kind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<p>This event brought more than mere prosperity to the fortunate young man. -If he had been already of note enough to belong to the Kit-Cat Club, -with what a blaze of modest glory would he now appear—not swelling in -self-conceit, like so many of the wits; not full of silent passion, like -the strange big Irish clergyman who pushed into the chattering company -in the coffee-house and astounded them with his masterful and arrogant -ways: but always modest—never heard at all in a large company, opening -out a little when the group dispersed, and an audience fit but few -gathered around him—but with one companion <i>half</i> divine. The one -companion by and by became often that very same Irishman whose silent -prowl about the room in which he knew nobody had amused all the luckier -members. Swift found himself in a kind of coffee-house paradise when he -got Addison alone, and the two took their wine together, spending their -half-crowns according to the stranger’s thrifty record, and wishing for -no third. They were as unlike as could be conceived in every particular, -and yet what company they must have been, as they sat together, the wine -going a little too freely—though Swift was always temperate, and -Addison, notwithstanding that common peccadillo, the most irreproachable -of men! It was then that the “Travels in Italy” were published, while -still the fame of the “Campaign” was warm; and Addison gave his new -friend a copy inscribed to “Jonathan Swift, the most Agreeable -Companion, the Truest Friend, and the Greatest Genius of his Age.” What -quick understanding, what recognition as of two who had been born to -know each other! They were both in their prime—Swift thirty-eight, -Addison five years younger, still young enough to hope for everything -that can befall a man; the one fully entered upon the path of fortune, -the other surely so much nearer it for being thus received and welcomed. -Addison gave “his little senate laws” for many years in these convivial -meetings, and all who surrounded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> him adored him. But Swift was never -again so close a member of the little company. Politics, and the curious -part which the Irish parson took in them, separated him from the -consistent and moderate politician, who acted faithfully with his party, -and who was always true whoever might be false. But Swift held fast to -Addison so far at least as feeling was concerned. Over and over he -repeated the sentiment, that “if he had a mind to be king he would -hardly be refused.” Their meetings ceased, and all those outflowings of -wit and wisdom, and the talk long into the night which was the most -delightful thing in life; but for years after Swift still continued to -say that there was nothing his friend might not be if he would: that his -election was carried without a word of opposition when every other -member had to fight for his life, and that he might be king in Ireland, -or anywhere else, had he the mind. They were used to terms of large -applause in those days, but to no one else did it take this particular -form.</p> - -<p>In 1708 Addison lost his post as under-secretary by a change of the -ministry, or rather of the minister, it being the habit in those days to -form a government piecemeal, a Whig here, a Tory there, as favor or -circumstances required, so that it was by no means needful that all -should go out or come in together. In fact, no sooner was the -under-secretary deprived of one place than he obtained another, that of -secretary to the lord lieutenant of Ireland, the same office, we -presume, as that which is now called chief secretary for Ireland, though -its seriousness and power are now so much greater. In those days there -was no Irish people to deal with, but only a very lively, contentious, -pushing, and place-hunting community—the Protestant English-Irish, -which, so far as literature and public knowledge go, has been accepted -as the type of the much darker and less simple character of the Celt. -The wild, mystic, morose, and often cruel nature of the native race, -with its gleams of poetry and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> dreams of fortune, has turned out a very -different thing to reckon with. No such problem was presented to the -statesmen of that time. The admixture of Irish blood would seem to go to -the head of the Saxon and endow him with a gaiety and sparkle which does -not exist either in one race or the other unmixed; and it was with the -society formed on this basis, the ascendant minority, contemptuous of -every possible power of the people so-called, yet far less unsympathetic -than the anxious politicians of to-day, that Addison had to deal. His -post was “very lucrative,” we are told—in fees and pieces of patronage, -no doubt, for the income was but £2000 a year—and he soon acquired an -even greater popularity on the one side of the channel than on the -other. Something amiable and conciliatory must have rayed out of the -man: otherwise it is curious to understand the popularity in brilliant -and talkative Dublin of a stranger whose chief efforts in conversation -were only to be accomplished <i>tête-a-tête</i>. But he had the foil of a -detestable and detested chief—Wharton, whose corrupt and brutal -character gave double acceptance to the secretary’s charm and goodness, -and the Tories contended with the Whigs, says Swift, which should speak -best of this favorite of fortune. “How can you think so meanly of a -kingdom,” he exclaims, “as not to be pleased that every creature in it -who hath one grain of worth has a veneration for you?” It is not often -that even in hyperbole such a thing can be said.</p> - -<p>It was while Addison was in Ireland thus gathering golden opinions that -an event occurred which was of the utmost importance to his reputation, -so far especially as posterity was concerned. Among the little band of -friends over whom he held a kind of genial sway, and who acknowledged -his superiority with boundless devotion, was one who was more nearly his -equal than any other of the band; a friend of youth, one of those -erratic but generous natures whose love of excellence is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> almost -rapturous, though they are unable themselves to keep up to the high -level they approve. Steele can never be forgotten where Addison is -honored. He had been at Charterhouse and at Oxford along with his -friend, and no doubt it was a wonder among the reading men in their -earlier days how it was that the correct, the polished, the -irreproachable scholar of Magdalen, with his quiet ways, could put up -with that gay scapegrace who was perpetually in trouble. Such alliances, -however, have not been rare. The cheerful, careless Dick, full of -expedients, full of animal spirits, always amusing, friendly, generous -in his impulses, if unintentionally selfish in the constant breaches of -his better meaning, must have had a charm for the steadier and purer -nature which was formed with pulses more orderly. No doubt Steele’s -perpetual self-revelation, his unfolding of a hundred quips and cranks -of human nature, and unsuspicious rendering up of all his natural -anomalies and contradictions to the instinctive spectatorship of his -amused companion, helped to endear him to the humorist, who must have -laughed till he cried on many an occasion over poor Dick’s amazing -wisdoms and follies, without any breach of that indulgent affection -which between two men who have grown up together can rarely be said to -be mingled with anything so keen as contempt. Steele, it is evident, -must have known Addison “at home,” as school-boys say, or he could not -have made that little sketch of the household where brothers and sisters -were taught to be so loving to each other. While the young hero who had, -as in the favorite allegories of the time, chosen the right path, and -taken the steady hand of Minerva, instead of that more lovely one of -fatal Venus to guide him, was reaching the heights of applause and good -fortune, the unlucky youth who chose pleasure for his pursuit had gone -disastrously the other way, and fallen into all sorts of adventures, -extremely amusing for his friend to hear of, though he disapproved, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> -no doubt very amusing to the actual actor in them, though he suffered. -But Addison was not a mere “spectator” so far as the friend of his youth -was concerned. When he began to rise there seems little reason to doubt -that he pulled Steele up with him, introducing him to the notice of the -fine people, who in those days might make the fortune of a gentlemanly -and clever adventurer, and that either by his own interest or that of -one of his powerful friends he procured him a place and started him in -public life. Steele had already floated into literature, and, whether it -is true or not that Addison helped him in the concoction of one play at -least, it is clear that he kept his purse and his heart well open to his -friend, now a man about town ruffling at the coffee-houses with the -best, and full of that energy and readiness which so often strike out -new ways of working, though it may require steadier heads to carry them -out.</p> - -<p>It was, however, while Addison was in Ireland that Steele was moved by -the most important of these original impulses, an idea full, as it -proved, of merit and practical use. Journalism was then in its infancy. -A little “News Letter,” or “Flying Post”—a shabby broadsheet containing -the bulletin of a battle, a formal and brief notice of parliamentary -proceedings, an account of some monstrous birth, a child with two heads, -or that perennial gooseberry which has survived into our own time—and -an elaborate list of births, deaths, and marriages, was almost all that -existed in the way of public record. The post to which Steele had been -appointed was that of Gazetteer, which naturally led him to the -consideration of such matters: and among the crowd of projects which -worked together in his “barmy noddle,” there suddenly surged uppermost -the idea of a paper which should come out on the post days, the -Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays which were, up to that time, the only -days of communication with the country; a paper written after the fancy -of the time, in itself a letter from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> wits and the knowing persons -in town, revealing not only the existing state of public affairs, but -all those exquisite particulars of society which have always been the -delight of country circles, and which were doubly sure to please at a -time when society was governed by talk, when all public criticism was -verbal, and the echoes of the wits in the coffee-houses were blown about -on all the breezes. Happy the Sir Harry who, sitting mum over his wine -in a corner, could hear these gentlemen discussing what Sunderland or -Somers had said, what my Lord Treasurer intended, or, more delightful, -the newest incident in the tragedy-comedy of the great duchess—how the -queen looked glumly at her over the card-table, or let her stand -unnoticed at a drawing-room; and still more deeply blest the parson who -had Mr. Addison pointed out to him, and heard the young Templars and -scholars pressing him with questions as to when his “Cato” was coming -out, or asking his opinion on a set of verses. Such worthies would go -back to the country full of these reflections from the world, and tell -how the gallants laughed at the mantua which was going out of fashion, -and made fun of the red heels which, perhaps, were just then appearing -at the Manor or the Moated Grange. Steele saw at once what a thing it -would be to convey these impressions at first hand in a privileged -“Tatler” direct to the houses of the gentry all over the country. -Perhaps he did not perceive at first what a still finer thing to have -them served up with the foaming chocolate or fragrant tea at every -breakfast in Mayfair.</p> - -<p>It is an idea that has occurred to a great many heads since with less -success. In these latter days there have been many literary adventurers, -to whom the starting of a new paper has seemed an opening into El -Dorado. But the opening in the majority of cases does not prove a -practicable one—for, in fact, there is no longer any need of news; and -the concise little essays and elegant banterings of those critics of the -time have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> fallen out of date. News means in our day an elaborate -system, and instantaneous reports from all the world; and one London -newspaper—far more one of the gigantic journals proper to -America—contains as much matter as half a hundred “Tatlers.” One -wonders, if Addison’s genius, and the light hand of Steele, and Swift’s -tremendous and scathing humor could be conjured up again, whether such a -production, with its mingled thread of the finest sentiments and the -pettiest subjects, metaphysics and morals, and the “Eneid” and “Paradise -Lost,” and periwigs and petticoats, would find sufficient acceptance -with “the fair” and the wise to keep it afloat, or would still go up to -sages and fine ladies with their breakfast trays.</p> - -<p>It was on the immediate foundation of one of Swift’s savage <i>jeux -d’esprits</i> that the new undertaking was begun, a mystification which -greatly amused the wits then, but which does not, perhaps, appear -particularly delightful now. Swift had been seized by a freak of -mischief in respect to a certain Partridge, an astrologer, who made an -income out of the public by pretended revelations of the future, as is -still done, we believe, among those masses, beneath the ascertained -audience of literature, who spend their sixpences at Christmas upon -almanacs and year-books containing predictions of what is to happen. It -occurred to Swift in some merry moment to emulate and to doom the Merlin -of the day: and with the prodigious gravity which characterizes his -greatest jests he wrote “Predictions for the year 1708,” in which, among -many other things, he announced that he had consulted the stars on -behalf of Partridge, and had ascertained that the wizard would certainly -die on March 29, at eleven o’clock at night, of a raging fever. The -reader will probably remember that the jest was kept up, and that, -notwithstanding Partridge’s protest that he was not dead at all, Isaac -Bickerstaff insisted on asserting that his prophecy had been fulfilled,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> -to the grave confusion of various serious affairs, and the -inextinguishable laughter of the wits. It was not a pretty jest, but it -brought into being a visionary critic of public matters, a new personage -in the literary world, in whom other wits saw capabilities. Steele in -particular perceived that Isaac Bickerstaff was just the personality he -wanted, and therewith proceeded to make of that shadowy being the Mentor -of the time. The design was excellent, the immediate execution cleverly -adapted to seize the interest of the public, which had been already -amused and mystified under that name. Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff presented -his readers with the first number of his journal without charge. “I -earnestly desire,” he says, “all persons, without distinction, to take -it in for the present <i>gratis</i>, and hereafter at the price of one penny, -forbidding all hawkers to take more for it at their peril.” The idea -took the town. No doubt there would be many an allusion to this and that -which the wits would guess at, and which would to them have a double -meaning; but, to do the “Tatler” justice, the kind of gossip which fills -the so-called society newspapers in our day was unknown to the witty -gentlemen who sometimes satirize a ruffle or a shoe-tie, but never -personally a woman. The types of fine ladies who flutter through his -pages could never raise a pang in any individual bosom; and when he -addressed himself to the reform of the theater, to the difficult duty of -checking play and discouraging duels, he had all the well-thinking on -his side.</p> - -<p>Steele had gone on for some numbers before his new venture attracted the -attention of Addison. He recognized whose the hand was from a classical -criticism in the sixth number which he had himself made to Steele; and -he must have been pleased with the idea, since he soon after appears as -a coadjutor, sending his contributions from the Secretary’s office in -Dublin. There has been a great and prolonged controversy upon the -respective merits of these two friends: some, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> first among them -Macaulay, will have it that Addison had all the merit of the -publication. “Almost everything good in the ‘Tatler’ was his,” says the -historian. But there are many who, despite Macaulay’s great authority, -find a certain difficulty in distinguishing Addison from Steele and -Steele from Addison, and are inclined to find the latter writer as -entertaining and as gifted as the former. No question could be more -difficult to settle. As we glance over the little gray volumes which -bring back to us dimly the effect which the little broadsheet must have -had when it appeared day by day, there is no doubt that the eye is -oftenest caught by something which, when we look again, proves to be -from Addison’s hand. We open, it is by chance, and yet not altogether by -chance, upon Tom Folio and his humors; upon the poor poet and his -verses; upon some group of shabby heroes, or stumbling procession of -country gentlemen which there is no mistaking. But on the other hand it -is Steele who gives us that family picture, which reads like the Vicar -of Wakefield, yet with a more tender touch (for Mrs. Primrose was never -her husband’s equal), showing us the good woman among her family, the -husband half distracted with the fear of losing her, the wife for his -sake smiling her paleness away. Indeed, we think, in these early essays -at least, it would be a mistake for the critic to risk his reputation on -the superiority of Addison. He set up no higher standard than that which -his friend had raised, but fell into the same humor, adding his -contribution of social pictures with less force of moral generally, and -more delicacy of workmanship, but no remarkable preëminence. The -character of the publication changed gradually as the great new pen came -into it; but whether by Addison’s influence or by the mere action of -time, and a sense of what suited the audience he had obtained—which a -soul so sympathetic as Steele’s would naturally divine with -readiness—no one can tell. Gradually<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> the news which at first had -regularly filled a column dropped away. It had been, no doubt, well -authenticated news, the freshest and best, as it came from the -authorized hand of the Gazetteer; but either Steele got tired of -supplying it, or a sense of the inexpediency of publishing anything -which might displease his patrons and the government, convinced him that -it was unnecessary. It is scarcely possible, either, to tell why the -“Tatler” came to an end. Mr. Austin Dobson, in his recent life of -Steele, gives sundry reasons which do not seem, however, of any -particular weight. Steele’s own account is that he had become known, and -his warnings and lessons were thus made of no avail:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>I considered [he says] that severity of manners was absolutely -necessary to him who would censure others, and for that reason and -that only chose to talk in a mask. I shall not carry my humility so -far as to call myself a vicious man, but at the same time confess -my life is at best but pardonable. And with no greater character -than this a man could make an indifferent progress in attacking -prevailing and fashionable vices, which Mr. Bickerstaff has done -with a freedom of spirit that would have lost both its beauty and -efficacy had it been pretended to by Mr. Steele.</p></div> - -<p>This reason is, however,—though pretty and just enough had its writer -renounced the trade,—a somewhat fantastic one when we reflect that -though the “Tatler” ended in January, 1711, the “Spectator” began in -March of the same year. The one died only to be replaced by the other. -It is said that Addison did not know of his friend’s intention to cut -the “Tatler” short, and it was he who was the chief agent in beginning -the “Spectator.” Therefore it may have been that the breach was but an -impatience of Steele’s, which his slow and less impulsive and more -constant comrade could not permanently consent to. No doubt Addison had -by this time learned the advantage of such a mode of utterance, and felt -how entirely it suited his own manner of work and constitution of mind. -The fictitious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> person of Isaac Bickerstaff was relinquished in the new -series: it no longer assumed to give any news. Its contents were less -varied, consisting generally of a single essay, and, notwithstanding the -impression which the casual reader often has, and which some critics -have largely dwelt upon, that the comments of this critic are upon the -merest vanities of the time, the hoops, the gold-lace, the snuff-boxes, -and patches of the period, it is astonishing how little space is -actually taken up with these lighter details, and how many graver -questions, how many fine sentiments and delicate situations, afford the -moralist occasion for those remarks which he makes in the most beautiful -and picturesque English to the edification of all the generations. There -is, perhaps, no book which is so characteristic of an epoch in history, -and none which gives so clear a conception of the English world of the -time. We sit and look on, always amused, often instructed, while the -delicate panorama unfolds before us—and see everything pass, the fine -coaches, the gentlemen on foot, the parsons in their gowns, the young -Templars jesting in the doorways: but always with the little monologue -going on, which accompanies the movement, and runs off into a hundred -byways of thought, sometimes serious, sometimes gay, often with no -particular connection with the many-colored streams of passers-by, yet -never obscuring our sight of them as they come and go. There is, -perhaps, a noisy group at the door while Mr. Spectator talks, with their -wigs in the last fashion, and their clouded canes hung to a button, -while they discourse. In one corner there are some two or three grave -gentlemen putting their heads together over the latest news; and in -another the young fellows over their wine eager in discussion of Mrs. -Oldfield and Mrs. Bracegirdle at the theater, or of Chloe and Clarissa, -the reigning beauties of society; or perhaps it is a poet, poor Ned -Softly, as the case may be, who is reading his last sonnet to his -mistress’s eyebrow, amid the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> laughing commentaries or the ridicule of -his companions. What is Mr. Spectator talking of all the while? His -discourse does not prevent us hearing the impertinences of the others. -Perhaps he is talking of honest love, a favorite theme of his, at which -the wits do not dare to laugh in his presence,—or he is telling one of -his fables, to which everybody in the midst of his levity or his -business gives half an ear at least; or by a caprice he has turned aside -to metaphysics, and is discussing the processes of the mind, and how “no -thought can be beautiful that is not just”; how “’t is a property of -the heart of man to be diffusive, its kind wishes spread abroad over the -face of the creation,” and such like; not to speak of graver subjects -still to which he will direct our minds on Saturdays, perhaps to prepare -us for Sunday, when he is silent. Or he will read aloud a letter from -some whimsical correspondent, which the wits will pause to hear, for -gossip is ever sweet, but which before they know lands them in a case of -hardship or trouble which touches their consciences and rouses their -pity. Sometimes the hum of life will stop altogether and even Softly put -his verses in his pocket to listen: and on the brink of tears the fine -gentlemen, and we too along with them, incontinently burst out -a-laughing at some touch that no one expected. But whether we laugh or -cry, or are shamed in our levity, or diverted in our seriousness, -outside the windows the crowd is always streaming on. There is no -separating the “Spectator” from the lively, crowded, troublous, and -perplexing scenes upon which all his reflections are made. The young -lady looking out of her coach—at sight of whom all the young fellows -doff their hats and make their comments, how much her fortune is, who is -in pursuit of her, or if any mud has yet been flung upon her—shows to -the philosopher a face disturbed with all the puzzles of an existence -which nobody will allow her to take seriously. The poor wit who -endeavors so wistfully to amuse my lord in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;"> -<a href="images/ill_034_lg.jpg"> -<br /> -<img src="images/ill_034.jpg" width="389" height="472" alt="Image unavailable: SIDNEY, EARL OF GODOLPHIN. - -ENGRAVED BY PETER AITKEN, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, IN BRITISH -MUSEUM. PAINTED BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">SIDNEY, EARL OF GODOLPHIN. -<br /><small> -ENGRAVED BY PETER AITKEN, FROM MEZZOTINT BY JOHN SMITH, IN BRITISH<br /> -MUSEUM. PAINTED BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.</small></span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">his dullness betrays to that critic not so much the soul of a toady, as -that of the anxious father with children that starve at home. His young -fellows, though they look so careless, have their troubles too. Wherever -that keen eye turns another group shows through the crowd, or a lonely -whimsical figure as distinct as if there was no one but he. Save perhaps -on those Saturdays when he plays his soft accompaniment to Milton’s -grand, sonorous organ he is never abstracted or retired from men: on all -other occasions, though he is thinking of a great deal else, and has his -mind absorbed in other themes, this busy world of which he forms a part -is always with him. Sometimes he permits us to see him over their heads -only, seated on his familiar bench at his table, from whence he delivers -his homilies, with all these figures moving and re-moving on the busy -pavement in the foreground; sometimes we are admitted inside, and watch -them through open door and window by his side: but he is never to be -parted from the society in which he finds his models, his subjects, his -audience. Like other men he takes it for granted that the fashion of his -contemporaries is to go on forever. For posterity that smiling, keen -observer takes no thought.</p> - -<p>But of all things else that Addison has done there remains one -preëminent figure which is his chief claim to immortality. The -“Campaign” has disappeared out of literature; “Cato” is known only by a -few well-known lines; the “Spectator” itself, though a work which no -gentleman’s library can be without, dwells generally in dignified -retirement there, and is seldom seen on any table but the student’s, -though we are all supposed to be familiar with it: but Sir Roger de -Coverley is the familiar friend of most people who have read anything at -all, and the acquaintance by sight, if we may so speak, of everybody. -There is no form better known in all literature. His simple rustic -state, his modest sense of his own importance, his kind and genial -patronage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> of the younger world, which would laugh at him if it were not -overawed by his modesty and goodness, and which still sniggers in its -sleeve at all those kind, ridiculous ways of his as he walks about in -London, taken in on all sides, with his hand always in his purse and his -heart in its right place, are always familiar and delightful. We learn -with a kind of shock that it was Steele who first introduced this -perfect gentleman to the world, and can only hope that it was Addison’s -idea from the first, and that he did not merely snatch out of his -friend’s hands and appropriate a conception so entirely according to his -own heart. To Steele, too, we are indebted for some pretty scenes in the -brief history: for Will the Huntsman’s wooing, which is the most -delicate little enamel, and for the knight’s own love-making, which, -however, is pushed a little too near absurdity. But it is Addison who -leads him forth among his country neighbors, and to the assizes, and -meets the gipsies with him, and brings him up to town, carrying him to -Westminster and to Spring Gardens, in the wherry with the one-legged -waterman, and to the play. The delightful gentleman is never finer than -in this latter scene. He has to be conveyed in his coach, attended by -all his servants, armed with “good oaken plants,” and Captain Sentry in -the sword he had worn at Steinkirk, for fear of the Mohocks, those -brutal disturbers of the public peace whom Addison justly feels it would -be unbecoming to bring within sight of his noble old knight.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>As soon as the house was full and the candles lighted my old friend -stood up and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind -seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself at the sight of a -multitude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake -of the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself -as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit that he made a -very proper centre to a tragick Audience. Upon the entering of -Pyrrhus the Knight told me that he did not believe the King of -France had a better strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old -friend’s remarks because I looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> upon them as a piece of natural -criticism and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of -almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the -play would end; one while he appeared much concerned for -Andromache, and a little while after as much for Hermione; and was -extremely puzzled to know what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir -Roger saw Andromache’s obstinate refusal to her lover’s -importunities, he whispered me in the ear that he was sure she -would never have him; to which he added with a more than ordinary -vehemence, “You can’t imagine, sir, what ’t is to have to do with a -widow.” Upon Pyrrhus, his threatening afterwards to leave her, the -Knight shook his head and murmured, “Ay! do it if you can.” This -part dwelt so much upon my friend’s imagination that at the close -of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered -in my ear, “These widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in -the world. But pray,” says he, “you that are a critick, is this -play according to your dramatick rules, as you call them? Should -your People in Tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there is -not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning -of!”</p> - -<p>The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old -gentleman an answer. “Well,” says the Knight, sitting down with -great satisfaction, “I suppose we are now to see Hector’s Ghost?” -He then renewed his attention, and from time to time fell -a-praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one -of her pages, whom, at his first entering, he took for Astyanax; -but we quickly set him right in that particular, though at the same -time he owned he should have been very glad to see the little boy, -who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that -is given of him.</p></div> - -<p>Could anything be more delightful than this genial picture? We have all -met in later years a certain Colonel Newcome, who is very like Sir -Roger, one of his descendants, though he died a bachelor. But the -Worcestershire knight was the first of his lineage, and few are the -gifted hands who have succeeded in framing men after his model. Those -little follies which are so dear to us, the good faith which makes the -young men laugh, yet feel ashamed of themselves for laughing, and all -the circumstances of that stately simple life which are so different -from anything we know, yet so lifelike and genuine, have grown into the -imagination of the after-generations. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> seem to know Sir Roger from -our cradle, though we may never even have read the few chapters of his -history. This is the one infallible distinction of genius above all -commoner endowments. Of all the actors in that stirring time Sir Roger -remains the most living and real. The queen and her court are no more -than shadows moving across the historic stage. Halifax, and Somers, and -Harley, and even the great Bolingbroke, what are they to us? Figures -confused and uncertain, that appear and disappear in one combination or -another, so that our head aches in the effort to follow, to identify, to -make sure what the intrigues and the complications mean. But we have no -difficulty in recollecting all about Sir Roger. We would not have the -old man mocked at any more than Mr. Addison would, but kiss his kind old -hand as we smile at those little foibles which are all ingratiating and -delightful. In that generation, with all its wars and successes, there -was, perhaps, no such gain as Sir Roger. Marlborough’s victories made -England feared and respected, but cost the country countless treasure, -and gave her little advantage; the good knight cost nobody anything, and -made all the world the richer. He is one of those inhabitants who never -grow old or pass away, and he gives us proof undeniable that when we -speak of a corrupt and depraved age, as we have reason to do, we have -still nobler reason for believing—as the despairing prophet was taught -by God himself in far older times: that however dark might be the -prospect there were still seven thousand men in Israel who had never -bowed the knee to Baal—what we learn over again, thank Heaven! from -shining example everywhere, that there are always surviving the seed of -the just, the salt of the earth, by whose silent agency, and pure love, -and honest truth, life is made practicable and the world rolls on.</p> - -<p>Sir Roger is the great point of the “Spectator,” as the “Spectator” is -the truest history of the time. It contains,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> however, beside, much that -is admirable and entertaining, as well as a good deal that was -temporary, and is now beyond the fashion of our understanding, or, at -least, of our appreciation. Addison’s criticism, or rather exposition, -of Milton, which no doubt taught his age a far more general regard for -that great poet, is well enough known, but yet not nearly so well known -as Sir Roger, and not necessary now as it was then. When these -criticisms began it is evident that Addison, as well as his friend -Steele, had made a great advance from the time when the young Oxford -scholar left Shakspere out of his reckoning altogether, and considered -“Old Spenser” only fit to amuse a barbarous age. Though the balance of -things had not been redressed throughout the English world, yet these -scholars had come to perceive that the greatness of their predecessors -had been, perhaps, a little mixed up; that Cowley was not so mighty a -genius as their boyhood believed, and that there were figures as of gods -behind which it was shame to have misconceived. Throughout all, the -meaning was wholesome, and tended toward the elevation of the time. -Steele had it specially at heart to discourage gambling, and to put down -the hateful tyranny of the duel. And both writers used all their powers -to improve and raise the character of theatrical representations, -keeping a watch not only over the plays that were performed, but also -over the manners of the audience, who crowded the stage so that the -players could scarcely be seen, and played cards in their boxes, and -used the public entertainment for their own private quarrels and -assignations. It is curious, too, to note how these authorities regarded -the opera, the new form of amusement which had pushed its way, against -all the prejudices of the English, into fashion. Addison himself, -indeed, wrote an opera which was not successful; but he did not love -that new-fangled entertainment. He devotes two or three numbers to the -description of it, for, says he, “There is no question our grandchildren -will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> very anxious to know the reason why their forefathers used to -sit together like an audience of foreigners in their own country, and to -hear whole plays acted before them in a tongue which they did not -understand.” It is evident by this that his age had not reached to the -further sublimity of believing that when the utterance is musical there -is no need of understanding at all. “One scarce knows how to be -serious,” he adds, “in the confutation of an absurdity that shows itself -at the first sight. It does not want any great measure of sense to see -the ridicule of this monstrous practice. If the Italians have a genius -for music above the English, the English have a genius for other -performances of a much higher nature, and capable of giving the mind a -much nobler entertainment.” We wonder if our “Spectator” would be less -affronted now by the constant adaptation of equivocal French plays to -the English stage, than by the anomaly of a representation given in -language which nobody understood? He would, perhaps, feel it to be an -advantage often not to understand, and doubt whether the English after -all “have a genius for other performances of a much higher nature.”</p> - -<p>We are not informed that the “Tatler” and “Spectator,” the real -foundation of his fame, gave Addison any help in his career. That was -assured by the “Campaign.” He received his first post, that of “a -commissionership with £200 a year,” at once, in the end of 1704: his -pension having ceased at King William’s death in 1702: the interval is -not a very long one, and during this time he had retained his college -fellowship. In 1706 he became under-secretary. In 1708, his chief, Lord -Sunderland, was dismissed, and Addison along with him; but the latter -stepped immediately into the Irish secretaryship, which was worth £2000 -a year. Two years afterward occurred the political convulsions brought -about by the trial of Sacheverell and the intrigues of the back stairs, -which brought Harley<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> into power, and Addison with his leaders was once -more out of office; but in 1714 they came triumphantly back, and he rose -to the height of political elevation as secretary of state with a seat -in the Cabinet. Though he did not retain this position long on account -of his failing health, he retired on a pension of £1500 a year. In 1711, -at a period when he was supposed to be at a low ebb of fortune, in the -cold shade of political opposition, he was able to buy the estate of -Bilton, near Rugby, for which he paid £10,000—which is not bad for a -moment of misfortune. Altogether Addison was provided for as the -deserving and honorable hero—the wise youth of one of his own -allegories, the good apprentice—should be, by poetic justice, but is -not always in the experience of the world. The success of the -“Spectator,” however, which was more his than Steele’s (as the “Tatler” -had been much more Steele’s than Addison’s), was apparently very -considerable; Addison himself says, in an early number, that it had -reached the circulation of three thousand copies a day. On a special -occasion fourteen thousand copies are spoken of; and the passing of the -Stamp Act, which destroyed many of the weaker publications of the time, -did comparatively little harm to the “Spectator,” which doubled its -price without much diminishing its popularity. It had also what no other -daily, and very few periodicals of any time, ever reach, the advantage -of a permanent issue afterward, in a succession of volumes, of which the -first edition seems to have reached an issue of ten thousand copies. -Fortunate writers! pleasant public! The “Times,” and the rest of our -great newspapers, boast a circulation beyond that which the eighteenth -century could have dreamed of; and thirty years ago it was the fashion -among public orators more indebted to genius than education—Mr. Cobden -for one, and, we think, Mr. John Bright—to say that the leading -articles of that day were more than equal to Thucydides and all the -other writers of whom classical<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> scholars made their boast. But we -wonder how the “Times” leaders would read collected into a volume, -against those little dingy books (tobacco paper, as a contemporary says) -with all their wisdom and their wit. “I will not meddle with the -‘Spectator,’” says Swift to Stella, “let him <i>fair sex</i> it to the -world’s end.” And so he has, at least so far as the world has yet -advanced toward that undesirable conclusion.</p> - -<p>The “Spectator” ended with the year 1712, having existed less than two -years. Whether the authors had found their audience beginning to fail, -or their inspiration, or had considered it wise (as is most likely) to -forestall the possibility of either catastrophe, we are not informed. -Almost immediately after the conclusion of this greatest undertaking of -his life, Addison plunged into what probably appeared to the weakness of -contemporary vision a much greater undertaking, the production of his -tragedy “Cato,” which made a commotion in town such as few plays did -even at that period. It was partly as a political movement, to stir up -the patriotism and love of liberty which were supposed to be failing -under the dominion of the Tories, suspected of all manner of evil -designs, that his Whig friends urged Addison to bring out the great play -which had been simmering in his brain since his travels, and which had -no doubt been read in detached acts and pieces of declamation to all his -literary friends. These friends had received several additions in the -mean time, especially in the person of Pope, who was still young enough -to be proud of Addison’s notice, yet remarkable enough to be intrusted -with the composition of a prologue to the great man’s work. Swift, -notwithstanding the coldness which had ensued between them on his change -of politics, was still sufficiently in Addison’s friendship to be -present at a rehearsal, and the whole town on both sides was moved with -excitement and expectation. On the first night, “our house,” says -Cibber, “was in a manner invested and entrance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> demanded by twelve -o’clock at noon; and before one it was not wide enough for many who came -too late for their places.” The following account of its reception is -given in a letter by Pope:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>The numerous and violent claps of the Whig party on the one side of -the theatre were echoed back by the Tories on the other; while the -author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find their -applause proceeding more from the hand than the head. This was the -case, too, with the Prologue-writer, who was clapped into a sound -Whig at the end of every two lines. I believe you have heard that, -after all the applause of the opposite faction, my lord Bolingbroke -sent for Booth, who played <i>Cato</i>, into the box between one of the -acts, and presented him with fifty guineas, in acknowledgment, as -he expressed it, for defending the cause of liberty so well against -a perpetual dictator. The Whigs are unwilling to be distanced this -way, and therefore design a present to the same <i>Cato</i> very -speedily.</p></div> - -<p>Bolingbroke’s speech about a perpetual dictator was a gibe which -everybody understood, directed against the devotion of the Whigs to -Marlborough, and was quite honest warfare; but what, we wonder, would -Mr. Irving think if Mr. Gladstone sent for him to his box, and -“presented him with fifty guineas”? The actor who considers himself one -of the most distinguished members of good society had not been thought -of in those days. One wonders, too, in passing, where a fine gentleman -kept his money, and whether the purse of the stage, which is always -ready to be flung to a deserving object, was a reality in the days of -Queen Anne? Fifty guineas is a somewhat heavy charge for the pocket; -however, perhaps, Lord Bolingbroke had come specially provided, or he -had a secretary handy who did not mind the bulging of his coat.</p> - -<p>Of this great tragedy, which turned the head of London, and which the -two great political parties vied with each other in applauding, there -are but a few lines virtually existing nowadays. To be sure, it is in -print with the rest of Addison’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> works, to be read by whosoever will; -but very few avail themselves of that privilege.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’T is not in mortals to command success.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we ’ll do more, Sempronius; we ’ll deserve it<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">is the chief relic, and that of a very prosaic common sense and familiar -kind, which the great tragedy has left us. “Plato, thou reasonest well!” -is another quotation, which is, perhaps, more frequently used in a -jocular than serious sense. But for these scraps <i>Cato</i> is as dead as -most of his contemporaries; and we do not even remember the great -tragedy when we hear the name of its author. We think, indeed, only of -the “Spectator” if we have read a little in the literature of the -period; but if we have no special tastes and studies that way, of Sir -Roger de Coverley alone; for Sir Roger is Addison’s gift to his country -and the world, the creation by which his name will always be known.</p> - -<p>The end of a man’s life is seldom so interesting as its beginning. After -he has achieved all of which he is capable, our interest is more usually -a sad than a cheerful one. Addison made in 1716 what seems to have been -an ambitious marriage, though he was not the man, one would think, to -care for the rank which gave his wife always a distinct personality and -another name than his. The Countess of Warwick, however, was, it would -appear, a beautiful woman. She had the charge of a troublesome boy, for -whom, no doubt, she would be eager to have the advice of such a man as -Mr. Addison, whom all the world respected and admired. The little house -at Chelsea (the house was called Sandford Manor House, and was some -years ago figured against its present doleful background of gasometers, -in the <i>Century</i>) which that statesman had acquired, and where he -delighted to withdraw from the noise and contention of town, was within -reach through the fields of Holland House, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> residence of Lady -Warwick. They had known each other for years, and Addison had written -exquisite little letters to the boy-earl—no doubt with intentions upon -the heart of the mother, to which, as is well known, that method is a -very successful way—long before. It was, Dr. Johnson says, a long and -anxious courtship; and perhaps—who knows?—when Steele performed that -picture of the beloved knight sitting silent before the two fine ladies -and unable to articulate the desires of his honest heart, it was some -similar performance of the shy man of genius who found utterance with -such difficulty, which was in Dick’s mind. But perhaps Addison grew -bolder when he was a secretary of state. The great Mr. Addison, the -delightful “Spectator,” the author of “Cato,” the man whose praises were -in everybody’s mouth, and whom Whig and Tory delighted to honor, was no -insignificant fine gentleman for a lady of rank to stoop to; and finally -those evening walks over the fields, and pleasant rural encounters—for -Chelsea was the country in those days, and Holland House quite retired -among all the songsters of the grove, and out of town—came to a -legitimate conclusion. Addison was forty, and her ladyship had been a -widow for fifteen years; but there is no reason for concluding that -there was no romance in the wedding, which, however, is always a nervous -sort of business under such circumstances. There was the boy, too, to be -taken into account, who evidently was not a nice boy, but a tale-bearer, -who did not love his mother’s faithful lover, and made mischief when he -could. There seems no evidence, however, that the marriage was unhappy, -beyond a malicious note of Pope’s, which all the commentators have -enlarged. The poor women who have the misfortune to be married to men of -genius, fare badly at the hands of the critics. There seems no warrant -whatever for Thackeray’s picture of the vulgar vixen whom he calls Mrs. -Steele. Steele’s letters exist, but not those of poor Prue, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> was so -sadly tried in her husband; and so that suffering woman had to suffer -over again in her reputation after her life’s trouble is over. It is -very unfair to the poor women who have left no champions behind.</p> - -<p>The end of our “Spectator’s” life was, however, clouded with more than -one unfortunate quarrel, the greatest of which has left its sting behind -to quiver in Addison’s name as long as Pope and he are known. It is -neither necessary nor edifying to enter at length into the bitternesses -of the past. Pope fancied himself aggrieved in various ways by the man -who had warmly acknowledged his youthful merits, and received him -(though so much his senior in years and fame) on a footing of equality, -and who all through never spoke an ill-natured word of the waspish -little poet. He believed, or persuaded himself to believe, in his -malignant little soul that Addison was jealous of his greatness, and had -set up Tickell to rival him in the translation of Homer; and he -believed, or pretended to believe, on the supposed authority of young -Warwick, that Addison had hired a vulgar critic to attack him. There -seems not the slightest reason to believe that either of these -grievances was real. Tickell had written simultaneously a translation, -which Addison had read and corrected, on account of which he courteously -declined to read Pope’s translation of the same, telling him the reason, -but accepting the office of critic to the second part of Pope’s work. He -had himself, according to the poet’s brag, accepted Pope’s corrections -of “Cato,” leaving “not a word unchanged that I objected to”; and he was -not moved to any retaliation by Pope’s attack upon him, but continued -serenely to praise his envious little assailant with a magnanimity which -is wonderful if he had seen the brilliant and pitiless picture so -cunningly drawn within the lines of nature, with every feature -travestied so near the real, that even Addison’s most faithful partizan -has to pause with alarm lest the wicked thing so near the truth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> might -perhaps be true. We hesitate to add to the serene and gentle story of -our man of letters this embittered utterance of spite and malice and -genius. The lines are sufficiently well known.</p> - -<p>Addison did not end his periodical work with the “Spectator.” He took up -that familiar character once again for a short time, long enough to -produce an additional volume,—the eighth,—in which he had no longer -the help of his old vivacious companion. The series is full of fine -things, but we are not sure, though Macaulay thinks otherwise, that we -do not a little miss the light and shade which Steele helped to supply. -And other publications followed. Steele himself set up the “Guardian,” -in which Addison had little share; and various others after that in -which he had no share at all. And Addison himself had a “Freeholder,” in -which he said some notable things; but these are all dead and gone, like -so much of the contemporary furnishings of the age. Students find and -read them in the old, collected editions; but life and recollection have -gone out of them. Perhaps his own time even had by then got as much as -it could enjoy and digest out of Addison. We, at least, have done so -after these hundred and fifty years, and are capable of no more.</p> - -<p>He died in 1719, at the early age of forty-seven. The story goes that he -sent for young Warwick when he was on his death-bed, that he might see -how a Christian could die: which we should say was unlike Addison, save -for the reason that he had been drawing morals all his life, and might -at that supreme moment be beyond seeing the ridicule of a last -exhibition. Perhaps it was in reality a message of charity and -forgiveness to the wayward boy, who, there seems reason to believe, was -not fond of his stepfather. And thus the great writer glided gently out -of a life in which he had more honor than falls to the lot of most men, -and, let us hope, a great deal of mild satisfaction and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> pleasure. -Thackeray has a little scoff at him as a man without passion. “I doubt -until after his marriage whether he ever lost his night’s rest or his -day’s tranquillity about any woman in his life.” Neither, perhaps, did -Sir Roger, whose forty years’ love-making and unrequited affection was a -sentimental luxury of the most delicate kind, as his maker intended it -to be. But Addison’s fine and meditative genius had no need of passion. -He is the “Spectator” of humankind. He had little temptation in his own -calm nature to descend into the arena; the honors of the fight came to -him somehow without any soil of the actual engagement. No smoke of -gunpowder is about his laurels, no spot of blood upon his sword. He -looks on at the others fighting, always with a nod of encouragement for -the man of honor and virtue, of keen scorn for the selfish and -evil-minded, of pity for the fallen. But it is not his part to fight. He -makes no pretense of any inclination that way. He is the looker-on; and, -as such, more valuable than a thousand men-at-arms.</p> - -<p>He died at Holland House, that fine historical mansion sacred to the -wits of a later age, but which in Addison’s time contained no tyrannical -tribunal of literary patronage, whatever else there might be there which -was contrary to peace. His life and death there make an association more -touching, and at the same time of sweeter meaning, than the -after-struggles of the Whig men of letters for Lady Holland’s arbitrary -favors. The great humorist died in the middle of summer, in June, 1719, -and was carried from that leafy retirement to the Jerusalem Chamber, -where he lay in state: why, it seems difficult to understand—but his -position had in it a kind of gentle royalty unlike that of other men. He -was buried at Westminster by night, the wonderful solemn arches over the -funeral party, half seen by the wavering lights, going off into vistas -of mysterious gloom, echoing with the hymns of the choir, who sang him -to his rest. Did they sing, one wonders, one of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> verses which had -been the most intimate utterance of his life: that great hymn of -creation, scarcely inferior to the angelic murmurings of medieval -Francis in his cell at Assisi?—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Soon as the evening shades prevail<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moon takes up the wondrous tale,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And nightly to the listening earth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Repeats the story of her birth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whilst all the stars that round her burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the planets in their turn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Confirm the tidings as they roll,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And spread the truth from pole to pole.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Or one of those humble and more fervent human utterances of faith and -humility and thanksgiving?—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through every period of my life,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy goodness I’ll pursue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And after death, in distant worlds,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The glorious theme renew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When nature fails, and day and night<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Divide thy works no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy mercy shall adore.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through all eternity to thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A joyful song I’ll raise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, oh! eternity’s too short<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To utter all thy praise.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>With such a soft, yet rapturous, strain the lofty arches and half-seen -aisles, perhaps with a summer moon looking in, taking up the wondrous -tale, might have echoed over Addison—the gentlest soul of all those -noble comrades who lie together awaiting the restitution of all -things—when our great humorist, our mildest kind “Spectator,” all his -comments over, was laid in the best resting-place England can give to -those whom she loves.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="border:none;"> -<a href="images/back_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/back.jpg" width="298" height="500" alt="Image -unavailble: book's back cover" /></a> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Historical Characters in the Reign of -Queen Anne, by Mrs. M. 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