CHAPTER XI.
THE FAMOUS MR. JOSEPH ADDISON.
The gentlemen ushers had a table at Kensington, and the Guard a verysplendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either of which ordinariesEsmond was free to dine. Dick Steele liked the Guard-table better thanhis own at the gentlemen ushers', where there was less wine and moreceremony; and Esmond had many a jolly afternoon in company of hisfriend, and a hundred times at least saw Dick into his chair. If thereis verity in wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable-naturedcharacter Dick's must have been! In proportion as he took in wine heoverflowed with kindness. His talk was not witty so much as charming.He never said a word that could anger anybody, and only became the morebenevolent the more tipsy he grew. Many of the wags derided the poorfellow in his cups, and chose him as a butt for their satire: but therewas a kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy, that seemed toEsmond far more charming than the pointed talk of the brightest wits,with their elaborate repartees and affected severities. I thinkSteele shone rather than sparkled. Those famous beaux-esprits of thecoffee-houses (Mr. William Congreve, for instance, when his gout andhis grandeur permitted him to come among us) would make many brillianthits--half a dozen in a night sometimes--but, like sharp-shooters, whenthey had fired their shot, they were obliged to retire under cover tilltheir pieces were loaded again, and wait till they got another chance attheir enemy; whereas Dick never thought that his bottle companion was abutt to aim at--only a friend to shake by the hand. The poor fellow hadhalf the town in his confidence; everybody knew everything about hisloves and his debts, his creditors or his mistress's obduracy. WhenEsmond first came on to the town, honest Dick was all flames andraptures for a young lady, a West India fortune, whom he married. In acouple of years the lady was dead, the fortune was all but spent, andthe honest widower was as eager in pursuit of a new paragon of beauty,as if he had never courted and married and buried the last one.
Quitting the Guard-table one Sunday afternoon, when by chance Dick had asober fit upon him, he and his friend were making their way down GermainStreet, and Dick all of a sudden left his companion's arm, and ran aftera gentleman who was poring over a folio volume at the book-shop near toSt. James's Church. He was a fair, tall man, in a snuff-colored suit,with a plain sword, very sober, and almost shabby in appearance--atleast when compared to Captain Steele, who loved to adorn his jollyround person with the finest of clothes, and shone in scarlet and goldlace. The Captain rushed up, then, to the student of the book-stall,took him in his arms, hugged him, and would have kissed him--for Dickwas always hugging and bussing his friends--but the other steppedback with a flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this publicmanifestation of Steele's regard.
"My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this age?" cries theCaptain, still holding both his friend's hands; "I have been languishingfor thee this fortnight."
"A fortnight is not an age, Dick," says the other, very good-humoredly.(He had light blue eyes, extraordinary bright, and a face perfectlyregular and handsome, like a tinted statue.) "And I have been hidingmyself--where do you think?"
"What! not across the water, my dear Joe?" says Steele, with a look ofgreat alarm: "thou knowest I have always--"
"No," says his friend, interrupting him with a smile: "we are not cometo such straits as that, Dick. I have been hiding, sir, at a place wherepeople never think of finding you--at my own lodgings, whither I amgoing to smoke a pipe now and drink a glass of sack: will your honorcome?"
"Harry Esmond, come hither," cries out Dick. "Thou hast heard me talkover and over again of my dearest Joe, my guardian angel?"
"Indeed," says Mr. Esmond, with a bow, "it is not from you only that Ihave learnt to admire Mr. Addison. We loved good poetry at Cambridge aswell as at Oxford; and I have some of yours by heart, though I have puton a red coat. . . . 'O qui canoro blandius Orpheo vocale ducis carmen;'shall I go on, sir?" says Mr. Esmond, who, indeed, had read and lovedthe charming Latin poems of Mr. Addison, as every scholar of that timeknew and admired them.
"This is Captain Esmond who was at Blenheim," says Steele.
"Lieutenant Esmond," says the other, with a low bow, "at Mr. Addison'sservice.
"I have heard of you," says Mr. Addison, with a smile; as, indeed,everybody about town had heard that unlucky story about Esmond's dowageraunt and the Duchess.
"We were going to the 'George' to take a bottle before the play," saysSteele: "wilt thou be one, Joe?"
Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard by, where he was still richenough to give a good bottle of wine to his friends; and invited thetwo gentlemen to his apartment in the Haymarket, whither we accordinglywent.
"I shall get credit with my landlady," says he, with a smile, "when shesees two such fine gentlemen as you come up my stair." And he politelymade his visitors welcome to his apartment, which was indeed but ashabby one, though no grandee of the land could receive his guests witha more perfect and courtly grace than this gentleman. A frugal dinner,consisting of a slice of meat and a penny loaf, was awaiting the ownerof the lodgings. "My wine is better than my meat," says Mr. Addison;"my Lord Halifax sent me the Burgundy." And he set a bottle and glassesbefore his friends, and ate his simple dinner in a very few minutes,after which the three fell to, and began to drink. "You see," says Mr.Addison, pointing to his writing-table, whereon was a map of the actionat Hochstedt, and several other gazettes and pamphlets relating to thebattle, "that I, too, am busy about your affairs, Captain. I am engagedas a poetical gazetteer, to say truth, and am writing a poem on thecampaign."
So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he knew about thefamous battle, drew the river on the table aliquo mero, and with the aidof some bits of tobacco-pipe showed the advance of the left wing, wherehe had been engaged.
A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table beside our bottlesand glasses, and Dick having plentifully refreshed himself from thelatter, took up the pages of manuscript, writ out with scarce a blot orcorrection, in the author's slim, neat handwriting, and began to readtherefrom with great emphasis and volubility. At pauses of the verse,the enthusiastic reader stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause.
Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. "You are like theGerman Burghers," says he, "and the Princes on the Mozelle: when ourarmy came to a halt, they always sent a deputation to compliment thechief, and fired a salute with all their artillery from their walls."
"And drunk the great chiefs health afterward, did not they?" saysCaptain Steele, gayly filling up a bumper;--he never was tardy at thatsort of acknowledgment of a friend's merit.
"And the Duke, since you will have me act his Grace's part," says Mr.Addison, with a smile, and something of a blush, "pledged his friends inreturn. Most Serene Elector of Covent Garden, I drink to your Highness'shealth," and he filled himself a glass. Joseph required scarce morepressing than Dick to that sort of amusement; but the wine never seemedat all to fluster Mr. Addison's brains; it only unloosed his tongue:whereas Captain Steele's head and speech were quite overcome by a singlebottle.
No matter what the verses were, and, to say truth, Mr. Esmond found someof them more than indifferent, Dick's enthusiasm for his chiefnever faltered, and in every line from Addison's pen, Steele founda master-stroke. By the time Dick had come to that part of the poem,wherein the bard describes as blandly as though he were recordinga dance at the opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic cudgelling at avillage fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our campaign, with theremembrance whereof every soldier who bore a part in it must sickenwith shame--when we were ordered to ravage and lay waste the Elector'scountry; and with fire and murder, slaughter and crime, a great part ofhis dominions was overrun; when Dick came to the lines--
"In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand With sword and fire, and ravages the land, In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn, A thousand villages to ashes turn. To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat, And mixed with bellowing herds confuse
dly bleat. Their trembling lords the common shade partake, And cries of infants found in every brake. The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands, Loth to obey his leader's just commands. The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed, To see his just commands so well obeyed;"
by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a perfectlymaudlin state, and he hiccupped out the last line with a tenderness thatset one of his auditors a-laughing.
"I admire the license of your poets," says Esmond to Mr. Addison. (Dick,after reading of the verses, was fain to go off, insisting on kissinghis two dear friends before his departure, and reeling away with hisperiwig over his eyes.) "I admire your art: the murder of the campaignis done to military music, like a battle at the opera, and the virginsshriek in harmony, as our victorious grenadiers march into theirvillages. Do you know what a scene it was?"--(by this time, perhaps,the wine had warmed Mr. Esmond's head too,)--"what a triumph you arecelebrating? what scenes of shame and horror were enacted, over whichthe commander's genius presided, as calm as though he didn't belong toour sphere? You talk of the 'listening soldier fixed in sorrow,' the'leader's grief swayed by generous pity;' to my belief the leader caredno more for bleating flocks than he did for infants' cries, and manyof our ruffians butchered one or the other with equal alacrity. I wasashamed of my trade when I saw those horrors perpetrated, which cameunder every man's eyes. You hew out of your polished verses a statelyimage of smiling victory; I tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savageidol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous. The rites performed before it areshocking to think of. You great poets should show it as it is--ugly andhorrible, not beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign,believe me, you never would have sung it so."
During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening, smoking out ofhis long pipe, and smiling very placidly. "What would you have?" sayshe. "In our polished days, and according to the rules of art, 'tisimpossible that the Muse should depict tortures or begrime her handswith the horrors of war. These are indicated rather than described; asin the Greek tragedies, that, I dare say, you have read (and sure therecan be no more elegant specimens of composition), Agamemnon is slain, orMedea's children destroyed, away from the scene;--the chorus occupyingthe stage and singing of the action to pathetic music. Something of thisI attempt, my dear sir, in my humble way: 'tis a panegyric I mean towrite, and not a satire. Were I to sing as you would have me, the townwould tear the poet in pieces, and burn his book by the hands of thecommon hangman. Do you not use tobacco? Of all the weeds grown on earth,sure the nicotian is the most soothing and salutary. We must paint ourgreat Duke," Mr. Addison went on, "not as a man, which no doubt he is,with weaknesses like the rest of us, but as a hero. 'Tis in a triumph,not a battle, that your humble servant is riding his sleek Pegasus. Wecollege poets trot, you know, on very easy nags; it hath been, timeout of mind, part of the poet's profession to celebrate the actions ofheroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which you men of war perform. Imust follow the rules of my art, and the composition of such a strainas this must be harmonious and majestic, not familiar, or too nearthe vulgar truth. Si parva licet: if Virgil could invoke the divineAugustus, a humbler poet from the banks of the Isis may celebrate avictory and a conqueror of our own nation, in whose triumphs everyBriton has a share, and whose glory and genius contributes to everycitizen's individual honor. When hath there been, since our Henrys' andEdwards' days, such a great feat of arms as that from which you yourselfhave brought away marks of distinction? If 'tis in my power to sing thatsong worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my Muse. If I fail as apoet, as a Briton at least I will show my loyalty, and fling up my capand huzzah for the conqueror:--
"'Rheni pacator et Istri Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit Ordinibus; laetatur eques, plauditque senator, Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.'"
"There were as brave men on that field," says Mr. Esmond (who nevercould be made to love the Duke of Marlborough, nor to forget thosestories which he used to hear in his youth regarding that great chiefsselfishness and treachery)--"there were men at Blenheim as good as theleader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded, nor voices plebeianor patrician favored, and who lie there forgotten, under the clods. Whatpoet is there to sing them?"
"To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades!" says Mr. Addison,with a smile. "Would you celebrate them all? If I may venture toquestion anything in such an admirable work, the catalogue of the shipsin Homer hath always appeared to me as somewhat wearisome; what had thepoem been, supposing the writer had chronicled the names of captains,lieutenants, rank and file? One of the greatest of a great man'squalities is success; 'tis the result of all the others; 'tis a latentpower in him which compels the favor of the gods, and subjugatesfortune. Of all his gifts I admire that one in the great Marlborough. Tobe brave? every man is brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancythere is something divine. In presence of the occasion, the greatsoul of the leader shines out, and the god is confessed. Death itselfrespects him, and passes by him to lay others low. War and carnage fleebefore him to ravage other parts of the field, as Hector from before thedivine Achilles. You say he hath no pity; no more have the gods, who areabove it, and superhuman. The fainting battle gathers strength at hisaspect; and, wherever he rides, victory charges with him."
A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited his poetic friend, hefound this thought, struck out in the fervor of conversation, improvedand shaped into those famous lines, which are in truth the noblest inthe poem of the "Campaign." As the two gentlemen sat engaged in talk,Mr. Addison solacing himself with his customary pipe, the littlemaid-servant that waited on his lodging came up, preceding a gentlemanin fine laced clothes, that had evidently been figuring at Court or agreat man's levee. The courtier coughed a little at the smoke of thepipe, and looked round the room curiously, which was shabby enough, aswas the owner in his worn, snuff-colored suit and plain tie-wig.
"How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?" says the Court gentleman onlooking down at the papers that were on the table.
"We were but now over it," says Addison (the greatest courtier in theland could not have a more splendid politeness, or greater dignity ofmanner). "Here is the plan," says he, "on the table: hac ibat Simois,here ran the little river Nebel: hic est Sigeia tellus, here areTallard's quarters, at the bowl of this pipe, at the attack of whichCaptain Esmond was present. I have the honor to introduce him to Mr.Boyle; and Mr. Esmond was but now depicting aliquo proelia mixta mero,when you came in." In truth, the two gentlemen had been so engaged whenthe visitor arrived, and Addison, in his smiling way, speaking of Mr.Webb, colonel of Esmond's regiment (who commanded a brigade in theaction, and greatly distinguished himself there), was lamenting that hecould find never a suitable rhyme for Webb, otherwise the brigade shouldhave had a place in the poet's verses. "And for you, you are but alieutenant," says Addison, "and the Muse can't occupy herself with anygentleman under the rank of a field officer."
Mr. Boyle was all impatient to hear, saying that my Lord Treasurerand my Lord Halifax were equally anxious; and Addison, blushing, beganreading of his verses, and, I suspect, knew their weak parts as wellas the most critical hearer. When he came to the lines describing theangel, that
"Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage,"
he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much as to say,"You know where that simile came from--from our talk, and our bottle ofBurgundy, the other day."
The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, and applauded theverses with all their might. The gentleman of the Court sprang up ingreat delight. "Not a word more, my dear sir," says he. "Trust me withthe papers--I'll defend them with my life. Let me read them over to myLord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see in half an hour. I venture topromise, the verses shall lose nothing by my reading, and then, sir, weshall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to complain that his friend'spension i
s no longer paid." And without more ado, the courtier in laceseized the manuscript pages, placed them in his breast with his ruffledhand over his heart, executed a most gracious wave of the hat with thedisengaged hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room, leaving an odorof pomander behind him.
"Does not the chamber look quite dark?" says Addison, surveying it,"after the glorious appearance and disappearance of that graciousmessenger? Why, he illuminated the whole room. Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond,will bear any light; but this threadbare old coat of mine, how very wornit looked under the glare of that splendor! I wonder whether they willdo anything for me," he continued. "When I came out of Oxford into theworld, my patrons promised me great things; and you see where theirpromises have landed me, in a lodging up two pair of stairs, with asixpenny dinner from the cook's shop. Well, I suppose this promise willgo after the others, and fortune will jilt me, as the jade has beendoing any time these seven years. 'I puff the prostitute away,'" sayshe, smiling, and blowing a cloud out of his pipe. "There is no hardshipin poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable; no hardship even in honestdependence that an honest man may not put up with. I came out of the lapof Alma Mater, puffed up with her praises of me, and thinking to makea figure in the world with the parts and learning which had got me nosmall name in our college. The world is the ocean, and Isis and Charwellare but little drops, of which the sea takes no account. My reputationended a mile beyond Maudlin Tower; no one took note of me; and I learnedthis at least, to bear up against evil fortune with a cheerful heart.Friend Dick hath made a figure in the world, and has passed me in therace long ago. What matters a little name or a little fortune? There isno fortune that a philosopher cannot endure. I have been not unknown asa scholar, and yet forced to live by turning bear-leader, and teachinga boy to spell. What then? The life was not pleasant, but possible--thebear was bearable. Should this venture fail, I will go back to Oxford;and some day, when you are a general, you shall find me a curate in acassock and bands, and I shall welcome your honor to my cottage in thecountry, and to a mug of penny ale. 'Tis not poverty that's the hardestto bear, or the least happy lot in life," says Mr. Addison, shaking theash out of his pipe. "See, my pipe is smoked out. Shall we have anotherbottle? I have still a couple in the cupboard, and of the right sort. Nomore?--let us go abroad and take a turn on the Mall, or look in at thetheatre and see Dick's comedy. 'Tis not a masterpiece of wit; but Dickis a good fellow, though he doth not set the Thames on fire."
Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket had come up aprodigious prize in the lottery of life. All the town was in an uproarof admiration of his poem, the "Campaign," which Dick Steele wasspouting at every coffee-house in Whitehall and Covent Garden. The witson the other side of Temple Bar saluted him at once as the greatest poetthe world had seen for ages; the people huzza'ed for Marlborough andfor Addison, and, more than this, the party in power provided for themeritorious poet, and Addison got the appointment of Commissioner ofExcise, which the famous Mr. Locke vacated, and rose from this place toother dignities and honors; his prosperity from henceforth to the end ofhis life being scarce ever interrupted. But I doubt whether he was nothappier in his garret in the Haymarket, than ever he was in his splendidpalace at Kensington; and I believe the fortune that came to him in theshape of the countess his wife was no better than a shrew and a vixen.
Gay as the town was, 'twas but a dreary place for Mr. Esmond, whetherhis charmer was in or out of it, and he was glad when his general gavehim notice that he was going back to his division of the army which layin winter-quarters at Bois-le-Duc. His dear mistress bade himfarewell with a cheerful face; her blessing he knew he had always, andwheresoever fate carried him. Mistress Beatrix was away in attendance onher Majesty at Hampton Court, and kissed her fair fingertips to him, byway of adieu, when he rode thither to take his leave. She received herkinsman in a waiting-room, where there were half a dozen more ladies ofthe Court, so that his high-flown speeches, had he intended to makeany (and very likely he did), were impossible; and she announced to herfriends that her cousin was going to the army, in as easy a manner asshe would have said he was going to a chocolate-house. He asked witha rather rueful face, if she had any orders for the army? and she waspleased to say that she would like a mantle of Mechlin lace. She madehim a saucy curtsy in reply to his own dismal bow. She deigned to kissher fingertips from the window, where she stood laughing with the otherladies, and chanced to see him as he made his way to the "Toy." TheDowager at Chelsey was not sorry to part with him this time. "Mon cher,vous etes triste comme un sermon," she did him the honor to say to him;indeed, gentlemen in his condition are by no means amusing companions,and besides, the fickle old woman had now found a much more amiablefavorite, and raffoled for her darling lieutenant of the Guard. Frankremained behind for a while, and did not join the army till later, inthe suite of his Grace the Commander-in-Chief. His dear mother, on thelast day before Esmond went away, and when the three dined together,made Esmond promise to befriend her boy, and besought Frank to take theexample of his kinsman as of a loyal gentleman and brave soldier, soshe was pleased to say; and at parting, betrayed not the least sign offaltering or weakness, though, God knows, that fond heart was fearfulenough when others were concerned, though so resolute in bearing its ownpain.
Esmond's general embarked at Harwich. 'Twas a grand sight to see Mr.Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck, waving his hat as our yacht putoff, and the guns saluted from the shore. Harry did not see his viscountagain, until three months after, at Bois-le-Duc, when his Grace the Dukecame to take the command, and Frank brought a budget of news from home:how he had supped with this actress, and got tired of that; how he hadgot the better of Mr. St. John, both over the bottle, and with Mrs.Mountford, of the Haymarket Theatre (a veteran charmer of fifty, withwhom the young scapegrace chose to fancy himself in love); how hissister was always at her tricks, and had jilted a young baron for anold earl. "I can't make out Beatrix," he said; "she cares for none ofus--she only thinks about herself; she is never happy unless she isquarrelling; but as for my mother--my mother, Harry, is an angel." Harrytried to impress on the young fellow the necessity of doing everythingin his power to please that angel; not to drink too much; not to go intodebt; not to run after the pretty Flemish girls, and so forth, as becamea senior speaking to a lad. "But Lord bless thee!" the boy said; "Imay do what I like, and I know she will love me all the same;" andso, indeed, he did what he liked. Everybody spoiled him, and his gravekinsman as much as the rest.
The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne Page 28