“I therefore give all Men fair Warning to mend their Manners, for I shall from Time to Time print Bills of Mortality; and I beg the Pardon of all such who shall be named therein, if they who are good for Nothing shall find themselves in the Number of the Deceased.”—Richard Steele, from
The Tatler, April 12, 1709, reprinted in
Addison and Steele: Selections From The Tatler and The Spectator, edited by Robert J. Allen (1965)
This past April marked the tricentennial of the appearance of
The Tatler, the London periodical that, along with its successor,
The Spectator, gave rise to the
familiar essay—a genre that treats everyday matters in a lighthearted fashion—in Great Britain. You might even say that from it evolved this blog and hundreds of millions like it that now lower literary discourse in this world.
On this date in 1729,
Sir Richard Steele himself would be in need of the kind of “Bill of Mortality” he had puckishly told his readers he would be creating. He had suffered a partial stroke three years before, so when the end came for him, at age 57, it was a mercy—though probably not the kind that some victims of his wit years before would have granted him.
The Dublin-born Steele and his partner at
The Tatler and
The Spectator,
Joseph Addison, are as intimately linked as Procter & Gamble, Smith & Dale, Simon & Garfunkel, Mantle & Maris. What amazes this reader, 300 years after their appearance in the London literary world, is that they didn’t reveal their identities, at least not at first. Instead, they created characters and put-ons, such as the one in this quote.
Allow me to explain:
In 1708,
Jonathan Swift, another Irish-born writer (just thought I’d throw that in!), had concocted “Isaac Bickerstaff,” an astrologer who ranted against a real-life almanac-maker named
John Partridge. At one point, “Bickerstaff” predicted Partridge’s death. Later, he announced it had come to pass.
Trouble was,
Partridge was still alive. It must have really teed him off that no sooner did this appear on March 30 than a sexton showed up on his doorstep within 48 hours—yes,
April Fools Day--asking his loved ones if they needed his help with the funeral sermon.
For more than a year, most of literary London guffawed at this periodical war, as Partridge protested that he was still alive while Swift and his friends responded, in effect, “Well, that’s what
you say.” In the inaugural issue of
The Tatler, Steele got into the act, continuing the elaborate prank.
The essays of Addison and Steele, written for the middle class of their time, were immersed in
London’s emerging coffeehouse culture, where business was transacted, scientific experiments were conducted publicly, and people sat around gabbing about the events of the day. Different departments at
The Tatler were even described as coming from “White’s,” “Will’s” and “St. James’s” coffeehouses. As someone who writes posts from local descendants of these establishments, I feel a kinship with that readership.
Readers snapped up
The Tatler and
The Spectator because Addison and Steele used the media of their time to write in an easy, conversational style. Personal writing presented to a mass audience, I think, will survive today if we continue to embrace new technology but remember to keep the audience in mind, as they did.
The best of Steele’s essays can still be read with profit and a smile all these years later. His
advice on love letters, for instance, remains essential even in the age of text-messaging: “I am of Opinion [that] Writing has lost more Mistresses than any one Mistake in the whole Legend of Love.”
“Kortenhof had heard of a high school where
pranksters had put an automobile tire over the top of a 30-ft. flagpole, like a
ring on a finger, and this seemed to him an impressive and elegant and
beautiful feat that we at our high school ought to try to duplicate.”— Jonathan
Franzen, The Discomfort Zone: A Personal History (2006)
