About the Work
The Spectator is a periodical essay series that appeared daily in London during the early eighteenth century, written primarily by Joseph Addison and Richard Steele, with contributions from other hands. The work takes the form of a running commentary on the manners, morals, literature, and daily life of the age, delivered through the persona of “Mr. Spectator,” a silent observer of the human scene who reports his observations to the reading public. The papers range across an extraordinary variety of subjects: literary criticism, philosophical reflection, social satire, letters from fictitious correspondents, allegorical dreams, and practical advice on everything from education to courtship.
The book as it has come down to us is a collection of these daily papers, each numbered and dated, preserving the rhythms of its original serial publication. The Spectator himself is a character of deliberate reticence—a man who confesses he was always a looker-on rather than a participant in life, and whose very silence in company has allowed him to see more than those who speak. Around him move a cast of recurring figures, most notably Sir Roger de Coverley, the amiable country gentleman whose eccentricities and goodness of heart provide some of the most memorable passages in the whole work.
The papers are not arranged as continuous treatises but as discrete essays, each complete in itself, though certain themes recur and develop across successive numbers. The reader encounters letters purportedly sent to the Spectator from all manner of correspondents—actors, lovers, clergymen, schoolmasters, widows, footmen—and these are woven together with the Spectator’s own reflections and with longer critical essays, such as the celebrated series on Milton’s Paradise Lost. The whole constitutes a portrait of a society in transition, caught between the licentiousness of the Restoration and the moral earnestness of the coming age, and it was the declared aim of its authors to correct vice and folly through wit rather than through severity.
Context
The Spectator papers emerged from a moment of intense literary and social activity in London. The periodical essay had already been established as a form by Steele’s earlier venture, The Tatler, to which Addison had contributed, and The Spectator refined and elevated the genre. The papers were published daily—a demanding schedule that required a steady flow of copy from the principal authors and their collaborators. The enterprise was sustained by a network of coffee-houses and reading clubs, where the papers were read aloud and discussed, and by the postal service, which carried them to subscribers in the country.
The age was one of political division, with Whig and Tory factions contending for power, and the Spectator, while not indifferent to politics, deliberately pitched its appeal above the fray. The papers touch on public affairs only obliquely, preferring to reform the nation by improving its taste and morals rather than by engaging in partisan controversy. The theatre was a central institution of London life, and the Spectator’s criticism of the stage—its monsters, its bombast, its indecencies—reflects a broader campaign to refine English manners. The Church of England, too, comes under the Spectator’s gentle correction, particularly in matters of pulpit delivery and the decorum of public worship.
The intellectual background of the papers is rich. The authors were men of classical learning, steeped in the Latin and Greek authors, and they draw constantly on Cicero, Horace, Virgil, and the philosophers for illustration and authority. They were also attentive readers of modern philosophy, particularly Locke, whose account of wit and judgment they engage with directly. The scientific interests of the age—the new natural philosophy, the theories of the earth, the wonders of creation—find their place in the papers as occasions for wonder and gratitude rather than for technical exposition. The Spectator stands at a point where the authority of the ancients is still powerful but where modern inquiry is beginning to reshape the intellectual landscape, and the papers move easily between these two worlds.
Structure of the Book
The book is composed of numbered papers, each typically running to a few pages, and each dated with the day of the week on which it originally appeared. The papers are not grouped into formal books or parts in the manner of a continuous treatise, but the collection as a whole has a discernible shape. Early papers introduce the Spectator himself and the members of his club, establishing the characters and settings that will recur throughout. Sir Roger de Coverley, the country knight; Will Honeycomb, the aging man of gallantry; the Templar, the clergyman, the merchant Sir Andrew Freeport—these figures give the work a social texture and a source of recurring incident.
As the collection proceeds, certain kinds of papers become recognizable. There are the critical essays, of which the most substantial are the papers on Milton’s Paradise Lost, where the Spectator examines the great poem book by book, comparing it with the epics of Homer and Virgil and analyzing its beauties with a care that anticipates modern literary criticism. There are the allegorical and dream papers, in which the Spectator presents moral truths through invented visions and fables. There are the letter papers, where correspondents—some real, some fictitious—bring their complaints, questions, and observations to the Spectator’s attention. And there are the occasional papers, prompted by a particular season, event, or piece of news.
The papers on education form a distinct sequence, with a correspondent contributing a series of letters on the relative merits of public and private schooling, the proper methods of forming virtue in the young, and the dangers of sending boys abroad before their characters are settled. The papers on wit and false wit—puns, acrostics, bouts rimez, anagrams—constitute another cluster, in which the Spectator attempts to distinguish true wit from its counterfeits. The papers on marriage and courtship, on the conduct of women, on the passions and their government, on gratitude and cheerfulness, on the pleasures of the imagination—these too recur across the collection, giving the whole a coherence of concern even where the treatment is various.
The book closes, in the later papers, with a return to some of the themes that have occupied it throughout: the power of women over men, the vanity of human wishes, the proper ends of life. The final papers included in this collection show the Spectator still at his post, still observing, still corresponding with his readers, and the work ends not with a formal conclusion but with the sense of an ongoing enterprise—a conversation that continues beyond the bounds of any single volume.
Inside the Book
A Letter from the Theatre
The paper opens with a letter from “T.D.,” a chief actor, who writes to the Spectator in response to a previously published “Project” for an alliance among the various wonders and monsters exhibited in London and Westminster—the Bulls, Bears, Elephants, and Lions. The actors have met and approved the design, and they have given warning to all their ghosts to leave by the 16th of the month. They resolve to part with everything that does not contribute to the representation of human life, making a free gift of all “animated Utensils” to the Projector. The Hangings mentioned before have run away, as have a set of Chairs, each met upon two legs going through the Rose Tavern. The writer hopes the Spectator will give notice that they intend to show no monsters, but men converted into such by their own Industry and Affectation. T.D. will that night represent, in the character of a fine lady dancing, all the distortions taken for graces. They have dismissed three companies of theatrical guards, and their kings will make love and sit in council without an army. They await direction on whether to reinforce King Porus or join the troops of Macedon. Mr. Penkethman will consult his Pantheon of Heathen Gods against the Oracle of Delphos. The company submits to the Spectator’s censures, venerating him more than Hercules if he can drive monsters from the theatre.
A second letter comes from “Salmoneus of Covent-Garden,” who has been “Thunderer to the Play-house,” making noise out of the clouds and descending to speak as the bold Thunder in The Rehearsal. He was then degraded to be a Ghost for two winters, and now is to be wholly banished. He desires that if the Undertaker uses Fire-Arms in the time of Alexander, he may be a Cannon against Porus, or be provided for in the Burning of Persepolis. Following this are brief petitions: the Petition of all the Devils of the Play-house, whose merit is referred to Mr. Chr. Rich; the Petition of the Grave-digger in Hamlet to command the Pioneers in the Expedition of Alexander, which is granted; and the Petition of William Bullock to be Hephestion to Penkethman the Great, which is granted. An editorial note explains that the caricature is of a passage in Sir Robert Stapylton’s Slighted Maid, and another note states that in the Spectator’s time The Rehearsal was an acted play, with Penkethman as the gentleman Usher and Bullock as one of the two Kings of Brentford; Thunder was Johnson, who also played the Grave-digger in Hamlet.
The Widow’s Advertisement
The next section is an Advertisement from a Widow Gentlewoman, daughter of Thomas Prater and Letitia Tattle. She has taken a house near Bloomsbury-Square where she teaches birds—Parrots, Starlings, and Magpies—to imitate human voices, speak with purity, and sing Opera-Airs, or speak Italian or French for extra payment. Half-boarders are accepted. She notes the indecent education birds usually receive in street-facing rooms, where they learn ribaldry and obscene songs, and has fitted back apartments where only she and a deaf-and-dumb servant approach them. She signs as “R.”
Leonora’s Library
The next paper is by Addison. Some months ago, Sir Roger enclosed a letter for a lady called Leonora, asking the narrator to deliver it. The narrator visits her library, which is decorated with China jars above the folios, a pyramid of smaller vessels separating quartos from octavos, and tea dishes forming a pillar. Plays and pamphlets are enclosed in a square of grotesque China ware with Scaramouches, Lions, Monkies, and Mandarines. A Japan table holds gilt paper and a silver snuff-box shaped like a book. Some upper shelves have counterfeit books carved in wood. The narrator lists the books he examined, including Ogleby’s Virgil, Dryden’s Juvenal, Cassandra, Cleopatra, Astraea, Sir Isaac Newton’s Works, the Grand Cyrus (with a pin stuck in it), Pembroke’s Arcadia, Locke of Human Understanding (with a paper of patches), a Spelling-Book, a Dictionary, Sherlock upon Death, the fifteen Comforts of Matrimony, Sir William Temple’s Essays, Father Malbranche’s Search after Truth, a Book of Novels, the Academy of Compliments, Culpepper’s Midwifry, the Ladies Calling, Tales in Verse by Mr. Durfey, all the Classick Authors in Wood, a set of Elzevers, Clelia (which opened at a description of two lovers in a bower), Baker’s Chronicle, Advice to a Daughter, the New Atalantis with a Key, Mr. Steele’s Christian Heroe, a Prayer Book with Hungary Water beside it, Dr. Sacheverell’s Speech, Fielding’s Tryal, Seneca’s Morals, Taylor’s holy Living and Dying, and La ferte’s Instructions for Country Dances. Leonora enters, asks after Sir Roger’s health, and the narrator retires. Leonora was a celebrated beauty, now a widow of two or three years, resolved not to remarry, with no children, leaving her estate to Sir Roger. She has turned her passions to books and retirement, conversing with men only through their writings. Her reading of romances shows in her house, gardens, and furniture. Sir Roger describes her country-seat, a hundred miles from London, like an enchanted palace, with an artificial grotto.
On False Wit: Bouts Rimez and Punning
The passage continues with a discussion of Bouts Rimez (rhymed ends). It states that the first occasion of these made them somewhat excusable, as they were tasks that French Ladies used to impose on their Lovers. However, when a grave author tasked himself with them, it was ridiculous, and one might believe the author played double, not making his list of rhymes until he had finished his poem. The passage adds that this piece of false wit was finely ridiculed by Monsieur Sarasin in a poem titled La Defaite des Bouts-Rimez, The Rout of the Bouts-Rimez. The text then subjoins double rhymes, used in Doggerel Poetry and applauded by ignorant readers. If the thought of the couplet is good, the rhyme adds little; if bad, the rhyme cannot recommend it. The author fears many who admire Hudibras do so more for its doggerel rhymes than its truly admirable parts. He has heard the lines “Pulpit, Drum Ecclesiastick, / Was beat with fist instead of a Stick” and “There was an ancient sage Philosopher / Who had read Alexander Ross over” quoted more frequently than the finest pieces of wit in the poem.
The next section discusses punning. It states there is no kind of false wit so recommended by the practice of all ages as that consisting of a jingle of words, under the general name of Punning. The seeds of punning are in all men’s minds and may shoot up in the greatest genius not cultivated by art. Imitation, when not raising the mind to noble arts, often breaks out in puns and quibbles. Aristotle, in the Eleventh Chapter of his Book of Rhetorick, describes kinds of puns he calls Paragrams among the beauties of good writing. Cicero sprinkled his works with puns. The age in which the pun chiefly flourished was the reign of King James the First, who was himself a tolerable punster and made few bishops or privy-counsellors that had not signalized themselves by a clinch or conundrum. The pun appeared with pomp and dignity, delivered with gravity from the pulpit or at the council-table. The sermons of Bishop Andrews and the tragedies of Shakespear are full of them. The Sinner was punned into repentance by the former, and in the latter a Hero is seen weeping and quibbling for a dozen lines together. All writers of Rhetorick treated punning with respect, dividing it into kinds with hard names reckoned among figures of speech. A country school-master told the author he dined with Mr. Swan, the famous punster, who generally talked in the Paranomasia, sometimes gave into the Plocè, but shined most in the Antanaclasis. A famous university was formerly infested with puns, possibly from its fens and marshes, now drained.
The text wonders how punning was banished from the learned world. The first race of authors, destitute of rules of criticism, excelled in genius but fell short in accuracy. The moderns cannot reach their beauties but can avoid their imperfections. A second set of writers gained reputation by remarks on prior works, distinguishing kinds of wit by terms of art. Even authors like Isocrates, Plato, and Cicero had blemishes not found in later inferior authors. No proper separation was made between puns and true wit by ancient authors except Quintilian and Longinus. Once this distinction was settled, men of sense agreed. The revival of false wit happened about the revival of letters, but it vanished once detected. It will recover in some distant period as pedantry prevails. The author apprehends, from last winter’s productions, that posterity will degenerate into punsters, having seen Acrosticks handed about with secrecy and applause, and an epigram called the Witches Prayer that fell into verse read backward or forward, cursing one way and blessing the other. He prefers suffering from the paw of a Lion than the Hoof of an Ass. He has seen Tory Acrosticks and Whig Anagrams, and quarrels not with them as Whigs or Tories, but as Anagrams and Acrosticks. He defines a pun as a conceit arising from two words that agree in sound but differ in sense. The way to try wit is to translate it into a different language; if it bears the test it is true, if it vanishes it is a pun. A pun is vox et præterea nihil, a sound and nothing but a sound. True wit is like Aristinetus’s fine woman, beautiful when dressed and undressed, or as Mercerus translated, Induitur, formosa est: Exuitur, ipsa forma est.
Locke on Wit and Judgment
The next section discusses Mr. Lock’s reflection on wit and judgment. Lock’s words state that men with much wit and prompt memories do not always have the clearest judgment, for wit lies in the assemblage of ideas, putting together those with resemblance or congruity to make pleasant pictures; judgment lies in separating carefully ideas wherein can be found the least difference, to avoid being misled by similitude. This is contrary to metaphor and allusion. The author thinks this the best account of wit, which generally consists in such resemblance and congruity of ideas. He adds that every resemblance is not wit unless it gives Delight and Surprise; the ideas should not lie too near one another, for obvious likeness gives no surprise.
The Weakness of Human Nature and the Stoic Ideal
The passage opens with a somber reflection on the human condition, observing that men are generally so weak that they require the experience of Sorrow and Pain to be brought to their right senses. Those who are prosperous are described as being hurried away by a fond sense of their present condition, thoughtless of the Mutability of Fortune, a term used for what is wrought by the unseen Hand of the Disposer of all Things. A truly great mind, however, makes Misfortunes and Sorrows little when they befall ourselves, but great and lamentable when they befall other men. The most unpardonable Malefactor going to his Death with Composure would win Pity, not because his Calamity is deplorable, but because he seems not to deplore it. A temperate mind looks down on those exalted with Success with Shame for the Imbecility of human Nature. He who turns his face from the unhappy man, or shuns Affliction like a Contagion, contracts a greater Aptitude to Misery.
A Gentleman last night observed that true Excellency in human Nature consists in Suffering after a right Manner and with a good Grace. Heroes are always drawn bearing Sorrows and struggling with Adversities. Writers of Romances ransack Nature for things terrible, raising a new Creation of Monsters, Dragons, and Giants; where the Danger ends, the Hero ceases. The Gentleman said it is for higher Beings than Men to join Happiness and Greatness; in our Condition we have no Conception of Heroism but as surrounded with a Shade of Distress. The proper Education is to be prepared for ill Events, but instead we soften ourselves with Prospects of constant Delight. The constant Pursuit of Pleasure is insolent. The Ode of Horace to Delius is cited, where loud Mirth or immoderate Sorrow are ungraceful in Man born to die. Moderation is peculiar to generous Minds. The Contempt of Pleasure prepares for the Contempt of Pain. Tully tells a story after Pompey: Pompey visited the Philosopher Possidonius at Rhodes, finding him sick in bed. Pompey bewailed that he should not hear a Discourse, but Possidonius answered, “But you may,” and entered into Stoical Philosophy, saying Pain is not an Evil. During the Discourse, upon every Puncture from his Distemper, he smiled and cried out, “Pain, Pain, be as impertinent as you please, I shall never own that thou art an Evil.”
Objections to Clerical Addresses
A letter from J. O. to Mr. Spectator follows, concerning the Honour of the Clergy. The writer objects to Clergy giving Titles and Epithets to great Men in their Prayers before Sermon, calling it a Contradiction to say “Illustrious, Right, Reverend, and Right Honourable poor Sinners,” since these Distinctions have no place in Heaven and are omitted in the Liturgy. Another Expression objected to is “O let not the Lord be angry and I will speak but this once,” as if there were no Difference between Abraham’s interceding for Sodom and asking for things we are required to pray for. A third objection is to a young Man speaking a Parenthesis to the Almighty, “Bless, as I am in Duty bound to pray, the right honourable the Countess,” implying “Bless her, for thou knowest I am her Chaplain.” A footnote adds further improper expressions, such as “the whole Race of Mankind” and “all other Places” dedicated to Worship.
The Debate on Public and Private Education
No. 313, dated Thursday, February 28, 1712, by Budgell, presents a letter from the same Hand as last Thursday’s on the Education of Youth, discussing whether Education at a publick School or under a private Tutor is preferred. It is noted from Suetonius that the Romans thought Education belonged to Parents; Plutarch in the Life of Marcus Cato tells that Cato would suffer no one to teach his Son but himself, despite having a Servant named Chilo, an excellent Grammarian. The Greeks seemed more inclined to Publick Schools. A private Education promises Virtue and Good-Breeding; a publick School Manly Assurance and early Knowledge of the World. Mr. Locke in his Treatise of Education confesses Inconveniencies on both sides: at Home a son may become “my young Master”; Abroad he may catch the reigning Contagion of Rudeness and Vice. Locke asserts Virtue is more difficult than Knowledge of the World, and Vice is more stubborn than Sheepishness, so he is for private Education, advising Parents to accustom Sons to strange Faces and engage them in Conversation with Men of Parts. An objection is that Conversation with Equals is needed for Emulation and Contention. A great Writer observes that a Boy who forms Parties at School would act the same in a Senate; Mr. Osborn affirms that planning to rob an Orchard trains a Youth in Caution, Secrecy and Circumspection. A private Education seems most natural for a virtuous Man; a Publick Education for a Man of Business. A Person at the head of a publick School has too many Boys to give due Care to each, a Fault of the Age where twenty Parents expect their sons made Scholars but won’t make it worth a Man’s while. In great Schools this is rectified with chief Masters and Ushers, but in the Country many promising Geniuses are spoiled. The writer experienced two Rural Masters: the first imposed more than his Parts could endure and used him barbarously; the second was of another Temper, where a Boy running Errands or washing his Coffee-pot might have little Conversation with the Classicks. A Lad was excused his Exercise for assisting the Cook-maid; a Gentleman’s Son spent five Years airing and watering the Master’s grey Pad. The writer scorned this neglect.
Methods for Instilling Virtue in Youth
The writer of the letters on education sends a third contribution, offering methods by which Boys might be made to improve in Virtue as they advance in Letters. He acknowledges that in most public Schools Vice is punished and discouraged whenever it is found out, but this is far from being sufficient, unless Youth are at the same time taught to form a right Judgment of Things and to know what is properly Virtue. To this end, whenever they read the Lives and Actions of famous Men, it should not be thought enough to make them barely understand so many Greek or Latin Sentences, but they should be asked their Opinion of such an Action or Saying and obliged to give their Reasons why they take it to be good or bad. By this means they would insensibly arrive at proper Notions of Courage, Temperance, Honour and Justice. There must be great Care taken how the Example of any particular Person is recommended to them in gross; instead of which, they ought to be taught wherein such a Man, though great in some respects, was weak and faulty in others. For want of this Caution, a Boy is often so dazzled with the Lustre of a great Character that he confounds its Beauties with its Blemishes.
The writer wonders how Alexander, who was naturally of a generous and merciful Disposition, came to be guilty of so barbarous an Action as that of dragging the Governour of a Town after his Chariot. He finds a clue in Plutarch, who tells us that Alexander in his Youth had a Master named Lysimachus, who, though destitute of all Politeness, ingratiated himself both with Philip and his Pupil by calling the King Peleus, the Prince Achilles, and himself Phoenix. It is no wonder if Alexander, having been used not only to admire but to personate Achilles, should think it glorious to imitate him in this piece of Cruelty and Extravagance. The writer suggests that instead of a Theme or Copy of Verses, a Boy should be tasked once or twice a Week to write down his Opinion of such Persons and Things as occur to him in his Reading, descanting upon the Actions of Turnus and Æneas, showing wherein they excelled or were defective. This Exercise would soon strengthen his Judgment and give him an early Seasoning of Morality. He approves Horace’s Way of setting before Youth the infamous or honourable Characters of their Contemporaries, as Horace’s Father did, pointing to the miserable Condition of Burr or the scandalous Character of Trebonius to frighten him from Vice. Xenophon’s Schools of Equity in his Life of Cyrus the Great are also cited, where Persian Children went to School to learn the Principles of Justice and Sobriety, with their Governors spending most of the day hearing their mutual Accusations.
The Lover, Milton’s Vision, and Other Correspondence
A letter from “Will. Cymon” describes his transformation from a shy man into a passionate lover of the “beauteous Belinda,” stating that this passion changed his fears and diffidences into a sole concern for pleasing her. He forbears speaking of his passion due to “prudential Regards” until his fortune alters, and praises Belinda’s character, noting she has the “Address enough to demonstrate a Gratitude to her Lover, without giving him Hopes of Success.”
Addison then offers a critical essay on Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Book XI. He praises Milton’s art in describing the passions of our first parents after the Fall, tracing them through “Remorse, Shame, Despair, Contrition, Prayer, and Hope, to a perfect and compleat Repentance.” He notes the beauty of them prostrating themselves and praying on the very spot where they were judged, comparing this to Sophocles’ OEdipus wishing to die on Mount Cithoeron. Addison discusses the allegory of their prayers ascending to Heaven, the intercession of the Messiah, and the vision of Ezekiel. He analyzes the conference of Adam and Eve, the incident of the Lion and Eagle as a just omen, and the Sun in Eclipse which darkens the theatre of nature to make the descending host of angels more luminous. He observes that Milton appropriately uses Michael for the expulsion, quoting Eve’s beautiful, womanish complaint and Adam’s more masculine speech. The Angel leads Adam to a high mount to show him a vision of the future, which Addison argues is of a higher nature than Virgil’s as it extends to the whole species of mankind. Adam’s visions include the story of Cain and Abel, a “Lazar-House” filled with the sick where “Despair” tends the sick, a scene of mirth and jollity with a “loose female Troop,” and a vision of war. Milton then passes to the vision of the Flood, which Addison compares to Ovid’s, arguing Milton avoids what is “redundant or puerile.” He praises the transition from the vision of the Deluge to Adam’s grief, concluding that the last two books are not unequal parts of the poem.
A letter from “Philip Homebred” concerns a widow extremely fond of her sixteen-year-old son, a “forward Youth” who has puzzled the Vicar with his learning.
The Art of Raillery and the Guardian’s Warning
The discussion of wit and conversation continues with the character of Minutius, a man whose raillery is so tempered by goodwill that it conciliates affection even while it exposes faults. His secret is to insinuate that he himself shares the imperfection he rallies, so that he appears to be bewailing his own weakness rather than attacking his friend. The essay then laments how monstrously common it is for men to take the liberty of displeasing one another, as if contending over who shall be most disagreeable. Allusions to past follies and hints that revive what a man wishes to forget are brought forth even in the company of men of distinction. Such people do not thrust with the skill of fencers, but cut up with the barbarity of butchers. It is below the character of men of humanity and good manners to be capable of mirth while any one of the company is in pain and disorder. Those with the true taste of conversation enjoy a communication of each other’s excellencies, not a triumph over imperfections. In contrast, Fortius would have been reckoned a wit if there had never been a fool in the world; he wants no foils to be a beauty, and his natural pleasure in observing perfection in others is so great that his own faults are overlooked out of gratitude by all his acquaintance. The most agreeable kind of raillery, the author reflects, is when satire is directed against vice with an air of contempt for the fault but no ill-will toward the criminal. Mr. Congreve’s Doris is called a masterpiece in this kind—the character of a woman utterly abandoned, but whose impudence, by the finest piece of raillery, is made to seem only generosity. A poem follows describing Doris’s peculiar way: she can disown a lover who obtained her grace overnight, staring at the strange man’s face as one she never knew, so well can she disguise truth and frame artful wonder that the lover distrusts his eyes or thinks it was a dream. Some censure this as lewd or low, but the poet says they are blind to bounty, for to forget what we bestow bespeaks a noble mind.
The Plot Against Gloriana
The author looks upon himself as a kind of guardian to the fair, watchful of their interest. The paper is employed in the service of a very fine young woman named Gloriana—rich, witty, young, and beautiful. She has had about twenty-five lovers who make addresses by way of jointure and settlement, coming and going with indifference; a line in a deed has outweighed the lustre of her eyes. But among the cool adorers, she has two very assiduous attendants, Damon and Strephon, whose artful application the author alarms her about in a letter. The letter reveals a plot laid over a bottle of wine. Strephon proposed to Damon to be his rival. Strephon reasoned that Gloriana has good sense, will not give herself to a man to whom she is indifferent, and must be won by desire, not pity. The way to this end is that a man’s general conduct should be agreeable without addressing in particular the woman he loves. So Damon (who has no designs of marriage) sighs and dies for Gloriana, while Strephon carries it with respect but seems void of thoughts as a lover. Thus Strephon is received with freedom, Damon with reserve. They meet and compare notes on her carriage. A letter subscribed Damon was a contrivance to remark her resentment; when she cried “Impertinence!” she gave hopes to Strephon without mortifying Damon. The letter warns Gloriana to be on her guard, for Strephon contradicts her with civility but gives up nothing like one that loves, and his seeming unconcern obtains her good opinion by appearing disinterested. Strephon makes great progress, for most women being actuated by pride and contradiction, he has the good effects of both by this covert-way of courtship. He received a message from Damon: “All goes well; she is very angry at me, and I dare say hates me in earnest. It is a good time to Visit.” The comparison of Strephon’s gayety to Damon’s languishment strikes her imagination. The author fears Gloriana’s condition is irretrievable; all left for her is to bring Strephon to an explanation of his passion. When one shows himself a creature to be avoided, the other proper to be fled to for succour, they have the whole woman between them and can cast lots for the conquest. A note adds: “I have many other Secrets which concern the Empire of Love, but I consider that while I alarm my Women, I instruct my Men.”
A Proposal for a Local News-Paper
A correspondent writes that men who frequent coffee-houses and delight in news are pleased with everything that is matter of fact, so long as it is something they have not heard before. Victory or defeat are equally agreeable to them. They are pleased by the shutting of a Cardinal’s Mouth one post, and its opening another; glad to hear the French Court removed to Marli, then delighted by its return to Versailles. They read advertisements with the same curiosity as public news, pleased to hear of a Pye-bald Horse strayed from a field near Islington as of a whole troop engaged in foreign adventure. The writer calls them men of “Voracious Appetite, but no Taste.” Since the War (the great fountain of news) is nearly dried up, and these gentlemen have an inextinguishable thirst, the writer proposes publishing a daily paper comprehending remarkable occurrences in every town, village, and hamlet within ten miles of London. He gives two reasons: cheap carriage of letters, and daily receipt. He will publish every night at nine precisely, having established correspondences and received intelligence. Specimens follow: From Knights-bridge, a horse was clapped into the Pound on the third Instant, not released when letters came away. From Pankridge, a dozen weddings were celebrated in the Mother Church, names deferred. From Brompton, the Widow Bligh received visits from John Milldew, affording speculation. By a fisherman touching at Hammersmith, advice from Putney that a person may lose his election for Church-warden, but being “Boat-news,” cannot be credited. From Paddington, William Squeak the Sow-gelder passed through the 5th Instant. From Fulham, things remained the same; a Tub of ale set abroach at Parson’s Green wanted confirmation. The writer hopes such a paper, letting us know what is done near home, may be more useful than those filled with advices from Zug and Bender, making amends for the dearth of intelligence in times of peace.
Gratitude and Divine Poetry
Addison writes that there is no more pleasing exercise of the Mind than Gratitude, accompanied by inward satisfaction, sufficiently rewarded by performance. Were there no command or future recompense, a generous Mind would indulge in it for natural gratification. If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more from Man to his Maker, since every blessing derives from the great Author of Good. Most Pagan Poets’ works were hymns to deities or celebrated their attributes. Addison wonders more Christian Poets have not turned this way, since our idea of the Supreme Being is infinitely more great and noble than what could enter a Heathen’s heart. Plutarch tells of a Heathen singing a hymn to Diana celebrating her delight in Human Sacrifices; a Poet present reproved him by wishing he might have a Daughter of the same temper as the Goddess celebrated. It was impossible to write praises of false Deities without impertinence and absurdity. The Jews, who alone knew the True God before Christianity, set an example; their hymns and Divine Odes excel those of Greeks and Romans in poetry as in subject. Addison has communicated some Divine Poetry pieces, favorably received, and will publish more. He then presents a thirteen-stanza hymn beginning “When all thy Mercies, O my God,” surveying God’s providence from the womb, through youth, sickness, sin, and worldly blessings, resolving to praise God through eternity, concluding “Eternity’s too short / To utter all thy Praise.”
A Day’s Rambling
Steele writes it is an inexpressible pleasure to know a little of the World and be of no significance—ever unconcerned, viewing new objects with endless curiosity. He lay at Richmond, rose at four, took boat for London, resolving to rove by boat and coach for twenty-four hours. He apologizes for saluting any person he likes whether known or not, since his greatest pleasure comes through his Eyes. The hours in London and Westminster are taken up by people as different as those born in different centuries: men of six give way to nine, nine to twelve, twelve to the fashionable world making Two the noon. He fell in with a fleet of Gardeners bound for market-ports. The Thames, loaded with each shore’s product, added to the landscape. Purveyors for Covent-Garden had an air unlike the sobriety of those bound for Stocks Market. He landed with ten sail of Apricock boats at Strand-Bridge, having put in at Nine-Elms for melons consigned by Mr. Cuffe to Sarah Sewell and Company at Covent-Garden. Hackney Coachmen took leave at the Dark-House; Chimney-Sweepers passed; raillery occurred between a Fruit Wench and black men about the Devil and Eve. At Covent-Garden he strolled among fruit-shops with young women. Taking coach, he followed a young lady of the “Vainloves” family—women affecting Blindman’s-Buff, leading men into love for they know not whom. Coachmen communicate by finger-signs; his coachman pursued through Long-Acre toward St. James’s, with maneuvers through James-Street, King-Street, St. Martin’s-Lane, Newport-Street. The chase ended when the lady’s coach stopped, and the pursuit concluded.
The Power of Beauty and the Slavery of Men
The author describes driving in a hack through Gerrard-street and seeing the face of a fair girl, aged between thirteen and fourteen, fixed at the chin to a painted sash, acting as part of a landscape. When he looked eagerly, she laughed and withdrew from the window. This leads him to reflect on the force of beauty and women’s influence over men. He states that few men, except brutal ones, can resist women’s insinuations, even against their own interest. Women often destroy the good effects of a man following his own inclination by interposing their power to his loss. He says there is no armor against the tears, sullen looks, or constrained familiarities of a woman a man loves. He quotes Sir Walter Rawleigh from a letter by a correspondent, who speaks severely of our impotence to resist women’s wiles.
The Fulness of Joy
The theological meditation on future happiness continues by exploring the very structure of the soul. The author argues that the happiness of the afterlife must be proportionate to the nature of the soul itself, for no faculty is ever given to lie useless. Happiness belongs to the whole man, and the entire soul partakes in the pleasure arising from any particular act, even though we divide the soul into powers and faculties for the sake of discussion. Citing one of the greatest modern philosophers—footnoted as Locke—the author notes that there is no real division in the soul itself; the whole soul remembers, understands, wills, or imagines.
Since the soul possesses many faculties or ways of acting, can be intensely pleased through all of them, and may hold latent faculties not yet exercisable in this life, and since no faculty is given without a corresponding use, the author concludes there must be an infinite variety in heavenly pleasures. This variety constitutes a “Fulness of Joy” drawn from all the pleasures the soul is capable of receiving. The soul dislikes being always in the same bent; its faculties relieve one another by turns, and so heaven must offer a perpetual succession of delights suited to each power.
Revelation confirms this through its varied descriptions of heaven. There are objects that gratify the senses and imagination near God’s throne; there is happiness for the understanding, where “we shall know, even as we are known”; there are raptures of devotion, divine love, and conversation with Christ, the angels, and the “Spirits of Just Men made Perfect.” The author also notes the hierarchies and governments among the blessed, where each finds his proper station—a striking contrast to this world’s bitter competition for power and precedence.
Some Rabbins, the author observes, distinguish Cherubims as the angels who know most and Seraphims as the angels who love most. Among the spirits of good men, some may prefer exercising one faculty over another, according to the virtuous habits rooted in this life. The author leaves the application to wicked men’s torments to the reader’s own reflection, concluding with gratitude that the Creator made the soul susceptible to pleasure through so many ways. God’s having qualified the soul for future happiness is the strongest argument that He designed it for heaven; faculties suited to pleasures not found in this life prove this intention, and we should not disappoint His purpose by making these faculties instruments of pain.
The Frozen Heart and the Diffusive Nature of Benevolence
A new essay takes up the subject of benevolence, arguing that despite the prevalence of narrow and contracted temperaments, benevolence is mankind’s genuine characteristic. Some “Heroic Souls” receive happiness “at second hand, or by rebound from others.” Their nature is the same as everyone else’s, only “cleared, refined, and cultivated.” Water is the same fluid whether frozen or flowing; the heart’s property is to be diffusive, and uncharitable persons have merely had their good-nature “frozen.”
The first check on benevolence is an “unhappy Complexion of Body.” The heathens wrongly charged moral evil on the eternity and independence of matter, but the truth is that the soul’s capacities depend greatly on the bodily temper. Some are born with an “illiberal Cast of Mind.” Such persons have one advantage: while naturally beneficent people may mistake instinct for virtue, those who overcome natural opposition know their motive is genuine conscience. The cure may be entirely impossible, but persistent beneficence can establish a moral habit that counterbalances the mechanism of nature. One must never intermit doing good, for nature will return. Mental habits differ from bodily ones: bodily habits are more forcible and need only not be opposed, while mental habits require continual reinforcement. Vicious habits like drunkenness produce bodily changes; good habits must be maintained by industry, resolution, and vigilance.
The second check on benevolence is the “Love of the World,” which springs from the false notion that abundance is essential to happiness. Worldly things lessen upon dividing, so men view each other with evil eyes, competing eagerly for wealth and power. If happiness were like light—sufficient whether one or ten thousand enjoy it—goodwill would be universal. The author quotes Latin verse about a man showing a traveler the way, like lighting one lamp from another without diminishing one’s own light. He advises desiring no more of the world than is necessary, viewing excess as burdensome, and recognizing that virtue grows by communication—the more hands it is lodged in, the greater each man’s stock. Wealth’s greatest pleasure is doing good; appetites soon say enough, but sharing in others’ satisfactions enlarges happiness.
The third enemy of benevolence is “Uneasiness of any Kind.” Guilty, discontented, ruffled, or envious minds lack the leisure for kindness. The most communicative is the happiest; perfect love exists only in the blessed region where happiness circulates like a refreshing stream. One should approach others when their souls are in good humor. Those conscious of their integrity and full of confidence in God survey all with goodwill, like fruitful trees bending to the gatherer. Uneasiness signals that the mind is not in its natural state.
The Love-Casuist and the Man of Importance
A correspondent, acting as “Love-Casuist to Great Britain,” observes that no one is so irresistible to women as “a Man of Importance,” provided it be in matters of no consequence. Men who make themselves talked of—for a particular hat cock, prating aloud in theater boxes, or knocking down a constable—find remarkable favor. Many a fair one “has died by a Duel in which both the Combatants have survived.” A lady conceived a passion for a rake who led the cat-calls; the “Emperor of the Mohocks” married a rich widow after being formidable in London and Westminster. Men renowned for intrigue succeed most; reputation does half the business.
The correspondent describes watching such a man at the King’s Entry, seated among country ladies. The man bowed to people he did not know, claimed acquaintance with a “Foreign Minister” who was actually the “City Common Hunt,” and generally performed the part of a man of consequence with great success. The satire is gentle but pointed: the affectation of importance, entirely unconnected to any real merit, is itself a kind of currency in the economy of love.
The Vision of God as the Ultimate End
The final essay returns to the grandest theme: the Ultimate End of Man is the Enjoyment of God, beyond which no wish can be formed. Human conceptions of the Supreme Being are at best dim. The Supreme Being keeps his Creatures in Suspence by neither fully discovering nor hiding himself. This allows the Libertine a handle to dispute his Existence, while most people speak fair of him but in their Hearts prefer trifling Satisfactions to the Favour of their Maker, ridiculing the good Man for his Singularity of Choice.
The text anticipates a future time when the Free-thinker will see his impious Schemes overturned and become a Convert to the Truths he hates. At that time, deluded Mortals will be convinced of the Folly of their Pursuits, while the few Wise who followed Heaven’s Guidance and scorned the Blandishments of Sense and the sordid Bribery of the World will possess their utmost Wish in the Vision of the Creator. The author describes the current human condition: the Mind heaves a Thought towards God with transient Glances of his Presence, but when it thinks it has the fastest hold, the Object eludes its Expectations, and it falls back tired and baffled.
The author argues there must be a more perfect way of conversing with heavenly Beings. He questions whether Spirits are incapable of Mutual Intelligence unless immersed in Bodies, and whether superior Natures must depend on inferior ones for the privilege of conversing. He posits that had Matter never been created, Spirits would not have lived in eternal Solitude. Since incorporeal Substances are nobler, their manner of Intercourse must be more expedite and intimate. This method is called Intellectual Vision, analogous to the Sense of Seeing. In such a way, God can make himself the Object of immediate Intuition to the Blessed, condescending to the Weakness of finite Minds. His Works are described as Second-hand Knowledge; to have a just Idea of him, one must see him as he is. This vision is something that never entered the Heart of Man to conceive, yet it will be a Fountain of Unspeakable, Everlasting Rapture, before which all created Glories will fade. The author speculates on his own future Happiness: comparing the World with its fair Exemplar in the Divine Mind, viewing the original Plan of wise Designs, and falling prostrate and adoring, with his Body swallowed up in the Immensity of Matter and his Mind in the Infinitude of God’s Perfections. With this sublime vision of the soul’s final rest and consummation, the Spectator’s great moral and philosophical project finds its fitting conclusion.
Main Arguments
The central argument of The Spectator is that vice and folly are best corrected by being made ridiculous. The authors declare their intention to attack the prevailing faults of the age—vanity, affectation, licentiousness, pedantry—not with the severity of the pulpit but with the gentler weapons of wit and satire. They hold that men are more readily shamed out of their follies than argued out of them, and that the spectacle of their own absurdities, held up before them in a mirror, will do more than any direct reproof.
A second argument concerns the nature of true wit. The Spectator distinguishes carefully between wit and its counterfeits. Puns, acrostics, anagrams, and the various forms of false wit that depend on the jingle of words rather than the congruity of ideas are exposed as mere sounds, signifying nothing. True wit, following Locke, consists in the assemblage of ideas, the discovery of resemblances that give delight and surprise. The test of wit is translation: if a conceit depends on the sound of words in a particular language, it will vanish when rendered into another; if it depends on the ideas themselves, it will survive the change. This argument is pursued through several papers, with examples drawn from the practice of the ancients and the moderns, and it establishes a standard of criticism that the Spectator applies throughout his literary judgments.
On the subject of education, the Spectator argues that the formation of virtue is more important than the acquisition of learning. He weighs the claims of public and private schooling, acknowledging that public schools give boys manly assurance and early knowledge of the world, while private education better secures their morals. His correspondent proposes methods by which boys might be made to improve in virtue as they advance in letters: they should be asked their opinions of the actions they read about, taught to distinguish the beauties of great characters from their blemishes, and exercised in writing their judgments of the persons and things they encounter in their reading. The example of Alexander, corrupted by a tutor who encouraged him to personate Achilles, is offered as a warning against recommending any character in gross.
The Spectator also argues for the government of the passions. He holds that the constant pursuit of pleasure is insolent, and that true greatness of mind consists in suffering after a right manner and with a good grace. He recommends moderation as peculiar to generous minds, and the contempt of pleasure as preparing for the contempt of pain. The story of the philosopher Possidonius, who smiled through his torments and told Pain it was no evil, is offered as an example of philosophical heroism.
On the relations between men and women, the Spectator advances arguments that are at once worldly and moral. He acknowledges the power of beauty and the influence women exercise over men, but he warns against the slavery of submitting to what one disapproves. He advises men to determine what is proper and to avoid expostulation before executing their resolutions, since women are too hard upon a treaty. He counsels women, through his various correspondents and allegories, on the dangers of coquetry, the value of modesty, and the importance of sincerity.
Key Concepts
The notion of false wit is developed with particular care. The Spectator enumerates its several kinds: bouts rimez, where the poet works backward from a fixed set of rhymes; double rhymes, which please ignorant readers but add nothing to the thought; puns, which depend on the accidental agreement of sounds; acrostics, where the initial letters of lines spell out a name; anagrams, where the letters of a word are rearranged to form another. All these are distinguished from true wit, which consists in the resemblance and congruity of ideas. The Spectator’s definition of a pun as “a sound and nothing but a sound” captures his contempt for this species of false wit, and his observation that the age of King James the First, when punning flourished with pomp and dignity, serves as a historical caution against the revival of such barbarism.
The concept of the “Man of Pleasure” is examined through the letter of Jack Afterday, who writes in his sixty-fifth year to warn others against the life he has led. His confession that his appetites have increased as his power to gratify them has diminished, that he is still as vain in his dress and as flippant at the sight of a pretty woman as in his youth, that he writes love-letters to beauties long in their graves—this portrait of arrested development gives concrete form to the Spectator’s argument that the desires must be left before they leave us. The contrast with those who live life as they ought, for whom the memory of good actions is a feast, is implicit throughout.
The “Art of growing old” is proposed as a subject worthy of the Spectator’s attention. The idea that no one should set their heart on what is transient, that beauty grows wrinkled while we gaze at her, that the witty man sinks into a humourist for not reflecting that all things are in a flux—these reflections point toward a Stoical acceptance of mutability that the Spectator recommends throughout his papers.
The concept of gratitude is treated as one of the most pleasing exercises of the mind. The Spectator argues that gratitude carries its own reward, that a generous mind would indulge in it even without command or future recompense, and that the gratitude due from man to his Maker exceeds all other obligations. The hymn “When all thy Mercies, O my God,” which surveys the divine providence from the womb through all the stages of life, gives poetic expression to this concept.
The “Caveat to the Fair Sex” concerning the dangers of May introduces a seasonal motif into the papers. The warning that the month of May, with its soft airs and budding flowers, is a time of particular peril for female virtue, and the subsequent congratulations to the ladies on their deliverance when the month has passed, treat the calendar itself as an occasion for moral instruction. The observation that some women have “perpetual May” constitutions extends the warning beyond the season.
Themes
A deep concern with the education of desire runs through the papers. The Spectator returns again and again to the question of how the passions are to be formed, governed, and directed toward their proper objects. The letter of the old man of pleasure, who has outlived his faculties but not his appetites, stands as a warning against the assumption that desire will naturally decay with age. The Spectator’s advice—that we must leave our desires before they leave us—implies a view of human life as a process of disciplined renunciation, in which the pleasures appropriate to each stage must be embraced and then surrendered in turn.
The theme of mutability is sounded with particular force in the papers on the dissolution of the world. The Spectator’s quotation from the writer of The Theory of the Earth, with its vision of the elements breaking loose and all the works of man reduced to nothing, gives apocalyptic expression to a theme that runs throughout the collection in quieter keys. Rome itself, the Empress of the World, is wiped away and buried in oblivion; the everlasting hills are melted as wax before the Sun. Against this background of universal transience, the Spectator sets the consolations of religion and philosophy: the hope of another life, the satisfaction of good actions, the composure of a mind that has made its peace with mortality.
The power of women over men is a theme that the Spectator treats with a mixture of admiration, alarm, and worldly wisdom. He acknowledges that few men can resist the insinuations of women, even against their own interest, and he quotes Sir Walter Rawleigh’s severe reflections on the mischief that women have wrought from Adam downward. But the Spectator’s own attitude is more indulgent than Rawleigh’s. He recognizes the comedy of the situation as well as its dangers, and his papers on courtship and marriage are filled with an amused awareness of the stratagems employed on both sides. The allegory of Fidelio transformed into a looking-glass, retaining his qualities of sincerity even in his new form, suggests the ideal of a faithful monitor who reflects the truth to those who consult him.
The theme of cheerfulness is recommended as a Christian duty. The Spectator argues that the contemplation of nature, properly conducted, quickens our appreciation of Creation and leads us to gratitude toward the Creator. The English summer, which contains more spring than any other season, is offered as an occasion for such contemplation, and Milton’s description of “Vernal Delight” is praised for conveying the joy that even the Devil feels in Paradise. The recommendation to “moralize this natural Pleasure” into Christian virtue captures the Spectator’s characteristic method of finding moral instruction in the ordinary experiences of life.
The proper conduct of conversation is a theme that occupies several papers. The Spectator condemns the monstrous prevalence of displeasing one another, the practice of reviving what a man wishes to forget, the barbarity of those who cut up rather than thrust with the skill of fencers. He holds that those with the true taste of conversation enjoy a communication of each other’s excellencies, not a triumph over imperfections. The character of Minutius, whose wit conciliates love even while it is exerted against faults, and who keeps the person he rallies in countenance by insinuating that he himself is guilty of the same imperfection, is offered as a model of agreeable raillery.
The Author’s Conclusions
The Spectator’s conclusions are less those of a systematic philosopher than of a moralist who has observed the world and wishes to share his observations. He concludes that the correction of vice and folly is best accomplished through wit and gentle satire rather than through severity. He concludes that true wit consists in the congruity of ideas, not in the jingle of words, and that the test of translation will always distinguish the one from the other. He concludes that the formation of virtue is more important than the acquisition of learning, and that the young should be taught to judge actions and characters for themselves rather than to admire them in gross.
On the conduct of life, the Spectator concludes that moderation is the safest course, that the passions must be governed rather than indulged, and that the constant pursuit of pleasure is a form of insolence. He recommends gratitude as the most pleasing exercise of the mind, cheerfulness as a duty, and the contemplation of nature as a path to the Creator. He warns against the dangers of beauty and the power of women over men, but he does so with an amused tolerance that stops short of misogyny. He holds that a man must conquer his own desires, but that it is vain to do so if he gratifies another’s; that he must resist the grief of her who charms him, even if his heart aches, to live like a gentleman.
The final papers included in this collection show the Spectator still engaged in his great work of observation and correction. The letter from the soldier, who within three years of joining the army was ordered into the country for recruiting, breaks off mid-sentence, leaving the reader with the sense that the conversation is not concluded, that the Spectator’s enterprise continues beyond the bounds of any single volume. The work ends not with a formal peroration but with the ongoing rhythm of daily observation and reflection that has characterized the whole. The Spectator’s final word, insofar as there is one, is that the reformation of manners is a perpetual task, requiring the constant application of wit, judgment, and good humor, and that the observer of human life must never tire of his post.
Significance
The Spectator occupies a central place in the history of English letters. It perfected the periodical essay as a literary form, demonstrating that daily journalism could be elevated to the level of art without losing its immediacy or its connection to the concerns of ordinary readers. The papers created a new kind of public discourse—urbane, witty, morally serious without being moralistic—that would influence English prose for generations. The character of Mr. Spectator himself, the silent observer who sees all and says little, became a model of the detached critical intelligence, and the club of characters he moves among provided a template for the social comedy that would flourish in the English novel.
The work’s significance lies also in its moral ambition. The Spectator set out to reform the manners of the age, and it succeeded to a remarkable degree. Its attacks on the indecencies of the stage, on the affectations of the beau monde, on the pedantry of scholars, and on the false wit that passed for cleverness helped to refine the taste of the reading public. The papers on education, on the conduct of women, on the government of the passions, and on the duties of gratitude and cheerfulness contributed to the formation of a new ideal of polite conduct—reasonable, moderate, sociable, and humane.
The critical essays on Milton established a method of literary analysis that would prove enormously influential. The Spectator’s examination of Paradise Lost book by book, his comparisons with the classical epics, his attention to the structure of the poem and the management of its passions, his willingness to point out faults as well as beauties—all this anticipated the systematic criticism of the later eighteenth century. The papers on wit, with their careful distinctions between true and false wit, provided a vocabulary for discussing the nature of literary excellence that would be taken up and refined by subsequent critics.
The significance of The Spectator extends beyond its own age. The papers preserve a vivid portrait of early eighteenth-century London—its coffee-houses and theatres, its markets and streets, its fashions and follies—that has never lost its power to engage the imagination. The characters, from Sir Roger de Coverley to Will Honeycomb, have passed into the common stock of English literature. And the Spectator’s voice—reasonable, amused, morally serious, endlessly curious about human nature—remains one of the great achievements of English prose, a style that succeeding centuries have admired and imitated but never quite equaled.
