An Irish Dragoon.
Among the writers specially identified with this Queen’s reign was Sir Richard Steele;[99] not a grand man, or one of large influence; and yet one so kindly by nature, and so gracious in his speech and writing, that the world is not yet done with pardoning, and loving, and pitying that elegant author of the Tatler—though he was an awful spendthrift, and a fashionable tippler, and a creature of always splendid, and always broken, promises.
He was Irish born; was schooled at the Charter-house in London, where he met with that other master of delicate English, Joseph Addison—they being not far from the same age—and knitting a boy friendship there which withstood a great many shocks of manhood. They were together at Oxford, too, but not long; for Steele, somehow, slipped College early and became a trooper, and learned all the ways of the fast fellows of the town. With such a training—on the road to which his Irish blood led him with great jollity—one would hardly have looked to him for any early talk about the life of a true Christian Hero. But he did write a book so entitled, in those wild young days, as a sort of kedge anchor, he says, whereby he might haul out from the shoals of the wicked town, and indulge in a sort of contemplative piety. It was and is a very good little book;[100] but it did not hold a bit, as an anchor. And when he came to be joked about his Christian Heroship, he wrote plays (perhaps to make averages good) more moral and cleanly than those of Etherege or Wycherley—with bright things in them; but not enough of such, or of orderly proprieties, to keep them popular. Of course, this fun-loving, dusky, good-hearted, broad-shouldered Irish trooper falls in love easily; marries, too, of a sudden, some West Indian lady, who dies within a year, leaving him a Barbadoes estate—said to be large—does look large to Captain Steele through his cups—but which gives greater anxieties than profits, and is a sort of castle in Spain all through his life. With almost incredible despatch—after this affliction—he is in love again; this time with the only daughter of a rich Welsh lady. This is his famous Prue, who plays the coquette with him for a while; but writes privily to her anxious mamma that she “can never, never love another;” that “he is not high—nor rich—but so dutiful; and for his morals and understanding [she says] I refer you to his Christian Hero.”
Steele’s marriage comes of it—a marriage whose ups and downs, and lights and shadows have curious and very graphic illustration in the storm of notelets which he wrote to his wife—on bill-heads, perfumed paper, tavern reckonings—all, singularly enough, in existence now, and carefully kept in the Library of the British Museum.
Here is a part of one, written just before his marriage:
“Madam, it is the hardest thing in the World to be in Love, and yet attend Business. As for me all that speak to me find me out.… A gentleman ask’d me this morning what news from Lisbon, and I answered, ‘She’s exquisitely handsome.’” Here’s another—after marriage: “Dear Prue, I enclose two guineas, and will come home exactly at seven. Yrs tenderly.” And again: “Dear Prue, I enclose five guineas, but cannot come home to dinner. Dear little woman, take care of thyself, and eat and drink cheerfully.” Yet again: “Dear Prue, if you do not hear of me before three to-morrow, believe that I am too [tipsy] to obey your orders; but, however, know me to be your most affectionate, faithful husband.”
It is more promising for a man to speak of his own tippling than to have others speak of it; nor was this writer’s sinning in that way probably beyond the average in his time. But he was of that mercurial temperament which took wine straight to the brain; and so was always at bad odds with those men of better digestion (such as Swift and Addison) who were only tickled effusively with such bouts as lifted the hilarious Captain Steele into a noisy effervescence.
There are better and worse letters than those I have read; but never any lack of averment that he enjoys most of anything in life his wife’s delightful presence—but can’t get home, really cannot; some excellent fellows have come in, or he is at the tavern—business is important; and she is always his charming Prue; and always he twists a little wordy aureole of praise about her head or her curls. I suppose she took a deal of comfort out of his tender adjectives; but I think she learned early not to sit up for him, and got over that married woe with great alacrity. There is evidence that she loved him throughout; and other evidence that she gave him some moral fisticuffs—when he did get home—which made his next stay at the tavern easier and more defensible.
But he loved his Prue, in his way, all her life through, and showed a beautiful fondness for his children. In that budget of notelets I spoke of (and which the wife so carefully cherished), are some charming ones to his children: thus he writes to his daughter Elizabeth, whose younger sister, Mary, has just begun to put her initials, M. S., to messages of love to him:
“Tell her I am delighted: tell her how many fine things those two letters stand for when she writes them: M. S. is milk and sugar; mirth and safety; musick and songs; meat and sauce, as well as Molly and Spot, and Mary and Steele. You see I take pleasure in conversing with you by prattling anything to divert you.
Yr aff. father.”
But you must not think Steele was a man of no importance save in his own family. His friends counted by scores and hundreds; he had warm patrons among the chiefest men of the time; had political preferment and places of trust and profit, far better than his old captaincy; could have lived in handsome style and without anxieties, if his reckless kindnesses and convivialities had not made him improvident.