ONCE UPON A TIME.

1

THE FIRST NEWSPAPER STAMP.

It is the evening of Monday, the 28th of July, in the year of 1712. Two middle-aged men come out of Will's Coffee-House, and slowly walk through the close lanes that lead to the heart of the City. The one has a brisk and alert step, with an air of frank hilarity in his face, which is somewhat lighted up in the evening sun by the magnum of generous claret which he has been sharing with his friend. The other moves a little unsteadily, with a hesitating step, which is not improved by the wine he has taken; but a placid smile plays on his features, and, in connection with the dignified repose of his whole manner, gives assurance of the gentleman. As they pass along they encounter a bevy of newsvenders, known as hawkers or Mercuries, who are bawling at the top of their lungs, "Here you have the last number of the Observator-the last number -no other number will ever be published, on account of the stamp." "Here you have the Flying Post, which will go on in spite of the stamp." "Here you have the Spectator, this day's Spectator, all writ by the greatest wits of the age." The more hilarious of

VOL. II.

B

the two friends twitches his companion's arm and whispers, "That's at any rate a comfort, Addison." "True fame, Steele," is the reply. Their onward course is to a small printing-office in Little Britain. They climb the narrow staircase, and are in a close and dingy room, with two printing-presses and working spaces for four compositors. A grave man is reading at a desk, and he bows reverently to the gallants in lace and ruffles, who thus honour him by a visit to his dark den of letters.

"Why, Mr. Buckley," says Steele, "your narrow passages and close rooms remind me of the printer of Ben Jonson, who kept his press in a hollow tree. We are come to talk with you about this infernal Stamp a red Stamp, they tell me 'tis to be, not black, like its father. Lillie is obstinate, and says our penny Spectator must be raised to twopence; and if so, where are our customers to come from?" "I was for stopping," interposes Addison.

"Not so, sir; not so, I pray," ejaculates the frightened printer; "there isn't such a paper in Town, sir. Goes into the houses of the first of the quality; not a coffee-house without it. Not like your Post-boys and Posts, which are read by shopkeepers and handicrafts.”

"I should like to be read by shopkeepers and handicrafts," says Steele.

"Oh dear, no, sir; quite impossible, sir. They must have coarse food; ghosts and murders. Delicate wit like Mr. Addison's, fine morality like Mr. Steele's, are for the Town, sir, not the populace."

"A nice distinction, truly," cries Addison; "Audience fit, though few."

'Few, sir? why, we print three thousand; and we shall print as many when the stamp doubles our price. Our customers will never stand upon a shilling a week. And, besides, those who support the government will rejoice in the opportunity of paying the tax. I shouldn't wonder if the stamp doubled our sale."

'Very sanguine, Mr. Buckley."

'Sanguine, sir? Who wouldn't be sanguine, when rare wits like you condescend to write for the Town. There is Doctor Swift, too, I hear, has been writing penny paper after penny paper. A fine hand, gentlemen! Are we to go back to our old ignorant days because of a red stamp? We must go on improving. Look at my printing-office, and see if we are not improved. Why, Sir Roger L'Estrange, when he set up the Intelligencer fifty years ago, gave notice that he would publish his one book a week, 'to be published every Thursday, and finished upon the Tuesday night, leaving Wednesday entire for the printing it off.' And now I, gentlemen-Heaven forbid I should boast,—can print your Spectator off every day, and not even want the copy more than three days before the publication. Think of that, gentlemen, a halfsheet every day. A hundred years hence nobody will believe it."

"You are a wonderful man, Mr. Buckley, and we are all very grateful to you," says the laughing

eyed Essayist. "But, talking of a hundred years hence, who can say that our moral and mechanical improvements are to stop here? I can imagine a time when every handicraft in the country shall read; when the footman behind the carriage shall read; when the Irish chairman shall read; and when your Intelligencer shall hear of a great battle on the Wednesday morning, and have a full account of it published on the Thursday."

That, sir, with all submission, is actually impossible; and surely you are joking when you talk of the vulgar learning to read, and taking delight in reading. Reading will never go lower than our shopkeepers, I think."

"I wonder," interposes Addison, "what the people would read a hundred years hence, if they had the ability? They must have books especially suited to their capacities."

"They would read your Vision of Mirza,' and know something about your Sir Roger de Coverley."

"Come, come, Diccon, don't be sarcastic. I thought I was pitching my key low enough to suit our fops, and our courtiers, and our coffee-house loungers; but to be relished by the rabble! A pinch of snuff, if you please."

"If I could see the day," replies Steele, "when we had a nation of readers, and books could circulate rapidly through the whole country, I would leave the Town to mend its follies as it best might, and set up for a teacher of the People. We would

make your press do ten times its present work then, Mr. Buckley."

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Ah, sir, great men like you always have their dreams. I once knew a very clever man who fancied the mail would some time or other go to York in three days. Poor man, he was very nearly mad."

Addison whispers to his friend that the printer would number him amongst the Bedlam candidates if he propounded any more of his speculations; and then, drawing himself up with greater dignity, rejoices the honest printer's heart by a memorable declaration :"Come what may, we shall go on in spite of the Stamp. There, Mr. Buckley, is the copy for No. 445, Thursday, July 31, which announces our resolve. We will not be cashiered by Act of Parliament."