Can neither injuries of time or age The youthful poet's praise of his great master is Old Spenser next, warmed with poetic rage, This subdued and frigid character of Spenser the battle of Blenheim, Addison so gratified the lord-treasurer, Godolphin, by his 'gazette in rhyme,' that he was appointed a commissioner of appeals. This successful poem, The Campaign, was published in 1705, and the same year appeared the account of the poet's travels, entitled Remarks on several Parts of Italy, &c. dedicated to Lord Somers. Early in 1706, Addison, by the recommendation of Lord Godolphin, was appointed Under Secretary of State, and about a twelvemonth afterwards (March 4, 1706-7) his dramatic poem or opera, Rosamond, was produced at Drury Lane, but acted only for three nights. The story of fair Rosamond would seem well suited for dramatic representation; and in the bowers and shades of Woodstock, the poet had materials for scenic description and display. The genius of Addison, however, was not adapted to the drama; and his opera being confined in action, and written wholly in rhyme, possesses little to attract either readers or spectators. He wrote afterwards a comedy, The Drummer, or the Haunted House, which Steele brought out after the death of the author. This play contains a fund of quiet natural humour, but has not strength or breadth enough of character or action for the stage. In 1709, when the Marquis of Wharton was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Addison accompanied him as secretary, and was made keeper of records, with a salary of £300 a year. In the summer of that year he was elected M.P. for Cavan, and in the journals of two sessions his name frequently appears-occasionally as a debater in the Irish Parliament. He had also entered upon his brilliant career as an essayist. The Tatler was commenced by Steele on the 12th of April 1709; Addison's first contribution to it appeared on the 26th of May. By his papers in the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, Addison left all his contemporaries far behind in this delightful department of literature. In these papers, he first displayed that chaste and delicate humour, refined observation, and knowledge of the world, which now form his most distinguishing characteristics; and in his Vision of Mirza, his Reflections in Westminster Abbey, and other of his graver essays, he evinced a more poetical imagination and deeper vein of feeling than his previous writings had at all indicated. In 1713, his tragedy of Cato was brought upon the stage. Pope thought the piece deficient in dramatic interest, and the world has confirmed his judgment; but he wrote a prologue for the tragedy in his happiest manner, and it was performed with almost unexampled success. Party-spirit ran high: the Whigs applauded the liberal sentiments in the play, and their cheers were echoed back by the Tories, to shew that they did not apply them as censures on themselves. After all the Whig enthusiasm, Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth the actor, who personated the character of Cato, and presented him with fifty guineas, in acknowledgment, as he said, of his defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator (a hit at the Duke of Marlborough). Poetical eulogiums were showered upon the author, Steele, Hughes, Young, Tickell, and Ambrose Philips being among the writers of these encomiastic verses. The queen expressed a wish that the tragedy should be dedicated to her, but Addison had previously designed this honour for his friend Tickell; and to avoid giving offence either to his loyalty or his friendship, he published it without any dedication. It was translated into French, Italian, and German, and was performed by the Jesuits in their college at St Omer. 'Being,' says Sir Walter Scott, 'in form and essence rather a French than an English play, it is one of the few English tragedies which foreigners have admired.' The unities of time and place have been preserved, and the action of the play is consequently much restricted. Cato abounds in generous and patriotic sentiments, and contains passages of great dignity and sonorous diction; but the poet fails to unlock the sources of passion and natural emotion. It is a splendid and imposing work of art, with the grace and majesty, and also the lifelessness, of a noble antique statue. Addison was now at the height of his fame. He had long aspired to the hand of the Countess-dowager of Warwick, whom he had first known by becoming tutor to her son, and he was united to her in 1716. The poet is said to have 'married discord in a noble wife.' His marriage was reported to be as unhappy as Dryden's with Lady Elizabeth Howard, and that both ladies awarded to their husbands the 'heraldry of hands, not hearts,' but in the case of Addison we have no direct trustworthy information on the subject. Addison received his highest political honour in 1717 when he was made secretary of state; but he held the office only for a short time. He wanted the physical boldness and ready resources of an effective public speaker, and was unable to defend his measures in parliament. He is also said to have been slow and fastidious in the discharge of the ordinary duties of office. When he held the situation of undersecretary, he was employed to send word to Prince George at Hanover of the death of the queen, and the vacancy of the throne; but the critical nicety of the author overpowered his official experience, and Addison was so distracted by the choice of expression, that the task was given to a clerk, who boasted of having done what was too hard for Addison. The vulgar love of wonder may have exaggerated the poet's inaptitude for business, but it is certain he was no orator. He retired from the principal secretaryship with a pension of £1500 per annum, and during his retirement, engaged himself in writing a work on the Evidences of the Christian Religion, which he did not live to complete. He was oppressed by asthma and dropsy, and was conscious that he should die at comparatively an early age. Two anecdotes are related of his death-bed. He sent, as Pope relates (but Pope is a very bad authority for any circumstance reflecting upon Addison, or indeed for any question of fact), a message by the Earl of Warwick to Gay, desiring to see him. Gay obeyed the summons; and Addison begged his forgiveness for an injury he had done him, for which, he said, he would recompense him if he recovered. The nature or extent of the injury he did not explain, but Gay supposed it referred to his having prevented some preferment designed for him by the court. At another time, he requested an interview with the Earl of Warwick, whom he was anxious to reclaim from a dissipated and licentious life. I have sent for you,' he said, that you may see in what peace a Christian can die.' The event thus calmly anticipated took place in Holland House on the 17th of June 1719. A minute or critical review of the daily life of Addison, and his intercourse with his literary associates, is calculated to diminish our reverence and affection. He appears to have been jealous and taciturn, until thawed by wine; and the fact of his putting an execution into Steele's house to recover a sum of money he had lent him—a fact which seems to rest on good authority-forms a disagreeable incident in his life. Though reserved in general society, his conversation was peculiarly fascinating among his friends, and he was highly popular with the public. With Swift he maintained throughout life, notwithstanding their political differences, a warm and cordial friendship. The quarrel between Addison and Pope is well known. Addison preferred Tickell's version of the first book of the Iliad, and sought to make the fortune of the translator. Pope resented this as a personal injury, and wrote his memorable satire on Atticus, in which some truth is mingled with bitterness and malignity. The charge that Addison could 'bear no rival near the throne' seems to have had some foundation in fact, but as respects Pope's insinuations against his illustrious contemporary, recent investigations have considerably shaken that poet's character for veracity. With all deductions from the idolatry of friends and the servility of flatterers, enough remains to establish Addison's title to the character of a good man and a sincere Christian. The uniform tendency of all his writings is his best and highest eulogium. No man can dissemble upon paper through years of literary exertion, or on topics calculated to disclose the nature of his tastes and feelings, and the qualities of his heart and temper. The display of these by Addison is so fascinating and unaffected, that the impression made by his writings, as has been finely remarked, is like being recalled to a sense of something like that original purity from which man has been long estranged.' A Life of Addison, in two volumes, by Lucy Aiken, published in 1843, contains several letters supplied by a descendant of Tickell. The most interesting of the letters were written by Addison during his early travels; and though brief, and careless, contain touches of his inimitable pen. He thus records his impressions of France: The French People in 1699. Truly, by what I have yet seen, they are the happiest nation in the world. 'Tis not in the power There of want or slavery to make 'em miserable. and poverty. Every one sings, laughs, and starves. is nothing to be met with in the country but mirth Their conversation is generally agreeable; for if they have any wit or sense, they are sure to shew it. They never mend upon a second meeting, but use all the freedom and familiarity at first sight that a long intimacy or abundance of wine can scarce draw from an Englishman. Their women are perfect mistresses in this art of shewing themselves to the best advantage. They are always gay and sprightly, and set off the worst faces in Europe Every one knows how to give look and posture as Sir herself as charming a Godfrey Kneller could draw her in. I have already seen, as I informed you in my last, all the king's palaces, and have now seen a great part of the country; I never thought there had been in the world such an excessive magnificence or poverty as I have met with in both together. One can scarce conceive the pomp that appears in with the best airs. ... everything about the king; but at the same time it makes half his subjects go barefoot. The people are, however, the happiest in the world, and enjoy, from the benefit of their climate and natural constitution, such a perpetual mirth and easiness of temper, as even liberty and plenty cannot bestow on those of other nations. Devotion and loyalty are everywhere at their greatest height, but learning seems to run very low, especially in the younger people: for all the rising geniuses have turned their ambition another way, and endeavoured to make their fortunes in the army. The belles-lettres in particular seem to be but short-lived in France. In acknowledging a present of a snuff-box, we see traces of the easy wit and playfulness of the Spectator: 'About three days ago, Mr Bocher put a very pretty snuff-box in my hand. I was not a little pleased to hear that it belonged to myself, and was much more so when I found it was a present from a gentleman that I have so great an honour for. You do not probably foresee that it would draw on you the trouble of a letter, but you must blame yourself for it. For my part, I can no more accept of a snuff-box without returning my acknowledgments, than I can take snuff without sneezing after it. This last, I must own to you, is so great an absurdity, that I should be ashamed to confess it, were not I in hopes of correcting it very speedily. I am observed to have my box oftener in my hand than those that have been used to one these twenty years, for I can't forbear taking it out of my pocket whenever I think of Mr Dashwood. You know Mr Bayes recommends snuff as a great provocative to wit, but you may produce this letter as a standing evidence against him. I have, since the beginning of it, taken above a dozen pinches, and still find myself much more inclined to sneeze than to jest. From whence I conclude, that wit and tobacco are not inseparable; or, to make a pun of it, though a man may be master of a snuff-box, Non cuicunque datum est habere Nasam. I should be afraid of being thought a pedant for my quotation, did not I know that the gentleman I am writing to always carries a Horace in his pocket.' The same taste which led Addison, as we have seen, to censure as fulsome the wild and gorgeous genius of Spenser, made him look with indifference, if not aversion, on the splendid scenery of the Alps. 'I am just arrived at Geneva,' he says, 'by a very troublesome journey over the Alps, where I have been for some days together shivering among the eternal snows. My head is still giddy with mountains and precipices, and you can't imagine how much I am pleased with the sight of a plain, that is as agreeable to me at present as a shore was about a year ago, after our tempest at Genoa.' From the 'Letter from Italy. For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, How has kind heaven adorned the happy land, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Ode. How are thy servants blest, O Lord! In foreign realms, and lands remote, The matured powers of Addison shew less of this tame prosaic feeling. The higher of his essays, and his criticism on the Paradise Lost, evince no insensibility to the nobler beauties of creation, or the sublime effusions of genius. His conceptions were enlarged, and his mind expanded, by that literary study and reflection from which his political ambition never divorced him, even in the busiest and most engrossing ground, since so common, was ever used. period of his life. 478 Through burning climes I passed unhurt, And breathed in tainted air. Malone states that this was the first time the phrase classic It was ridiculed by some contemporaries as very quaint and affected. For ever singing as they shine, 'The hand that made us is divine.'* The Battle of Blenheim.—From 'The Campaign,' But now the trumpet terrible from far, In shriller clangours animates the war; Confed'rate drums in fuller concert beat, And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat: Gallia's proud standards to Bavaria's joined, Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind; The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, And while the thick embattled host he views Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length, His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. The fatal day its mighty course began, That the grieved world had long desired in vain ; States that their new captivity bemoaned, Armies of martyrs that in exile groaned, Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard, And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred; Europe's loud cries, that Providence assailed, And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevailed; The day was come when Heav'n designed to shew His care and conduct of the world below. Behold, in awful march and dread array The long extended squadrons shape their way! Death, in approaching, terrible, imparts An anxious horror to the bravest hearts; Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, And thirst of glory quells the love of life. No vulgar fears can British minds control; Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul, O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post, Lessen his numbers, and contract his host; Though fens and floods possessed the middle space, That unprovoked they would have feared to pass; Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands, When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, A fine passage in Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici (Part II. sec. 9) resembles this, and probably suggested it: "There is a music wherever there is a harmony, order, or proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres: for those wellordered motions, and regular paces, though they give no sound unto the ear, yet to the understanding they strike a note most full of harmony. Whatsoever is harmonically composed delights in harmony, which makes me much distrust the symmetry of those heads which declaim against all church music. For myself, not only from my obedience but my particular genius I do embrace it: for even that vulgar and tavern music, which makes one man merry, another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion, and a profound contemplation of the first composer. There is something in it of divinity more than the ear discovers: it is an hieroglyphical and shadowed lesson of the whole world and creatures of God-such a melody to the ear as the whole world, well understood, would afford the understanding. In brief, it is a sensible fit of that harmony which intellectually sounds in the ears of God.' The concluding simile of the angel has been much celebrated, and was so admired by the lord treasurer, that on seeing it, without waiting for the completion of the poem, he rewarded the poet by appointing him, in the place of Locke-who had been promoted-a commissioner of appeals. From the Tragedy of Cato. Act IV.-Scene 4. Re-enter PORTIUS. Portius. Misfortune on misfortune! grief on grief! My brother Marcus Cato. Ha! what has he done? Has he forsook his post? has he given way? him. Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers, Portius. Nor did he fall before His sword had pierced through the false heart of Syphax. Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground. Cato. Thanks to the gods! my boy has done his duty. Portius, when I am dead, be sure thou place Portius. Long may they keep asunder! Lucius. O Cato! arm thy soul with all its patience; Have gathered round it, and attend it weeping. Welcome, my son! here lay him down, my friends, The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds. Cato. Alas! my friends, [Aside. Why mourn you thus? let not a private loss Juba. Behold that upright man! Rome fills his eyes With tears that flowed not o'er his own dead son. [Aside. Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued. The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Cæsar's. For him the self-devoted Decii died, The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquered: Cato. Cæsar ashamed! has not he seen Pharsalia? Cato. Lose not a thought on me, I'm out of danger. Heaven will not leave me in the victor's hand. Cæsar shall never say: 'I conquered Cato.' But oh! my friends, your safety fills my heart With anxious thoughts: a thousand secret terrors Rise in my soul: how shall I save my friends! 'Tis now, O Cæsar, I begin to fear thee! Lucius. Cæsar has mercy, if we ask it of him. Cato. Then ask it, I conjure you! let him know Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it. Add, if you please, that I request it of him, The virtue of my friends may pass unpunished. Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake. Should I advise thee to regain Numidia, Or seek the conqueror? Juba. If I forsake thee Whilst I have life, may Heaven abandon Juba! Wrestling with vice and faction: now thou seest me To thy paternal seat, the Sabine field, Where the great Censor toiled with his own hands, And all our frugal ancestors were blest In humble virtues and a rural life. There live retired; pray for the peace of Rome; Portius. I hope my father does not recommend Cato. Farewell, my friends! if there be any of you Who dare not trust the victor's clemency, Know, there are ships prepared by my commandTheir sails already opening to the windsThat shall convey you to the wished-for port. Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you? The conqueror draws near. Once more farewell! If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet In happier climes, and on a safer shore, Where Cæsar never shall approach us more. [Pointing to his dead son. There the brave youth, with love of virtue fired, Who greatly in his country's cause expired, Shall know he conquered. The firm patriot thereWho made the welfare of mankind his careThough still, by faction, vice, and fortune crossed, Shall find the generous labour was not lost. Act V.-Scene 1. [CATO, alone, sitting in a thoughtful posture: in his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul. A drawn sword on the table by him.] It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well!- Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through all her works-he must delight in virtue; |