“He taught us how to live; and, oh! too high
The price of knowledge, taught us how to die”—
in which he alludes, as he told Dr. Young, to this moving interview.
Having given directions to Mr. Tickell for the publication of his works,
and dedicated them on his death-bed to his friend Mr. Craggs, he died
June 17, 1719, at Holland House, leaving no child but a daughter.
Of his virtue it is a sufficient testimony that the resentment of party
has transmitted no charge of any crime. He was not one of those who are
praised only after death; for his merit was so generally acknowledged
that Swift, having observed that his election passed without a contest,
adds that if he proposed himself for King he would hardly have been
refused. His zeal for his party did not extinguish his kindness for the
merit of his opponents; when he was Secretary in Ireland, he refused to
intermit his acquaintance with Swift. Of his habits or external manners,
nothing is so often mentioned as that timorous or sullen taciturnity,
which his friends called modesty by too mild a name. Steele mentions with
great tenderness “that remarkable bashfulness which is a cloak that hides
and muffles merit;” and tells us “that his abilities were covered only by
modesty, which doubles the beauties which are seen, and gives credit and
esteem to all that are concealed.” Chesterfield affirms that “Addison
was the most timorous and awkward man that he ever saw.” And Addison,
speaking of his own deficiency in conversation, used to say of himself
that, with respect to intellectual wealth, “he could draw bills for a
thousand pounds, though he had not a guinea in his pocket.” That he
wanted current coin for ready payment, and by that want was often
obstructed and distressed; and that he was often oppressed by an improper
and ungraceful timidity, every testimony concurs to prove; but
Chesterfield’s representation is doubtless hyperbolical. That man cannot
be supposed very unexpert in the arts of conversation and practice of
life who, without fortune or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity
became Secretary of State, and who died at forty-seven, after having not
only stood long in the highest rank of wit and literature, but filled one
of the most important offices of State.
The time in which he lived had reason to lament his obstinacy of silence;
“for he was,” says Steele, “above all men in that talent called humour,
and enjoyed it in such perfection that I have often reflected, after a
night spent with him apart from all the world, that I had had the
pleasure of conversing with an intimate acquaintance of Terence and
Catullus, who had all their wit and nature, heightened with humour more
exquisite and delightful than any other man ever possessed.” This is the
fondness of a friend; let us hear what is told us by a rival. “Addison’s
conversation,” says Pope, “had something in it more charming than I have
found in any other man. But this was only when familiar: before
strangers, or perhaps a single stranger, he preserved his dignity by a
stiff silence.” This modesty was by no means inconsistent with a very
high opinion of his own merit. He demanded to be the first name in modern
wit; and, with Steele to echo him, used to depreciate Dryden, whom Pope
and Congreve defended against them. There is no reason to doubt that he
suffered too much pain from the prevalence of Pope’s poetical reputation;
nor is it without strong reason suspected that by some disingenuous acts
he endeavoured to obstruct it; Pope was not the only man whom he
insidiously injured, though the only man of whom he could be afraid. His
own powers were such as might have satisfied him with conscious
excellence. Of very extensive learning he has indeed given no proofs. He
seems to have had small acquaintance with the sciences, and to have read
little except Latin and French; but of the Latin poets his “Dialogues on
Medals” show that he had perused the works with great diligence and
skill. The abundance of his own mind left him little indeed of
adventitious sentiments; his wit always could suggest what the occasion
demanded. He had read with critical eyes the important volume of human
life, and knew the heart of man, from the depths of stratagem to the
surface of affectation. What he knew he could easily communicate. “This,”
says Steele, “was particular in this writer—that when he had taken his
resolution, or made his plan for what he designed to write, he would walk
about a room and dictate it into language with as much freedom and ease
as any one could write it down, and attend to the coherence and grammar
of what he dictated.”
Pope, who can be less suspected of favouring his memory, declares that he
wrote very fluently, but was slow and scrupulous in correcting; that many
of his _Spectators_ were written very fast, and sent immediately to the
press; and that it seemed to be for his advantage not to have time for
much revisal. “He would alter,” says Pope, “anything to please his
friends before publication, but would not re-touch his pieces afterwards;
and I believe not one word of _Cato_ to which I made an objection was
suffered to stand.”