This sale is not great; yet this, if Swift be credited, was likely to

grow less; for he declares that the Spectator, whom he ridicules for his

endless mention of the _fair sex,_ had, before his recess, wearied his

readers. The next year, 1713, in which Cato came upon the stage, was the

grand climacterick of Addison's reputation. Upon the death of Cato, he

had, as is said, planned a tragedy in the time of his travels[175], and

had, for several years, the first four acts finished, which were shown to

such as were likely to spread their admiration. They were seen by Pope,

and by Cibber, who relates that Steele, when he took back the copy, told

him, in the despicable cant of literary modesty, that, whatever spirit

his friend had shown in the composition, he doubted whether he would have

courage sufficient to expose it to the censure of a British audience.

The time, however, was now come, when those, who affected to think

liberty in danger, affected, likewise, to think that a stage-play might

preserve it; and Addison was importuned, in the name of the tutelary

deities of Britain, to show his courage and his zeal by finishing his

design.

To resume his work he seemed perversely and unaccountably unwilling; and

by a request, which, perhaps, he wished to be denied, desired Mr. Hughes

to add a fifth act[176]. Hughes supposed him serious; and, undertaking

the supplement, brought, in a few days, some scenes for his examination;

but he had, in the mean time, gone to work himself, and produced half

an act, which he afterwards completed, but with brevity irregularly

disproportionate to the foregoing parts, like a task performed with

reluctance, and hurried to its conclusion.

It may yet be doubted whether Cato was made publick by any change of the

author's purpose; for Dennis charged him with raising prejudices in

his own favour by false positions of preparatory criticism, and with

"poisoning the town" by contradicting, in the Spectator, the established

rule of poetical justice, because his own hero, with all his virtues, was

to fall before a tyrant. The fact is certain; the motives we must guess.

Addison was, I believe, sufficiently disposed to bar all avenues against

all danger. When Pope brought him the prologue, which is properly

accommodated to the play, there were these words, "Britons, arise, be

worth like this approved;" meaning nothing more than, Britons, erect

and exalt yourselves to the approbation of publick virtue. Addison was

frighted lest he should be thought a promoter of insurrection, and the

line was liquidated to "Britons, attend."

Now "heavily in clouds came on the day, the great, the important day,"

when Addison was to stand the hazard of the theatre. That there might,

however, be left as little hazard as was possible, on the first night

Steele, as himself relates, undertook to pack an audience. This, says

Pope[177], had been tried, for the first time, in favour of the Distrest

Mother; and was now, with more efficacy, practised for Cato.

The danger was soon over. The whole nation was, at that time, on fire

with faction. The whigs applauded every line in which liberty was

mentioned, as a satire on the tories; and the tories echoed every clap,

to show that the satire was unfelt. The story of Bolingbroke is well

known. He called Booth to his box, and gave him fifty guineas for

defending the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator[178].

The whigs, says Pope, design a second present, when they can accompany it

with as good a sentence.

The play, supported thus by the emulation of factious praise, was acted,

night after night for a longer time than, I believe, the publick had

allowed to any drama before; and the author, as Mrs. Porter long

afterwards related, wandered through the whole exhibition behind the

scenes with restless and unappeasable solicitude.

When it was printed, notice was given that the queen would be pleased

if it was dedicated to her; "but, as he had designed that compliment

elsewhere, he found himself obliged," says Tickell, "by his duty on the

one hand, and his honour on the other, to send it into the world without

any dedication."

Human happiness has always its abatements; the brightest sunshine of

success is not without a cloud. No sooner was Cato offered to the reader,

than it was attacked by the acute malignity of Dennis, with all the

violence of angry criticism. Dennis, though equally zealous, and probably

by his temper more furious, than Addison, for what they called liberty,

and though a flatterer of the whig ministry, could not sit quiet at a

successful play; but was eager to tell friends and enemies, that they had

misplaced their admirations. The world was too stubborn for instruction;

with the fate of the censurer of Corneille's Cid, his animadversions

showed his anger without effect, and Cato continued to be praised.

Pope had now an opportunity of courting the friendship of Addison, by

vilifying his old enemy, and could give resentment its full play, without

appearing to revenge himself. He, therefore, published a Narrative of the

Madness of John Dennis; a performance which left the objections to the

play in their full force, and, therefore, discovered more desire of

vexing the critick than of defending the poet.

Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably saw the selfishness

of Pope's friendship; and, resolving that he should have the consequences

of his officiousness to himself, informed Dennis, by Steele, that he was

sorry for the insult; and that, whenever he should think fit to answer

his remarks, he would do it in a manner to which nothing could be

objected.

The greatest weakness of the play is in the scenes of love, which are

said, by Pope[179], to have been added to the original plan upon a

subsequent review, in compliance with the popular practice of the stage.

Such an authority it is hard to reject; yet the love is so intimately

mingled with the whole action, that it cannot easily be thought

extrinsick and adventitious; for, if it were taken away, what would be

left? or how were the four acts filled in the first draught?

At the publication the wits seemed proud to pay their attendance with

encomiastick verses. The best are from an unknown hand, which will,

perhaps, lose somewhat of their praise when the author is known to be

Jeffreys.

Cato had yet other honours. It was censured as a party-play by a scholar

of Oxford; and defended in a favourable examination by Dr. Sewel. It was

translated by Salvini into Italian, and acted at Florence; and by the

Jesuits of St. Omer's into Latin, and played by their pupils. Of this

version a copy was sent to Mr. Addison: it is to be wished that it could

be found, for the sake of comparing their version of the soliloquy with

that of Bland.

A tragedy was written on the same subject by Deschamps, a French poet,

which was translated with a criticism on the English play. But the

translator and the critick are now forgotten.

Dennis lived on unanswered, and, therefore, little read. Addison knew the

policy of literature too well to make his enemy important by drawing

the attention of the publick upon a criticism, which, though sometimes

intemperate, was often irrefragable.

While Cato was upon the stage, another daily paper, called the Guardian,

was published by Steele[180]. To this Addison gave great assistance,

whether occasionally, or by previous engagement, is not known.

The character of guardian was too narrow and too serious: it might

properly enough admit both the duties and the decencies of life, but

seemed not to include literary speculations, and was, in some degree,

violated by merriment and burlesque. What had the guardian of the Lizards

to do with clubs of tall or of little men, with nests of ants, or with

Strada's prolusions?

Of this paper nothing is necessary to be said, but that it found many

contributors, and that it was a continuation of the Spectator, with the

same elegance, and the same variety, till some unlucky sparkle, from a

tory paper, set Steele's politicks on fire, and wit at once blazed

into faction. He was soon too hot for neutral topicks, and quitted the

Guardian to write the Englishman.

The papers of Addison are marked in the Spectator by one of the letters

in the name of Clio, and in the Guardian by a hand; whether it was, as

Tickell pretends to think, that he was unwilling to usurp the praise of

others, or, as Steele, with far greater likelihood, insinuates, that he

could not, without discontent, impart to others any of his own. I have

heard that his avidity did not satisfy itself with the air of renown, but

that with great eagerness he laid hold on his proportion of the profits.

Many of these papers were written with powers truly comick, with nice

discrimination of characters, and accurate observation of natural or

accidental deviations from propriety; but it was not supposed that he had

tried a comedy on the stage, till Steele, after his death, declared him

the author of the Drummer. This, however, Steele did not know to be true

by any direct testimony; for, when Addison put the play into his hands,

he only told him, it was the work of a "gentleman in the company;" and

when it was received, as is confessed, with cold disapprobation, he was

probably less willing to claim it. Tickell omitted it in his collection;

but the testimony of Steele, and the total silence of any other claimant,

has determined the publick to assign it to Addison, and it is now printed

with his other poetry. Steele carried the Drummer to the playhouse, and

afterwards to the press, and sold the copy for fifty guineas.

To the opinion of Steele may be added the proof supplied by the

play itself, of which the characters are such as Addison would have

delineated, and the tendency such as Addison would have promoted. That it

should have been ill received would raise wonder, did we not daily see

the capricious distribution of theatrical praise.

He was not all this time an indifferent spectator of publick affairs. He

wrote, as different exigencies required, in 1707, the present State of

the War, and the Necessity of an Augmentation; which, however judicious,

being written on temporary topicks, and exhibiting no peculiar powers,

laid hold on no attention, and has naturally sunk by its own weight

into neglect. This cannot be said of the few papers entitled the Whig

Examiner, in which is employed all the force of gay malevolence and

humorous satire. Of this paper, which just appeared and expired, Swift

remarks, with exultation, that "it is now down among the dead men[181]."

He might well rejoice at the death of that which he could not have

killed. Every reader of every party, since personal malice is past, and

the papers which once inflamed the nation are read only as effusions of

wit, must wish for more of the Whig Examiners; for on no occasion was

the genius of Addison more vigorously exerted, and on none did the

superiority of his powers more evidently appear. His Trial of Count

Tariff, written to expose the treaty of commerce with France, lived no

longer than the question that produced it.

Not long afterwards, an attempt was made to revive the Spectator, at a

time, indeed, by no means favourable to literature, when the succession

of a new family to the throne filled the nation with anxiety, discord,

and confusion; and either the turbulence of the times, or the satiety of

the readers, put a stop to the publication, after an experiment of eighty

numbers, which were afterwards collected into an eighth volume, perhaps

more valuable than any of those that went before it. Addison produced

more than a fourth part[182]; and the other contributors are, by no

means, unworthy of appearing as his associates. The time that had passed

during the suspension of the Spectator, though it had not lessened his

power of humour, seems to have increased his disposition to seriousness:

the proportion of his religious, to his comick papers, is greater than in

the former series.

The Spectator, from its recommencement, was published only three times a

week; and no discriminative marks were added to the papers. To Addison

Tickell has ascribed twenty-three.

The Spectator had many contributors; and Steele, whose negligence kept

him always in a hurry, when it was his turn to furnish a paper, called

loudly for the letters, of which Addison, whose materials were more, made

little use; having recourse to sketches and hints, the product of his

former studies, which he now reviewed and completed: among these are

named by Tickell, the essays on Wit, those on the Pleasures of the

Imagination, and the Criticism on Milton.

When the house of Hanover took possession of the throne, it was

reasonable to expect that the zeal of Addison would be suitably rewarded.

Before the arrival of king George, he was made secretary to the regency,

and was required, by his office, to send notice to Hanover that the queen

was dead, and that the throne was vacant. To do this would not have

been difficult to any man but Addison, who was so overwhelmed with the

greatness of the event, and so distracted by choice of expression, that

the lords, who could not wait for the niceties of criticism, called Mr.

Southwell, a clerk in the house, and ordered him to despatch the message.

Southwell readily told what was necessary in the common style of

business, and valued himself upon having done what was too hard for

Addison[183].

He was better qualified for the Freeholder, a paper which he published

twice a week, from Dec. 23, 1715, to the middle of the next year. This

was undertaken in defence of the established government, sometimes with

argument, and sometimes with mirth. In argument he had many equals; but

his humour was singular and matchless. Bigotry itself must be delighted

with the Tory Fox-hunter.

There are, however, some strokes less elegant, and less decent; such as

the Pretender's Journal, in which one topick of ridicule is his poverty.

This mode of abuse had been employed by Milton against king Charles the

second.

_Jacobaei_

Centum, exulantis viscera marsupii regis.

And Oldmixon delights to tell of some alderman of London, that he had

more money than the exiled princes; but that which might be expected from

Milton's savageness, or Oldmixon's meanness, was not suitable to the

delicacy of Addison.

Steele thought the humour of the Freeholder too nice and gentle for such

noisy times; and is reported to have said, that the ministry made use of

a lute, when they should have called for a trumpet.

This year, 1716[184], he married the countess dowager of Warwick, whom

he had solicited by a very long and anxious courtship, perhaps with

behaviour not very unlike that of sir Roger to his disdainful widow; and

who, I am afraid, diverted herself often by playing with his passion. He

is said to have first known her by becoming tutor to her son [185]. "He

formed," said Tonson, "the design of getting that lady from the time when

he was first recommended into the family." In what part of his life he

obtained the recommendation, or how long and in what manner he lived

in the family, I know not. His advances, at first, were certainly

timorous[186], but grew bolder as his reputation and influence increased;

till, at last, the lady was persuaded to marry him, on terms much like

those on which a Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the sultan is

reported to pronounce, "Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave."

The marriage, if uncontradicted report can be credited, made no addition

to his happiness; it neither found them nor made them equal. She always

remembered her own rank, and thought herself entitled to treat with very

little ceremony the tutor of her son. Howe's ballad of the Despairing

Shepherd, is said to have been written, either before or after marriage,

upon this memorable pair; and it is certain that Addison has left behind

him no encouragement for ambitious love.

The year after, 1717, he rose to his highest elevation, being made

secretary of state. For this employment he might justly be supposed

qualified by long practice of business, and by his regular ascent through

other offices; but expectation is often disappointed; it is universally

confessed that he was unequal to the duties of his place. In the house of

commons he could not speak, and, therefore, was useless to the defence

of the government. In the office, says Pope,[187] he could not issue

an order without losing his time in quest of fine expressions. What he

gained in rank he lost in credit; and, finding by experience his own

inability, was forced to solicit his dismission, with a pension of

fifteen hundred pounds a year. His friends palliated this relinquishment,

of which both friends and enemies knew the true reason, with an account

of declining health, and the necessity of recess and quiet.

He now returned to his vocation, and began to plan literary occupations

for his future life. He purposed a tragedy on the death of Socrates; a

story of which, as Tickell remarks, the basis is narrow, and to which I

know not how love could have been appended. There would, however, have

been no want either of virtue in the sentiments, or elegance in the

language.

He engaged in a nobler work, a defence of the Christian religion, of

which part was published after his death; and he designed to have made a

new poetical version of the psalms.

These pious compositions Pope imputed[188] to a selfish motive, upon the

credit, as he owns, of Tonson[189], who, having quarrelled with Addison,

and not loving him, said, that when he laid down the secretary's office,

he intended to take orders, and obtain a bishoprick; "For," said he, "I

always thought him a priest in his heart."

That Pope should have thought this conjecture of Tonson worth

remembrance, is a proof, but, indeed, so far as I have found, the only

proof, that he retained some malignity from their ancient rivalry. Tonson

pretended but to guess it; no other mortal ever suspected it; and Pope

might have reflected, that a man, who had been secretary of state in

the ministry of Sunderland, knew a nearer way to a bishoprick than by

defending religion, or translating the psalms.

It is related, that he had once a design to make an English dictionary,

and that he considered Dr. Tillotson as the writer of highest authority.

There was formerly sent to me by Mr. Locker, clerk of the leathersellers'

company, who, was eminent for curiosity and literature, a collection of

examples selected from Tillotson's works, as Locker said, by Addison. It

came too late to be of use, so I inspected it but slightly, and remember

it indistinctly. I thought the passages too short.

Addison, however, did not conclude his life in peaceful studies; but

relapsed, when he was near his end, to a political dispute.

It so happened that, 1718-19, a controversy was agitated, with great

vehemence, between those friends of long continuance, Addison and Steele.

It may be asked, in the language of Homer, what power or what cause

could set them at variance. The subject of their dispute was of great

importance. The earl of Sunderland proposed an act, called the Peerage

Bill; by which the number of peers should be fixed, and the king

restrained from any new creation of nobility, unless when an old family

should be extinct. To this the lords would naturally agree; and the king,

who was yet little acquainted with his own prerogative, and, as is now

well known, almost indifferent to the possessions of the crown, had been

persuaded to consent. The only difficulty was found among the commons,

who were not likely to approve the perpetual exclusion of themselves and

their posterity. The bill, therefore, was eagerly opposed, and, among

others, by sir Robert Walpole, whose speech was published.

The lords might think their dignity diminished by improper advancements,

and particularly by the introduction of twelve new peers at once, to

produce a majority of tories in the last reign; an act of authority

violent enough, yet certainly legal, and by no means to be compared with

that contempt of national right with which, some time afterwards, by the

instigation of whiggism, the commons, chosen by the people for three

years, chose themselves for seven. But, whatever might be the disposition

of the lords, the people had no wish to increase their power. The

tendency of the bill, as Steele observed in a letter to the earl of

Oxford, was to introduce an aristocracy; for a majority in the house of

lords, so limited, would have been despotick and irresistible.

To prevent this subversion of the ancient establishment, Steele, whose

pen readily seconded his political passions, endeavoured to alarm the

nation by a pamphlet called the Plebeian. To this an answer was published

by Addison, under the title of the Old Whig, in which it is not

discovered that Steele was then known to be the advocate for the commons.

Steele replied by a second Plebeian; and, whether by ignorance or by

courtesy, confined himself to his question, without any personal notice

of his opponent.

Nothing, hitherto, was committed against the laws of friendship, or

proprieties of decency; but controvertists cannot long retain their

kindness for each other. The Old Whig answered the Plebeian, and could

not forbear some contempt of "little Dicky, whose trade it was to write

pamphlets." Dicky, however, did not lose his settled veneration for his

friend; but contented himself with quoting some lines of Cato, which

were at once detection and reproof. The bill was laid aside during that

session; and Addison died before the next, in which its commitment was

rejected by two hundred and sixty-five to one hundred and seventy-seven.

Every reader surely must regret that these two illustrious friends, after

so many years passed in confidence and endearment, in unity of interest,

conformity of opinion, and fellowship of study, should finally part

in acrimonious opposition. Such a controversy was "Bellum plusquam

_civile_," as Lucan expresses it. Why could not faction find other

advocates? But, among the uncertainties of the human state, we are doomed

to number the instability of friendship.

Of this dispute I have little knowledge but from the Biographica

Britannica. The Old Whig is not inserted in Addison's works; nor is it

mentioned by Tickell in his life; why it was omitted, the biographers,

doubtless, give the true reason; the fact was too recent, and those who

had been heated in the contention were not yet cool.

The necessity of complying with times, and of sparing persons, is the

great impediment of biography. History may be formed from permanent

monuments and records; but lives can only be written from personal

knowledge, which is growing every day less, and in a short time is lost

for ever. What is known can seldom be immediately told; and when it might

be told, it is no longer known. The delicate features of the mind, the

nice discriminations of character, and the minute peculiarities of

conduct, are soon obliterated; and it is surely better that caprice,

obstinacy, frolick, and folly, however they might delight in the

description, should be silently forgotten, than that, by wanton merriment

and unseasonable detection, a pang should be given to a widow, a

daughter, a brother, or a friend. As the process of these narratives is

now bringing me among my contemporaries, I begin to feel myself "walking

upon ashes under which the fire is not extinguished," and coming to the

time of which it will be proper rather to say "nothing that is false,

than all that is true."

The end of this useful life was now approaching. Addison had, for some

time, been oppressed by shortness of breath, which was now aggravated

by a dropsy; and, finding his danger pressing, he prepared to die

conformably to his own precepts and professions.

During this lingering decay, he sent, as Pope relates[190], a message by

the earl of Warwick to Mr. Gay, desiring to see him. Gay, who had not

visited him for some time before, obeyed the summons, and found himself

received with great kindness. The purpose for which the interview had

been solicited was then discovered. Addison told him, that he had injured

him; but that, if he recovered, he would recompense him. What the injury

was, he did not explain, nor did Gay ever know, but supposed that

some preferment designed for him had, by Addison's intervention, been

withheld.

Lord Warwick was a young man of very irregular life, and, perhaps, of

loose opinions[191]. Addison, for whom he did not want respect, had

very diligently endeavoured to reclaim him; but his arguments and

expostulations had no effect. One experiment, however, remained to be

tried: when he found his life near its end, he directed the young lord to

be called; and when he desired, with great tenderness, to hear his last

injunctions, told him: "I have sent for you, that you may see how a

Christian can die." What effect this awful scene had on the earl, I know

not: he, likewise, died himself in a short time, In Tickell's excellent

elegy on his friend are these lines:

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 deathbed to his friend Mr. Craggs, he died June

17, 1719, at Holland-house, leaving no child but a daughter[192].

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 had 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; that he was 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;

"or 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[193]," 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[194]. 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

need 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[195], 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, "any thing to please his friends, before

publication; but would not retouch his pieces afterwards: and, I believe,

not one word in Cato, to which I made an objection, was suffered to

stand."

The last line of Cato is Pope's, having been originally written,

And, oh! 'twas this that ended Cato's life.

Pope might have made more objections to the six concluding lines. In the

first couplet the words, "from hence," are improper; and the second line

is taken from Dryden's Virgil. Of the next couplet, the first verse being

included in the second, is, therefore, useless; and in the third, discord

is made to produce strife.

Of the course of Addison's familiar day[196], before his marriage, Pope

has given a detail. He had in the house with him Budgell, and, perhaps,

Philips. His chief companions were Steele, Budgell, Philips, Carey,

Davenant, and colonel Brett. With one or other of these he always

breakfasted. He studied all morning; then dined at a tavern; and went

afterwards to Button's.

Button had been a servant in the countess of Warwick's family; who, under

the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south side of Russel

street, about two doors from Covent garden. Here it was that the wits of

that time used to assemble. It is said, that when Addison had suffered

any vexation from the countess, he withdrew the company from Button's

house.

From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he often sat late,

and drank too much wine. In the bottle, discontent seeks for comfort,

cowardice for courage, and bashfulness tot confidence. It is not unlikely

that Addison was first seduced to excess by the manumission which he

obtained from the servile timidity of his sober hours. He that feels

oppression from the presence of those to whom he knows himself superiour,

will desire to set loose his powers of conversation; and who, that ever

asked succours from Bacchus, was able to preserve himself from being

enslaved by his auxiliary?

Among those friends it was that Addison displayed the elegance of his

colloquial accomplishments, which may easily be supposed such as Pope

represents them. The remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an

evening in his company, declared that he was a parson in a tie-wig, can

detract little from his character; he was always reserved to strangers,

and was not incited to uncommon freedom by a character like that of

Mandeville.

From any minute knowledge of his familiar manners, the intervention of

sixty years has now debarred us. Steele once promised Congreve and the

publick a complete description of his character; but the promises of

authors are like the vows of lovers. Steele thought no more on his

design, or thought on it with anxiety that at last disgusted him, and

left his friend in the hands of Tickell.

One slight lineament of his character Swift has preserved. It was his

practice, when he found any man invincibly wrong, to flatter his opinions

by acquiescence, and sink him yet deeper in absurdity. This artifice

of mischief was admired by Stella; and Swift seems to approve her

admiration.

His works will supply some information. It appears, from his various

pictures of the world, that, with all his bashfulness, he had conversed

with many distinct classes of men, had surveyed their ways with very

diligent observation, and marked, with great acuteness, the effects

of different modes of life. He was a man in whose presence nothing

reprehensible was out of danger; quick in discerning whatever was wrong

or ridiculous, and not unwilling to expose it. "There are," says Steele,

"in his writings many oblique strokes upon some of the wittiest paen of

the age." His delight was more to excite merriment than detestation; and

he detects follies rather than crimes.

If any judgment be made, from his books, of his moral character, nothing

will be found but purity and excellence. Knowledge of mankind, indeed,

less extensive than that of Addison, will show, that to write, and to

live, are very different. Many who praise virtue, do no more than praise

it. Yet it is reasonable to believe that Addison's professions and

practice were at no great variance, since, amidst that storm of faction

in which most of his life was passed, though his station made him

conspicuous, and his activity made him formidable, the character given

him by his friends was never contradicted by his enemies: of those, with

whom interest or opinion united him, he had not only the esteem, but the

kindness; and of others, whom the violence of opposition drove against

him, though he might lose the love, he retained the reverence.

It is justly observed by Tickell, that he employed wit on the side of

virtue and religion. He not only made the proper use of wit himself, but

taught it to others; and from his time it has been generally subservient

to the cause of reason and of truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that

had long connected gaiety with vice, and easiness of manners with

laxity of principles. He has restored virtue to its dignity, and taught

innocence not to be ashamed. This is an elevation of literary character,

"above all Greek, above all Roman fame." No greater felicity can genius

attain, than that of having purified intellectual pleasure, separated

mirth from indecency, and wit from licentiousness; of having taught

a succession of writers to bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of

goodness; and, if I may use expressions yet more awful, of having "turned

many to righteousness."

Addison, in his life, and for some time afterwards, was considered, by

the greater part of readers, as supremely excelling both in poetry

and criticism. Part of his reputation may be probably ascribed to

the advancement of his fortune: when, as Swift observes, he became a

statesman, and saw poets waiting at his levee, it is no wonder that

praise was accumulated upon him. Much, likewise, may be more honourably

ascribed to his personal character: he who, if he had claimed it, might

have obtained the diadem, was not likely to be denied the laurel.

But time quickly puts an end to artificial and accidental fame; and

Addison is to pass through futurity protected only by his genius. Every

name, which kindness or interest once raised too high, is in danger, lest

the next age should, by the vengeance of criticism, sink it in the same

proportion. A great writer has lately styled him "an indifferent poet,

and a worse critick."

His poetry is first to be considered; of which it must be confessed,

that it has not often those felicities of diction which give lustre to

sentiments, or that vigour of sentiment that animates diction; there

is little of ardour, vehemence, or transport; there is very rarely the

awfulness of grandeur, and not very often the splendour of elegance. He

thinks justly; but he thinks faintly. This is his general character; to

which, doubtless, many single passages will furnish exceptions.

Yet, if he seldom reaches supreme excellence, he rarely sinks into

dulness, and is still more rarely entangled in absurdity. He did not

trust his powers enough to be negligent. There is, in most of his

compositions, a calmness and equability, deliberate and cautious,

sometimes with little that delights, but seldom with any thing that

offends.

Of this kind seem to be his poems to Dryden, to Somers, and to the king.

His ode on St. Cecilia has been imitated by Pope, and has something in it

of Dryden's vigour. Of his account of the English poets, he used to speak

as a "poor thing[197];" but it is not worse than his usual strain. He has

said, not very judiciously, in his character of Waller,

Thy verse could show ev'n Cromwell's innocence,

And compliment the storms that bore him hence.

O! had thy muse not come an age too soon,

But seen great Nassau on the British throne,

How had his triumph glitter'd in thy page!

What is this but to say, that he who could compliment Cromwell had been

the proper poet for king William; Addison, however, never printed the

piece.

The letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised

beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labour,

and more elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of

his poems. There is, however, one broken metaphor, of which notice may

properly be taken:

Fir'd with that name--

I bridle in my struggling muse with pain,

That longs to launch into a nobler strain.

To _bridle a goddess_ is no very delicate idea; but why must she be

_bridled_? because she _longs to launch_; an act which was never hindered

by a _bridle_: and whither will she _launch_? into a _nobler strain_. She

is in the first line a _horse_, in the second a _boat_; and the care of

the poet is to keep his _horse_ or his _boat_ from _singing_.

The next composition is the far-famed Campaign, which Dr. Warton has

termed a "Gazette in rhyme," with harshness not often used by the

good-nature of his criticism. Before a censure so severe is admitted, let

us consider that war is a frequent subject of poetry, and then inquire

who has described it with more justness and force. Many of our own

writers tried their powers upon this year of victory; yet Addison's is

confessedly the best performance: his poem is the work of a man not

blinded by the dust of learning; his images are not borrowed merely from

books. The superiority which he confers upon his hero is not personal

prowess, and "mighty bone," but deliberate intrepidity, a calm command of

his passions, and the power of consulting his own mind in the midst of

danger. The rejection and contempt of fiction is rational and manly.

It may be observed that the last line is imitated by Pope:

Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright--

Rais'd of themselves, their genuine charms they boast,

And those that paint them truest, praise them most.

This Pope had in his thoughts: but, not knowing how to use what was not

his own, he spoiled the thought when he had borrowed it:

The well-sung woes shall sooth my pensive ghost;

He best can paint[198]them who shall feel them most.

Martial exploits may be _painted_; perhaps _woes_ may be _painted_; but

they are surely not _painted_ by being _well-sung_: it is not easy to

paint in song, or to sing in colours.

No passage in the Campaign has been more often mentioned than the simile

of the angel, which is said, in the Tatler, to be "one of the noblest

thoughts that ever entered into the heart of man," and is, therefore,

worthy of attentive consideration. Let it be first inquired whether it

be a simile. A poetical simile is the discovery of likeness between two

actions, in their general nature dissimilar, or of causes terminating by

different operations in some resemblance of effect. But the mention of

another like consequence from a like cause, or of a like performance by a

like agency, is not a simile, but an exemplification. It is not a simile

to say that the Thames waters fields, as the Po waters fields; or that as

Hecla vomits flames in Iceland, so Aetna vomits flames in Sicily. When

Horace says of Pindar, that he pours his violence and rapidity of verse,

as a river swoln with rain rushes from the mountain; or of himself, that

his genius wanders in quest of poetical decorations, as the bee wanders

to collect honey; he, in either case, produces a simile; the mind is

impressed with the resemblance of things generally unlike, as unlike as

intellect and body. But if Pindar had been described as writing with the

copiousness and grandeur of Homer; or Horace had told that he reviewed

and finished his own poetry with the same care as Isocrates polished his

orations, instead of similitude he would have exhibited almost identity;

he would have given the same portraits with different names. In the poem

now examined, when the English are represented as gaining a fortified

pass, by repetition of attack and perseverance of resolution; their

obstinacy of courage, and vigour of onset, is well illustrated by the

sea that breaks, with incessant battery, the dikes of Holland. This is a

simile; but when Addison, having celebrated the beauty of Marlborough's

person, tells us, that "Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace," here

is no simile, but a mere exemplification. A simile may be compared to

lines converging at a point, and is more excellent as the lines approach

from greater distance; an exemplification may be considered as two

parallel lines, which run on together without approximation, never far

separated, and never joined. Marlborough is so like the angel in the

poem, that the action of both is almost the same, and performed by both

in the same manner. Marlborough "teaches the battle to rage;" the angel

"directs the storm:" Marlborough is "unmoved in peaceful thought;" the

angel is "calm and serene:" Marlborough stands "unmoved amidst the

shock of hosts;" the angel rides "calm in the whirlwind." The lines on

Marlborough are just and noble; but the simile gives almost the same

images a second time.

But, perhaps, this thought, though hardly a simile, was remote from

vulgar conceptions, and required great labour of research, or dexterity

of application. Of this, Dr. Madden, a name which Ireland ought to

honour, once gave me his opinion. "If I had set," said he, "ten

schoolboys to write on the battle of Blenheim, and eight had brought me

the angel, I should not have been surprised."

The opera of Rosamond, though it is seldom mentioned, is one of the first

of Addison's compositions. The subject is well chosen, the fiction is

pleasing, and the praise of Marlborough, for which the scene gives an

opportunity, is, what perhaps every human excellence must be, the product

of good luck, improved by genius. The thoughts are sometimes great, and

sometimes tender; the versification is easy and gay. There is, doubtless,

some advantage in the shortness of the lines, which there is little

temptation to load with expletive epithets. The dialogue seems commonly

better than the songs. The two comick characters of sir Trusty

and Grideline, though of no great value, are yet such as the poet

intended[199]. Sir Trusty's account of the death of Rosamond is, I think,

too grossly absurd. The whole drama is airy and elegant; engaging in its

process, and pleasing in its conclusion. If Addison had cultivated the

lighter parts of poetry, he would, probably, have excelled.

The tragedy of Cato, which, contrary to the rule observed in selecting

the works of other poets, has, by the weight of its character, forced its

way into the late collection, is unquestionably the noblest production

of Addison's genius. Of a work so much read, it is difficult to say any

thing new. About things on which the publick thinks long, it commonly

attains to think right; and of Cato it has been not unjustly determined,

that it is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession

of just sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural

affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing

here "excites or assuages emotion:" here is "no magical power of raising

phantastick terrour or wild anxiety." The events are expected without

solicitude, and are remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we

have no care: we consider not what they are doing, or what they are

suffering; we wish only to know what they have to say. Cato is a being

above our solicitude; a man of whom the gods take care, and whom we leave

to their care with heedless confidence. To the rest, neither gods nor men

can have much attention; for there is not one amongst them that strongly

attracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of

such sentiments and such expression, that there is scarcely a scene in

the play which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory.

When Cato was shown to Pope[200], he advised the author to print it,

without any theatrical exhibition; supposing that it would be read more

favourably than heard. Addison declared himself of the same opinion; but

urged the importunity of his friends for its appearance on the stage.

The emulation of parties made it successful beyond expectation; and its

success has introduced or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too

declamatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill philosophy.

The universality of applause, however it might quell the censure of

common mortals, had no other effect than to harden Dennis in fixed

dislike; but his dislike was not merely capricious. He found and showed

many faults: he showed them, indeed, with anger, but he found them with

acuteness, such as ought to rescue his criticism from oblivion; though,

at last, it will have no other life than it derives from the work which

it endeavours to oppress.

Why he pays no regard to the opinion of the audience, he gives his

reason, by remarking, that,

"A deference is to be paid to a general applause, when it appears that

that applause is natural and spontaneous; but that little regard is to

be had to it, when it is affected and artificial. Of all the tragedies

which, in his memory, have had vast and violent runs, not one has been

excellent; few have been tolerable; most have been scandalous. When a

poet writes a tragedy, who knows he has judgment, and who feels he has

genius, that poet presumes upon his own merit, and scorns to make a

cabal. That people come coolly to the representation of such a tragedy,

without any violent expectation, or delusive imagination, or invincible

prepossession; that such an audience is liable to receive the impressions

which the poem shall naturally make on them, and to judge by their own

reason, and their own judgments, and that reason and judgment are calm

and serene, not formed by nature to make proselytes, and to control and

lord it over the imaginations of others. But that when an author writes a

tragedy, who knows he has neither genius nor judgment, he has recourse

to the making a party, and he endeavours to make up in industry what

is wanting in talent, and to supply by poetical craft the absence of

poetical art; that such an author is humbly contented to raise men's

passions by a plot without doors, since he despairs of doing it by

that which he brings upon the stage. That party and passion, and

prepossession, are clamorous and tumultuous things, and so much the

more clamorous and tumultuous by how much the more erroneous: that

they domineer and tyrannise over the imaginations of persons who want

judgment, and sometimes too of those who have it; and, like a fierce

and outrageous torrent, bear down all opposition before them." He then

condemns the neglect of poetical justice; which is always one of his

favourite principles.

"'Tis certainly the duty of every tragick poet, by the exact distribution

of poetical justice, to imitate the divine dispensation, and to inculcate

a particular providence. 'Tis true, indeed, upon the stage of the world,

the wicked sometimes prosper, and the guiltless suffer. But that is

permitted by the governor of the world, to show, from the attribute of

his infinite justice, that there is a compensation in futurity, to prove

the immortality of the human soul, and the certainty of future rewards

and punishments. But the poetical persons in tragedy exist no longer than

the reading, or the representation; the whole extent of their entity

is circumscribed by those; and, therefore, during that reading or

representation, according to their merits or demerits, they must be

punished or rewarded. If this is not done, there is no impartial

distribution of poetical justice, no instructive lecture of a particular

providence, and no imitation of the divine dispensation. And yet the

author of this tragedy does not only run counter to this, in the fate of

his principal character; but every where, throughout it, makes virtue

suffer, and vice triumph: for not only Cato is vanquished by Caesar,

but the treachery and perfidiousness of Syphax prevail over the

honest simplicity and the credulity of Juba; and the sly subtlety and

dissimulation of Portius over the generous frankness and open-heartedness

of Marcus."

Whatever pleasure there may be in seeing crimes punished and virtue

rewarded, yet, since wickedness often prospers in real life, the poet is

certainly at liberty to give it prosperity on the stage. For if poetry

has an imitation of reality, how are its laws broken by exhibiting the

world in its true form? The stage may sometimes gratify our wishes; but,

if it be truly the "mirror of life," it ought to show us sometimes what

we are to expect.

Dennis objects to the characters, that they are not natural, or

reasonable; but as heroes and heroines are not beings that are seen every

day, it is hard to find upon what principles their conduct shall be

tried. It is, however, not useless to consider what he says of the manner

in which Cato receives the account of his son's death.

"Nor is the grief of Cato, in the fourth act, one jot more in nature than

that of his son and Lucia in the third. Cato receives the news of his

son's death not only with dry eyes, but with a sort of satisfaction; and,

in the same page, sheds tears for the calamity of his country, and does

the same thing in the next page upon the bare apprehension of the danger

of his friends. Now, since the love of one's country is the love of one's

countrymen, as I have shown upon another occasion, I desire to ask these

questions: Of all our countrymen, which do we love most, those whom we

know, or those whom we know not? And of those whom we know, which do we

cherish most, our friends or our enemies? And of our friends, which are

the dearest to us, those who are related to us, or those who are not? And

of all our relations, for which have we most tenderness, for those who

are near to us, or for those who are remote? And of our near relations,

which are the nearest, and, consequently, the dearest to us, our

offspring, or others? Our offspring most certainly; as nature, or, in

other words, providence, has wisely contrived for the preservation of

mankind. Now, does it not follow, from what has been said, that for a man

to receive the news of his son's death with dry eyes, and to weep at the

same time for the calamities of his country, is a wretched affectation,

and a miserable inconsistency? Is not that, in plain English, to receive

with dry eyes the news of the deaths of those for whose sake our country

is a name so dear to us, and, at the same time, to shed tears for those

for whose sake our country is not a name so dear to us?"

But this formidable assailant is least resistible when he attacks the

probability of the action, and the reasonableness of the plan. Every

critical reader must remark, that Addison has, with a scrupulosity almost

unexampled on the English stage, confined himself in time to a single

day, and in place to rigorous unity. The scene never changes, and the

whole action of the play passes in the great hall of Cato's house at

Utica. Much, therefore, is done in the hall, for which any other place

had been more fit; and this impropriety affords Dennis many hints of

merriment, and opportunities of triumph. The passage is long; but as such

disquisitions are not common, and the objections are skilfully formed

and vigorously urged, those who delight in critical controversy will not

think it tedious.

"Upon the departure of Portius, Sempronius makes but one soliloquy, and

immediately in comes Syphax, and then the two politicians are at it

immediately. They lay their heads together, with their snuffboxes in

their hands, as Mr. Bayes has it, and league it away. But in the midst of

that wise scene, Syphax seems to give a seasonable caution to Sempronius:

'_Syph_.

But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate

Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious;

Cato has piercing eyes.'

"There is a great deal of caution shown indeed, in meeting in a

governor's own hall to carry on their plot against him. Whatever opinion

they have of his eyes, I suppose they had none of his ears, or they would

never have talked at this foolish rate so near:

'Gods! thou must be cautious.'

Oh! yes, very cautious, for if Cato should overhear you, and turn you off

for politicians, Caesar would never take you; no, Caesar would never take

you.

"When Cato, act the second, turns the senators out of the hall, upon

pretence of acquainting Juba with the result of their debates, he appears

to me to do a thing which is neither reasonable nor civil. Juba might

certainly have better been made acquainted with the result of that debate

in some private apartment of the palace. But the poet was driven upon

this absurdity to make way for another; and that is, to give Juba an

opportunity to demand Marcia of her father. But the quarrel and rage of

Juba and Syphax, in the same act; the invectives of Syphax against the

Romans and Cato; the advice that he gives Juba, in her father's hall, to

bear away Marcia by force; and his brutal and clamorous rage upon his

refusal, and at a time when Cato was scarcely out of sight, and, perhaps,

not out of hearing, at least some of his guards or domesticks must

necessarily be supposed to be within hearing; is a thing that is so far

from being probable, that it is hardly possible.

"Sempronius, in the second act, comes back once more in the same morning

to the governor's hall, to carry on the conspiracy with Syphax against

the governor, his country, and his family; which is so stupid, that it is

below the wisdom of the O--'s, the Mac's, and the Teague's; even Eustace

Cummins himself would never have gone to Justice-hall to have conspired

against the government. If officers at Portsmouth should lay their heads

together, in order to the carrying off[201] J---- G----'s niece or

daughter, would they meet in J--- G---'s hall, to carry on that

conspiracy? There would be no necessity for their meeting there, at least

till they came to the execution of their plot, because there would be

other places to meet in. There would be no probability that they

should meet there, because there would be places more private and more

commodious. Now there ought to be nothing in a tragical action but what

is necessary or probable.

"But treason is not the only thing that is carried on in this hall; that,

and love, and philosophy, take their turns in it, without any manner

of necessity or probability occasioned by the action, as duly and as

regularly, without interrupting one another, as if there were a triple

league between them, and a mutual agreement that each should give place

to, and make way for the other, in a due and orderly succession.

"We now come to the third act. Sempronius, in this act, comes into the

governor's hall, with the leaders of the mutiny; but, as soon as Cato

is gone, Sempronius, who but just before had acted like an unparalleled

knave, discovers himself, like an egregious fool, to be an accomplice in

the conspiracy.

'_Semp_.

Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume

To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds,

They're thrown neglected by; but, if it fails,

They're sure to die like dogs, as you shall do.

Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth

To sudden death.'--

"'Tis true, indeed, the second leader says, there are none there but

friends; but is that possible at such a juncture? Can a parcel of rogues

attempt to assassinate the governor of a town of war, in his own house,

in mid-day, and, after they are discovered, and defeated, can there

be none near them but friends? Is it not plain, from these words of

Sempronius,

'Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth

To sudden death'--

and from the entrance of the guards upon the word of command, that

those guards were within ear-shot? Behold Sempronius, then, palpably

discovered. How comes it to pass, then, that instead of being hanged

up with the rest, he remains secure in the governor's hall, and there

carries on his conspiracy against the government, the third time in the

same day, with his old comrade Syphax, who enters at the same time that

the guards are carrying away the leaders, big with the news of the defeat

of Sempronius; though where he had his intelligence so soon is difficult

to imagine? And now the reader may expect a very extraordinary scene:

there is not abundance of spirit indeed, nor a great deal of passion, but

there is wisdom more than enough to supply all defects.

'_Syph_.

Still there remains an after-game to play:

My troops are mounted, their Numidian steeds

Snuff up the winds, and long to scour the desert.

Let but Sempronius lead us in our flight,

We'll force the gate, where Marcus keeps his guard,

And hew down all that would oppose our passage;

A day will bring us into Caesar's camp.

'_Semp_. Confusion! I have fail'd of half my purpose;

Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind.'

"Well! but though he tells us the half-purpose that he has failed of, he

does not tell us the half that he has carried. But what does he mean by,

'Marcia, the charming Marcia's left behind?'

He is now in her own house; and we have neither seen her, nor heard of

her, any where else since the play began. But now let us hear Syphax:

'What hinders then, but that thou find her out,

And hurry her away by manly force?'

But what does old Syphax mean by finding her out? They talk as if she

were as hard to be found as a hare in a frosty morning.

'_Semp_. But how to gain admission?'

Oh! she is found out then, it seems--

But how to gain admission! for access

Is giv'n to none, but Juba and her brothers.'

But, raillery apart, why access to Juba? For he was owned and received

as a lover neither by the father nor by the daughter. Well! but let

that pass. Syphax puts Sempronius out of pain immediately; and, being

a Numidian, abounding in wiles, supplies him with a stratagem for

admission, that, I believe, is a non-pareille.

'_Syph_. Thou shalt have Juba's dress, and Juba's guards;

The doors will open when Numidia's prince

Seems to appear before them.'

"Sempronius is, it seems, to pass for Juba in full day at Cato's house,

where they were both so very well known, by having Juba's dress and his

guards: as if one of the marshals of France could pass for the duke of

Bavaria, at noonday, at Versailles, by having his dress and liveries. But

how does Syphax pretend to help Sempronius to young Juba's dress? Does he

serve him in a double capacity, as general and master of his wardrobe?

But why Juba's guards? For the devil of any guards has Juba appeared with

yet. Well! though this is a mighty politick invention, yet, methinks,

they might have done without it: for, since the advice that Syphax gave

to Sempronius was,

'To hurry her away by manly force,'

in my opinion, the shortest and likeliest way of coming at the lady

was by demolishing, instead of putting on an impertinent disguise to

circumvent two or three slaves. But Sempronius, it seems, is of another

opinion. He extols to the skies the invention of old Syphax:

'_Semp_. Heav'us! what a thought was there!'

"Now I appeal to the reader, if I have not been as good as my word. Did I

not tell him, that I would lay before him a very wise scene?

"But now let us lay before the reader that part of the scenery of the

fourth act, which may show the absurdities which the author has run

into, through the indiscreet observance of the unity of place. I do not

remember that Aristotle has said any thing expressly concerning the unity

of place. 'Tis true, implicitly he has said enough in the rules which he

has laid down for the chorus. For, by making the chorus an essential part

of tragedy, and by bringing it on the stage immediately after the opening

of the scene, and retaining it there till the very catastrophe, he has so

determined and fixed the place of action, that it was impossible for an

author on the Grecian stage to break through that unity. I am of opinion,

that if a modern tragick poet can preserve the unity of place, without

destroying the probability of the incidents, 'tis always best for him

to do it; because, by the preservation of that unity, as we have taken

notice above, he adds grace, and clearness, and comeliness, to the

representation. But since there are no express rules about it, and we are

under no compulsion to keep it, since we have no chorus, as the Grecian

poet had; if it cannot be preserved, without rendering the greater

part of the incidents unreasonable and absurd, and, perhaps, sometimes

monstrous, 'tis certainly better to break it.

"Now comes bully Sempronius, comically accoutred and equipped with his

Numidian dress and his Numidian guards. Let the reader attend to him with

all his ears; for the words of the wise are precious:

'_Semp_. The deer is lodg'd, I've track'd her to her covert.'

"Now I would fain know why this deer is said to be lodged, since we have

not heard one word, since the play began, of her being at all out of

harbour; and if we consider the discourse with which she and Lucia begin

the act, we have reason to believe that they had hardly been talking

of such matters in the street. However, to pleasure Sempronius, let us

suppose, for once, that the deer is lodged:

'The deer is lodg'd, I've track'd her to her covert.'

"If he had seen her in the open field, what occasion had he to track her,

when he had so many Numidian dogs at his heels, which, with one halloo,

he might have set upon her haunches? If he did not see her in the open

field, how could he possibly track her? If he had seen her in the street,

why did he not set upon her in the street, since through the street she

must be carried at last? Now here, instead of having his thoughts upon

his business, and upon the present danger; instead of meditating and

contriving how he shall pass with his mistress through the southern gate,

where her brother Marcus is upon the guard, and where she would certainly

prove an impediment to him, which is the Roman word for the baggage;

instead of doing this, Sempronius is entertaining himself with whimseys:

'_Semp_. How will the young Numidian rave to see

His mistress lost! If aught could glad my soul,

Beyond th' enjoyment of so bright a prize,

'Twould be to torture that young gay barbarian.

But hark! what noise? Death to my hopes! 'tis he,

'Tis Juba's self! There is but one way left!

He must be murder'd, and a passage cut

Through those his guards.'

"Pray, what are 'those his guards?' I thought, at present, that Juba's

guards had been Sempronius's tools, and had been dangling after his

heels.

"But now let us sum up all these absurdities together. Sempronius goes at

noonday, in Juba's clothes, and with Juba's guards, to Cato's palace,

in order to pass for Juba, in a place where they were both so very well

known: he meets Juba there, and resolves to murder him with his own

guards. Upon the guards appearing a little bashful, he threatens them:

'Hah! dastards, do you tremble!

Or act like men; or, by yon azure heav'n!'--

But the guards still remaining restive, Sempronius himself attacks Juba,

while each of the guards is representing Mr. Spectator's sign of the

Gaper, awed, it seems, and terrified by Sempronius's threats. Juba kills

Sempronius, and takes his own army prisoners, and carries them in triumph

away to Cato. Now, I would fain know, if any part of Mr. Bayes's tragedy

is so full of absurdity as this?

"Upon hearing the clash of swords, Lucia and Marcia come in. The question

is, why no men come in upon hearing the noise of swords in the governor's

hall? Where was the governor himself? Where were his guards? Where were

his servants? Such an attempt as this, so near the person of a governor

of a place of war, was enough to alarm the whole garrison: and yet, for

almost half an hour after Sempronius was killed, we find none of those

appear, who were the likeliest in the world to be alarmed; and the noise

of swords is made to draw only two poor women thither, who were most

certain to run away from it. Upon Lucia and Marcia's coming in, Lucia

appears in all the symptoms of an hysterical gentlewoman:

'_Luc_. Sure 'twas the clash of swords! my troubl'd heart

Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows,

It throbs with fear, and aches at ev'ry sound!'

And immediately her old whimsey returns upon her:

'O Marcia, should thy brothers, for my sake--

die away with horrour at the thought.'

She fancies that there can be no cutting of throats, but it must be for

her. If this is tragical, I would fain know what is comical. Well! upon

this they spy the body of Sempronius; and Marcia, deluded by the habit,

it seems, takes him for Juba; for says she,

'The face is muffl'd up within the garment.'

"Now, how a man could fight, and fall with his face muffled up in his

garment, is, I think, a little hard to conceive! Besides, Juba, before he

killed him, knew him to be Sempronius. It was not by his garment that he

knew this; it was by his face then; his face, therefore, was not muffled.

Upon seeing this man with the muffled face, Marcia falls a raving; and,

owning her passion for the supposed defunct, begins to make his funeral

oration. Upon which Juba enters listening, I suppose on tiptoe; for I

cannot imagine how any one can enter listening in any other posture. I

would fain know how it came to pass, that during all this time he had

sent nobody, no, not so much as a candle-snuffer, to take away the dead

body of Sempronius. Well! but let us regard him listening. Having left

his apprehension behind him, he, at first, applies what Marcia says to

Sempronius. But finding at last, with much ado, that he himself is the

happy man, he quits his eve-dropping, and discovers himself just time

enough to prevent his being cuckolded by a dead man, of whom the moment

before he had appeared so jealous; and greedily intercepts the bliss

which was fondly designed for one who could not be the better for it. But

here I must ask a question: how comes Juba to listen here, who had not

listened before throughout the play? Or how comes he to be the only

person of this tragedy who listens, when love and treason were so often

talked in so publick a place as a hall? I am afraid the author was driven

upon all these absurdities only to introduce this miserable mistake of

Marcia; which, after all, is much below the dignity of tragedy, as any

thing is which is the effect or result of trick.

"But let us come to the scenery of the fifth act, Cato appears first upon

the scene, sitting in a thoughtful posture; in his hand Plato's treatise

on the Immortality of the Soul, a drawn sword on the table by him. Now

let us consider the place in which this sight is presented to us. The

place, forsooth, is a long hall. Let us suppose, that any one should

place himself in this posture, in the midst of one of our halls in

London; that he should appear solus, in a sullen posture, a drawn sword

on the table by him; in his hand Plato's treatise on the Immortality of

the Soul, translated lately by Bernard Lintot: I desire the reader to

consider, whether such a person as this would pass, with them who beheld

him, for a great patriot, a great philosopher, or a general, or for some

whimsical person who fancied himself all these? and whether the people,

who belonged to the family, would think that such a person had a design

upon their midriffs or his own?

"In short, that Cato should sit long enough, in the aforesaid posture,

in the midst of this large hall, to read over Plato's treatise on the

Immortality of the Soul, which is a lecture of two long hours; that he

should propose to himself to be private there upon that occasion; that he

should be angry with his son for intruding there; then, that he should

leave this hall upon the pretence of sleep, give himself the mortal wound

in his bedchamber, and then be brought back into that hall to expire,

purely to show his good-breeding, and save his friends the trouble of

coming up to his bedchamber; all this appears to me to be improbable,

incredible, impossible."

Such is the censure of Dennis. There is, as Dryden expresses it, perhaps

"too much horseplay in his raillery;" but if his jests are coarse, his

arguments are strong. Yet, as we love better to be pleased than to be

taught, Cato is read, and the critick is neglected.

Flushed with consciousness of these detections of absurdity in the

conduct, he afterwards attacked the sentiments of Cato; but he then

amused himself with petty cavils, and minute objections.

Of Addison's smaller poems, no particular mention is necessary; they have

little that can employ or require a critick. The parallel of the princes

and gods, in his verses to Kneller, is often happy, but is too well known

to be quoted.

His translations, so far as I have compared them, want the exactness of

a scholar. That he understood his authors cannot be doubted; but his

versions will not teach others to understand them, being too licentiously

paraphrastical. They are, however, for the most part, smooth and easy;

and, what is the first excellence of a translator, such as may be read

with pleasure by those who do not know the originals.

His poetry is polished and pure; the product of a mind too judicious to

commit faults, but not sufficiently vigorous to attain excellence. He has

sometimes a striking line, or a shining paragraph; but, in the whole, he

is warm rather than fervid, and shows more dexterity than strength. He

was, however, one of our earliest examples of correctness.

The versification which he had learned from Dryden, he debased rather

than refined. His rhymes are often dissonant; in his Georgick he admits

broken lines. He uses both triplets and alexandrines, but triplets more

frequently in his translations than his other works. The mere structure

of verses seems never to have engaged much of his care. But his lines are

very smooth in Rosamond, and, too smooth in Cato.

Addison is now to be considered as a critick; a name which the present

generation is scarcely willing to allow him. His criticism is condemned

as tentative or experimental, rather than scientifick; and he is

considered as deciding by taste[202] rather than by principles.

It is not uncommon, for those who have grown wise by the labour of

others, to add a little of their own, and overlook their masters. Addison

is now despised by some who, perhaps, would never have seen his defects,

but by the lights which he afforded them. That he always wrote as

he would think it necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed; his

instructions were such as the character of his readers made propers That

general knowledge which now circulates in common talk, was in his time

rarely to be found. Men not professing learning were not ashamed of

ignorance; and, in the female world, any acquaintance with books was

distinguished only to be censured. His purpose was to infuse literary

curiosity, by gentle and unsuspected conveyance, into the gay, the idle,

and the wealthy; he, therefore, presented knowledge in the most alluring

form, not lofty and austere, but accessible and familiar. When he showed

them their defects, he showed them, likewise, that they might be easily

supplied. His, attempt succeeded; inquiry was awakened, and comprehension

expanded. An emulation of intellectual elegance was excited, and, from

his time to our own, life has been gradually exalted, and conversation

purified and enlarged.

Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticism, over his prefaces

with very little parsimony; but, though he sometimes condescended to be

somewhat familiar, his manner was in general too scholastick for those

who had yet their rudiments to learn, and found it not easy to understand

their master. His observations were framed rather for those that were

learning to write, than for those that read only to talk.

An instructer like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks being

superficial, might be easily understood, and being just, might prepare

the mind for more attainments.

Had he presented Paradise Lost to the publick with all the pomp of system

and severity of science, the criticism would, perhaps, have been admired,

and the poem still have been neglected; but, by the blandishments of

gentleness and facility, he has made Milton an universal favourite, with

whom readers of every class think it necessary to be pleased.

He descended, now and then, to lower disquisitions; and, by a serious

display of the beauties of Chevy-Chase, exposed himself to the ridicule

of Wagstaffe, who bestowed a like pompous character on Tom Thumb; and to

the contempt of Dennis, who, considering the fundamental position of his

criticism, that Chevy-Chase pleases, and ought to please, because it is

natural, observes, "that there is a way of deviating from nature, by

bombast or tumour, which soars above nature, and enlarges images beyond

their real bulk; by affectation, which forsakes nature in quest of

something unsuitable; and by imbecility, which degrades nature by

faintness and diminution, by obscuring its appearances, and weakening

its effects." In Chevy-Chase there is not much of either bombast or

affectation; but there is chill and lifeless imbecility. The story cannot

possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression on the mind.

Before the profound observers of the present race repose too securely on

the consciousness of their superiority to Addison, let them consider

his Remarks on Ovid, in which may be found specimens of criticism

sufficiently subtile and refined: let them peruse, likewise, his essays

on Wit, and on the Pleasures of Imagination, in which he founds art

on the base of nature, and draws the principles of invention from

dispositions inherent in the mind of man with skill and elegance[203],

such as his contemners will not easily attain. As a describer of life and

manners, he must be allowed to stand, perhaps, the first of the first

rank. His humour, which, as Steele observes, is peculiar to himself, is

so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to domestick scenes

and daily occurrences. He never "outsteps the modesty of nature," nor

raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither

divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so

much fidelity, that he can be hardly said to invent; yet his exhibitions

have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not

merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has

nothing in it enthusiastick or superstitious: he appears neither weakly

credulous, nor wantonly skeptical; his morality is neither dangerously

lax, nor impracticably rigid. All the enchantment of fancy, and all the

cogency of argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real

interest, the care of pleasing the author of his being. Truth is shown

sometimes as the phantom of a vision; sometimes appears half-veiled in an

allegory; sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes

steps forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses,

and in all is pleasing.

"Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet."

His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not formal,

on light occasions not grovelling, pure without scrupulosity, and exact

without apparent elaboration; always equable, and always easy, without

glowing words or pointed sentences. Addison never deviates from his

track to snatch a grace; he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and tries no

hazardous innovations. His page is always luminous, but never blazes in

unexpected splendour.

It was, apparently, his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness

and severity of diction; he is, therefore, sometimes verbose in his

transitions and connexions, and sometimes descends too much to the

language of conversation; yet if his language had been less idiomatical,

it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What he

attempted, he performed; he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be

energetick[204]; he is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences

have neither studied amplitude, nor affected brevity: his periods, though

not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an

English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious,

must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.

[Footnote 154: Mr. Tyers says, he was actually laid out for dead, as soon

as he was born. Addisoniana, ii. 218.

A writer, who signs himself T.J. informed Dr. Birch, (Gen. Dict. i. 62.)

that Mr. Addison's mother was Jane Gulstone, a circumstance that should

not have been omitted. Dr. Launcelot Addison had by his wife six

children: 1. Jane, born April 23,1671. 2. Joseph, 1st May, 1672. 3.

Gulstone, in April, 1673. 4. Dorothy, in May, 1674. 5. Anne, in April,

1676; and 6. Launcelot, in 1680. Both Gulstone and Launcelot, who was a

fellow of Magdalen college, Oxford, were reputed to be very well skilled

in the classicks, and in polite literature. Dr. Addison's living at

Milston was 120_l_. per annum; and after his death his son Joseph was

sued for dilapidations by the next incumbent. The writer abovementioned

informed Dr. Birch, that "there was a tradition at Milston, that when at

school in the country, (probably at Ambrosebury,) having committed some

slight fault, he was so afraid of being corrected for it, that he ran

away from his father's house, and fled into the fields, where he lived

upon fruits, and took up his lodging in a hollow tree, till, upon the

publication of a reward to whoever should find him, he was discovered and

restored to his parents." M.]

[Footnote 155: "At the Charter-house (says Oldmixon, who was personally

acquainted with Addison, and as a zealous whig, probably encouraged by

him) he made acquaintance with two persons, for whom he had ever after an

entire friendship, Stephen Clay, esq. of the Inner Temple, author of the

epistle in verse, from the elector of Bavaria to the French king after

the battle of Ramilies; and sir Richard Steele, whom he served both with

his pen and purse." Hist. of England, xi. 632. M.]

[Footnote 156: Spence.]

[Footnote 157: This fact was communicated to Johnson, in my hearing, by a

person of unquestionable veracity, but whose name I am not at liberty to

mention. He had it, as he told us, from lady Primrose, to whom Steele

related it with tears in his eyes. The late Dr. Stinton confirmed it to

me, by saying, that he had heard it from Mr. Hooke, author of the Roman

History; and he, from Mr. Pope. H.

See in Steele's Epistolary Correspondence, 1809, vol. i. pp. 208, 356,

this transaction somewhat differently related. N.

The compiler of Addisoniana is of opinion, that Addison's conduct on

this occasion was dictated by the kindest motives; and that the step

apparently so severe, was designed to awaken him, if possible, to a sense

of the impropriety of his mode and habits of life. ED.]

[Footnote 158: He took the degree of M.A. Feb. 14, 1693. N.]

[Footnote 159: A letter which I found among Dr. Johnson's papers, dated

in January, 1784, from a lady in Wiltshire, contains a discovery of some

importance in literary history, viz. that by the initials H.S. prefixed

to the poem, we are not to understand the famous Dr. Henry Sacheverell,

whose trial is the most remarkable incident in his life. The information

thus communicated is, that the verses in question were not an address to

the famous Dr. Sacheverell, but to a very ingenious gentleman of the same

name, who died young, supposed to be a Manksman, for that he wrote the

history of the Isle of Man. That this person left his papers to Mr.

Addison, and had formed a plan of a tragedy upon the death of Socrates,

The lady says, she had this information from a Mr. Stephens, who was a

fellow of Merton college, a contemporary and intimate with Mr. Addison in

Oxford, who died near fifty years ago, a prebendary of Winchester. H.]

[Footnote 160: Spence.]

[Footnote 161: A writer already mentioned, J.P. (Gen. Dict, _ut supra_,)

asserts that his acquaintance with Montague commenced at Oxford: but for

this there is no foundation. Mr. Montague was bred at Trinity college,

Cambridge.]

[Footnote 162: Lord Somers, on this poem being presented to him,

according to Tickell, sent to Addison to desire his acquaintance.

According to Oldmixon, he was introduced to him by Tonson. M.]

[Footnote 163: Spence.]

[Footnote 164: See Swift's libel on Dr. Delany. Addison's distress for

money commenced with the death of king William, which happened in March,

1702. In June, 1703, he was at Rotterdam, and seems then to have done

with his _squire_: for in that month the duke of Somerset wrote a letter

to old Jacob Tonson, (of which I have a copy,) proposing that Addison

should be tutor to his son, (who was then going abroad.) "Neither

lodging, diet, or travelling," says the duke, "shall cost him sixpence:

and over and above that, my son shall present him, at the year's end,

with a hundred guineas, as long as he is pleased to continue in that

service." Mr. Addison declined this _magnificent_ offer in these words,

as appears from another letter of the duke's to Tonson: "As for the

recompence that is proposed to me, I must confess I can by no means see

my account in it." M.]

[Footnote 165: In this letter he uses the phrase _classick ground_, which

has since become so common, but never had been employed before: it was

ridiculed by some of his contemporary writers (I forget which) as very

quaint and affected. M.]

[Footnote 166: It is incorrect that Addison's stay in foreign countries

was but short. He went to travel in 1700, and did not return till the

latter end of 1703; so that he was abroad near four years. M.]

[Footnote 167: Addison's father, who was then dean of Lichfield, died in

April, 1703; a circumstance which should have been mentioned on his tomb

at Lichfield: he is said to have been seventy-one.]

[Footnote 168: Rosamond was first exhibited, March 4th, 1707, and, after

three representations, was laid aside. M.]

[Footnote 169: Thomas _earl_ of Wharton was constituted lord lieutenant

of Ireland Dec. 4, 1708, and went there in April, 1709. He was not made a

_marquis_ till Dec. 1714. M.]

[Footnote 170: The first number of the Tatler was published April 12,

1709. The last (271) Jan. 2, 1710-11. The first number of the Spectator

appeared March 1, 1710-11, and N°. 555, which is the last of the seventh

volume, was published Dec. 6, 1712. The paper was then discontinued, and

was recommenced, June 18, 1714, when N°. 556 appeared. From thence, to

N°. 635 inclusive, forms the eighth volume. M.]

[Footnote 171: This particular number of the Spectator, it is said, was

not published till twelve o'clock, that it might come out precisely at

the hour of her majesty's breakfast, and that no time might be left

for deliberating about serving it up with that meal, as usual. See the

edition of the Tatler with notes, vol. vi. No. 271, note; p. 462, Sec. N.]

[Footnote 172: Newspapers appear to have had an earlier date than here

assigned. Cleiveland, in his Character of a London Diurnal, says, "the

original sinner of this kind was Dutch; Gallo-belgicus the Protoplast,

and the Modern Mercuries but Hans en kelders." Some intelligence given by

Mercurius Gallo-belgicus is mentioned in Carew's Survey of Cornwall, p.

126, originally published in 1602. These vehicles of information are

often mentioned in the plays of James and Charles the first. R.

See Idler, Nº. 7, and note; and Idler, Nº. 40, and note. Ed.]

[Footnote 173: The errors in this account are explained at considerable

length in the preface to the Spectator, prefixed to the edition in the

British Essayists. The original delineation of sir Roger undoubtedly

belongs to Steele.

See, however, Addisoniana, vol. i.]

[Footnote 174: That this calculation is not exaggerated, that it is even

much below the real number, see the notes on the Taller, edit. 1786, vol.

vi. 452. N--See likewise prefatory notice to the Rambler, vol. ii. p.

viii. of the present edition. ED.]

[Footnote 175: Tickell says, "he took up a design of writing a play upon

this subject when he was at the university, and even attempted something

in it then, though not a line as it now stands. The work was performed by

him in his travels, and retouched in England, without any formed design

of bringing it on the stage." Cibber (Apol. 377.) says, that in 1704 he

had the pleasure of reading the first four acts of Cato (which were all

that were then written) privately with sir Richard Steele; and Steele

told him they were written in Italy. M.]

[Footnote 176: The story about Hughes was first told by Oldmixon, in his

Art of Criticism, 1728. M.]

[Footnote 177: Spence.]

[Footnote 178: Alluding to the duke of Marlborough, at that time

suspected of an ambitious aim to obtain the post of general in chief for

life. ED.]

[Footnote 179: Spence.]

[Footnote 180: The Guardian was published in the interval between the

Spectator's being laid down and taken up again. The first number was

published March 12, 1713; and the last appeared October 1st, 1713. M.]

[Footnote 181: From a tory song in vogue at the time, the burden whereof

is,

And he, that will this health deny,

Down among the dead men let him lie.

H.]

[Footnote 182: Addison wrote twenty-three papers out of forty-five, viz.

Numbs. 556, 557, 558, 559, 561, 562. 565. 567, 568, 569. 571. 574, 575.

579, 580. 582,583, 584, 585. 590. 592. 598. 600; so that he produced more

than one half.]

[Footnote 183: When lord Sunderland was appointed lord lieutenant of

Ireland, in 1714, Addison was appointed his secretary. Johnson has

omitted another step in his promotions. He was, in 1715, made a lord of

trade. M.]

[Footnote 184: August 2.]

[Footnote 185: Spence.]

[Footnote 186: It has been said, that Addison first discovered his

addresses to the countess of Warwick would not be unacceptable, from the

manner of her receiving such an article in the newspapers, of his own

inserting, at which, when he read it to her, he affected to be much

astonished. Many anecdotes are on record of Addison's tavern resorts when

Holland-house was rendered disagreeable by the haughty caprices of his

aristocratic bride. When he had suffered any vexation from her, he would

propose to withdraw the club from Button's, who had been a servant in the

countess's family. ED.]

[Footnote 187: Spence.]

[Footnote 188: Spence.]

[Footnote 189: This is inaccurately stated. Pope does not mention the

conjecture of Tonson at all. Spence himself has mentioned it from

Tonson's own information; for he has subscribed the name of Tonson to the

paragraph in question, according to his constant practice of stating the

name of his informer. M.]

[Footnote 190: Spence.]

[Footnote 191: This account of Addison's death is from Dr. Young, who

calls lord Warwick a youth finely accomplished; and does not give the

least ground for the representation in the text, that he was of irregular

life, and that this was a last effort of Addison's to reclaim him.

M.--Dr. Young was far too much of a courtier to see the vices of a

peer, but even his guarded statement does give ground for Dr. Johnson's

conclusion. His words are, "finely accomplished, but not above being the

better for good impressions from a dying friend." ED.]

[Footnote 192: Who died at Bilton, in Warwickshire, at a very advanced

age, in 1797. See Gent. Mag. vol. lxvii. p. 256. 385. N.]

[Footnote 193: Spence.]

[Footnote 194: Tonson and Spence.]

[Footnote 195: Spence.]

[Footnote 196: Spence.]

[Footnote 197: Spence.]

[Footnote 198: "Paint means," says Dr. Warton, "express, or describe

them."]

[Footnote 199: But, according to Dr. Warton, "ought not to have

intended."]

[Footnote 200: Spence.]

[Footnote 201: The person meant by the initials, J.G. is sir John Gibson,

lieutenant-governor of Portsmouth in the year 1710, and afterwards. He

was much beloved in the army, and by the common soldiers called Johnny

Gibson. H.]

[Footnote 202: Taste must decide. WARTON.]

[Footnote 203: Far, in Dr. Warton's opinion, beyond Dryden.]

[Footnote 204: But, says Dr. Warton, he sometimes is so; and, in another

manuscript note, he adds, often so.]

HUGHES

John Hughes, the son of a citizen of London, and of Anne Burgess, of an

ancient family in Wiltshire, was born at Marlborough, July 29, 1677. He

was educated at a private school; and though his advances in literature

are in the Biographia very ostentatiously displayed, the name of his

master is somewhat ungratefully concealed[205].

At nineteen he drew the plan of a tragedy; and paraphrased, rather too

diffusely, the ode of Horace which begins "Integer vitas." To poetry

he added the science of musick, in which he seems to have attained

considerable skill, together with the practice of design, or rudiments of

painting.

His studies did not withdraw him wholly from business, nor did business

hinder him from study. He had a place in the office of ordnance; and was

secretary to several commissions for purchasing lands necessary to secure

the royal docks at Chatham and Portsmouth; yet found time to acquaint

himself with modern languages.

In 1697 he published a poem on the Peace of Ryswick: and, in 1699,

another piece, called the Court of Neptune, on the return of king

William, which he addressed to Mr. Montague, the general patron of the

followers of the muses. The same year he produced a song on the duke of

Gloucester's birthday.

He did not confine himself to poetry, but cultivated other kinds of

writing with great success; and about this time showed his knowledge of

human nature by an essay on the Pleasure of being deceived. In 1702, he

published, on the death of king William, a Pindarick ode, called the

House of Nassau; and wrote another paraphrase on the "Otium Divos" of

Horace.

In 1703, his ode on Musick was performed at Stationers' hall; and he

wrote afterwards six cantatas, which were set to musick by the greatest

master of that time, and seem intended to oppose or exclude the Italian

opera, an exotick and irrational entertainment, which has been always

combated, and always has prevailed.

His reputation was now so far advanced, that the publick began to pay

reverence to his name; and he was solicited to prefix a preface to the

translation of Boccalini, a writer whose satirical vein cost him his life

in Italy, but who never, I believe, found many readers in this country,

even though introduced by such powerful recommendation.

He translated Fontenelle's Dialogues of the Dead; and his version was,

perhaps, read at that time, but is now neglected; for by a book not

necessary, and owing its reputation wholly to its turn of diction, little

notice can be gained but from those who can enjoy the graces of the

original. To the dialogues of Fontenelle he added two composed by

himself; and, though not only an honest but a pious man, dedicated his

work to the earl of Wharton. He judged skilfully enough of his own

interest; for Wharton, when he went lord lieutenant to Ireland, offered

to take Hughes with him, and establish him; but Hughes, having hopes or

promises from another man in power, of some provision more suitable to

his inclination, declined Wharton's offer, and obtained nothing from the

other.

He translated the Miser of Moliere, which he never offered to the stage;

and occasionally amused himself with making versions of favourite scenes

in other plays.

Being now received as a wit among the wits, he paid his contributions

to literary undertakings, and assisted both the Tatler, Spectator, and

Guardian. In 1712, he translated Vertot's History of the Revolution of

Portugal; produced an Ode to the Creator of the World, from the Fragments

of Orpheus; and brought upon the stage an opera, called Calypso and

Telemachus, intended to show that the English language might be very

happily adapted to musick. This was impudently opposed by those who

were employed in the Italian opera; and, what cannot be told without

indignation, the intruders had such interest with the duke of Shrewsbury,

then lord chamberlain, who had married an Italian, as to obtain an

obstruction of the profits, though not an inhibition of the performance.

There was, at this time, a project formed by Tonson for a translation of

the Pharsalia by several hands; and Hughes englished the tenth book.

But this design, as must often happen where the concurrence of many

is necessary, fell to the ground; and the whole work was afterwards

performed by Rowe.

His acquaintance with the great writers of his time appears to have been

very general; but of his intimacy with Addison there is a remarkable

proof. It is told, on good authority, that Cato was finished and played

by his persuasion. It had long wanted the last act, which he was desired

by Addison to supply. If the request was sincere, it proceeded from an

opinion, whatever it was, that did not last long; for when Hughes came

in a week to show him his first attempt, he found half an act written by

Addison himself.

He afterwards published the works of Spenser, with his life, a glossary,

and a discourse on allegorical poetry; a work for which he was well

qualified as a judge of the beauties of writing, but, perhaps, wanted an

antiquary's knowledge of the obsolete words. He did not much revive

the curiosity of the publick; for near thirty years elapsed before his

edition was reprinted. The same year produced his Apollo and Daphne, of

which the success was very earnestly promoted by Steele, who, when the

rage of party did not misguide him, seems to have been a man of boundless

benevolence.

Hughes had hitherto suffered the mortifications of a narrow fortune;

but, in 1717, the lord chancellor Cowper set him at ease, by making him

secretary to the commissions of the peace; in which he afterwards, by a

particular request, desired his successor, lord Parker, to continue him.

He had now affluence; but such is human life, that he had it when his

declining health could neither allow him long possession, nor quick

enjoyment.

His last work was his tragedy, the Siege of Damascus, after which, a

Siege became a popular title. This play, which still continues on the

stage, and of which it is unnecessary to add a private voice to such

continuance of approbation, is not acted or printed according to the

author's original draught, or his settled intention. He had made Phocyas

apostatize from his religion; after which the abhorrence of Eudocia would

have been reasonable, his misery would have been just, and the horrours

of his repentance exemplary. The players, however, required, that the

guilt of Phocyas should terminate in desertion to the enemy; and Hughes,

unwilling that his relations should lose the benefit of his work,

complied with the alteration.

He was now weak with a lingering consumption, and not able to attend

the rehearsal; yet was so vigorous in his faculties, that only ten days

before his death he wrote the dedication to his patron lord Cowper. On

February 17, 1719-20, the play was represented, and the author died.

He lived to hear that it was well received; but paid no regard to

the intelligence, being then wholly employed in the meditations of a

departing Christian.

A man of his character was, undoubtedly, regretted; and Steele devoted

an essay, in the paper called the Theatre, to the memory of his virtues.

His life is written in the Biographia with some degree of favourable

partiality; and an account of him is prefixed to his works by his

relation, the late Mr. Buncombe, a man whose blameless elegance deserved

the same respect.

The character of his genius I shall transcribe from the correspondence of

Swift and Pope.

"A month ago," says Swift, "were sent me over, by a friend of mine, the

works of John Hughes, esquire. They are in prose and verse. I never heard

of the man in my life, yet I find your name as a subscriber. He is too

grave a poet for me; and I think among the mediocrists, in prose as well

as verse."

To this Pope returns: "To answer your question as to Mr. Hughes; what he

wanted in genius, he made up as an honest man; but he was of the class

you think him[206]."

In Spence's Collections Pope is made to speak of him with still less

respect, as having no claim to poetical reputation but from his tragedy.

[Footnote 205: He was educated in a dissenting academy, of which the

reverend Mr. Thomas Rowe was tutor; and was a fellow-student there with

Dr. Isaac Watts, Mr. Samuel Say, and other persons of eminence. In the

Hora Lyricae of Dr. Watts, is a poem to the memory of Mr. Rowe. H.]

[Footnote 206: This, Dr. Warton asserts, is very unjust censure; and in a

note in his late edition of Pope's works, asks if "the author of such a

tragedy as the Siege of Damascus was one of the _mediocribus_? Swift and

Pope seem not to recollect the value and rank of an author who could

write such a tragedy."]

SHEFFIELD

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

John Sheffield, descended from a long series of illustrious ancestors,

was born in 1649, the son of Edmund, earl of Mulgrave, who died in

1658[207]. The young lord was put into the hands of a tutor, with whom he

was so little satisfied, that he got rid of him in a short time, and, at

an age not exceeding twelve years, resolved to educate himself. Such a

purpose, formed at such an age, and successfully prosecuted, delights as

it is strange, and instructs as it is real.

His literary acquisitions are more wonderful, as those years in which

they are commonly made were spent by him in the tumult of a military

life, or the gaiety of a court. When war was declared against the Dutch,

he went, at seventeen, on board the ship in which prince Rupert and

the duke of Albemarle sailed, with the command of the fleet; but, by

contrariety of winds, they were restrained from action. His zeal for the

king's service was recompensed by the command of one of the independent'

troops of horse, then raised to protect the coast.

Next year he received a summons to parliament, which, as he was then

but eighteen years old, the earl of Northumberland censured as at least

indecent, and his objection was allowed. He had a quarrel with the earl

of Rochester, which he has, perhaps, too ostentatiously related, as

Rochester's surviving sister, the lady Sandwich, is said to have told him

with very sharp reproaches.

When another Dutch war, 1672, broke out, he went again a volunteer in the

ship which the celebrated lord Ossory commanded; and there made, as he

relates, two curious remarks.

"I have observed two things, which I dare affirm, though not generally

believed. One was, that the wind of a cannon bullet, though flying never

so near, is incapable of doing the least harm; and, indeed, were it

otherwise, no man above deck would escape. The other was, that a great

shot may be sometimes avoided, even as it flies, by changing one's ground

a little; for, when the wind sometimes blew away the smoke, it was so

clear a sunshiny day, that we could easily perceive the bullets, that

were half-spent, fall into the water, and from thence bound up again

among us, which gives sufficient time for making a step or two on any

side; though, in so swift a motion, 'tis hard to judge well in what line

the bullet comes, which, if mistaken, may, by removing, cost a man his

life, instead of saving it."

His behaviour was so favourably represented by lord Ossory, that he was

advanced to the command of the Catharine, the best second-rate ship in

the navy.

He afterwards raised a regiment of foot, and commanded it as colonel. The

land-forces were sent ashore by prince Rupert; and he lived in the camp

very familiarly with Schomberg. He was then appointed colonel of the old

Holland regiment, together with his own; and had the promise of a garter,

which he obtained in his twenty-fifth year. He was, likewise, made

gentleman of the bedchamber. He afterwards went into the French service,

to learn the art of war under Turenne, but staid only a short time.

Being, by the duke of Monmouth, opposed in his pretensions to the first

troop of horse-guards, he, in return, made Monmouth suspected by the

duke of York. He was not long after, when the unlucky Monmouth fell

into disgrace, recompensed with the lieutenancy of Yorkshire and the

government of Hull.

Thus rapidly did he make his way both to military and civil honours and

employments; yet, busy as he was, he did not neglect his studies, but, at

least, cultivated poetry; in which he must have been early considered as

uncommonly skilful, if it be true which is reported, that, when he was

yet not twenty years old, his recommendation advanced Dryden to the

laurel.

The Moors having besieged Tangier, he was sent, 1680, with two thousand

men to its relief. A strange story is told of danger to which he was

intentionally exposed in a leaky ship, to gratify some resentful jealousy

of the king, whose health he, therefore, would never permit at his

table, till he saw himself in a safer place. His voyage was prosperously

performed in three weeks; and the Moors, without a contest, retired

before him.

In this voyage he composed the Vision; a licentious poem, such as was

fashionable in those times, with little power of invention or propriety

of sentiment.

At his return he found the king kind, who, perhaps, had never been angry;

and he continued a wit and a courtier, as before.

At the succession of king James, to whom he was intimately known, and by

whom he thought himself beloved, he naturally expected still brighter

sunshine; but all know how soon that reign began to gather clouds. His

expectations were not disappointed; he was immediately admitted into the

privy council, and made lord chamberlain. He accepted a place in the high

commission, without knowledge, as he declared after the revolution, of

its illegality. Having few religious scruples, he attended the king to

mass, and kneeled with the rest, but had no disposition to receive

the Romish faith, or to force it upon others; for when the priests,

encouraged by his appearances of compliance, attempted to convert him,

he told them, as Burnet has recorded, that he was willing to receive

instruction, and that he had taken much pains to believe in God, who made

the world and all men in it; but that he should not be easily persuaded

"that man was quits, and made God again."

A pointed sentence is bestowed by successive transmission on the last

whom it will fit: this censure of transubstantiation, whatever be its

value, was uttered long ago by Anne Askew, one of the first sufferers

for the protestant religion, who, in the time of Henry the eighth, was

tortured in the Tower; concerning which there is reason to wonder that it

was not known to the historian of the reformation.

In the revolution he acquiesced, though he did not promote it. There

was once a design of associating him in the invitation of the prince of

Orange; but the earl of Shrewsbury discouraged the attempt, by declaring

that Mulgrave would never concur. This king William afterwards told him;

and asked what he would have done if the proposal had been made? "Sir,"

said he, "I would have discovered it to the king whom I then served." To

which king William replied, "I cannot blame you."

Finding king James irremediably excluded, he voted for the conjunctive

sovereignty, upon this principle, that he thought the titles of the

prince and his consort equal, and it would please the prince, their

protector, to have a share in the sovereignty. This vote gratified king

William; yet, either by the king's distrust or his own discontent,

he lived some years without employment. He looked on the king with

malevolence, and, if his verses or his prose may be credited, with

contempt. He was, notwithstanding this aversion or indifference, made

marquis of Normanby, 1694; but still opposed the court on some important

questions; yet, at last, he was received into the cabinet council, with a

pension of three thousand pounds.

At the accession of queen Anne, whom he is said to have courted when they

were both young, he was highly favoured. Before her coronation. 1702, she

made him lord privy seal, and, soon after, lord lieutenant of the north

Riding of Yorkshire. He was then named commissioner for treating with the

Scots about the union; and was made, next year, first, duke of Normanby,

and then of Buckinghamshire, there being suspected to be somewhere a

latent claim to the title of Buckingham[208].

Soon after, becoming jealous of the duke of Marlborough, he resigned the

privy seal, and joined the discontented tories in a motion, extremely

offensive to the queen, for inviting the princess Sophia to England.

The queen courted him back with an offer no less than that of the

chancellorship; which he refused. He now retired from business, and built

that house in the Park, which is now the queen's, upon ground granted by

the crown.

When the ministry was changed, 1710, he was made lord chamberlain of the

household, and concurred in all transactions of that time, except that he

endeavoured to protect the Catalans. After the queen's death, he became

a constant opponent of the court; and, having no publick business, is

supposed to have amused himself by writing his two tragedies. He died

February 24, 1720-21.

He was thrice married; by his first two wives he had no children; by his

third, who was the daughter of king James, by the countess of Dorchester,

and the widow of the earl of Anglesey, he had, besides other children

that died early, a son born in 1716, who died in 1735, and put an end to

the line of Sheffield. It is observable, that the duke's three wives were

all widows. The dutchess died in 1742.

His character is not to be proposed as worthy of imitation. His religion

he may be supposed to have learned from Hobbes; and his morality was such

as naturally proceeds from loose opinions. His sentiments with respect to

women he picked up in the court of Charles; and his principles concerning

property were such as a gaming-table supplies. He was censured as

covetous, and has been defended by an instance of inattention to his

affairs; as if a man might not at once be corrupted by avarice and

idleness. He is said, however, to have had much tenderness, and to have

been very ready to apologize for his violences of passion.

He is introduced into this collection only as a poet; and, if we credit

the testimony of his contemporaries, he was a poet of no vulgar rank. But

favour and flattery are now at an end; criticism is no longer softened by

his bounties, or awed by his splendour; and, being able to take a more

steady view, discovers him to be a writer that sometimes glimmers, but

rarely shines; feebly laborious, and, at best, but pretty. His songs are

upon common topicks; he hopes, and grieves, and repents, and despairs,

and rejoices, like any other maker of little stanzas: to be great, he

hardly tries; to be gay, is hardly in his power[209].

In the Essay on Satire he was always supposed to have had the help of

Dryden. His Essay on Poetry is the great work for which he was praised by

Roscommon, Dryden, and Pope; and, doubtless, by many more, whose eulogies

have perished.

Upon this piece he appears to have set a high value; for he was all his

life improving it by successive revisals, so that there is scarcely any

poem to be found of which the last edition differs more from the first.

Amongst other changes, mention is made of some compositions of Dryden,

which were written after the first appearance of the essay.

At the time when this work first appeared, Milton's fame was not yet

fully established, and, therefore, Tasso and Spenser were set before him.

The two last lines were these. The epick poet, says he,

Must above Milton's lofty flights prevail,

Succeed where great Torquato, and where greater Spenser, fail.

The last line in succeeding editions was shortened, and the order of

names continued; but now Milton is at last advanced to the highest place,

and the passage thus adjusted:

Must above Tasso's lofty flights prevail,

Succeed where Spenser, and ev'n Milton, fail.

Amendments are seldom made without some token of a rent: _lofty_ does not

suit Tasso so well as Milton.

One celebrated line seems to be borrowed. The essay calls a perfect

character,

A faultless monster which the world ne'er saw.

Scaliger, in his poems, terms Virgil "sine labe monstrum." Sheffield can

scarcely be supposed to have read Scaliger's poetry; perhaps he found the

words in a quotation.

Of this essay, which Dryden has exalted so highly, it may be justly

said, that the precepts are judicious, sometimes new, and often happily

expressed; but there are, after all the emendations, many weak lines, and

some strange appearances of negligence; as, when he gives the laws of

elegy, he insists upon connexion and coherence; without which, says he,

'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will;

But not an elegy, nor writ with skill,

No Panegyrick, nor a Cooper's Hill.

Who would not suppose that Waller's Panegyrick and Denham's Cooper's Hill

were elegies?

His verses are often insipid; but his memoirs are lively and agreeable;

he had the perspicuity and elegance of an historian, but not the fire and

fancy of a poet.

[Footnote 207: His mother was Elizabeth, one of the daughters of Lionel

Cranfield, earl of Middlesex. M.]

[Footnote 208: In the earliest editions of the duke's works he is styled

duke of Buckingham; and Walpole, in his Catalogue of Noble Authors,

mentions a wish, cherished by Sheffield, to be confounded with his

predecessor in the title; "but he would more easily," remarks Walpole,

sarcastically, "have been mistaken with the other Buckingham, if he had

not written at all." Burnet also, and other authorities, speak of him

under the title of duke of Buckingham. His epitaph, being in Latin, will

not settle the point. It is to be regretted, therefore, that Johnson

adduced no better evidence for his doubt than his own unsupported

assertion. ED.]

[Footnote 209: "The life of this peer takes up fourteen pages and a half

in folio, in the General Dictionary, where it has little pretensions to

occupy a couple: but his pious relict was always purchasing places for

him, herself, and their son, in every suburb of the temple of fame; a

tenure, against which, of all others, quo-warrantos are sure to take

place. The author of the article in the dictionary calls the duke one of

the most beautiful prose writers, and greatest poets, of his age: which

is also, he says, proved by the finest writers, his contemporaries;

certificates that have little weight, where the merit is not proved by

the author's own works. It is certain, that his grace's compositions in

prose have nothing extraordinary in them; his poetry is most indifferent,

and the greatest part of both is already fallen into total neglect."

Walpole's Noble Authors, vol. i. p. 436 of his works.]

END OF VOL. VII.

End of Project Gutenberg's Lives of the Poets, Vol. 1, by Samuel Johnson