JOSEPH ADDISON was born May 21, 1672, at Milston, of which his father was then Rector, near Ambrosebury in Wiltshire. He was early sent to school, there, under the care of the Rev. Mr. Naish; from whence he was removed to Salisbury school, and then to the Charterhouse, under the tuition of the learned Dr. Ellis. Here he first e stracted an talimacy with Mr. Steele, which contioned almost to his death. At fifteen he was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, and in about two years admitted to the degrees of bachelor and master of arts in that college; at which time be was celebrated for his latin poems, to be found in a second volume of the Musae Britanicae, collected by Addison. Be ag at the university, he was upon the point of ceding to the desires of his father and several of Iris friends, to ester into holy orders; but having, through Mr. Congreve's means, become a favourite of Lord Halifax, Ire was prevailed pon by that nobleman, to give up the design. He successively filled the public stations, in 1702, of Commissioner of the Apprala in the Excise; 1707, Under-Secretary of State; 1709, Secretary of Ireland, and Keeper of the Records in Ireland; 1713 (the grand climacteric of Addison's reputation, Cato appeared) Secretary to the Lords' Justices; 1714 one of the Lords Commissioners of Trade; and at last, 1717, one of the first Secretaries of State. Dr. Johnson says, "For Lois 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 ka place. In the House of Commons he could not speak, and therefore was useless to the defence of the Government. In the oflice, says Pope, he could not issue an order without losing his time in quest of fine expressions." He solicited his dismissal with a pension of 1500 pounds a year. He married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, 1716; and is sɛd in have first known her by becoming tutor to her son. Johnson says, "The Lady was at last prevailed upen to marry him, on terms much like those, on which a Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the sultan is re ported to prin sunce, 'Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.' The marriage made no addition to his happisess; it reither made them nor found them equal." Iu 1718-19, he had a severe dispute on The Peerage Bill with Steele, who, inveterate in his political opinions, supported them in a pamphlet called The Plebetan, which Addita manered by an ther, under the title of The Old IVhig. Some epithets, let drop by Addison, answered by a cutLing qantation from Cato, by Steele, were the cause of their friendship's being dissolved; and every person acquainted with the friendly terms on which these two great men had lived so long, must regret, that they should finally part in acrimonious opposition. Addison died of an asthma and dropsy, on the 17th June, 1719, aged 48, leaving only one daughter behind him. The general esteem ia which his productions, both serious and humorous in The Spectator, The Tatier, and The Guardian are held, "pleads (as Spakspeare says), like engels, trumpet-tongued, in their behalf" As • poel, his Cato, in the dramatic, and his Campaign, in the heroic way, will ever maintain a place among the first-rate works of either kind. And a good man's death displays the character of his life. At his last hour, he sent for a relɛvom oố hàn, young Lord Warwick, whose youth he supposed might be influenced by an awful lesson, when, taking boid of the young man's hand, he said "See in what peace a Christian can die!" and immediately expired. САТО, ACTED at Drury Lane, 1715. It is one of the first of our dramatic poems, and was performed 18 nights successively; this very successful run for a tragedy, is attributed by Dennis, who wrote a very bitter critique upon Cato, to proceed from Addison's having raised prejudices in his own favour, by false positions of preparatory criticism; and wan his having poisoned 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. Johnson says, le fact is certain; the motives we mus' fucks. Steele packed an audience. The danger was soon over. The whole nation was, at that time, on fire bfaction. The Whigs applauded every line, in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the Tories; and the Taries echoed every clap, to shew, that the satire was unfelt." It was ushered into notice by eight complimentary copers a verses to the author, among which, one by Steele, leads the vau; besides a prologue by Pope, and an epilogae by Dr. Garth: Dr. Johnson, with the abovementioned persons, nay, even Dennis's gall, has marked this tragedy as a British classic, and a succession of audiences for above a century has proved, that it has deserved "Gold. n opinises from all sorts of people." Johnson observes, "Of a work so much read, it is difficult to say any thing new. About things on which the public thinks Ing, it commonly attains to think right; and of Cato it has been not unjustly. deterra sed, that it is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant language, then a repre-entation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here extales or manages emotion; here is no magical power of raising phantastic terior or exciting wild anxiety. The events are expected without solicitude, and remembered without joy or sorrow, Of the agents we have no care. Cato is a being above sar solicitude, a man of whom the gods take care," and whom we leave to their care with heedless condence. To the rest, neither gods nor men can have much attention; for there is not one amongst them, that strongly allracts either affection of esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such sentiments and such expressions that there is scarcely a scene in the play, which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory. Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS. Par. Tuz dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Caesar, In the calm lights of mild philosophy; I'm tortur'd, e'en to madness, when I think On the proud victor: ev'ry time he's nam'd Pharsalia rises to my view!-I see Th' insulting tyrant, prancing o'er the field, Strew'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in slaughter; His horses hoofs wet with patrician blood! Oh, Portius! is not there some chosen curse, Some hidden thunder in the stores of heav'n, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin? Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, And mix'd with too much horror to be envied: How does the lustre of our father's actions, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness! His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round him; Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause Against a world, a base, degen'rate world, Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Oh, Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly. Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince, With how much care he forms himself to glory, When most it swells, and labours for a vent, Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them. Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show A virtue that has cast me at a distance, And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour? Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, Marc. Thou best of brothers, and thou best Pardon a weak, distemper'd soul, that swells Enter SEMPRONIUS. [Exit. Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd Than executed. What means Portius here? [Aside, Good morrow, Portius; let us once embrace, Each might receive a slave into his arms. Por. My father has this morning call'd to- To this poor hall, his little Roman senate Passion unpitied, and successless love, rival; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. Of armies flush'd with conquest. Oh, my [Aside. Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof, Put forth thy utmost strength, work ev'ry nerve, And call up all thy father in thy soul: To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. Marc. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. Portius! Could I but call that wondrous man my father, To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? When she beholds the holy flame expiring. The world has all its eyes on Cato's son; Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; On this important hour-I'll straight away, And while the fathers of the senate meet In close debate, to weigh th' events of war, animate the soldiers' drooping courage With love of freedom, and contempt of life; thunder in their ears their country's cause, And try to rouse up all that's Roman in them. Tis not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, [Exit. Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand, Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes Blow up their discontents, till they break_out it. his sire! Ambitiously sententious-But I wonder To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Sem. Be sure to press upon him ev'ry motive. And teach the wily African deceit. . Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato. Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. The time is short; Caesar comes rushing on us But hold! young Juba sees me, and approaches! Enter JUBA. Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have observ'd of late thy looks are fall'n, O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent; Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns, And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince? Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, Dost thou not see mankind fall down before And own the force of their superior virtue? Above your own Numidia's tawny sons? In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. |