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

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 5 caprice, obstinacy, frolic, 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

opponent. Nothing hitherto was com- to 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.'

mitted 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 15 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 20 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 25 lingering decay, he sent, as Pope relates, 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, conform- 30 ity of opinion, and fellowship of study, should finally part in acrimonious opposition. Such a controversy was bellum plusquam civile [worse than civil war], as Lucan expresses it. Why could not 35 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 Biographia Bri- 40 tannica. 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, 45 and those who had been heated in the contention were not yet cool.

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 comformably to his own precepts and professions. During this

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. Addison, for whom he did not want respect, had very diligently endeavored 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

The necessity of complying with times, and of sparing persons, is the great impediment of biography. History may be 50 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 55 time. seldom be immediately told; and when it might be told, it is no longer known.

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.

5

died at forty-seven, after having not only stood long in the highest rank of wit and literature, but filled one of the most important offices of state.

The time in which he lived had reason to lament his obstinacy of silence; 'for he was,' says Steele, above all men in that talent called humor, and enjoyed it in such perfection that I have often re

Having given directions to Mr. Tickell for the publication of his works, and dedicated them on his death-bed to his 10 flected, after a night spent with him apart

friend Mr. Craggs, he died June 17, 1719, at Holland House, leaving no child but a daughter.

Of his virtue it is a sufficient testimony

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, height

delightful than any other man ever possessed.' This is the fondness of a friend; let us hear what is told us by a rival. Addison's conversation,' says Pope, 'had something in it more charming than I have found in any other man. But this was only when familiar: before strangers, or perhaps a single stranger, he preserved his dignity by a stiff silence.' This modesty was by no means inconsistent with a very high opinion of his own merit. He demanded to be the first name in modern wit; and, with Steele to echo him, used to depreciate Dryden, whom

that the resentment of party has trans- 15 ened with humor more exquisite and mitted 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 20 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 25 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 30 Pope and Congreve defended against 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 35 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 deficience 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 45 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 50 testimony concurs to prove; but Chesterfield's representation is doubtless hyperbolical. That man cannot be supposed very unexpert in the arts of conversation

them. There is no reason to doubt that he suffered too much pain from the prevalence of Pope's poetical reputation; nor is it without strong reason suspected that by some disingenuous acts he endeavored 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 4o 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

and practice of life who, without fortune 55 the surface of affectation. What he or alliance, by his usefulness and dexterity became secretary of state, and who

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 coher-
ence and grammar of what he dictated.'
Pope, who can be less suspected of
favoring his memory, declares that he
wrote very fluently, but was slow and 10
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 15
alter,' says Pope, anything to please his
friends before publication, but would not
re-touch his pieces afterwards; and I be-
lieve not one word in Cato to which I
made an objection was suffered to stand.' 20
The last line of Cato is Pope's, having
been originally written -

And oh! 't was this that ended Cato's life.

and bashfulness for confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison was first seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from the servile timidity of his 5 sober hours. He that feels oppression from the presence of those to whom he knows himself superior will desire to set loose his powers of conversation; and who that ever asked succors 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 tye-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 25 familiar manners the intervention of sixty years has now debarred us. Steele once promised Congreve and the public 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.

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, 30 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, before his marriage, Pope has given 35 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 40 breakfasted. He studied all morning; then dined at a tavern; and went afterwards to Button's.

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

Button had been a servant in the Countess of Warwick's family, who, un- 45 der the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south side of Russell Street, about two doors from Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used to assemble. It is said 50 nothing reprehensible was out of danger;

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,

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

where he often sat late, and drank too 55 the wittiest men of the age.' His de

much wine. In the bottle discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage,

light 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 ex-
cellence. Knowledge of mankind, in-
deed, 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 rea-
sonable to believe that Addison's profes-
sions and practice were at no great va- 10
riance, since amidst that storm of faction
in which most of his life was passed,
though his station made him conspicu-
ous, and his activity made him formid-
able, the character given him by his 15
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 20
drove against him, though he might lose
the love, he retained the reverence.

25

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 30 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

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 5 merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious: he appears neither weakly credulous nor wantonly sceptical; 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 groveling; 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

of literary character 'above all Greek, 35 tries no hazardous innovations. His

above all Roman fame.' No greater fe-
licity can genius attain than that of hav-
ing purified intellectual pleasure, sep-
arated mirth from ind cency, and wit
from licentiousness; of having taught a 40
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 right-
eousness.'

*

page is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendor.

It was apparently his principal endeavor to avoid all harshness and severity of diction; he is therefore sometimes verbose in his transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversation; yet if his language had been less idiomatical 45 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 energetic; 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

As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand perhaps the first of the first rank. His humor, which, as Steele observes, is peculiar to him- 50 self, is so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never outsteps the modesty of nature,' nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of 55 but not ostentatious, must give his days

truth. His figures never divert by distortion nor amaze by aggravation. He

and nights to the volumes of Addison. (1781)

LETTERS

impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical as

To the Right Honorable the Earl of perity not to confess obligations where no Chesterfield

I have lately been informed by the proprietor of The World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lord- 10 ship. To be so distinguished is an honor which, being very little accustomed to favors from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.

benefit has been received, or to be un5 willing that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in 15 which I once boasted myself with so much exultation,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most humble,
Most obedient servant,
SAM. JOHNSON.

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address; and I could not forbear to wish that I might 20 boast myself 'Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre' [conqueror of the conqueror of the earth]; that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so 25 do my best to repel; and what I cannot

little encouraged, that neither pride nor
modesty would suffer me to continue it.
When I had once addressed your lordship
in public, I had exhausted all the art
of pleasing which a retired and un- 30
courtly scholar can possess. I had done
all that I could; and no man is well
pleased to have his all neglected, be it
ever so little.

Seven years, my lord, have now passed, 35
since I waited in your outward rooms,
or was repulsed from your door; during
which time I have been pushing on my
work through difficulties, of which it is
useless to complain, and have brought it 40
at last to the verge of publication, with-
out one act of assistance, one word of
encouragement, or one smile of favor.
Such treatment I did not expect, for I
never had a patron before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks.

45

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man strug- 50 gling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been 55 delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot

MR. JAMES MACPHERSON:

I received your foolish and impudent letter. Any violence offered me I shall

do for myself the law shall do for me. I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian.

What would you have me retract? I
thought your book an imposture; I think
it an imposture still. For this opinion.
I have given my reasons to the public,
which I here dare you to refute. Your
rage I defy. Your abilities, since your
Homer, are not so formidable; and what I
hear of your morals, inclines me to pay re-
gard not to what you shall say, but to
what you shall
prove. You
may print
this if you will.
SAM. JOHNSON.
(1775)

To the Reverend Dr. Taylor, Ashbourne,
Derbyshire
DEAR SIR:

What can be the reason that I hear nothing from you? I hope nothing disables you from writing. What I have seen, and what I have felt, gives me reason to fear everything. Do not omit giving me the comfort of knowing, that after all my losses I have yet a friend left.

I want every comfort. My life is very solitary and very cheerless. Though it has pleased God wonderfully to deliver