office which he had formerly refused, and which he now accepted, stimulated perhaps by the wishes or commands of his Countess, with no confidence in his own abilities for the employment. In fact, though well acquainted with the laws and constitution of his country, nature had not formed him for a statesman. Of promptitude and self-reliance he had no portion; his timidity was unconquerable, and he could neither speak in the House of Commons for the necessary support of administration, nor could he in his official department execute an order without wasting time in the fastidious selection and arrangement of his words. The consciousness of these defects, ever accompanied by sensations of inquietude, together with a very delicate state of health, soon induced him to decline all public business. He solicited, therefore, and obtained permission to retire; and with a pension of fifteen hundred pounds a year, he left the fatigues of office for the more congenial pursuits of literature and taste.'

It was on the 11th of March, 1718, that he escaped finally from those duties to which his health, his habits, and even his genius, were alike unsuited. 'Such a post as that, and such a wife as the Countess,' both together, must have been too much for ADDISON. In the shades of privacy, his pen-which was always a rich consolation was now to him a far sweeter companion than his coroneted partner: and his thoughts, over-clouded and saddened by his domestic position, assumed that early and sudden bias towards religion and futurity which, under different circumstances, they had hardly manifested so soon. So naturally does

hope rise upon the ruins of happiness; and when we have ceased to enjoy, we only live to anticipate! ADDISON'S life, however, was finished before his

Treatise on the Evidences of Christian Religion;' and though the imperfect work, which appeared posthumously, belie not the characteristic elegance of its author, it has been eclipsed by others who have treated the subject more systematically, and had the good fortune to live through their labours. We have seen, in a former essay, how AdDISON relapsed in the evening of his life to a political dispute: but there is good reason to hope and suppose, with DRAKE, that the breach between these illustrious friends was healed before their final separation. The dying scene of ADDISON has been traced by far abler pens than ours: we give it in the words of DRAKE:—

'The asthmatic disorder, to which he had been long subject, now terminated in a dropsy; and it became evident to himself, and to all around him, that the hour of his dissolution could not be far distant. The death-bed of ADDISON was the triumph of religion and virtue. Reposing on the merits of his Redeemer, and conscious of a life well spent in the service of his fellow-creatures, he waited with tranquillity and resignation the moment of departure. The dying accents of the virtuous man have frequently, when other means have failed, produced the happiest effect; and ADDISON, anxious that a scene so awful might make its due impression, demanded the attendance of his sonin-law, Lord WARWICK. This young nobleman was amiable, but dissipated; and ADDISON, for whom he still retained a high respect, had often,

though in vain, endeavoured to correct his principles, and to curb the impetuosity of his passions. He now required his attendance to behold the reward of him who had obeyed his God. "He came," says Dr. YOUNG, who first related this affecting circumstance; "but life now glimmering in the socket, the dying friend was silent; after a decent and proper pause, the youth said, Dear Sir! you sent for me: I believe, I hope that you have some commands; I shall hold them most sacred.' May distant ages not only hear, but feel, the reply! Forcibly grasping the youth's hand, he softly said, 6 SEE IN WHAT PEACE A CHRISTIAN CAN DIE!' He spoke with difficulty and soon expired." This truly great and good man died on June 17th, 1719, at Holland-house, near Kensington: on the 26th of the same month, he lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, and was afterwards buried in Westminster-abbey.'

ADDISON'S fame rests on his periodical writings. As a poet, he can boast but few laurels, and those are withering. Had he joined STEELE'S enthusiasm to his own facilities of composition, it is likely that he would have rivalled POPE: but he wanted the spirit and the fire of poetry. The character of his verses is polished and classical, but insipid and inanimate: exhibiting often the chill symmetries of a Parian statue, but seldom glowing with muscular motion or living beauty. The Letter from Italy is beneath modern mediocrity; and if the tragedy of Cato be as far above it, it is not isolatedly sufficient to place its author on the glorious hill-top-a station neither to be so won, nor so preserved. When JOHNSON pronounced his

Epistle to Halifax, the most elegant of his poetical productions,' perhaps the great biographer did not reflect that this was but a slender eulogy. That Letter, like all the rest of ADDISON's poetry, has been followed with an undue celebrity. The veneration which attached to the man hung like a shield over his writings, and made examination profaneness: but posterity draws near undazzled, and reverses the excess of sentence. The acclamation of contemporaries may circle the brow with a present halo, but as the bestowal is recent, so the tenure is precarious; and it is only by the award of another century that we can be ranked among the constellations of our own. Immortality, however, was not the less destined for ADDISON, and the solid glory to be remembered more holily than poets. He not only employed wit on the side of religion and virtue, but caused others to do the same, and taught how great abilities might be made subservient to truth and justice. "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.'

In his private character, ADDISON was gene

rally a bright exemplar; and if he sometimes fell beneath his own standard of moral purity, angels have done the same. He was undoubtedly jealous of POPE, which is a signal proof how the finest judgment may be blinded by egotism; for he was immeasurably beneath him in that walk which excited his jealousy. When STEELE was not punctual in redeeming his engagements, ADDISON twice recovered by execution upon his friend's furniture; and on one occasion, having sold more than his debt, turned over the surplus to STEELEa good deal more like a man of business, than a man of feeling. On these occasions, STEELE'S sweetness of temper and amiable disposition never forsook him, and he continued attached where almost any one else would have been alienated for

ever.

But ADDISON felt deeply the inconvenience and immorality of not being punctual in money-matters, and was more anxious probably to reclaim his friend, than recover his money. But as he had fewer faults, so also had he fewer fascinations than STEELE. His manner with strangers was so timid and reserved, that it often wore the appearance of a painful awkwardness; yet, surrounded by his own familiar circle, he was the delight and entertainment of all. It is said that he indulged freely in wine, but he knew where to stop, and was always improved by the exhilaration :

Narratur et prisci CATONIS
Sæpe mero caluisse virtus.*

*This Horatian couplet has been beautifully applied by Mr. CHALMERS. While, however, we could not resist its introduction ourselves, we are anxious not to run away with the merit