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of Commissioner of Appeals. He was next made Under-secretary of State, and went to Ireland as secre. tary to the Lord Lieutenant, the Marquis of Wharton. Before this, Addison had brought out his unsuccessful opera of "Rosamond;" and written a comedy entitled "The Drummer, or the Haunted House," which was not produced on the stage till it appeared under the auspices of Sir Richard Steele-between whom and Addison a friendship had already commenced while they were schoolfellows at the Charter-House-after the death of the author. In 1709, jointly with Steele, Addison initiated that series which, under the names of the "Tatler," the "Spectator," and the " Guardian," has ever since commanded so extensive an interest and popularity, and which even yet exercises a beneficial and elevating, if indirect, influence upon our literature. The series terminated in the year 1714, with the 175th number of the "Guardian," having been only in a very small proportion indebted for its contributions to any other pens than to those of the two illustrious friends whose amity political differences presently came in to destroy. But their names are for ever honourable as the fathers of the periodical essay. In 1713, the year, in the words of Johnson, of "the grand climacteric of Addison's reputation," appeared the tragedy of "Cato," which Whigs vied with Tories to applaud. It has always been regarded--at once from its lack of dramatic interest, and its correct language and noble sentiments-as more fit to be enjoyed in reading than in representation. "It is a splendid and imposing work of art, with the grace and majesty, and also the lifelessness, of a noble antique statue." Yet it is surprising how many phrases of a play which was never, in a strict sense, dramatically popular, have assumed and held a place among the household words of the people.

In 1716, Addison married the countess- dowager of Warwick, to whom he had first become known by having

been tutor to her son. This marriage was not a happy one, and the husband too frequently sought a refuge from its infelicity in tavern convivialities. In 1717 he became Secretary of State; but his constitutional timidity and want of ready eloquence made him unequal to the discharge of the duties of the office, which he presently resigned on the plea of ill-health, with a pension of £1500 a-year. During his privacy he engaged himself with a work on the Evidences of the Christian Religion, which, still incomplete, was published after his death. Concerning this last event, there is a freely circulated anecdote, which, if it were not based on questionable authority, might very well convict him of something more than questionable taste. It is to the effect that, being given over by the faculty, he sent for his step-son, the Earl of Warwick, whose irregular life had caused him disquiet, and grasped his hand, with the exclamation, "See how a Christian can die!" Addison departed this life in 1719.

"I never read him," says Dr. Young, "but I am struck with such a disheartening idea of perfection, that I drop my pen. And, indeed, far superior writers should forget his compositions, if they would be greatly pleased with their own. And yet (perhaps you have not observed it), what is the common language of the world, even of his admirers, concerning him? They call him an elegant writer: that elegance which shines on the surface of his compositions seems to dazzle their understanding, and render it a little blind to the depth of sentiment which lies beneath. Thus he loses reputation with them by doubling his title to it. On subjects the most interesting and important, no author of his age has written with greater, I had almost said, with equal weight. And they who commend him for his elegance, pay him such a sort of compliment by their abstemious praise, as they would pay to Lucretia, if they should

commend her only for her beauty." The sacred songs of Addison have been admired for their faultlessness of taste and reverent feeling.


The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings, as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice or sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine!"


When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.

O how shall words with equal warmth
The gratitude declare,

That glows within my ravished heart!
But Thou canst read it there.

Thy Providence my life sustained
And all my wants redrest,
When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.

To all my weak complaints and cries
Thy mercy lent an ear,

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learned
To form themselves in prayer.

Unnumbered comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestowed,
Before my infant heart conceived
From whence those comforts flowed.

When in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,

Thine arm unseen conveyed me safe,
And led me up to man.

Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently cleared my way;

And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be feared than they.

When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou
With health renewed my face;
And, when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Revived my soul with grace.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Hath made my cup run o'er;

And in a kind and faithful friend
Hath doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ;

Nor is the least a cheerful heart,

That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life
Thy goodness I'll pursue;

And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.

When Nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.

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A NOTICE of the man who was first, without a second, amongst the poetical writers of his day, whose personal literary life demands for its exhibition a resumé of all contemporaneous literary activity, can be written at no medium length. The dimensions of the present sketch may, under the circumstances, be safely proportioned to the degree in which Pope was a sacred poet; for but little information is imperative about an author, a knowledge of whom is still, with every person of taste, direct and first-handed.

Alexander Pope was born in May, 1688, and spent his early years at Binfield, in Windsor Forest, whither his father, a Roman Catholic and adherent of the Stuarts,

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