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JOSEPH ADDISON.

JOSEPH ADDISON, born May 1, 1672, died June 17, 1719, was the eldest son of Launcelot Addison, Dean of Lichfield. Addison passed through several schools, and finally, at the age of about fifteen, entered Oxford. While at Oxford, he was noted for his skill in Latin versification. He took his master's degree in 1693.

Addison held several public offices, and was for ten years a member of Parliament. His political life added nothing to his fame. To know and love him, we must be familiar with his life and writings. His chief works as an author are the following: Contributions to The Tattler and The Spectator, Tragedy of Cato, and Hymns. He left an unfinished work on the Evidences of the Christian Religion.

"Addison's prose works constitute the chief source of his fame; but his muse proved the architect of his fortune, and led him first to distinction." He did much for the literature of his time, and a "peculiar charm keeps his writings as green as in the days of Queen Anne."

Addison's style is perfect after its kind. Dr. Johnson says "that 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. It is true that

he has given a delicacy to English sentiment, and a modesty to English wit, which it never knew before.

The following beautiful lines show his style:

OON as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wonderous tale,

And nightly to the listening earth

Repeats the story of her birth;

And 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 nor sound
Among their radiant orbs be found:
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine,
The Hand that made us is divine!

From Tragedy of Cato.

T must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well!

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

"Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man,

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us----

And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works-he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures.

This must end them.

[Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die.