JOSEPH ADDISON.
Born, 1672. | Died, 17 June, 1719.
“Cato,” a tragedy by Mr. Joseph Addison, was produced with much success at Drury Lane Theatre in 1713. It is now well nigh forgotten, but the following soliloquy was generally inserted in the school books of the last generation:—
ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
It must be so—Plato thou reason’st well—
Else why 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 ’em.
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.
The soul, secur’d in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable
John, Earl of Stair.
Mitchell, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand his tailor’s bill, with an expostulatory letter: pen, ink, and paper on the table by him.
It must be so—Tailor, thou reason’st well!—
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This earnest longing to discharge thy Bill?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of an arrest? Why shrinks the conscious soul
Back on herself, and startles at a Bailiff?
The Justice of a cause prevails within us;
’Tis Honesty that points out better days,
And intimates even Money to a Bard!
Money, thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry’d life,
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 a Mæcenas be,
(And that there is, Fame publishes abroad
Thro’ British realms) he must delight in goodness;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or who?—at present I’m in need,
And dun’d for debt—but this must bring relief.
(Taking his pen in his hand.)
Thus am I doubly arm’d. My pain or pleasure,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This in a moment claps me in a gaol;
But that informs me I shall yet be rich.
The Muse, secured by inspiration, smiles
At sight of Catchpoles, and defies a Writ.
Nobles may perish, and the King himself
Submit to fate, the very realm be ruined;
But Bards shall flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory broils,
Our civil fury, and our foreign wars.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps thro’ all my senses?
Nature, oppress’d and harrass’d out with care,
Sinks down to dulness.—Let me drink a Bottle,
That my awaken’d Muse may wing her flight,
Renew’d in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An off’ring fit for Stair. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man’s rest: Mitchell knows neither of them,
Indifferent in his choice to live or die,
If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his favor.
From Poems on Several Occasions, in 2 vols., by Joseph Mitchell, commonly called Sir Robert Walpole’s Poet. Published at London. 1729.
The Masquerade;
or, the Belle’s Soliloquy.
Celestina, solus, in a thoughtful posture—a Domino, with Hat and Feather, and a Purse of Gold lying on the table.
It must be so—smart plume thou reason’st well
Else whence this springing joy, this fond desire,
This longing after concerts, plays, and balls?
Or whence this loathing dread and chill ennui,
At staying oft at home? Why hate we all
Immur’d to sit alone, and start at crickets!
’Tis scenes of polished life which prompt our longings,
’Tis Fashion’s self, that points out public places,
And intimates Bon Ton to well-bred females.
Bon Ton, thou heart-reviving, pleasing thought!
Thro’ what variety of frolic parties;
Thro’ what bright scenes and changes may we pass;
The brilliant masquerade lies straight before me,
But gods and milk-maids, clowns and demons throng it.—
Here will I hold—if there’s a Queen of Fashion,
(And that there is, each milliner declares
In every cap you buy!) she must love gadding,
And that which she approves the great must follow.
But when or where!—Cits go to the Pantheon!
I cannot make decision; this must close it.
(Laying her hand on the Purse.)
Thus am I doubly arm’d; my cash and trappings,
Money and Domino are both before me;—
This, in a moment, purchases a ticket:
But this informs me I shan’t be much spoke to.
The Belle, secure in Indian princess’ robes,
Smiles at the Domino as ’neath her notice!
Colours shall fade; new Irish steps grow old
With lapse of time; ev’n laced Pellice be scorn’d,
But Diamonds still shall flourish and attract,
Unchang’d amid the varyings of caprice,
The coiffure powder’d, or the natural wig!
From Poems, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester. 1803.
Lady Townley’s Soliloquy.
It must be so—great Hoyle, thou counsell’st well;
Else whence this anxious hope, this thirst of gain,
This longing after Faro, Whist, Quadrille?
But whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of staking all I’m worth? Why shrinks my soul?
Does Reason’s secret impulse strive to shake
My firm resolve of going to a drum!
No:—’Tis last night’s ill run at which I start;
’Tis want of gold that dictates stay at home,
And intimates ’twere better not to play.
Must I not play? Oh, serious hated thought!
From what variety of pleasing hopes,
From what gay scenes of joy, would’st thou exclude me,
And tempt my steps to tread Discretion’s paths?
The wild, the dreary prospect lies before me,
And none but prudent fools can rest upon it.
Here I will hold: if there is chance at play,
(And that there is, Hoyle proves in every line,
Through all his works) I yet may be successful;
And if successful, then I must be happy.
But when, or where?—Home has no charms for me—
I’m weary of conjectures.—Bring me my jewels.
(To her maid.)
Thus am I doubly arm’d; jewels and gold,
My purse and casket, now are both before me:
This, in a moment, may perchance be lost;
But this insures me credit for a week.
My heart elate, depending on good fortune,
Smiles at Sans prendre, and defies Codille.
The stars shall fade away, the tapers waste,
Morning appear, my husband wake alone;
But I shall flourish heroine at play,
Unhurt by fears of war with France or Spain,
Prussia’s defeat, or Brunswick’s overthrow.
Another parody has Love instead of Play as the leading idea:—
“Ovid, it must be so—thou reason’st well;
Else whence this pleasing pain—these tender doubts—
This longing after something unpossess’t?”
Etc., etc., etc.
A long political parody of the Senate scene in “Cato” appeared in Figaro in London, December 14, 1833, with an illustration by Robert Seymour. It dealt with William IV. and his Ministers, and has no present interest whatever.
An imitation of Addison’s prose writings may be found in Posthumous Parodies (London, 1814), it is entitled “A Prefatory Paper, by the Shade of Mr. Addison,” and describes the characteristics of the various authors whose works are parodied in the volume.
