JOSEPH ADDISON was born May 21, 1672, at Milston, of which his father was then Rector, near Ambrosebury in Wiltshire. He was early sent to school, there, under the care of the Rev. Mr. Naish; from whence he was removed to Salisbury school, and then to the Charterhouse, under the tuition of the learned Dr. Ellis. Here he first contracted an intimacy with Mr. Steele, which continued almost to his death. At fifteen he was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, and in about two years admitted to the degrees of bachelor and master of arts in that college; at which time he was celebrated for his latin poems, to be found in a second volume of the Musae Britanicae, collected by Addison. Being at the university, he was upon the point of ceding to the desires of his father and several of his friends, te enter into holy orders; but having, through Mr. Congreve's means, become a favourite of Lord Halifax, he was prevailed upon by that nobleman, to give up the design. He successively filled the public stations, in 1702, of Commissioner of the Appeals in the Excise; 1707, Under-Secretary of State; 1709, Secretary of Ireland, and Keeper of the Records in Ireland; 1715 (the grand climacteric of Addison's reputation, Cato appeared) Secretary to the Lords' Justices; 1714 one of the Lords Commissioners of Trade; and at last, 1717, one of the first Secretaries of State. Dr. Johnson says, "For this employment he might justly be supposed qualified by long practice of business, and by his regular ascent through other offices; but expectation is often disappointed; it is universally confessed, that he was unequal to the duties of his place. In the House of Commons he could not speak, and therefore was useless to the defence of the Government. In the office, says Pope, he could not issue an order without losing his time in quest of fine expressions." He solicited his dismissal with a pension of 1500 pounds a year. He married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, 1716; and is said to have first known her by becoming tutor to her son. Johnson says, "The Lady was at last prevailed upon to marry him, on terms much like those, on which a Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the sultan is reported to pronounce, Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.' The marriage made no addition to his happiness; it neither made them nor found them equal." In 1718- 19, he had a severe dispute on The Peerage Bill with Steele, who, inveterate in his political opinions, supported them in a pamphlet called The Plebetan, which Addison answered by another, under the title of The Old Whig. Some epithets, let drop by Addison, answered by a cutting quotation from Cato, by Steele, were the cause of their friendship's being dissolved; and every person acquainted with the friendly terms on which these two great men had lived so long, must regret, that they should finally part in acrimonious opposition. Addison died of an asthma and dropsy, on the 17th June, 1719, aged 48, leaving only one daughter behind him. The general esteem ia which his productions, both serious and humorous in The Spectator, The Tatler, and The Guardian are held, "pleads (as Spakspeare says), like engels, trumpet-tongued, in their behalf" As a poet, his Cato, in the dramatic, and his Campaign, in the heroic way, will ever maintain a place among the first-rate works of either kind.-And a good man's death displays the character of his life. At his last hour, he sent for a relation of his, young Lord Warwick, whose youth he supposed might be influenced by an awful lesson, when, taking hold of the young man's hand, he said "See in what peace a Christian can dic!" and immediately expired. САТО, ACTED at Drury Lane, 1715. It is one of the first of our dramatic poems, and was performed 18 nights successively; this very successful run for a tragedy, is attributed by Dennis, who wrote a very bitter critique upon Cato, to proceed from Addison's having raised prejudices in his own favour, by false positions of preparatory criticism; and with his having poisoned the town by contradicting, in The Spectator, the established rule of poetical justice, becauso his own hero, with all his virtues, was to fall before a tyrant. Johnson says, "the fact is certain; the motives we must guess. Steele packed an audience. The danger was soon over. The whole nation was, at that time, on fire with faction. The Whigs applauded every line, in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the Tories; and the Tories echoed every clap, to shew, that the satire was unfelt." It was ushered into notice by eight complimentary copies of verses to the author, among which, one by Steele, leads the van; besides a prologue by Pope, and an epilogue by Dr. Garth: Dr. Johnson, with the abovementioned persons, nay, even Dennis's gall, has marked this tragedy as a British classic, and a succession of audiences for above a century has proved, that it has deserved "Golden opinions from all sorts of people." Johnson observes, "Of a work so much read, it is difficult to say any thing new. About things on which the public thinks long, it commonly attains to think right; and of Cato it has been not unjustly determined, that it is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama; rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here excites or assuages emotion; here is no magical power of raising phantastic terror or exciting wild anxiety. The events are expected without solicitude, and remembered without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care. Cato is a being above our solicitude, a man of whom "the gods take care," and whom we leave to their care with heedless confidence. To the rest, neither gods nor men can have much attention; for there is not one amongst them, that strongly attracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such sentiments and such expressions that there is scarcely a scene in the play, which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory. ACT I. SCENE I.-A Hall. Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS. And heavily in clouds brings on the day, Por. THE dawn is overcast, the morning Would fill up all the guilt of civil war, low'rs, And close the scene of blood. Already Caesar [ACT I. Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince, With how much care he forms himself to glory, When most it swells, and labours for a vent, His horses hoofs wet with patrician blood! The sense of honour, and desire of fame, Oh, Portius! is not there some chosen curse, Drive the big passion back into his heart. Some hidden thunder in the stores of heav'n, What, shall an African, shall Juba's heir Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin? A virtue wanting in a Roman soul? Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, And mix'd with too much horror to be envied: His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause Cato do Against a world, a base, degen'rate world, Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Oh, Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk thus coldly. Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show stings behind them. A virtue that has cast me at a distance, And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour? Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, Marcus, believe me, I could die to do it. ease Marc. Thou best of brothers, and thou best of friends! Pardon a weak, distemper'd soul, that swells With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms, The sport of passions. But Sempronius comes: He must not find this softness hanging on me. Enter SEMPronius. [Exit. Sem. Conspiracies no sooner should be form'd Than executed. What means Portius here? [Aside. Good morrow, Portius; let us once embrace, Once more embrace, while yet we both are free. To-morrow, should we thus express our friendship, Each might receive a slave into his arms. This sun, perhaps, this morning sun's the last, That e'er shall rise on Roman liberty. Por. My father has this morning call'd together To this poor hall, his little Roman senate Passion unpitied, and successless love, rival; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. Of armies flush'd with conquest. Oh, my [Aside. Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof, Put forth thy utmost strength, work ev'ry nerve, And call up all thy father in thy soul: To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son. Marc. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. Portius! Could I but call that wondrous man my father, To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? When she beholds the holy flame expiring. The world has all its eyes on Cato's son; Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; On this important hour-I'll straight away, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! it. Sem. Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba. Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes Blow up their discontents, till they break out his sire! Ambitiously sententious-But I wonder To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato. Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason This headstrong youth, and make him spurn at Cato. The time is short; Caesar comes rushing on us But hold! young Juba sees me, and approaches! Enter JUBA. Juba. Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have observ'd of late thy looks are fall'n, O'ercast with gloomy cares and discontent; Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns, And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince? Or carry smiles and sunshine in my face, And own the force of their superior virtue? Above your own Numidia's tawny sons? In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. To cultivate the wild, licentious savage, And break our fierce barbarians into men. Turn up thy eyes to Cato; There may'st thou see to what a godlike height The Roman virtues lift up mortal man. While good, and just, and anxious for his friends, He's still severely bent against himself; And when his fortune sets before him all The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish, His rigid virtue will accept of none. Syph. Believe me, prince, there's not an That traverses our vast Numidian deserts Juba. Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute. Where shall we find the man that bears affliction, Great and majestic in his griefs, like Cato? How does he rise against a load of woes, And thank the gods that threw the weight upon him! Syph. Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul; I think the Romans call it stoicism. My father's name brings tears into my eyes. Syph. Oh, that you'd profit by your father's ills! Jubu. What wouldst thou have me do? Juba. Syphax, I should be more than twice By such a loss. Syph. Ay, there's the tie that binds you! You long to call him father. Marcia's charms Work in your heart unseen, and plead for Cato. No wonder you are deaf to all I say. Juba. Alas! thy story melts away my soul! That best of fathers! how shall I discharge The gratitude and duty that I owe him? Syph. By laying up his counsels in your heart. Juba. His counsels bade me yield to thy direction. Syph. Alas! my prince, I'd guide you to your safety. Juba. I do believe thou wouldst; but tell me how. Syph. Fly from the fate that follows Caesar's foes. Juba. My father scorn'd to do it. Juba. Better to die ten thousand thousand deaths, Than wound my honour. Syph. Rather say your love. Juba. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper. Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame 'Tis easy to divert and break its force. The pale, unripen'd beauties of the north. Juba. 'Tis not a set of features, or complexion, The tincture of a skin, that I admire: Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense. The virtuous Marcia tow'rs above her sex: True, she is fair, (oh, how divinely fair!) But still the lovely maid improves her charms With inward greatness, unaffected wisdom, And sanctity of manners; Cato's soul Shines out in ev'ry thing she acts or speaks, While winning mildness and attractive smiles Dwell in her looks, and with becoming grace, Soften the rigour of ber father's virtue. Syph. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise! But, on my knees, I beg you would considerJuba. Ha! Syphax, is't not she?-She moves this way; And with her Lucia, Lucius's fair daughter. My heart beats thick-I pr'ythee, Syphax, leave me. Syph. Ten thousand curses fasten on them both! Juba. Syphax, your zeal becomes impor-Now will the woman, with a single glance, Undo what I've been lab'ring all this while. tunate; I've hitherto permitted it to rave, Alas, he's dead! but can you e'er forget [Exit. Enter MARCIA and LUCIA. Juba. Hail, charming maid! how does thy beauty smooth The face of war, and make ev'n horror smile! At sight of thee my heart shakes off its sorrows; I feel a dawn of joy break in upon me, And for awhile forget th' approach of Caesar. Marcia. I should be griev'd, young prince, to think my presence thoughts, and slacken'd them Unbent your to arms, The good old king, at parting, wrung my hand Juba. Oh, Marcia, let me hope thy kind As if he mourn'd his rival's ill success; concerns And gentle wishes follow me to battle! Then bids me hide the motions of my heart, The thought will give new vigour to my arm, The sad effect that it will have on Marcus. And drive it in a tempest on the foe. gaze attend The friends of Rome, the glorious cause of virtue, Juba. Thy reproofs are just, Was ever virgin love distress'd like mine. Of rushing torrents, and descending rains, ACT II. Thou virtuous maid; I'll hasten to my troops, SCENE I.-The Senate-house. Flourish. SEMPRONIUS, LUCIUS, and Senators discovered. who hopes [Exit. For Marcia's love. And drive him from you with so stern an air; In pleasing dreams, and lose myself in love, Who have so many griefs to try its force? They're Marcia's brothers, and the sons of Cato. I long to know, and yet I dread to hear it. Oh, Portius, thou hast stol'n away my soul! flow will thy coldness raise Sem. Rome still survives in this assembled senate. To hold it out, and fight it to the last? By time and ill success, to a submission? Sem. My voice is still for war. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, Tempests and storms in his afflicted bosom! May reach his heart, and free the world I dread the consequence. Lucia. You seem to plead Against your brother Portius. Marcia. Lucia, no; Had Portius been the unsuccessful lover, fore me, from bondage. Rise, fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help; To battle! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow; And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us. |