CATO. DOUGLAS. GEORGE BARNWELL. VENICE PRESERVED. ORPHAN OF CHINA. ADDISON. JOYETH ADDISON was born May 21, 1673, 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 rewed to Salisbury school, and then to the Charterhouse, under the tuition of the learned Dr. Ellis. Here he first estracted an intimacy with Mr. Steele, which continued almost to his death. At fifteen he was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, and in shout two years admitted to the degrees of bachelor and master of arts in that college; at which time be 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, to enter into bely orders; but having, through Mr. Congreve's means, become a favourite of Lord Halifax, he was prevailed pon by that nobleman, to give up the design. He successively filled the public stations, in 1709, of Commissioner of the Apprala in the Excise; 1707, Under-Secretary of State; 1709, Secretary of Ireland, and Keeper of the Records in and is sa d land: 1713 (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 Loss employment be 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 ba 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; in have first known her by becoming tutor to her son. Johnson says, "The Lady was at last prevaited mpen to marry him, on terms much like those, on which a Turkish princess is espoused, to whom the sultan is re parted in price, 'Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.' The marriage made no addition to his happimess; neaher made them nor found them equal." Iu 1718-19, he had a severe dispate on The Peerage Bill with Steele, whs, inveterate in his political opinions, supported them in a pamphlet called The Plebetan, which Addina mowered by an ther, under the title of The Old Whig. Some epithets, let drop by Addison, auswered by a cutLing quotation from Cato, by Stecle, were the cause of their friendship's being dissolved: and every person acquainted with the triendiy terms on which these two great men had lived so long, must regret, that they should finally part in armonives 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, hoth serious and humorous in The Spectator, The Tatier, and The Guardian ase held, "pleads (as Spakspeare says), like engels, trumpet-tongued, in their behalf" As • poet, his Cate, 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 releion of has, young Lord Warwick, whose youth he supposed might be influenced by an awful lesson, when, taking hoid of the young man's hand, he said "See in what peace a Christian can die!" and immediately expired. CATO, 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 peetical justice, because kis own hero, wah all his virtues, was to fall before a tyrant. Johnson says, "ide fact is certain; the motives we mua gucas. Merle packed an audience. The danger was soon over. The whole nation was, at that time, on fire faction. The Whigs applauded every line, in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the Tories; and the Taries echoed every clap, to shew, that the satire was unfelt." It was ushered into notice by eight complimentary copees al verses to the author, among which, one by Steele, leads the vau; besides a prologue by Popre, and an epilogae by Dr. Garth: Dr. Johnson, with the abovementioned persons, nay, even Dennis's gall, has marked this tragedy asa British classic, and a succession of audiences for above a century has proved, that it has deserved "Golden opinmes from all sorts of people." Johnson observes, "Of a work so much read, it is dificult 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. derers and, that it is rather a poem in dialogue than a drama: rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant langauge, then a repre-entation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here exCales or assuages emotion; here is no magical power of raising phantastic terior 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 lake 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 strong y stiracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the vehicles of such sentiments and such expressions that there is acarcely a scene in the play, which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory. Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost Among your works! Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, I feel it here: my resolution melts Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince, With how much care he forms himself to glory, him: When most it swells, and labours for a vent, His horses hoofs wet with patrician blood! Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness! His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause Cato do Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them. Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius, show And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour? Por. Oh, Marcus! did I know the way to ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, of friends! Pardon a weak, distemper'd soul, that swells Against a world, a base, degen'rate world, Caesar? Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms The ways of heav'n are dark and intricate; Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Oh, Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs Enter SEMPRONIUS. To this poor hall, his little Roman senate And make ev'n Caesar tremble at the head Portius! Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy They strike with something like religious fear, rival; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [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. Could I but call that wondrous man my father, To Marcia, whilst her father's life's in danger? bling vestal, Marc. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take, Thou might'st as well court the pale, tremInstead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. When she beholds the holy flame expiring. The world has all its eves on Cato's son; Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal On this important bour-I'll straight away, A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought And try to rouse up all that's Roman in them. in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, Sem. Once more be sure to try thy skill on Juba. But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldiers, it. [Exit. Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand, Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes Ambitiously sententious-But I wonder will raise me Enter SYPНАХ. Syph. Sempronius, all is ready; Blow up their discontents, till they break out Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death! Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason at Cato. on The time is short; Caesar comes rushing up Cato, Buthold! young Juba sees me, and approaches! I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, master. Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste: Ev'n while we speak, our conqueror comes on, us gen'rous terms Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage; Against the lords and sov'reigns of the world? He bounds o'er all; He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm? Who like our active African instructs Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make Among your works! Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius, in slaughter; I feel it here: my resolution melts Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince, With how much care he forms himself to glory, him: When most it swells, and labours for a vent, His horses hoofs wet with patrician blood! Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious 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 Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them. ease Thy troubled heart, and mitigate thy pains, of friends! Pardon a weak, distemper'd soul, that swells Against a world, a base, degen'rate world, Caesar? Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms The ways of heav'n are dark and intricate; Marc. These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Enter SEMPRONIUS. Oh, Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs thus coldly. Or must at length give up the world to Caesar. Por. Thou seest not that thy brother is thy They strike with something like religious fear, rival; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. Could I but call that wondrous man my father, Marc. Alas, the counsel which I cannot take, Thou might'st as well court the pale, tremInstead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. When she beholds the holy flame expiring. my Portius; Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious; Sem. Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal A worn-out trick wouldst thou be thought in earnest, Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury! Syph. In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, On this important hour-Ill straight away, it. And teach the wily African deceit. on Juba. [Exit. Inflame the mutiny, and, underhand, Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato. Sem. Curse on the stripling! how he apes Blow up their discontents, till they break out his sire! Ambitiously sententious-But I wonder Old Syphax comes not, his Numidian genius Is well dispos'd to mischief, were he prompt And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd, And ev'ry moment quicken'd to the course. Cato has us'd me ill; he has refus'd His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. Besides, his baffled arms and ruin'd cause, Are bars to my ambition. Caesar's favour, That show'rs down greatness on his friends, will raise me To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, Enter SYPНАХ. Syph. Sempronius, all is ready; I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, master. Sem. Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste: Ev'n while we speak, our conqueror comes on, Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death! Syph. I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason at Cato. Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage; Against the lords and sov'reigns of the world? Re bounds o'er all; He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Launch'd from the vigour of a Roman arm? Of Cato's virtues-But I'll try once more (For ev'ry instant I expect him here), Sem. Be sure to press upon him ev'ry motive. In which your Zama does not stoop to Rome. Above your own Numidia's tawny sons? Who like our active African instructs prince, |