I have said nothing of the political life of Addison; there are no high lights in it that send their flashes down to us. He held places, indeed, of much consideration; his aptitudes, his courtesies, his discretion, his sagacities always won respect; but he was never a force in politics; the only time he attempted parliamentary speaking he broke down; but with a pen in his hand he never broke down until failing health and latter-day anxieties of many sorts shook his power. I have already hinted at the probable infelicities of his late and distinguished marriage; whatever else may be true of it (and authorities are conflicting), it certainly did not bring access of youth or ambition or joyousness. In his later years, too, there came a quarrel with his old friend Steele--cutting more deeply into the heart of this reticent man than it could cut into the much-scarified heart of that impressionist, the author of the _Tatler_; there were stories, too, pretty well supported, that Addison in those last weary days of his--feeble and asthmatic--drank over-freely, to spur his jaded mind up to a level with the talk of sympathizing friends. Pope, too, in those times, had possibly aggravated the quiet, calm essayist, with the sting of his splendid but scorpion pen;[102] and all accounts assure us that Addison (though under fifty) did give a most kindly welcome to death. The story told by Young, and repeated by Dr. Johnson, of his summoning young Warwick to see how a Christian could die, is very likely apocryphal. It was not like him; this modest philosopher never made himself an exemplar of the virtues. We know, however, that he died calmly and tranquilly. Who can hope for more? Not many legacies have come down to us from those days of Queen Anne which are worthier than his; and all owe gratitude to him for at least one shining page in all our hymnals: it will keep the name of Addison among the stars. “The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th’ 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.” CHAPTER VIII.