He died at Holland House, that fine historical mansion sacred to the wits of a later age, but which in Addison’s time contained no tyrannical tribunal of literary patronage, whatever else there might be there which was contrary to peace. His life and death there make an association more touching, and at the same time of sweeter meaning, than the after-struggles of the Whig men of letters for Lady Holland’s arbitrary favors. The great humorist died in the middle of summer, in June, 1719, and was carried from that leafy retirement to the Jerusalem Chamber, where he lay in state: why, it seems difficult to understand--but his position had in it a kind of gentle royalty unlike that of other men. He was buried at Westminster by night, the wonderful solemn arches over the funeral party, half seen by the wavering lights, going off into vistas of mysterious gloom, echoing with the hymns of the choir, who sang him to his rest. Did they sing, one wonders, one of those verses which had been the most intimate utterance of his life: that great hymn of creation, scarcely inferior to the angelic murmurings of medieval Francis in his cell at Assisi?-- 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. Or one of those humble and more fervent human utterances of faith and humility and thanksgiving?-- Through every period of my life, Thy goodness I’ll pursue, And after death, in distant worlds, The glorious theme renew. When nature fails, and day and night Divide thy works no more, My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, Thy mercy shall adore. Through all eternity to thee A joyful song I’ll raise, But, oh! eternity’s too short To utter all thy praise. With such a soft, yet rapturous, strain the lofty arches and half-seen aisles, perhaps with a summer moon looking in, taking up the wondrous tale, might have echoed over Addison--the gentlest soul of all those noble comrades who lie together awaiting the restitution of all things--when our great humorist, our mildest kind “Spectator,” all his comments over, was laid in the best resting-place England can give to those whom she loves. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Historical Characters in the Reign of Queen Anne, by Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant