ur health to-day with Sir Richard
Shirley," he writes to Bathurst. "I have lately had the honour to meet my
Lord Effingham at Amsterdam, where we have drunk Mr. Wood's health a
hundred times in excellent champagne," he writes again. Swift(84)
describes him over his cups, when Joseph yielded to a temptation which
Jonathan resisted. Joseph was of a cold nature, and needed perhaps the
fire of wine to warm his blood. If he was a parson, he wore a tye-wig,
recollect. A better and more Christian man scarcely ever breathed than
Joseph Addison. If he had not that little weakness for wine--why, we could
scarcely have found a fault with him, and could not have liked him as we
do.(85)

At thirty-three years of age, this most distinguished wit, scholar, and
gentleman was without a profession and an income. His book of _Travels_
had failed: his _Dialogues on Medals_ had had no particular success: his
Latin verses, even though reported the best since Virgil, or Statius at
any rate, had not brought him a Government place, and Addison was living
up two shabby pair of stairs in the Haymarket (in a poverty over which old
Samuel Johnson rather chuckles), when in these shabby rooms an emissary
from Government and Fortune came and found him.(86)

A poem was wanted about the Duke of Marlborough's victory of Blenheim.
Would Mr. Addison write one? Mr. Boyle, afterwards Lord Carleton, took
back the reply to the Lord Treasurer Godolphin, that Mr. Addison would.
When the poem had reached a certain stage, it was carried to Godolphin;
and the last lines which he read were these:

But O my muse! what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd?
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,
The victors' shouts and dying groans confound;
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunders of the battle rise.
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war:
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons lent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command,
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land
(Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed),
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And,