y
torchlight, round the shrine of St. Edward and the graves of the
Plantagenets, to the Chapel of Henry the Seventh. On the north side of
that Chapel, in the vault of the House of Albemarle, the coffin of
Addison lies next to the coffin of Montague. Yet a few months, and the
same mourners passed again along the same aisle. The same sad anthem was
again chanted. The same vault was again opened, and the coffin of Craggs
was placed close to the coffin of Addison.

Many tributes were paid to the memory of Addison, but one alone is now
remembered. Tickell bewailed his friend in an elegy which would do honor
to the greatest name in our literature, and which unites the energy and
magnificence of Dryden to the tenderness and purity of Cowper. This fine
poem was prefixed to a superb edition of Addison's works, which was
published, in 1721, by subscription. The names of the subscribers proved
how widely his fame had been spread. That his countrymen should be eager
to possess his writings, even in a costly form, is not wonderful. But it
is wonderful that, though English literature was then little studied on
the Continent, Spanish grandees, Italian prelates, marshals of France,
should be found in the list. Among the most remarkable names are those
of the Queen of Sweden, of Prince Eugene, of the Grand Duke of Tuscany,
of the Dukes of Parma, Modena, and Guastalla, of the Doge of Genoa, of
the Regent Orleans, and of Cardinal Dubois. We ought to add that this
edition, though eminently beautiful, is in some important points
defective; nor, indeed, do we yet possess a complete collection of
Addison's writings.

It is strange that neither his opulent and noble widow, nor any of his
powerful and attached friends, should have thought of placing even a
simple tablet, inscribed with his name, on the walls of the Abbey. It
was not till three generations had laughed and wept over his pages that
the omission was supplied by the public veneration. At length, in our
own time, his image, skilfully graven, appeared in Poet's Corner. It
represents him, as we can conceive him, clad in his dressing-gown, and
freed from his wig, stepping from his parlor at Chelsea into his trim
little garden, with the account of the Everlasting Club, or the Loves of
Hilpa and Shalum, just finished for the next day's Spectator, in his
hand. Such a mark of national respect was due to the unsullied
statesman, to the accomplished scholar, to the master of pure English
el