GARDENS OF CELEBRITIES 
His tragedy of Cato had been a phenomenal success. The 
Spectator, when it followed The Tatler, a still greater one. It 
ventured boldly, to take a high moral and religious tone, even in 
that age of licence, and riotous irreligion. But what need to 
enlarge upon its merits? Or to tell how it alternated gravity 
with innocent mirth, and moved men to better living, by laughter 
as well as by pathos. The Countess must have glowed with pride 
—pride in him who wooed her—when she heard Addison’s praises 
passed from mouth to mouth, knowing that the choicest treasures 
of the great writer’s wit and conversation were still reserved for 
her. Rumour says that she was arrogant, and had the pride of 
place and birth—but there must have been “ something in her,” 
as we should phrase it now, or Addison would not have loved her 
so long and faithfully. Therefore I like to think that in her 
heart she recognized how far she was beneath him, that when she 
opened her Spectator, as she sipped her chocolate or her bohea, a 
little smile that was not all triumph in her conquest, but was, 
indeed, all tenderness, flickered round her beautiful mouth, when 
she read; and I would fain believe that she had indeed the “ pride 
of place,” but that it was her place in the heart of her so noble 
lover. 
Addison was only forty-seven at the time of his death. As is 
well known, he summoned his wild young stepson to his bedside 
—‘‘ to see how a Christian can die,” referring to which Horace 
Walpole sardonically remarked: ‘“‘ He died of brandy!” In this 
connection I may mention that the celebrated library at Holland 
House, formerly a picture gallery, which runs across the buildings 
from east to west, and measures 110 feet by about 17—the great 
west window of which is shown in my illustration—is the place 
where the famous essayist was in the habit of walking—his de- 
tractors said, “‘ with a bottle at one end and a bottle at the other.” 
I do not believe this. Addison was in failing health, though still 
in early middle age, and if he indulged to some extent in a vice 
unhappily very common among men of position in those days— 
every excuse should be made for him—particularly if there be 
any truth in the assertion that he and the countess whom he had 
wooed so long, did not live happily together. ‘‘ Holland House,” 
says one author, “is a large mansion, but could not contain Mr. 
Addison, the Countess of Warwick, and one guest—peace.”’ 
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