When you see such a fellow as this coming towards you, run for your life. A man had much better be visited by a fever: so painful is it to be fastened upon by one of this make, who takes it for granted that you have nothing else to do but to give him a hearing.

III. Character of Addison as a Writer.

AS a describer of life and manners, Mr. Addison must be allowed to stand, perhaps, the first in the first rank. His humour is peculiar to himself; and is so happily diffused, as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never o'er steps the modesty of nature, nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly be said to invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is diffi cult to suppose them not merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom he may be confidently followed. His egion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious; he ap pears neither weakly credulous nor wantonly sceptical; his mo rality is neither dangerously lax, nor implacably rigid. All the enchantments of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shown some. times as the phantom of a vision, sometimes appears half veiled in an allegory, sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing.

His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects, not formal, on light occasions not grovelling; pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration: always equable, and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. His page is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour. It seems to have been his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and severity of diction; he is therefore sometimes verbose in his transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversa tion; yet, if his language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism, What he attempted, he performed: he is never feeble and he did not wish to be energetic: he is never rapid and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity his periods, though not diligently_rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar, but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.

IV. Pleasure and Pain.

THERE were two families, which from the beginning of the world, were as opposite to each other as light and darkness. The one of them lived in heaven and the other in hell. The youngest descendant of the first family was Pleasure; who was the daughter of Happiness, who was the child of Virtue, who was the offspring of the Gods. These, as I said before, had their habitation in heaven. The youngest of the opposite family was Pain; who was the son of Misery, who was the child of Vice, who was the offspring of the Furies. The habitation of this race of beings was hell.

The middle station of nature between these two opposite extremes was the earth, which was inhabited by creatures of a middle kind; neither so virtuous as the one, nor so vicious as the other, but partaking of the good and bad qualities of these two opposite families. Jupiter, considering that this species, commonly called MAN, was too virtuous to be miserable, and too vicious to be happy, that he might make a distinction between the good and the bad, ordered the two youngest of the abovementioned families (Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happiness; and Pain, who was the son of Misery,) to meet one another upon this part of nature; having promised to settle it upon them both, provided they could agree upon the division of it, so as to share mankind between them.

Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new habitation, but they immediately agreed upon this point, that Pleasure should take possession of the virtuous, and Pain of the vicious part of that species which was given up to them. But upon examining to which of them any individual they met with belonged, they found each of them had a right to him; for that, contrary to what they had seen in their own places of residence, there was no person so vicious who had not some good in him, nor any person so virtuous who had not in him some evil. The truth of it is, they generally found upon search that in the most vicious man, Pleasure might lay claim to an hundredth part, and that in the most virtuous man, Pain might come in for at least two thirds. This they saw would occasion endless disputes between them, unless they could come to some accommodation. To this end, there was a marriage proposed between them, and at length concluded. Hence it is that we find Pleasure and Pain are such constant yoke-fellows, and that they either make their visits together, or are never far asunder. If Pain comes into

a heart, he is quickly followed by Pleasure; and if pleasure enters, you may be sure pain is not far off.

But notwithstanding this marriage was very convenient for the two parties, it did not seem to answer the intention of Jupi ter in sending them among mankind. To remedy, therefore,

this inconvenience, it was stipulated between them by article, and confirmed by the consent of each family, that notwithstanding they here possessed the species indifferently, upon the death of every person, if he were found to have in him a certain proportion of evil, he should be despatched into the infernal regions by a passport from Pain, there to dwell with Misery, Vice and the Furies; on the contrary, if he had in him a certain proportion of good, he should be despatched into heaven, by a passport from Pleasure, there to dwell with Happiness, Virtue, and the Gods.

V. Sir Roger de Coverly's Family.

HAVING often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverly, to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger who is very well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table, or in my chamber, as I think fit, sit still and say nothing, without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at.

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of sober and staid persons; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him; by which means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is grey headed, his groom is one of the gravest men I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counsellor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in the grey pad that it kept in the stable with great care and tenderness, out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years.

I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics, upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time, the good old knight, with the mixture of the father and master of the family, tempered his inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good nature engages every body to him ; só that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are

in good humour, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with; on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays an infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants.

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of the butler, who is a very prudent man, and as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular friend.

My chief companion when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or in the fields, is a very venerable man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house, in the nature of a chaplain, above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation; he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem; so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependant.

I have observed, in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humourist; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more de lightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colours. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned; and, without staying for my answer, told me, that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and 'Greek at his own table; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the university, to find him out a clergyman, rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man who understood a little back-gammon. My friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this gentleman; who besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. Í have given him the parsonage of the parish; and, because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never, in all that time, asked any thing of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something, in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit in the parish since he has lived among them. If any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good

At

sermons which have been printed in English; and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a continual system of practical divinity.

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and, upon the knight's asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night,) told us the bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year; where I saw, with a great deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors, who have published discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pul pit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect, and a clear voice; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon, repeated after this manner, is like the composition of a poet, in the mouth of a graceful actor.

VI. The folly of Inconsistent Expectations.

THIS world may be considered as a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view various commodities; riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labour, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, which we are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to your own judgment; and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another, which you did not purchase. Such is the force of well regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure success. Would you, for instance be rich? Do you think that single point worth the sacrificing every thing else to? You may then be rich. Thousands have become so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of expense and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals, which you brought with you from the schools, must be considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly minded prudence. You must learn to do hard, if not unjust things, and for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenious pirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the muses, and be content to