Chapter I: The Man and His Friend

The main facts in Addison’s life could be compressed within the compass of an ordinary telegram, thus:

Joseph Addison was born in Wiltshire, England, in 1672, had a grammar
school education, and went to Oxford University. Between the ages of
twenty-seven and thirty-one he traveled in Europe. Later, he held
public offices, but, in 1710 devoted himself seriously to literature,
and, in five years, gained lasting fame. He died in 1719.

If, in the style of the modern journalist, you chose to add a spice of mild scandal, you might say that he was married to the Countess of Warwick, but the union was not a happy one. Should a little extra tang be required, it would be quite in order to say that on occasion he drank too much.

Or, supposing that you were very narrow and chose to run a dark smear across his name, you might make much of the fact that he sometimes loaned money to his best friend, Richard Steele, and on one such occasion, sent the sheriff’s officer with an order for the debtor’s arrest, two days after the loan had been made. This story, be it said, you may not find in any existing biography, at least I have not been able to find it, but, nevertheless, it is true, for Dick Steele told it to his friend Richard Savage the poet, who, in turn, told it to Doctor Johnson. Then, of course, James Boswell got hold of it and gave it to the world.

Still, as you know and as I know, and as Nietzsche said, men’s wickedness is much less than the fame of it, so, rightly understood and fairly told, even this, which might be denounced by the thoughtless as an act of base treachery, turns out to be a very ordinary affair, the like of which might easily have befallen me. For the fact is that Richard Steele was Richard Steele, a mighty good fellow, as also was Addison. You see the character of the man as soon as you look at his picture. Ruddy and strong, full of boisterous health is he, one in whom the sap of life rises swiftly. At a glance you see that he can laugh heartily, like Rabelais, like Scarron. If you are supersensitive, if you are timid, you would not go abroad with him, for he is, it is plain to be seen, one who would take you into taverns, into baignoires on occasion, into places where are jovial companions who love a good song, or a jolly story over a bottle. With his kind, you may wind up the night with either a broken head or a belly full, but which ever it was, you would have had a good time. And Addison, a quieter sort, a fine, sensitive type, liked his Irish friend. They had been school boys together, and, later, college chums. They were the same age, too. It was a friendship like that of William of Orange for Bentick, or Queen Anne for Lady Churchill. But Dick Steele was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and being a genius, was bold, reckless of life, of health, of which the unco’ guid call honor. So his wealthy relative cast him off before he had graduated from college, and he became a kind of vagrant. He joined the army, soon tired of the discipline, bought himself out, and lived by his wits. He loved women and he loved wine, but he loved wine more than women. He was an easy going, good natured adventurer with a strong literary gift and a tremendous imagination. Like _Tom Jones_, he lived his life in a manner far from perfect, knew it and regretted it. He had spurts of virtue, he made good resolutions, then straightway forgot all about them and went on in the same old way. Give him a guinea and immediately he went about to find a friend to share it. A good meal and an evening spent in jolly company seemed to him a far more attractive way to dispose of gold than the uninteresting payment of tradesmen’s bills. Besides, do what he would, at one time in his career, to pay off all that he owed seemed an utter impossibility. So, as a palliative measure, he would borrow from Peter to pay Paul.

But Richard Steele was also a letter writer. His winning personality, his charm of manner shone on the written page. He was as irresistible as _Micawber_, as charming as _Esmond_. Judge for yourself. I take, almost at random, four letters of twenty. They are written to his wife, and, as most men know, to write to a wife is not easy, and less so when one is long overdue, or too late for dinner, and, to boot, a little far gone in one’s cups. Then it requires both dexterity and diplomacy. The letters are, of course, of subsequent date to the Addison loan affair, but serve to show the peculiar, persuasive qualities of the writer.

_To Mrs. Steele._

Monday, seven at night,
Sept. 27, 1708.

Dear Prue:

You see you are obeyed in everything, and that I write overnight
for the following day. I shall now in earnest, by Mr. Clay’s good
conduct, manage my business with that method as shall make me easy.
The news, I am told, you had last night, of the taking of Lille,
does not prove true; but I hope we shall have it soon. I shall send
by tomorrow’s coach. I am, dear Prue, a little in drink, but at all
times your faithful husband,

RICH STEELE.

Or this:

_To Mrs. Steele_ (lately Mrs. Scurlock).

Dec. 22, 1707.

My dear, dear wife:

I write to let you know that I do not come home to dinner, being
obliged to attend to some business abroad, of which I shall give you
an account (when I see you in the evening), as becomes your dutiful
and obedient husband.

RICH STEELE.

It is a little significant that nine out of ten letters written to his wife, are graceful notes of apology because of his absence from home. Here is another.

_To Mrs. Steele._

Eleven at night, Jan. 5, 1708.

Dear Prue:

I was going home two hours ago, but was met by Mr. Griffith, who has
kept me ever since meeting me, as he came from Mr. Lambert’s. I will
come within a pint of wine.

RICH STEELE.

(We drank your health, and Mr. Griffith is your servant.)

One more will be sufficient, especially as it seems to show that Mrs. Steele was by no means pleased to have messengers knocking at her door at all hours of the night with letters from the errant Richard.

June 7, 1708.

Dear Prue:

I enclose you a guinea for your pocket. I dine with Lord Halifax.
I wish I knew how to court you into good humor, for two or three
quarrels will dispatch me quite. If you have any love for me,
believe I am always pursuing our mutual good. Pray consider that all
my little fortune is to (be) settled this month, and that I have
inadvertently made myself liable to impatient people, who take all
advantages. If you have (not) patience, I shall transact my business
rashly, and lose a very great sum to quicken the time of your being
rid of all people you do not like. Yours ever,

RICH STEELE.

On that I rest my case, as the lawyers say, as having amply proved the persuasive powers of Richard Steele. Such letters would turn a heart of stone.

One day, when Addison was in funds, there came to him a touching letter from his old school fellow. Dick was in trouble again. The letter told all. His flint-hearted creditors pressed. His grate was fireless and there was not as much as a candle in the house. Butcher and baker cast a cold eye upon him. The wolf was at the door, and, eke, the bailiff with a writ. “Impatient people who take all advantage” beset him. For twenty-four hours he had fasted, and starvation stared him in the face. A hundred pounds would save his life.

Picture Addison his friend, a man of wealth and position; Under Secretary of State; a little king surrounded by his circle of admirers; a coffee-house wit; a conversationalist able to keep a “few friends listening and laughing around a table from the time when a play ended till the clock of St. Paul’s struck four o’ the morning”; the guest of the brilliant Lady Mary Montague; collector of Elzevirs and ancient medals. He read the letter once, twice, thrice. There is a rabble of reasons why he should help Dick and a rabble why he should not. He ponders awhile in doubt.... But it is his old Irish school friend in trouble again. It is Dick the luckless. But here is sincere repentance, and, anyway, Dick is under a cloud. Moreover, he is through with “the well-fed wits” who batten on him. So the messenger is called in, presently leaves with the money and Addison sleeps well.

But not with monetary aid alone is Addison satisfied. He has some knowledge of life in Grub Street--a knowledge also possessed by Goldsmith who told how the luckless author in dark days

views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the freeze is scored
And five cracked tea cups dress the chimney board;
A night cap dress his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night--a stocking all the day!

So, the next day, Addison climbs Steele’s stairway. He is astonished to find porters running up and down bearing trays loaded with soups, fish, entrees and sweetmeats. He, himself, is elbowed out of the way by servants. There are lights everywhere and, from within, the sound of fiddles. It is long past sunset and no black-hearted bailiff may do his full work. Through the open door is seen the long, crowded table, piled high with wines and meats, champagnes and burgundies, and at the head, brimming with happiness and good humor, without a present care in the world, sits Dick Steele. Small wonder then that the good nature of Addison received a shock and that he determined to give Steele and his “well-fed wits” a lesson.

But big men find it easy to forgive. Vindictiveness is for small minds alone. Indeed, Addison the gentleman never told the story. He, doubtless, soon considered it a closed incident and so forgot all about it. It was Steele the gentleman who gave the tale to the world, and, as a gentleman should, to illustrate his friend’s generosity.

One day a notion struck Steele. He decided to publish a journal on a new plan. It is true there were news sheets in plenty, but, the times were, in some respects, very like our own, and the self-imposed task of the journalist seemed then, as now, to be to provide the weak-minded section of the public with a new variety of mental dissipation each day. Then, as now, too, the spirit of sensationalism was abroad. Then, as now, there was a very active championship of bad causes and the only care of the journal’s owner was to increase his circulation and keep out of the clutches of the law. Every blind popular prejudice and every brutal fanaticism was seized upon avidly and every consideration of decency disregarded. To cater to the baser appetites, the lowest curiosities, the shallowest mind, was the rule. Today, picturing the people of England as of then, from the current news sheets, you see a nation of Yahoos that hate each other, tear each other with their talons with hideous contortions and yells. You see, very much as you see today with us, foul sheets doing lip service, darkening counsel by words without knowledge, fawning on the wealthy, flattering the men in power. To use Swift’s picture as applicable, (Gulliver’s Travels, Part 4, chap. 7):

In most herds there was a sort of ruling Yahoo who was always more
deformed in body, and mischievous in disposition, than any of the
rest; that this ruler had usually a favorite as like himself as he
could get, whose employment was to lick his master’s feet ... and
drive the female yahoos to his kennel; for which he was now and then
rewarded with a piece of ass’s flesh....

I can well imagine Dick Steele, his mind busy with the idea of some new play perhaps, turning into some coffee-house to rest, or, if possible, to find some companion with whom he could have a pleasant talk. It is the Cocoa Tree that he chooses, and it has a back room, long, and low, and brown paneled, and through the window is to be seen the red-walled rose garden. There he finds gathered company. Steele notes the general picture, the browns and grays, here and there a coat of brighter color, this face strongly illuminated and that in shadow, and he also notes that there is a great deal of “goose gabble” by way of conversation. Nothing there to interest him. He picks up the news sheet. It is _Dawk’s Protestant Mercury_, a popular paper. It has been well read as the coffee stains and finger marks show. He turns it over, passing impatiently the two columns of flamboyant boastings which tell how at any time, “one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen,” scanning swiftly, and rejecting impatiently, its pretended statements of facts as entirely unworthy; then his eye falls on the stirring item of the day, the item to which men first turn as children of a low order of intellect turn today to the funny sheet of a Sunday supplement, and he reads this:

A MAN EATS A LIVE COCK ETC.

On Tuesday last a fellow at Sadler’s Wells, near Islington, after
he had dined heartily on a buttock of beef, for the lucre of five
guineas, eat a live cock, feathers, guts and all, with only a plate
of oil and vinegar to wash it down, and afterwards preferred to lay
five guineas more, that he could do the same again in two hours time.

The banality, the stupidity of it all startled him. It held him all that day, and soon the idea filled Steele’s mind that a decent and dignified journalism was possible. He was idealist enough to believe, and optimist enough to hope that a decent paper might become a potent agency of enlightenment and that intelligent citizens everywhere would be only too glad to look to it for light and leading. It might contain foreign news, dramatic reports and the literary gossip of Will’s and the Grecian, the two coffee houses where the wits foregathered. So, full of the idea, he wrote to Addison of his plan. No sooner did Addison, then in Ireland, learn of it than he was all eagerness to join in. His unexpected decision almost swept Steele off his feet. “I fared,” he said, “like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbor to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary. When I had once called him in, I could not subsist without dependence on him.” And in another place he wrote: “This paper was advanced indeed. It was raised to a greater thing than I intended it.”

Shortly after the paper was started, the circulation was a little short of three thousand, but in a short time, nine or ten thousand copies of each issue were sold, and, as Addison said each issue was read by twenty people. Of the essays, in all, two hundred and seventy-four were written by Addison and two hundred and thirty-six by Richard Steele.

The plan involved the creation of a fictitious character, one known as the _Spectator_, a gentleman who had been a studious youth, and, after some travel on classic ground, took up the study of men and manners. He was a kind of sublime _Pickwick_. And, like that later glorious creation of Dickens, he was a good listener. Fixing his residence in London, he goes hither and yon, to coffee houses, to theaters, to churches and to notable gatherings, and, in the pages of the _Spectator_, records his impressions and his thoughts. As Dickens gave _Samuel Pickwick_ his lesser lights, his _Tupper_, and _Winkle_ and _Snodgrass_, so the _Spectator_ has a few friends: a templar, a clergyman, a soldier and a merchant, but the high lights are thrown upon Sir Roger de Coverly, the old country baronet, and Will Honeycomb, an old town rake, and through the eyes of these, as through a focussing glass, was shown the life of the day. Soon, readers everywhere became eager to know the doings of the famous club which Sir Roger visited, the sessions of which were recorded by the _Spectator_.

The first outline of Sir Roger was made by Steele in No. 2, of the _Spectator_, March 2, 1711, and thereafter Addison used the character, indeed almost seems to have identified himself with it. “We were born for one another,” he wrote.

“The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire of an
ancient descent, a baron, his name, Sir Roger de Coverly. His
grandfather was inventor of the famous dance which is called after
him. All who know that satire, are very well acquainted with the
parts and merits of Sir Roger. He was a gentleman that is very
singular in his behavior, but his singularities proceed from a good
sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as
he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humor creates him
no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy, and his
being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and the
more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in
town he lives in Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor
by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the
next county to him. Before his disappointment, Sir Roger was what you
call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester and
Sir George Etheridge, fought a duel on his first coming to town, and
kicked Bully Dawson in the coffee house for calling him youngster;
but being ill-used by the said widow, he was very serious for a year
and a half; and, though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at
last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed
afterwards. He continues to wear a coat and a doublet of the same cut
that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry
humors he tells us twelve times since he first wore it. He is now
in his 56th year, cheerful, gay and hearty; keeps a good house both
in town and country; a great lover of mankind; but there is such a
skilful cast in his behavior, that he is rather beloved than esteemed.

“His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young
women profess to love him, and the young men are glad of his company.
When he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and
talks all the way upstairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir Roger
is Justice to the Quorum, that he fills the chair at quarter sessions
with great ability, and three months ago gained universal applause by
explaining a passage in the Gane Act.”

* * * * *

Thus, and with that fictitious character as a nucleus, began the greatest literary partnership in the history of literature. Thus, also, Addison found himself. Until he wrote in the _Spectator_, he had, or seems to have had, no knowledge of his powers. He did not know himself. Perhaps Steele knew Addison though; knew of the vast hidden mine of wealth and thus deliberately tapped the inexhaustible vein. True, Addison had written before the advent of the _Spectator_, for at college he had been distinguished in a small way, and, later, he had written his poem, the _Campaign_ (1704). That in itself was an excellent model of a becoming and classical style, easily and correctly written, but, alone, it had not the excellence to ensure its author immortality. As it turns out, as we see it from this distance, it was the _Spectator_ that made him, as it gave him an audience to hearten him. And through the character of Sir Roger, he set out to make morality fashionable, and, later, by means of the essay made it his task to reconcile virtue with elegance and to make pleasure subservient to reason. As a by-product there came a mighty literary influence that passed down the ages. For it was upon Addison that Benjamin Franklin founded his style. That prince of living essayists, Michael Monahan, has been strongly affected by the same hand. His influence has touched such widely diverse characters as Oliver Goldsmith, Charles Lamb, Washington Irving, Oliver Wendell Holmes, W. H. Hudson, Ford Maddox Hueffer, Cunningham Grahame, Hilaire Belloc, H. M. Tomlinson, William Marion Reedy. More still. The very existence of these Haldeman-Julius booklets is, in a measure, due to the ideals promulgated by Addison, or, at any rate, at bottom the same notion that moved Steele’s friend moved the editor of this series. In proof, I quote from _Spectator_ No. 10, March 12, 1710:

“It was said of Socrates that he brought Philosophy down from heaven to inhabit among men; and I shall be ambitious to have it said of me, that I have brought Philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea tables and coffee houses. I would, therefore, in a very particular manner, recommend these, my speculations, to well regulated families, and set apart an hour in every morning for tea, and bread and butter; and would earnestly advise them for their good to order this paper to be punctually served up, and to be looked upon as a part of the tea-equipage.”

If I were asked to choose from all that Addison had written in the pages of the _Spectator_, to take a single essay which might be adduced as evidence that posterity would assign to him the reputation he coveted, I would at once name his Vision of Mirza. To my notion it is the most intensely beautiful thing he wrote. I transcribe it, well remembering the thrill with which I first read it when a mere boy. It seemed to me then the most fantastically beautiful thing ever written.

No. 159

Spectator) (Addison

Saturday, September 1, 1711.

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled the Visions of Mirza, which I have read over with pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them; and shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word by word as follows:

“On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my forefathers I always keep holy, after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of the Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the top of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation upon the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, ‘Surely,’ said I, ‘man is but a shadow, and life a dream.’ While I was thus musing, I cast my eyes toward the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was so exceedingly sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasure of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

“I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of genius; and that several had been entertained by music who had passed it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thought by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned me and by waving his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, ‘Mirza,’ said he, ‘I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.’

“He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it--‘Cast thy eyes eastward,’ said he, ‘and tell me what thou seest.’ ‘I see,’ said I, ‘a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.’ ‘The valley that thou seest,’ said he, ‘is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity.’ ‘What is the reason,’ said I, ‘that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other.’ ‘What thou seest,’ said he, ‘is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation.’ ‘Examine now,’ said he, ‘this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.’ ‘I see a bridge,’ said I, ‘standing in the midst of the tide.’ ‘The bridge thou seest,’ said he, ‘is human life; consider it attentively.’ Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I saw that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted first of about a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. ‘But tell me further,’ said he, ‘what thou discoverest on it.’ ‘I see multitudes of people passing over it,’ said I, ‘and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.’ As I looked more attentively I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived that there were innumerable trap doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but that they fell through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance to the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and came closer together toward the end of the arches that were entire.

“There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march upon the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

“I passed some time in contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up toward heaven in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often when they thought themselves within reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not thus been forced upon them.

“The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me that I had dwelt long enough on it. ‘Take thine eyes off of the bridge,’ said he, ‘and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost not comprehend.’ Upon looking up, ‘What mean,’ said I, ‘those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling on it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers on the middle arches.’ ‘These,’ said the genius, ‘are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.’

“Here I fetched a deep sigh. ‘Alas,’ said I, ‘man was made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!’ The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. ‘Look no more,’ said he, ‘on man in the first stages of his existence, his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye onto that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.’ I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into equal parts. The clouds still rested on one-half of it, in so much that I could discover nothing in it: but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I could see people dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew within me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats: but the genius told me that there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. ‘The islands,’ said he, ‘that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the seashore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands; which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relish and perfection of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise accommodated to its respected inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable that gives the opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.’ I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. ‘At length,’ said I, ‘show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.’ The genius making me no answer I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me: I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it.”

Remembering the peculiar habits of thought of that day, some indication of which you will find in the chapter that follows, it will be seen that Addison’s aim was a high one. Yet he has the modesty of earnestness. There is no blatant claim to originality, nor verbal pyrotechnics. You sense the quiet of the scholar with a real literary background. “I have,” he wrote, “raised to myself so great an audience, I shall spare no pains to make their instruction agreeable and their diversion useful. For which reason I shall endeavor to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality, that my readers may, if possible, both ways find their account in the speculation of the day. And to the end that their virtue and discretion may not be short, transient, intermitting starts of thought, I have resolved to refresh their memories from day to day till I have recovered them out of that desperate state of vice and folly into which the age has fallen.” (Spec. No. 10.)