en, as honest
Richard admits, "I fared like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful
neighbour to his aid,--I was undone by my auxiliary." To the _Tatler_
Addison contributed a number of papers, which, if slighter than his
better ones in the _Spectator_, were nevertheless highly characteristic
of his singular powers of observation, character-painting, humour, and
invention.

In November 1709, he returned to England, and not long after he shared
in the downfall of his party, and lost his secretaryship. This also is
thought to have injured him in a tender point. He had already conceived
an affection for the Countess-Dowager of Warwick, who had been disposed
to encourage the addresses of the Secretary, but looked coldly on
those of the mere man and scribbler Joseph Addison, who, to crown his
misfortunes at this time, had resigned his Fellowship, suffered some
severe pecuniary losses of a kind, and from a quarter which are both
obscure, and was trembling lest he should be deprived of his small Irish
office too. Yet, although reduced and well-nigh beggared, never did
his mind approve itself more rich. Besides writing a great deal in the
_Tatler_, he published a political journal, called the _Whig Examiner_,
in which, although the wit, we think, is not so fine as in his
_Freeholder_, there is a vigour and masculine energy which he has seldom
equalled elsewhere. When it expired, Swift exulted over its death in
terms which sufficiently proved that he was annoyed and oppressed by its
life. "He might well," says Johnson, "rejoice at the death of that which
he could not have killed."

On the 2d of January 1711, the last _Tatler_ came forth; and on the 1st
of the following March appeared the _Spectator_, which is now the main
pillar of Addison's fame, and the fullest revelation of his exquisite
genius. Without being as a whole a great, or in any part of it a profound
work, there are few productions which, if lost, would be more missed in
literature. One reclines on its pages as on pillows. The sweetness of the
spirit,--the trembling beauty of the sentences, like that of a twilight
wave just touched by the west wind's balmy breath,--the nice strokes
of humour, so gentle, yet so overpowering,--the feminine delicacy and
refinement of the allusions,--the art which so dexterously conceals
itself,--the mild enthusiasm for the works of man and God which glows in
all its serious effusions,--the good nature of its satire,--the geniality