projects of great pith and moment. He had
written a portion of a treatise on the "Evidences of Christianity," and
was meditating some works, such as a "Metrical Version of the Psalms" and
a tragedy on the history of Socrates, still more suitable to his cast of
mind.

We have already indicated our opinion alike of Addison's character and
genius, but must be permitted a few closing remarks. Both partook of the
feminine type. He was an amiable and highly gifted, rather than a strong
or great man. His shrinking timidity of temperament, his singular modesty
of manners, his quiet, sly power of humorous yet kindly observation,
his minute style of criticism, even the peculiar cast of his piety, all
served to stamp the lady-man. In taciturnity alone he bore the sex no
resemblance. And hence it is that Campbell in poetry, and Addison in
prose, are, or were, the great favourites of female readers. He had many
weaknesses, but, as in the character of woman, they appeared beautiful,
and cognate to his gentle nature. His fear of giving offence was one of
the most prominent of these. In his writings and in his life, he seems
always treading on thin ice. Pope said truly of him--

"He hints a fault, and hesitates dislike."

But this was not owing to malice, but to the bashful good nature which
distinguished him. It is true, too, that he hints a beauty, and hesitates
in his expressions of love. He says himself the finest things, and then
blushes as if detected in a crime; or he praises an obvious and colossal
merit in another, and then starts at the sound himself had made. His
encomiums resemble the evening talk of lovers, being low, sweet, and
trembling. Were we to speak of Addison phrenologically, we should say
that, next to veneration, wit, and ideality, his principal faculties were
caution and secretiveness. He was cautious to the brink of cowardice. We
fancy him in a considerable fright in the storm on the Ligurian Gulf,
amidst the exhalations of the unhealthy Campagna, and while the
avalanches of the Alps--"the thunderbolts of snow"--were falling around
him. We know that he walked about behind the scenes perspiring with
agitation while the fate of "Cato" was still undecided. Had it failed,
Addison never could, as Dr Johnson, when asked how he felt after "Irene"
was damned, have replied, "Like the Monument." We know, too, that he
sought to soothe the fury and stroke down the angry bristles of John
Dennis. To call the author of th