nkless task, however, to dwell insistently on the
deficiencies of a writer who has done so much for literature, and so
much, too, for what is better than literature. We may wish that he had
more warmth in him, somewhat more of energy and passion, yet such merits
would be scarcely consonant with the graceful charm which gives to the
prose writings of Addison an unrivalled position in Pope's age, and, it
might be added, in the eighteenth century, were it not for the priceless
literary gift bestowed upon Oliver Goldsmith.

Steele's fame as a writer has been overshadowed by the more exquisite
genius of Addison, and his reputation has suffered partly from his own
frailties and partly from the contemptuous way in which he has been
treated by the panegyrists and critics of Addison. Pity is closely
allied to contempt, and Sir Richard has come to be regarded as a
scapegrace whose chief honour in life was the friendship of the
accomplished essayist. Yet it was Steele who created the form of
literature in which Addison earned his laurels, and without which he
would in the present day be utterly forgotten. Steele was the discoverer
of a new country, and if Addison took possession of its fairest portion,
it was after his friend had pointed out the path and made the way easy.
It would be very unjust, however, to treat of Steele solely as a
pioneer. His own work, though less perfect than that of Addison, a
consummate master of composition, is rich in variety and spirit, in
pathos and in knowledge of the world. Steele is often careless, but he
is never dull, and writes with a glow of enthusiasm that excites the
reader's sympathy. Truly does Mr. Dobson say that while Addison's essays
are faultless in their art and beyond the range of his friend's more
impulsive nature, 'for words which the heart finds when the head is
seeking; for phrases glowing with the white heat of a generous emotion;
for sentences which throb and tingle with manly pity or courageous
indignation, we must go to the essays of Steele.'[42]

Sir Richard's pathetic touches and artless turns of expression come
from the heart. He is the most natural of writers, but does not seem to
be aware that nature, in order to be converted into good literature,
needs a little clothing. His essays have often a looseness or negligence
of aim unpardonable in a man who can write so well. A conspicuous
illustration of this defect may be seen in No. 181 of the _Tatler_, one
of the most bea