fore,
hesitate to admit that Addison has left us some compositions which do
not rise above mediocrity, some heroic poems hardly equal to Parnell's,
some criticism as superficial as Dr. Blair's, and a tragedy not very
much better than Dr. Johnson's. It is praise enough to say of a writer
that, in a high department of literature, in which many eminent writers
have distinguished themselves, he has had no equal; and this may with
strict justice be said of Addison.

As a man, he may not have deserved the adoration which he received from
those who, bewitched by his fascinating society, and indebted for all
the comforts of life to his generous and delicate friendship, worshipped
him nightly, in his favorite temple at Button's. But, after full inquiry
and impartial reflection, we have long been convinced that he deserved
as much love and esteem as can be justly claimed by any of our infirm
and erring race. Some blemishes may undoubtedly be detected in his
character; but the more carefully it is examined, the more will it
appear, to use the phrase of the old anatomists, sound in the noble
parts, free from all taint of perfidy, of cowardice, of cruelty, of
ingratitude, of envy. Men may easily be named, in whom some particular
good disposition has been more conspicuous than in Addison. But the just
harmony of qualities, the exact temper between the stern and the humane
virtues, the habitual observance of every law, not only of moral
rectitude, but of moral grace and dignity, distinguish him from all men
who have been tried by equally strong temptations, and about whose
conduct we possess equally full information.

His father was the Reverend Lancelot Addison, who, though eclipsed by
his more celebrated son, made some figure in the world, and occupies
with credit two folio pages in the Biographia Britannica. Lancelot was
sent up, as a poor scholar, from Westmoreland to Queen's College,
Oxford, in the time of the Commonwealth, made some progress in learning,
became, like most of his fellow students, a violent Royalist, lampooned
the heads of the University, and was forced to ask pardon on his bended
knees. When he had left college, he earned a humble subsistence by
reading the liturgy of the fallen Church to the families of those sturdy
squires whose manor houses were scattered over the Wild of Sussex. After
the Restoration, his loyalty was rewarded with the post of chaplain to
the garrison of Dunkirk. When Dunkirk was sold to Fran