nd, is therefore useless; and in the third
Discord is made to produce Strife.

Of the course of Addison's familiar day, before his marriage, Pope
has given a detail. He had in the house with him Budgell, and perhaps
Philips. His chief companions were Steele, Budgell, Philips [Ambrose],
Carey, Davenant, and Colonel Brett. With one or other of these he always
breakfasted. He studied all morning; then dined at a tavern; and went
afterwards to Button's. Button had been a servant in the Countess
of Warwick's family, who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a
coffee-house on the south side of Russell Street, about two doors from
Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used to assemble.
It is said when Addison had suffered any vexation from the countess, he
withdrew the company from Button's house. From the coffee-house he went
again to a tavern, where he often sat late, and drank too much wine.
In the bottle discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and
bashfulness for confidence. It is not unlikely that Addison was first
seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from the servile
timidity of his sober hours. He that feels oppression from the presence
of those to whom he knows himself superior will desire to set loose his
powers of conversation; and who that ever asked succours from Bacchus
was able to preserve himself from being enslaved by his auxiliary?

Among those friends it was that Addison displayed the elegance of his
colloquial accomplishments, which may easily be supposed such as Pope
represents them. The remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an
evening in his company, declared that he was a parson in a tie-wig, can
detract little from his character; he was always reserved to strangers,
and was not incited to uncommon freedom by a character like that of
Mandeville.

From any minute knowledge of his familiar manners the intervention of
sixty years has now debarred us. Steele once promised Congreve and the
public a complete description of his character; but the promises of
authors are like the vows of lovers. Steele thought no more on his
design, or thought on it with anxiety that at last disgusted him, and
left his friend in the hands of Tickell.

One slight lineament of his character Swift has preserved. It was
his practice, when he found any man invincibly wrong, to flatter his
opinions by acquiescence, and sink him yet deeper in absurdity. This
artifice of mischief