the Spectator.
Whether it is owing to my having been earlier or better acquainted with
the one than the other, my pleasure in reading these two admirable works
is not in proportion to their comparative reputation. The Tatler contains
only half the number of volumes, and, I will venture to say, nearly an
equal quantity of sterling wit and sense. "The first sprightly runnings"
are there: it has more of the original spirit, more of the freshness and
stamp of nature. The indications of character and strokes of humour are
more true and frequent; the reflections that suggest themselves arise more
from the occasion, and are less spun out into regular dissertations. They
are more like the remarks which occur in sensible conversation, and less
like a lecture. Something is left to the understanding of the reader.
Steele seems to have gone into his closet chiefly to set down what he
observed out of doors. Addison seems to have spent most of his time in his
study, and to have spun out and wire-drawn the hints, which he borrowed
from Steele, or took from nature, to the utmost. I am far from wishing to
depreciate Addison's talents, but I am anxious to do justice to Steele,
who was, I think, upon the whole, a less artificial and more original
writer. The humorous descriptions of Steele resemble loose sketches, or
fragments of a comedy; those of Addison are rather comments or ingenious
paraphrases on the genuine text. The characters of the club, not only in
the Tatler, but in the Spectator, were drawn by Steele. That of Sir Roger
de Coverley is among the number. Addison has, however, gained himself
immortal honour by his manner of filling up this last character. Who is
there that can forget, or be insensible to, the inimitable nameless graces
and varied traits of nature and of old English character in it--to his
unpretending virtues and amiable weaknesses--to his modesty, generosity,
hospitality, and eccentric whims--to the respect of his neighbours, and
the affection of his domestics--to his wayward, hopeless, secret passion
for his fair enemy, the widow, in which there is more of real romance and
true delicacy than in a thousand tales of knight-errantry--(we perceive
the hectic flush of his cheek, the faltering of his tongue in speaking of
her bewitching airs and "the whiteness of her hand")--to the havoc he
makes among the game in his neighbourhood--to his speech from the bench,
to shew the Spectator what is thought of him in the coun