ible. But the ladies loved him, and he
was undoubtedly a pretty fellow.(73)

We have seen in Swift a humorous philosopher, whose truth frightens one,
and whose laughter makes one melancholy. We have had in Congreve a
humorous observer of another school, to whom the world seems to have no
moral at all, and whose ghastly doctrine seems to be that we should eat,
drink, and be merry when we can, and go to the deuce (if there be a deuce)
when the time comes. We come now to a humour that flows from quite a
different heart and spirit--a wit that makes us laugh and leaves us good
and happy; to one of the kindest benefactors that society has ever had,
and I believe you have divined already that I am about to mention
Addison's honoured name.

From reading over his writings, and the biographies which we have of him,
amongst which the famous article in the _Edinburgh Review_(74) may be
cited as a magnificent statue of the great writer and moralist of the last
age, raised by the love and the marvellous skill and genius of one of the
most illustrious artists of our own; looking at that calm, fair face, and
clear countenance--those chiselled features pure and cold, I can't but
fancy that this great man, in this respect, like him of whom we spoke in
the last lecture, was also one of the lonely ones of the world. Such men
have very few equals, and they don't herd with those. It is in the nature
of such lords of intellect to be solitary--they are in the world but not of
it; and our minor struggles, brawls, successes, pass under them.

Kind, just, serene, impartial, his fortitude not tried beyond easy
endurance, his affections not much used, for his books were his family,
and his society was in public; admirably wiser, wittier, calmer, and more
instructed than almost every man with whom he met, how could Addison
suffer, desire, admire, feel much? I may expect a child to admire me for
being taller or writing more cleverly than she; but how can I ask my
superior to say that I am a wonder when he knows better than I? In
Addison's days you could scarcely show him a literary performance, a
sermon, or a poem, or a piece of literary criticism, but he felt he could
do better. His justice must have made him indifferent. He didn't praise,
because he measured his compeers by a higher standard than common people
have.(75) How was he who was so tall to look up to any but the loftiest
genius? He must have stooped to put himself on a level with most me