r among rakes. His style was easy and not
incorrect; and, though his wit and humor were of no high order, his gay
animal spirits imparted to his compositions an air of vivacity which
ordinary readers could hardly distinguish from comic genius. His
writings have been well compared to those light wines which, though
deficient in body and flavor, are yet a pleasant small drink, if not
kept too long, or carried too far.

Isaac Bickerstaff, Esquire, Astrologer, was an imaginary person, almost
as well known in that age as Mr. Paul Pry or Mr. Samuel Pickwick in
ours. Swift had assumed the name of Bickerstaff in a satirical pamphlet
against Partridge, the maker of almanacs. Partridge had been fool enough
to publish a furious reply. Bickerstaff had rejoined in a second
pamphlet still more diverting than the first. All the wits had combined
to keep up the joke, and the town was long in convulsions of laughter.
Steele determined to employ the name which this controversy had made
popular; and, in April, 1709, it was announced that Isaac Bickerstaff,
Esquire, Astrologer, was about to publish a paper called the Tatler.

Addison had not been consulted about this scheme; but as soon as he
heard of it, he determined to give his assistance. The effect of that
assistance cannot be better described than in Steele's own words. "I
fared," he said, "like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful
neighbor to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary. When I had once
called him in, I could not subsist without dependence on him." "The
paper," he says elsewhere, "was advanced indeed. It was raised to a
greater thing than I intended it."

It is probable that Addison, when he sent across St. George's Channel
his first contributions to the Tatler, had no notion of the extent and
variety of his own powers. He was the possessor of a vast mine rich with
a hundred ores. But he had been acquainted only with the least precious
part of his treasures, and had hitherto contented himself with producing
sometimes copper and sometimes lead, intermingled with a little silver.
All at once, and by mere accident, he had lighted on an inexhaustible
vein of the finest gold.

The mere choice and arrangement of his words would have sufficed to make
his essays classical. For never, not even by Dryden, not even by Temple,
had the English language been written with such sweetness, grace, and
facility. But this was the smallest part of Addison's praise. Had he
clothed hi