Wonder--a Woman keeps a Secret," had been no paradox in reference to him.

Having his lips in general barred by the double bolts of caution and
secretiveness, one ceases to wonder that the "invisible spirit of wine"
was welcomed by him as a key to open occasionally the rich treasures of
his mind; but that he was a habitual drunkard is one calumny; that he
wrote his best _Spectators_ when too much excited with wine is another;
and that he "died drunk" is a third,--and the most atrocious of all,
propagated though it has been by Walpole and Byron. His habits, however,
were undoubtedly too careless and convivial; and there used to be a
floating tradition in Holland-house, that, when meditating his writings
there, he was wont to walk along a gallery, at each end of which stood a
separate bottle, out of both of which he never failed, _en passant_, to
sip! This, after all, however, may be only a mythical fable.

While, as an author, the favourite of ladies, of the young, and of
catholic-minded critics generally, Addison has had, and has still, severe
and able detractors, who are wont to speak of him in such a manner as
this:--"He is a highly cultivated artist, but not one thought of any
vivid novelty did he put out in all his many books. You become placid
reading him, but think of Ossian and Shakspeare, and be silent. He is
a lapidary polishing pebbles,--a pretty art, but not vested with the
glories of sculpture, nor the mathematical magnitude of architecture. He
does not walk a demigod, but a stiff Anglicised imitator of French paces.
He is a symmetrical, but a small invisible personage at rapier practice."
Now, clever as this is, it only proves that Addison is not a Shakspeare
or Milton. He does not pretend to be either. He is no demigod, but he is
a man, a lady-man if you will, but the lovelier on that account. Besides,
he was cut off in his prime, and when he might have girt himself up to
achieve greater things than he has done. And although the French taste of