an indivisible reminder--the very essence indeed--of the virtues,
peccadilloes, greatness and meanness of early eighteenth century life.
We may forget that Joe was quite a politician in his prime, we are
even loth to recall that there was ever such a play as "Cato," but so
long as the English language has power to charm, the dear old volumes
of the _Spectator_ will stand out as a delightful landmark of that
literature which forms the heritage of American and Briton alike.

How fondly do we turn the pages of the well-read essays, with their
pictures of good Sir Roger de Coverley, Will Honeycomb, and the rest
of that happy crew. And over what portrait do we linger more lovingly
than that of the _Spectator_ himself, wherein there is many a stroke
of the pen that brings Addison in view. When he tells us, for
instance: "I threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and
would not make use of my coral until they had taken away the bells
from it," the writer is indulging in a pretty bit of humour at the
expense of his own sedate youth.

* * * * *

"I have passed my latter years," the philosopher goes on to say, "in
this city (London), where I am frequently seen in most public places,
though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know
me.... There is no place of general resort wherein I do not often make
my appearance: sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of
politicians at Will's,[A] and listening with great attention to the
narratives that are made in those little circular audiences; sometimes
I smoke a pipe at Child's,[B] and while I seem attentive to nothing
but the postman, overhear the conversation of every table in the room.
I appear on Sunday nights at St. James' coffee house, and sometimes