whom I am speaking, will make mention of the men of genius and
learning who have now any figure in the British nation. For my own
part, I often flatter myself with the honourable mention which will
then be made of me; and have drawn up a paragraph in my own
imagination, that I fancy will not be altogether unlike what will be
found in some page or other of this imaginary historian.

It was under this reign, says he, that the Spectator published those
little diurnal essays which are still extant. We know very little
of the name or person of this author, except only that he was a man
of a very short face, extremely addicted to silence, and so great a
lover of knowledge, that he made a voyage to Grand Cairo for no
other reason but to take the measure of a pyramid. His chief friend
was one Sir Roger De Coverley, a whimsical country knight, and a
Templar, whose name he has not transmitted to us. He lived as a
lodger at the house of a widow-woman, and was a great humorist in
all parts of his life. This is all we can affirm with any certainty
of his person and character. As for his speculations,
notwithstanding the several obsolete words and obscure phrases of
the age in which he lived, we still understand enough of them to see
the diversions and characters of the English nation in his time:
not but that we are to make allowance for the mirth and humour of
the author, who has doubtless strained many representations of
things beyond the truth. For if we interpret his words in their
literal meaning, we must suppose that women of the first quality
used to pass away whole mornings at a puppet-show; that they
attested their principles by their patches; that an audience would
sit out an evening to hear a dramatical performance written in a
language which they did not understand; that chairs and flower-pots
were introduced as actors upon the British stage; that a promiscuous