THE Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addison; and it is not easy to doubt that the portrait was meant to be in some features a likeness of the painter. The Spectator is a gentleman who, after passing a studious youth at the university, has travelled on classic ground, and has bestowed much attention on curious points of antiquity. He has, on his return, fixed his residence in London, and has observed all the forms of life which are to be found in that great city, has daily listened to the wits of Will's, has smoked with the philosophers of the Grecian, and has mingled with the parsons at Child's, and with the politicians at the St. James's. In the morning, he often listens to the hum of the Exchange; in the evening, his face is constantly to be seen in the pit of Drury Lane Theatre. But an insurmountable bashfulness prevents him from opening his mouth, except in a small circle of intimate friends.

These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club, the templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant, were uninteresting figures, fit only for a background. But the other two, an old country baronet and an old town rake, though not delineated with a very delicate pencil, had some good strokes. Addison took the rude outlines into his own hands, retouched them, coloured them, and is in truth the creator of the Sir Roger de Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with whom we are all familiar.

The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both original and eminently happy. Every valuable essay in the series may be read with pleasure separately; yet the five or six hundred essays form a whole, and a whole which has the interest of a novel. It must be remembered, too,

The narra

that at that time no novel, giving a lively and powerful picture of the common life and manners of England, had appeared. Richardson was work. ing as a compositor. Fielding was robbing birds' nests. Smollett was not yet born. tive, therefore, which connects together the Spectator's Essays, gave to our ancestors their first taste of an exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative was indeed constructed with no art or labour. The events were such events as occur every day. Sir Roger comes up to town to see Eugenio, as the worthy baronet always calls Prince Eugene, goes with the Spectator on the water to Spring Gardens, walks among the tombs in the Abbey, and is frightened by the Mohawks, but conquers his apprehension so far as to go to the theatre, when the "Distressed Mother" is acted. The Spectator pays a visit in the summer to Coverley Hall, is charmed with the old house, the old butler, and the old chaplain, eats a jack caught by Will Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law discussed by Tom Touchy. At last a letter from the honest butler brings to the club the news that Sir Roger is dead. Will Honeycomb marries and reforms at sixty. The club breaks up; and the Spectator resigns his functions. Such events can hardly be said to form a plot; yet they are related with such truth, such grace, such wit, such humour, such pathos, such knowledge of the human heart, such knowledge of the ways of the world, that they charm us on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least doubt that, if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan, it would have been superior to any that we possess. As it is, he is entitled to be considered not only as the greatest of the English essayists, but as the forerunner of the great English novelists.

"TIs the hour of fairy ban and spell:

The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;
He has counted them all with click and stroke,

Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
And he has awakened the sentry elve,
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry:

Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)"Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither, wing your way, 'Tis the dawn of the fairy day."

They come from beds of lichen green,

They creep from the mullen's velvet screen;

Some on the backs of beetles fly

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb-hammocks high,
And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain on the scoop of the rock,
With glittering rising stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o'clock,
And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlit glade:
Above-below-on every side,
Their little minim forms arrayed
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!

They come not now to print the lea,
In freak and dance around the tree,
Or at the mushroom board to sup,
And drink the dew from the buttercup:
A scene of sorrow waits them now,
For an Ouphe has broken his festal vow;
He has loved an earthly maid,
And left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played in the ringlets of her hair,
And, nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king's behest.
For this the shadowy tribes of air
To the elfin court must haste away;
And now they stand expectant there,
To hear the doom of the culprit Fay.

The throne was reared upon the grass,
Of spice-wood and of sassafras;
And on pillars of mottled tortoise-shell
Hung the burnished canopy,
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell
Of the tulip's crimson drapery.

The monarch sat on his judgment seat,

On his brow the crown imperial shone,
The prisoner Fay was at his feet,

And his peers were ranged around the throne.
He waved his sceptre in the air,

He looked around and calmly spoke,
His brow was grave, and his eye severe,
But his voice in a softened accent broke :-

"Fairy, fairy, list and mark!

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain :
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity
In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye;
Thou hast scorned our dread decree,
And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high;
But well I know her sinless mind

Is pure as the angel forms above-
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,
Such as a spirit well might love.
Fairy! had she spot or taint,
Bitter had been thy punishment.
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings,
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings,
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell
With the lazy-worm in the walnut-shell
Or every night to writhe and bleed
Beneath the tread of the centipede;
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,
Your gaoler a spider, huge and grim,
Amid the carrion bodies to lie

363

Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly:
These it had been your lot to bear,

Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.
Now list, and mark our mild decree-
Fairy, this your doom must be:

"Thou shalt seck the beach of sand,

Where the water bounds the elfin land;

Thou shalt watch the oozy brine

Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,
Then dart the glistening arch below,
And catch a drop from his silver bow.
The water-sprites will wield their arms,
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms,
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might;
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.

"If the spray-bead gem be won,
The stain of thy wing is washed away;

But another errand must be done
Ere thy crime can be lost for aye:

Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
Thou must re-illume its spark.
Mount thy steed and spur him high

To the heaven's blue canopy;

And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far;
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;
Hence! to the water-side, away!"

The goblin marked his monarch well;
He spake not, but he bowed him low,
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,
And turned him round in act to go.
The way is long, he cannot fly,
His soiled wing has lost its power,

And he winds adown the mountain high,
For many a sore and weary hour.
Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,
Over the grass and through the brake,

Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake:
Now o'er the violet's azure flush
He skips along in lightsome mood;
And now he threads the bramble-bush,
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.

He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the briar,
He has swum the brook, and waded the mire,
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak,
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.
He had fallen to the ground outright,
For rugged and dim was his onward track,
But there came a spotted toad in sight,
And he laughed as he jumped upon her back.
He bridled her mouth with a silk-weed twist,
He lashed her sides with an osier thong,
And now through evening's dewy mist,
With leap and spring they bound along,
Till the mountain's magic verge is past,
And the beach of sand is reached at last.

Soft and pale is the moony beam,
Moveless still the glassy stream;
The wave is clear, the beach is bright
With snowy shell and sparkling stones;
The shore-surge comes in ripples light,
In murmurings faint and distant moans;
And ever afar in the silence deep
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap,
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen—
A glittering arch of silver sheen,
Spanning the wave of burnished blue,
And dripping with gems of the river-dew.

The Elfin cast a glance around,

As he lighted down from his courser toad,
Then round his breast his wings he wound,
And close to the river's brink he strode.
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer,
Above his head his arms he threw,
Then tossed a tiny curve in air,
And headlong plunged in the waters blue.
Up sprang the spirits of the waves,

From the sea-silk beds in their coral caves,
With snail-plate armour, snatched in haste,
They speed their way through the liquid waste.
Some are rapidly borne along

On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong;
Some on the blood-red leeches glide,
Some on the stony star-fish ride,
Some on the back of the lancing squab,
Some on the sidling soldier-crab,

And some on the jellied quarl, that flings
At once a thousand streamy stings;
They cut the wave with the living oar,
And hurry on to the moonlit shore,
To guard their realms, and chase away
The footsteps of the invading Fay.
Fearlessly he skims along,

His hope is high, and his limbs are strong;

He spreads his arm like the swallow's wing.
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling;
His locks of gold on the waters shine,
At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise;
His back gleams bright above the brine,
And the wake-line foam behind him lies.
But the water-sprites are gathering near
To check his course along the tide;
Their warriors come in swift career,
And hem him round on every side.

On his side the leech has fixed his hold,
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled,
The prickly prong has pierced his skin,
And the squab has thrown his javelin,
The gritty star has rubbed him raw,
And the crab has struck with his giant claw;
He howls with rage, he shrieks with pain,
He strikes around, but his blows are vain:
Hopeless is the unequal fight:
Fairy! nought is left but flight.

He turned him round and fled amain,
With hurry and dash, to the beach again.
He twisted over from side to side,
He laid his cheek to the cleaving tide;
The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet,
And with all his might he flings his feet;
But the water-sprites are round him still,
To cross his path and to work him ill.
They bade the wave before him rise;
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes,

And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke,
With the porpoise heave, and the drum-fish croak.
Oh! but a weary wight was he

When he reached the foot of the dogwood-tree.
Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore,
He laid him down on the sandy shore;
He blessed the force of the charmed line,
And he banned the water-goblins' spite,
For he saw around, in the sweet moonshine,
Their little wee faces above the brine,
Giggling and laughing with all their might
At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight.

Soon he gathered the balsam dew
From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud;
Over each wound the balm he drew,
And with cobweb-lint he stanched the blood.
The mild west wind was soft and low,
It cooled the heat of his burning brow,
And he felt new life in his sinews shoot,
As he drank the juice of the calamus root;
And now he treads the fatal shore,
As fresh and vigorous as before.
Wrapped in musing stands the sprite:
"Tis the middle wane of night;
His task is hard, his way is far,
But he must do his errand right,
Ere dawning mounts her beamy car,
And rolls her chariot-wheels of light;

And vain are the spells of fairy-land; He must work with a human hand.

He cast a saddened look around,

But he felt anew his bosom swell,
When, glittering on the shadowed ground,
He saw a purple mussel-shell;

Thither he ran, and he bent him low,

He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow,
And he pushed her over the yielding sand,
Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat

As ever fairy had paddled in,

For she glowed with purple paint without,
And shone with silvery pearl within.
A sculler's notch in the stern he made,
An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade;
Then sprang to his seat with lightsome leap,
And launched afar on the calm, blue deep.

The imps of the river yell and rave;
They had no power above the wave;
But they heaved the billow before the prow,
And they dashed the surge against her side,
And they struck her keel with jerk and blow,
Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide.

She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam,
Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed

stream;

And momently athwart her track
The quarl upreared his island back,

And the fluttering seallop behind would float,
And spatter the water about the boat;
But he baled her out with his colen-bell,
And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread,
While on every side like lightning fell
The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade.

Onward still he held his way,

Till he came where the column of moonshine lay,
And saw beneath the surface dim

The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim:
Around him were the goblin train;

But he sculled with all his might and main,
And followed wherever the sturgeon led,
Till he saw him upward point his head;
Then he dropped his paddle-blade,
And held his colen-goblet up
To catch the drop in its crimson cup.

With sweeping tail and quivering fin,
Through the wave the sturgeon flew,
And, like the heaven-shot javelin,
He sprang above the water's blue.
Instant as the star-fall light,

He plunged him in the deep again,
But left an arch of silver bright,
The rainbow of the moony main.
It was a strange and lovely sight
To see the puny goblin there;
He seemed an angel framed with light,
With azure wings and sunny hair,
Throned on a cloud of purple fair,
Circled with blue and edged with white,
And sitting at the fall of even
Beneath the bow of summer heaven.

A moment, and its lustre fell;
But ere it met the billow blue,
He caught within his crimson bell
A droplet of its sparkling dew.
Joy to the Fay! thy task is done,
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won;
Cheerily ply thy dripping oar,

And haste away to the elfin shore.

He turns, and lo! on either side
The ripples on his path divide,

And the track o'er which his boat must pass
Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass.
Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave,
With snowy arms half swelling out,
While on the glossed and gleaming wave
Their sea-green ringlets loosely float;
They swim around with smile and song:
They press the bark with pearly hand
And gently urge her course along
Toward the beach of speckled sand;
And as he lightly leaped to land,
They bade adieu with nod and bow,
Then gaily kissed each little hand,
And dropped in the crystal deep below.

A moment stayed the Fairy there;

He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer;
Then spread his wings of gilded blue,
And on to the elfin court he flew.

As e'er ye saw a bubble rise,

And shine with a thousand changing dyes,
Till, lessening far through ether driven,

It mingles with the dews of heaven;
As, at the glimpse of morning pale,
The lance-fly spreads his silken sail,

And gleams with blendings soft and bright,
Till lost in the shades of fading night-
So rose from earth the lovely Fay,
So vanished far in heaven away!

when they come suddenly to remembrance, except they bring with them any present dishonour."

According to this author, therefore, when we hear a man laugh excessively, instead of saying he is very merry, we ought to tell him he is very proud. And, indeed, if we look into the bottom of this matter, we shall meet with many observations to confirm us in this opinion. Every one laughs at somebody that is in an inferior state of folly to himself. It was formerly the custom for every great house in England to keep a tame fool dressed in petticoats, that the heir of the family might have an opportunity of joking upon him,