deform his "Essay on Man." He wrote with great liveliness, and with equal shallowness of thought and of knowledge. His political speculations are admittedly no better than they might have been expected to be from the inconsistent course of his public life and his attacks on religion are among the feeblest that have ever been directed against it.

5. But we are more accustomed to judge of the Prose Literature of that time by works of a more popular cast, some of them indeed being in their design merely things of their day, which are remembered through their force of language or ingenuity of invention.

b. 1661. } Daniel Defoe is the first person who, in our literary d. 1781. history, deserves to be named as a good newspaper-writer. Some of the undertakings of his busy, contentious, and unfortunate life were of this sort: he wrote also a large number of political pamphlets: but he is now remembered only, and is not likely soon to be forgotten, on account of one of his many Novels. Every one feels the unostentatious aptness of invention, the practical good sense, and the circumstantial plainness making every thing so plausible, which are characteristics of "Robinson Crusoe." The strong appearance of reality is nowhere better produced than in some pieces where he professes to be relating historical facts; as in his "Memoirs of a Cavalier." Similar merits abound so much in his other fictions, that one cannot but regret his constant selection of vicious characters and lawless adventures as the objects of his descriptions. He is very far from being an immoral writer: but most of his scenes are such as we cannot be benefited by contemplating. Were it not for this serious drawback, several of his stories, depicting ordinary life with extraordinary vigour and originality, and inspired by a never-failing sympathy for the interests and feelings of the mass of the people, might deserve higher honour than the writings of his more refined and dignified contemporaries. Nor is the author's idiomatic English style the smallest of his merits.

b. 1667.

} Among Swift's prose writings, there is none that is

d. 1744. not a masterpiece of bare, strong, Saxon English; and there is none, perhaps, that is quite destitute either of his keen wit or ferocious ill-nature. He, one of our shrewdest observers and best writers, possesses a celebrity which can never be entirely extinguished; but which, through his moral perversities, is not much more enviable than the notoriety a man would obtain by being exposed on the pillory. His works which are still read are a strange kind of Satirical Romances. These are most pungent, doubtless, when, as in Gulliver's Travels, human nature is

his victim but he makes them hardly less amusing when he ridicules forgotten literary controversies in the Battle of the Books, commemorating the dispute in which we saw Temple taking part; when he treats church-disputes, in the Tale of a Tub, in a manner no way clerical; or when he jeers at Burnet, a shrewd and useful historian, in the Memoirs of P. P., Clerk of the Parish. His style deserves so much attention from the student, that it must here be very fully exemplified. Nor can its character be thoroughly understood unless we scrutinize it in its most familiar shape, as well as in the form it wears in his more elaborate compositions.*

*JONATHAN SWIFT.

I. From the Dedication of " A Tale of a Tub." [The Satire, written about 1700, is dedicated to Posterity, figured as a Prince not come to years of discretion. His Governor or Tutor is Time, who will teach him what to think of authors and their works. Besides making half-sneering allusions to the greatest poet and the greatest scholar of the day, the satirist describes, with an irony not to be mistaken by any one, some of the small writers who have not found a place in our text. Yet fame has its kinds as well as its degrees. Rymer, a bad poet and worse critic, is respected by historical students as the editor of the "Foedera:" and the metrical version of the Psalms has made the name of Tate familiar to many thousands of persons, who never heard of Dean Swift.]

Sir, I here present your Highness with the fruits of a very few leisure hours, stolen from the short intervals of a world of business, and of an employment quite alien from such amusements as this; the poor production of that refuse of time which has lain heavy upon my hands, during a long prorogation of parliament, a great dearth of foreign news, and a tedious fit of rainy weather. For which and other reasons it cannot choose extremely to deserve such a patronage as that of your Highness, whose numberless virtues in so few years, make the world look upon you as the future example to all princes. For, although your Highness is hardly got clear of infancy, yet has the universal learned world already resolved upon appealing to your future dictates with the lowest and most resigned submission; fate having decreed you sole arbiter of the productions of human wit, in this polite and most accomplished age. Methinks the number of appellants were enough to shock and startle any judge, of a genius less unlimited than yours. But, in order to prevent such glorious trials, the person, it seems, to whose care the education of your Highness is committed, has resolved, I am told, to keep you in almost an universal ignorance of our studies, which it is your inherent birthright to inspect.

It is amazing to me that this person should have assurance, in the face of the sun, to go about persuading your Highness, that our age is almost wholly illiterate, and has hardly produced one writer upon any subject. I know very well, that, when your Highness shall come to riper years, and have gone through the learning of antiquity, you will be too curious

None of the serious writings of the generation contains so much of really good criticism, as the burlesque memoirs of Mar

And to

to neglect inquiring into the authors of the very age before you. think that this Insolent, in the account he is preparing for your view, designs to reduce them to a number so insignificant as I am ashamed to mention: it moves my zeal and my spleen for the honour and interest of our vast flourishing body, as well as of myself, for whom I know by long experience he has professed and still continues a peculiar malice.

It is not unlikely, that, when your Highness will one day peruse what I am now writing, you may be ready to expostulate with your Governor upon the credit of what I here affirm, and command him to show you some of our productions. To which he will answer, (for I am well informed of his designs,) by asking your Highness, "Where they are?" and, "What is become of them?" and pretend it a demonstration that there never were any, because they are not then to be found. Not to be found! Who has mislaid them? * * * It were endless to recount the several methods of tyranny and destruction which your governor is pleased to practise on this occasion. His inveterate malice is such to the writings of our age, that of several thousands produced yearly from this renowned city, before the next revolution of the sun there is not one to be heard of: unhappy infants! many of them barbarously destroyed before they have so much as learned their mother-tongue to beg for pity!

* * *

The concern I have most at heart, is for our corporation of poets; from whom I am preparing a petition to your Highness, to be subscribed with the names of one hundred and thirty-six of the first-rate; but whose immortal productions are never likely to reach your eyes, though each of them is now a humble and earnest appellant for the laurel, and has large comely volumes ready to show for a support to his pretensions. The never-dying works of these illustrious persons, your governor, Sir, has devoted to unavoidable death; and your Highness is to be made believe, that our age has never arrived at the honour to produce one single poet.

We confess Immortality to be a great and powerful goddess; but in vain we offer up to her our devotions and our sacrifices, if your Highness's governor, who has usurped the priesthood, must, by an unparalleled ambition and avarice, wholly intercept and devour them.

*

*

*

*

I profess to your Highness, in the integrity of my heart, that what I am going to say is literally true this minute I am writing. What revolutions may happen before it shall be ready for your perusal, I can by no means warrant: however, I beg you to accept it, as a specimen of our learning, our politeness, and our wit. I do therefore affirm, upon the word of a sincere man, that there is now actually in being a certain poet called John Dryden, whose translation of Virgil was lately printed in a large folio, well bound, and, if diligent search were made, for aught I know, is yet to be seen. There is another, called Nahum Tate, who is ready to make oath that he has caused many reams of verse to be published, whereof both himself and his bookseller (if lawfully required) can still produce authentic copies; and therefore wonders, why the world is pleased to make such a secret of it. There is a third, known by the name of Tom D'Urfey, a poet of a vast comprehension, and universal genius, and most profound learning. There are also one Mr. Rymer, and

tinus Scriblerus with its appendixes: the work is also abundant in the most biting strokes of wit. The authorship of it was shared, in proportions now uncertain, between Swift, Pope, and Arbuthnot. The last of these was a Scotsman, who practised physic in London. He is supposed to have been the sole author of the whimsical national satire called The History of John Bull, the best thing, taken as a whole, which the day produced in that class. The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague claim merely -a passing notice.

6. Of all the popular writers, however, that adorned the reigns of Queen Anne and her successor, those whose influence, both on their own age and on posterity, has been at once greatest and most salutary, are the Essayists. Among these, Joseph Addison and Richard Steere were so pre-eminently distinguished, that no injustice would be done were we to forget their occasional assistants, such as Budgell, Tickell, Hughes, and Ensden.

The Tatler, begun in Ireland by Steele, (aided at first by Swift, and afterwards by Addison,) was continued, three times a week, from April 1709, to January 1711. The Spectator, in which Addison speedily took the lead, commenced in March

one Mr. Dennis, most profound critics. There is a person styled Doctor Bentley, who has written nearly a thousand pages of immense erudition, giving a full and true account of a certain squabble, of wonderful importance, between himself and a bookseller.

II. A Letter.

Sir, You stole in and out of town without seeing either the ladies or me; which was very ungratefully done, considering the obligations you have to us for lodging and dieting with you so long. Why did you not call in a morning at the Deanery? Besides, we reckon for certain that you came to stay a month or two as you told us you intended. I hear you were so kind as to be at Laracor, where I hope you planted something: and I intend to be down after Christmas, where you must continue a week. As for your plan, it is very pretty, too pretty for the use I intend to make of Laracor. All I would desire is, what I mention in the paper I left you, except a walk down to the canal. I suppose your project would cost me ten pounds and a constant gardener. Pray come to town, and stay some time, and repay yourself some of your dinners. I wonder how a mischief you came to miss us. Why did you not set out a Monday, like a true country parson? Besides, you lay a load on us, in saying one chief end of your journey was to see us: but I suppose there might be another motive, and you are like the man that died of love and the cholic. Let us know whether you are more or less monkish, how long you found yourself better by our company, and how long before you recovered the charges we put you to. The ladies assure you of their hearty services; and I am, with great truth and sincerity, Your most faithful humble servant, J. Swift.

1711, and was stopped, after having gone on every week-day till December 1712. The Guardian, becoming political, lived only through a part of the next year; and, in the last six months of 1714, papers published three times a week made up the eighth and last volume of the Spectator.

b. 1676. Steele, an irregular thinker as well as an irregular d. 1729. liver, has had his merits, especially in the Spectator, somewhat unfairly over-clouded by the fame of his coadjutor. Much inferior in style, in refinement both of sentiment and of reflection, and in the higher kinds of information, he yet knew both mankind and the world, and had a dramatic force, as well as an originality of humour, by which the series of papers has profited largely. In not a few instances such as the description of the Spectator's Club, we can trace to him the invention of striking outlines, which his friend afterwards filled up, imparting to them a new charm by his own characteristic gracefulness of colouring and placid cheerfulness of feeling.*

*SIR RICHARD STEELE.

From the Description of the Spectator's Club; in No. 2.

The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of an ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger De Coverley. His great grandfather was inventor of that famous country dance which is called after him. All who know that shire, are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour: but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies: for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy: and his being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know him. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before that disappointment Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman. But, being ill-used by the widow, he was very serious for a year and a half: and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse; which in his merry humour he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty: keeps a good house both in town and country; a great lover of mankind: but there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich; his servants look satisfied; all the young women profess love to him; and all the young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum; that he fills the chair at