To the good accomplished by the Tatler we have the testimony of the poet Gay, a contributor to some of its he was just such a stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he took me by the hand, and burst out in tears. I was extremely moved, and immediately said, 'Child, how does your father do?' He began to reply, 'My mother'-but could not go on for weeping. I went down with him into the coach, and gathered out of him that his mother was then dying, and that while the holy man was doing the last offices to her, he had taken that time to come and call me to his father, who, he said, would certainly break his heart if I did not go and comfort him. The child's discretion in coming to me of his own head, and the tenderness he shewed for his parents, would have quite overpowered me, had I not resolved to fortify myself for the seasonable performance of those duties which I owed to my friend. As we were going, I could not but reflect upon the character of that excellent woman, and the greatness of his grief for the loss of one who has ever been the support to him under all other afflictions. How (thought I) will he be able to bear the hour of her death, that could not, when I was lately with him, speak of a sickness that was then past without sorrow. We were now got pretty far into Westminster, and arrived at my friend's house. At the door of it I met Favonius, [Rev. Dr Smalridge,] not without a secret satisfaction to find he had been there. I had formerly conversed with him at his house; and as he abounds with that sort of virtue and knowledge that makes religion beautiful, and never leads the conversation into the violence and rage of party disputes, I listened to him with great pleasure. Our discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death, which he treated with such a strength of reason and greatness of soul, that, instead of being terrible, it appeared to a mind altogether to be contemned, or rather, to be desired. As I met him at the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief and humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and resolution, which, as I afterwards found, had such an irresistible force as to suspend the pains of the dying, and the lamentations of the nearest friends who attended her. I went up directly to the room where she lay, and was met at the entrance by my friend, who, notwithstanding his thoughts had been composed a little before, at the sight of me turned away his face and wept. The little family of children renewed the expressions of their sorrow, according to their several ages and degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter was in tears, busied in attendance upon her mother; others were kneeling about the bedside: and what troubled me most was to see a little boy, who was too young to know the reason, weeping only because his sisters did. The only one in the room who seemed resigned and comforted was the dying person. At my approach to the bedside she told me, with a low, broken voice, 'This is kindly done-take care of your friend—do not go from him.' She had before taken leave of her husband and children, in a manner proper for so solemn a parting, and with a gracefulness peculiar to a woman of her character. My heart was torn in pieces to see the husband on one side suppressing and keeping down the swellings of his grief, for fear of disturbing her in her last moments,

successors, who in a tract published anonymously, but generally attributed to him, says of Bickerstaff—

and the wife even at that time concealing the pain she endured for fear of increasing his affliction. She kept her eyes upon him for some moments after she grew speechless, and soon after closed them for ever. In the moment of her departure, my friend (who had thus far commanded himself) gave a deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her bedside. The distraction of the children, who thought they saw both their parents expiring together, and now lying dead before them, would have melted the hardest heart; but they soon perceived their father recover, whom I helped to remove into another room, with a resolution to accompany him till the first pangs of his affliction were abated. I knew consolation would now be impertinent, and therefore contented myself to sit by him, and condole with him in silence, . . . till made capable of receiving it by those three great remedies-the necessity of submission, length of time, and satiety of grief. "In the meantime, I cannot but consider with much commiseration the melancholy state of one who has had such a part of himself torn from him, and which he misses in every circumstance of life. His condition is like one who has lately lost his right arm, and is every moment offering to help himself with it. He does not appear to himself the same person in his house, at his table, in company, or in retirement; and loses the relish of all the pleasures and diversions that were before entertaining to him, by her participation of them. The most agreeable objects recall the sorrow for her with whom he used to enjoy them. This additional satisfaction from the taste of pleasures in the society of one we love is admirably described in Milton, who represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further pleased with the beautiful around her, than as she sees them in company with Adam, in that passage so inexpressibly charming :

With thee conversing, I forget all time,

All seasons, and their change; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth,
After soft show'rs, and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; the silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
In this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light,-without thee, is sweet.'"

"It is incredible to conceive the effect his writings have had on the town; how many thousand follies they have either quite banished or given a very great check to; how much countenance they have added to virtue and religion; how many people they have rendered happy, by shewing that it was their own fault if they were not so; and, lastly, how entirely they have convinced our fops and young fellows of the value and advantage of learning." *

As the two distinguished friends were now fortunately so situated as to renew an intimacy which was productive of the happiest effects,-not merely to themselves, but towards society at large, by enabling Steele to realise his ardent wish for a joint literary reputation with Addison,this may be the most appropriate place for some notice of the latter.

Joseph Addison, one of the most honoured names in English literature, (born 1672, died 1719,) was the son of the Rev. Dr Launcelot Addison, a man of learning, amiability, and literary talents, who then held a living at Milston, in Wiltshire, but who had been for some years chaplain at Tangiers, in Barbary, and also at Dunkirk, and subsequently became Dean of Lichfield and Archdeacon of Salisbury; and who left behind him, as Steele acquaints us, in his letter to Congreve, "four children, each of whom, for excellent talents and singular perfections, was as much above the ordinary world as their brother Joseph was above them." The friendship of these two eminent men, as previously stated, began at the Charterhouse School, where they both received the first part of their education. Though there was only the difference of a year in their ages, and that in Steele's favour, Addison may probably have been considerably the more advanced in his studies,

"Present State of Wit."

L