sadly tried in her husband; and so that suffering woman had to suffer over again in her reputation after her life’s trouble is over. It is very unfair to the poor women who have left no champions behind. The end of our “Spectator’s” life was, however, clouded with more than one unfortunate quarrel, the greatest of which has left its sting behind to quiver in Addison’s name as long as Pope and he are known. It is neither necessary nor edifying to enter at length into the bitternesses of the past. Pope fancied himself aggrieved in various ways by the man who had warmly acknowledged his youthful merits, and received him (though so much his senior in years and fame) on a footing of equality, and who all through never spoke an ill-natured word of the waspish little poet. He believed, or persuaded himself to believe, in his malignant little soul that Addison was jealous of his greatness, and had set up Tickell to rival him in the translation of Homer; and he believed, or pretended to believe, on the supposed authority of young Warwick, that Addison had hired a vulgar critic to attack him. There seems not the slightest reason to believe that either of these grievances was real. Tickell had written simultaneously a translation, which Addison had read and corrected, on account of which he courteously declined to read Pope’s translation of the same, telling him the reason, but accepting the office of critic to the second part of Pope’s work. He had himself, according to the poet’s brag, accepted Pope’s corrections of “Cato,” leaving “not a word unchanged that I objected to”; and he was not moved to any retaliation by Pope’s attack upon him, but continued serenely to praise his envious little assailant with a magnanimity which is wonderful if he had seen the brilliant and pitiless picture so cunningly drawn within the lines of nature, with every feature travestied so near the real, that even Addison’s most faithful partizan has to pause with alarm lest the wicked thing so near the truth might perhaps be true. We hesitate to add to the serene and gentle story of our man of letters this embittered utterance of spite and malice and genius. The lines are sufficiently well known.