It is characteristic, however, of the man that he should have tossed into the world without a name a book which made a greater impression than any contemporary publication, enjoying no doubt the wonders and queries, yet scorning to make himself dependent upon so small a thing as a book for his reputation and influence. He was no more disposed than the most sensitive of authors to let another man claim the credit of it, yet proud enough in native arrogance to hold himself independent of such aids to advancement, and thus to prove his scorn of the world’s opinion, even when he sought its applauses most. Whether this work had anything to do with his introduction to the society of the coffee-houses, and the wits of London, we are not told. He was addressed by Addison as “the most Agreeable Companion, the Truest Friend, and the Greatest Genius of his age,” very shortly after the publication of his great satire; so that it is probable he already enjoyed the advantage of its fame, without seeming to do so. The friendship of Addison was a better thing than the admiration of the crowd, and notwithstanding Swift’s imperious temper and arrogant ways, it is just to add that he always numbered among his friends the best and greatest of his time. On a first accost, it would not seem that his manners were ingratiating. This story, which is told of Swift’s appearance at the St. James coffee-house is amusing, and may be true. They had for several successive days observed a strange clergyman come into the house who seemed entirely unacquainted with any of those who frequented it, and whose custom was to lay down his hat on a table and walk backward and forward at a good pace, for half an hour or an hour, without speaking to any mortal, or seeming in the least to attend to anything that was going forward there. He then used to take up his hat, pay his money at the bar, and walk away without opening his lips. On one particular evening, as Mr. Addison and the rest were observing him, they saw him cast his eyes several times on a gentleman in boots who seemed to be just come out of the country, and at last advance, as if intending to address him. Eager to hear what this dumb, mad parson had to say, they all quitted their seats to get near him. Swift went up to the country gentleman, and in a very abrupt manner, without any previous salute, asked him, “Pray, sir, do you remember any good weather in the world?” The country gentleman, after staring a little at the peculiarity of his manner, answered, “Yes, sir, I remember a great deal of good weather in my time.” “That is more,” rejoined Swift, “than I can say. I never remember any weather that was not too hot or too cold, or too wet or too dry; but however God Almighty contrives at the end of the year it is all very well.” With which remark he took up his hat, and without uttering a syllable more, or