Even so, the essayist will make an effort, perhaps without knowing it, to write like Addison. In his temperate and reasonable way Addison more than once amused himself with speculations as to the fate of his writings. He had a just idea of their nature and value. “I have new-pointed all the batteries of ridicule”, he wrote. Yet, because so many of his darts had been directed against ephemeral follies, “absurd fashions, ridiculous customs, and affected forms of speech”, the time would come, in a hundred years, perhaps, when his essays, he thought, would be “like so many pieces of old plate, where the weight will be regarded, but the fashion lost”. Two hundred years have passed; the plate is worn smooth; the pattern almost rubbed out; but the metal is pure silver. [Footnote 7: Written in 1919.] _The Lives of the Obscure_ Five shillings, perhaps, will secure a life subscription to this faded, out-of-date, obsolete library, which with a little help from the rates, is chiefly subsidised from the shelves of clergymen’s widows, and country gentlemen inheriting more books than their wives like to dust. In the middle of the wide airy room, with windows that look to the sea and let in the shouts of men crying pilchards for sale on the cobbled street below, a row of vases stands, in which specimens of the local flowers droop, each with its name inscribed beneath. The elderly, the marooned, the bored, drift from newspaper to newspaper, or sit holding their heads over back numbers of _The Illustrated London News_ and the _Wesleyan Chronicle_. No one has spoken aloud here since the room was opened in 1854. The obscure sleep on the walls, slouching against each other as if they were too drowsy to stand upright. Their backs are flaking off; their titles often vanished. Why disturb their sleep? Why re-open those peaceful graves, the librarian seems to ask, peering over his spectacles, and resenting the duty, which indeed has become laborious, of retrieving from among those nameless tombstones Nos. 1763, 1080, and 606. I THE TAYLORS AND THE EDGEWORTHS