The Tatler: By the Right Honourable Joseph Addison, Esq;.

No. 165. Saturday, April 29, 1710.

From my own apartment, April 28.

IT has always been my endeavour to distinguish between realities and appearances, and to separate true merit from the pretence to it. As it ever shall be my study to make discoveries of this nature in human life, and to set∣tle the proper distinctions between the virtues and per∣fections of mankind, and those false colours and resem∣blances of them that shine alike in the eyes of the vulgar; so I shall be more particularly careful to search into the various merits and pretences of the learned world. This is the more necessary, because there seems to be a general combination among the pedants to extol one another's la∣bours, and cry up one another's parts; while men of sense, either through that modesty which is natural to them, or the scorn they have for such trifling commendations, enjoy their stock of knowlege like a hidden treasure with satisfaction and silence. Pedantry indeed in learning is like hypocrisy in religion, a form of knowlege with∣out the power of it, that attracts the eyes of the common people, breaks out in noise and show, and finds its re∣ward not from any inward pleasure that attends it, but from the praises and approbations which it receives from men.

Of this shallow species there is not a more importunate, empty, and conceited animal, than that which is general∣ly known by the name of a critic. This, in the com∣mon acceptation of the word, is one that, without enter∣ing into the sense and soul of an author, has a few gene∣ral rules, which, like mechanical instruments, he applies to the works of every writer, and as they quadrate with them, pronounces the author perfect or defective. He is master of a certain set of words, as unity, stile, fire,

flegm, easy, natural, turn, sentiment, and the like; which he varies, compounds, divides, and throws together, in every part of his discourse, without any thought or mean∣ing. The marks you may know him by are, an elevat∣ed eye, and dogmatical brow, a positive voice, and a con∣tempt for every thing that comes out, whether he has read it or not. He dwells altogether in generals. He praises or dispraises in the lump. He shakes his head very frequently at the pedantry of universities, and bursts into laughter when you mention an author that is known at Will's. He hath formed his judgment upon Homer, Ho∣race, and Virgil, not from their own works, but from those of Rapin and Bossu. He knows his own strength so well, that he never dares praise any thing in which he has not a French author for his voucher.

With these extraordinary talents and accomplishments, Sir Timothy Tittle puts men in vogue, or condemns them to obscurity, and sits as judge of life and death upon e∣very author that appears in public. It is impossible to re∣present the pangs, agonies, and convulsions, which Sir Timothy expresses in every feature of his face and mus∣cle of his body, upon the reading of a bad poet.

About a week ago I was engaged at a friend's house of mine in an agreeable conversation with his wife and daughters, when in the height of our mirth, Sir Timothy, who makes love to my friend's eldest daughter, came in amongst us puffing and blowing, as if he had been very much out of breath. He immediately called for a chair, and desired leave to sit down, without any further cere∣mony. I asked him, where he had been? Whether he was out of order? He only replied, that he was quite spent, and fell a cursing in soliloquy. I could hear him cry, A wicked rogue—An execrable wretch—was there ever such a monster—The young ladies upon this began to be affrighted, and asked, whether any one had hurt him? He answered nothing, but still talked to himself. To lay the first scene, says he, in St. James's Park, and the last in Northamptonshire! Is that all? says I: then I sup∣pose

you have been at the rehearsal of a play this morn∣ing. Been! says he; I have been at Northampton, in the Park, in a lady's bed-chamber, in a dining-room, every where; the rogue has led me such a dance—Though I could scarce forbear laughing at his discourse, I told him I was glad it was no worse, and that he was on∣ly metaphorically weary. In short, Sir, says he, the au∣thor has not observed a single unity in his whole play; the scene shifts in every dialogue: the villain has hurried me up and down at such a rate, that I am tired off my legs. I could not but observe with some pleasure, that the young lady whom he made love to, conceived a very just aversi∣on towards him, upon seeing him so very passionate in trifles. And as she had that natural sense which makes her a better judge than a thousand critics, she began to rally him upon this foolish humour. For my part, says she, I never knew a play take that was written up to your rules, as you call them. How, madam! says he, is that your opinion? I am sure you have a better taste. It is a pretty kind of magic, says she, the poets have to transport an audience from place to place without the help of a coach and horses. I could travel round the world at such a rate. It is such an entertainment as an enchantress finds, when she fancies herself in a wood, or upon a mountain, at a feast, or a solemnity; though at the same time she has never stirred out of her cottage. Your simile, madam, says Sir Timothy, is by no means just. Pray, says she, let my similes pass without a criticism. I must confess, continued she, for I found she was re∣solved to exasperate him, I laughed very heartily at the last new comedy which you found so much fault with. But madam, says he, you ought not to have laughed; and I defy any one to show me a single rule that you could laugh by. Ought not to laugh! says she, pray who should hinder me? Madam, says he, there are such people in the world as Rapin, Dacier, and several others, that ought to have spoiled your mirth. I have heard, says the young lady, that your great critics are always very bad poets: I

fancy there is as much difference between the works of one and the other, as there is between the carriage of a dancing-master and a gentleman. I must confess, continu∣ed she, I would not be troubled with so fine a judgment as yours is; for I find you feel more vexation in a bad come∣dy, than I do in a deep tragedy. Madam, says Sir Timothy, that is not my fault, they should learn the art of writing. For my part, says the young lady, I should think the greatest art in your writers of comedies is to please. To please! says Sir Timothy; and immediately fell a laugh∣ing. Truly, says she, that is my opinion. Upon this, he composed his countenance, looked upon his watch, and took his leave.

I hear that Sir Timothy has not been at my friend's house since this notable conference, to the satisfaction of the young lady, who by this means has got rid of a very impertinent fop.

I must confess, I could not but observe, with a great deal of surprize, how this gentleman by his ill-nature, folly and affectation, hath made himself capable of suf∣fering so many imaginary pains, and looking with such a senseless severity upon the common diversions of life.