WE have grown up in the belief that all the geniuses are dead; the living writers run to beef, instead of brains, within the head. We talk of Addison and Steele, and grow excited o'er their charms; and as we talk of them we feel that modern scribes are false alarms. The other day, distraught and tired, I took Joe Addison, his book, and, hoping that I'd be inspired, I read it, in the inglenook. Oh, yes, he has a graceful style—as Goldsmith had, and all that bunch—but you must read about a mile before you come across a punch. And Joseph's morals were O. K., the output of a thoughtful dome; but he would preach for half a day, to drive one little lesson home. If I should make my screeds so long, you'd close your eyes and gently snore, or else, impelled by sense of wrong, you'd shoot me for a turgid bore. I don't believe that he or Steele, or any other old time bard, could sell the stuff they used to reel, today, and get five cents a yard. |