pardoned Men; and how pityful is the Condition of being only suffered?  But I am interrupted by the pleasantest Scene of Anger and the Disappointment of it that I have ever known, which happened while I was yet Writing, and I overheard as I sat in the Backroom at a French Bookseller’s.  There came into the Shop a very learned Man with an erect Solemn Air, and tho’ a Person of great Parts otherwise, slow in understanding anything which makes against himself.  The Composure of the faulty Man, and the whimsical Perplexity of him that was justly angry, is perfectly New:  After turning over many Volumes, said the Seller to the Buyer, Sir, you know I have long asked you to send me back the first Volume of French Sermons I formerly lent you; Sir, said the Chapman, I have often looked for it but cannot find it; It is certainly lost, and I know not to whom I lent it, it is so many Years ago; then, Sir, here is the other Volume, I’ll send you home that, and please to pay for both.  My Friend, reply’d he, canst thou be so Senseless as not to know that one Volume is as imperfect in my Library as in your Shop? Yes, Sir, but it is you have lost the first Volume, and to be short I will be Paid. Sir, answered the Chapman, you are a young Man, your Book is lost, and learn by this little Loss to bear much greater Adversities, which you must expect to meet with. Yes, Sir, I’ll bear when I must, but I have not lost now, for I say you have it and shall pay me. Friend, you grow Warm, I tell you the Book is lost, and I foresee in the Course even of a prosperous Life, that you will meet Afflictions to make you Mad, if you cannot bear this Trifle. Sir, there is in this Case no need of bearing, for you have the Book. I say, Sir, I have not the Book.  But your Passion will not let you hear enough to be informed that I have it not.  Learn Resignation of your self to the Distresses of this Life:  Nay do not fret and fume, it is my Duty to tell you that you are of an impatient Spirit, and an impatient Spirit is never without Woe. Was ever any thing like this? Yes, Sir, there have been many things like this.  The Loss is but a Trifle, but your Temper is Wanton, and incapable of the least Pain; therefore let me advise you, be patient, the Book is lost, but do not you for that Reason lose your self.

T.

[Footnote 1:  Lord Somers.]

* * * * *

No. 439.  Thursday, July 24, 1712.  Addison.

  ’Hi narrata ferunt alio:  mensuraque ficti
  Crescit; et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor.’

  Ovid.

Ovid describes the Palace of Fame [1] as situated in the very Center of the Universe, and perforated with so many Windows and Avenues as gave her the Sight of every thing that was done in the Heavens, in the Earth, and in the Sea.  The Structure of it was contrived in so admirable a manner, that it Eccho’d every Word which was spoken in the whole Compass of Nature; so that the Palace, says the Poet, was always filled with a confused Hubbub of low dying Sounds, the Voices being almost spent and worn out before they arrived at this General Rendezvous of Speeches and Whispers.