of this herd attempts some novel discovery, often men of taste behold, with indignation, the perversions of their understanding; and a Bentley in his Milton, or a Warburton on a Virgil, had either a singular imbecility concealed under the arrogance of the scholar, or they did not believe what they told the public; the one in his extraordinary invention of an interpolating editor, and the other in his more extraordinary explanation of the Eleusinian mysteries.  But what was still worse, the froth of the head became venom, when it reached the heart.

Montaigne has also been censured for an apparent vanity, in making himself the idol of his lucubrations.  If he had not done this, he had not performed the promise he makes at the commencement of his preface.  An engaging tenderness prevails in these naive expressions which shall not be injured by a version.  “Je l’ay voue a la commodite particuliere de mes parens et amis; a ce que m’ayans perdu (ce qu’ils out a faire bientost) ils y puissent retrouver quelques traicts de mes humeurs, et que par ce moyen ils nourrissent plus entiere et plus vifue la conoissance qu’ils out eu de moi.”

Those authors who appear sometimes to forget they are writers, and remember they are men, will be our favourites.  He who writes from the heart, will write to the heart; every one is enabled to decide on his merits, and they will not be referred to learned heads, or a distant day.  “Why,” says Boileau, “are my verses read by all? it is only because they speak truths, and that I am convinced of the truths I write.”

Why have some of our fine writers interested more than others, who have not displayed inferior talents?  Why is Addison still the first of our essayists? he has sometimes been excelled in criticisms more philosophical, in topics more interesting, and in diction more coloured.  But there is a personal charm in the character he has assumed in his periodical Miscellanies, which is felt with such a gentle force, that we scarce advert to it.  He has painted forth his little humours, his individual feelings, and eternised himself to his readers.  Johnson and Hawkesworth we receive with respect, and we dismiss with awe; we come from their writings as from public lectures, and from Addison’s as from private conversations.  Montaigne preferred those of the ancients, who appear to write under a conviction of what they said; the eloquent Cicero declaims but coldly on liberty, while in the impetuous Brutus may be perceived a man who is resolved to purchase it with his life.  We know little of Plutarch; yet a spirit of honesty and persuasion in his works expresses a philosophical character capable of imitating, as well as admiring, the virtues he records.