by pretending not to feel it.  To find in ourselves the weaknesses and imperfections of our wretched kind, is surely the most reasonable step we can make towards the compassion of our fellow-creatures.  I could give examples of this kind in the second Atticus.  In every turn of state, without meddling on either side, he has always been favourable and assisting to opprest merit.  The praises which were given by a great poet to the late queen-mother, on her rebuilding Somerset Palace, one part of which was fronting to the mean houses on the other side of the water, are as justly his: 

  For the distrest and the afflicted lie
  Most in his thoughts, and always in his eye[2].

Neither has he so far forgotten a poor inhabitant of his suburbs, whose best prospect is on the garden of Leicester House, but that more than once he has been offering him his patronage, to reconcile him to a world, of which his misfortunes have made him weary[3].  There is another Sidney still remaining, though there can never be another Spenser to deserve the favour.  But one Sidney gave his patronage to the applications of a poet; the other offered it unasked.  Thus, whether as a second Atticus, or a second Sir Philip Sidney, the latter in all respects will not have the worse of the comparison; and if he will take up with the second place, the world will not so far flatter his modesty, as to seat him there, unless it be out of a deference of manners, that he may place himself where he pleases at his own table.

I may therefore safely conclude, that he, who, by the consent of all men, bears so eminent a character, will out of his inborn nobleness forgive the presumption of this address.  It is an unfinished picture, I confess, but the lines and features are so like, that it cannot be mistaken for any other; and without writing any name under it, every beholder must cry out, at first sight,—­this was designed for Atticus; but the bad artist has cast too much of him into shades.  But I have this excuse, that even the greatest masters commonly fall short of the best faces.  They may flatter an indifferent beauty; but the excellencies of nature can have no right done to them; for there both the pencil and pen are overcome by the dignity of the subject; as our admirable Waller has expressed it,

  The heroe’s race transcends the poet’s thought.

There are few in any age who can bear the load of a dedication; for where praise is undeserved, it is satire; though satire on folly is now no longer a scandal to any one person, where a whole age is dipt together.  Yet I had rather undertake a multitude one way, than a single Atticus the other; for it is easier to descend than it is to climb.  I should have gone ashamed out of the world, if I had not at least attempted this address, which I have long thought owing:  and if I had never attempted, I might have been vain enough to think I might have succeeded in it.  Now I have made the experiment, and have failed through my unworthiness, I may rest satisfied, that either the adventure is not to be atchieved, or that it is reserved for some other hand.