on six, days of the week.  The Tatler gave political news, but each number of the Spectator consisted of a single essay.  The object of these periodicals was to reflect the passing humors of the time, and to satirize the follies and minor immoralities of the town.  “I shall endeavor,” wrote Addison, in the tenth paper of the Spectator, “to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality....It was said of Socrates that he brought Philosophy down from Heaven to inhabit among men; and I shall be ambitious to have it said of me that I have brought Philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses.”  Addison’s satire was never personal.  He was a moderate man, and did what he could to restrain Steele’s intemperate party zeal.  His character was dignified and pure, and his strongest emotion seems to have been his religious feeling.  One of his contemporaries called him “a parson in a tie wig,” and he wrote several excellent hymns.  His mission was that of censor of the public taste.  Sometimes he lectured and sometimes he preached, and in his Saturday papers he brought his wide reading and nice scholarship into service for the instruction of his readers.  Such was the series of essays in which he gave an elaborate review of Paradise Lost.  Such also was his famous paper, the Vision of Mirza, an oriental allegory of human life.  The adoption of this slightly pedagogic tone was justified by the prevalent ignorance and frivolity of the age.  But the lighter portions of the Spectator are those which have worn the best.  Their style is at once correct and easy, and it is as a humorist, a sly observer of manners, and, above all, a delightful talker, that Addison is best known to posterity.  In the personal sketches of the members of the Spectator Club, of Will Honeycomb, Captain Sentry, Sir Andrew Freeport, and, above all, Sir Roger de Coverley, the quaint and honest country gentleman, may be found the nucleus of the modern prose fiction of character.  Addison’s humor is always a trifle grave.  There is no whimsy, no frolic in it, as in Sterne or Lamb.  “He thinks justly,” said Dr. Johnson, “but he thinks faintly.”  The Spectator had a host of followers, from the somewhat heavy Rambler and Idler of Johnson, down to the Salmagundi papers of our own Irving, who was, perhaps, Addison’s latest and best literary descendant.  In his own age Addison made some figure as a poet and dramatist.  His Campaign, celebrating the victory of Blenheim, had one much admired couplet, in which Marlborough was likened to the angel of tempest, who,

  Pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,
  Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.

His stately, classical tragedy, Cato, which was acted at Drury Lane Theater in 1712, with immense applause, was pronounced by Dr. Johnson “unquestionably the noblest production of Addison’s genius.”  Is is, notwithstanding, cold and tedious, as a whole, though it has some fine declamatory passages—­in particular the soliloquy of Cato in the fifth act—­