His own life may have been clouded towards the last by the mists of disappointment, but to us admiring moderns he is all sunshine.

Not the fiery sunshine of summer, but the genial, dignified light of an autumn afternoon when nature seems in most reflective mood.

For there was nothing impetuous or ardent in the composition of this good-humoured philosopher; and while he railed so well at the petty sins and vanities of the England in which he dwelt, the satire had naught of venom, malice, or uncharitableness.
Nowadays Addison and the _Spectator_ go rolling down to fame together, an indivisible reminder--the very essence indeed--of the virtues, peccadilloes, greatness and meanness of early eighteenth century life.
We may forget that Joe was quite a politician in his prime, we are even loth to recall that there was ever such a play as "Cato," but so long as the English language has power to charm, the dear old volumes of the _Spectator_ will stand out as a delightful landmark of that literature which forms the heritage of American and Briton alike.
How fondly do we turn the pages of the well-read essays, with their pictures of good Sir Roger de Coverley, Will Honeycomb, and the rest of that happy crew.

And over what portrait do we linger more lovingly than that of the _Spectator_ himself, wherein there is many a stroke of the pen that brings Addison in view.

When he tells us, for instance: "I threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and would not make use of my coral until they had taken away the bells from it," the writer is indulging in a pretty bit of humour at the expense of his own sedate youth.
* * * * * "I have passed my latter years," the philosopher goes on to say, "in this city (London), where I am frequently seen in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know me....