The play was full of striking lines which were instantly caught up and applied to the existing political situation; the theatre was crowded night after night, and the resources of Europe in the way of translations, plaudits, and favorable criticisms were exhausted in the endeavor to express the general approval.  The judgment of a later period has, however, assigned ‘Cato’ a secondary place, and it is remembered mainly on account of its many felicitous passages.  It lacks real dramatic unity and vitality; the character of Cato is essentially an abstraction; there is little dramatic necessity in the situations and incidents.  It is rhetorical rather than poetic, declamatory rather than dramatic.  Johnson aptly described it as “rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just sentiments in elegant language than a representation of natural affections, or of any state probable or possible in human life.”

Addison’s popularity touched its highest point in the production of ‘Cato.’  Even his conciliatory nature could not disarm the envy which such brilliant success naturally aroused, nor wholly escape the bitterness which the intense political feeling of the time constantly bred between ambitious and able men.  Political differences separated him from Swift, and Steele’s uncertain character and inconsistent course blighted what was probably the most delightful intimacy of his life.  Pope doubtless believed that he had good ground for charging Addison with jealousy and insincerity, and in 1715 an open rupture took place between them.  The story of the famous quarrel was first told by Pope, and his version was long accepted in many quarters as final; but later opinion inclines to hold Addison guiltless of the grave accusations brought against him.  Pope was morbidly sensitive to slights, morbidly eager for praise, and extremely irritable.  To a man of such temper, trifles light as air became significant of malice and hatred.  Such trifles unhappily confirmed Pope’s suspicions; his self-love was wounded, sensitiveness became animosity, and animosity became hate, which in the end inspired the most stinging bit of satire in the language:—­

     “Should such a one, resolved to reign alone,
     Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
     View him with jealous yet with scornful eyes,
     Hate him for arts that caused himself to rise,
     Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
     And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
     Alike unused to blame or to commend,
     A timorous foe and a suspicious friend,
     Fearing e’en fools, by flatterers besieged,
     And so obliging that he ne’er obliged;
     Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike.”

There was just enough semblance of truth in these inimitable lines to give them lasting stinging power; but that they were grossly unjust is now generally conceded.  Addison was human, and therefore not free from the frailties of men of his profession; but there was no meanness in him.