source of discord, envy, jealousy, and rivalship, among mankind, one would be apt to imagine that the pursuits and employments of studious and literary men would be carried on with calmness, good temper, and tranquillity. The philosophic sage, retired from the world, who hath truth for the object of his inquiries, might be willing, it were natural to suppose, to give up his own system when he found it at variance with truth, and would never quarrel with another for adopting a different one; and the man of elegance and taste, who has literary entertainment in view, would not, one should think, find fault with the like amusements of other men, or dispute with rancour or heat, upon mere matters of taste. But the fact has been otherwise: the disputes among the learned have, in every age, been carried on with the utmost virulence; and men, pretending to taste, have railed at each other with unparalleled abuse. Possibly the abstraction from the world, in which the philosopher lives, may render him more impatient of contradiction than those who mix oftener with common societies; and perhaps that fineness and delicacy of perception which the man of taste acquires may be more liable to irritation than the coarser feelings of minds less cultivated and improved.

I have been led into these remarks by a conversation at which I happened lately to be present. Last week, having left with my editor materials for my next paper, I went to the country for a few days, to pay a visit to a friend, whose real name I shall conceal under that of Sylvester. Sylvester, when a young man, had retired to the country, and having succeeded to a paternal estate, which was sufficient for all his wants, had lived almost constantly at home. His time was spent chiefly in study, and he had published some performances which did honour to his genius and his knowledge. During all this time,

Sylvester was the regular correspondent of a gentleman whom I shall here call Alcander, whose taste and pursuits were in many respects similar to his own. Alcander, though he was not an author like Sylvester, had from nature a very delicate taste, which had been much improved by culture. From a variety of accidents the two friends had not met for a great number of years; but while I was at Sylvester's house he received a letter from Alcander, notifying that gentleman's being on his way to visit him; and soon after he arrived accordingly.

It is not easy to describe the pleasure which the two friends felt at meeting. After the first salutations, their discourse took a literary turn. I was delighted, as well as instructed, with the remarks which were made upon men and books, by two persons of extensive information and accomplished taste; and the warmth with which they made them added a relish to their observations. The conversation lasted till it was very late, when my host and his friend retired to their apartments, much pleased with each other, and in full expectation of additional entertainment from a continuation of such intercourse at the return of a new day.

Next morning, after breakfast, their literary discourse was resumed. It turned on a comparison of the different genius and merit of the French and English authors. Sylvester said, he thought there was a power of reasoning, a strength of genius, and a depth of reflection in the English authors, of which the French, in general, were incapable; and that, in his opinion, the preference lay greatly on the side of the writers of our own country. Alcander begged leave to differ from him; he admitted there was an appearance of depth in many of the English authors, but he said it was false and hollow. He maintained, that the seeking after something profound had led

into many useless metaphysical disquisitions, in which the writer had no real merit, nor could the reader find any real advantage. But the French authors, he said, excelled in remarks on life and character, which, as they were founded on actual observation, might be attended with much utility, and as they were expressed in the liveliest manner, could not fail to give the highest entertainment. Alcander, in the course of his argument, endeavoured to illustrate it by a comparison of some of the most distinguished authors of both countries. Sylvester, finding those writers, whom he had studied with attention, and imitated with success, so warmly attacked, replied with some heat, as if he thought it tended to the disparagement of his own compositions. Sylvester said something about French frivolity; and Alcander replied with a sarcasm on metaphysical absurdity.

Finding the conversation take this unlucky turn, I endeavoured to change the subject; and from the comparison of the English and French authors, took occasion to mention that period of English literature, which has been frequently termed the Augustan age of England, when that constellation of wits appeared which illuminated the reign of Queen Anne.

But this subject of conversation was as unfortunate as the former. Sylvester is a professed admirer of Swift, to whom his attachment is perhaps heightened by a little toryism in his political principles. Alcander is a keen whig, and as great an admirer of Addison. As the conversation had grown rather warm on a general comparison of the authors of one country with those of another, so its warmth was much greater when the comparison was made of two particular favourite authors. Sylvester talked of the strength, the dignity, the forcible observation, and the wit of Swift; Alcander, of the ease, the grace

fulness, the native and agreeable humour of Addison. From remarks upon their writings they went to their characters. Sylvester spoke in praise of openness and spirit, and threw out something against envy, jealousy, and meanness. Alcander inveighed against pride and ill-nature, and pronounced an eulogium on elegance, philanthropy, and gentleness of manners. Sylvester spoke as if he thought no man of a candid and generous mind could be a lover of Addison; Alcander, as if none but a severe and ill-tempered one could endure Swift.

The spirits of the two friends were now heated to a violent degree, and not a little rankled at each other. I endeavoured again to give the discourse a new direction, and, as if accidentally, introduced something about the Epistles of Phalaris. I knew both gentlemen were masters of the dispute upon that subject, which has so much divided the learned, and I thought a dry question of this sort could not possibly interest them too much. But in this I was mistaken. Sylvester and Alcander took different sides upon this subject, as they had done upon the former, and supported their opinions with no less warmth than before. Each of them catched fire from every thing his opponent said, as if neither could think well of the judgment of that man who was of an opinion different from his own.

With this last debate the conversation ended. At our meeting next day, a formal politeness took place between Sylvester and Alcander, very different from that openness and cordiality of manner which they showed at their first meeting. The last, soon after, took his departure; and, I believe, neither of them felt that respect for each other's understanding, nor that warmth of affection, which they entertained before this visit.

Alas! the two friends did not consider that it was equally owing to the fault of each that their friendship was thus changed into coldness. Both attached to the same pursuits, and accustomed to indulge them chiefly in seclusion and solitude, they had been too little accustomed to bear contradiction. This impatience of contradiction had not been corrected in either, by attention to the feelings or views of others; and the warmth which each felt in supporting his own particular opinion prevented him from giving the proper indulgence to a diversity of opinion in the

other.

S.

No. 21. TUESDAY, APRIL 6, 1779.

THIS day's paper I devote to correspondents. The first of the two letters it contains was brought to my editor by a spruce footman, who, upon being asked whence he came, replied, from Mrs. Meekly's.

SIR,

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MIRROR.

The world has, at different periods, been afflicted with diseases peculiar to the times in which they appeared, and the faculty have, with great ingenuity, contrived certain generic names, by which they might be distinguished, it being a quality of great use and comfort in a physician to be able to tell precisely of what disorder his patient is likely to die. The nervous seems to be the ailment in greatest vogue at