"inventions in the fciences, fhould defcend "from the fublime heights of philosophy, to

employ his time and ftudy in directing the trifling and unimportant contentions of na❝tions!"

It would far exceed the bounds of this paper to exhaust this fubject, or to take notice of the different remarks which may be drawn from it, either with regard to human fentiments and conduct, or in relation to the fine arts *. I fhall therefore confine myself to one other obfervation, on a point which has been treated of by Mr. Addifon, in the 40th Number of The Spectator, where he justifies, against the ruling opinion at that time, the practice of those writers of tragedy, who difregard what are called the rules of poetical justice. To his defence of that practice, I think we may add one argument, which seems to have escaped him, drawn from the effect of the oppofition above mentioned; to heighten our paffion for a particular object.

There is implanted in the mind of every man a defire that virtue should be followed by reward, and vice by punishment. But this defire, like every other, gathers new ftrength by oppofition, and rifes upon refiftance. When, therefore, a virtuous man, ámidft all his virtue,

* See Elements of Criticism,

is represented as unhappy, that anxiety which we feel for his happiness becomes fo much the greater; the more undeserved calamities he meets with, the higher is that principle raised, by which we defire that he should attain an adequate reward; the more he is environed and perplexed with difficulties, the more earnestly do we wish that he may be delivered from them all; and, even when he is cut off by premature death, we follow his memory with the greater admiration; and our refpect and reverence for his conduct are increased so much the more, as all our prayers for his happiness in this life are difappointed.

On the other hand, with regard to the vicious, nothing excites fo ftrongly our indignation against vice, or our defire that it should be punished, as our beholding the vicious fucceffful, and, in the midft of his crimes, enjoying profperity. Were we always to fee the vicious man meeting with a proper punishment for his guilt, wretched and unhappy, our eagerness for his punishment would fubfide, and our hatred against him would be converted into pity; his guilt would be forgotten, and his misfortunes only would affect us. Before the trial of an atrocious criminal, the unanimous voice of the public is, that he should be led out to punishment. Suppofe him condemned, how altered

is that voice! His fate is now univerfally pitied and deplored; and, did not the fafety of thousands depend on his fuffering, hardly, in any cafe, fhould we fee the laws of justice finally put in execution.

There can be no good reafon, therefore, for obferving the rules of what is called poetical justice. The effect which a departure from these rules produces, affords the highest poffible testimony in favour of virtue. It fhews that, where virtue meets with calamities and difappointments, this, instead of leffening it in our estimation, only attaches us fo much the more warmly to its interests; and that, where vice is fuccefsful, inftead of creating a feeling in its favour, this only increases our indignation against it. Were virtue always fortunate, were vice always unprofperous, that principle would be enfeebled, by which we defire the reward of the one, and the punishment of the other.

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N° 78. SATURDAY, February 5, 1780.

To the AUTHOR of the MIRROR.

SIR,

THE

HE praifes of friendship, and descriptions of the happinefs arifing from it, I remember to have met with in almost book every and poem fince firft I could read. I was never much addicted to reading; and, in this inftance, I think, I have little reason to put confidence in authors. How it may be in their experience, I know not; but, in mine, this fame virtue of friendship has tended very little to my happiness; on the contrary, Sir, when I tell you my fituation, you will find that I am almoft ruined by my friends.

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From my earliest days, I was reckoned one of the best-natured fellows in the world; and, at fchool, though I must confefs I did not acquire fo much learning as many of my companions; yet, even there, I was remarkable for the acquifition of friends. Even there, too, I acquired them at fome expence; I was flogged, I dare fay, an hundred times, for the faults of others, but was too generous ever to

peach;

peach; my companions were generous fellows too; but it always happened, I don't know how, that my generofity was on the lofing fide of the adventure.

I had not been above three years at college, when the death of an uncle put me in poffeffion of a very confiderable estate. As I was not violently inclined towards literature, I foon took the opportunity, which this presented me, of leaving the univerfity, and entering upon the world. I put myfelf under the tuition of one of my companions, who generally spent the vacations, and indeed fome of the terms too, in London; and took up my refidence in that city. There I needed not that propenfitv which, I have told you, I always poffeffed, to acquire a multitude of friends; I found myself furrounded by them in every tavern and coffeehouse about town. But I foon experienced, that though the commodity was plenty, the price was high. Befides a confiderable mortgage on my eftate, of which one of my beft friends contrived to poffefs himself, I was obliged to expofe my life in a couple of duels, and had very near loft it by disease, in that courfe of friendship which I underwent in the metropolis. All this was more a focial facrifice to others than a gratification to myself. Naturally rather of a fober difpofition, I found more freVOL. III. quently

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