.

To the Author of the Olla Podrida.

GOOD SIR,

I AM an old soldier, and though I say it, have seen and felt as much hard service as any man, and have actually fought as long as I had limbs to support me. My legs, sir, which at this present writing are no less than fourteen hundred English miles asunder, are buried (for aught I know) in two different quarters of the globe, and will, alas! never cross each other again. I have a hand, sir, in two great kingdoms, whose names, for politic reasons, I think proper at present to conceal, and only add, that it is no impossible thing for a man to be in one country, and at the same time to have a hand in another. Such is my situation, sir, that I am cropt close like a Buckinghamshire pollard, and have hardly a twig left upon my trunk. Now, sir, there is a knot of merry gentlemen in our neighbourhood, who, forsooth, having legs and arms of their own natural growth, are pleased to be considerably witty on what is left of me, and not unfrequently extend their pleasantry to the ascititious branches which are engrafted upon me. request,

through the medium of your paper, sir, that you will inform these wags, that my arms and legs are formed from the same piece, and not of different kinds of timber, as they have maliciously reported; and that although I wear my common crab-trees on common occasions, I have a pair of best mahogany supporters for red-letter days and Sundays. I am the more desirous of their being informed of

:

these particulars, as I pay my addresses to a wellfavoured middle-aged lady of some fortune in the village and I would have you, her, them, and all the world to know, that I never was so ill-bred as to pay her any compliment on my common legs, nor did I ever venture upon a salute but upon mahogany. I am informed by my man who takes me to pieces, and puts me together again every night and morning, that these merry men stick at nothing to ridicule me. If you would take my part against the sad dogs, you would very much oblige an old general, who hath, you find, long since laid down his arms, and is no longer able to lift up a hand against any coward who presumes upon his incapability to affront him.

JOHN CROP.

I hope I have taken the most effectual method to remedy Mr. Crop's grievances, by stating his account of them.

SIR,

MONRO.-CROP's Letter by Leycester.

To the Author of the Olla Podrida.

IT has pleased Providence to build this vessel of mine of such crazy materials, that a blast or two of wind from the east north-east quite oversets me. No sooner does the weathercock which is erected on the cupola of my pigeon-house point at east, but the rheumatic pains, pins and needles, cramps, joint aches, pinches, contractions, twinges, and the sciatica, attack me in all my quarters. Whether

our bodies, which, I cannot help sometimes thinking, are made for many ends, designs, and purposes, whereof we are at present ignorant, may not serve as inns and baiting-places for swarms of insects which are at such times on their journey to unknown regions, or whether these piercing blasts bring down upon us wretched mortals numberless invisible spears, arrows, knives, and swords, which acted upon by the force of the wind, sheath themselves deep in our muscles, bones, and joints, I must leave sir to you and the learned world to determine. These ills very frequently put my thoughts, as well as limbs, to the rack, to discover their real springs and causes, and I often meditate upon this matter, until conceits of no very common shape and form are most equivocally generated in my pericranium. Sometimes fancy that these guests bring with them on their wings a very peculiar species of animalcula, which, lighting on this our fleshly habitation, creep in like bats and jack-daws into old castle walls through unnumbered and imperceptible chinks, fissures, and crannies of our rimose and rimpled carcases, where, when they have got in, they keep a great stir-about in quarrelling, fighting, and making love; in building nests, and depositing eggs, the productions of which, after we have been some time buried in the earth, leave us without an ounce of flesh to cover us. These are strange chimæras, sir, and make me tremble from head to foot in my great chair. But, sir, while I know my house is to be swallowed down by an earthquake, the certainty of my being out of it, with all my treasures and valuables safe and sound,

when this accident happens, gives me an unspeakable pleasure, and a comfort at my very heart. I am, sir, your humble servant,

JEREMY CRAZYBONES.

The whimsical philosophy of Mr. Crazybones seems to me to border on that pleasant melancholy humour which sober rationality sometimes denominates madness. When it is properly ascertained that he is harmless, and in good bodily health, I shall endeavour to prescribe a medicine for him which may serve to dissipate those chimæras which make him tremble so in his arm-chair.

To the Author of the Olla Podrida.

DEAR SIR,

THE Spectator and others have always thought proper to furnish the public with some description of their persons and domestic qualities. I wish you likewise would communicate to your readers, whether you are a tall or a short man; an horsebackbreaker, or a pantaloon; whether you wear a wig, or your own hair, and talk much or little; with such other interesting particulars, descriptive of your character and appearance. I suppose you are neither a sloven nor a coxcomb.-Pray, sir, are you a bachelor or a married man?

Yours, &c.

MINUTIUS.

For information in all these interesting particu

lars, I shall refer Minutius to a view of myself. If he has any skill in physiognomy, he will discover every thing he wishes, when I inform him, he may see me any morning, between five and six, going toward Joe Pullen's tree. He will know me by my red waistcoat, and a pipe in my mouth.

SIR,

To the Author of the Olla Podrida.

I HAVE a strong desire to see my writings in print, though at present I have nothing to say.—I wish, however, you would insert this in some corner of your paper, and you will much oblige

RICHARD BRIEF. MONRO. CRAZY BONES' Letter by LEYCESTER.

SIR,

No. XX.

SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1787.

To the Author of the Olla Podrida.

Falsus honos juvat.

So prevailing is the love of superiority in the human breast, that the most strange and ridiculous claims are set up for it, by those who have no real merit to offer. It is, indeed, absurd enough to va