dicated to the people of Great Britain, and is seriously recommended to the use of schools."

Thus are we preface-writing authors justified in speaking of ourselves and our performances. Nor is it often that we rest satisfied with a protracted enumeration of our particular accomplishments; we are frequently desirous to enhance their value by asserting boldly, that all who have preceded us in similar attempts have possessed no one requisite for the proper execution of their task.

Upon the whole, however, nothing can be so proper as for an author to recommend his own work. Is not he who writes a book the most likely person in the world to know its excellences? The seeming indelicacy of becoming the herald of our own accomplishments ought not to resist the good of the community. Besides, I would ask, who scruples to commend to a purchaser his dog, his horse, or his daughter? "" They are well-bred, sir, and well-managed -This from the Godolphin-Arabian-that from Pompey of Northumberland-the other by my first wife, with a wellstocked shop in Houndsditch."

In imitation of so laudable an example, I too shall expect not only pardon, but praise; addressing my reader in the true spirit of such modest assurance, ovaio σOU TαUτης της ποικιλομαθιας-I wish you joy of this learned miscellany.

The principal intention however of this procmium yet remains unanswered. I had only in view to introduce to my readers such of my correspondents as have obliged and gratified me by their assistance; and whose permission to make my public acknowledgments to them will confer on these pages whatever credit they may appear to deserve.

By the indulgence of my valuable friend the Reverend Mr. Kett, of Trinity College, Oxford, I am allowed to inform my readers that I am indebted to him for those numbers signed Q. viz. 4, 22, 27, 39, and 42.

For number 30, I am obliged to a gentleman whose studious retirement has made him better known as the elegant author of Columella, the Spiritual Quixote, and other works of fancy and humour, than as the Reverend Mr. Graves of Claverton near Bath.

For number 16, I have to thank an intimate friend, of whose taste and abilities every one has had sufficient testimony who has fortunately seen Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry, lately published with Remarks, by Mr. Headley of Norwich.

I am permitted to say, that for number 20, my work is indebted to Francis Grose, esq. F. A. S.

For number 24, to the Reverend Joseph Pott, rector of the Old Jewry.

For numbers 32, 37, and 38, to Mr. Berkeley, of Magdalen-hall, Oxford.

For number 34, to Mr. Hammond, of Merton College. For a letter, signed Viator, to the Reverend Mr. Agutter, Magdalen College.

For number 41, to the Reverend Mr. Mavor.

For three letters, signed, John Scribe, John Crop, and Jeremy Crazybones, to Mr. Leycester of Merton College.

Did I know the author of number 10, I certainly would not omit this opportunity of making him my best acknowledgments.

There is yet one other correspondent, to whom this work is indebted for those numbers which bear the signature of Z; viz. 7, 9, 12, 13, 17, 23, 26, 29, and 33.

To him I feel myself obliged, as to one who has descended from the eminence of a superior station to encourage an individual, whose principal merit was, the desire of contributing to the entertainment of others, without disgracing himself. The permission of saying from whom I have received these favours, involves an additional obligation. My motive for not using the privilege with which I am thus indulged, is, that in announcing such a name to the public, I might seem to have principally in view the gratification of my vanity. I might also, perhaps, by some awkwardness in my mode of introduction, reflect no great credit upon the person introduced.

In these pages I have occasionally taken the liberty for which I stipulated in my introductory number, and for which I have the sanction of many similar publications of more established reputation, as in the instances of Jerry Simple, Cantwell, Polumathes, Snub, and Socrates in Em

bryo, of addressing letters to myself. If under these feigned characters I have added to the stock of innocent amusement, or if I may in general claim the credit of praiseworthy intentions, I am willing to believe that I may, without any fear of the consequences, avow myself to be the original projector and promoter of the Olla Podrida.

THOMAS MONRO, A. B.

St. Mary Magdalen College, Oxford.

OLLA PODRIDA.

No. I.

SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 1787.

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Shakspeare's As You Like it.

EVERY one must have observed the unpleasant situation of a bashful man, upon his introduction into a room where he is unacquainted with the company his arms are an encumbrance to him; when addressed, he hesitates in reply, or answers with confusion; his conversation is forced, and his remarks, most likely, foreign to the purpose, and unnatural. I cannot but confess, that such is my present situation. While I am utterly unacquainted with the humours of the persons I am addressing, my conversation must naturally be expected to turn upon the weather, the news, and the common occurrences of the day: when we are become more intimate, we shall be more communicative; we may then proceed to the discussion of various weighty points of fashion, honour, pleasure, sometimes, perhaps, descending to literature, but never to politics.

Should I unfortunately be detected in addressing complimentary letters to myself, filled with encomiums upon the elegance of my style, the purity of my language, and the versatility of my genius; I hope, with the reasonable number of my readers (and I cannot expect an unreasonable number) it will be a sufficient excuse, that custom hath made it a necessary appendage to a work of this kind. Such letters must be written; and, if no ingenious friend will save me the trouble of transcribing them from dedications addressed to other great men, why I must even go to work myself.

Upon reviewing the different reasons which are assigned by authors for favouring the world with their publications, (or, as the ungrateful world is too apt to call it, for obtruding their nonsense on the public) I find, that with some it is an alleviation of pain; with others, a diversion from melancholy contemplations: some scribble because it is cold weather, others because it is hot; some because they have nothing else to do, and others because they had better do any thing else.

To some, this cacoethes scribendi is a chronic `complaint. I remember a man who had regularly a fit of the gout every September: he was unavoidably confined to the house, which as unavoidably produced a fit of reading, and dictating to an amanuensis, (for write he could not); so that by shaking hands with him, you might discover the advance of his poem from the size and state of his chalkstones. Many of those people (who, having been long afflicted with rheumatic complaints, are become tolerable chronicles of the weather) agree in their observation, that a rainy season is apt to