by the discerning many. Should they sometimes relate adventures they may have met with in a stage coach, in the lobby of a play-house, or among the triflers of the drawing-room; their readers are bound in honour to believe that they have not, all their life long, been actuated by that high-minded spirit which usually excites authors to mount the top of a coach, to soar into the twelve-penny gallery, and to leave the splendor of the drawingroom to "low ambition and the pride of kings."

Unfortunately for myself and my readers, I do not unite in my own person all those qualifications which should adorn a professor of painting, dancing, music, electricity, horsemanship, and half a score more things of the same nature, all of which, in the course of my business, I shall be expected to deal out to my customers. In order to supply those deficiencies in myself, which I sincerely lament, I have settled a regular correspondence with some honest gentlemen of the quill, of great credit, and great stock-in-trade, from whose kind assistance I hope to give universal satisfaction. When I first

hinted my proposal to the literati, mentioning the terms upon which I purposed employing any two or three hands who might be out of work, I received, among others, the following answer to my advertisement.

SIR,

To the Author of the Olla Podrida.

I AM an excellent scholar, a man of great abilities, extensive knowledge, and of infinite wit and

humour. I have written twelve essays, which will do very great honour to, and very much increase the reputation of your work; all which I will let you have for half-a-guinea, and will throw you half a score epigrams into the bargain. I would have waited upon you myself with them; but, sir, my shirt is washing, and my coat is gone to be mended. I am, sir,

Your most obedient humble servant,

JOHN SCRIBE.

I hastened to Mr. Scribe's lodgings, at Paddington. I shall not here give a very minute description of the different modes of salutation with which two authors come together, lest some of my readers, who are disposed to turn the gravest things into ridicule, should be inclined to laugh, particularly as my friend before observed, that his shirt was with his laundress and his coat with the tailor. Suffice it therefore to say, that, after a mutual interchange of compliments, he celebrating my liberality, and I his talents, we proceeded to discuss the business which had occasioned our meeting. The engagement entered into between us was soon concluded upon, and produced a confidential intimacy, which excited Mr. Scribe to favour me with some insight into his own character, opinions, and adventures. But as in the ardour of a new-formed friendship I promised to give his complete life to the world, in two volumes octavo, price fourteen shillings, to be sold by all the booksellers in town and country, I will not anticipate the pleasure my readers will have in the perusal of my work, by mutilated and imperfect sketches of that history,

which will soon be presented to them whole and uncorrupt.

Upon taking leave of my Paddington friend, as he followed me down stairs, he very obligingly offered his assistance in the framing of any advertisements which might be necessary or conducive to the sale of my work. He then showed me, as specimens of his talents in this species of writing, an essay on leather breeches made upon mathematical principles, and a recommendation of the concave razor. These, he observed, were works of a lighter kind, and such as he called ɛɛα πixida, or the amusements of Paddington. I thanked him, but declined the acceptance of his offer.

Upon my return home, I found three or four visitants had called upon business similar to Mr. Scribe's: amongst whom an Hibernian stay-maker, from the Borough, wished to enlist in my service, and in testimony of his abilities had left a parcel of dreams of his own composing, which are ushered in by complaints of his inability to sleep. A French marquis, to whom the air of Great Britain had been recommended by his physicians, left word, that, having nothing else to do, he had condescended, during his residence in this island, purely from his penchant for the science, and pour passer le temps, to instruct the noblesse in dancing. This course of life, he very properly observed, gave him many opportunities of furnishing me with intelligence from the beau monde; and accordingly my readers will frequently see how things go on from the authentic information of the marquis.

MONRO. SCRIBE's Letter by LEY CESTER.

No. X.

SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1787.

Vivite felices, quibus est fortuna peracta
Jam sua

Virgil.

IN expatiating upon the transient brevity of all sublunary happiness, moralists of every age and climate have shown themselves desirous of indulging in the flights of their imaginations. Human life has been severally compared to a race, to the gliding course of a river, to a moveable procession, and to many other fleeting appearances, of which each part exists by the cessation or non-commencement of existence in the rest. It is upon the same principles that, by philosophers of more abstruse speculation, time, from its successive continuity, has been demonstrated never to be present. To make the proper use then of these demonstrations, one might easily prove the absurdity of reposing our happiness upon present time which has been allowed to have no existence, and of attempting to build a real superstructure upon the imaginary basis of a nonentity. But if our felicity cannot originate from sensation or the enjoyment of the present moment, it must of course be derived either from a speculative anticipation of futurity, or a soothing remembrance of pleasures already enjoyed. To contrast then these two original sources, shall be the subject of the following paper, that we may be enabled to discriminate which of the two is more de

sirable, from the permanency of those pleasures it bestows, and their independency of external support.

In the contemplation of future life, our thoughts must of necessity be agitated by the most powerful passions inherent in our frame. Hope and Fear, which have always been found to have most influence upon human actions, are the passions which give a tincture of themselves to all our views, whilst we look forward into futurity. If the prospect before us appear cheerful and serene, Hope communicates to us a pleasure as lively in the view of it, as Sensation could in the enjoyment; and though a disappointment of our expectations may deprive us of this imaginary bliss, and convince us of the error which we have been cherishing in our bosoms; yet it is that kind of error (mentis gratissimus) from which it gives us real pain to be separated. On the contrary, whatever good fortune may await us, if we have no reason to flatter ourselves with the expectation of it; if, as far as human eye can penetrate, the prospect before us appear a dark and dreary waste, the fear of incumbent misfortunes renders our sufferings more painful, than if we actually laboured under the evils which we only apprehend, and sinks us in all the "misery of fancied woe."

We see then, that in the anticipation of life we frequently make ourselves miserable by the apprehension of evils which we never experience; and that the pleasures which are derived from Hope, though acute and brilliant, are neither permanent, nor independent of external support. Their dura