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them begged me to touch him with my wand, and assured me I should see his lawn converted into a cloke. The opposite party told me with as much assurance, that if I laid my wand upon the other, I should see his garments embroidered with flower-deluces, and his head covered with a cardinal's hat. I made the experiment, and, to my great joy, saw them both without any change, distributing their blessings to the people, and praying for those who had reviled them. "Is it possible, thought I, that good men, who are so few in number, should be divided anong themselves, and give better quarter to the vicious that are in their party, than the most strictly virtuous who are out of it? Are the ties of faction above those of religion ?--I was going on in my soliloquies, but some sudden accident awakened me, when I found my hand grasped, but my spear gone. The reflection on so very odd a dream made me figure to myself, what a strange face the world would bear, should all mankind appear in their proper shapes and characters, without hypocrisy and disguise ? I am afraid the earth we live upon would appear to other intellectual beings no better than a planet peopled with monsters. This should, methinks, inspire us with an honest ambition of recommending ourselves to those invisible spies, and of being what we would appear. There was one circumstance in my foregoing dream, which I at first intended to conceal; but, upon second thoughts, I cannot look upon myself as a candid and impartial historian, if I do not acquaint my reader, that upon taking Ithuriel's spear into my hand, though I was before an old decrepit fellow, I appeared a very handsome, jolly, black man. But I know my enemies will say this is praising my own beauty, for which reason I will speak no n.ore of it.

N° 238. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1710.

Poetica surgit
Tempestas

JUV. Sat. XII. 23.
Thus dreadful rises the poetic storm. R. WYNNE.

From my own Apartment, October 16. Storms at 'sea are so frequently described by the antient poets, and copied by the moderns,' that whenever I find the winds begin to rise in a new heroic poem,

I generally skip a leaf or two until I come into fair weather. Virgil's tempest is a master-piece in this kind, and is indeed so naturally drawn, that one who has made a voyage can scarce read it without being sea-sick. Land-showers are no less frequent among the poets than the former, but I remember none of them which have not fallen in the country; for which reason they are generally filled with the lowings of oxen, and the bleatings of sheep, and very often embellished with a rainbow.

Virgil's land-shower is likewise the best in its kind. It is indeed a shower of consequence, and contributes to the main design of the poem, by cutting off a tedious ceremonial, and bringing matters to a speedy conclusion between two potentates of different sexes. My ingenious kinsman, Mr. Humphry Wagstaff, who treats of every subject after a manner that no other author has done, and better than any other can do, has sent me the description of a city-shower. I do not question but the reader remembers my cousin's description of the morning as it breaks in town, which is printed in the ninth Tatler, and is another exquisite piece of this local poetry.

Careful observers may foretel the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a Shower ;
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink,
If you be wise, then go not far to dine,
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in winc,
A coming Shower your shooting corns presage,
O!d aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in cffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.

Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill's more liquor !han it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
Wbule the first drizzling Shower is borne aslope :
Such is that sprinkling which some careless qucan
Flints on you from her mop, but not so clean.
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust hal shunn'd tho unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life;
Ane', walled with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy Poet seek for aid,
Wlien dust and rain at once his coat invade?
His only coat, where dust, confus'd wihiain
Roughen the nap, and leave a mingled stain ?

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the Jaggled females fly,
Prerend to chearen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout’s abroach,
Stays till ’ris fair, yet seems to call a coach,

The Luck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphani Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits ;
And ever-and-anon with frightful din
The leaiher sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy-chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, run them through),
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison's hero quak'd for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filth of all hues and odoors seem to tell
What street they sail'd from, by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,
From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their course,
And in huge confluent join'd at Snow-hill ridge,
Fall from the conduit, prone to Holborn-bridge.
Sweepings from butchers stalls, dung, guts, and blood,
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the food.

N° 239. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1710.

Mecum certasse feretur ? OVID. Met. xiii. 20. Shall he contend with me to get a name?

R. WYNNE.

From my own Apartment, October 18. It is ridiculous for any man to criticise on the works of another, who has not distinguished himself by his own performances. A judge would make but an indifferent figure who had never been known at the bar. Cicero was reputed the greatest orator of his age and country, before he wrote a book “ De Oratore;” and Horace the greatest poet, before he published his “ Art of Poetry.” This observation arises naturally in any one who casts his eye upon this last-mentioned author, where he will find the criticisms placed in the latter end of his book, that is, after the finest odes and satires in the Latin tongue.

A modern, whose name I shall not mention, because I would not make a silly Paper sell, was born a Critic and an Examiner, and, like one of the race of the serpent's teeth, came into the world with a sword in his hand. His works put me in mind of the story that is told of the German monk, who was taking a catalogue of a friend's library, and, meeting with a Hebrew book in it, entered it under the title of, “ A book that has the beginning where the end should be.” This author, in the last of his crudities, has amassed together a heap of quotations,

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