an uneasiness, pains they don't know where, vapours, hysterics, want of rest, want of spirits, and loss of appetite consequently the same regimen may serve for all. I advise them to use a great deal of exercise in driving about the town, to dilute properly with tea, to perspire freely at public places, and in their seasons to go to Bath, Tunbridge, Cheltenhamn, or Scarborough.

I was indeed surprised with an extraordinary new case the other night, when I was called out of bed to attend a maid of honour, who is frequently afflicted with fits of the mother. Her abdomen, I found, upon examination, to be preternaturally distended : the tumour has been gradually increasing; but I would not attempt to discuss it, as it was not yet arrived to maturity. I intend soon to remove her into the country for a month, in order to deliver her from the complaint she labours under.

I have been induced, Sir, to write to you on this occasion, as you are pleased to take this city under your immediate care. So alarming an evil calls upon us all to oppose its progress: For my own part nothing shall deter me from a diligent discharge of the duty of my profession; though it has already exposed me to the greatest dangers in the execution of it. An old captain of a man of war, who is grievously troubled with choler and overflowing of the gall, on my only hinting a clyster, swore vehemently that I should take one myself, and applying his foot directly to my fundament, kicked me down stairs. This very morning I escaped almost by miracle from the contagion, which raged in the most violent degree through a whole family. The master and mistress were both of them in a very high fever, and quite frantic and delirious: their tongues were prodigiously inflamed, with the tip very sharp, and perpetual vibrating without the least intermission. I would have prescribed some cooling and lenitive

medicines; but the husband in the height of his frenzy flung my tie-wig into the fire, and his wife sluiced me with extravasated urine. As I retired with precipitation, I heard the same wild ravings in the nursery, the kitchen, and every other quarter, which convinced me that the pestilence had seized the whole house. I ran out of doors as fast as possible, reflecting with Terence, 'If Health herself would save this family, she could not.'

Ipsa si cupiat salus

Servare prorsus non potest hanc familiam.

Upon the whole, I may conclude with the aphorism of Hippocrates; that no people can possibly be afflicted with so many and so terrible disorders, unless the plague is among them.'

W.

I am, Sir, your's, &c.

B. G.

No 6. THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 1754.

Quid alat formetque poetam.

Practice alone must form the writer's head,
And ev'ry author to the trade be bred.

HOR.

I REMEMBER to have seen, in some old Italian poet, a fable called 'The Education of the Muses.' Apollo is there said to have taken them at their birth under his immediate care, and as they grew up, to have instructed them, according to their different capacities, in the several branches of playing and singing. Thalia, we are told, was of a lively turn, and took delight in the most comic airs; but was at first with difficulty restrained from falling into ridiculous drolleries, and what our author calls extravaganzas in her manner. Melpomene, who was of a serious and grave disposition, indulged herself in strains of melancholy; but when she aimed at the

most pathetic strokes, was often harsh, or run into wild divisions. Clio, and the rest of the Nine, had not yet learned to temper their voices with sweetness and variety; nor could they tell how to regulate the stops of their flutes, or touch the strings of their lyres with judgment and grace. However, by much practice, they improved gradually under the instructions of Apollo, till at last they were able to exert all the powers of music: and they now form a complete concert, which fills all Parnassus with the most enchanting harmony.

The moral to be drawn from this little fable is naturally applied to those servants of the Muses, Authors; who must necessarily rise, by the same slow degrees, from their first lame attempts in cultivating the arts of Apollo. The best of them, without doubt, went through many more stages of writing, than appears from the palpable gradations still remaining in their works. But as it is impossible to trace them from the first setting out, I shall here present the reader with the sum of my own experience, and illustrate, in the life of Mr. Town, the progress of an author.

Right or wrong, I have ever been addicted to scribbling. I was famous at school for my readiness at crambo and capping verses: I often made themes for other boys, and sold my copy for a tart or a custard: at nine years old I was taken notice of for an English distich; and afterwards immortalized myself by an holiday's task in the same language, which my master, who was himself a poet, pronounced to be scarce inferior to his favourite Blackmore. These were followed by a multitude of little pieces; which, like other fruits that come before their season, had nothing to recommend them but their early appearance.

Filled, however, with great conceptions of my genius and importance, I could not but lament, that

such extraordinary parts should be confined within the narrow circle of my relations and acquaintance.-Therefore, in order to oblige and amaze the public, I soon became a very large contributor to the monthly magazines. But I had the unspeakable mortification to see my favours sometimes not inserted, sometimes postponed, often much altered, and you may be sure always for the worse. On all

these occasions, I never failed to condemn the arrogance and folly of the compilers of these miscellanies; wondering how they could so grossly mistake their own interest, and neglect the entertainment of their readers.

In the meantime a maiden aunt, with whom I lived, a very pious old lady, turned methodist, and often took me with her to the Tabernacle, the Foundery, and many private meetings. This made such an impression upon my mind, that I devoted myself entirely to sacred subjects, and wrote several hymns, which were received with infinite applause by all the good women who visited my aunt; and (the servants being also Methodists) they were often sung by the whole family in the kitchen. I might perhaps in time have rivalled Wesley in these divine compositions, and had even begun an entire new version of the Psalms; when my aunt changing her religion a second time, became a Moravian. But the hymns usually sung by the United Brethren, contain sentiments so sublime and so incomprehensible, that notwithstanding my late success in that kind of poetry, and the great opinion I entertain of my own talents, I durst not venture on their style and manner.

As love and poetry mutually produce each other, it is no wonder, that before I was seventeen I had singled out my particular Sacharissa. This you may suppose gave birth to innumerable songs, elegies, and acrostics. In the space of two years I had written more love verses than Waller, or any other poet;

when, just as I imagined I had rhymed myself into her good graces, I had the mortification to find that my mistress was married to a cornet of horse, a fellow, who I am sure never wrote a line in his life. This threw me into such a violent rage against the whole sex, that I immediately burnt every syllable I had written in her praise, and in bitterness of soul translated the sixth satire of Juvenal.

Soon after this, the son and heir of Lord Townly, to whom I have the honour of being a distant relation, was engaged in a treaty of marriage with a rich heiress. I sat down immediately with great composure to write an Epithalamium on this occasion. I trimmed Hymen's torch, and invited the Lovers and Graces to the wedding; Concord was prepared to join their hands, and Juno to bless them with a numerous race of children. After all these pains, when every thing was ready for the wedding, and the last hand put to the Epithalamium, the match was suddenly broke off, and my poem of course rendered useless. I was more uneasy under this disappointment than any of the parties could possibly be; till I was informed of the sudden marriage of a noble lord with a celebrated beauty. On this popular occasion, promising myself universal applause, I immediately published my Epithalamium, which like Bays's Prologue, was artfully contrived to serve one purpose as well as another.

As my notions had been hitherto confined within a narrow sphere of life, my literary pursuits were consequently less important, till I had the opportunity of enlarging my ideas by going abroad. My travels, of which I have before hinted something to the reader, opened to me a new and extensive field for observation. I will not presume to boast, that 1 received any part of my education at Geneva, or any of those celebrated foreign universities, in which alone an Englishman can be grounded in the princi