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breaking his heart, who breaks his neck to prevent it. I I know very well the wonders which ancient authors relate concerning this leap; and in particular, that very many persons who tried it escaped not only with their lives but their limbs. If by this means they got rid of their love, though it may in part be ascribed to the reasons you give for it; why may not we suppose, that the cold bath into which they plunged themselves, had also some share in their cure ? A leap into the sea, or into any creek of salt waters, very often gives a new motion to the spirits, and a new turn to the blood; for which reason we prescribe it in distempers which no other medicine will reach. I could produce a quotation out of a very venerable author, in which the phrensy produced by love is compared to that which is produced by The biting of a mad dog. But as this comparison is a little too coarse for your paper, and might look as if it were cited to ridicule the author who has made use of it; I shall only hint at it, and desire you to consider whether, if the phrensý produced by these two different causes be of the same nature, it may not very properly be cured by the same means.

“I am, sir, your most humble servant,

and well-wisher, ÆSCULAPIUS." "MR. SPECTATOR,

I am a young woman crossed in love. My story is very long and melancholy: To give you the heads of it; a young gentleman, after having made his application to me for three years together, and filled


head with a thousand dreams of happiness, some few days since married another. Pray tell me in what part of the world your promontory lies which you call • The Lover's

Leap,' and whether one may go to it by land ? But, alas, I am afraid it has lost its virtue, and that a woman of our times will find no more relief in taking such a leap, than in singing a hymn to Venus. So that I must cry out with Dido in Dryden's Virgil,

Ah! cruel Heaven, that made no cure for love !

“ Your disconsolate servant, ATHENAIS." MISTER SPICTATUR,

My heart is so full of loves and passions for Mrs. Gwi. nifrid, and she is so pettish, and over-run with cholers agains:t

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me, that if I had the good happiness to have my dwelling (which is placed by my creat-cranfather upon the pottom of an hill) no farther distance but twenty mile from the Lofer's Leap, I could indeed indeafour to preak my neck upon it on purpose. Now, good Mister SPICTATUR of Crete Prittain, you must know it, there iss in Caernarvanshire a fery pig mountain, the clory of all Wales, which is named Penmain. maure, and you must also know it iss no great journey on foot from me ; but the road is stony and bad for shooes. Now there is upon the forehead of this mountain a very high rock (like a parish steeple) that cometh a huge deal over the sea; so when I am in my melancholies, and I do throw myself from it, I do desire my fery good friend to tell me in his Spictatur, if I shall be cure of my griefous lofes ; for there is the sea clear the class, and ass creen as the leek: then 'likewise, if I be drown, and preak my neck, if Mrs. Gwinifrid will not lofe me afterwards. Pray be speedy in your answers, for I am in crete haste, and it is my tesires to do my pusiness without loss of time. I remain with cordial affections, your ever lofing friend,

“DAVYTH AP SHENKYN." "P. S. My law-suits have brought me to London, but I have lost my causes; and so have made my resolutions to


down and leap before the frosts begin ; for I am apt to take colds."

Ridicule, perhaps, is a better expedient against love than sober advice, and I am of opinion that Hudibras and Don Quixote may be as effectual to cure the extravagances of this passion, as any of the old philosophers. I shall therefore publish, very speedily, the translation of a little Greek manuscript, which is sent me by a learned friend. It appears to have been a piece of those records which were kept in the little temple of Apollo, that stood upon the promontory of Leucate. The reader will find it to be the summary account of several persons who tried the lover's leap, and of the suc. cess they found in it. As there seem to be in it some anachronisms and deviations from the ancient orthography, I am not wholly satisfied myself that it is authentic, and not rather the production of one of those Grecian sophisters, who have imposed upon the world several spurious works of this nature. I speak this by way of precaution, because I know there are several writers, of uncommon erudition,


who would not fail to expose my ignorance if they caught me tripping in a matter of so great moment.


-Spirat adhuc amor
Vivuntque commissi calores

Æoliæ fidibus puellæ. Hor. Among the many famous pieces of antiquity which are still to be seen at Rome, there is the trunk of a statue which has lost the arms, legs, and head; but discovers such an exquisite workmanship in what remains of it, that Michael Angelo declared he had learned his whole art from it. Indeed he studied it so attentively, that he made most of his statues, and even his pictures, in that Gusto, to make use of the Italian phrase ; for which reason this maimed statue is still called Michael Angelo's school. A fragment of Sappho, which I design for the subject of

paper, is in as great reputation among the poets and critics, as the mutilated figure above-mentioned is among the statuaries and painters. Several of our countrymen, and Mr. Dryden, in particular, seem very often to have copied after it in their dramatic writings and in their poems upon love.

Whatever might have been the occasion of this Ode, the English reader will enter into the beauties of it, if he supposes it to have been written in the person of a lover sitting by his mistress. I shall set to view three different copies of this beautiful original; the first is a translation by Catullus, the second by Monsieur Boileau, and the last by a gentleman whose translation of the Hymn to Venus has beez so deservedly admired.

Ille mî par esse deo videtur,
Ille si fas est, superare divos,
Qui sedens adversus identidem te,

Spectat, et audit
Dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis
Eripit sensus mihi : nam simul te
Lisbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi

Quod loquar amens.

Lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
Flamma dimanat, sonitu suopte
Tinniunt aures, gemina teguntur

Lumina nocte.

My learned reader will know very well the reason why one of these verses is printed in Italic letter; and if he compares this translation with the original, will find that the three first stanzas are rendered almost word for word, and not only with the same elegance, but with the same short turn of expression which is so remarkable in the Greek, and so peculiar to the Sapphic Ode. I cannot imagine for what reason Madame Dacier has told us, that this Ode of Sappho is preserved entire in Longinus, since it is manifest to any one who looks into that author's quotation of it, that there must at least have been another stanza, which is not transmitted to us.

The second translation of this fragment, which I shall here cite, is that of Monsieur Boileau.

Heureux ! qui près de toi, pour toi seule soûpire:
Qui jouit du plaisir de t'entendre parler :
Qui te voit quelquefois doucement lui sourire.
Les Dieux, dans son bonheur, peuvent-ils l'égaler ?
Je sens de veine en veine une subtile flamme
Courir par tout mon corps, si-tôt que je te vois :
Et dans les doux transports, où s'egare mon ame,
Je ne sçaurois trouver de langue, ni de voix.
Un nuage confus se répand sur ma vuë,
Je n'entens plus, je tombe en de douces langueurs ;
Et pâle, sans haleine, interdite, esperduë,
Un frisson me saisit, je tremble, je me meurs.

The reader will see that this is rather an imitation than a translation. The circumstances do not lie so thick together, and follow one another with that vehemence and emotion, as in the original. In short, Monsieur Boileau has given us all the poetry, but not all the passion of this famous fragment. I shall in the last place present my reader with the English translation.

Blest as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the whilo
Softly speak and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost:

My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame ;
O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ;
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled;
My feeble pulse forgot to play ;

I fainted, sunk, and died away. Instead of giving any character of this last translation, I shall desire my learned reader to look into the criticisms which Longinus has made upon the original. By that means he will know to which of the translations he ought to give the preference. I shall only add, that this translation is written in the very spirit of Sappho, and as near the Greek as the genius of our language will possibly suffer.

Longinus has observed, that this description of love in Sappho is an exact copy of nature, and that all the circumstances, which follow one another in such an hurry of senti. ments, notwithstanding they appear repugnant to each other, are really such as happen in the frenzies of love.

I wonder that not one of the critics or editors, through whose hands this Ode has passed, has taken occasion from it to mention a circumstance related by Plutarch. That author, in the famous story of Antiochus, who fell in love with Stratonice, his mother-in-law, and (not daring to discover his passion) pretended to be confined to his bed by his sickness, tells us, that Erasistratus, the physician, found out the nature of his distemper by those symptoms of love which he had learnt from Sappho's writings. Stratonice was in the room of the love-sick prince, when these symptoms discovered themselves to his physician; and it is probable that they were not very different from those which Sappho here describes in a lover sitting by his mistress. This story of Antiochus is so well known, that I need not add the sequel of it, which has no relation to my present subject.

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