verend 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

I 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 Embryo, 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 1. 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 excrise, 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 produce an inundation of scribblers. Thus I have known the birth of an epic poem foretold by the shooting of a corn, and an ode to Peace prophesied from a pain in the shoulder. The reason of this is obvious: wet weather confines people at home; people confined at home become sick, listless, satirical, melancholy. Now the sick man must not suffer his ideas to stagnate, the listless must have something to dissipate his ennui, the satirical something to vent his spleen upon, and the melancholy something to amuse him; and each, to answer his particular end--writes.

а

a

a

Mr. Aflatus, who is now a scribbler that was once a man,' caught his distemper by the merest accident in the world. He was going out a shooting, and preparatory to it employed himself in drying his powder by the fire. A spark flying out, the whole magazine was in flames; and my friend suffered so much in the explosion, from the havoc it made in the features of his face, that I scarce knew him. He was condemned for a considerable time to his chamber, and during that confinement first became acquainted with the Aonian ladies. He was driven by necessity to read; and chance having Aung in his way the energetic poetry of Sir Richard Blackmore, such a furor poeticus was kindled in his breast, that he instantly mistook himself for a genius, and communicated his mistake to the public. I have been informed, that in his first fit of poetic frenzy, he was so considerably elevated and furious, that after hav, ing kicked down a whole set of china, the servants were obliged to be called in to hold him. The wet weather still affects him, but he is now less violent; and his domestics take no other precaution, than when they find the glass falling, or the sky clouding over, to remove every thing out of his way which might be damaged by a fall. I can now easily conceive some sly female inquiring : What, after all this detail of other people's 'misfortunes, can be the reason of thy scribbling?' To which, as I am a downright kind of a being, I answer, with more truth than politeness : Because it happens to be my humour; and my dear madam, should you be half as well pleased with what you read, as I am with what I write, I shall find in you a constant reader, and

you

will find in me a constant attentive slave. And, since I have indulged the flattering supposition, that I may possibly find a reader or two among the ladies, I beg leave to inform them, that it is by no means my wish