private man to stamp his own figure upon the coin of the commonwealth. Cicero, who was so called from the founder of his family, that was marked on the nose with a little wen like a vetch (which is Cicer in Latin,) instead of Marcus Tullius Cicero, ordered the words Marcus Tullius, with the figure of a vetch at the end of them to be inscribed on a public monument. This was

done probably to show that he was neither ashamed of his name or family, notwithstanding the envy of his competitors had often reproached him with both. În the same manner we read of a famous building that was marked in several parts of it with the figures of a frog and a lizard; those words in Greek having been the names of the architects who, by the laws of their country, were never permitted to inscribe their own names upon their works. For the same reason, it is thought that the forelock of the horse in the antique equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, represents at a distance the shape of an owl, to intimate the country of the statuary, who in all probability was an Athenian. This kind of wit was very much in vogue among our own countrymen about an age or two ago, who did not practise it for any oblique reason as the ancients above mentioned, but purely for the sake of being witty. Among innumerable instances that may be given of this nature, I shall produce the device of one Mr. Newberry, as I find it mentioned by our learned Camden in his remains. Mr. Newberry, to represent his name by a picture, hung up at his door the sign of a yew-tree, that had several berries upon it and in the midst of them a great golden N hung upon a bough of the tree, which,

by the help of a little false spelling, made up the word N-ew-berry.

I shall conclude this topic with a rebus, which has been lately hewn out in free-stone, and erected over two of the portals of Blenheim-house, being the figure of a monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock. For the better understanding of which device, I must acquaint my English reader, that the cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as the lion is the emblem of the English nation. Such a device in so noble a pile of buildings, looks like a pun in an heroic poem; and I am very sorry the truly ingenious architect would suffer the statuary to blemish his excellent plan with so poor a conceit; but I hope what I have said will gain quarter for the cock, and deliver him out of the lion's paw.

I find likewise in ancient times the conceit of making an echo talk sensibly, and give rational answers. If this could be excusable in any writer, it would be in Ovid, where he introduces the echo as a nymph, before she was worn away into nothing but a voice. The learned Erasmus, though a man of wit and genius, has composed a dialogue upon this silly kind of device, and made use of an echo who seems to have been a very extraordinary linguist, for she answers the persons she talks with in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, according as she found the syllables which she was to repeat in any of those learned languages. Hudibras, in ridicule of this false kind of wit, has described Bruin bewailing the loss of his bear to a solitary echo, who is of great use to the poet in several distichs, as she does not only repeat after

him, but helps out his verses, and furnishes him with rhymes.

'He raged and kept as heavy a coil as
Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas;
Forcing the valleys to repeat
The accents of his sad regret;
He beat his breast and tore his hair,
For loss of his dear crony hear,
That echo from the hollow ground,
His doleful wailings did resound
More wistfully, by many times,
Than in small poets splay-foot rhymes,
That make her, in their rueful stories,
To answer to int❜rogatories,

And most unconscionably depose
To things of which she nothing knows:
And when she has said all she can say,
"Tis wrested to the lover's fancy.
Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin,
Art thou fled to my- -Echo, Ruin?
I thought th' had'st scorn'd to budge a step
For fear: Quoth Echo, Marry guep.
Am I not here to take thy part?

Then what has quail'd thy stubborn heart?
Have these bones rattled, and this head
So often in thy quarrel bled?

Nor did I ever winch or grudge it,

For thy dear sake, Quoth she, Mum Budget,
Think'st thou 'twill not be laid i' th' dish.
Thou turn'dst thy back? Quoth Echo, Pish.
To run from those th' hadst overcome
Thus cowardly? Quoth Echo, Mum.
But what vengeance makes thee fly
From me too as thine enemy?
Or if thou hast no thought of me,
Nor what I have endur'd for thee,
Yet 'shame and honour might prevail,
To keep thee thus from turning tail:
For who would grudge to spend his blood in
His honour's cause? Quoth she, A pudding.

No. 60.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 9. By Addison.

Hoc est quod palles? Cur quis non prandeat, hoc est?
PERS. Sat. 3. v. 85.

Is it for this you gain those meagre looks,
And sacrifice your dinner to your books?

SEVERAL kinds of false wit that vanished in the refined ages of the world, discovered themselves again in the times of monkish ignorance.

As the monks were the masters af all that little learning which was then extant, and had their whole lives entirely disengaged from business, it is no wonder that several of them, who wanted genius for higher performances, employed many hours in the composition of such tricks in writing as required much time and little capacity. I have seen half the Eneid turned into Latin rhymes by one of the beaux esprits of that dark age; who says in his preface to it, that the Eneid wanted nothing but the sweets of rhyme to make it the most perfect work of its kind. I have likewise seen a hymn in hexameters to the vir gin Mary, which filled a whole book, though it consisted but of the eight following words.

Tot, tibi, sunt, Virgo, dotes, quot, sidera, cælo.

Thou hast as many virtues, O virgin, as there are stars in Heaven.

The poet rung the changes upon these eight several words, and by that means made his verses almost as numerous as the virtues of the stars which they celebrated. It is no wonder that men who had so much time upon their hands, did not

only restore all the antiquated pieces of false wit, but enriched the world with inventions of their own. It was to this age that we owe the production of anagrams, which is nothing else but the transmutation of one word into another, or the turning of the same set of letters into different words; which may change night into day or black into white, if chance, who is the goddess that presides over these sorts of composition, shall so direct. I remember a witty author, in allusion to this kind of writing, calls his rival who, it seems was distorted, and had his limbs set in places that did not properly belong to them, the anagram of a man.

When the anagrammatist takes a name to work upon, he considers it at first as a mine not broken up, which will not show the treasure it contains till he shall have spent many hours in the search of it: for it is his business to find out one word that conceals itself in another, and to examine the letters in all the variety of stations in which they can possibly be ranged. I have heard of a gentleman who, when this kind of wit was in fashion, endeavoured to gain his mistress's heart by it. She was one of the finest women of her age, and known by the name of the Lady Mary Boon. The lover not being able to make any thing of Mary, by certain liberties indulged to this kind of writing, converted it into Moll; and after having shut himself up for half a year, with indefatigable industry produced an anagram. Upon the presenting it to his mistress, who was a little vexed in her heart to see herself degraded into Moll Boon, she told him, to his infi