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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 this 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 been so deservedly admired.*

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My learned reader will know very well the reason why one of these verses is printed in Italic letters; 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 Madam 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 pres de toi, pour toi seule soupire:
Qui jouit du plaisir de t'entendre parler:
Qui te voit quelquefois doucement lui sourire:
Les dieux, dans son bonheur, peuvent-ils l'egaler?
Je sens de veine en veine une subtile flamme
Courir par tout mon corps, si-tot que je te vois :
Et dans les doux transports, ou s'erare mon ame,
Je ne sçaurois trouver de langue, ni de voix.

Un nuage confus se repand sur ma vue,

Je n'entens plus, je tombe en de douces langueurs; Et pale, sans haleine, interdite, esperdue, 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.

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

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

My bosom glow'd; the subtile 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 chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;

I fainted, sank, 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 a hurry of sentiments, 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 sickness, tells us, that Erasistratus, the physician, found out the nature of his distemper by those symptoms of love which he had learned from Sappho's writings. Stratonice was in the room of the love-sick prince, when these symp toms 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. The story of Antiochus, is so well known, that I need not add the sequel of it, which has no relation to my present subject.-C.

No. 230.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1711 Homines ad deos nulla re propius accedunt, quam salutei hominibus dando.-TULL.

Men resemble the gods in nothing so much, as in doing good to their fellow-creatures.

HUMAN nature appears a very deformed, or a very beautiful object, according to the different lights in which it is viewed. When we see men of inflamed passions, or of wicked designs, tearing one another to pieces by open violence, or undermining each other by secret treachery; when we observe base and narrow ends pursued by ignominious and dishonest means; when we behold men mixed in society as if it were for the destruction of it; we are even ashamed of our species, and out of humor with our own being. But in another light, when we behold them mild, good, and benevolent, full of a generous regard for the public prosperity, compassionating each other's distresses, and relieving each other's wants, we can hardly believe they are creatures of the same kind. In this view they appear gods to each other, in the exercise of the noblest power, that of doing good; and the greatest compliment we have ever been able to make to our own being,

has been by calling this disposition of mind humanity. We cannot but observe a pleasure arising in our own breast upon the seeing or hearing of a generous action, even when we are wholly disinterested in it. I cannot give a more proper instance of this, than by a letter from Pliny, in which he recommends a friend in the most handsome manner, and methinks it would be a great pleasure to know the success of this epistle, though each party concerned in it has been so many hundred years in his grave.

"TO MAXIMUS.

form their taste something more exactly. One that had any true relish for fine writing, might with great pleasure both to himself and them, run over together with them the best Roman historians, poets, and orators, and point out their more remarkable beauties; give them a short scheme of chronology, a little view of geography, medals, astronomy, or what else might best feed the busy inquisitive humor so natural to that age. Such of them as had the least spark of genius, when was once awakened by the shining thoughts and great sentiments of those admired writers, could not, I believe, be easily withheld from attempting "What I should gladly do for any friend of that more difficult sister language, whose exalted yours, I think I may now with confidence request beauties they would have heard so often celebrated for a friend of mine. Arrianus Maturius is the as the pride and wonder of the whole learned most considerable man in his country: when I world. In the meanwhile, it would be requisite call him so, I do not speak with relation to his to exercise their style in writing any little pieces fortune, though that is very plentiful, but to his that ask more of fancy than of judgment: and integrity, justice, gravity, and prudence; his ad- that frequently in their native language; which vice is useful to me in business, and his judgment every one methinks should be most concerned to in matters of learning. His fidelity, truth, and cultivate, especially letters, in which a gentleman good understanding, are very great; beside this, he must have so frequent occasions to distinguish loves me as you do, than which I cannot say anyhimself. A set of genteel good-natured youths thing that signifies a warmer affection. He has fallen into such a manner of life, would form alnothing that's aspiring; and, though he might most a little academy, and doubtless prove no rise to the highest order of nobility, he keeps him- such contemptible companions, as might not often self in an inferior rank: yet I think myself tempt a wiser man to mingle himself in their dibound to use my endeavors to serve and promote versions, and draw them into such serious sports him, and would therefore find the means of add- as might prove nothing less instructing than the ng something to his honors while he neither ex-gravest lessons. I doubt not but it might be made pects nor knows it, nay, though he should refuse some of their favorite plays, to contend which of t. Something, in short, I would have for him that may be honorable, but not troublesome; and I entreat that you will procure him the first thing of this kind that offers, by which you will not only oblige me, but him also; for though he does not covet it, I know he will be as grateful in acknowledging your favor as if he had asked

it."

"MR. SPECTATOR,

"The reflections in some of your papers on the servile manner of education now in use, have given birth to an ambition, which, unless you discountenance it, will, I doubt, engage me in a very difficult, though not ungrateful adventure. I am about to undertake, for the sake of the British youth, to instruct them in such a manner, that the most dangerous page in Virgil or Homer may be read by them with much pleasure, and with perfect safety to their persons.

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Could I prevail so far as to be honored with the protection of some few of them (for I am not hero enough to rescue many), my design is to retire with them to an agreeable solitude, though within the neighborhood of a city, for the convenience of their being instructed in music, dancing, drawing, designing, or any other such accomplishments, which it is conceived may make as proper diversions for them, and almost as pleasant, as the little sordid games which dirty schoolboys are so much delighted with. It may easily be imagined, how such a pretty society, conversing with none beneath themselves, and sometimes admitted, as perhaps not unentertaining parties, among better company commended and caressed for their little performances, and turned by such conversations to a certain gallantry of soul, might be brought early acquainted with some of the most polite English writers. This having given them some tolerable taste of books, they would make themselves masters of the Latin tongue by methods far easier than those in Lilly, with as little difficulty or reluctance as young ladies learn to speak French, or to sing Italian operas. When they had advanced thus far it would be time to

them should recite a beautiful part of a poem or
oration most gracefully, or sometimes to join in
acting a scene in Terence, Sophocles, or our own
Shakspeare. The cause of Milo might again be
pleaded before more favorable judges, Cæsar a
second time be taught to tremble, and another race
of Athenians be afresh enraged at the ambition of
another Philip. Amidst these noble amusements,
we could hope to see the early dawnings of their
imagination daily brighten into sense, their inno-
cence improve into virtue, and their inexperi
enced good nature directed to a generous love of
their country.
"I am," etc.

T.

No. 231.] SATURDAY, NOV. 24, 1711.
O pudor! O pietas!-MART., viii, 78.
O modesty! O piety!

LOOKING oyer the letters which I have lately received from my correspondents, I met with the following one, which is written with such a spirit of politeness, that I could not but be very much pleased with it myself, and question not but it will be as acceptable to the reader.

"MR. SPECTATOR,

"You, who are no stranger to public assemblies, cannot but have observed the awe they often strike on such as are obliged to exert any talent before them. This is a sort of elegant distress, to which ingenuous minds are the most liable, and may therefore deserve some remarks in your paper. Many a brave fellow, who has put his enemy to flight in the field, has been in the utmost disorder upon making a speech before a body of his friends at home. One would think there was some kind of fascination in the eyes of a large circle of peo ple, when darting all together upon one person I have seen a new actor in a tragedy so bound up by it as to be scarce able to speak or move, and have expected he would have died above three acts before the dagger or cup of poison were

Drought in. It would not be amiss, if such a one and withdraw herself from everything that has were at first introduced as a ghost or statue, until danger in it. It is such an exquisite sensibility, he recovered his spirits, and grew fit for some liv-as warns her to shun the first appearance of every. ing part. thing which is hurtful.

"As this sudden desertion of one's self shows a I cannot at present recollect either the place or diffidence, which is not displeasing, it implies at time of what I am going to mention; but I have the same time the greatest respect to an audience read somewhere in the history of ancient Greece, that can be. It is a sort of mute eloquence, which that the women of the country were seized with pleads for their favor much better than words an unaccountable melancholy, which disposed could do; and we find their generosity naturally several of them to make away with themselves. moved to support those who are in so much per- The senate, after having tried many expedients to plexity to entertain them. I was extremely prevent this self-murder, which was so frequent pleased with a late instance of this kind at the among them, published an edict, that if any woopera of Almahide, in the encouragement given man whatever should lay violent hands upon to a young singer, whose more than ordinary herself, her corpse should be exposed naked in the concern on her first appearance, recommended her street, and dragged about the city in the most no less than her agreeable voice and just perform-public manner. This edict immediately put a ance. Mere bashfulness without merit is awk-stop to the practice which was before so common. ward; and merit without modesty insolent. But We may see in this instance the strength of female modest merit has a double claim to acceptance, modesty, which was able to overcome even the vioand generally meets with as many patrous as be-lence of madness and despair. The fear of shame holders. "I ain," etc. in the fair sex was in those days more prevalent than that of death.

It is impossible that a person should exert himself to advantage in an assembly, whether it be his part either to sing or speak, who lies under too great oppressions of modesty. I remember, upon talking with a friend of mine concerning the force of pronunciation, our discourse led us into the enumeration of the several organs of speech which an orator ought to have in perfection, as the tongue, the teeth, the lips, the nose, the palate, and the windpipe. Upon which, says my friend, "You have omitted the most material organ of them all, and that is the forehead."

But notwithstanding an excess of modesty obstructs the tongue and renders it unfit for its offices, a due proportion of it is thought so requisite to an orator, that rhetoricians have recommended it to their disciples as a particular in their art. Cicero tells us that he never liked an orator who did not appear in some little confusion at the beginning of his speech, and confesses that he himself never entered upon an oration without trembling and concern. It is indeed a kind of deference which is due to a great assembly, and seldom fails to raise a benevolence in the audience toward the person who speaks. My correspondent has taken notice that the bravest men often appear timorous on these occasions, as indeed we may observe, that there is generally no creature more impudent than a coward:

Lingua melior, sed frigida bello

Dextera VIRG. Æn., xi, 338.

-Bold at the council-board;

But cautious in the field he shunn'd the sword.

DRYDEN.

A bold tongue and a feeble arm are the qualifications of Drances in Virgil; as Homer, to express a man both timorous and saucy, makes use of a kind of point, which is very rarely to be met with in his writings, namely, that he had the eyes of a dog, but the heart of a deer.t

A just and reasonable modesty does not only recommend eloquence, but sets off every great talent which a man can be possessed of. It heightens all the virtues which it accompanies; like the shades in paintings, it raises and rounds every figure, and makes the colors more beautiful, though not so glaring as they would be without it. Modesty is not only an ornament, but also a guard to virtue. It is a kind of quick and delicate feeling in the soul which makes her shrink

Mrs. Barbier. See a curious account of this lady, in Sir

John Hawkins's History of Music, vol. v, p. 156. tIliad, i, 225,

If modesty has so great an influence over our actions, and is in many cases so impregnable a fence to virtue: what can more undermine morality than that politeness which reigns among the unthinking part of mankind, and treats as unfashionable the most ingenuous part of our behavior; which recommends impudence as good-breeding, and keeps a man always in countenance, not because he is innocent, but because he is shameless?

Seneca thought modesty so great a check to vice, that he prescribes to us the practice of it in secret, and advises us to raise it in ourselves upon imaginary occasions, when such as are real do not offer themselves; for this is the meaning of his precept, That when we are by ourselves, and in our greatest solitudes, we should fancy that Cato stands before us and sees everything we do. In short, if you banish modesty out of the world, she carries away with her half the virtue that is in it.

After these reflections on modesty, as it is a virtue; I must observe, that there is a vicious modesty which justly deserves to be ridiculed, and which those persons very often discover who value themselves most upon a well-bred confidence. This happens when a man is ashamed to act up to his reason, and would not upon any consideration be surprised at the practice of those duties, for the performance of which he was sent. into the world. Many an impudent libertine would blush to be caught in a serious discourse, and would scarce be able to show his head after having disclosed a religious thought. Decency of behavior, all outward show of virtue, and abhorrence of vice are carefully avoided by this set of shamefaced people, as what would disparage their gayety of temper, and infallibly bring them to dishonor. This is such a poorness of spirit, such a despicable cowardice, such a degenerate, abject state of mind, as one would think human nature incapable of, did we not meet with frequent instances of it in ordinary conversation.

There is another kind of vicious modesty which makes a man ashamed of his person, his birth, his profession, his poverty, or the like misfortunes, which it was not in his choice to prevent, and is not in his power to rectify. If a man appears ridiculous by any of the afore-mentioned circumstances, he becomes much more so by being out of countenance for them. They should rather give him occasion to exert a noble spirit, and to palliate those imperfections which are not in his power, by those perfections which are; or to use a

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By bestowing nothing he acquired glory.

My wise and good friend, Sir Andrew Freeport, divides himself almost equally between the town and the country. His time in town is given up to the public, and the management of his private fortune; and after every three or four days spent in this manner, he retires for as many to his seat within a few miles of the town, to the enjoyment of himself, his family, and his friend. Thus business and pleasure, or rather, in Sir Andrew, labor and rest, recommend each other. They take their turns with so quick a vicissitude, that neither becomes a habit, or takes possession of the whole man; nor is it possible he should be surfeited with either. I often see him at our club in good humor, and yet sometimes too with an air of care in his looks; but in his country retreat he is always unbent, and such a companion as I could desire; and therefore I seldom fail to make one with him when he is pleased to invite me.

The other day, as soon as we were got into his chariot, two or three beggars on each side hung upon the doors, and solicited our charity with the usual rhetoric of a sick wife or husband at home, three or four helpless little children all starving with cold and hunger. We were forced to part with some money to get rid of their importunity; and then we proceeded on our journey with the blessings and acclamations of these people.

"Well, then," says Sir Andrew, "we go off with the prayers and good wishes of the beggars, and perhaps too our healths will be drank at the next alehouse: so all we shall be able to value ourselves upon is, that we have promoted the trade of the victualer and the excises of the government. But how few ounces of wool do we see upon the backs of these poor creatures? And when they shall next fall in our way, they will hardly be better dressed; they must always live in rags to look like objects of compassion. If their families too are such as they are represented, 'tis certain they cannot be better clothed, and must be a great deal worse fed. One would think potatoes Should be all their bread, and their drink the pure element; and then what goodly customers are the farmers like to have for their wool, corn, and cattle? Such customers, and such a consumption, cannot choose but advance the landed interest, and hold up the rents of the gentlemen.

"But, of all men living, we merchants, who live by buying and selling, ought never to encourage beggars. The goods which we export are indeed the product of the lands, but much the greatest part of their value is the labor of the people; but how much of these people's labor shall we export while we hire them to sit still? The very alms they receive from us are the wages of idleness. I have often thought that no man should be permitted to take relief from the parish, or to ask it in the street, until he has first purchased as much as possible of his own livelihood by the labor of his own hands; and then the public ought only to be taxed to make good the deficiency. If this rule was strictly observed, we should see every. where such a multitude of new laborers, as would in all probability reduce the prices of all the manufactures. It is the very life of merchandise

to buy cheap and sell dear. The merchant ought to make his outset as cheap as possible, that he may find the greater profit upon his returns; and nothing will enable him to do this like the reduction of the price of labor upon all our manufac tures. This too would be the ready way to increase the number of our foreign markets. The abatement of the price of the manufacture would pay for the carriage of it to more distant countries; and this consequence would be equally beneficial both to the landed and trading interests. As so great an addition of laboring hands would produce this happy consequence both to the merchant and the gentleman, our liberality to common beggars, and every other obstruction to the increase of laborers, must be equally pernicious to both.” Sir Andrew then went on to affirm, that the reduction of the prices of our manufactures by the addition of so many new hands, would be no inconvenience to any man; but observing I was somewhat startled at the assertion, he made a short pause, and then resumed the discourse. "It may seem," says he, "a paradox, that the price of labor should be reduced without an abatement of wages, or that wages can be abated without any inconvenience to the laborer, and yet nothing is more certain than that both these things may hap pen. The wages of the laborers make the greatest part of the price of everything that is useful; and if in proportion with the wages the prices of all other things should be abated, every laborer with less wages would still be able to purchase as many necessaries of life; where then would be the inconvenience? But the price of labor may be reduced by the addition of more hands to a manufacture, and yet the wages of persons remain as high as ever. The admirable Sir William Petty has given examples of this in some of his writings: one of them, as I remember, is that of a watch, which J shall endeavor to explain so as shall suit my pre sent purpose. It is certain that a single watch could not be made so cheap in proportion by only one man, as a hundred watches by a hundred; for as there is vast variety in the work, no one person could equally suit himself to all the parts of it; the manufacture would be tedious, and at last but clumsily performed. But if a hundred watches were to be made by a hundred men, the cases may be assigned to one, the dials to another, the wheels to another, the springs to another, and every other part to a proper artist. As there would be no need of perplexing any one person with too much variety, every one would be able to perform his single part with greater skill and expedition; and the hundred watches would be finished in one fourth part of the time of the first one, and every one of them at one-fourth part of the cost, though the wages of every man were equal. The reduc tion of the price of the manufacture would increase the demand of it; all the same hands would be still employed, and as well paid. The same rule will hold in the clothing, the shipping, and all other trades whatsoever. And thus an addition of hands to our manufactures will only reduce the price of them; the laborer will still have as much wages, and will consequently be enabled to purchase more conveniences of life; so that every interest in the nation would receive a benefit from the increase of our working people.

"Beside, I see no occasion for this charity to common beggars, since every beggar is an inhabitant of a parish, and every parish is taxed to the maintenance of their own poor. For my own part I cannot be mightily pleased with the laws which have done this, which have provided better to feed than employ the poor. We have a tradition from our forefathers, that after the first of those laws

was made, they were insulted with that famous | something extraordinary either in the case or in song:

Hang sorrow and cast away care,
The parish is bound to find us, etc.

And if we will be so good-natured as to maintain them without work, they can do no less in return than sing us The merry Beggars.'

"What then? Am I against all acts of charity? God forbid! I know of no virtue in the Gospel that is in more pathetic expressions recommended to our practice. I was hungry, and ye gave me no meat; thirsty, and ye gave me no drink; naked, and ye clothed me not; a stranger, and ye took me not in; sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.' Our blessed Savior treats the exercise and neglect of charity toward a poor man, as the performance or breach of this duty toward himself. I shall endeavor to obey the will of my Lord and Master; and therefore if an industrious man shall submit to the hardest labor and coarsest fare, rather than endure the sham of taking relief from the parish, or asking it in the street, this is the hungry, the thirsty, the naked; and I ought to believe, if any man is come hither for shelter against persecution or oppression, this is the stranger, and I ought to take him in. If any countryman of our own is fallen into the hands of infidels, and lives in a state of miserable captivity, this is the man in prison, and I should contribute to his ransom, I ought to give to a hospital of invalids, to recover as many useful subjects as I can; but I shall bestow none of bounties upon an altshouse of idle people; and for the same reason I should not think it a reproach to me if I had withheld my charity from those common beggars. But we prescribe better rules than we are able to practice; we are ashamed not to give into the mistaken customs of our Country: but at the same time, I cannot but think it a reproach worse than that of common swearing, that the idle and the abandoned are suffered in the name of Heaven and all that is sacred, to extort from Christian and tender minds a supply to a profligate way of life, that is always to be ported, but never relieved."-Z.

my

the cure, or in the fate of the person who is men tioned in it. After this short preface take the account as follows:

Battus, the son of Menalcas the Sicilian, leaped for Bombyca the musician: got rid of his passion with the loss of his right leg and arm, which were broken in the fall.

Melissa, in love with Daphnis, very much bruised but escaped with life.

Cynisca the wife of Eschines, being in love with Lycus; and Eschines her husband being in love with Eurilla (which had made this married couple very uneasy to one another for several years); both the husband and the wife took the leap by consent; they both of them escaped, and have lived very happily together ever since.

Larissa, a virgin of Thessaly, deserted by Plexippus, after a courtship of three years: she stood upon the brow of the promontory for some time, and after having thrown down a ring, a bracelet, and a little picture, with other presents which she had received from Plexippus, she threw herself into the sea, and was taken up alive.

N. B. Larissa, before she leaped, made an offering of a silver Cupid in the temple of Apollo. Simætha, in love with Daphnis the Myndian, perished in the fall.

Charixus, the brother of Sappho, in love with Rhodope the courtesan, having spent his whole estate upon her, was advised by his sister to leap in the beginning of his amour, but would not hearken to her until he was reduced to his last talent; being forsaken by Rhodope, at length resolved to take the leap. Perished in it.

Aridæus, a beautiful youth of Epirus, in love with Praxinoe, the wife of Thespis; escaped without damage, saving only that two of his fore-teeth were struck out and his nose a little flatted.

promon

Cleora, a widow of Ephesus, being inconsolable for the death of her husband, was resolved to take this leap in order to get rid of her passion for his memory: but being arrived at the sup tory, she there met with Dimmachus, the Milesian, and after a short conversation with him, laid aside the thoughts of her leap, and married him in the temple of Apollo.

N. B. Her widow's weeds are still to be seen

No. 233.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1711. hanging up in the western corner of the temple.

-Tanquam hæc sint nostri medicina furoris,
Aut deus idle malis hominum mitescere discat.
VIRG. Ecl., x, v. 60.
As if by these my sufferings I could ease;
Or by my pains the god of love appease.-DRYDEN.

I SHALL in this paper discharge myself of the promise I have made to the public, by obliging them with the translation of the little Greek manuscript, which is said to have been a piece of those records that were preserved in the temple of Apollo, upon the promontory of Leucate. It is a short history of the Lover's Leap, and is inscribed, An account of persons, male and female, who of fered up their vows in the temple of the Pythian Apollo in the forty-sixth Olympiad, and leaped from the promontory of Leucate into the Ionian sea, in order to cure themselves of the passion of love.

This account is very dry in many parts, as only mentioning the name of the lover who leaped, the person he leaped for, and relating in short, that he was either cured, or killed, or maimed, by the fall. It indeed gives the names of so many, who died by it, that it would have looked like a bill of mortality, had I translated it at full length; I have therefore made an abridgement of it, and only extracted such particular passages as have

Olphis, the fisherman, having received a box on the ear from Thestylis the day before, and being determined to have no more to do with her, leaped, and escaped with life.

Atalanta, an old maid, whose cruelty had several years before driven two or three despairing lovers to this leap: being now in the fifty-fifth year of her age, and in love with an officer of Sparta, broke her neck in the fall.

Hipparchus, being passionately fond of his own wife, who was enamored of Bathyllus, leaped, and died of his fall; upon which his wife married her gallant.

Tettyx, the dancing master, in love with Olym pia, an Athenian matron, threw himself from the rock with great agility, but was crippled in the fall.

Diagoras, the usurer, in love with his cookmaid; he peeped several times over the precipice, but his heart misgiving him, he went back, and married her that evening.

Cinædus, after having entered his own name in the Pythian records, being asked the name of the person whom he leaped for, and being ashamed to discover it, he was set aside, and not suffered to leap.

Eunica, a maid of Paphos, aged nineteen, in

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