_, I. i 282. "Who am I, at all events, if I am
not Sosia? I ask you _that_."--H.T. RILEY. [T.S.]]

[Footnote 2: _I.e._ 1710-11. [T.S.]]

[Footnote 3: This, no doubt, was Steele's last "Tatler," No. 271. [T.
S.]]

THE TATLER, No. 2.

_Alios viri reverentia, vultusque ad continendum populum mire formatus,
alios etiam, quibus ipse interesse non potuit, vis scribendi tamen,
et magni nominis autoritas pervicere._--TULL. EPIST.[1]

FROM SATURD. JAN. 13. TO TUESDAY JAN, l6. 1710.[2]

I remember Menage,[3] tells a story of Monsieur Racan, who had appointed
a day and hour to meet a certain lady of great wit whom he had never
seen, in order to make an acquaintance between them. "Two of Racan's
friends, who had heard of the appointment, resolved to play him a trick.
The first went to the lady two hours before the time, said his name was
Racan, and talked with her an hour; they were both mightily pleased,
began a great friendship, and parted with much satisfaction. A few
minutes after comes the second, and sends up the same name; the lady
wonders at the meaning, and tells him, Mr. Racan had just left her. The
gentleman says it was some rascally impostor, and that he had been
frequently used in that manner. The lady is convinced, and they laugh at
the oddness of the adventure. She now calls to mind several passages,
which confirm her that the former was a cheat. He appoints a second
meeting, and takes his leave. He was no sooner gone, but the true Racan
comes to the door, and desires, under that name, to see the lady. She was
out of all patience, sends for him up, rates him for an impostor, and,
after a thousand injuries, flings a slipper at his head. It was
impossible to pacify or disabuse her; he was forced to retire, and it was
not without some time, and the intervention of friends, that they could
come to an _eclaircissement_." This, as I take it, is exactly the case
with Mr. S[tee]le, the pretended "TATLER" from Morphew, and myself, only
(I presume) the world will be sooner undeceived than the lady in Menage.
The very day my last paper came out, my printer brought me another of the
same date, called "The Tatler," by Isaac Bickerstaff Esq; and, which was
still more pleasant, with an advertisement[4] at the end, calling me the
"_Female_ TATLER": it is not enough to rob me of my name, but now they
must impose a sex on me, when my years have long since determined me to
be of none at all. There is only one thing wanting in