use is useful but that which is fashionable; my Pewter holds out
generally half a Year, my Plate a full Twelvemonth; Chairs are not fit
to sit in that were made two Years since, nor Beds fit for any thing
but to sleep in that have stood up above that Time. My Dear is of
Opinion that an old-fashioned Grate consumes Coals, but gives no Heat:
If she drinks out of Glasses of last Year, she cannot distinguish Wine
from Small-Beer. Oh dear Sir you may guess all the rest. Yours.

P. S. I could bear even all this, if I were not obliged also to eat
fashionably. I have a plain Stomach, and have a constant Loathing of
whatever comes to my own Table; for which Reason I dine at the
Chop-House three Days a Week: Where the good Company wonders they
never see you of late. I am sure by your unprejudiced Discourses you
love Broth better than Soup.

Wills, Feb. 19.

Mr. Spectator,
You may believe you are a Person as much talked of as any Man in Town.
I am one of your best Friends in this House, and have laid a Wager you
are so candid a Man and so honest a Fellow, that you will print this
Letter, tho it is in Recommendation of a new Paper called The
Historian. [1] I have read it carefully, and find it written with
Skill, good Sense, Modesty, and Fire. You must allow the Town is
kinder to you than you deserve; and I doubt not but you have so much
Sense of the World, Change of Humour, and instability of all humane
Things, as to understand, that the only Way to preserve Favour, is to
communicate it to others with Good-Nature and Judgment. You are so
generally read, that what you speak of will be read. This with Men of
Sense and Taste is all that is wanting to recommend The Historian.
I am, Sir,
Your daily Advocate,
Reader Gentle.

I was very much surprised this Morning, that any one should find out my
Lodging, and know it so well, as to come directly to my Closet-Door, and
knock at it, to give me the following Letter. When I came out I opened
it, and saw by a very strong Pair of Shoes and a warm Coat the Bearer
had on, that he walked all the Way to bring it me, tho dated from York.
My Misfortune is that I cannot talk, and I found the Messenger had so
much of me, that he could think better than speak. He had, I observed, a
polite Discerning hid under a shrewd Rusticity: He delivered the Paper
with a Yorkshire Tone and a Town Leer.

Mr. Spectator,
The Privilege you have