ndency, which I hope, like tragi-comedy, may chance to
please even when they are not critically approved.

TO THE RAMBLER.

DEAR SIR,

Though, as my mamma tells me, I am too young to talk at the table, I
have great pleasure in listening to the conversation of learned men,
especially when they discourse of things which I do not understand; and
have, therefore, been of late particularly delighted with many disputes
about the _alteration of the stile_, which, they say, is to be made by
act of parliament.

One day when my mamma was gone out of the room, I asked a very great
scholar what the style was. He told me he was afraid I should hardly
understand him when he informed me, that it was the stated and
established method of computing time. It was not, indeed, likely that I
should understand him; for I never yet knew time computed in my life,
nor can imagine why we should be at so much trouble to count what we
cannot keep. He did not tell me whether we are to count the time past,
or the time to come; but I have considered them both by myself, and
think it as foolish to count time that is gone, as money that is spent;
and as for the time which is to come, it only seems further off by
counting; and therefore, when any pleasure is promised me, I always
think of the time as little as I can.

I have since listened very attentively to every one that talked upon
this subject, of whom the greater part seem not to understand it better
than myself; for though they often hint how much the nation has been
mistaken, and rejoice that we are at last growing wiser than our
ancestors, I have never been able to discover from them, that any body
has died sooner, or been married later, for counting time wrong; and,
therefore, I began to fancy that there was a great bustle with little
consequence.

At last, two friends of my papa, Mr. Cycle, and Mr. Starlight, being, it
seems, both of high learning, and able to make an almanack, began to
talk about the new style. Sweet Mr. Starlight--I am sure I shall love
his name as long as I live; for he told Cycle roundly, with a fierce
look, that we should never be right without a _year of confusion_. Dear
Mr. Rambler, did you ever hear any thing so charming? a whole year of
confusion! When there has been a rout at mamma's, I have thought one
night of confusion worth a thousand nights of rest; and if I can but see
a year of confusion, a whole year, of cards in one room, and dancings in
another, her