[Footnote 3: _I.e._ 1710-11. Under date March 14th Swift writes to Stella: "Little Harrison the 'Tatler' came to me, and begged me to dictate a paper to him, which I was forced in charity to do." [T.S.]] [Footnote 4: Pietro Aretino (1492-1557), called "the scourge of Princes." His prose is fiercely satirical, and his poetry as strongly obscene. His works were condemned for their indecency and impiety. He received numerous and valuable gifts from those who were afraid of his criticisms. His sonnets, written to accompany engravings by Marc Antonio, from designs by Giulio Romano (1524), largely contributed to his reputation for obscenity. [T.S.]] THE TATLER, NUMB. 306.[1] _Morte carent animae; semperque, priore relictâ Sede, novis domibus habitant vivuntque receptae. Ipse ego (nam memini) Trojani tempore belli Panthoides Euphorbus eram_-- OVID. MET.[2] FROM THURSDAY MARCH 22, TO SATURDAY MARCH 24, 1710.[3] _From my own Apartment, March 22._ My other correspondents will excuse me if I give the precedency to a lady, whose letter, amongst many more, is just come to hand. "DEAR ISAAC, "I burn with impatience to know what and who you are. The curiosity of my whole sex is fallen upon me, and has kept me waking these three nights. I have dreamed often of you within this fortnight, and every time you appeared in a different form. As you value my repose, tell me in which of them I am to be "Your admirer, "SYLVIA." It is natural for a man who receives a favour of this kind from an unknown fair, to frame immediately some idea of her person, which being suited to the opinion we have of our own merit, is commonly as beautiful and perfect as the most lavish imagination can furnish out. Strongly possessed with these notions, I have read over Sylvia's billet; and notwithstanding the reserve I have had upon this matter, am resolved to go a much greater length, than I yet ever did, in making my self known to the world, and, in particular, to my charming correspondent. In order to it I must premise, that the person produced as mine in the play-house last winter, did in nowise appertain to me. It was such a one however as agreed well with the impression my writings had made, and served the purpose I intended it for; which was to continue the awe and reverence due to the character I was vested with, and, at the same time, to let my enemies see how much I was the delight and favourite of this town. This innocent imposture, which I have all along taken care to carry on, as it then was of some use, has since been of singular service to me, and by being mentioned in one of my papers, effectually recovered my egoity out of the hands of some gentlemen who endeavoured to wrest it from me. This is saying, in short, what I am not: what I am, and have been for many years, is next to be explained. Here it will not be improper to remind Sylvia, that there was formerly such a philosopher as Pythagoras, who,