Complete. From the Connoisseur, Number 3.

	Suave mari magno, turbantibus æquora ventis,
	E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem.
	—Lucretius.

	“When raging winds the ruffled deep deform,
	We look at distance, and enjoy the storm;
	Toss’d on the waves with pleasure others see,
	Nor heed their dangers, while ourselves are free.”

WE writers of essays, or (as they are termed) periodical papers, justly claim to ourselves a place among the modern improvers of literature. Neither Bentley nor Burman, nor any other equally sagacious commentator, has been able to discover the least traces of any similar productions among the Ancients; except we can suppose that the history of Thucydides was retailed weekly in sixpenny numbers; that Seneca dealt out his morality every Saturday; or that Tully wrote speeches and philosophical disquisitions, whilst Virgil and Horace clubbed together to furnish the poetry for a Roman magazine.

  There is a word, indeed, by which we are fond of distinguishing our works, and for which we must confess ourselves indebted to the Latin. Myself, and every petty journalist, affect to dignify our hasty performances by styling them Lucubrations; by which we mean, if we mean anything, that as the day is too short for our labors, we are obliged to call in the assistance of the night,—not to mention the modest insinuation that our compositions are so correct, that (like the orations of Demosthenes) they may be said to smell of the lamp. We would be understood to follow the directions of the Roman satirist, “to grow pale by the midnight candle”; though, perhaps, as our own satirist expresses it, we may be thought—

“Sleepless ourselves, to give our readers sleep.”

  But, as a relief from the fatigue of so many restless hours, we have frequently gone to sleep for the benefit of the public: and surely we, whose labors are confined to a sheet and a half, may be indulged in taking a nap now and then, as well as those engaged in longer works; who (according to Horace) are to be excused, if a little drowsiness sometimes creeps in upon them.

  After this preface the reader will not be surprised if I take the liberty to relate a dream of my own. It is usual on these occasions to be lulled to sleep by some book, and most of my brethren pay that compliment to Virgil or Shakespeare; but as I could never discover any opiate qualities in those authors, I chose rather to doze over some modern performance. I must beg to be excused from mentioning particulars, as I would not provoke the resentment of my contemporaries; nobody will imagine that I dipped into any of our modern novels, or took up any of our late tragedies. Let it suffice that I presently fell fast asleep.

  I found myself transported in an instant to the shore of an immense sea, covered with innumerable vessels; and though many of them suddenly disappeared every minute, I saw others continually launching forth and pursuing the same course. The seers of visions and dreamers of dreams have their organs of sight so considerably improved that they can take in any object, however distant or minute. It is not therefore to be wondered at that I could discern everything distinctly, though the waters before me were of the deepest black.

  While I stood contemplating this amazing scene, one of those good-natured genii, who never fail making their appearance to extricate dreamers from their difficulties, rose from the sable stream and planted himself at my elbow. His complexion was of the darkest hue, not unlike that of the Dæmons of a printing house; his jetty beard shone like the bristles of a blacking brush; on his head he wore a turban of imperial paper; and—

“There hung a calfskin on his reverend limbs,”

which was gilt on the back, and faced with robings of Morocco, lettered (like a rubric post) with the names of the most eminent authors. In his left hand he bore a printed scroll, which from the marginal corrections I imagined to be a proof sheet; and in his right he waved the quill of a goose.

  He immediately accosted me. “Town,” said he, “I am the Genius who is destined to conduct you through these turbulent waves. The sea that you now behold is the Ocean of Ink. Those towers, at a great distance, whose bases are founded upon rocks, and whose tops seem lost in the clouds, are situated in the Isle of Fame. Contiguous to these you may discern by the glittering of its golden sands is the Coast of Gain, which leads to a fertile and rich country. All the vessels which are yonder sailing with a fair wind on the main sea are making towards one or other of these; but you will observe that on their first setting out they were irresistibly drawn into the eddies of Criticism, where they were obliged to encounter the most dreadful tempests and hurricanes. In these dangerous straits you see with what violence every bark is tossed up and down; some go to the bottom at once; others, after a faint struggle, are beat to pieces; many are much damaged; while a few, by sound planks and tight rigging, are enabled to weather the storm.”

  At this sight I started back with horror; and the remembrance still dwells so strong upon my fancy that I even now imagine the torrent of criticism bursting in upon me, and ready to overwhelm me in an instant.

  “Cast a look,” resumed my instructor, “on that vast lake divided into two parts, which lead to yonder magnificent structures, erected by the Tragic and Comic Muse. There you may observe many trying to force a passage without chart or compass. Some have been overset by crowding too much sail, and others have foundered by carrying too much ballast. An Arcadian vessel (the master an Irishman) was, through contrary squalls, scarce able to live nine days; but you see that light Italian gondola Gli Amanti Gelosi, skims along pleasantly before the wind, and outstrips the painted frigates of our country, Didone and Artaserse. Observe that triumphant squadron, to whose flag all the others pay homage. Most of them are ships of the first rate, and were fitted out many years ago. Though somewhat irregular in their make, and but little conformable to the exact rules of art, they will ever continue the pride and glory of these seas; for as it is remarked by the present laureate, in his prologue to Papal Tyranny:—

	“Shakespeare, whose art no playwright can excel,
	Has launch’d us fleets of plays, and built them well.”

  The Genius then bade me turn my eye where the water seemed to foam with perpetual agitation. “That,” said he, “is the strong current of Politics, often fatal to those who venture on it.” I could not but take notice of a poor wretch on the opposite shore, fastened by the ears to a terrible machine. This, the Genius informed me, was the memorable Defoe, set up there as a landmark to prevent future mariners from splitting on the same rock.

  To this turbulent prospect succeeded objects of a more placid nature. In a little creek, winding through flowery meads and shady groves, I descried several gilded yachts and pleasure boats, all of them keeping due time with their silver oars, and gliding along the smooth, even, calm, regularly flowing rivulets of Rhyme. Shepherds and shepherdesses playing on the banks, the sails were gently swelled with the soft breezes of amorous sighs, and little Loves sporting in the silken cordage.

  My attention was now called off from these pacific scenes to an obstinate engagement between several ships, distinguished from all others by bearing the Holy Cross for their colors. These, the Genius told me, were employed in the Holy War of Religious Controversy; and he pointed out to me a few Corsairs in the service of the Infidels, sometimes aiding one party, sometimes siding with the other, as might best contribute to the general confusion.

  I observed in different parts of the ocean several galleys which were rowed by slaves. “Those,” said the Genius, “are fitted out by very oppressive owners, and are all of them bound to the Coast of Gain. The miserable wretches whom you see chained to the oars are obliged to tug without the least respite; and though the voyage should turn out successful, they have little or no share in the profits. Some few you may observe who rather choose to make a venture on their own bottoms. These work as hard as the galley slaves, and are frequently cast away; but though they are never so often wrecked, necessity still constrains them to put out to sea again,”—

	————Reficit rates
	Quassas, indocilis pauperiem pati.
	—Horace.

	“Still must the wretch his shatter’d bark refit,
	For who to starve can patiently submit?”

    It were needless to enumerate many other particulars that engaged my notice. Among the rest was a large fleet of Annotators, Dutch built, which sailed very heavy, were often aground, and continually ran foul on each other. The whole ocean, I also found, was infested by pirates, who ransacked every rich vessel that came in their way. Most of these were endeavoring to make the Coast of Gain, by hanging out false colors or by forging their passports, and pretending to be freighted out by the most reputable traders.

  My eyes were at last fixed, I know not how, on a spacious channel running through the midst of a great city. I felt such a secret impulse at this sight that I could not help inquiring particularly about it. “The discovery of that passage,” said the Genius, “was first made by one Bickerstaff, in the good ship called the Tatler, and who afterwards embarked in the Spectator and Guardian. These have been followed since by a number of little sloops, skiffs, hoys, and cock boats, which have been most of them wrecked in the attempt. Thither, also, must your course be directed.” At this instant the Genius suddenly snatched me up in his arms, and plunged me headlong into the inky flood. While I lay gasping and struggling beneath the waves, methought I heard a familiar voice calling me by my name, which awaking me, I with pleasure recollected the features of the Genius in those of my publisher, who was standing by my bedside, and had called upon me for copy.