Mr. SPECTATOR,

The Translations which you have lately given us from the Greek, in some of your last Papers, have been the Occasion of my looking into some of those Authors; among whom I chanced on a Collection of Letters which pass under the Name of Aristaenetus.  Of all the Remains of Antiquity, I believe there can be Nothing produc’d of an Air so gallant and polite; each Letter contains a little Novel or Adventure, which is told with all the Beauties of Language and heightened with a Luxuriance of Wit.  There are several of them translated,[3] but with such wide Deviations from the Original, and in a Style so far differing from the Authors, that the Translator seems rather to have taken Hints for the expressing his own Sense and Thoughts, than to have endeavoured to render those of Aristaenetus.  In the following Translation, I have kept as near the Meaning of the Greek as I could, and have only added a few Words to make the Sentences in English fit together a little better than they would otherwise have done.  The Story seems to be taken from that of Pygmalion and the Statue in Ovid:  Some of the Thoughts are of the same Turn, and the whole is written in a kind of Poetical Prose.

    Philopinax to Chromation.

“Never was Man more overcome with so fantastical a Passion as mine.  I have painted a beautiful Woman, and am despairing, dying for the Picture.  My own Skill has undone me; tis not the Dart of Venus, but my own Pencil has thus wounded me.  Ah me! with what Anxiety am I necessitated to adore my own Idol?  How miserable am I, whilst every one must as much pity the Painter as he praises the Picture, and own my Torment more than equal to my Art.  But why do I thus complain?  Have there not been more unhappy and unnatural Passions than mine?  Yes, I have seen the Representations of Phaedra, Narcissus, and Pasiphae. Phaedra was unhappy in her Love; that of Pasiphae was monstrous; and whilst the other caught at his beloved Likeness, he destroyed the watery Image, which ever eluded his Embraces.  The Fountain represented Narcissus to himself, and the Picture both that and him, thirsting after his adored Image.  But I am yet less unhappy, I enjoy her Presence continually, and if I touch her, I destroy not the beauteous Form, but she looks pleased, and a sweet Smile sits in the charming Space which divides her Lips.  One would swear that Voice and Speech were issuing out, and that ones Ears felt the melodious Sound.  How often have I, deceived by a Lovers Credulity, hearkned if she had not something to whisper me? and when frustrated of my Hopes, how often have I taken my Revenge in Kisses from her Cheeks and Eyes, and softly wooed her to my Embrace, whilst she (as to me it seem’d) only withheld her Tongue the more to inflame me.  But, Madman that I am, shall I be thus taken with the Representation only of a beauteous Face, and flowing