d >o QAI 1©^ 40 S i^T)! '^TilJONVSOV^ "^/SaHAII .^WEUNIVERS"/A ^lOSW 2 "^ ^jM-llBRARYO^ ^^^HIBR ^ ^(tfOJUVDJO"^ '^^i/OJIV ^OFCAIIFO/?^ ^OFCAl >&■Aav}ia^•l^^^ ^J. -% CONTENTS PAGE Introduction ^^ A JOURNEY FROM THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT, ETC., ETC. Introduction ^ BOOK I CHAPTER ONE The author dies, meets with Mercury, and is by him conducted to the stage which sets out for the other world 7 CHAPTER TWO In which the author first refutes some idle opinions concerning spirits, and then the passengers relate their several deaths 11 CHAPTER THREE The adventures we met with in the City of Diseases *' 1462,706 CONTENTS CHAPTER FOUR PAGE Discourses on the road, and a description of the palace of Death 26 CHAPTER FIVE The travellers j)roceed on their journey, and meet several s{)irits who are coming into the flesh . 31 CHAPTER SIX An account of the wheel of fortune, with a method of preparing a spirit for this world . . . . . 37 CHAPTER SEVEN The proceedings of Judge Minos at the gate of Elysium 41 CHAPTER EIGHT The adventures which the author met on his first entrance into Elysium 48 CHAPTER NINE More adventures in Elysium 53 CHAPTER TEN The author is surprised at meeting Julian the apos- tate in Elysium ; but is satisfied by him by what means he procured his entrance there. Julian relates his adventures in the character of a slave 57 [vi] COxNTENTS CHAPTER ELEVEN PAGE In which Julian relates his adventures in the char- acter of an avaricious Jew ....... 67 CHAPTER TWELVE What happened to Julian in the characters of a general, an heir, a carpenter, and a beau . . 72 CHAPTER THIRTEEN Julia. 1 passes into a fop , ... 78 CHAPTER FOURTEEN Adventures in the person of a monk 79 CHAPTER FIFTEEN Julian passes into the character of a fidler ... 83 CHAPTER SIXTEEN The history of the wise man 89 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Julian enters into the ])erson of a king .... 98 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Julian passes into a fool 107 [vii] CONTENTS CHAPTER NINETEEN PAGE Julian appears in the character of a beggar . . 11^ CHAPTER TWENTY J uhan performs the part of a statesman . . . 120 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Julian's adventures in the post of a soldier . . . 129 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO What happened to Julian in the person of a tailor 137 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The life of alderman Julian 142 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Julian recounts what happened to him while he was a poet 150 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Julian performs the parts of a knight and a dancing-master 155 BOOK XIX CHAPTER SEVEN ^^Tierein Anna Boleyn relates the history of her life 158 [viii] CONTENTS THE JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE TO LISBON PAGE Dedication to the Public 183 Preface 185 Introduction 19b THE VOYAGE 211 [ix] INTRODUCTION THE Miscellaneous Writings of Fielding included in the following volumes are not, it is perhaps needless to say, to be confused with the Miscellanies by the same author. The latter was the work brouerht out in London by Andrew Millar, Fielding's favourite publisher, in 1743, probably in April, with the title. Miscellanies, by Henry Fielding, Esq. ; In Three Vol- umes. The first of these begins with the list of subscribers, headed by " His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Fifteen Setts.'' It may interest some people to-day to know that Chesterfield took five sets ; Fielding's kinsman, the Earl of Denbigh, three ; the Duke of Marlborough, five; " Her Grace the Dutchess of Richmond," six ; and " Charles Fleet- wood, Esq.," so many as twenty. Other subscribers, who took one set each, were Fielding's steadfast friend, Lyttelton, many of his friends of the law, and among his theatrical friends, jNIrs. Clive, Mrs. Woffington, and Garrick. After this list in the first volume of the Miscellanies, came the author's preface, which is just a little too personal, accord- ing to our way of thinking, in regard to domestic afflictions. We nuist i-emcmber, though, that it was written in an age of personalities, and at this distance of time we have every reason to be grateful [ xiii J INTRODUCTION for the biographical matter it contains. Then fol- lowed a quantity of verse (probably all that Field- ing had written at the time), some in fairly long " poems,"" some in pieces of only a few lines. Witli one or two exceptions, such as A Sailor's Song, a conventional glorification of a scaman\s life, with something of a swing and plenty of commonplace British patriotism, this verse is all in octosyllabic or heroic couplets, — that is, it is regulation eighteentli- century verse with the artificial diction of the eig'i- teenth century and its satirical, unpoetical tone. It is the sort of thing that any literary dilettante might have turned off, but not the sort of thing that stamps its author as a man of genius. Somewhat better is the prose with which the first volume of the Miscellanies was concluded, — namely, three rather long essays (of which that On Conversation was one), a burlesque scientific paper, a translation of the First Olynthiac of Demosthenes, and two or three less im- portant pieces. The greater part of the second volume of the Miscellanies was taken up with J Jcmrney from This Workl to the Next. This was followed by two plays : Eiwydice, A Farce : As it was d — 7nmd at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, and The Wedding Day. A Comedy, As it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, By His Majesty'^s Servants. The third volume of the Miscellanies was entirely taken up by Jonathan Wild. It will be seen, then, that only two of the Miscellanies find a place in these volumes of Miscellaneous Writings: A Journey from this World to the Next and An Essay on Conversation. [xiv] INTRODUCTION In speaking of the miscellaneous writings of Field- ing, one must inevitably say of them in general ^vhat critics have said before : except for the Voyaga to Lisbon, they are interesting not so much for their own sake as for showing the great novelist's achieve- ment in fields vvliich he has not made entirelv his own. In selecting from these writings such as are most likely to interest the public, one cannot do better than to follow again in a path already opened, and fix upon those which Professor Saintsbury has chosen for a late English edition of Fielding. As he says, the first to be chosen for any collection of Fieldii g's miscellaneous writings is The Jour- nal of a Voyage to Lisbon; for after Jonathan Wild and our author's three gi-eat novels, no work of his demands so n)uch consideration. But as the Journal is the choice bit of the present selection, unwise should I be to speak of it here rather than save it for my climax. Let us pass, accordingly, to the Jowneyfrom this World to the Neoct, which for its size, and on the whole for its merit, is second in importance in this collection only to the Voyage to Lisbon. The fact that it came out in the Miscellanies makes certain that it was composed before the year 174r3 ; more than this in regard to its date is not definitely known. The piece which Fielding never finished, is a curious satirical allegory, of a kind not uncom- mon in its day. The earlier chapters are the best ; there is some poetic imagination as veil as a great deal of Fielding's knowledge of human nature in the description of the City of Diseases, the Palace of [xv] INTRODUCTION Death, the "proceedings of Judge Minos," and the first experiences in Elysium. The story of Julian the Apostate, however, becomes tedious; his trans- nn'grations are too many. If interest returns in the story of Anne Boleyn, it is not so much on account of the brilliancy of her narrative as of the chance it ofl'ers us to find out Fielding's estimate of her character. It is but natural that in any collection of Field- ing's miscellaneous writings some of his plays should be represented. From the time when he came to London, a vigorous, warm-hearted young man not quite twenty-one, till the " Licensing Act " of 1737 closed his theatre ten years later, Fielding's literary work was chiefly dramatic. Twenty-five plays of his appear in the large edition of Fielding got out by Sir Leslie Stephen some twenty years ago, of which they fill three of the ten big volumes. Though two or three of these plays did not take final shape until after Joseph Andrezos had made Richardson Field- ing's implacable enemy, they all belong to the same period of the author's literary career ; that in which, as we have seen, he was getting the knowledge of life which made his great novels possible. All the plays, too, are of substantially the same character. They are full of rollickini; "-ood humour, thev are of easv-going morality, and they are human. Among Fielding's plays perha[)s the burlescjucs show the truest observation of life ; and among them common consent has ranked Tom Thumb t\\e first. The piece was brought out in two acts in 1730, when it met with such favour that the next year it «'as changed to a three-act play. Its first interest lies [xvY] INTRODUCTION in Fielding's power of burlesque — a power he never lost — which is here exerted to ridicule the bombast of dramatic authors from Dryden to Young and Thomson. The preface by " H. Scriblerus Secundus "" states with seeming gravity that The Tragedy of Tragedies ; or, the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great was written in the reign of Elizabeth ; its travestied scholarly notes, by citing parallel passages, — according to the annotator, all imitated from Tom Thumb, — show the better to readers of to-day whom the author was hittina;. A second interest lies in its connection with the English Arthurian stories. It is the one trace in our literature of the popular association, during the Queen Anne period and the years which preceded and followed it, of such heroes as Jack the Giant-Killer and Tom Thumb with the famous Arthur, in place of his old Knights of the Round Table. Along with Sir Richard Black morels would-be noble Arthurian epics, and the vulgarisa- tion of the sage Merlin by the cheap almanac- maker, Partridge, the victim of Swift's fiimous hoax, Field- ing's ridicule of the great romantic king marks the degradation of the grandest poetic theme of the Middle Ages in the " age of prose and reason.'' Yet I do not think that Fielding intended to ridi- cule Arthurian romance in Tom Thumb as well as contemporary tragedy. Apart from .\rthur and Merlin, he makes use of no genuine Arthurian character. True, Tom Thumb resembles Sir Launcelot in being both the best knight of the court and the beloved of the queen and other ladies; inasmuch as he does not return her love, [ xvii J INTRODUCTION however, but on the contrary loves her daughter, it is evident that Fielding, even if he meant to call attention to the parallel between Tom Thumb and Sir Launcelot at all, had no intention of insisting on it. Had he done so, it is doubtful if his audience would have understood him. Of the other two plays chosen to represent Field- ing's dramatic work, there is less to say. Without giving definite assurance of their writer's genius, they are full of promise. Pasqiiin, produced in 1736, was the first play acted at the little theatre in the Hay- market, after Fielding became its proprietor. The piece is a burlesque of somewhat the same style as Tom Thumb, but not quite so good ; it is a little confused, and it lacks the learned notes of H. Scrib- lerus Secundus. The Author's Farce, produced some years earlier, indeed a few months before Tom Thumb, shows perhaps in the trials of Mr. Luckless some of Fielding's own experiences. Though Avi-itten in con- nection with the puppet show, The Pleasures of the Toxvn, it is virtually an independent piece. An Essay on Conversation, it has already been said, Avas part of the first volume of the Miscellanies of 1743. Easily if not concisely WTitten, it is in- teresting as showing that a gentleman's ideas of good breeding — for, in spite of its name, the essay is not strictly on conversation — are substantially the same in all ages. The essay contains plenty of the commonplaces of good society, which, after all, com- monplace as they are, can hardly be repeated too often and which are not repeated often enough so gracefully as Fielding gives them to us here. [ xviii J INTRODUCTION After the Essay on Conversation come three of the .short moral essays at which Fielding, like so many other eighteenth-century writers, tried his hand. The first is an extract from the True Patriot, a weekly paper founded for political purposes late in 1745, the year of the Young Pretender. Along with political discussions, it gave its readers some con- sideration of social matters, after the fashion made popular by Steele and Addison. The number in this selection is especially interesting because it takes the form of a letter from our old friend, Parson Adams. The Covent Garden Journal, two essays of which are given here, was Fielding's chief literary work in 1752. It differed from the Patriot in making less of politics. Though it was more of a newspaper than the two famous early periodicals of the century, the Tatler and the Spectator, still the most important part of it was an essay in their sivle. The letter which concludes the second volume of these Miscellaneous Writings was one of five letters written by Fielding, together with a preface, for his sister, Sarah Fielding, for her Familiar Letters between the Principal Characters in David Simple and some others. The most to be said for the letter now pub- lished is that since its first appearance it seems to have been published only once before, and that it has undoubted traces of Fielding's brilliancy. And now for The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, the last work of the great novelist. Fielding wrote it in the summer of 1754 to relieve his tedium on shipbtmrd when the ladies of his party were suffering from sea-sickness. It was published posthumously [xix ] INTRODTTCTION in 1755. Ill spite of the statement in the Dedication to the Public^ written probably by Fielding's brother, that this little piece conies *' into your hands as it came from the hands of the author," it is known that the Journal was carefulh- edited. The name of the unaccommodating landlady at Ryde was changed from Francis to Humphreys, and some of the passages were omitted which were least complimentary to the captain. As given here, however, the Journal is in its original form, sind so virtually a rough copy, for Fielding could have had little time or inclination to polish it in the two months of life which remained to him after the landing at Lisbon. For this reason, the sentences, at least of the Journal proper, are not always so carefully composed us those of Fielding\s novels ; otherwise in point of style, nothing of his is superior. Nor is his fiction often better narrative ; Tlie Journal has both good movement and reality. Mrs. Francis, that landlady already mentioned, would make a very presentable figure in a novel, and so, too, would the captain and the pretty fellow, his nephew. But, after all, we prize the Voyage to Lisbon to-day not so much because it is the last product of Fielding's genius as because it reveals the man himself unaffectedly in his family relations. From the time he sees at Fordhook the rising of " the most melancholy sun "" he ever beheld, to hi.i disembarking from his ship, The Queen of PoiiugaJ, at Lisbon, to drive "through the nastiest city in the world " up to the coffee-house on the hill. Fielding makes us intimate meml3ors of his party. We are troubled at Mrs. Fielding's toothache, thrown into [xx] INTRODUCTION - consternation at the loss of the tea-chest, and amused, in spite of our tender hearts, at the tragic fate of the kitten. That merry dinner in the barn after a hundred and fifty years has yet an uncommon relish ; and the sunset and the moonrise at sea still impress us with their splendour. One reason why Fielding proves himself such a pleasant tra\elling companion is that as we know him on The Queen of Fortugal he is one of the finest gentlemen in the world. His magnanimity in for- giving the churlish captain has often been commented upon, but there is another part of the story deserv- ing of notice. After saying that Tom, the captain's man, in relating his grievances against Fielding gave the captain a true account, save for adding five or six immaterial circumstances, he goes on with charm- ing frankness, " as is always I believe the case, and may possibly have been done by me in relating this very story, though it happened not many hours ago." Nothing, moreover, could surpass his affec- tion and his tender respect for his wife and liis daughter. If he did not treat Mary Daniel (his first wife's maid, be it remembered) with all honour in the da\s before her marriage, which was followed full soon by the christening of her eldest child, he made up for it by liis husbandly thoughtfulness and recognition of her excellent qualities. We cannot be too grateful for this last fair glimpse which the Journal gives us of Henry Fielding in his family life. What though it show him as a dropsical, gouty magistrate, whose conscientious labours and failing health have joined to put him almost into [xxi] INTRODUCTION the gi*ave ? Even so, there remain his shrewd intei- est in human nature and his keen enjoyment of Hfe, his amiabihty, his consideration of those about him, and his perfect honesty, ■ — quahties which make him as lovable as any of the greater English men of letters. G. H. Maynadier. ( xxii "I A JOURNEY FROM THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT VOL. I. A JOURNEY from THIS WORLD to THE NEXT INTRODUCTION. WHETHER the ensuing pages were really the dream or vision of some very pious and holy person ; or whether they were really written in the other world, and sent back to this, which is the opinion of many (though I think too much inclining to super- stition) ; or lastly, whether, as infinitely the greatest part imagine, they were really the production of some choice inhabitant of New Bethlehem, is not necessary nor easy to determine. It will be abundantly suffi- cient if I give the reader an account by what means they came into my possession. Mr. Robert Powney, stationer, who dwells opposite to Catherine-street in the Strand, a very honest man and of great gravity of countenance ; who, among other excellent stationary commodities, is particularly eminent for his pens, which I am abundantly bound to acknowledge, as I o\\ e to their peculiar goodness that my manuscripts have by any means been legible : this gentleman, I say, furnished me some time since with a bundle of those pens, wrapped up with gi-eat care and caution, in a very large sheet of paper full [3] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT of characters, written as it seemed in a very bad hand. Now, I have a surprising curiosity to read everything which is ahnost illegible ; partly perhaps from the sweet remembrance of the dear Scrawls, Skrawls, or Skrales (for the word is variously spelt), which I have in my youth received from that lovely part of the creation for which I have the tenderest rei>-ard ; and partly from that temper of mind which UKikes men set an immense value on old manuscripts so effaced, bustoes so maimed, and pictures so black that no one can tell what to make of them. I there- fore perused this sheet with wonderful application, and in about a day's time discovered that I could not understand it. I immediately repaired to Mr. Powney, and inquired very eagerly whether he had not more of the same manuscript ? He produced about one hundred pages, acquainting me that he had saved no more ; but that the book was origi- nally a huge folio, had been left in his garret by a gentleman who lodged there, and who had left him no other satisfaction for nine months' lodging. He proceeded to inform me that the manuscript had been hawked about (as he phrased it) among all the booksellers, who refused to meddle ; some al- ledged that they could not read, others that they could not understand it. Some would have it to be an atheistical book, and some that it was a libel on the government ; for one or other of which reasons they all refused to print it. That it had been like- M'ise shewn to the R — 1 Society, but they shook their heads, saying, there was nothing in it wonderful enough for them. That, hearing the gentleman was [4] INTRODUCTION gone to the West-Indies, and believing it to be good for notliing else, he had used it as waste paper. He said I was welcome to what remained, and he was heartily soiTy for what was missing, as I seemed to set some value on it. I desired him much to name a price : but he would receive no consideration farther than the payment of a small bill I owed him, which at that time he said he looked on as so much money given him. I presently comnmnicated this manuscript to my friend parson Abraham Adams, who, after a long and careful perusal, returned it me with his opinion that there was more in it than at first appeared ; that the author seemed not entirely unacquainted with tlie writings of Plato ; but he wished he had quoted him sometimes in his margin, that I might be sure (said he) he had read him in the original : for nothing, continued the parson, is commoner than for men now-a-days to pretend to have read Greek authors, who have met with them only in transla- tions, and cannot conjugate a verb in mi. To deliver my own sentiments on the occasion, I think the author discove]-s a philosophical turn of thinking, with some little knowledge of the world, and no very inadequate value of it. There are some indeed who, from the vivacity of their temper and the happiness of their station, are willing to consider its blessings as more substantial, and the whole to be a scene of more consequence than it is here repre- sented : but, without controverting their opinions at present, the number of wise and good men who have thought with our author are sufficient to keep him [5] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT in countenance : nor can this be attended with any ill inference, since he everywhere teaches this moral : That the greatest and truest happiness which this world affords, is to be found only in the possession of goodness and virtue ; a doctrine which, as it is undoubtedly true, so hath it so noble and practical a tendency, that it can never be too often or too strongly inculcated on the minds of men. tej BOOK I CHAPTER ONE THE AUTHOR DIES, MEETS WITH MEECURY, AND IS BY HIM CONDUCTED TO THE STAGE WHICH SETS OUT FOE THE OTHER WORLD. ON the first day of December 1741 ^ I de- i parted this hfe at my lodgings in Cheap- P side. My body had been some time dead before I was at liberty to quit it, lest it should by any accident return to life : this is an injunction imposed on all souls by the eternal law of fate, to prevent the inconveniences which would follow. As soon as the destined period was expired (being no longer than till the body is be- come perfectly cold and stiff) I^ began to move ; but found myself imder a difficulty of making my escape, for the mouth or door was shut, so that it was im- possible for me to go out at it ; and the windows, vulgarly called the eyes, were so closely pulled down 1 Some doubt whether this should not be rather 1641, which is a date more agreeable to the account given of it in tlie in- troduction : but then there are some passages which seem to relate to transactions infinitely later, even within this year or two. To say the truth there are difficulties attending either conjecture ; so the reader may take which he pleases. THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT by the fingers of a nurse, that I could by no means open them. At last I perceived a beam of light ghmmering at the top of the house (for such I may call the body I had been inclosed in), whither as- cending, I gently let myself down through a kind of chimney, and issued out at the nostrils. No prisoner discharged from a long confinement ever tasted the sweets of liberty with a more exqui- site relish than I enjoyed in this delivery from a dun- geon wherein I had been detained upw-aids of forty years, and with much the same kind of regard I cast mv eyes^ backwards upon it. My friends and relations had all quitted the room, being all (as I plainly overheard) very loudly (juar- relling below stairs about my will ; there was only an old woman left above to guard the body, as I ap- prehend. She was in a fast sleep, occasioned, as from her savour it seemed, by a comfortable dose of gin. I had no pleasure in this company, and, there- fore, as the window was wide open, I sallied forth into the open air : but, to my great astonishment, found myself unable to fly, w hich I had always dur- ing my habitation in the body conceived of spirits ; however, I came so lightly to the ground that I did not hurt myself ; and, though I had not the gift of flying (owing probably to my having neither feath- ers nor wings), I was capable of hopping such a pro- digious way at once, that it served my turn almost as well. ^ Eyes are not perhaps so properly adapted to a spiritual substance ; but we are here, as in many other places, obliged to use corporeal terms to make ourselves the better understood. MEETING WITH MERCURY I had not hopped far before I perceived a tall young gentleman in a silk waistcoat, with a wing on his left heel, a garland on his head, and a caduceus in his right hand.^ I thought I had seen this per- son before, but had not time to recollect where, when he called out to me and asked me how long I had been departed. I answered I was just come forth. " You must not stay here," replied he, " unless you had been murdered : iti which case, indeed, you might have been suffered to walk some time ; but if vou died a natural death you must set out for the other world immediately.'" I desired to know the way. " O," cried the gentleman, " I will show you to the inn whence the stage proceeds ; for I am the porter. Perhaps you never heard of me — my name is Mercury."" '" Sure, sir," said I, " I have seen you at the playhouse."" Upon which he smiled, and, without satisfying me as to that point, walked di- rectly forward, bidding me hop aftei" him. I obeyed him, and soon found myself in Warwick-lane; where Mercurv, making a full stop, pointed at a particular house, where he bad me enquire for the stage, and, wishing me a good journey, took his leave, saying he must iro seek after other customers. I arrived just as the coach was setting out, and found I had no reason for encjuiry ; for every person seemed to know my business the moment I appeared at tlie door : the coachman told me his horses were 1 This is the dress in which the god appears to mortals at the theatres. One of the offices attributed to this god by the ancients, was to collect the ghosts as a shepherd doth a flock of sheep, and drive them with his wand into the other world. [9] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT to, but that he had no place left ; however, though there were already six, the passengers offered to make room for me. I thanked them, and ascended Avithout nnich ceremony. We immediately began our journey, being seven in number ; for, as the women wore no hoops, three of them were but equal to two men. Perhaps, reader, thou mayest be pleased with an account of this whole equipage, as peradventure thou wilt not, while alive, see any such. The coach was made by an eminent toyman, who is well known to deal in immaterial substance, that being the mat- ter of which it was compounded. The work was so extremely fine, that it was entirely invisible to the human eye. The hoi'ses which drew this extraordi- nary vehicle were all spiritual, as well as the passen- gers. They had, indeed, all died in the service of a certain post-master ; and as for the coachman, who was a very thin piece of iunnaterial substance, he had the honour while alive of driving the Great Peter, or Peter the Great, in whose service his soul, as well as body, was almost starved to death. Such was the vehicle in which I set out, and now, those who are not willing to travel on with me may, if they please, stop here ; those who are, must pro- ceed to the subsequent chapters, in which this journey is continued. [iOj CHAPTER TWO IN WHICH THE AUTHOR FIRST REFUTES SOME IDLE OPINIONS CONCERNING SPIRITS, AND THEN THE PASSENGERS RELATE THEIR SEVERAL DEATHS. IT is the common opinion that spirits, like owls, can see in the dark ; nay, and can then most easily be perceived by otliers. For which rea- son, many persons of good understanding, to prevent being terrified with such objects, usually keep a candle burning by them, that the light may pre- vent their seeing. Mr. Locke, in direct opposition to this, hath not doubted to assert that you may see a spirit in open daylight full as well as in the dark- est night. It was very dark when we set out from the inn, nor could we see any more than if every soul of us had been alive. We had travelled a good wav before any one offered to open his mouth ; indeed, most of the company were fast asleep,^ but, as I could not close my own eyes, and perceived the spirit who sat opposite to me to be likewise awake, I began to make overtures of conversation, by complaining how dark it zaas. " And extnMnely cold too," answered my fel- low-traveller ; "though, I thank God, as I have no body, I feel no inconvenience from it : but you will 1 Those who have read of the gods sleeping in Homer will not be surprized at this happening to spirits!, [11] THIS WOULD TO THE NEXT believe, sir, that this frosty air must seem very sharp to one just issued forth out of an oven ; for such was the inflamed habitation I am lately departed from.'" " How did you come to your end, sir ? " said I. " I was murdered, sir," answered the gentleman. " I am surprized then," replied I, " tliat you did not divert yourself by walking up and down and playing some merry tricks with the murderer." " Oh, sir," re- turned he, " I had not that privilege, I was lawfully put to death. In shoi't, a pliysician set me on fire, by giving me medicines to throw out my distemper. I died of a hot regimen, as they call it, in the small- pox." One of the spirits at that word started up and cried out, " The small-pox ! bless me ! I hope I am not in company with that distemper, which I have all my life with such caution avoided, and have so happily escaped hitherto ! " This fright set all the passengers who were awake into a loud laughter ; and the gentleman, recollecting himself, with some confu- sion, and not without blushing, asked pardon, crying, " I protest I dreamt that I was alive." " Perhaps, sir," said I, "you died of that distemper, which therefore made so strong an impression on you." " No, sir," answered he, " I never had it in mv life ; but the contiimal and dreadful apprehension it kept me so long under cannot, I see, be so immediately eradicated. You must know, sir, I avoided coming to London for thirty years together, for fear of the small-pox, till the most urgent business brought me thither about five days ago. I was so dreadfully afraid of this disease that I refused the second night [12] CONVERSATION OF SPIRITS of my arrival to sup with a friend whose wife had recovered of it several months before, and the same evening got a surfeit by eating too many muscles, which brouglit me into this good company." " I will lay a wager," cried the spirit who sat next him, " there is not one in the coach able to guess my distemper." I desired the favour of him to acquaint us with it, if it was so uncommon. " Why, sir," said he, " I died of honour." — " Of honour, sir ! " repeated I, with some sui'prize. " Yes, sir," answered the spirit, " of honour, for I was killed in a duel." " For my part," said a fair spirit, " I was inocu- lated last summer, and had the good fortune to es- cape with a very few marks on my face. I esteemed myself now perfectly happy, as I imagined I had no restraint to a full enjoyment of the diversions of the town ; but within a few days after my coming up I caught cold by overdancing myself at a ball, and last night died of a violent fever." After a short silence which now ensued, the fair spirit who spoke last, it being now daylight, addressed herself to a female who sat next her, and asked her to what chance they owed the happiness of her company. She answered, she apprehended to a consumption, but the phvsicians were not agreed concerning her distemper, for she left two of them in a very hot dispute about it when she came out of her body. " And prav, madam," said the same spirit to the sixth passenger, " How came you to leave the other world?" But that female spirit, screwing up her jnouth, answered, she wondered at the curiositv of some people ; that perhaps persons had already heard [13] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT some reports of her death, which were far from being ti-ae ; that, whatever was the occasion of it, she was glad at being dehvered from a world in which she had no pleasui'C, and where there was nothing but nonsense and impertinence; particularly among her own sex, whose loose conduct she had long been en- tirely ashamed of. The beauteous spirit, perceiving her question gave offence, pursued it no farther. She had indeed all the sweetness and good-humour which are so extremely amiable (when foimd) in that sex which tenderness most ex([uisitely becomes. Her countenance dis- played all the cheerfulness, the good-nature, and the modesty, which diffuse such brightness round the beauty of Seraphina,^ awing every beholder with respect, and, at the same time, ravishing him with admiration. Had it not been indeed for our conver- sation on the small-pox, I should have imagined we had been honoured with her identical presence. This opinion might have been heightened by the good sense she uttered whenever she spoke, by the delicacy of her sentiments, and the complacence of her be- haviour, together with a certain dignity which at- tended every look, word, and gesture ; qualities which could not fail making an impression on a heart ^ so capable of receiving it as mine, nor was she long in 1 A particular lady of quality is meant here ; but every lady of quality, or no quality, are welcome to apply the character to themselves. 2 We have before made an apology for this language, which we here repeat for the last time ; though the heart may, we hope, be metaphorically used here with more propriety than when we apply those passions to the body which belong to the soul. [ ^<' J LOWEll WORLD DISCUSSED raising in me a very violent degree of seraphic love. I do not intend by this, that sort of love which men are very properly said to make to women in the lower world, and which seldom lasts any longer than while it is making. I mean by seraphic love an extreme delicacy and tendeiness of friendship, of ■which, my worthy reader, if thou hast no conception, as it is probable thou mayest not, my endeavour to instruct thee would be as fruitless as it would be to explain the most difficult problems of Sir Isaac New- ton to one ignorant of \ulgar arithmetic. To return therefore to matters comprehensible by all understandings : the discourse now turned on the vanity, folly, and misery of the lower world, from which every passenger in the coach expressed the highest satisfaction in being delivered ; though it was very remarkable that, notwithstanding the joy we declared at our death, there was not one of us who did not mention the accident which occasioned it as a thing we would have avoided if we could. Nay, the very grave lady herself, who was the forwardest in testifying her delight, confessed inad- vertently that she left a physician by her bedside ; and the gentleman who died of honour very liberally cursed both his folly and his fencing, ivhile we were entertaining ourselves with these matters, on a sudden a most offensive smell began to invade our nostrils. This very much resembled the savour which travellers in summer perceive at their ap- proach to that beautiful village of the Hague, aris- ing from those delicious canals which, as they consist of standing water, do at that time emit odours THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT greatly agreeable to a Dutch taste, but not so pleasant to any other. Tliose perfumes, with the assistance of a fair wind, begin to affect persons of quick olfactory nerves at a league's distance, and increase gradually as you approach. In the same manner did the smell I have just mentioned, more and more invade us, till one of the spii'its, looking out of the coach-window, declared we were just ar- i-ived at a very large city ; and indeed he had scarce said so before we found ourselves in the suburbs, and, at the same time, the coachman, being asked by another, informed us that the name of this place was the City of Diseases. The I'oad to it was ex- tremely smooth, and, excepting the above-mentioned savour, delightfully pleasant. The streets of the suburbs were lined with bagnios, taverns, and cooks' shops : in the first we saw several beautiful women, but in tawdry dresses, looking out at the windows ; and in the latter were visibly exposed all kinds of the richest dainties; but on our entering the city we found, contrary to all we had seen in the other world, that the suburbs were infinitely pleasanter than the city itself. It was indeed a very dull, dark, and melancholy place. Few people appeared in the streets, and Lhese, for the most part, were old women, and here and there a formal grave gentle- man, who seemed to be thinking, with large tie-wigs on, and amber-headed canes in their hands. We were all in hopes that our vehicle would not stop here ; but, to our sorrow, the coach soon drove into an inn, and we were obliged to alight. [16] ^ CHAPTER THREE THE ADVENTURES WE MET WITH IN THE CITY OF DISEASES. WE had not been long arrived in our inn, where it seems we were to spend the remainder of the day, before our host acquainted us that it was cus- tomary for all spirits, in their passage through that city, to pay their respects to that lady Disease, to whose assistance thev had owed their deliverance from the lower world. We answered we should not fail in any complacence which was usual to others ; upon which our host replied he would immediately send porters to conduct us. He had not long quitted the room before we were attended by some of those grave persons whom I have before described in large tie-wigs with amber-headed canes. These gentlemen are the ticket-porters in the city, and their canes are the hislg-nia, or tickets, denoting their office. We informed them of the several ladies to whom we were obliged, and were preparing to follow them, when on a sudden they all stared at one another, and left us in a hurry, with a frown on every countenance. We were surprized at this behaviour, and presently sum- mone; names I could think of, LORD PERCY^S UNSELFISHNESS not to urge me dishonourably to forsake the man who I was convinced would raise me to an empire if in his power, and who had enough in his power to give me all I desired. But he was deaf to all I could say, and insisted that by next week I should prepare myself to go to court : he bid me consider of it, and not prefer a ridiculous notion of honour to the real interest of my whole family ; but, above all things, not to disclose what he had trusted me with. On which he left me to my own thoughts. When I was alone I reflected how little real tenderness this behav- iour shewed to me, whose happiness he did not at all consult, but only looked on me as a ladder, on which he could climb to the height of his own ambitious desires : and when I thought on his fondness for me in my infancy I could impute it to nothing but either the liking me as a plaything or the gratifi- cation of his vanity in my beauty. But I was too much divided between a crown and my engagement to lord Percy to spend much time in thinking of anything else ; and, although my fether had posi- tivelv foi'bid me, yet, when he came next, I could not help acquainting him with all that had passed, with the reserve only of the struggle in my own mind on the first mention of being a queen. I ex- pected he would have received the news with the greatest agonies ; but he shewed no vast emotion : however, he could not help turning pale, and, taking me by the hand, looked at me with an air of tender- ness, and said, ' If being a queen would make you happy, and it is in your power to be so, I would pot for the world prevent it, let me suffer what I THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT will."' This amazing greatness of mind had en me quite the contrary effect fi'om what it ought to haVe had ; for, instead of increasing my love for him it almost put an end to it, and I began to think, if he could part with me, the matter was not much. And I am convinced, when any man gives up the possession of a woman whose consent he has once obtained, let his motive be ever so generous, he will disoblige her. I could not help shewing my dissatisfaction, and told him I was very glad this affair sat so easily on him. He had not power to answer, but was so suddenly struck with this unexpected ill-natured turn I gave his behaviour, that he stood amazed for some time, and then bowed and left me. Now I was again left to my own reflections ; but to makeanythino; intelli«rible out of them is quite impossible : I wished to be a queen, and wished I might not be one : I would have my lord Percy happy without me ; and yet I would not have the power of my charms be so weak that he could bear the thought of life after being disappointed in my love. But the result of all these confused thoudits was a resolution to obey my fathei'. I am afraid there was not much duty in the case, though at that time I was glad to take hold of that small shadow to save me from looking on my own actions in the true light. When my lover came again I looked on him with that coldness that he could not bear, on purpose to rid myself of all importunity: for since I had resolved to use him ill I regai'ded him as the monument of my shame, and his every look appeared to me to upbraid me. My father soon carried me to court ; there I had no vei'y hard part to act ; tbi-, [ m. \ THE KING^S ATTENTIONS with the experience I had had of mankind, I could find no great difficulty in managing a man who liked me, and for whom I not only did not care but had an utter aversion to : but this aversion he believed to be virtue ; for how credulous is a man who has an inclination to believe ! And I took care sometimes to drop words of cottages and love, and how happy the woman was who fixed her affections on a man in such a station of life that she miiiht show her love without being suspected of hypocrisy or mer- cenary views. All this was swallowed very easily by the amorous king, who pushed on the divorce with the utmost impetuosity, although the affair lasted a good while, and I remained most part of the time behind the curtain. Whenever the king mentioned it to me I used sucli argumeirts against it as I thought the most likely to make him the more eager for it ; begging that, unless his conscience was really touched, he would not on my account give any grief to his virtuous queen ; for in being her handmaid I thought myself highly honoured ; and that I would not only forego a crown, but even give up the pleasure of ever seeing him more, rather than wrong my royal mistress. This way of talking, joined to his eager desire to possess my person, convinced the king so strongly of my exalted merit, that he thought it a meritorious act to displace the woman (whom he could not have so good an opinion of, because he was tired of her), and to put me in her place. After about a year's stay at court, as the king's love to me began to be talked of, it was thought proper to remove me, that there might be no umbrage given to the queen's party. I was forced [173] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT to comply with this, though greatly against my will ; for I was very jealous that absence might change the kino-'s mind. I retired again with my father to his country-seat, but it had no longer those charms for me which I once enjoyed there ; for my mind was now too much taken up with ambition to make room for any other thoughts. During my stay here, my royal lover often sent gentlemen to me with mes- sages and letters, which I always answered in the manner I thought would best bring about my de- signs, which were to come back again to court. In all the letters that passed between us there was something so kingly and commanding in his, and so deceitful and submissive in mine, that I some- times could not help reflecting on the difference be- twixt this correspondence and that with lord Percy ; yet I was so pressed forward by the desire of a crown, I could not think of turning back. In all I wrote I continually praised his resolution of letting me be at a distance from him, since at this time it conduced indeed to my honour ; but, what was of ten times more weight with me, I thought it was necessary for his ; and I would sooner suffer anything in the world than be any means of hurt to him, either in his in- terest or reputation. I alwavs gave some hints of ill health, with some reflections how necessary the peace of the mind was to that of the body. By these means I brought him to recal me again by the most absolute connnand, which I, for a little time, artfully delayed (for I knew the impatience of his temper would not bear any contradictions), till he made my father in a manner force me to w hat ' [ 17i ] PLOTS AGAINST THE QUEEN I iuo.st wished, with the utmost appearance of reluc- tance on my side. When I liad gained this point I began to think which way I could separate the king from the queen, for hitherto they lived in the same house. The lady Mary, the queen's daughter, being then about sixteen, I sought for emissaries of her own age that I could confide in, to instil into her mind disrespectful thoughts of her father, and make a jest of the tenderness of his conscience about the divoix'e. I knew she had naturally strong pas- sions, and that young people of that age are apt to think those that pretend to be their friends are really so, and only speak their minds freely. I after- wards contrived to have every word she spoke of him carried to the king, who took it all as I could wish, and fancied those things did not come at first from the young lady, but from her mother. He would often talk of it to me, and I agreed with him in his sentiments ; but then, as a great proof of my good- ness, I always endeavoured to excuse her, by saying a lady so long time used to be a royal queen might naturally be a little exasperated with those she fan- cied would thz'ow her from that station she so justly deserved. By these sort of plots I found the way to make the king angry with the queen ; for nothing is easier than to make a man angry with a woman he wants to be rid of, and who stands in the way be- tween him and his pleasure ; so that now the king, on the pretence of the queen"'s obstinacy in a point where his conscience was so tenderly concerned, parted with her. Everything was now plain befoi-e me ; I had nothing farther to do but to let the kinir [1T5] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT alone to his own desires ; and I had no reason to fear, since they had carried him so far, but that they would urge him on to do everything I aimed at. I was created marchioness of Pembroke. This dignity sat very easy on me ; for the thoughts of a much higher title took from me all feeling of this ; and I looked upon being a marchioness as a trifle, not that I saw the bauble in its true light, but because it fell short of w hat I had figured to myself I should soon obtain. The king's desires grew very impatient, and it was not long before I was privately married to him. I was no sooner his wife than I found all the queen come upon me ; I felt myself conscious of royalty, and even the faces of my most intimate acquaintance seemed to me to be quite strange. I hardly knew them : height had turned my head, and I was like a man placed on a monument, to whose sight all creatures at a great distance below him appear like so many little pigmies crawling about on the earth ; and the prospect so greatly de- lighted me, that I did not presently consider that in both cases descending a few steps erected by human hands would place us in the number of those very pigmies who appeared so despicable. Our marriage was kept private for some time, for it was not thought proper to make it {)ublic (the affair of the divorce not being finished) till the birth of my daughter Eliza- beth made it necessary. But all who saw me knew it ; for my maimer of speaking and acting was so much changed with my station, that all around me plainly perceived I was sure I was a queen. While it was a secret I had yet something to wish for ; I [ ne ] AN UNHAPPY QUEEN could not be perfectly satisfied till all the world was acquainted with my fortune: but when my corona- tion was over, and I was raised to the height of my ambition, instead of finding myself happy, I was in reality more miserable than ever ; for, besides that the aversion I had naturally to the king was much more difficult to dissemble after marriage than be- fore, and grew into a perfect detestation, my imagi- nation, which had thus warmly pursued a crown, grew cool when I was in the possession of it, and gave me time to reflect what mighty matter I had gained by all this bustle ; and I often used to think myself in the case of the fox-hunter, who, when he has toiled and sweated all day in the chase as if some unheard-of blessing was to crown his success, finds at last all he has got by his labour is a stinking nau- seous animal. But my condition was yet worse than his ; for he leaves the loathsome wretch to be torn by his hounds, whilst I was obliged to fondle mine, and meanly pretend him to be the object of my love. For the whole time I was in this envied, this exalted state, I led a continual life of hypocrisy, which I now know nothing on earth can compensate. I had no companion but the man I hated. I dared not dis- close my sentiments to any person about me, nor did any one presume to enter into any freedom of con- versation with me ; but all who spoke to me talked to the queen, and not to me ; for they would have said just the same things to a drcssed-up puppet, if the king had taken a fancy to call it his wife. And as I knew every woman in the court was my enemy, from thinking she had much more right than I had VOL. I. 12 [177] THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT to the place I filled, I thought myself as unhappy as if I liad been placed in a wild wood, where there was no human creature for me to speak to, in a contin- ual fear of leaving any traces of my footsteps, lest I should be found by some dreadful monster, or stung by snakes and addei-s ; for such are spiteful women to the objects of their envy. In this worst of all situa- tions I was obliged to hide my melancholy and ap- pear chearful. This threw me into an error the other way, and I sometimes fell into a levity in my be- haviour that was afterwards made use of to my disad- vantage. I had a son dead-born, which I perceived abated something of the king's ardour ; for his temper could not brook the least disappointment. This gave me no uneasiness ; for, not considering the conse- quences, I could not help being best pleased when I had least of his company. Afterwards I found he had cast his eyes on one of my maids of honour ; and, whether it was owing to any art of hers, or only to the king'^s violent passions, I was in the end used even worse than my former mistress had been by my means. The decay of the king's affection was presently seen by all those court-sycophants who continually watch the mo- tions of royal eyes ; and the moment they found they could be heard against me they turned my most in- nocent actions and words, nay, even my very looks, into proofs of the blackest crimes. The king, who was impatient to enjoy his new love, lent a willing ear to all my accusers, who found ways of making him jealous that I was false to his bed. He would not so easily have believed anything against me be- fore, but he was now glad to flatter himself that he SENTENCED TO DEATH had found a reason to do just what he had resolved upon without a reason ; and on some slight pretences and hearsay evidence I was sent to the Tower, where the lady who was my greatest enemy was appointed to watch me and lie in the same chamber with me. This was really as bad a punishment as my death, for she in- sulted me with those keen reproaches and spiteful wit- ticisms, M'hich threw me into such vapours and violent fits that I knew not what I uttered in this condition. She pretended I had confessed talking ridiculous stuff with n set of low fellows whom I had hardly ever taken notice of, as could have imposed on none but such as were resolved to believe. I was brought to my trial, and, to blacken me the more, accused of conversing criminally with my own brother, whom indeed I loved extremely well, but never looked on him in any other light than as my friend. However, I was condemned to be beheaded, or burnt, as the king pleased ; and he was graciously pleased, from the great remains of his love, to chuse the mildest sen- tence. I was much less shocked at this manner of ending my life than I sliould have been in any other station : but I had had so little enjoyment from the time I had been a queen, that death was the less dreadful to me. The chief things that lay on my conscience were the arts I made use of to induce the king to part with the queen, my ill usage of lady Mary, and my jilting lord Percy. However, I en- deavoured to calm my mind as well as I could, and hoped these crimes would be forgiven me ; for in other respects I had led a very innocent life, and al- ways did all the good-natured actions I found any [ 1^9 J THIS WORLD TO THE NEXT opportunity of doing. From the time I had it in my power, I gave a great deal of money amongst the poor ; I prayed very devoutly, and went to my exe- cution very composedly. Thus I lost my life at the age of twenty-nine, in which short time I believe I went through more variety of scenes than many people who live to be very old. I had lived in a court, where I spent my time in coquetry and gaiety ; I had experienced what it was to have one of those violent passions which makes the mind all turbulence and anxiety ; I had had a lover whom I esteemed and valued, and at the latter part of my life I was raised to a station as high as the vainest woman could wish. But in all these various changes I never enjoyed any real satisfaction, unless in the little time I lived re- tired in the country free from all noise and hurry, and while I was conscious I was the object of the love and esteem of a man of sense and honour." On the conclusion of this history Minos paused for a small time, and then ordered the gate to be thrown open for Anna Boleyn\s admittance on the consider- ation that whoever had suffered being the queen for four years, and been sensible during all that time of the real misery which attends that exalted station, ought to be forgiven whatever she had done to obtain it.^ 1 Here ends this curious manuscript ; the rest being de- stroyed in rolling up pens, tobax-co, &c. It is to be hoped heedless people will henceforth be more cautious what they burn, or use to other vile purposes ; especially when they con- sider the fate which had likely to have befallen the divine Milton, and that the works of Homer were probably discovered in some chandler's shop in Greece. L 180 J THE JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE TO LISBON THE JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE TO LISBON DEDICATION TO THE PUBLIC YOUR candour is desired on the perusal of the following sheets, as they are the product of a genius that has long been your delight and entertainment. It must be acknowledged that a lamp almost burnt out does not give so steady and uniform a light as when it blazes in its full vigour ; but yet it is well known that by its wavering, as if struggling against its own dissolution, it sometimes darts a ray as bright as ever. In like manner, a strong and lively genius will, in its last struggles, sometimes mount aloft, and throw forth the most striking marks of its original lustre. Wherever these are to be found, do you, the genuine patrons of extraordinary capacities, be as liberal in your applauses of him who is now no more as you were of him whilst he was yet amongst you. And, on the other hand, if in this little work there should appear any traces of a weakened and decayed life, let your own imaginations place before your eyes a true picture in that of a hand trembling in almost its latest hour, of a body emaciated with [183] A VOYAGE TO LISBON pains, yet struggling for your entertainment ; and let this affecting picture open each tender heart, and call forth a melting tear, to blot out whatever fail- ings may be found in a work Ijegun in pain, and finished almost at the same period with life. It was thought proper by the friends of the de- ceased that this little piece should come into your hands as it came from the hands of the author, it being judged that you would be better pleased to have an opportunity of observing the faintest traces of a genius you have long admired, than have it patched by a different hand, by which means the marks of its true author might have been effaced. That the success of the last written, though first published, volume of the author's posthumous pieces may be attended with some convenience to those innocents he hath left behind, will no doubt be a motive to encourage its circulation through the king- dom, which will engage every future genius to exert itself for your pleasure. The principles and spirit which breathe in every line of the small fragment begun in answer to Lord Bolingbroke will unquestionably be a sufficient apology for its publication, although vital strength was wanting to finish a work so happily begun and so well designed. [ 184] PREFACE J HERE would not, perhaps, be a more pleasant or profitable study, among those which have their principal end in amuse- ment, than that of travels or voyages, if were writ, as they might be and ought to be, with a joint view to the entertainment and informa- tion of mankind. If the conversation of travellers be so eagerly sought after as it is, we may believe their books will be still more agreeable company, as they will in general be more instructive and more entertaining. But when I say the conversation of travellers is usually so welcome, I must be understood to mean that only of such as have had good sense enough to apply their peregrinations to a proper use, so as to acquire from them a real and valuable knowledge of njen and things, both which are best known by com- parison. If the customs and manners of men were everywhere the same, tlieie would be no office so dull as that of a traveller, for the difference of hills, valleys, rivers, in short, the various views of whicli we may see the face of the earth, would scarce afford him a pleasure wortliy of his labour; and surely it would give him very little opportunity of communi- cating any kind of entertainment or improvement to others. [185] A VOYAGE TO LISBON To make a traveller an agreeable companion to a man of sense, it is necessary, not only that he should have seen much, but that he should have overlooked much of what he hath seen. Nature is not, any more than a great genius, always admirable in her produc- tions, and therefore the traveller, who may be called her commentator, should not expect to find every- where subjects worthy of his notice. It is certain, indeed, that one may be guilty of omission, as well as of the opposite extreme ; but a fault on that side will be more easily pardoned, as it is better to be hungry than surfeited ; and to miss your dessert at the table of a man whose gardens abound with the choicest fruits, than to have your taste affronted with every sort of trash that can be picked up at the green-stall or the wheelbarrow. If we should carry on the analogy between the traveller and the commentator, it is impossible to keep one''s eye a moment off from the laborious much-read doctor Zachary Gray, of whose redun- dant notes on Hudibras I shall only say that it is, I am confident, the single book extant in which above five hundred authors are quoted, not one of which could be found in the collection of the late doctor Mead. As there are few things which a traveller is to record, there are fewer on which he is to offer his observations : this is the office of the reader ; and it is so pleasant a one, that he seldom chuses to have it taken from him, under the pretence of lending him assistance. Some occasions, indeed, there are, when proper observations are pei'tinent, and others when [186] PREFACE they are necessary ; but good sense alone must point them out. I shall lay down only one general rule ; which I believe to be of universal truth between re- lator and hearer, as it is between author and reader ; this is, that the latter never forgive any observation of the former which doth not convey some knowledge that they are sensible they could not possibly have attained of themselves. But all his pains in collecting knowledge, all his judgment in selecting, and all his art in communi- cating it, will not suffice, unless he can make himself, in some degree, an agreeable as well as an instructive companion. The highest instruction we can derive from the tedious tale of a dull fellow scarce ever pays us for our attention. There is nothing, I think, half so valuable as knowledge, and yet there is nothing which men will give themselves so little trouble to attain ; unless it be, perhaps, that lowest degree of it which is the object of curiosity, and which hath therefore that active passion constantly employed in its service. This, indeed, it is in the power of every traveller to gratify ; but it is the leading principle in weak minds only. To render his relation agreeable to the man of sense, it is therefore necessary that the voyager should possess several eminent and rare talents ; so rare in- deed, that it is almost wonderful to see them ever united in the same person. And if all these talents must concur in the re- lator, they are certainly in a more eminent degree necessary to the writer ; for here the naiTation admits of higher ornaments of stile, and every fact and senti- [187 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON merit offers itself to the fullest and most deliberate examination. It would appear, therefore, I think, somewhat strange if such writers as these should be found ex- tremely common ; since nature hath been a most parsimonious distributor of her richest talents, and hath seldom bestowed many on the same person. But, on the other hand, why there should scarce exist a single writer of this kind worthy our regard ; and, whilst there is no other branch of history (for this is history) which hath not exercised the greatest pens, why this alone should be overlooked by all men of great genius and erudition, and delivered up to the Goths and Vandals as their lawful property, is alto- gether as difficult to determine. And yet that this is the case, with some very few exceptions, is most manifest. Of these I shall will- ingly admit Burnet and Addison ; if the former was not, perhaps, to be considered as a political essayist, and the latter as a commentator on the classics, rather than as a writer of travels ; which last title, perhaps, they would both of them have been least ambitious to affect. Indeed, if these two and two or three more should be removed fiom the mass, there would remain such a heap of dulness behind, that the appellation of voyage-writer would not appear very desirable. I am not here unapprized that old Homer himself is by some considered as a vovage-writer ; and, in- deed, the beginning of his Odyssey may be urged to countenance that opinion, which I shall not contro- vert. But, whatever species of writing the Odyssey [188] PREFACE is of, it is surely at the head of that species, as much as the IHad is of another ; and so far the excellent Longinus would allow, I believe, at this day. But, in reality, the Odyssey, the Telemachus, and all of that kind, are to the voyage- writing I here intend, what romance is to true history, the former being the confounder and corrupter of the latter. I am far from supposing that Homer, Hesiod, and the other antient poets and mythologists, had any settled dcoign to pervert and confuse the records of antiquity ; but it is certain they have effected it ; and for my part I must confess I should have honoured and loved Homer more had he written a true history of his own times in liumble prose, than those noble poems that have so justly collected the praise of all ages ; for, though I read these with more admiration and as- tonishment, I still read Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon with more amusement and more satis- faction. The original poets were not, however, without ex- cuse. They found the limits of nature too strait for the immensity of their genius, which they had not room to exert without extending fact by fiction : and that especially at a time when the manners of men were too simple to afford that variety which they have since offered in vain to the choice of the meanest writers. In doing this they are again ex- cusable for the inanner in which they have done it. Ut speciosa dehinc miracula promant- They are not, indeed, so properly said to turn reality into fiction, as fiction into reality. Their paint- [189] A VOYAGE TO LISBON ings are so bold, their colours so strong, that every- thing they touch seems to exist in the very manner they represent it ; their portraits are so just, and their landscapes so beautiful, that we acknowledge the strokes of nature in both, without enquiring whether Nature herself, or her journeyman the poet, formed the first pattern of the piece. But other writers (I will put Pliny at their head) have no such pretensions to indulgence ; they lye for lying sake, or in order insolently to impose the most monstrous improbabilities and absurdities upon their readers on their own authority ; treating them as some fathers treat children, and as other fathers do laymen, exacting their belief of whatever they relate, on no other foundation than their own authority, without ever taking the pains of adapting their lies to human credulity, and of calculating them for the meridian of a common understanding ; but, with as much weakness as wickedness, and with more impu- dence often than either, they assert facts contrary to the honour of God, to the visible order of the crea- tion, to the known laws of nature, to the histories of former ages, and to the experience of our own, and which no man can at once understand and believe. If it should be objected (and it can nowhere be objected better than where I now write,^ as there is nowhere more pomp of bigotry) that whole nations have been firm believers in such most absurd sup- positions, I reply, the fact is not true. They have known nothing of the matter, and have believed they knew not what. It is, indeed, with me no 1 At Lisbon. [190 J PREFACE matter of doubt but that the pope and his clergy might teach any of those christian heterodoxies, the tenets of which are the most diametrically opposite to their own ; nay, all the doctrines of Zoroaster, Confucius, and Mahomet, not only with certain and immediate success, but without one Catholick in a thousand knowing he had changed his religion. What motive a man can have to sit down, and to draw forth a list of stupid, senseless, incredible lies upon paper, would be difficult to determine, did not Vanity present herself so innnediately as the ade- quate cause. The vanity of knowing more than other men is, perhaps, besides hunger, the only in- ducement to writing, at least to publishing, at all. Why then should not the voyage-writer be inflamed with the glory of having seen what no man ever did or will see but himself? This is the true source of the wonderful in the discourse and writings, and sometimes, I believe, in the actions of men. There is another fault, of a kind directly opposite to this, to which these writers are sometimes liable, when, instead of filling their pages with monsters which nobody hath ever seen, and with adventures which never have, nor could possibly have, happened to them, waste their time and paper with recording things and facts of so common a kind, that they challenge no other right of being remembered than as they had the honour of liaving happened to the author, to whom nothing seems trivial that in any manner happens to himself Of such consequence do his own actions appear to one of this kind, that he would probably think himself guiltv of infidelity _ [ 191 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBOxN should he omit the minutest thing in the detail of his journal. That the fact is true is sufficient to give it a place there, without any consideration whether it is capable of pleasing or surprising, of diverting or informing, the reader. I have seen a play (if I mistake not it is one of Mrs. Behn's or of Mrs. Centlivre"'s) where this vice in a voyage-writer is finely ridiculed. An ignorant pedant, to whose government, for I know not what i-eason, the conduct of a young nobleman in his travels is committed, and who is sent abroad to shew my loi'd the world, of which he knows nothing himself, before his departure from a town, calls for his journal to record the goodness of the wine and tobacco, with other articles of the same importance, which are to furnish the materials of a voyage at his return home. The humour, it is true, is here carried very far; and yet, perhaps, very little beyond what is to be found in writers who profess no intention of dealing in humour at all. Of one or other, or both of these kinds, are, I con- ceive, all that vast pile of books which pass under the names of voyages, travels, adventures, lives, me- moirs, histories, &c., some of which a single traveller sends into the world in many volumes, and othere are, by judicious booksellers, collected into vast bodies in folio, and inscribed with their own names, as if they were indeed their own travels : thus un- justly attributing to themselves the merit of others. Now, from both these faults we have endeavoured to steer clear in the following narrative; which, however the contrary may be insinuated by igno- [192] PREFACE rant, unlearned, and fresh-water critics, who have never travelled either in books or ships, I do sol- emnly declare doth, in my own impartial opinion, deviate less from truth than any other voyage extant ; my lord Anson's alone being, perhaps, excepted. Some few embellishments must be allowed to every historian ; for we are not to conceive that the speeches in Livy, Sallust, or Thucydides, were literally spoken in the very words in which we now read them. It is sufficient that every fact hatli its foundation in truth, as I do seriously aver is the case in the ensuing pages ; and when it is so, a good critic will be so far from denying all kind of orna- ment of stile or diction, or even of circumstance, to his author, that he would be rather sorry if he omitted it ; for he could hence derive no other advan- tage than the loss of an additional pleasure in the perusal. Again, if any merely common incident should ap- pear in this joui'nal, which will seldom I apprehend be the case, the candid reader will easily perceive it is not introduced for its own sake, but for some ob- servations and reflexions naturally resulting from it ; and which, if but little to his amusement, tend di- rectly to tlie instruction of the reader or to the infor- mation of the public ; to whom if I chuse to convey such instruction or information with an air of joke and laughter, none but the dullest of fellows will, I believe, censure it; but if they should, I have the authority of moie than one passage in Horace to alledge in my defence. VOL. I. -13 [ 193 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON Having thus endeavoured to obviate some cen- sures, to which a man without the gift of foresight, or any fear of tlie imputation of being a conjurer, might conceive this work would be liable, I might now undertake a more pleasing task, and fall at once to the direct and positive praises of the work it- self ; of which, indeed, I could say a thousand good things ; but the task is so very pleasant that I shall leave it wholly to the reader, and it is all the task that I impose on him. A moderation for which he may think himself obliged to me when he compares it with the conduct of authors, who often fill a whole sheet with their own praises, to which they some- times set their own real names, and sometimes a fic- titious one. One hint, however, I must give the kind reader ; which is, that if he should be able to find no sort of amusement in the book, he will be pleased to remember the public utility which will arise from it. If entertainment, as Mr. Richardson observes, be but a secondary consideration in a ro- mance ; with which Mr. Addison, I think, agrees, affirming the use of the pastry cook to be the first ; if this, I say, be true of a mere work of invention, sure it may well be so considered in a work founded, like this, on truth ; and where the political reflexions form so distinguishing a part. But perhaps I may hear, from some critic of the most saturnine complexion, that my vanity must have made a horrid dupe of my judgment, if it hath flattered me with an expectation of having anything here seen in a grave light, or of conveying any useful instruction to the public, or to their guard- -^ [ 194 ] PREFACE ians. I answer, with the great man whom I just now quoted, that my purpose is to convey instruction in the vehicle of entertainment ; and so to bring about at once, hke the revohition in the Rehearsal, a per- fect reformation of the laws relating to our mari- time affairs: an undertaking, I will not say more modest, but surely more feasible, than that of re- forming a whole people, by making use of a vehicular story, to wheel in among them worse manners than their own. [195] INTRODUCTION IN the beginning of August, 1753, when I had taken the duke of Portland's medicine, as it is called, near a year, the effects of which had been the carrying off the symptoms of a lin- gering imperfect gout, I was persuaded by Mr. Ranby, the king's premier serjeant-surgeon, and the ablest advice, I believe, in all branches of the physical pro- fession, to go immediately to Bath, I accordingly writ that very niglit to Mrs. Bowden, who, by the next post, informed me she had taken me a lodging for a month certain. Within a few days after this, whilst I was prepar- ing for my journey, and when I was almost fatigued to death with several long examinations, relating to five different mui-ders, all committed within the space of a week, by different gangs of street-robbers, I received a message from his grace the duke of New- castle, by Mr. Carrington, the king's messenger, to attend his gi'ace the next morning, in Lincoln's-inn- fields, upon some business of importance; but I ex- cused myself from complying with the message, as, besides being lame, I was very ill with the great fatigues I had lately undergone added to my dis- temper. His grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington, the very next morning, with another summons; with which, [196] INTRODUCTION though in the utmost distress, I immediately com- plied ; but the duke, happening, unfortunately for me, to be then particularly engaged, after I had waited some time, sent a gentleman to discourse with me on the best plan which could be invented for putting an immediate end to those murders and robberies which were every day committed in the streets ; upon which I promised to transmit my opinion, in writing, to his grace, who, as the gentle- man informed me, intended to lay it before the privy council. Though this visit cost me a severe cold, I, not- withstanding, set myself down to work ; and in about four days sent the duke as regular a plan as I could form, with all the reasons and arguments I could bring to support it, drawn out in several sheets of paper ; and soon received a message from the duke by Mr. Carrington, acquainting me that my plan was highly approved of, and that all the terms of it would be complied with. The principal and most material of those terms was the immediately depositing six hundred pounds in my hands ; at which small charge I undertook to demolish the then reigning gangs, and to put the civil policy into such order, that no such gangs should ever be able, for the future, to form them- selves into bodies, or at least to remain any time formidable to the public. I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, contrary to the repeated advice of my physical ac- quaintance, and to tlie ardent desire of my warmest friends, though my distemper was now turned to a [ 197 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON deep jaundice ; in wliich case the Bath waters are generally reputed to be almost infallible. But I had the most eager desire of demolishing tins gang of villains and cut-throats, which I was sure of accom- plishing the moment I was enabled to pay a fellow, who had undertaken, for a small sum, to betray them into the hands of a set of thief-takers whom I had enlisted into the service, all men of known and approved fidelity and intrepidity. After some weeks the money was paid at the treas- ury, and within a few days after two hundred pounds of it had come to my hands, the whole gang of cut- throats was entirely dispersed, seven of them were in actual custody, and the rest driven, some out of the town, and others out of the kingdom. Though my health was now reduced to the last extremity, I continued to act with the utmost vigour against these villains ; in examining whom, and in taking the depositions against them, I have often spent whole days, nay, sometimes whole nights, es- pecially when there was any difficulty in procuring sufficient evidence to convict them ; which is a very connnon case in street-robberies, even when the guilt of the party is sufficiently apparent to satisfy the most tender conscience. But courts of justice know nothing of a cause more than what is told them on oath by a witness ; and the most flagitious villain upon earth is tried in the same manner as a man of the best character who is accused of the same crime. Meanwhile, amidst all my fatigues and distresses, I had the satisfaction to find my endeavours had Jbe6n attended with such success that this hellish . L198J INTRODUCTION society were almost utterly extirpated, and that, instead of reading of murders and street-robberies in the news almost every morning, there was, in the remaining part of the month of November, and in all December, not only no such thing as a murder, but not even a street-robbery connnitted. Some such, indeed, were mentioned in the public papers ; but they were all found, on the strictest enquiry, to be false. In this entire freedom from street-robberies, dur- ing the dark months, no man will, I believe, scruple to acknowledge that the winter of 1753 stands unri- valed, during a course of many years ; and this may possibly appear the more extraordinary to those who recollect the outrages with which it began. Having thus fully accomplished my undertaking, I went into the country, in a very weak and deplor- able condition, with no fewer or less diseases than a jaundice, a dropsy, and an asthma, altogether unit- ing their forces in the destruction of a body so en- tirely emaciated that it had lost all its muscular flesh. Mine was now no longer what was called a Bath case ; nor, if it had been so, had I strength remain- ing sufficient to go thither, a ride of six miles only being attended with an intolerable fatigue. I now discliarged my lodgings at Bath, which I had hith- erto kept. I began in earnest to look on my case as desperate, and I had vanity enougli to rank myself with those lieroes who, of old times, became volun- tary sacrifices to the good of the public. But, lest the reader should be too eager to catch [199] A VOYAGE TO LISBON at the word vanity^ and should be un\\ illii)g to in- dulge me with so sublime a gratification, for I think he is not too apt to gratify n)e, I will take my key a pitch lower, and will frankly own that I had a stronger motive than the love of the public to push me on : I will therefore confess to him that my pri- vate affairs at the beginning of the winter had but a gloomy aspect ; for I had not plundered the public or the poor of those sums which men, who are al- ways ready to plunder both as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect me of taking : on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming, the quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not been universally practised), and by refusing to take a shilling from a man who most un- doubtedly woidd not have had another left, I had re- duced an income of about five hundred pounds ^ a-year 1 A predecessor of mine used to boast that he made one thousand pounds a-year in his office ; but how he did this (if indeed he did it) is to me a secret. His clerk, now mine, told me I had more business than he had ever known there ; I am sure I had as much as any man could do. The truth is, the fees are so very low, when any are due, and so much is done for nothing, that, if a single justice of peace had business enough to employ twenty clerks, neither he nor they would get much by their labour. The public will not, therefore, I hope, think I betray a secret when I inform them that I received from the Government a yearly pension out of the public service- money ; which, I believe, indeed, would have been larger had my great patron been convinced of an error, which I have heard him utter more than once, that he could not indeed say that the acting as a principal justice of peace in Westminster was on all accounts very desirable, but that all the world knew it was a very lucrative office. Now, to have shewn him plainly that a man must be a rogue to make a very little this way, and [200] INTRODUCTION of the dirtiest money upon earth to little more than three hundred pounds ; a considerable proportion of which remained with my clerk ; and, indeed, if the whole had done so, as it ought, he would be but ill paid for sitting almost sixteen hours in the twenty-four in the most unwholesome, as well as nauseous air in the universe, and which hath in his case corrupted a good constitution without contaminating his morals. But, not to trouble the reader with anecdotes, contrary to my own rule laid down in my preface, I assure him I thought my family was very slenderly provided for ; and that my health began to decline so fast that I had very little more of life left to ac- complish what I had thought of too late. I re- joiced therefore greatly in seeing an opportunity, as I apprehended, of gaining such merit in the eye of the public, that, if my life were the sacrifice to it, my friends might think they did a popular act in putting my family at least beyond the reach of necessity, which I myself began to despair of doing. And though I disclaim all pretence to that Spartan or Roman patriotism which loved the public so well that it was always ready to become a voluntary sacrifice to the public good, I do solemnly declare I have that love for my family. that he could not make much by beinj? as p^reat a rogue as he could be, would have required more confidence than, I believe, he had in me, and more of his conversation than he chose to allow me ; I therefore resigned the office and the farther execu- tion of my plan to my brother, who had long been my assistant. And now, lest the case between me and the reader should be the same in both instances as it was between me and the great man, I will not add another word on the subject. [201] A VOYAGE TO LISBON After this confession therefore, that the public was not the principal deity to which my life was offered a saci-ificc, and when it is farther considered what a poor sacrifice this was, being indeed no other than the giving up what I saw little likelihood of being able to hold nuich longer, and which, upon the terms I held it, nothing but the weakness of human nature could represent to me as worth hold- ing at all ; the world may, I believe, without envy, allow me all the praise to which I have any title. My aim, in fact, was not praise, which is the last gift tliey care to bestow ; at least, this was not my aim as an end, but rather as a means of purchasing some moderate provision for my family, which, though it should exceed my merit, must fall infi- nitely short of my service, if I succeeded in my attempt. To say the truth, the public never act more wisely than when they act most liberally in the distribution of their rewards : and here the good they receive is often more to be considered than the motive from which they receive it. Example alone is the end of all public punishments and rewards. Laws never inflict disgrace in resentment, nor confer honour from gratitude. " For it is very hard, my lord," said a convicted felon at the bar to the late excellent judge Burnet, " to hang a poor man for stealing a horse." " You are not to be hanged, sir," answered my ever-honoured and beloved friend, " for stealing a horse, but you are to be hanged that horses may not be stolen." In like manner it might have been said to the late duke of Marlborough, when the parlia- [ 20^2 1 INTRODUCTION ment was so deservedly liberal to him, after the battle of Blenheim, " You receive not these honours and bounties on account of a victory past, but that other victories may be obtained." I was now, in the opinion of all men, dying of a complication of disorders ; and, were I desirous of playing the advocate, I have an occasion fair enough ; but I disdain such an attempt. I relate facts plainly and simply as they are; and let the world draw from them what conclusions they please, taking with them the following facts for their instruction : the one is, that the proclamation offering one hundred pounds for the apprehending felons for certain felonies committed in cei'tain places, which I pre- vented from being revived, had formerly cost the government several thousand pounds within a single year. Secondly, that all such proclamations, instead of curins: the evil, had actually encreased it ; had multiplied the number of robberies ; had propagated the worst and wickedest of perjuries ; had laid snares for youth and ignorance, which, by the temptation of these rewards, had been sometimes drawn into guilt ; and sometimes, which cannot be thought on without the highest horror, had destroyed them without it. Thirdly, that my plan had not put the government to more than three hundred pound ex- pence, and had produced none of the ill consequences above mentioned ; but, lastly, had actually suppressed the evil for a time, and had plainly pointed out the means of suppressing it for ever. This I would myself have undertaken, liad my health permitted, at the annual expense of the above-mentioned sum. [ 203 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON After having stood the terrible six weeks which succeeded last Christmas, and put a lucky end, if they had known their own interests, to such numbers of aged and infirm valetudinarians, vvlio might have gasped through two or three mild winters more, I returned to town in February, in a condition less despaired of by myself than by any of my friends. I now became the patient of Dr. Ward, who wished I had taken his advice earlier. Bv his advice I was tapped, and fourteen quarts of water drawn from my belly. The sudden relaxa- tion which this caused, added to my enervate, ema- ciated habit of body, so weakened me that within two days I was thought to be falling into the ago- nies of death. I was at the worst on that memorable day when the public lost Mr. Pelham. From that day I began slowly, as it were, to draw my feet out of the grave ; till in two months"' time I had again acquired some little degree of strength, but was again full of water. During this whole time I took Mr. Ward's medi- cines, which had seldom any perceptible operation. Those in particular of the diaphoretic kind, the working of which is thought to require a great strength of constitution to support, had so little effect on me, that Mr. \Vard dcclai'ed it was as vain to attempt sweating me as a deal board. In this situation I was tapped a second time. I had one quart of water less taken from me now than before ; but I bore all the consequences of the opera- tion much better. This I attributed greatly to a dose of laudanum prescribed by my surgeon. It [204 ] INTRODUCTION first gave me the most delicious flow of spirits, and afterwards as comfortable a nap. The month of May, which was now begun, it seemed reasonable to expect would introduce the spring, and drive off that winter which yet main- tained its footing on the stage. I resolved there- fore to visit a little house of mine in the country, which stands at Ealing, in the county of Middlesex, in the best air, I believe, in the whole kingdom, and far superior to that of Kensington Gravel-pits ; for the gravel is here much wider and deeper, the place higher and more open towards the south, whilst it is guarded from the north wind by a ridge of hills, and from the smells and smoak of London by its dis- tance; which last is not the fate of Kensington, when the wind blows from any corner of the east. Obligations to Mr. Ward I shall always confess; for I am convinced that he omitted no care in en- deavouring to serve me, without any expectation or desire of fee or reward. The powers of Mr. Ward's remedies want indeed no unfair puffs of mine to give them credit ; and though this distemi)er of the dropsy stands, I believe, first in the list of those over which he is always cer- tain of triumphing, yet, possibly, there might be something particular in my case capable of eluding that radical force which had healed so many thou- sands. The same distemper, in different constitutions, may possibly be attended with such different symp- toms, that to find an infallible nostrum for the curing any one distemper in every patient may be almost aa difficult as to find a panacea for the cure of all. [205 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON But even such a panacea one of the greatest scholars and best of men did lately apprehend he had discovered. It is true, indeed, he was no physician ; that is, he had not by the forms of his education accjuired a right of applying his skill in the art of ph} sic to his own private advantage ; and yet, perhaps, it may be truly asserted that no other modern hath contributed so much to make his phys- ical skill useful to the public ; at least, that none hath undergone the pains of comnmnicating this di>covery in writing to the world. The reader, I think, will scarce need to be informed that the writer I mean is the late bishop of Cloyne, in Ire- land, and the discovery that of the virtues of tar- water. I then happened to recollect, upon a hint given me by the inimitable and shamefully-distressed author of the Female Quixote, that I had many years before, from curiosity only, taken a cursory view of bishop Berkeley's treatise on the virtues of tar-water, which I had formerly observed he strongly contends to be that real panacea which Sydenham supposes to have an existence in nature, though it yet remains undis- covered, and perhaps will always remain so. Upon the reperusal of this book I found the bishop only asserting his opinion that tar-water might be useful in the dropsy, since he had known it to have a surprising success in the cure of a most stubborn anasarca, which is indeed no other than, as the word implies, the dropsy of the flesh ; and this was, at that time, a large part of my complaint. After a short trial, therefore, of a milk diet, which [206] I INTRODUCTION I presently found did not suit with my case, I betook myself to the bishop's prescription, and dosed myself every morning and evening with half a pint of tar- water. It was no more than three weeks since my last tapping, and my belly and limbs were distended with water. This did not give me the worse opinion of tar- water; for I never supposed there could be any such virtue in tar-water as immediately to carry off a (juantity of water already collected. For my deliverv fi'om this I well knew I must be aerain obliged to the trochar ; and that if the tar-water did me any good at all it must be only bv the slowest degrees ; and that if it should ever get the better of my distemper it must be by the tedious operation of undermining, and not by a sudden attack and storm. Some visible effects, however, and far beyond what my most sanguine hopes could with any modestv expect, I very soon experienced; the tar- water having, from the very first, lessened my illness, increased my appetite, and added, though in a very slow proportion, to my bodily strength. But if my strength had increased a little my water daily increased nmch more. So that, by the end of May, my belly became again ripe for the trochar, and I was a third time tapped ; upon which, two very favourable symptoms appeared. I had three quarts of water taken from me less than had been taken the last time ; and I bore the relaxation with nmch less (indeed with scarce any) faintness. Those of my physical friends on whose judgment I [ 207 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON chiefly depended seemed to think my only chance of life consisted in having the whole summer before me ; in whicli Imiglit hope to gather sufficient .strength to encounter the inclemencies of the ensuing winter. But this chance began daily to lessen. I saw the summer mouldering away, or rather, indeed, the year passing away without intending to bring on any summer at all. In the whole month of May the sun scarce appeared three times. So that the earlv fi-uits came to the fulness of tlieir growth, and to some appearance of ripeness, without acquiring any real maturity ; having wanted the heat of the sun to soften and meliorate their juices. I saw the dropsy gaining rather than losing ground ; the dis- tance growing still shorter between the tappings. I saw the asthma likewise beginning again to become more troublesome. I saw the midsummer quarter drawing towards a close. So that I conceived, if the Michaelmas quarter should steal off in the same manner, as it was, in my opinion, very much to be apprehended it would, I should be delivered up to the attacks of winter before I recruited my forces, so as to be anywise able to withstand them. I now began to recall an intention, which from the first dawnings of my recovery I had conceived, of removing to a warmer climate ; and, finding this to be approved of by a very eminent physician, I i-esolved to put it into immediate execution. Aix in Provence was the place first thought on ; but the difficulties of getting thither were insuper- able. The journey by land, beside the expence of [208] INTRODUCTION it, was infinitely too long and fatiguing ; and I could hear of no ship that was likely to set out from London, within any reasonable time, for Marseilles, or any other port in that part of the Mediterranean. Lisbon was presently fixed on in its room. The air here, as it was near four degrees to the south of Aix, must be more mild and warm, and the winter shorter and less piercing. It was not difficult to find a ship bound to a place with which we carry on so immense a trade. Ac- cordingly, my brother soon informed me of the ex- cellent accommodations for passengers which were to be found on board a ship that was obliged to sail for Lisbon in three days. I eagerly embraced the offer, notwithstanding the shortness of the time ; and, having given my brother full power to contract for our passage, I began to prepare my family for the voyage with the utmost expedition. But our gi-eat haste was needless ; for the captain having twice put off his sailing, I at length invited him to dinner with me at Fordhook, a full week after the time on which he had declared, and that with many asseverations, he must and would weigh anchor. He dined with me according to his appointment ; and when all matters were settled between us, left me with positive oiders to be on board the ^^^ednes- day following, when he declared he would fall down the river to Gravesend, and would not stay a moment for the greatest man in the world, vol, I. - U [ 209 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON He advised me to go to Gravesend by land, and there wait the arrival of his ship, assi<^ning many reasons for this, every one of which was, as I well remember, among those that had before determined me to so on board near the Tower. [210] THE VOYAGE Y 'TT'EDNESDA Y, June 26, 1754. — On this § /m/ day the most melancholy sun I had ever f^ f beheld arose, and found me awake at my house at Fordhook. By the light of this sun I was, in my own opinion, last to behold and take leave of some of those creatures on whom 1 doated with a motherlike fondness, guided by nature and passion, and uncured and unhardened by all the doctrine of that philosophical school where I had learned to bear pains and to despise death. In this situation, as I could not conquer Nature, I submitted entirely to her, and she made as great a fool of me as she had ever done of any woman whatsoever ; under pretence of giving me leave to enjoy, she drew me in to suffer, the company of my little ones during eight hours ; and I doubt not whether, in that time, I did not undergo more than in all my distemper. At twelve precisely my coach was at the door, which was no sooner told me than I kissed my children round, and went into it with some little resolution. My wife, who behaved more like a heroine and philosoplier, tliough at the same time the tendercst mother in tlie world, and my eldest daughter, followed me ; some friends went with us, [211] A VOYAGE TO LISBON and others here took their leave ; and I heard my be- haviour applaiuled, with many murmurs and praises to whicli I w ell knew I had no title ; as all other such philosophers may, if they have any modesty, confess on the like occasions. In two hours we arrived in Rotherhithe, and im- mediately went on board, and were to have sailed the next morning ; but, as this was the king's pro- clamation-day, and consequently a holiday at the custom-house, the captain could not clear his vessel till the Thursday ; for these holidays are as strictly observed as those in the popish calendar, and are almost as numerous. I might add that both are opposite to the genius of trade, and consequently contra honum publicum. To go on board the ship it was necessary first to go into a boat ; a matter of no small difficulty, as I had no use of my limbs, and was to be carried by men who, though sufficiently strong for their bur- then, were, like Archimedes, puzzled to find a steady footing. Of this, as few of my readers have not gone into wherries on the Thames, they will easily be able to form to themselves an idea. However, by the assistance of my friend Mr. Welch, whom I never think or speak of but with love and esteem, I conquered this difficulty, as I did afterwards that of ascending the ship, into which I was hoisted with more ease by a chair lifted with pulleys. I was soon seated in a great chair in the cabin, to refresh my- self after a fatigue which had been more intolerable, in a quarter of a mile's passage from my coach to the ship, than I had before undergone in a land- [212 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON journey of twelve miles, which I had travelled with the utmost expedition. This latter fatigue was, perhaps, somewhat height- ened by an indignation which I could not prevent arising in my mind. I think, upon my entrance into the boat, I presented a spectacle of the highest hoi- ror. The total loss of limbs was apparent to all who saw me, and my face contained marks of a most diseased state, if not of death itself. Indeed, so ghastly was my countenance, that timorous women with child had abstained from my house, for fear of the ill consequences of looking at me. In this con- dition I ran the gauntlope (so I think I may justly call it) through rows of sailors and watermen, few of whom failed of paying their compliments to me by all manner of insults and jests on my misery. No man who knew me will think I conceived any per- sonal resentment at this behaviour ; but it was a lively picture of that cruelty and inhumanity in the nature of men which I have often contemplated with concern, and which leads the mind into a train of very uncomfortable and melancholy thoughts. It may be said that this barbarous custom is peculiar to the English, and of them only to the lowest de- gree ; that it is an excrescence of an uncontrouled licentiousness mistaken for liberty, and never shews itself in men who are polished and refined in such manner as human nature requires to produce that perfection of which it is susceptible, and to purge away that malevolence of disposition of which, at our birth, we partake in common with the savage creation. [213] A VOYAGE TO LISBON This may be said, and this is all that can be said ; and it is, I am afraid, but little satisfactory to account for the inhumanity of those who, while they boast of being made after God's own image, seem to bear in their minds a resemblance of the vilest species of brutes ; or rather, indeed, of our idea of devils ; for I don't know that any brutes can be taxed with such malevolence. A sirloin of beef was now placed on the table, for which, though little better than carrion, as much was charged by the master of the little paltry ale-house who dressed it as would have been demanded for all the elegance of the King's Arms, or any other polite tavern or eating-house ! for, indeed, the difference between the best house and the worst is, that at the former you pay largely for luxury, at the latter for nothing. Thursday, June 27. — This morning the captain, who lay on shore at his own house, paid us a visit in the cabin, and behaved like an angry bashaw, declar- ing that, had he known we were not to be pleased, he would not have carried us for five hundred pounds. He added many asseverations that he was a gentleman, and despised money ; not forgetting several hints of the presents which had been made him for his cabin, of twenty, thirty, and forty guineas, by several gentle- men, over and above the sum for which they had con- tracted. This behaviour greatly surprised me, as I knew not how to account for it, nothing having hap- pened since we parted from the captain the evening before in perfect good-humour; and all this broke forth on the first moment of his arrival this morning. [214 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON He did not, however, suffer my amazement to have any long continuance before he clearly shewed me that all this was meant only as an apology to intro- duce another procrastination (being the fifth) of his weighing anchor, which was now postponed till Satur- day, for such was his will and pleasure. Besides the disagreeable situation in which we then lay, in the confines of Wapping and Rotherhithe, tasting a delicious mixture of the air of both these sweet places, and enjoying the concord of sweet sounds of seamen, watermen, fish-women, oyster-women, and of all the vociferous inhabitants of both shores, com- posing altogether a greater variety of harmony than Hogarth's imagination hath brought together in that print of his, which is enough to make a man deaf to look at — I had a more urgent cause to press our departure, which was, that the dropsy, for which I had undergone three tappings, seemed to threaten me with a fourth discharge before I should reach Lisbon, and when I should have nobody on board capable of performing the operation ; but I was obliged to hearken to the voice of reason, if I n)ay use the cap- tain''s own words, and to rest mvself contented. In- deed, there was no alternative within my reach but what would have cost me niuch too dear. There are many evils in society from which people of the higliest rank are so entirely exempt, that they have not the least knowledge or idea of them ; nor indeed of the characters which are formed by them. Such, for instance, is the convcNance of goods and passengers from one place to another. Now there is no such thing as anv kind of knowledge contempti- [215] A VOYAGE TO LISBON ble in itself; and, as the particular knowledge I here mean is entirely necessary to the well understanding and well enjoying this journal ; and, lastly, as in this case the most ignorant will be those very readers w'hose amusement we chiefly consult, and to whom we wish to be supposed principally to write, we will here enter somewhat largel}^ into the discussion of this matter ; the rather, for that no antient or mod- em author (if we can trust the catalogue of doctor Mead's library) hath ever undertaken it, but that it seems (in the style of Don Quixote) a task reserved for mv pen alone. When I first conceived this intention I began to entertain thoughts of enquiring into the antiquity of tmvelling ; and, as many persons have performed in this way (I mean have travelled) at the expence of the public, I flattered myself that the spirit of im- proving arts and sciences, and of advancing useful and substantial learning, which so eminently dis- tinguishes this age, and hath given rise to more speculative societies in Europe than I at present can recollect the names of — perhaps, indeed, than I or any other, besides their very near neighbours, ever heard mentioned — would assist in promoting so curi- ous a work ; a work begun with the same views, cal- culated for the same purposes, and fitted for the same uses, with the labours which those right honourable societies have so chearfully undertaken themselves, and encouraged in others ; sometimes with the highest honours, even with admission into their colleges, and with imolnient amonfj their members. From these societies I promised myself all assist- [«16J A VOYAGE TO LISBON ance in their power, particularly the communication of such valuable manuscripts and records as they must be supposed to have collected from those ob- scure ages of antiquity when history yields us such imperfect accounts of the residence, and much more imperfect of the travels, of the human race ; unless, perhaps, as a curious and learned member of the young Society of Antiquarians is said to have hinted his conjectures, that their residence and their travels were one and the same ; and this discovery (for such it seems to be) he is said to have owed to the light- ing by accident on a book, which we shall have occa- sion to mention presently, the contents of which were then little known to the society. The king of Prussia, moreover, who, from a degree of benevolence and taste which in cither case is a rare production in so northern a climate, is the great encourager of art and science, I was well assured would promote so useful a design, and order his ar- chives to be searched on my behalf But after well weighing all these advantages, and much meditation on the order of my work, my whole design was subverted in a moment by hear- ing of the discovery just mentioned to have been made by the young anti(|uarian, who, from the most antient record in the world (though I don't find the society are all agreed on this point), one long pre- ceding the date of the earliest modern collections, either of books or butterflies, none of which pretend to go beyond the flood, shews us that the flrst man was a traveller, and that he and his family were scarce settled in Paradise before they disliked their [217] A VOYAGE TO LISBON own home, and became passengers to another place. Hence it appears that the humour of traveUing is as old as the human race, and that it was their curse from the beginning. Bv this discovery my plan became much shortened, and I found it only necessary to treat of the convey- ance of goods and passengers from place to place ; which, not being universally known, seemed proper to be explained before we examined into its original. There are indeed two different ways of tracing all things used by the historian and the antiquary ; these are upwards and downwards. The former shews you how things are, and leaves to others to discover when they began to be so. The latter shews you how things were, and leaves their present existence to be examined by others. Hence the former is more useful, the latter more curious. The former receives the thanks of mankind : the latter of that valuable part, the virtuosi. In explaining, therefore, this mvstery of carrying goods and passengers from one place to another, hitherto so profound a secret to the very best of our readers, we shall pursue the historical method, and endeavour to shew by what means it is at present performed, referring the more curious enquiry either to some other pen or to some other opportunity. Now there are two general ways of performing (if God permit) this conveyance, viz., by land and water, both of which have much variety ; that by land being performed in different vehicles, such as coaches, caravans, waggons, &c. ; and that by water in ships, barges, and boats, of various sizes and de- [218] A VOYAGE TO LISBON nominations. But, as all these methods of convey- ance are formed on the same principles, they agree so well together, that it is fully sufficient to com- prehend them all in the general view, without descending to such nn'nute particulars as would distinguish one method from another. Common to all of these is one general principle, that, as the goods to be conveved are usually the larger, so they are to be chiefly considered in the conveyance ; the owner being indeed little more than an appendage to his trunk, or box, or bale, or at best a small part of his own baggage, very little care is to be taken in stowing or packing them up with convenience to himself; for the conveyance is not of passengers and goods, but of goods and passengers. Secondly, from this conveyance arises a new kind of relation, or rather of subjection, in the society, by which the passenger becomes bound in allegiance to his conveyer. This allegiance is indeed only tempo- rary and local, but the most absolute during its con- tinuance of any known in Great Britain, and, to say truth, scarce consistent with the liberties of a free people, nor could it be reconciled with them, did it not move downwards ; a circumstance universallv apprehended to be incompatible to all kinds of slavery ; for Aristotle in his Politicks hath proved abundantly to my satisfaction that no men are born to be slaves, except barbarians ; and these onlv to such as are not themselves barbarians ; and indeed Mr. Montes(|uieu hath carried it very little farther in the case of the Africans ; the real truth being [ 219 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON that no man is born to be a slave, unless to him who is able to make him so. Thinlly, this subjection is absolute, and consists of a perfect resignation both of body and soul to the disposal of another ; after which resignation, during a certain time, his subject retains no more power over his own will than an Asiatic slave, or an En"- lish wife, by the laws of both countries, and by the customs of one of them. If I should mention the instance of a stage-coachman, many of my readers would recognise the truth of what I have here ob- served ; all, indeed, that ever have been under the dominion of that tyrant, who in this free country is as absolute as a Turkish bashaw. In two particulars only his power is defective ; he cannot press you into his service, and if you enter yourself at one place, on condition of being discharged at a certain time at another, he is obliged to perform his agreement, if God permit, but all the intermediate time you are absolutely under his government ; he carries you how he will, when he will, and whither he will, pro- vided it be not much out of the road ; you have nothing to eat or to drink, but what, and when, and where he pleases. Nay, you cannot sleep unless he pleases you should ; for he will order you sometimes out of bed at midnight and hurry you away at a moment's warning : indeed, if you can sleep in his vehicle he cannot prevent it ; nay, indeed, to give him his due, this he is ordinarily disposed to en- courage : for the earlier he foi-ces you to rise in the morning, the more time he will give you in the heat of the day, sometimes even six hours at an ale-house, [220] A VOYAGE TO LISBON or at their doors, where he always gives vou the same indulgence which he allows himself; and for this he is generally very moderate in his demands. I have known a whole bundle of passengers charged no more than half-a-crown for being suffered to remain quiet at an ale-house door for above a whole hour, and that even in the hottest day in summer. But as this kind of tyranny, though it hath escaped our political writers, hath been I think touched by our dramatic, and is more trite among the generality of readers ; and as this and all other kinds of such subjection are alike unknown to my friends, I will quit the passengers by land, and treat of those who travel by water ; for whatever is said on this subject is applicable to both alike, and we may bring them together as closely as they are brought in the litui-gy, when they are recommended to the prayers of all Christian congregations ; and (which I have often thought very remarkable) where they are joined with other miserable wretches, such as women in labour, people in sickness, infants just born, prisoners and captives. Goods and passengers are conveyed by water in divers vehicles, the principal of which being a ship, it shall suffice to mention that alone. Here the tyrant doth not derive his title, as the stage-coach- man doth, from the vehicle itself in which he stows his goods and passengers, but he is called the captain — a word of such various use and uncertain significa- tion, that it seems very difficult to fix any positive idea to it : if, indeed, there be any general meaning which may comprehend all its different uses, that of [221 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON the head or chief of any body of men seems to be most capable of this comprehension ; for whether they be a company of soldiers, a crew of sailors, or a gang of rogues, he who is at the head of them is always stiled the captain. The particular tyrant whose fortune it was to stow us aboard laid a fai'ther claim to this appellation than the bare command of a vehicle of conveyance. He had been the captain of a privateer, which he chose to call being in the king''s service, and thence derived a right of hoisting the military ornament of a cockade over the button of his hat. He likewise woi-e a sword of no ordinary length by his side, with which he swaggered in his cabin, among the wretches his passengers, whom he had stowed in cupboards on each side. He was a person of a very singular char- acter. He had taken it into his head that he was a gentleman, from those very reasons that proved he was not one ; and to shew himself a fine gentleman, by a behaviour which seemed to insinuate he had never seen one. He was, moreover, a man of gal- lantry ; at the age of seventy he Lad the finicalness of Sir Courtly Nice, with the roughness of Surly ; and, while he was deaf himself, had a voice capable of deafening all others. Now, as I saw myself in danger by the delays of the captain, w'ho was, in reality, waiting for more freight, and as the wind had been long nested, as it were, in the south-west, where it constantly blew hurricanes, I began with great reason to apprehend that our voyage might be long, and that my belly, which began already to be much extended, would [ 222 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON require the water to be let out at a time when no assistance was at hand ; though, indeed, the captain comforted me with assurances that he had a pretty young fellow on board who acted as his surgeon, as I found he likewise did as steward, cook, butler, sailor. In short, he had as many offices as Scrub in the play, and went through them all with great dexterity ; this of surgeon was, perhaps, the only one in which his skill was somewhat deficient, at least, that branch of tapping for the dropsy ; for he very ingenuously and modestly confessed he had never seen the operation performed, nor was possessed of that chirurgical instrument with which it is per- formed. Friday., June 28. — By way of prevention, there- fore, I this day sent for my friend Mr. Hunter, the great surgeon and anatomist of Covent-garden ; and, though my belly was not yet very full and tight, let out ten quarts of water ; the young sea-surgeon at- tended the operation, not as a performer, but as a student. I was now eased of the greatest apprehension which I had from the length of the passage ; and I told the captain I was become indifferent as to the time of his sailing. He expressed much satisfaction in this declaration, and at hearing from me that I found myself, since my tapping, much lighter and better. In this, I believe, he was sincere ; for he was, as we shall have occasion to observe more than once, a very good-natured man ; and, as he was a very brave one too, I found that the heroic constancy with which I had borne an operation that is attended with scarce [ 2J^3 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON any degree of pain had not a little raised me in his esteem. That he might adhere, therefore, in the most religious and rigorous manner to his word, when he had no longer any temptation from interest to break it, as he had no longer any hopes of more goods or passengers, he ordered his ship to fall down to Gravesend on Sunday morning, and there to wait his arrival. Sunday, June 30. — Nothing worth notice passed till that morning, when my poor wife, after passing a night in the utmost torments of the toothache, resolved to have it drawn. I despatched therefore a servant into Wapping to bring in haste the best tooth-drawer he could find. He soon found out a female of great eminence in the art ; but when he brought her to the boat, at the water-side, they were informed that the ship was gone ; for indeed she had set out a few minutes after his quitting her ; nor did the pilot, who well knew the errand on which I had sent my servant, think fit to wait a moment for his return, or to give me any notice of his setting out, though I had very patiently attended the delays of the captain four days, after many solemn promises of weighing anchor every one of the three last. But of all the petty bashaws or turbulent tyrants I ever beheld, this sour- faced pilot was the worst tempered ; for, during the time that he had the guid- ance of the ship, which was till we arrived in the Downs, he complied with no one's desires, nor did he give a civil word, or indeed a civil look, to any on boaid. The tooth-drawer, who, as I said before, was one [224] A VOYAGE TO LISBON of great eminence among her neighbours, refused to follow the ship ; so that my man made himself the best of his wav, and with some difficulty came up with us before we were got under full sail ; for after that, as we had both wind and tide with us, he would have found it impossible to overtake the ship till she was come to an anchor at Gravesend. The morning was fair and bright, and we had a passage thither, I think, as pleasant as can be con- ceived : for, take it with all its advantages, particu- larly the number of fine ships you are always sure of seeing by the way, there is nothing to equal it in all the rivers of the world. The yards of ]3eptford and of Woolwich are noble sights, and give us a just idea of the great perfection to which we are arrived in building those floating castles, and the figure which we may always make in Europe among the other maritime powers. That of Woolwich, at least, very strongly imprinted this idea on my mind ; for there was now on the stocks there the Royal Anne, sup- posed to be the lai-gest ship ever built, and which contains ten carriage-guns more than had ever yet equipped a first-rate. It is true, perhaps, that there is more of ostenta- tion than of real utility in ships of this vast and unwieldy burthen, which are rarely capable of act- ing against an enemy ; but if the building such con- tributes to preserve, among other nations, the notion of the British su{)erioritv in naval aff'aii-s, the ex- pence, though very great, is well incurred, and the ostentation is laudable and truly political. Indeed, I should be sorry to allow that Holland, France, or VOL. J. - 15 [ 225 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON Spain, possessed a vessel larger and more beautiful than the largest and most beautiful of oin's ; for this honour I would always administer to tlie pride of our sailors, who should challenge it from all their neighbours with truth and success. And sure I am that not our honest tars alone, but every inhabitant of this island, may exult in the comparison, when he considers the king of Great Britain as a maritime prince, in opposition to any other prince in Europe ; but I am not so certain that the same idea of supe- riority will result from comparing our land forces with those of many other crowned heads. In num- bers they all far exceed us, and in the goodness and splendour of their troops many nations, particularly the Germans and French, and perhaps the Dutch, cast us at a distance ; for, however we may flatter ourselves with the Edwards and Henrys of former ages, the change of the whole art of war since those days, by which the advantage of personal strength is in a manner entirely lost, hath produced a change in military affairs to the advantage of our enemies. As for our successes in later days, if they were not en- tirely owing to the superior genius of our general, they were not a little due to the superior force of his money. Indeed, if we should arraign marshal Saxe of ostentation when he shewed his army, drawn up, to our captive general, the day after the battle of I^a Val, we cannot sav that the ostentation was en- tirely vain ; since he certainly shewed him an army which had not been often equalled, either in the number or goodness of the troops, and which, in those respects, so far exceeded ours, that none can [ 226 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON ever cast any reflexion on the brave young prince who could not reap the lawrels of conquest in that day ; but his retreat will be always mentioned as an addi- tion to his gloi} . In our marine the case is entirely the reverse, and it must be our own fault if it doth not continue so ; for continue so it will as long as the flourishing state of our trade shall support it, and this support it can never want till our legislature shall cease to give sufficient attention to the protection of our trade, and our magistrates want sufficient power, ability, and honesty, to execute the laws ; a circumstance not to be apprehended, as it cannot happen till our senates and our benches shall be filled with the blindest ignorance, or with the blackest corruption. Besides the ships in the docks, we saw many on the water : the yatchts are sights of great parade, and the king's body yatcht is, I believe, unequalled in any country for convenience as well as magnificence ; both which are consulted in building and equipping her with the most exquisite art and workmanship. We saw likewise several Indiamen just returned from their voyage. These are, I believe, the largest and finest vessels which are anywhere employed in commercial affairs. The colliers, likewise, which are very numerous, and even assemble in fleets, are ships of great bulk ; and if we descend to those used in the American, African, and European trades, and pass through those which visit our own coasts, to the small craft that lie between Chatham and the Tower, the whole forms a most pleasing object to the eye, as well as highly warming to the heart of an English- [227] A VOYAGE TO LISBON » man who has any degree of love for his country, or can recognise any effect of the patriot in his constitution. Lastly, the Royal Hospital at Greenwich, which presents so delightful a front to the water, and doth such honour at once to its builder and the nation, to the great skill and ingenuity of the one, and to the no less sensible gratitude of the other, vei'y properly closes the account of this scene ; \\hich may well appear romantic to those who have not themselves seen that, in this one instance, truth and reality are capable, perhaps, of exceeding the power of fiction. When we had past by Green wicii we saw only two or three gentlemen's houses, all of very moderate ac- count, till we reached Gravesend : these are all on the Kentish shore, which affords a much drier, whole- sonier, and pleasanter situation, than doth that of its opposite, Essex. This circumstance, I own, is some- what surprising to me, when I reflect on the numerous villas that crowd the river from Chelsea upwards as far as Shepperton, where the narrower channel affords not half so noble a prospect, and where the continual succession of the small ci'aft, like the frequent repeti- tion of all things, which have nothing in them great, beautiful, or admirable, tire the eye, and give us dis- taste and aversion, instead of pleasure. With some of these situations, such as Barnes, Mortlake, &c., even the shore of Essex might contend, not upon very unequal terms ; but on the Kentish borders there are many spots to be chosen by the builder which might justly claim the preference over almost the very finest of those in Middlesex and Surrey. [228 j A VOYAGE TO LISBON How shall we account for this depravity in taste ? for surely there are none so very mean and contempt- ible as to bring the pleasure of seeing a number of little wherries, gliding along after one another, in competition with what we enjoy in viewing a succes- sion of ships, with all their sails expanded to the winds, bounding over the waves before us. And here 1 cannot pass by another observation on the deplorable want of taste in our enjoyments, which we shew by almost totally neglecting the pursuit of what seems to me the highest degree of amusement ; this is, the sailing ourselves in little vessels of our own, contrived only for our ease and accommodation, to which such situations of our villas as I have recom- mended would be so convenient, and even necessary. This amusement, I confess, if enjoyed in any per- fection, would be of the expensive kind; buh such expence would not exceed the reach of a moderate fortune, and would fall very short of the prices which are daily paid for pleasures of a far inferior rate. The truth, I believe, is, that sailing in the manner I have just mentioned is a pleasure rather un- known, or uiithought of, than rejected by those who have experienced it; unless, perhaps, the apprehension of danger or sea-sickness may be supposed, by the timorous and delicate, to make too laige deductions- insisting that all their enjoyments shall come to theui pure and unmixed, and being ever ready to cry out, Nocet empta dolore voluptas. This, however, was my present case ; for the ease and lightness which I felt from my tapping, the gai- [229] A VOYAGE TO LISBON ety of the morning, the pleasant saiHng with wind and tide, and the many agreeahle objects with which I was constantly entertained during the whole way, were all suppressed and overcome by the single con- sideration of my wife''s pain, which continued inces- santly to torment her till we came to an anchor, when I dispatched a messenger in great haste for the best reputed operator in Gravesend. A surgeon of some eminence now appeared, who did not decline tooth-drawing, though he certainly would have been offended with the appellation of tooth-drawer no less than his brethren, the members of that venerable body, would be with that of barber, since the late separation between those long-united companies, by which, if the surgeons have gained much, the barbers are supposed to have lost very little. This able and careful person (for so I sincerely believe he is) after examining the guilty tooth, de- clared tliat it was such a rotten shell, and so placed at the very remotest end of the upper jaw, where it was in a manner covered and secured by a large fine firm tooth, that he despaired of his power of draw- ing it. He said, indeed, more to my wife, and used more rhetoric to dissuade her from having it drawn, than is generally employed to persuade young ladies to prefer a pain of three moments to one of three months'' continuance, especially if those young ladies happen to be past forty and fifty years of age, when, by submitting to support a racking torment, the only good circumstance attending which is, it is so short that scarce one in a thousand can cry out " I feel it," [230 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON they are to do a violence to their charms, and lose one of those beautiful holders with which alone Sir Courtly Nice declares a lady can ever lay hold of his heart. He said at last so much, and seemed to reason so justly, that I came over to his side, and assisted him in prevailing on my wife (for it was no easy matter) to resolve on keeping her tooth a little longer, and to apply palliatives only for relief. These were opium applied to the tooth, and blisters behind the ears. Whilst we were at dinner this day in the cabin, on a sudden the window on one side was beat into the room with a crash as if a twenty-pounder had been discharged among us. We were all alarmed at the suddenness of the accident, for which, however, we were soon able to account, for the sash, which was shivered all to pieces, was pursued into the mid- dle of the cabin by the bowsprit of a little ship called a cod-smack, the master of which made us amends for running (carelessly at best) against us, and injur- ing the ship, in the sea-way ; that is to say, by danm- ing us all to hell, and uttering several pious wishes that it had done us much more mischief. All which were answered in their own kind and phrase by our men, between whom and the other crew a dialogue of oaths and scun-ility was carried on as long as they continued in each other''s hearing. It is difhcult, I think, to assign a satisfactory reason why sailors in general should, of all others, think themselves entirely discharged from the conunon bands of humanity, and should seem to glory in the [231] A VOYAGE TO LISBON language and bclmviour of savages ! They see more of the world, and have, most of them, a more erudite education than is the portion of landmen of their degree. Nor do I believe that in any country they visit (Holland itself not excepted) they can ever find a parallel to what daily passes on the river Thames. Is it that they think true couz-age (for they are the bravest fellows upon earth) inconsistent with all the gentleness of a humane carriage, and that the con- tempt of civil order springs up in minds but little cultivated, at the same time and from the same principles with the contempt of danger and death ? Is it ? in short, it is so ; and how it comes to be so I leave to form a question in the Robin Hood Society, or to be propounded for solution among the aenigmas in the Woman's Almanac for the next year. Monday, July 1. — This day Mr. Welch took his leave of me after dinner, as did a young lady of her sister, who was proceeding with my wife to Lisbon. They both set out together in a post-chaise for London. Soon after their departure our cabin, where my wife and I were sitting together, was visited by two ruffians, whose appearance greatly corresponded with that of the sheriffs, or rather the knight- marshal's bailiffs. One of these especially, who seemed to affect a more than ordinary degree of rudeness and insolence, came in without any kind of ceremony, M'ith a broad gold lace on his hat, which was cocked with much military fierceness on his head. An inkhorn at his button-hole and some papers in his A VOYAGE TO LISBON hand sufficiently assured me what he was, and I asked him if he and his companion were not custom- house officers : he answered with sufficient dignity that they were, as an information which he seemed to conclude would strike the hearer with awe, and suppress all further enquiry ; but, on the contrary, I proceeded to ask of what rank he was in the custom- house, and, receiving an answer from his companion, as I remember, that the gentleman was a riding surveyor, I replied that he might be a riding sur- veyor, but could be no gentleman, for that none who had any title to that denomination would break into the presence of a lady Avithout an apology or even movina: his hat. He then took his coverin-> perous wind, I will not determine ; it is sufficient to [282] A VOYAGE TO LISBON observe that he was a false prophet, a.id that the weathercocks continued to point as before. He would not, however, so easily give up his skill in prediction. He persevered in asserting that the wind was changed, and, having weighed his anchor, fell down that afternoon to St. Helen's, which was at about the distance of five miles ; and whither his friend the tide, in defiance of the wind, which was iflost manifestly against him, softly wafted him in as many hours. Here, about seven in the evening, before which time we could not procure it, we sat down to regale ourselves with some roasted venison, which was much better drest than we imagined it would be, and an excellent cold pasty which my wife had made at Rvde, and which we had reserved uncut to eat on board our ship, whither we all chearfully exulted in being returned from the presence of Mrs. Francis, who, by the exact resemblance she bore to a fury, seemed to have been with no great propriety settled in paradise. Friday, July 24. — As we passed by Spithead on the preceding evening we saw the two regiments of soldiers who were just returned from Gibraltar and Minorca ; and this day a lieutenant belonging to one of them, who was the captain's nephew, came to pay a visit to his uncle. He was what is called by some a very pretty fellow ; indeed, much too pretty a fellow at his years ; for he was turn'id of thirty-four, though his address and conversation would have be- come him moi'e before he had reached twenty. In his conversation, it is true, there was something [283] A VOYAGE TO LISBON military enougli, as it consisted chiefly of oaths, and of the great actions and wise sayings of Jack, and Will, and Tom of our regiment, a phrase eternally in his mouth ; and he seemed to conclude that it conveyed to all the oflicers such a degree of public notoriety and importance that it intitled him, like the head of a profession, or a first minister, to be the subject of conversation among those who had not the least personal acquaintance with him. This did not much surprise me, as I have seen several examples of the same ; but the defects in his address, espe- cially to the women, were so great that they seemed absolutely inconsistent with the behaviour of a pretty fellow, much less of one in a red coat ; and yet, be- sides having been eleven years in the army, he had had, as his uncle informed me, an education in France. 'I'his, I own, would have appeared to have been absolutely thrown away had not his animal spirits, which were likewise thrown away upon him in great abundance, borne the visible stamp of the growth of that country. The character to which he had an indisputable title was that of a merry fellow ; so very merry was he tliat he lauffhed at evervthins; he said, and always before he spoke. Possibly, in- deed, he often laughed at what he did not utter, for every speech begun with a laugh, though it did not always end w^ith a jest. There was no great analogy between the characters of the uncle and the nephew, and yet they seemed intirely to agree in enjoying the honour which the red-coat did to his family. This the uncle expressed with great pleasure in his countenance, and seemed desirous of shewin"- all [284 J '& A VOYAGE TO LISBON present the honour which he had for his nephew, who, on liis side, was at some pains to convince us of his concurring in this opinion, and at the same time of displaying the contempt he liad for the parts, as well as the occupation, of his uncle, which he seemed to think reflected some disgrace on himself, who was a member of that profession which makes every man a gentleman. Not tliat I would be understood to insirmate that the nephew endeavoured to shake off or disown his uncle, or indeed to keep him at any distance. On the contrarv, he treated him with the utmost familiarity, often calling him Dick, and dear Dick, and old Dick, and frequently beginning an oration with D — n me, Dick. All this condescension on the part of the young man was received with suitable marks of complai- sance and obligation by the old one ; especially when it was attended with evidences of the same familiaritv with general officers and other persons of rank ; one of whom, in particular, I know to have the pride and insolence of the devil himself, and who, without some strong bias of interest, is no more liable to converse familiarly with a lieutenant than of being mistaken in his judgment of a fool ; which was not, perhaps, so certainly the case of the worthy lieutenant, who, in declaring to us the quali- fications which recommended men to his countenance and conversation, as well as what effectually set a })ar to all hopes of that honour, exclaimed, " No, sir, by the d — I hate all fools — No, d — n me, ex- cuse me for that. That 's a little too much, old Dick. There are two or three officers of our regi- [285 j A VOYAGE TO LISBON ment whom I know to be fools ; but d — n me if I am ever seen in tlieir company. If a man hath a fool of a relation, Dick, you know he can't help that, old boy." Such jokes as these the old man not only took in good part, but glibly gulped down the whole narra- tive of his nephew ; nor did he, I am convinced, in the least doubt of oui- as readily swallowing the same. This made him so charnied with the lieuten- ant, that it is probable we should have been pestered with him the whole evening, had not the north wind, dearer to our sea-captain even than this glory of his family, sprung suddenly up, and called aloud to him to weigh his anchor. While this ceremony was performing, the sea- captain ordered out his boat to row the land-captain to shore ; not indeed on an uninhabited island, but one which, in this part, looked but little better, not presenting us the view of a single house. In- deed, our old friend, when his boat returned on shore, perhaps being no longer able to stifle his envy of the superiority of his nephew, told us with a smile that the young man had a good five mile to walk before he could be accommodated with a pass- age to Portsmouth. It appeared now that the captain had been only mistaken in the date of his prediction, by placing the event a day earlier than it happened ; for the wind which now arose was not only favourable but brisk, and was no sooner in reach of our sails than it swept us away by the back of the Isle of Wight, and, having in the night carried us by Christchurch [286] A VOYAGE TO LISBON and Peveral-point, brought us the next noon, Satur- day, Juhj 25, off the island of Portland, so famous for the smallness and sweetness of its mutton, of which a leg seldom weighs four pounds. We would have bought a sheep, but our captain would not permit it ; though he needed not have been in such a hurry, for presently the wind, I will not positively assert in resentment of his surliness, shewed him a dog's trick, and slily slipt back again to his sum- mer-house in the south-west. The captain now grew outrageous, and, declaring open war with the wind, took a resolution, rather more bold than wise, of sailing in defiance of it, and in its teeth. He swore he would let go his anchor no more, but would beat the sea while he had either yard or sail left. He accordingly stood from the shore, and made so large a tack that before night, though he seemed to advance but little on his way, he was got out of sight of land. Towards the evening the wind began, in the cap- tain's own language, and indeed it freshened so much, that before ten it blew a perfect hurricane. The captain having got, as he supposed, to a safe distance, tacked again towards the English shore ; and now the wind veered a point only in his favour, and continued to blow with such violence, that the ship ran about eight knots or miles an hour during this whole day and tempestuous night till bed-time. I ■was obliged to betake myself once more to my soli- tude, for my women were again all down in their sea-sickness, and the captain was busv on deck ; for he began to grow uneasy, chiefly, I believe, because [287] A VOYAGE TO LISBON he did not well know where he was, and would, I am convinced, have been very glad to have been in Port- land-road, eating some sheep's-head broth. Having contracted no great degree of good-humour by living a whole day alone, without a single soul to converse with, I took but ill physic to purge it off', by a bed- conversation with the captain, who, amongst many bitter lan)entations of his fate, and protesting he had more patience than a Job, frequently inter- mixed summons to the commanding officer on the deck, who now happened to be one Morrison, a car- penter, the only fellow that had either common sense or common civility in the ship. Of Morrison he en- quired every quarter of an hour concerning the state of affairs : the wind, the care of the ship, and other matters of navigation. The frequency of these sum- mons, as well as the solicitude with which they were made, sufficiently testified the state of the captain's mind ; he endeavoured to conceal it, and would have given no small alarm to a man who had either not learnt what it is to die, or known what it is to be miserable. And my dear wife and child must pardon me, if what I did not conceive to be any great evil to myself I was not much terrified with the thoughts of happening to them ; in truth, I have often thought they are both too good and too gentle to be trusted to the power of any man I know, to whom they could possibly be so trusted. Can I say then I had no fear ? indeed I cannot. Reader, I was afraid for thee, lest thou shouldst have been deprived of that pleasure thou art now enjoy- ing ; and that I should not live to draw out on paper [288] A VOYAGE TO LISBON that military character which thou didst peruse in the journal of yesterday. From all these fears we were relieved, at six in the morning, by the arrival of Mr. Morrison, who ac- quainted us that he was sure he beheld land very near; for he could not see half a mile, by reason of the haziness of the weather. This land he said was, he believed, the Berry-head, which forms one side of Torbay : the captain declared that it was impossible, and swore, on condition he was right, he would give him his mother for a maid. A forfeit which became afterwards strictly due and payable ; for the captain, whipping on his night-gown, ran up without his breeches, and within half an hour returning into the cabin, wished me joy of our lying safe at anchor in the bay. Sunday, Jtdy 26. — Things now began to put on an aspect very different from what they had lately worn ; the news that the ship had almost lost its mizen, and that we had procured very fine clouted cream and fresh bread and butter from the shore, restored health and s{)irits to our women, and we all sat down to a very chearful breakfast. But, however pleasant our stay promised to be here, we were all desirous it should be short : I resolved innnediately to despatch my man into the country to piirciiase a present of cider, for my friends of that which is called Southam, as well as to take with me a hogshead of it to Lisbon ; for it is, in my opinion, much more delicious than that which is the srowth of Herefordshire. I purchased three hogsheads for five pounds ten shillings, all which I should have scarce VOL. I. - IP [ 289 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON thought worth nicntioniiiff, had I not beheved it niiflit be of equal service to the honest farmer who sold it me, and who is by the neighbouring gentlemen reputed to deal in the very best ; and to the reader, who, from ignorance of the means of providing better for himself, swallows at a dearer rate the juice of ?Jiddlesex turnip, instead of that Vinum Pomonae which Mr. Giles Leverance of Cheeshurst, near Dart- mouth in Devon, will, at the price of forty shillings per hogshead, send in double casks to any part of the world. Had the wind been very sudden in shift- ing, I had lost my cider by an attempt of a boatman to exact, according to custom. He required five sliillinofs for conveyinsr mv man a mile and a half to the shore, and foi;r more if he staid to bring him back. This I thought to be such insufferable im- pudence that I ordered him to be immediately chased from the ship, without any answer. Indeed, there are few inconveniences that I would not rather en- counter than encourage the insolent demands of these wretches, at the expence of my own indignation, of which I own they are not the only objects, but rather those who purchase a paultry convenience by encouraging them. But of this I have already spoken very largely. I shall coiicluiie, therefore, with the leave which this fellow took of our ship ; saying he should know it again, and would not put off from the shore to relieve it in any distress w-hatever. It will, doubtless, surprise many of my readers to hear that, when we lay at anchor within a mile or two of a town several days together, and even in the most temperate weather, we should frequently [290] A VOYAGE TO LISBON want fresh provisions and herbage, and other emolu- ments of the .shore, as much as if we had been a liundred leagues from land. And this too while numbers of boats were in our sight, whose owners get their livelihood by rowing people up and down, and could be at any time sunniioned by a signal to our assistance, and while the captain had a little boat of his own, with men always ready to row it at his command. This, however, hath been partly accounted for already by the imposing disposition of the people, wiio asked so much more tha.n the proper price of their labour. And as to the usefulness of the cap- tain's boat, it requires to be a little expatiated upon, as it w'ill tend to lay open some of the grievances which demand the utmost regard of our legislature, as they affect the most valuable part of the king's subjects — those by whom the commerce of the nation is carried into execution. Our captain then, who was a very good and ex- perienced seaman, having been above thirty years ■lie master of a vessel, part of which he had served, ; !) he phrased it, as commander of a privateer, and had discharged himself with great courage and con- duct, and with as great success, discovej'ed the utmost .-aversion to the sending his boat ashore whenever w'e lay wind-bound in any of our harbours. This aversion did not arise from any fear of wearing out his boat by using it, but was, in truth, the result of experience, that it was easier to send his men on shore than to recal them. Tliey acknov.lcdged him to be their master while thcv remained on shipboard, [ 291 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON but did not allow his power to extend to the shores, where they had no sooner set their foot than ever}' man became sui juris, and thought himself at full liberty to i-eturn when he pleased. Now it is not any delight that these fellow s have in the fresh air or verdant fields on the land. Every one of them would prefer his ship and his hannnock to all the sweets of Arabia the Happy ; but, unluckily for them, there are in every seaport in England certain houses whose chief livelihood depends on providing entertain- n)ent for the gentlemen of the jacket. For this purpose they are always well furnished with those cordial liquors which do innnediately inspire the heart with gladness, banishing all careful thoughts, and indeed all others, from the mind, and opening the mouth with songs of chearfulness and thanksgiv- ing for the many wonderful blessings with which a seafaring life overflows. For my own part, however whimsical it may ap- pear, I confess I have thought the strange story of Circe in the Odyssey no other than an ingenious allegory, in which Homer intended to convey to his countrymen the same kind of insti'uction which we intend to communicate to our own in this digression. As teaching the art of war to the Greeks was the plain design of the Iliad, so was teaching them the art of navigation the no less manifest intention of the Odyssey. For the improvement of this, their situation was most excellently adapted ; and accord- ingly we find 'J'hucvdides, in the beginning of his history, considers the Greeks as a sett of pirates or privateers, j[)lundering ejich other by sea. This being [292] A VOYAGE TO LISBON probably the first institution of commerce before the Ars Cauponaria was invented, and merchants, instead of robbing, began to cheat and outwit each other, and by degrees changed the Metabletic, the only kind of traffic allowed by Aristotle in his Politics, into the Chrematistic. By this allegory then I suppose Ulysses to have been the captain of a merchant-ship, and Circe some good ale-wife, who made his crew drunk with the spirituous liquors of those days. With this the transformation into swine, as well as all other in- cidents of the fable, will notably agree ; and thus a key will be found out for unlocking the whole mys- tery, and forging at least some meaning to a story which, at present, appears very strange and absurd. Hence, moreover, will appear tlie very near re- semblance between the sea-faring: men of all ajjes and nations ; and here perhaps may be established the truth and justice of that observation, which will occur oftener than once in tliis voyage, that all human flesh is not the same flesh, but that there is one kind of flesh of landmen, and another of seamen. Philosophers, divines, and others, who have treated the gratification of human appetites with contempt, have, among other instances, insisted very strongly on that satiety which is so apt to overtake them even in the very act of enjoyment. And here they more particularly deserve our attention, as most of them may be supposed to speak from their own experience, and very probably gave us their lessons with a full stomach, l^hus hunger and thirst, what- ever delight they may afford while we are eating [ 293 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON and drinking, pass both away from us with the plate and the cup ; and though we should imitate the Romans, if, indeed, they were such dull beasts, which I can scarce believe, to unload the belly like a dung-pot, in order to fill it again with another load, yet would the pleasure be so considerably les- sened that it would scarce repay us the trouble of purchasing it with swallowing a bason of camomile tea. A second haunch of venison, or a second dose of turtle, would hardly allure a city glutton with its smell. Even the celebrated Jew himself, when well filled with calipash and calipee, goes contentedly home to tell his money, and expects no more pleas- ure from his throat during the next twenty-four hours. Hence I suppose Dr. South took that ele- gant comparison of the joys of a speculative man to the solemn silence of an Archimedes over a problem, and those of a glutton to the stillness of a sow at her wash. A simile which, if it became the pulpit at all, could only become it in the afternoon. AXTiereas in those potations which the mind seems to enjoy, rather than the bodily appetite, there is happily no such satiety ; but the more a man drinks, the more he desires ; as if, like Mark Anthony in Dryden, his appetite encreased with feeding, and this to such an immoderate degree, ut nullws sH desiderio aut piidor aut modus. Hence, as with the gang of Captain Ulysses, ensues so total a transformation, that the man no more continues what he was. Per- haps he ceases for a time to be at all ; or, though he may retain the same outward form and figure he had before, yet is his nobler part, as we are taught to call [294] A VOYAGE TO LISBON it, so changed, that, instead of being the same man, he scarce remembers what he was a few hours before. And this transformation, being once obtained, is so easily preserved by the same potations, which induced no satiety, that the captain in vain sends or goes in quest of his crew. They know him no longer ; or, if they do, they acknowledge not his power, having indeed as entirely forgotten themselves as if they had taken a large draught of the river of Lethe. Nor is the captain always sure of even finding out the place to which Circe hath conveyed them. There are many of tliose houses in every port-town. Nay, there are some where the sorceress doth not trust only to her drugs ; but hath instruments of a differ- ent kind to execute her purposes, by whose means the tar is effectually secreted from the knowledge and pursuit of his captain. This would, indeed, be very fatal, was it not for one circumstance ; that the sailor is seldom provided with the proper bait for these harpies. However, the contrary sometimes happens, as these harpies will bite at almost any- thing, and will snap at a pair of silver buttons, or buckles, as surely as at the specie itself Nay, some- times they are so voracious, that the very naked hook will go down, and the jolly young sailor is sacrificed for his own sake. In vain, at such a season as this, would the vows of a pious heathen have prevailed over Neptune, ^olus, or any other marine deity. In vain would the prayers of a Christian captain be attended with the like success. The wind may change how it pleases while all hands are on shore ; the anchor [ 295 J A VOYAGE TO LISBOiN would remain firm in the ground, and the ship would continue in durance, unless, like other forcible prison- breakers, it forcibly got loose for no good purpose. Now, as tlie fa\ our of winds and courts, and such like, is always to be laid hold on at the very first motion, for within twenty-four hours all may be changed again ; so, in the former case, the loss of a day may be the loss of a voyage : for, though it may appear to persons not well skilled in navigation, who see ships meet and sail by each other, that the wind blows sometimes east and west, north and south, backwai-ds and forwards, at the same instant; yet, certain it is that the land is so contrived, that even the same wind will not, like the same horse, always bring a man to the end of his journey ; but, that the gale which the mariner prayed heartily for yesterday, he may as heartily deprecate to-morrow ; while all use and benefit which would have arisen to him from the westerly wind of to-morrow may be totally lost and thrown away by neglecting the ofl'er of the easterly blast which blows to-day. Hence ensues grief and disreputation to the inno- cent captain, loss and disappointment to the worthy merchant, and not seldom great prejudice to the trade of a nation whose manufactures are thus liable to lie unsold in a foreign warehouse, the market being forestalled by some rival whose sailors are under a better discipline. To guard against these inconveniences the prudent captain takes every pre- caution in his power ; he makes the strongest con- tracts with his crew, and thereby binds them so firmly, that none but the greatest or least of men [ 296 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON can break through them with impunity ; but for one of these two reasons, which I will not determine, the sailor, like his brother iish the eel, is too slippery to be held, and plunges into his element with perfect impunity. To speak a plain truth, there is no trusting to any contract with one whom the wise citizens of London call a bad man ; for, with such a one, though your bond be ever so strong, it will prove in the end good for nothing. What then is to be done in this case ? What, indeed, but to call in the assistance of that tremen- doas magistrate, the justice of peace, who can, and often doth, lay good and bad men in equal durance ; and, though he seldom cares to stretch his bonds to what is great, never finds anything too minute for their detention, but will liold the smallest reptile alive so fast in his noose, that he can never get out till he is let drop through it. Why, therefore, upon the breach of those con- tracts, should not an innnediate application be made to the nearest magistrate of this oider, who should be empowered to convey the delin{|uent either to ship or to prison, at the election of the captain, to be fettered by the leg in either place .'' But, as the case now stands, the condition of this poor captain without any commission, and of this absolute commander without anv power, is much worse than we have hitherto shewn it to be ; for, notwithstanding all the aforesaid contracts to sail in the good ship the Elizabeth, if the sailor should, for better wages, find it more his interest to go on board [297] A VOYAGE TO LISBON the better ship the Mary, either before their setting out or on their speedy meeting in some port, he may prefer the latter without an}' other danger than that of " doing what he ought not to have done,"" rontrary to a rule which he is seldom Christian enough to have much at heart, while the captain is generally too good a Christian to punish a man out of revenge only, when he is to be at a considerable expense for so doing. There are many other defi- ciencies in our laws relating to maritime affairs, and which would probably have been long since cor- rected, had we any seamen in the House of Com- mons, Not that I would insinuate that the legislature wants a supply of many gentlemen in the sea-service ; but, as these gentlemen are by their attendance in the house unfortunately prevented from ever going to sea, and there learning what they might com- municate to their landed brethren, these latter re- main as ignorant in that branch of knowledge as they would be if none but courtiers and fox-hunters had been elected into parliament, without a single fish amonff them. The followino; seems to me to be an effect of this kind, and it strikes me the stronger as I remember the case to have happened, and re- member it to have been dispunishable. A captain of a trading vessel, of which he was part owner, took in a large freight of oats at Liverpool, con- signed to the market at Bear-key : this he carried to a port in Hampshire, and there sold it as his own, and, freighting his vessel with wheat for the port of Cadiz, in Spain, dropt it at Oporto in his way ; and there, selling it for his own use, took in a lading of [ 298 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON wine, with which he sailed again, and, having con- verted it in the same manner, together with a large sum of money witli which he was intrusted, for the benefit of certain merchants, sold the ship and cargo in another port, and then wisely sat down contented with the fortune he had made, and returned to Lon- don to enjoy the remainder of his days, with the fruits of his former labours and a good conscience. The sum he brought home v.ith him consisted of near six thousand pounds, all in specie, and most of it in that coin which Portugal distributes so liberally over Europe. He was not yet old enough to be past all sense of pleasure, nor so puffed up with the pride of his good fortune as to overlook his old acquaintances the journeymen taylors, from among whom he had been formerly pressed into the sea-service, and, having there laid the foundation of his future success by his shares in prizes, had afterwards become captain of a trading vessel, in which he purchased an interest, and had soon begun to trade in the honourable manner above mentioned. The captain now took up his residence at an ale- house in Drury-lane, where, having all his money by him in a trunk, he spent about five pounds a day among his old friends the gentlemen and ladies of those parts. The merchant of Liverpool, having luckily had notice from a friend during the blaze of his fortune, did, by the assistance of a justice of peace, without the assistance of the law, recover his whole loss. The captain, however, wisely chose to refund no [299] A VOYAGE TO LISBON more ; but, perceiving with what hasty strides Envy was pursuing his fortune, he took speedy means to retire out of her reach, and to enjoy the rest of his wealth in an inglorious obscurity ; nor could the same justice overtake him time enough to assist a second merchant as he had done the first. This was a very extraordinaiy case, and the more so as the ingenious gentleman had steered entirely clear of all crimes in our law. Now, how it comes about that a robbery so very easy to be committed, and to w'hich there is such immediate temptation always before the eyes of these fellows, should receiv^e the encouragement of impunity, is to be accounted for only from the over- sight of the legislature, as that oversight can only be, I think, derived fi-om the reasons I have assigned for it. But I will dwell no longer on this subject. If what I have here said should seem of sufficient con- sequence to engage the attention of any man in power, and should thus be the means of applying any remedy to the most inveterate evils, at least, I have obtaijicd my whole desire, and shall have lain so long wind-bound in the ports of this kingdom to some pur})osc. I would, indeed, have this work — which, if I should live to finish it, a matter of no great certainty, if indeed of any great hope to me, will be probably the last I shall ever undertake — to produce some better end than the mere diversion of the reader, Monday. — This day our captain went ashore, to dine with a gentleman who lives in these parts, and [ 300] A VOYAGE TO LISBON M-ho so exactly resembles the character given by Homer of Axylus, that the only difference I can trace between them is, the one, living by the high- way, erected his hospitality chiefly in favour of land-travellers ; and the other, living by the water- side, gratified his humanity by accommodating the wants of the mariner. In the evening our commander received a visit from a brother bashaw, who lay wind-bound in the same harbour. This latter captain was a Swiss. He was then master of a vessel bound to Guinea, and had formerly been a privateering, when our own hero was employed in the same laudable service. The honesty and freedom of the Switzer, his vivacity, in which he was in no respect inferior to his near neighbours the French, the aukward and affected politeness, which was likewise of French extraction, mixed with the brutal roughness of the English tar — for he had served under the colours of this nation and his crew had been of the san)e — made such an odd variety, such a hotch-potch of character, that I should have been much diverted with him, had not his voice, which was as loud as a speaking-trumpet, unfortu- nately made my liead ach. The noise which he con- veyed into the deaf ears of his brother captain, who sat on one side of him, the soft addresses with which, mixed with aukward bows, he saluted the ladies on the other, were so agreeably contrasted, that a man must not only have been void of all taste of humour, and insensible of mirth, but duller than Gibber is represented in the Dunciad, who could be unenter- tained with him a little wliile; for, I confess, such [301] A VOYAGE TO LISBON entertainments should always be very short, as they are very liable to pall. But he suffered not this to happen at present ; for, having given us his company a quarter of an hour only, he retired, after many apologies for the shortness of his visit. Tuesday. — The wind being less boisterous than it had hitherto been since our arrival here, several fish- ing-boats, which the tempestuous weather yesterday had prevented from working, came on board us with fish. This was so fresh, so good in kind, and so very cheap, tliat we supplied ourselves in great numbers, among which were very large soles at fourpence a pair, and whitings of almost a preposterous size at ninepence a score. The only fish which bore any price was a John doree, as it is called. I bought one of at least four pounds weight for as many shillings. It resembles a turbot in shape, but exceeds it in firmness and flavour. The pi-ice had the appearance of being con- siderable when opposed to the extraordinary cheap- ness of others of value, but was, in truth, so very reasonable when estimated by its goodness, that it left me under no other surprise than how the gentle- men of this country, not greatly eminent for the delicacy of their taste, had discovered the preference of the doree to all other fish : but I was informed that Mr. Quin, whose distinguishing tooth hath been so justly celebrated, had lately visited Plymouth, and had done those honours to the doree which are so justly due to it from that sect of modern philosophers who, with Sir Epicure Mammon, or Sir Epicure Quin, their head, seem more to delight in a fish-pond than [302] A VOYAGE TO LISBON in a garden, as the old Epicureans are said to have done. Unfortunately for the fishmongers of London, the doree resides only in those seas ; for, could any of this company but convey one to the temple of luxury under the Piazza, where Macklin the high-priest daily serves up his rich offerings to that goddess, great would be the reward of that fishmonger, in blessings poured down upon him from the goddess, as great would his merit be towards the high-priest, who could never be thought to overrate such valuable incense. And here, having mentioned the extreme cheap- ness of fish in the Devonshire sea, and given some little hint of the extreme dearness with which this commodity is dispensed by those who deal in it in London, I cannot pass on without throwing forth an observation or two, with the same view with which I have scattered my several remarks through this voy- age, sufficiently satisfied in having finished my life, as I have probably lost it, in the service of my country, from the best of motives, though it should be attended with the worst of success. Means are always in our power ; ends are very seldom so. Of all the animal foods with which man is fur- nished, there are none so plenty as fish. A little rivulet, that glides almost unperceived through a vast tract of rich land, will support more hundreds with the flesh of its inhabitants than the meadow will nourish individuals. But if this be true of rivers, it is much truer of the seashores, whicli abound with such immense variety of fish that the curious fisherman, after he hath made his draught, [303] A VOYAGE TO LISBON often culls only the daintiest part and leaves the rest of his prey to perish on the shore. If this be true it would appear, I think, that there is nothing which might be had in such abundance, and consequently so cheap, as fish, of which Nature seems to have provided such inexhaustible stores with some peculiar design. In the production of ter- restrial animals she proceeds with such slowness, that in the larger kind a single female seldom pro- duces more than one a-year, and this again requires three, four, or five years more to bring it to per- fection. And though the lesser quadrupeds, those of the wild kind particularly, with the birds, do multiply much faster, yet can 'none of these bear any proportion with the aquatic animals, of whom every female matrix is furnished with an annual off- spring almost exceeding the power of numbers, and V hich, in many instances at least, a single year is capable of bringing to some degree of maturity. What then ought in general to be so plentiful, what so cheap, as fish ? What then so properly the food of the poor ? So in many places they are, and so might they always be in great cities, which are always situated near the sea, or on the conflux of large rivers. How comes it then, to look no farther abroad for instances, that in our city of London the case is so far otlierwise that, except that of sprats, there is not one poor palate in a hundred that knows the taste of fish ? It is true indeed that this taste is generally of such excellent flavour that it exceeds the power of French cookery to treat the palates of the rich with anything [304] A VOYAGE TO LISBON more exquisitely delicate ; so that was fish the com- mon food of the poor it might put them too much upon an equality with their betters in the great article of eating, in which, at present, in the opinion of some, the great difference in happiness between man and man consists. But this argument I shall treat with the utmost disdain : for if ortolans were as big as bustards, and at the same time as plenty as sparrows, I should hold it yet reasonable to in- dulge the poor with the dainty, and that for this cause especially, that the rich would soon find a sparrow, if as scarce as an ortolan, to be much the greater, as it would certainly be the rarer, dainty of the two. Vanity or scarcity will be always the favourite of luxury ; but honest hunger will be satisfied with plenty. Not to search deeper into the cause of the evil, I should think it abundantly sufficient to pro- pose the remedies of it. And, first, I humbly sub- mit the absolute necessity of immediately hanging all the fishmongers within the bills of mortality ; and, however it might have been some time ago the opinion of mild and temporizing men that the evil complained of might be removed by gentler methods, 1 suppose at this day there are none who do not see the impossibility of using such with any effect. Cuncta priiLS tentanda might have been formerly urged with some plausibility, but cuncta pr'm^ tentata may now be replied : for surely, if a few monopolizing fishmongers could defeat that excel- lent scheme of the Westminster market, to the erect- ing which so many justices of peace, as well as other VOL. I. — 20 [ 305 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON wise and learned men, did so vehemently apply them- selves, that they n)ig]it be truly said not only to have laid the whole strength of their heads, but of their shoulders too, to the business, it would be a vain endeavour for any other body of men to at- tempt to remove so stubborn a nusance. If it should be doubted whether we can bring this case within the letter of any capital law now subsist- ing, I am ashamed to own it cannot ; for surely no crime better deserves such punishment ; but the remedy may, nevertheless, be immediate ; and if a law was made at the beginning of next session, to take place immediately, by which the starving thou- sands of poor was declared to be felony, without benefit of clergy, the fishmongers would be hanged before the end of the session. A second method of filling the mouths of the poor, if not with loaves at least with fishes, is to desire the magistrates to carry into execution one at least out of near a hundred acts of parliament, for preserving the small fry of the river of Thames, by which means as few fish would satisfy thousands as may now be devoured by a small number of individuals. But while a fisherman can break through the strongest meshes of an act of parliament, we may be assured he will learn so to contrive his own meshes that the smallest fry will not be able to swim through them. Other methods may, we doubt not, be suggested by those who shall attentively consider the evil here hinted at ; but we have dwelt too long on it already, and shall conclude with observing that it is difficult to affirm whether the atrocity of the evil itself, the [306] A VOYAGE TO LISBON facility of curing it, or the sliameful neglect of the cure, be the more scandalous or more astonishing. After having, however, gloriously regaled myself with this food, I was washing it down with some good claret with my wife and her friend, in the cabin, when the captain\s valet-de-chambre, head cook, house and ship steward, footman in livery and out on 't, secretary and fore-mast man, all burst into the cabin at once, being, indeed, all but one person, and, without saying by your leave, began to pack half a hogshead of small beer in bottles, the neces- sary consequence of which must have been either a total stop to conversation at that chearful season when it is most agreeable, or the admitting that polyonymous officer aforesaid to the participation of it. I desired him therefore to delay his purpose a little longer, but he refused to grant my re(|uest; nor was he prevailed on to quit the room till he was threatened with having one bottle to pack more than his number, which then happened to stand empty within my reach. With these menaces he retired at last, but not without muttering some menaces on his side, and which, to our great terror, he failed not to put into immediate execution. Our captain was gone to dinner this day with his Swiss brother ; and, though he was a very sober man, was a little elevated with some champagne, which, as it cost the Swiss little or nothing, lie dis- pensed at his table more liberally than our hospi- table English noblemen put about those bottles, which the ingenious Peter Tavlor teaches a led captain to ["307 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON avoid by distinguishing by the name of that gener- ous licjuor, which all humble companions are taught to postpone to the flavour of methuen, or honest port. While our two captains were thus regaling them- selves, and celebrating their own heroic exploits with all the inspiration which the liquor, at least, of wit could afford them, the polyonymous officer arrived, and, being saluted by the name of Honest Tom, was ordered to sit down and take his glass before he de- livered his message ; for every sailor is by turns his captain'^s mate over a cann, except only that captain bashaw who presides in a man-of-war, and who upon earth has no other mate, unless it be another of the same bashaws. Tom had no sooner swallowed his draught than he hastily began his narrative, and faithfully related what had happened on board our ship ; we say faith- fully, though from what happened it may be sus- pected that Tom chose to add perhaps only five or six immaterial circumstances, as is always I believe the ceuse, and may possibly have been done by me in relating this very story, though it happened not many hours ago. No sooner was the captain informed of the inter- ruption which had been given to his officer, and indeed to his orders, for he thought no time so con- venient as that of his absence for causing any confu- sion in the cabin, than he leapt with such haste from his chair that he had like to have broke his sword, with which he always begirt himself when he walked out of his ship, and sometimes when he walked about [308] A VOYAGE TO LISBON in it ; at the same time, grasping eagerly that other implement called a cockade, which modern soldiers wear on their helmets with the same view as the an- tients did their crests — to terrify the enemv, he muttered something, but so inarticulately that the word damn was only intelligible ; he then hastily took leave of the Swiss captain, who was too well bred to press his stay on such an occasion, and leapt first from the ship to his boat, and then from his boat to his own ship, with as much fierce- ness in his looks as he had ever expressed on board- ing his defenceless prey in the honourable calling of a privateer. Having regained the middle deck, he paused a moment while Tom and others loaded themselves with bottles, and then descending into the cabin ex- claimed with a thundering voice, " D — n me, why arn't the bottles stoed in, according to my orders?'' I answered him very, mildly that I had prevented his man from doing it, as it was at an inconvenient time to me, and as in his absence, at least, I esteemed the cabin to be my own. " Your cabin ! " repeated he many times ; " no, d — n me ! 't is my cabin. Your cabin ! d — n me ! I have brought my hogs to a fair market. I suppose indeed you think it your cabin, and your ship, by your commanding in it ; but I will conimand in it, d — n me ! I will shew the woi-ld I am the commander, and nobody but I ! Did vou think I sold you the command of my ship for that j)itiful thirty pounds ? I wish I had not seen vou nor your thii-ty pounds aboard of her." He then re- peated the words thirty pounds often, with great dis- *[ 309 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON dain, and with a contempt which I own the sum did not seem to deserve in my eye, either in itself or on the present occasion ; being, indeed, paid for the freight of weight of human flesh, which is above fifty per cent, dearer than the freight of any other higgage, whilst in really it takes up less room ; in fact, no room at all. In truth, the sum was paid for nothing more than for a liberty to six persons (two of them servants) to stay on board a ship while she sails from one port to another, every shilling of which comes clear into the captain's pocket. Ignorant people may perhaps im- agine, especially when they are told that the captain is obliged to sustain them, that their diet at least is worth something, which may probably be now and then so far the case as to deduct a tenth part from the neat profits on this account ; but it was other- wise at present ; for when I had contracted with the captain at a price which I by no means thought mod- erate, I had some content in thinking I should have no more to pay for my voyage ; but I was w hispered that it was expected the passengers should find them- selves in several things ; such as tea, wine, and such like; and particularly that gentlemen should stowe of the latter a much larger quantity than they could use, in order to leave tlie remainder as a present to the captain at the end of the voyage ; and it was expected likewise that gentlemen should put aboard some fresh stores, and the more of such things were put aboard the welcomer tliey would be to the captain. I was prevailed with bv these hints to follow the [ 310 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON advice proposed ; and accordingly, besides tea and a large hamper of wine, with several hams and tongues, I caused a number of live chickens and sheep to be convened aboard ; in truth, treble the quantity of pro- visions which would have supported the persons I took with me, had the voyage continued three weeks, as it was supposed, with a bare possibility, it might. Indeed it continued much longer ; but as this was occasioned by our being wind-bound in our own ports, it was by no means of any ill consequence to the captain, as the additional stores of fish, fresh meat, butter, bread. Sec, which I constantly laid in, o-reatlv exceeded the consumption, and went some wav in maintaining the ship's crew. It is true I was not obliged to do this ; but it seemed to be expected ; for the captain did not think himself obliged to do it, and I can truly say I soon ceased to expect it of him. He had, I confess, on board a number of fowls and ducks sufficient for a West India voyage ; all of them, as he often said, " \'ery fine birds, and of the largest breed." Tliis I believe was really the fact, and I can add that they were all arrived at the full perfection of their size. Nor was there. I am convinced, any want of provisions of a more substantial kind ; such as dried beef, pork, and fish ; so that the captain seemed ready to perform his contract, and amply to provide for his pa^ssengers. What I did then was not from necessity, but, perhaps, from a less excusable motive, and was bv no means chargeable to the account of the captain. But, let the motive have been what it would, the consequence was still the same ; and this was sucii that I am firmly persuaded the whole pitiful thirty pounds [311] A VOYAGE TO LISBON came pure and neat into the captain's pocket, and not only so, but attended with the value often pound more in sundries into the bargain. I must confess myself therefore at a loss how the epithet pitiful came to be annexed to the above sum ; for, not being a pitiful price for what it was given, I cannot conceive it to be pitiful in itself; nor do I believe it is thought by the greatest men in the kingdom ; none of whom would scruple to search for it in the dirtiest kennel, where they had only a reasonable hope of success. How, therefore, such a sum should acquire the idea of pitiful in the eyes of the master of a ship seems not easy to be accounted for ; since it appears more likely to produce in him ideas of a different kind. Some men, perhaps, are no more sincere in the contempt for it which they express than others in their contempt of money in general ; and I am the rather inclined to this persuasion, as I have seldom heard of either who have refused or refunded this their despised object. Besides, it is sometimes impossible to believe these professions, as every action of the man's life is a contradiction to it. Who can believe a tradesman who says he would not tell his name for the profit he gets by the selling such a parcel of goods, when he hath told a thousand lies in order to get it "^ Pitiful, indeed, is often applied to an object not absolutely, but comparatively with our expectations, or with a greater object : in which sense it is not easy to set any bounds to the use of the word. Thus, a handful of halfpence daily appear pitiful to a porter, and a handful of silver to a drawer. The latter, I am convinced, at a polite tavern, will not tell his [312] A VOYAGE TO LISBON name (for he will not give you any answer) under the price of gold. And in this sense thirty pound may be accounted pitiful by the lowest mechanic. One difficulty only seems to occur, and that is this, how comes it that, if the profits of the meanest arts are so considerable, the professors of them are not richer than we generally see them ? One answer to this shall suffice. Men do not become rich by what they get, but by what they keep. He who is worth no more than his annual wages or salary, spends the whole ; he will be always a beggar let his income be what it v/ill, and so will be his family when he dies. This we see daily to be the case of ecclesiastics, who, during their lives, are extremely well provided for, only because they desire to maintain the honour of the cloth by living like gentlemen, which would, per- haps, be better maintained by living unlike them. But, to return from so long a digression, to which the use of so improper an epithet gave occasion, and to which the novelty of the subject allured, I will make the reader amends by concisely telling him that the captain poured forth such a torrent of abuse that I very hastily and very foolishly resolved to quit the ship. I gave immediate orders to summon a hoy to carry me that evening to Dartmouth, without consid- ering any consequence. Those orders I gave in no very low voice, so that those above stairs might pos- sibly conceive there was more than one master in the cabin. In the same tone I likewise threatened the captain with that which, he afterwards said, he feared more than any rock or quicksand. Nor can we wonder at this when we are told he had been twice obliged to [ ^13 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON brincr to and cast anchor there before, and had neither time escaped without the loss of almost his whole cargo. The most distant sound of law thus frightened a man who had often, I am convinced, heard numbers of cannon roar round him with intrepidity. Nor did he sooner see the hoy approaching the vessel than he ran down again into the cabin, and, his rage being perfectly subsided, he tumbled on his knees, and a little too abjectly implored for mercy. I did not suffer a brave man and an old man to remain a moment in this posture, but I immediately forgave him. And here, that I may not be thought the sly trumpeter of my own praises, I do utterly disclaim all praise on tlie occasion. Neither did the greatness of my mind dictate, nor tlie force of my Christianity exact, this forgiveness. To speak truth, I forgave him from a motive which would make men much more forgiving if they were much wiser than they are, because it was convenient for me so to do. Wednesdaij. — This morning the captain drest him- self in scarlet in order to pay a visit to a Devon- shire squire, to whom a captain of a ship is a guest of no ordinary consequence, as he is a stranger and a gentleman, who hath seen a great deal of the world in foreign parts, and knows all the news of the times. The squire, therefore, was to send his boat for the captain, but a most unfortunate accident happened; for, as the wind was extremelv rough and against the hov, while this was endeavouring to avail itself of [ 314 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON great seamanship in bawling up against the wind, a sudden squall carried off sail and yard, or at least so disabled them that they were no longer of any use and unable to reach the ship ; but the captain, from the deck, saw his hopes of venison disappointed, and was forced either to stay on board his ship, or to hoist forth his own long-boat, which he could not prevail with himself to think of, though the smell of the venison had had twenty times its attraction. He did, indeed, love his ship as his wife, and his boats as children, and never willingly trusted the latter, poor things ! to the dangers of the seas. To say truth, notwithstanding the strict rigour with which he preserved the dignity of his station, and the hasty impatience with which he resented any affront to his person or orders, disobedience to which he could in no instance brook in any person on board, he was one of the best natured fellows alive. He acted the part of a father to his sailors ; he expressed great tenderness for any of them when ill, and never suffered any the least work of super- erogation to go unrewarded bv a glass of gin. He even extended his humanity, if I may so call it, to animals, and even his cats and kittens had large shares in his affections. An instance of which we saw this evening, when the cat, which had shewn it could not be drowned, was found suffocated under a feather-bed in the cabin. I will not endeavour to describe his lamentations with more prolixity than barely by saving they were grievous, and seemed to have some mixture of the Irish howl in them. Nay, he carried his fondness even to inanimate objects, of [ 315 1 A VOYAGE TO LISBON which we have above set down a pregnant example in his demonstration of love and tenderness towards his boats and ship. He spoke of a ship which he had commanded formerly, and which was long since no more, which he had called the Princess of Brazil, as a widower of a deceased wife. This ship, after having followed the honest business of carrying goods and passengers for hire many years, did at last take to evil courses and turn privateer, in which service, to use his own words, she received many dreadful wounds, which he himself had felt as if they had been his own. Thursdaij. — As the wind did not yesterday dis- cover any, purpose of shifting, and the water in my belly grew troublesome and rendered me short- breathed, I began a second time to have apprehen- sions of wanting: the assistance of a trochar when none was to be found ; I therefore concluded to be tapped again by way of precaution, and accordingly I this morning summoned on board a surgeon from a neighbouring parish, one whom the captain greatly recommended, and who did indeed perform his office with much dexterity. He was, I believe, like- wise a man of great judgment and knowledge in the profession ; but of this I cannot speak with perfect certainty, for, wlien he was going to open on the dropsy at large and on the particular degree of the distemper under which I laboured, I was obliged to stop him short, for the wind was changed, and the captain in the utmost hurry to depart ; and to de- sire him, instead of his opinion, to assist me with his execution. [316] A VOYAGE TO LISBON I was now once more delivered from my burthen, which was not indeed so great as I had appreliended, wanting two quarts of what was let out at the last operation. While the surgeon was drawing away my water the sailors were drawing up the anchor ; both were finished at the same time ; we unfurled our sails and soon passed the Berry-head, which forms the mouth of the bay. We had not however sailed far when the wind, which had, though with a slow pace, kept us com- pany about six miles, suddenly turned about, and offered to conduct us back again ; a favour which, though sorely against the grain, we were obliged to accept. Nothing remarkable happened this day ; for as to the firm persuasion of the captain that he was under the spell of witchcraft, I would not repeat it too often, though indeed he repeated it an hundi'ed times every day ; in truth, he talked of nothing else, and seemed not only to be satisfied in general of his being be- witched, but actually to have fixed with good cer- tainty on the person of the witch, whom, had he lived in the days of Sir Matthew Hale, he would have infallibly indicted, and very possibly have hanged, for the detestable sin of witchcraft ; but that law, and the whole doctrine that supported it, are now out of fashion ; and witches, as a learned divine once chose to express himself, are put down by act of par- liament. This witch, in the captain's opinion, was no other than Mrs. Irancis of Ryde, who, as he in- sinuated, out of anger to mc for not spending more [ sn ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON monev in her house than slie could produce anything to exchange for, or any pretence to charge for, had laid this spell on his ship. Though we were again got near our harbour by three in the afternoon, yet it seemed to require a full hour or more before we could come to our former place of anchoring, or berth, as the captain called it. On this occasion we exemplified one of the few ad- vantages which the travellers by water have over the travellers by land. What would the latter often give for the sight of one of those hospitable mansions where he is assured that there is good entertainment for man and horse ; and where both may consequently promise themselves to assuage that hunger which exercise is so sure to raise in a healthy constitution. At their arrival at this mansion, how much happier is the state of the horse than that of the master ! The former is immediately led to his repast, such as it is, and, whatever it is, he falls to it with appetite. But the latter is in a much worse situation. His hunger, however violent, is always in some degree delicate, and his food must have some kind of orna- ment, or, as the more usual pfirase is, of dressing, to recommend it. Now all dressing requires time, and therefore, though perhaps the sheep might be just ■killed before you came to the inn, yet in cutting him up, fetching the joint, which the landlord by mistake said he had in the house, ft'om the butcher at two miles' distance, and afterwards warming it a little by the fire, two hours at least must be consumed, while hunger, for want of better food, preys all the time on the vitals of the man. [318 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON How diffei'ent was the case with us ! we carried our provision, our kitchen, and our cook with us, and we were at one and the same time travelling on our road, and sitting down to a repast of fish, with which the greatest table in London can scarce at any rate be supplied. Friday. — As we were disappointed of our wind, and obliged to return back the preceding evening, we resolved to extract all the good we could out of our misfortune, and to add considerably to our fresh stores of meat and bread, with which we were very in- differently provided when we hurried away yesterday. By the captain's advice we likewise laid in some stores of butter, which we salted and potted our- selves, for our use at Lisbon, and we had great reason afterwards to thank him for his advice. In the afternoon I persuaded my wife, whom it w^as no easy matter for me to force from my side, to take a walk on shore, whither the gallant captain declared he was ready to attend her. Accordingly the ladies set out, and let me to enjoy a sweet and comfortable nap after the operation of the preceding day. Thus we enjoyed our separate pleasures full three hours, when we met again, and my wife gave the foregoing account of the gentleman whom I have before compared to Axylus, and of liis habitation, to both which she had been introduced by the captain, in the stile of an old friend and acciuaintance, though this foundation of intimacy seemed to her to be no deeper laid than in an accidental dinner, eaten many years before, at this temple of hospitality, when the captain lay wind-bound in the same bay. [319 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON Saturday. — Early this morning the wind seemed indined to change in our favour. Our alert captain snatched its very first motion, and got under sail with so very gentle a breeze that, as the tide was against him, he recommended to a fishing hoy to bring after him a vast salmon and some other pro- visions which lay ready for him on shore. Our anchor was up at six, and before nine in the morning we had doubled the Berry-head, and were arrived off Dartmouth, having gone full three miles in as many hours, in direct opposition to the tide, which only befriended us out of our harbour ; and though the wind was perhaps our friend, it was so very silent, and exerted itself so little in our favour, that, like some cool partisans, it was difficult to say whether it was with us or against us. The captain, however, declared the former to be the case during the whole three hours ; but at last he perceived his error, or rather, perhaps, this friend, which had hitherto wavered in chusing his side, be(;ame now more determined. The captain then suddenly tacked about, and, asserting that he was bewitched, submitted to return to the place from whence he came. Now, though I am as free from superstition as any man breathing, and never did believe in witches, notwithstanding all the excellent arguments of my lord chief-justice Hale in their favour, and long before they were put down by act of parlia- ment, yet by what power a ship of burthen should sail three miles against both wind and tide, I cannot conceive, unless there was some supernatural inter- position ill the case ; nay, could we admit that the [320] A. VOYAGE TO LISBON wind stood neuter, the difficulty would still remain. So that we must of necessity conclude that the ship was either bewinded or bewitched. The captain, perhaps, had another meaning. He imagined himself, I believe, bewitched, because the wind, instead of persevering in its change in his favour, for change it certainly did that morning, sliould suddenly return to its favourite station, and blow him back towards the bay. But, if this was his opinion, he soon saw cause to alter ; for he had not measured half the way back when the wind again declared in his favour, and so loudly, that there was no possibility of being mistaken. The orders for the second tack were given, and obeyed with much more alacrity than those had been for the first. We were all of us indeed in high spirits on the occasion ; though some of us a little regretted the good things we were likely to leave behind us by the fislierman"'s neglect ; I might give it a worse name, for he faithfully promised to exe- cute the commission, which he had had abundant opportunity to do ; but nautica Jides deserves as much to be proverbial as ever Punica Jides could formerly have done. Nay, when we consider that the Carthaginians came from the Phenicians, who are supposed to have produced the first mariners, we may probably see the true reason of the adage, and it may open a field of very curious discoveries to the antiquarian. We were, however, too eager to pursue our voy- age to suffer anything we left behind us to interrupt our happiness, which, indeed, many agreeable circum- VOL. I.-21 [321] A VOYAGE TO LISBON stances conspired to advance. The weather was in- expressibly pleasant, and we were all seated on the deck, when our canvas began to swell with the wind. We had likewise in our view above thirty other sail around us, all in the same situation. Here an ob- servation occurred to me, which, perhaps, though extremely obvious, did not offer itself to every in- dividual in our little fleet : when I perceived with what different success we proceeded under the in- fluence of a superior power, which, while we lay almost idle ourselves, pushed us forward on our in- tended voyage, and compared this with the slow progress which we had made in the morning, of ourselves, and without any such assistance, I could not help reflecting how often the greatest abilities lie wind-bound as it were in life ; or, if they venture out and attempt to beat the seas, they struggle in vain against wind and tide, and, if they have not sufficient prudence to put back, are most probably cast away on the rocks and quicksands which are every day ready to devour them. It was now our fortune to set out mel'iorihus avibus. The wind freshened so briskly in our poop that the shore appeared to move from us as fast as we did from the shore. The captain declared he was sure of a wind, meaning its continuance ; but he had dis- appointed us so often that he had lost all credit. However, he kept his word a little better now, and we lost sight of our native land as joyfully, at least, as it is usual to regain it. Sunday. — The next morning the captain told me he thought himself thirty miles to the westward of [322] A VOYAGE TO LISBON Plymouth, and before evening declared that the Lizard Point, which is the extremity of Cornwall, bore several leagues to leeward. Nothing remark- able passed this day, except the captain's devotion, who, in his own phrase, summoned all hands to prayers, which were read by a common sailor upon deck, with more devout force and address than they are commonly read by a country curate, and received with more decency and attention by the sailors than are usually preserved in city congrega- tions. I am indeed assured, that if any such affected disreo-ard of the solemn office in which they were engaged, as I have seen practised by fine gentlemen and ladies, expressing a kind of apprehension lest they should be suspected of being really in earnest in their devotion, had been shewn here, they would have contracted the contempt of the whole audience. To say the truth, fron) what I observed in the be- haviour of the sailors in this voyage, and on com- paring it with what I have formerly seen of them at sea and on shore, I am convinced that on land there is nothinsj more idle and dissolute ; in their own ele- ment there are no persons near the level of their degree who live in the constant practice of half so many good qualities. They are, for much the greater part, perfect masters of their business, and always extremely alert, and ready in executing it, without any regard to fatigue or hazard. The sol- diers themselves are not belter disciplined nor more obedient to orders than these wliilst aboard ; they submit to every difficulty which attends their calling with chearfulness, and no less virtues and patience [323] A VOYAGE TO LISBON and fortitude tire exercised by them every day of their lives. All these good qualities, however, they always leave behind them on shipboard ; the sailor out of water is, indeed, as wretched an animal as the fisli out of water ; for though the former hath, in com- mon with amphibious animals, the bare power of existing on the land, yet if he be kept there any time he never fails to become a nuisance. The ship having had a good deal of motion since she was last under sail, our women returned to their sickness, and I to my solitude ; having, for twenty- four hours together, scarce opened my lips to a single person. This circumstance of being shut up within the circumference of a few yards, with a score of human creatures, with not one of whom it was pos- sible to converse, was perhaps so rare as scarce ever to have happened before, nor could it ever happen to one who disliked it more than myself, or to my- self at a season when I wanted more food for my social disposition, or could converse less wholesomely and happily with my own thoughts. To this acci- dent, which fortune opened to me in the Downs, was owiniT the first serious thought which I ever enter- tained of enrolling myself among the voyage- writers ; some of the most amusing pages, if, indeed, there be any which deserve that name, were possibly the pro- duction of the most disagreeable hours which ever haunted the author. Monday. — At noon the captain took an observa- tion, by which it appeared that Ushant bore some leagues northward of us, and that we were just enter- [324] A VOYAGE TO LISBON ing the bav of Biscay. We had advanced a very few miles in this bay before we were entirely becalmed : we furled our sails, as being of no use to us while we lay in this most disagreeable situation, more de- tested by the sailors than the most violent tempest : we were alarmed with the loss of a fine piece of salt beef, which had been hung in the sea to freshen it ; this being', it seems, the strange property of salt- water. The thief was immediately suspected, and presently afterwards taken by the sailors. He was, indeed, no other than a huge shari<, who, not know- ing when he was well off, swallowed another piece of beef, together with a great iron crook on which it was hung, and by which he was dragged into the ship. I should scarce have mentioned the catching this shark, though so exactly conformable to the rules and practice of voyage-writing,had it not been for a strange circumstance that attended it. This was the recovery of the stolen beef out of the shark*'s maw, where it lay unchewed and undigested, and whence, being conveyed into the pot, the flesh, and the thief that had stolen it, joined together in furnishing variety to the ship's crew. During this calm we likewise found the mast of a large vessel, which the captain thoughthad lain at least three years in the sea. It was stuck all over with a little shell-fish or reptile, called a barnacle, and which probably are the prey of the rock-fish, as our captain calls it, asserting that it is the finest fish in the world ; for which we are obliged to confide entirely to his taste ; for, though he struck the fish with a kind of harping-iron, and wounded him, I am convinced, to [325 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON death, yet he conld not possc.-.s him elf of his body ; but the poor wretcli escaped to linger out a ^aw hours with probably great torments. In the evening our wind returned, and so briskly, that we lan upwards of twenty leagues before the next da\'''ii[Tties(Ia?/''s] observation, which brought us to lat. 47° 4^'. The captain promised us a very speedy passage through the bay ; but he deceived us, or the wind deceived him, for it so slackened at sunset, that it scarce carried us a mile in an hour during the whole succeeding night. Wednesdaij. — A gale struck up a little after sun- risinff, which carried us between three and four knots or miles an hour. We were this day at noon about the middle of the bay of Biscay, when the wind once more deserted us, and we were so entirely becalmed, that we did not advance a mile in many hours. My fresh-water reader will perhaps conceive no unpleasant idea from this calm ; but it affected us much more than a storm could have done ; for, as the irascible passions of men are apt to swell with indignation long after the injury which first raised them is over, so fared it with the sea. It rose mountains high, and lifted our poor ship up and down, backwards and forwards, with so violent an emotion, that there was scarce a man in the ship better able to stand than myself. Every utensil in our cabin rolled up and down, as we should have rolled ourselves, had not our chairs been fast lashed to the floor. In tliis situation, with our tables like- wise fastened by ropes, the captain and myself took our meal with some difficulty, and swallowed a little of our broth, for we spilt nuich the greater part. [326] A VOYAGE TO LISBON The remainder of our dinner being an old, lean, tame duck roasted, I regretted but little the loss of, my teeth not being good enougli to have chewed it. Our women, who began to creep out of their holes in the morning, retired again within the cabin to their beds, and were no moi-e heard of this day, in which my whole comfort was to find by the captain's relation that the swelling was sometimes much worse ; he did, indeed, take this occasion to be more com- municative than ever, and informed me of such mis- adventures that had befallen him within forty-six years at sea as might frighten a very bold spirit from undertaking even the shortest voyage. Were these, indeed, but universally known, our matrons of quality would possibly be deterred from venturing their tender offspring at sea; by which means our navy would lose the honour of many a young commodore, who at twenty-two is better versed in maritime affairs than real seamen are made by experience at sixty. And this may, perhaps, appear the more extra- ordinary, as the education of both seems to be pretty much the same ; neither of them having had their courage tried by VirgiFs description of a storm, in which, inspired as he was, I doubt whether our cap- tain doth not exceed him. In the evening the wind, which continued in the N. W., again freshened, and that so briskly that Cape Finisterre appeared by this day's observation to bear a few miles to the southward. We now in- deed sailed, or rather flew, near ten knots an hour; and the captain, in the redundancy of his good- humour, declared he would go to church at Lisbon [327 j A VOYAGE TO LISBON on Sunday next, for that he was sure of a wind ; andj indeed, we all firmly believed him. But the event again contradicted him ; for we were again visited bv a calm in the evenincj. But here, though our voyage was retarded, we were entertained with a scene, which as no one can behold without going to sea, so no one can form an idea of anything equal to it on shore. We were seated on the deck, women and all, in the serenest evening that can be imagined. Not a single cloud presented itself to our view, and the sun himself was the only object which engrossed our whole attention. He did indeed set with a majesty which is incapable of description, with which, while the horizon was yet blazing with glory, our eyes were called off to the opposite part to survey the moon, which was then at full, and which in rising presented us with the second object that this world hath offered to our vision. Compared to these the pageantry of thea- tres, or splendour of courts, are sights almost below the regard of children. We did not return from the deck till late in the even- ing ; the weather being inexpressibly pleasant, and so warm that even my old distemper perceived the alter- ation of the climate. There was indeed a swell, but nothing coniparable to what we had felt before, and it affected us on the deck much less than in the cabin. Friday. — The calm continued till sun-rising, when the wind likewise arose, but unluckily for us it came from a wrong quarter ; it was S.S.E., which is that Xery wind which Juno would have solicited of ^olus, had JEneas been in our latitude bound for Lisbon. [328 J A VOYAGE TO LISBON The captain now put on his most melancholy aspect, and resumed his former opinion that he was bewitched. He declared with great solenmity that this was worse and worse, for that a wind directly in his teeth was worse than no wind at all. Had we pursued the course which the wind persuaded us to take we had gone directly for Newfoundland, if we had not fallen in with Ireland in our way. Two ways remained to avoid this ; one was to put into a port of Galicia ; the other, to beat to the westward with as little sail as possible : and this was our captain^s election. As for us, poor passengers, any port would have been welcome to us ; especially, as not only our fresh provisions, except a great number of old ducks and fowls, but even our bread was come to an end, and nothing but sea-biscuit remained, which I could not chew. So that now for the first time in my life I saw what it was to want a bit of bread. The wind however was not so unkind as we had apprehended ; but, having declined with the sun, it changed at the approach of the moon, and became again favourable to us, though so gentle that the next day's observation carried us very little to the southward of Cape Finisterre. This evening at six the wind, which had been very quiet all day, rose very high, and continuing in our favour drove us seven knots an hour. This day we saw a sail, the only one, as I heard of, we had seen in our whole passage through the bay. I mention this on account of what appeared to me somewhat extraordinary. Though she was at such a distance that I could only perceive she was a ship, [329] A VOYAGE TO LISBON the sailors discovered that she was a snow, bound to a port in Galicia. Sunday. — After prayers, which our good captain read on the deck with an audible voice, and with but one mistake, of a lion for Elias, in the second lesson for this day, we found ourselves far advanced in 42°, and the captain declared we should sup off Porte. We had not much wind this day ; but, as this was directly in our favour, we made it up with sail, of which we crowded all we had. We went only at the rate of four miles an hour, but with so uneasy a motion, continually rolling from side to side, that I suffered more than I had done in our whole voyage ; my bowels being almost twisted out of my belly. However, the day was very serene and bright, and the captain, who was in high spirits, affirmed he had never passed a pleasanter at sea. The wind continued so brisk that we ran upward of six knots an hour the whole night. Monday. — In the morning our captain concluded that he was got into lat. 40°, and was very little short of the Burlings, as they are called in the charts. We came up with them at five in the afternoon, being the first land we had distinctly seen since we left Devonshire. They consist of abundance of little rocky islands, a little distant from the shore, three of them only shewing themselves above the water. Here the Portuguese maintain a kind of garrison, if we may allow it that name. It consists of male- factors, who are banished hither for a term, for divers small offences — a policy which they may have copied from the Egyptians, as we may read in Diodorus [330] A VOYAGE TO LISBON Siculus. That wise people, to prevent the corruption of good manners by evil communication, built a town on the Red Sea, whither they transported a great number of their criminals, having first set an indelible mark on them, to prevent their returning and mixing with the sober part of their citizens. These rocks lie about fifteen leagues north-west of Cape Roxent, or, as it is commonly called, the Rock of Lisbon, which we past early the next morning. The wind, indeed, would have carried us thither sooner ; but the captain was not in a hurry, as he was to lose nothing by his delay. Tuesday. — This is a very high mountain, situated on the northern side of the mouth of the river Tajo, which, rising about Madrid, in Spain, and soon be- coming navigable for small craft, empties itself, after a long course, into the sea, about four leagues below Lisbon. On the summit of the rock stands a hermitage, which is now in the possession of an Englishman, who was formerly master of a vessel trading to Lis- bon ; and, having changed his religion and his man- ners, the latter of which, at least, were none of the best, betook himself to this place, in order to do penance for his sins. He is now very old, and hath inhabited this hermitage for a great number of years, during which he hath received some counte- nance from the royal family, and particularly from the present queen dowager, whose piety refuses no trouble or expence by which she may make a prose- lyte, being used to say that the saving one soul would repay all the endeavours of her life. [331 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON Here we waited for the tide, and had the pleasure of surveying the face of the country, the soil of which, at this season, exactly resembles an old brick- kill, or a field where the green sward is pared up and set a burning, or rather a snioaking, in little heaps to manure the land. This sight will, perhaps, of all others, make an Englishman proud of, and pleased with, his own country, which in verdure ex- cels, I believe, every other country. Another defi- ciency here is the want of large trees, nothing above a shrub being here to be discovered in the circum- ference of many miles. At this place we took a pilot on board, who, being the first Portuguese we spoke to, gave us an instance of that religious observance which is paid by all na- tions to their laws ; for, whereas it is here a capital offence to assist any person in going on shore from a foreign vessel before it hath been examined, and every person in it viewed by the magistrates of health, as they are called, this worthy pilot, for a very small reward, rowed the Portuguese priest to shore at this place, beyond which he did not dare to advance, and in venturing whither he had given suffi- cient testimony of love for his native country. We did not enter the Tajo till noon, when, after passing several old castles and other buildings which had greatly the aspect of ruins, we came to the castle of Bellisle, where we had a full prospect of Lisbon, and were, indeed, within three miles of it. Here we were saluted with a gun, which was a signal to pass no farther till we had complied with certain ceremonies which the laws of this country [ 332 ] A VOYAGE TO LISBON require to be observed by all ships which arrive in this port. We wei-e obliged then to cast anchor, and expect the arrival of the officers of the customs, without whose passport no ship must proceed farther than this place. Here likewise we received a visit from one of those magistrates of health before mentioned. He refused to come on board the ship till every person in her had been drawn up on deck and personally viewed by him. This occasioned some delay on my part, as it was not the work of a minute to lift me from the cabin to the deck. The captain thought my partic- ular case might have been excused from this cere- mony, and that it would be abundantly sufficient if the magistrate, who was obliged afterwards to visit the cabin, surveyed me there. But this did not satisfy the magistrate's strict regard to his duty. When he was told of my lameness, he called out, with a voice of authority, "Let him be brought up," and his orders were presently complied with. He was, indeed, a person of great dignity, as well as of the most exact fidelity in the discharge of his trust. Both which are the most admirable as his salary is less than thirty pounds English per animm. Before a ship hath been visited by one of those magistrates no person can lawfully go on board her, nor can any on board depart from her. This I saw exemplified in a remarkable instance. The young lad whom I have mentioned as one of our passengers was here met bv his father, who, on the first news of the captain's arrival, came from Lisbon to Bellisle in a boat, being eager to embrace a son whom he had A VOYAGE TO LISBON not seen for many years. But when he came along- side our ship neither did the father dare ascend nor the son descend, as the magistrate of health had not yet been on board. Some of our readers will, perhaps, admire the great caution of this policy, so nicely calculated for the preservatioii of this country from all pestilential distempers. Others will as probably regard it as too exact and formal to be constantly persisted in, in seasons of the utmost safety, as well as in times of danger. I will not decide either way, but will con- tent myself with observing that I never yet saw or heard of a place where a traveller had so much trouble given him at his landing as here. The only use of which, as all such matters begin .ind end in form only, is to put it into the power of low and mean fellows to be either rudely officious or grossly corrupt, as they shall see occasion to prefer the grati- fication of their pride or of their avarice. Of this kind, likewise, is that power which is lodged with other officers here, of taking away every grain of snufF and every leaf of tobacco brought hither from other countries, though only for the temporary use of the person during his residence here. This is executed witli great insolence, and, as it is in the hands of the dregs of the people, very scandalously ; for, under pretence of searching for tobacco and snuff, they are sure to steal whatever they can find, insomuch that when they came on board our sailors addressed us in the Covent-garden language : " Pray, gentlemen and ladies, take care of your swords and watches." Indeed, I never yet saw [334] A VOYAGE TO LISBON anything equal to the contempt and hatred which our honest tars every moment expressed for these Portuguese officers. At BelHsle lies buried Catharine of Arragon, widow of prince Arthur, eldest son of our Henry VII., after- wards married to, and divorced from, Henry VIII. Close by the church where her remains are deposited is a large convent of Geronymites, one of the most beautiful piles of building in all Portugal. In the evening, at twelve, our ship, having received previous visits from all the necessary parties, took the advantage of the tide, and having sailed up to Lis- bon cast anchor there, in a calm and moonshiny night, which made the passage incredibly pleasant to the women, who remained three hours enjoying it, whilst I was left to the cooler transports of enjoyino- their pleaisures at second-hand; and yet, cooler as they may be, whoever is totally ignorant of such sensation is, at the same time, void of all ideas of friendship. Wednesday. — Lisbon, before which we now lay at anchor, is said to be built on the same number of hills with old Rome ; but these do not all appear to the water; on the contrary, one sees from thence one vast high hill and rock, with buildings arising above one another, and that in so steep and almost perpendicular a manner, that they all seem to have but one foimdation. As the houses, convents, churches, &c., are large, and all built with white stone, they look very beauti- ful at a distance ; but as you approach nearer, and find them to want every kind of ornament, all idea of beauty vanishes at once. While I was surveying [3a5 j A VOYAGE TO LISBON the prospect of this city, which bears so little resem- blance to any other that I have ever seen, a reflexion occurred to me that, if" a man was suddenly to be re- moved from Palmyra hither, and should take a view of no other city, in how glorious a light would the antient architecture appear to him ! and what deso- lation and destruction of arts and sciences would he conclude had happened between the several aeras of these cities ! I had now waited full thi'ee hours upon deck for the return of my man, whom I had sent to bespeak a good dinner (a thing which had been long un- known to me) on shore, and then to bring a Lisbon chaise with him to the sea-shore ; but it seems the impertinence of the providore was not yet brought to a conclusion. At three o'clock, when I was, from emptiness, rather faint than hungry, my man re- turned, and told me there was a new law lately made that no passenger should set his foot on shore without a special order from the providore, and that he himself would have been sent to prison for disobey- ing it, had he not been protected as the servant of the captain. He informed me likewise that the captain had been very industrious to get this order, but that it was then the providore's hour of sleep, a time when no man, except the king himself, durst disturb him. To avoid prolixity, though in a part of my narra- tive which may be more agieeable to my reader than it was to me, the providore, having at last finished his nap, dispatched this absurd matter of form, and gave me leave to come, or rather to be carried, on shore. What it was that gave the first hint of this [336 j A VOYAGE TO LISBON strange law is not easy to guess. Possibly, in the infancy of their defection, and before their govern- ment could be well established, they were willing to guard against the bare possibility of surprise, of the success of which bare possibility the Trojan horse will remain for ever on record, as a great and memo- rable example. Now the Portuguese have no walls to secure them, and a vessel of two or three hundred tons will contain a much larger body of troops than could be concealed in that famous machine, though Virgil tells us (somewhat hyperbolically, I believe) that it was as big as a mountain. About seven in the evening I got into a chaise on shore, and was driven through the nastiest city in the world, though at the same time one of the most populous, to a kind of coffee-house, which is very pleasantly situated on the brow of a hill, about a mile from the city, and hath a very fine prospect of the river Tajo from Lisbon to the sea. Here we regaled ourselves with a good supper, for which we were as well charged as if the bill had been made on the Bath-road, between Newbury and London. And now we could joyfully say, Egressi optata Troes potiuntur arena. Therefore, in the words of Horace, — hie Finis chartaeque viaeque. END OF VOL. I [337] COPYRIGHT 1903 BYTHE UNIVERSITY PRESS KING ARTHUK AND HUNCWAIUNCA HuNCAMiJNCA. . . . A maid may want What she can neither eat nor drink King. What 's that ? HuNc. O xpare my bhishes ; but I me(in a hufihand CONTENTS PAGE The Author's Farce, Acts I. and II 1 The Tragedy of Tragedies ; or, the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great 43 Pasquin ; A Dramatick Satire on the Times . . 117 An Essay on Conversation 197 The True Patriot, No. XIII 24 i The Covent-Garden Journal, Nos. X., XXXIII. . 253 Familiar Letters 269 -Quis iniquae Tam patiens urbis, tarn ferreus, ut teneat se ? — Juv. Sat. I. PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. JONES. Too long the Tragick Muse hath aw'd the stage. And frighten'd wives and children with her rage ; Too long Drawcansir roars, Parthenope weeps, While ev'ry lady cries, and critick sleeps. With ghosts, rapes, murders, tender hearts they wound. Or else, like thunder, terrify with sound. When the skill'd actress to her weeping eyes. With artful sigh, the handkerchief applies. How griev'd each sympathizing nymph appears ! And box and gallery both melt in tears. Or when, in armour of Corinthian brass, Heroick actor stares you in the face. And cries aloud, with emphasis that 's fit, on Liberty, freedom, liberty and Briton ! While frowning, gaping for applause he stands. What generous Briton can refuse his hands ? Like the tame animals design 'd for show. You have your cues to clap, as they to bow ; Taught to commend, your judgments have no share 5 By chance you guess aright, by chance you err. But, handkerchiefs and Britain laid aside. To-night we mean to laugh, and not to chide. In days of yore, when fools were held in fashion, Tho' now, alas ! all banish'd from the nation, A merry jester had reform'd his lord, Who would have scorn 'd the sterner Stoick's word. Bred in Democritus his laughing schools, Our author flies sad Heraclitus' rules ; No tears, no terror plead in his behalf ; The aim of Farce is but to make you laugh. Beneath the tragick or the comick name. Farces and puppet-shows ne'er miss of fame. Since then, in borrow'd dress, they 've pleas'd the town. Condemn them not, appearing in their own. Smiles we expect from the good-natur'd few ; As ye are done by, ye malicious, do ; And kindly laugh at him who laughs at you. PERSONS IN THE FARCE. Men. Luckless, the Author and Master of the Show, Mr. Mullart. Witmore, his friend Mr. Lacy. Marulaii, sen., )„ ,. (Mr. Reynolds, ,, ^, . ,<. Comedians i t,, ^ Marplay,jun.,S (Mr. Stopler. Bookioeight, a Bookseller Mr. Jones. Scarecrow,^ /'Mr. Marshal, Da^h, „ ., , , I Mr. Hallam, QuilMe, [Scribblers ^^^ ^^^^^ J Blotpage, J '-Mr. Wells, jun. Index • Jack, servant to Luckless Mr. Achurch. Jack-Pudding Mr. Reynolds. Bantomite Mr. Marshal. Women. Mrs. Moneywood, the Author's Landlady . Mrs. Mullart. Harriot, her daughter Miss Palms. ACT I. Scene I. — Luckless's Room in Mrs. Moneywood's House. — Mrs. Moneywood, Harriot, Luckless. Moneywood. Never tell me, Mr. Luckless, of your play, and your play. I tell you I must be paid. I would no more depend on a benefit-night of an un- acted play than I would on a benefit-ticket in an un- drawn lottery. Could I have guessed that I had a poet in my house ! Could I have looked for a poet under laced clothes ! Luck. Why not ? since you may often find poverty under them : nay, they are commonly the signs of it. And, therefore, why may not a poet be seen in them as well as a courtier ? Money. Do you make a jest of my misfortune, sir ? Luck. Rather my misfortune. I am sure I have a better title to poverty than you ; for, notwithstand- ing the handsome figure I make, unless you are so good to invite me, I am afraid I shall scarce prevail on my stomach to dine to-day. Money. Oh, never fear that — you will never want a dinner till you have dined at all the eating-houses round. No one shuts their doors against you the first time ; and 1 think you are so kind, seldom to trouble them a second. Luck. No. And if you will give me leave to walk out of your doors, the devil take me if ever I come into ""em again. [5] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Money. Pay me, sir, what you owe me, and walk away whenever you please. Lucie. With all my heart, madam ; get me a pen and ink, and I 'll give you my note for it immediately. Money. Your note ! who will discount it ? Not your bookseller ; for he has as many of your notes as he has of your works ; both good lasting ware, and which are never likely to go out of his shop and his scrutore. Har. Nay, but, madam, ""t is barbarous to insult him in this manner. Money. No doubt you ""ll take his part. Pray get you about your business. I suppose he intends to pay me by ruining you. Get you in this instant : and remember, if ever I see you with him again I'll turn you out of doors. Scene II. — Luckless, Mrs. Moneywood. Luck. Discharge all your ill-nature on me, madam, but spare poor Miss Hariiot. Money. Oh ! then it is plain. I have suspected your familiarity a long while. You are a base man. Is it not enough to stay three months in my house without paving me a fu'thing, but you must ruin my child ? Luck. I love her as my soul. Had I the world I \1 give it her all. Money. But, as you happen to have nothing in the world, I desire you would have nothing to say to her. I suppose vou would have settled all your castles in the air. Oh ! I wish you had lived in one of them, [6] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE instead of my house. Well, I am resolved, when you have gone away (which I heartily hope will be very soon) I '11 hang over my door in great red letters, " No lodgings for poets." Sure never was such a guest as you have been. My floor is all spoiled with ink, my windows with verses, and my door has been almost beat down with duns. Luck. ^Vould your house had been beaten down, and everything but my dear Harriot crushed under it ! Money. Sir, sir Luck. Madam, madam ! I will attack you at your own weapons ; I will pay you in your own coin. Money. I wish you 'd pay me in any coin, sir. Luck. Look ye, madam, I '11 do as much as a reasonable woman can require ; I '11 shew you all I have; and give you all I have too, if you please to accept it. [Turns his pockets inside oxit. Money. I will not be used in this manner. No, sir, I will be paid, if there be any such thing as law. Luck. By what law you will put money into my pocket I know not ; for I never heard of any one who got money by the law but the lawyers. I have told you already, and I tell you again, that the first money I get shall be yours ; and I have great expectations from my play. In the mean time your staying here can be of no service, and you may possibly drive some fine thoughts out of my head. I would write a love scene, and your daughter would be more proper com- pany, on that occasion, than you. Money. You would act a love-scene, I believe ; but I shall prevent you ; for I intend to dispose of myself before my daughter. THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Ijuck. Dispose of yourself ! Money. Yes, sir, dispose of myself. 'T is very well known that I have had very good offers since my last dear husband died. I might have had an attorney of New Inn, or Mr. Fillpot, the exciseman ; yes, I had my choice of two parsons, or a doctor of physick; and yet I slighted them all ; yes, I slighted them for — for — for you. Luck. For me .? Money. Yes, you have seen too visible marks of my passion ; too visible for my reputation. \Sohbing. Luck. I have heard very loud tokens of your pas- sion ; but I rather took it for the passion of anger than of love. Money. Oh ! it was love, indeed. Nothing but love, upon my soul ! Luck. The devil ! This way of dunning is worse than the other. Motuy. If thou can'st not pay me in money, let me have it in love. If I break through the modesty of my sex let my passion excuse it. I know the world will call it an impudent action ; but if you will let me reserve all I have to myself, I will make myself yours for ever. Luck. Toll, loll, loll ! Money. And is this the manner you receive my declaration, you poor beggarly fellow .? You shall repent this ; remember, you shall repent it ; remem- ber that. I '11 shew you the revenge of an injured woman. Luck. I shall never repent anything that rids me of you, I am sure. [8] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Scene III, — Luckless, Harriot. Luck. Dear Harriot ! Har. I have waited an opportunity to return to you. Luck. Oh ! my dear, I am so sick ! Har. What 's the matter ? Luck. Oh ! your mother ! your mother ! Har. What, has she been scolding ever since .? Luck. W^orse, worse ! Har. Heaven forbid she should threaten to go to law with you. Luck. Oh, worse ! worse ! she threatens to go to church with me. She has made me a generous offer, that if I will but marry her she will suffer me to settle all she has upon her. Har. Generous creature ! Sure you will not resist the proposal ? Luck. Hum ! what would you advise me to ? Har. Oh, take her, take her, by all means ; you will be the prettiest, finest, loveliest, sweetest couple. Augh ! what a delicate dish of matrimony you will make ! Her age with your youth, her avarice with your extravagance, and her scolding with your poetry ! Luck. Nay, but I am serious, and I desire you would be so. You know my unhappy circumstances, and your mother's wealth. It would be at least a prudent match. Har. Oh ! extremely prudent, ha, ha, ha ! the world will say. Lard ! who could have thought Mr. Luckless had had so much prudence ? This one action will overbalance all the follies of your life. [9] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Luck. Faith, I think it will : but, dear Harriot, how can I think of losing you for ever ? And yet, as our affairs stand, I see no possibility of our being happy together. It will be some pleasure, too, that I may have it in my power to serve you. Believe me, it is with the utmost reluctance I think of parting with you. For if it was in my power to have you Har. Oh, I am very much obliged to you ; I believe you — Yes, you need not swear, I believe you. Luck. And can you as easily consult prudence, and part with me ? for I would not buy my own happiness at the price of yours. ILnr. I thank you, sir Part with you intol- able vanity ! Luck. Then I am resolved ; and so, my good land- lady, have at you. Har. Stay, sir, let me acquaint you with one thing — you are a villain! and don't think I'm vexed at anything, but that I should have been such a fool as ever to have had a good opinion of you. [^Crying. Luck. Ha, ha, ha ! Caught, by Jupiter ! And did my dear Harriot think me in earnest .'* Har. And was you not in earnest ? Luck. What, to part with thee ? A pretty woman will be sooner in earnest to part with her beauty, or a great man with his power. Har. I wish I were assured of the sincerity of your love. AIR. Buttered Pease. Luck. Does my dearest Harriot ask What for love I would pursue ? Would you, charmer, know what task I would undertake for you ? [ 10 ] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Ask the bold ambitious, what He for honours would atchieve? Or the gay voluptuous, that Which he'd not for pleasure give? Ask the miser what he 'd do To amass excessive gain ? Or the saint, what he 'd pursue. His wish'd heav'n to obtain ? ' These I would attempt, and more — For, oh ! my Harriot is to me All ambition, pleasure, store. Or what heav'n itself can be ! Har. Would my dearest Luckless know What his constant Harriot can Her tender love and faith to show For her dear, her only man ? Ask the vain coquette what she For men's adoration would ; Or from censure to be free. Ask the vile censorious prude. In a coach and six to ride. What the mercenary jade. Or the widow to be bride To a brisk broad-shoulder'd blade. All these I would attempt for thee. Could I but thy passion fix ; Thy will my sole commander be. And thy arms my coach and six. Morwy [zoHhln]. Harriot, Harriot. Har. Hear the dreadful summons ! adieu. I will take the first opportunity of seeing you again. Luck. Adieu, my pretty charmer ; go thy ways for the first of thy sex. [11] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Scene IV. — Luckless, Jack. Luck. So ! what news bring you .? Jaclc. An ""t please your honour I have been at my lord's, and his lordship thanks you for the favour you have offered of reading your play to him ; but he has such a prodigious deal of business, he begs to be excused. I have been with Mr. Keyber too — he made me no answer at all. Mr. Bookweight will be here immediately. Luck. Jack. Jack. Sir. Luck. Fetch my other hat hither; — carry it to the pawnbroker's. Jack. To your honour's own pawnbroker ! Luck. Ay — and in thy way home call at the cook's shop. So, one way or other, I find my head must always provide for my belly. Scene V. — Luckless, Witmore. Luck. I am surprized ! dear Witmore ! Wit. Dear HaiTy ! Luck. This is kind, indeed ; but I do not more wonder at finding a man in this age who can be a friend to adversity, than that Fortune should be so much my friend as to direct you to me ; for she is a lady I have not been much indebted to lately. Wit. She who told me, I assure you, is one you have been indebted to a long while. Liick. Whom do you mean ^ [12] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Wit. One who complains of your unkindness in not visiting her — Mrs, Lovewood. Luck. Dost thou visit there still, then ? Wit. I throw an idle hour away there sometimes. When I am in an ill-humour I am sure of feeding it there with all the scandal in town, for no bawd is half so diligent in looking after girls with an un- cracked maidenhead as she in searching out women with cracked reputations. Liick. The much more infamous office of the two. Wit. Thou art still a favourer of the women, I find. Luck. Ay, the women and the muses — the high roads to beo-fjarv. Wit. What, art thou not cured of scribling yet? Luck. No, scribling is as impossible to cure as the gout. Wit. And as sure a sign of poverty as the gout of riches. 'Sdeath ! in an age of learning and true politeness, where a man might succeed by his merit, there would be some encouragement. But now, when party and prejudice carry all before them ; when learning is decried, wit not understood ; when the theatres are puppet-shows, and the comedians ballad-singers ; when fools lead the town, would a man think to thrive by his wit? If you must write, write nonsense, write operas, write Hurlothrumbos, set up an oratory and preach nonsense, and you may meet with encouragement enough. Be profane, be scurrilous, be immodest: if you would receive applause, deserve to receive sentence at the Old [13] THE AI'THOR^S FABCE Bailey ; and if you would ride in a coach, deserve to ride in a cart. Luck. You are warm, my friend. Wit. It is because I am your friend. I cannot bear to hear the man I love ridiculed by fools — by idiots. To hear a fellow who, had he been born a Chinese, had starved for want of genius to have been even the lowest mechanick, toss up his empty noddle with an affected disdain of what he has not under- stood ; and women abusing what they have neither seen nor heard, from an unreasonable prejudice to an honest fellow whom they have not known. If thou wilt write against all these reasons get a pa- tron, be pimp to some worthless man of quality, write panegyricks on him, flatter him with as many virtues as he has vices. Then, perhaps, you will en- gage his lordship, his lordship engages the town on your side, and then write till your arms ake, sense or nonsense, it will all go down. Luck. Thou art too satirical on mankind. It is possible to thrive in the world by justifiable means. Wit. Ay, justifiable, and so they are justifiable by custom. What does the soldier or physician thrive by but slaughter ? — the lawyer but by quarrels ? — the courtier but by taxes ? — the poet but by flat- tery ? I know none that thrive by profiting man- kind, but the husbandman and the merchant : the one gives you the fruit of your own soil, the other brings you those from abroad ; and yet these are represented as mean and mechanical, and the others as honourable and glorious. [14] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Lu^lc. Well ; but prithee leave railing, and tel\ nie what you would advise me to do. Wit. Do ! why thou art a vigorous young fellow, and there are rich widows in town. lAick. But I am already engaged. Wit. Why don't you marry then for I sup- pose you are not mad enough to have any engage- ment with a poor mistress ? Luck. Even so, faith ; and so heartily that I would . not change her for the widow of a Croesus. Wit. Now thou art undone, indeed. Matrimony clenches ruin beyond retrieval. What unfortunate stars wert thou bom under ? Was it not enough to follow those nine ragged jades the muses, but you must fasten on some earth-born mistress as poor as them .'' Mar.jun. \xoithin\ Order my chairman to call on me at St. James's. No, let them stay. Wit. Heyday, whom the devil have we here .? Ijick. The young captain, sir ; no less a person, I a.ssure you. Scene VI. — Luckless, Witmore, Marplay, jun. Mar.jun. Mr. Luckless, I kiss your hands Sir, I am your most obedient humble servant ; you see, Mr. Luckless, what power you have over me. I attend your conmiands, though several persons of quality have staid at court for me above this hour. Luck. I am obliged to you — I have a tragedy for your house, Mr. M irplay. [15] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Mar. Jim. Ha ! if you will send it to me, I will give you my opinion of it ; and if I can make any alterations in it that will be for its advantage, I will do it freely. Wit. Alterations, sir ? Mar.jun. Yes, sir, alterations — I will maintain it. Let a play be never so good, without alteration it will do nothing. Wit, Very odd indeed ! Mar.jun. Did you ever write, sir ? Wit. No, sir, I thank Heaven. Mar.jun. Oh! your humble servant — your very humble servant, sir. When you write yourself, you will find the necessity of alterations. Why, sir, would you guess that I had altered Shakspeare .'' Wit. Yes, faith, sir, no one sooner. Mar. jun. Alack-a-day ! Was you to see the plays when they are brought to us — a parcel of crude undigested stuff. We are the persons, sir, who lick them into form — that mould them into shape. The poet make the play indeed ! the colour- man might be as well said to make the pictui-e, or the weaver the coat. My father and I, sir, are a couple of poetical tailors. When a play is brought us, we consider it as a tailor does his coat : we cut it, sir — we cut it ; and let me tell you we have the exact measure of the town ; we know how to fit their taste. The poets, between you and me, are a pack of ignorant Wit. Hold, hold, sir. This is not quite so civil to Mr. Luckless ; besides, as 1 take it, you have done the town the honour of writing yourself. [16] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Mar.jiin. Sir, you are a man of sense, and express yourself well. I did, as you say, once make a small sally into Parnassus — took a sort of flying leap over Helicon; but if ever they catch me there again — sir, the town have a prejudice to my family ; for, if anv play could have made them ashamed to damn it, mine must. It was all over plot. It would have made half a dozen novels : nor was it crammed with a pack of wit-traps, like Congreve and Wycherly, where every one knows when the joke was coming. I defy the sharpest critick of them all to have known when any jokes of mine were coming. The dialogue was plain, easy, and natural, and not one single joke in it from the beginning to the end : besides, sir, there was one scene of tender melancholy conversa- tion — enough to have melted a heart of stone ; and yet they damned it — and they damned themselves ; for they shall have no more of mine. Wit. Take pity on the town, sir, Mar.jun. I! No, sir, no. Til write no more. No more ; unless I am forced to it. Liu:k. That 's no easy thing, Marplay. Mar.jun. Yes, sir. Odes, odes, a man may be obliged to write those, you know. Luck, and Wit. Ha, ha, ha ! that 's true indeed. LiicTc. But about my tragedy, Mr. Marplay. Mar.jun. I believe my father is at the playhouse : if you please, we will read it now ; but I must call on a young lady first Hey, who 's there ? Is my footman there ? Order my chair to the door. Your servant, gentlemen. — Caro vien. \^Ea>ity singling TOL. n. -2 [ 17 ] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Wit. This is the most finished gentleman I ever saw ; and hath not, I dare swear, his equal. Luclc. If he has, here he comes. Scene VII. — Luckless, Witmore, Bookweight. Luck. Mr. Bookweight, your very humble servant. Book: I was told, sir, that you had particular business with me. Luck. Yes, Mr. Bookweight ; I have something to put into your hands. I have a play for you, Mr. Bookweight. Book. Is it accepted, sir ? Luck. Not yet. Book, Oh, sir ! when it is, it will be then time enough to talk about it. A play, like a bill, is of no value till it is accepted ; nor indeed when it is, very often. Besides, sir, our playhouses are grown so plenty, and our actors so scarce, that really plays are become very bad commodities. But pray, sir, do you offer it to the players or the patentees } Luck. Oh ! to the players, certainly. Book. You are in the right of that. But a play which will do on the stage will not always do for us ; there are your acting plays and your reading plays. Wit. I do not understand that distinction. Book. Why, sir, your acting play is entirely sup- ported by the merit of the actor ; in which case, it signifies very little whether there be any sense in it or no. Now, your reading play is of a different stamp, and must have wit and meaning in it. These latter I call your substantive, as being able to sup- [18] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE 2 ort themselves. The former are your adjective, as what require the buffoonery and gestures of an actor to be joined with them to shew their signification. Wit. Very learnedly defined, truly. Lncl: Well, but, Mr. Bookweight, will you ad- vance fifty guineas on my play ? Book. Fifty guineas ! Yes, sir. You shall have them with all my heart, if you will give me security for them. Fifty guineas for a play ! Sir, I would not give fifty shillings. Luck. 'Sdeath, sir ! do you beat me down at this rate ? Book: No, nor fifty farthings. Fifty guineas ! Indeed your name is well worth that. Liuk. Jack, take this worthy gentleman and kick him down stairs. Book. Sir, I shall make you repent this. Jack. Come, sir, will you please to brush ? Book. Help ! murder ! I '11 have the law of you, sir. Luck. Ha, ha, ha ! Scene VIII. — Luckless, Witmore, Mrs. MoNEYWOOD. Money. What noise is this .? It is a very fine thing, truly, Mr. Luckless, that you will make these uproars in my house. Luck. If you dislike it, it is in your power to drown a much greatei'. Do you but speak, niadan), and I am sure no one will be heard but yourself Money. Very well, indeed ! fine reflexions on my [19] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE character ! Sir, sir, all the neighbours know that I have been as quiet a woman as ever lived in the par- ish. I had no noises in my house till you came. We were the family of love. But you have been a nu- sance to the whole neighbourhood. While you had money, my doors were thundered at every morning at four and five, by coachmen and chairmen ; and since you have had none, my house has been besieged all day by creditors and bailiffs. Then there 's the rascal your man ; but I will pay the dog, I will scour him. Sir, I am glad you are a witness of his abuses of me. Wit. I am indeed, madam, a witness how unjustly he has abused you. [Jack whispers Luckless. Luck. Witmore, excuse me a moment. ScKNE IX. — Mrs. Moneywood, Witmore. Money. Yes, sir ; and, sir, a man that has never shewn one the colour of his money. Wit. Very hard, truly. How much may he be in your debt, pray ? Because he has ordered me to pay you. Money. Ay ! sir, I wish he had. Wit. I am serious, I assure you. Money. I am very glad to hear it, sir. Here is the bill as we settled it this very morning. I always thought, indeed, Mr. Luckless had a great deal of honesty in his principles : any man may be unfor- tunate ; but I knew when he had money I should have it ; and what signifies dunning a man when he hath it not ? Now that is a way with some people which I could never come in to. [20] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Wit. There, madam, is your money. You may give Mr. Luckless the receipt. Money. Sir, I give you both a great many thanks. I am sure it is ahnost as charitable as if you gave it me ; for I am to make up a sum to-morrow morning. Well, if Mr. Luckless was but a little soberer I should like him for a lodger exceedingly : for I must say, I think him a very pleasant good-humoured man. Scene X. — Luckless, Witmore, Moneywood. LucTx:. Those are words I never heard out of that mouth before. Money. Ha, ha, ha ! you are pleased to be merry : ha, ha ! LiLck. "Why, Witmore, thou hast the faculty op- posite to that of a witch, and canst lay a tempest. I should as soon have imagined one man could have stopt a cannon-ball in its full force as her tongue. Money. Ha, ha, ha ! he is the best company in the world, sir, and so full of his similitudes ! Wit. Luckless, good morrow ; I shall see you soon again. Luck. Let it be soon, I beseech you ; for thou hast brouijht a calm into this house that was scarce ever in it before. Scene XI. — Luckless, Mrs. Moneywood, Jack. Money. Well, Mr. Luckless, you are a comical man, to give one such a character to a stranger. 1^1] THE AUTHOirS FARCE Luch. The company is gone, madam ; and now, like true man and wife, we may fall to abusing one another as fast as we please. Money. Abuse me as you please, so you pay me, sir. Luck. 'Sdeath ! madam, I will pay you. Money. Nay, sir, I do not ask it before it is due. I don't question your payment at all : if you was to stay in my house this quarter of a year, as I hope you will, I should not ask you for a farthing. Luck. Toll, loll, loll. — But I shall have her be- gin with her passion immediately ; and I had rather be the o1)ject of her rage for a year than of her love for half an hour. Money. But why did you choose to surprise me with my money ? Why did you not tell me you would pay me .'' Liick. Why, have I not told you ? Money. Yes, you told me of a play, and stuff: but you never told me you would order a gentleman to pay me. A sweet, pretty, good-humoured gentle- man he is, heaven bless him ! Well, you have comi- cal ways with you : but you have honesty at the bottom, and I'm sure the gentleman himself will own I gave you that character. Luck. Oh ! I smell you now. — You see, madam, I am better than my word to you : did he pay it you in gold or silver.'* Money. All pure gold. Luck. I have a vast deal of silver, which he brought me, within ; will you do me the favour of taking it in silver ? that Mill be of use to you in the shop too. [ 22 ] THE AUTIIOirS FARCE Money. Anything to oblige you, sir. Luclx:. Jack, bring out the great bag, number one. Please to tell the money, madam, on that table. Money. It \s easily told : heaven knows there 's not so much on ""t. Jack. Sir, the bag is so heavy, I cannot bring it in. Luclc. Why, then, come and help to thrust a heavier bag out. Money. What do you mean .'' I Aide. Only to pay you in my bed-chamber. Money. Villain, dog, I'll swear a robbery, and have you hanged : rogues, villains ! Luclc. Be as noisy as you please — yShtds the door^ Jack, call a coach ; and, d' ye hear .'* get up behind it and attend me. [23 J ACT II Scene I. — The Playhouse. — Luckless, Marplay, senior, Marplay, junior. Luclc. [^Reads.^ " Then hence my sorrow, hence my evVy fear ; No matter where, so we are bless'd together. With thee, the barren rocks, where not one step Of human race lies printed in the snow. Look lovely as the smiling infant spring.*" Mar. sen. Augh ! will you please to read that again, sir ? Luck. "Then hence my sorrow, hence my evVy fear." Mar. sen. " Then hence my sorrow." — Horror is a much better word. — And then in the second line — " No matter where, so we are bless'd together." — Undoubtedly, it should be, "No matter where, so somewhere we 're together." Where is the question, somewhere is the answer. — Read on, sir. Luck. " With thee, " Mar. sen. No, no, I could alter those lines to a much better idea. "With thee, the barren blocks, wliere not a bit Of human face is painted on the bark. Look green as Covent-garden in the spring." [24] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Luck. Green as Covent-garden ! Mar.jun. Yes, jes; Covent-garden market, where they sell greens. Luck. Monstrous ! Mar. sen. Pray, sir, read on. Lu£k. " Leandea : oh, my Harmonio, I could hear thee still ; The nightingale to thee sings out of tune, While on thy faithful breast my head reclines, The downy pillow 's hard ; while from thy lips I drink delicious draughts of nectar down, Falernian wines seem bitter to my taste." Mar.jun. Here's meat, drink, singing, and lodg- ing, egad. Luck. He answers. Mar.jun. But, sir — Luck. " Oh, let me pull thee, press thee to my heart, Thou rising spring of everlasting sweets ! Take notice. Fortune, I forgive thee all ! Thou 'st made Leandra mine. Thou flood of joy Mix with my soul, and rush thro' ev'ry vein." Mar. sen. Those two last lines again if you please. Luck. " Thou 'st made," kc. Mar.jun. " Thou flood of joy, Mix with my soul and rush thro' ev'ry vein." Those are two excellent lines indeed : I never writ better myself: but, Sar Lucli. " Leandra 's mine, go bid the tongue of fote Pronounce another word of bliss like that; Search thro' the eastern mines and golden shores, Where lavisli Nature pours forth all her stores ; [25] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE For to my lot could all her treasures fall, I would not change Leandra lor them all." 1 here ends act the first, and such an act as, I believe, never was on this stage yet. Mar. Jim. Nor never will, I hope. Mar. sen. Pray, sir, let me look at one thing. " Falernian wines seem bitter to my taste." Pray, sir, what sort of wines may your Falernian be ? for I never heard of them before ; and I am sure, as I keep the best company, if there had been such sorts of wines, I should have tasted them. Tokay I have drank, and Lacrimge I have drank, but what your Falernian is, the devil take me if I can tell. Mar.jun. I fancy, father, these wines grow at the top of Parnassus. Luck. Do they so, Mr. Pert ? why then I fancy you have never tasted them. Mar. sen. Suppose you should say the wines of Cape are bitter to my taste. Luck. Sir, I cannot alter it. Mar. sen. Nor we cannot act it. It won't do, sir, and so you need give yourself no farther trouble about it. Luck. WTiat particular fault do you find ? Mar. jun. Sar, there 's nothing that touches me, nothing that is coercive to my passions. Lu£k. Fare you well, sir : may another play be coercive to your passions. [26] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Scene II. — Marplay, senior, Marplay, junior. Mar. sen. Ha, ha, ha ! Mar.jun. What do you think of the play ? Mar. sen. It may be a very good one, for aught I know : but I am resolved, since the town will not receive any of mine, they shall have none from any other. I '11 keep them to their old diet. Mar.jun. But suppose they won't feed on 't ? Mar. sen. Then it shall be crammed down their throats. Mar.jun. I wish, father, you would leave me that art for a legacy, since I am afraid I am like to have no other from you. Mar. sen. 'Tis buff, child, 'tis buff — tme Corin- thian brass ; and, heaven be praised, tho' I have given thee no gold, I have given thee enough of that, which is the better inheritance of the two. Gold thou might'st have spent, but this is a lasting estate that will stick by thee all thy life. Mar.jtm. What shall be done with that farce which was damned last nisht ? Mar. sen. Give it them again to-morrow. I have told some persons of quality that it is a good thing, and I am resolved not to be in the wrono; : let us see which will be weary first, the town of damning, or we of being damned. Mar.jtm. Rat the town, I say. Mar. sen. That 's a good boy ; and so say I : but, prithee, what didst thou do with the comedy which I gave thee t' other day, that I thought a good one .? [27] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Mar.jtin. Did as you ordered me ; returned it to the author, and told him it would not do. Mar. sen. You did well. If thou writest thyself, and that I know thou art very well qualified to do, vt is thy interest to keep back all other authors of any merit, and be as forward to advance those of none. Mar.jtin. But I am a little afraid of writing ; for my writings, you know, have fared but ill hitherto. Mar. sen. That is because thou hast a little mis- taken the method of writing. The art of writing, boy, is the art of stealing old plays, by changing the name of the play, and new ones, by changing the name of the author. Mar.jun. If it was not for these cursed hisses and catcalls Alar. sen. Harmless musick, child, very harmless musick, and what, when one is but well seasoned to it, has no effect at all : for my part, I have been used to them. Mar.jun. Ay, and I have been used to them too, for that matter. Mar. sen. And stood them bravely too. Idle young actors are fond of applause, but, take my word for it, a clap is a mighty silly, empty thing, and does no more good than a hiss ; and, therefore, if any man loves hissing, he may have his three shillings worth at me whenever he pleases. \^Exeimt, [28] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Scene III. — A Room in Bookweight's house. — Dash, BlotpagEj Quibble^ writing at several tables. Dash. Pox on 't, I 'm as dull as an ox, tho' I have not a bit of one within me. I have not dined these two days, and yet my head is as heavy as any alder- man's or lord's. I carry about me symbols of all the elements ; my head is as heavy as water, my pockets are as light as air, my appetite is as hot as fire, and my coat is as dirty as earth. Blot. Lend me your Bysshe, Mr. Dash, I want a rhime for wind. Dash. Why there 's blind, and kind, and behind, and find, and mind : it is of the easiest termination imaginable ; I have had it four times in a page. Blot. None of those words will do. Dash. Why then you may use any that end in ond, or and, or end. I am never so exact : if the two last letters are alike, it will do very well. Read the verse. Blot. " Inconstant as the seas or as the wind." Dash. WTiat would you express in the next line ? Blot. Nay, that I don't know, for the sense is out already. I would say something about inconstancy. Dash. I can lend you a verse, and it will do very well too. " Inconstancy will never have an end." End rhimes very well with wind. Blot. It will do well enough for the middle of a poem. [29] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Dash. Ay, ay, anything will do well enough for the middle of a poem. If you can but get twenty good lines to place at the beginning for a taste, it will sell very well. Qiiih. So that, according to you, Mr. Dash, a poet acts pretty much on the same principles with an oister-woman. Dash. Pox take your simile, it has set my chaps a watering : but come, let us leave off work for a while, and hear Mr. Quibble's song. Qidh. My pipes are pure and clear, and my stomach is as hollow as any trumpet in Europe. Dash. Come, the song. SONG. AIR. Ye Commons and Peers. How unhappy 's the fate To live by one's pate. And be forced to write hackney for bread ! An author 's a joke To all manner of folk, Wherever he pops up his head, his head. Wherever he pops up his head. Tho' he mount on that hack, Old Pegasus' back. And of Hehcon drink till he burst. Yet a curse of those streams, Poetical dreams. They never can quench one's thirst, &c Ah ! how should he fly On fancy so high, When his limbs are in durance and hold? Or how should he charm. With genius so warm, When his poor naked body 's a cold, &c. [ 30 ] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Scene IV. — Bookweight, Dash, Quibble, Blotpage. Book. Fie upon it, gentlemen ! what, not at your pens? Do you consider, Mr. Quibble, that it is a fortnight since your Letter to a Friend in the Coun- try was published .'' Is it not high time for an Answer to come out .'' At this rate, before your An- swer is printed, your Letter will be forgot. I love to keep a controversy up warm. I have had authors who have writ a pamphlet in the morning, answered it in the afternoon, and answered that again at night. Quih. Sir, I will be as expeditious as possible : but it is harder to write on this side the question, because it is the wrong side. Book. Not a jot. So far on the contrary, that I have known some authors choose it as the properest to shew their genius. But let me see what you have produced ; " With all deference to what that very learned and most ingenious person, in his Letter to a Friend in the Country, hath advanced.*" Very well, sir ; for, besides that, it may sell more of the Letter : all controversial writers should begin with compli- menting tiieir adversaries, as prize-fighters kiss be- fore they engage. Let it be finished with all speed. Well, Mr. Dash, have you done that murder yet .'' Dash. Yes, sir, the murder is done; I am only about a few moral reflexions to place before it. Book. Very well : then let me have the ghost finished by this day se'nnight. Dash. What sort of a ghost would you have this, sir ? the last was a pale one. [31] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Book. Then let this be a bloody one. Mr. Quibble, you may lay by that life which you are about ; for I hear the person is recovered, and write me out pro- posals for delivering five sheets of Mr. Bailey's Eng- lish Dictionary every week, till the whole be finished. If you do not know the form, you may copy the proposals for printing Bayle's Dictionary in the same manner. The same words will do for both. Enter Index. So, Mr. Index, what news with you ? Index. I have brought my bill, sir. Book. Whafs here.? For fitting the motto of Risum teneatis Amici to a dozen pamphlets, at six- pence per each, six shillings ; for Omnia vincit Amor, et nos cedamus Amori, sixpence; for Difficile est Satyram non scribere, sixpence. Hum ! hum ! hum I — sum total for thirty-six Latin mottoes, eighteen shillings ; ditto English, one shilling and ninepence ; ditto Greek, four — four shillings. These Greek mottoes are excessively dear. Ind. If you have them cheaper at either of the universities, I will give you mine for nothing. Book. You shall have your money immediately ; and pray remember, that I must have two Latin seditious mottoes and one Greek moral motto for pamphlets by to-morrow morning. Quib. I want two Latin sentences, sir — one for page the fourth in the praise of loyalty, and another for page the tenth in praise of liberty and property. Dash. The ghost would become a motto very well if you would bestow one on him. [32] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE Book. Let me have them all. Ind. Sir, I shall provide them. Be pleased to look on that, sir, and print me five hundred pro- posals and as many receipts. Book. " Proposals for printing by subscription a New Translation of Cicero Of the Nature of the Gods, and his Tusculan Questions, by Jeremy Index, Esq."" I am sorry you have undertaken this, for it prevents a design of mine. Ind. Indeed, sir, it does not ; for you see all of the book that I ever intend to publish. It is only a handsome way of asking one's friends for a guinea. Book. Then you have not translated a word of it, perhaps. Ind. Not a single syllable. Book. Well, you shall have your proposals forth- with : but I desire you would be a little more reason- able in your bills for the future, or I shall deal with you no longer ; for I have a certain fellow of a college, who offers to furnish me with second- hand mottoes out of the Spectator for twopence each. Ind. Sir, I only desire to live by my goods ; and I hope you will be pleased to allow some difference between a neat fresh piece, piping hot out of the classicks, and old threadbare worn-out stuff that has past through every pedant's mouth and been as common at the universities as their whores. VOL. 11. — 3 [33] THE AUTHOR S FARCE Scene V. — Bookweight, Dash, Quibble, Blotpage, Scarecrow. Scare. Sir, I have brought you a libel against the ministry. Book. Sir, I shall not take anything against them ; • — for I have two in the press already. YAside. Scare. Then, sir, I have an Apology in defence of them. Book. That I shall not meddle with neither ; they don't sell so well. Scare. I have a translation of Virgil's ^Eneid, with notes on it, if we can agree about the price. Book. Why, what price would you have ? Scare. You shall read it first, otherwise how will you know the value ? Book. No, no, sir, I never deal that way — a poem is a poem, and a pamphlet a pamphlet with me. Give me a good handsome large volume, with a full promising title-page at the head of it, printed on a good paper and letter, the whole well bound and gilt, and I '11 warrant its selling. You have the common error of authors, who think people buy books to read. No, no, books are only bought to furnish libraries, as pictures and glasses, and beds and chairs, are for other rooms. Look ye, sir, I don't like your title-page : however, to oblige a young beginner, I don't care if I do print it at my own expence. Scare. But pray, sir, at whose expence shall I eat ? Book. At whose? Why, at mine, sir, at mine. [34] THE AUTHOR S FARCE I am as great a friend to learning as the Dutch are to trade : no one can want bread with me who will earn it ; therefore, sir, if you please to take your seat at my table, here will be everything necessary provided for you : good milk porridge, very often twice a day, which is good wholesome food and proper for students ; a translator too is what I want at present, my last being in Newgate for shop-lifting. The rogue had a trick of ti^anslating out of the shops as well as the languages. Scare. But I am afraid I am not qualified for a translator, for I understand no language but my own. Book. What, and translate Virgil ? Scare. Alas ! I translated him out of Dryden. Book. Lay by your hat, sir — lay by your hat, and take your seat immediately. Not qualified ! — thou art as well versed in thy trade as if thou hadst laboured in my garret these ten years. Let me tell you, friend, you will have more occasion for invention than learning here. You will be obliged to translate books out of all languages, especially French, that were never printed in any language whatsoever. Scare. Your trade abounds in mysteries. Book. The study of bookselling is as difficult as the law : and there are as many tricks in the one as the other. Sometimes we give a foreign name to our own labours, and sometimes we put our names to the labours of others. Then, as the lawyers have John-a-Nokes and Tom-a-Stiles, so we have Messieurs Moore near St. PauPs and Smith near the Royal Ex- change. [35] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Scene VI. — To them, Luckless. Liick. Mr. Bookvveight, your servant. Who can form to himself an idea more amiable than of a man at the head of so many patriots working for the benefit of their country. Book. Truly, sir, I believe it is an idea more agree- able to you than that of a gentleman in the Crown- office paying thirty or forty guineas for abusing an honest tradesman. Luch. Pshaw ! that was only jocosely done, and a man who lives by wit must not be angry at a jest. Book. Look ye, sir, if you have a mind to com- promise the matter, and have brought me any money — Luck. Hast thou been in thy trade so long, and talk of money to a modern author .? You might as well have talked Latin or Greek to him. I have brought you paper, sir. Book. That is not bringing me money, I own. Have you brought me an opera.? Liick. You may call it an opera if you will, but I call it a puppet-show. Book. A puppet-show ! Luck. Ay, a puppet-show ; and is to be played this night at Drury-lane playhouse. Book. A puppet-show in a playhouse ! Luck. Ay, why, what have been all the playhouses a long while but puppet-shows ? Book. Why, I don't know but it may succeed ; at [36] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE least if we can make out a tolerable good title-page : so, if you will walk in, if I can make a bargain with you I will. Gentlemen, you may go to dinner. Scene VII. — Enter Jack- Pudding, Drummer, Mob. Jack-P. This is to give notice to all gentlemen, ladies, and others, that at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, this evening, will be performed the whole puppet-show called the Pleasures of the Town ; in which will be shewn the whole court of nonsense, with abundance of singing, dancing, and several other entertainments : also the comical and diverting humours of Some-body and No-body ; Punch and his wife Joan to be performed by figures, some of them six foot high. God save the King. [Drum beats. Scene VIII. — Witmore with a paper, meeli7ig Luckless. Wit. Oh ! Luckless, I am overjoyed to meet you ; here, take this paper, and you will be discouraged from writing, I warrant you. Luck. What is it ? — Oh ! one of my play-bills. Wit. One of thy play-bills ! Luck. Even so 1 have taken the advice you gave me this morning. Wit. Explain. Luck. Why, I had some time since given this per- formance of mine to be rehearsed, and the actors were all perfect in their parts ; but we happened to differ about some particulars, and I had a design to have [37] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE given it over ; 'till having my play refused by Mar- play, I sent for the managers of the other house in a passion, joined issue with them, and this very even- ing; it is to be acted. yVit. Well, I wish you success, IawJc. Where are you going ? Wit. Anywhere but to hear you danmed, which I must, was I to go to your puppet-show. Luck. Indulge me in this trial ; and I assure thee, if it be successless, it shall be the last. Wit. On that condition I will ; but should the torrent run against you, I sliall be a fashionable friend and hiss with the rest. Luck. No, a man who could do so unfashionable and so generous a thing as Mr. Witmore did this mornmg Wit. Then I hope you will return it, by never mentioning it to me more. I will now to the pit. Luck. And I behind the scenes. Scene IX. — Luckless, Harriot. Luck. Dear Harriot ! Har. I was going to the playhouse to look after you — I am frightened out of my wits — I have left my mother at home with the strangest sort of man, who is inquiring after you : he has raised a mob be- fore the door by the oddity of his appearance ; his dress is like nothing I ever saw, and he talks of kings, and Bantam, and the strangest stuff. Luck. What the devil can he be ? Har. One of your old acquaintance, I suppose, in [38] THE AUTHOR'S FARCE disguise — one of his majesty''s officers with his com- mission in his pocket, I warrant him. Luck, Well, but have you your part perfect ? Har. I had, unless this fellow hath frightened it out of my head again ; but I am afraid I shall play it wretchedly. Liiclc. Why so ? Har. I shall never have assurance enough to go through with it, especially if they should hiss me. Luck. Oh ! your mask will keep you in counte- nance, and as for hissing, you need not fear it. The audience are generally so favourable to young be- ginners : but hist, here is your mother and she has seen us. Adieu, my dear, make what haste you can to the playhouse. [Ea^t. Scene X. — Harriot, Moneywood. Har. I wish I could avoid her, for I suppose we shall have an alarum. Money. So, so, very fine : always together, always caterwauling. How like a hangdog he stole off; and it's well for him he did, for I should have rung such a peal in his ears. — There's a friend of his at my house would be very glad of his company, and I wish it was in my power to bring them together. Har. You would not surely be so barbarous. Money. Barbarous ! ugh ! You whining, puling fool ! Hussey, you have not a drop of my blood in you. What, you are in love, I suppose .'' Har. If I was, madam, it would be no crime. Money. Yes, madam, but it would, and a folly toa [39] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE No woman of sense was ever in love with anything but a man's pocket. What, I suppose he has filled your head with a pack of romantick stuff of streams and dreams, and charms and arms. I know this is the stuff they all run on with, and so run into our debts, and run away with our daughters. Come, confess ; are not you two to live in a wilderness together on love .? Ah ! thou fool ! thou wilt find he will pay thee in love just as he has paid me in money. If thou wert resolved to go a-begging, why did you not follow the camp ? There, indeed, you might have carried a knapsack ; but here you will have no knap- sack to carry. There, indeed, you might have had a chance of burying half a score husbands in a cam- paign ; whereas a poet is a long-lived animal ; you have but one chance of burying him, and that is, starving him. Har. Well, madam, and I would sooner starve with the man I love than ride in a coach and six with him I hate : and, as for his passion, you will not make me suspect that, for he hath given me such proofs on"'t. Money. Proofs ! I shall die. Has he given you proofs of love ? Har. All that any modest woman can require. Money . If he has given you all a modest woman can require, I am afraid he has given you more than a modest woman should take : because he has been so good a lodger, I suppose I shall have some more of the family to keep. It is probable I shall live to see half a dozen gi'andsons of mine in Grub-street. [40] THE AUTHOR^S FARCE Scene XL — Moneywood, Harriot^ Jack. JacTc. Oh, madam ! the man whom you took for a bailiff is certainly some great man ; he has a vast many jewels and other fine things about him ; he offered me twenty guineas to shew him my master, and has given away so much money among the chair- men, that some folks believe he intends to stand member of parliament for Westminster. Money. Nay, then, I am sure he is worth inquir- ing into. So, d 'ye hear, sin-ah, make as much haste as you can before me, and desire him to part with n(; more money till I come. Har. So, now my mother is in pursuit of money, I may securely go in pursuit of my lover : and I am mistaken, good mamma, if e''en you would not think that the better pursuit of the two. In generous love transporting raptures lie. Which age, with all its treasures, cannot buy. [41] THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES OR, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF TOM THUMB THE GREAT WITH THE ANNOTATIONS OF H. SCRIBLEEUS SECUNDUS First Acted in 1730, and Altered in 1731 H. SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS, HIS PREFACE. THE town hath seldom been more divided in its opinion than concerning the ment of the following scenes. While some publickly affirmed that no author could produce so fine a piece but Mr. P , others have with as much vehemence insisted that no one could write anything so bad but Mr. F . Nor can we wonder at this dissension about its merit, when the learned world have not unanimously decided even the very nature of this tragedy. For though most of the universities in Europe have honoured it with the name of " Egregium et maximi pretii opus, tragoediis tam antiquis quam novis longe anteponendum ; " nay, Dr. B hath pronounced, " Citius Maevii ^neadem quam Scribleri istius trao-oe- diam banc crediderim, cujus autorem Senecam ipsum tradidisse baud dubitarim : "" and the great pro- fessor Burman hath styled Tom Thumb " Heroum omnium tragicorum facile principem : " nay, though it hath, among other languages, been translated into Dutch, and celebrated with great applause at Amsterdam (where burlesque never came) by the title of Mynheer Vander Thumb, the burgomastei-s receiving it with that reverent and silent attention which becometh an audience at a deep tragedy. Not- [45] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF withstanding all this, there have not been wanting some who have represented these scenes in a ludi- crous light ; and Mr. D hath been heard to say, with some concern, that he wondered a tragical and Christian nation would permit a representation on its theatre so visibly designed to ridicule and ex- tirpate everything that is great and solemn among us. This learned critick and his followers were led in- to so great an error by that surreptitious and pirati- cal copy which stole last year into the world ; with what injustice and prejudice to our author will be acknowledged, I hope, by every one who shall happily peruse this genuine and original cop}^ Nor can I help remarking, to the great praise of our author, that, however imperfect the former was, even that faint resemblance of the true Tom Thumb contained sufficient beauties to give it a run of upwards of forty nights to the politest audiences. But, notwithstanding that applause which it re- ceived from all the best judges, it was as severely censured by some few bad ones, and, I believe rather maliciously than ignorantly, reported to have been intended a burlesque on the loftiest parts of tragedy, and designed to banish what we generally call fine things from the stage. Now, if I can set my country right in an affair of this importance, I shall lightly esteem any labour which it may cost. And this I the rather under- take, first, as it is indeed in some measure incumbent on me to vindicate myself from that surreptitious copy before mentioned, published by some ill-mean- [46] TOM THUMB THE GREAT ing people under my name ; secondly, as knowing myself more capable of doing justice to our author than any other man, as I have given myself more pains to arrive at a thorough understanding of this little piece, having for ten years together read noth- ing else ; in whicli time, I think, I may modestly presume, with the help of my English dictionary, to comprehend all the meanings of every word in it. But should any error of my pen awaken Clariss. Bentleium to enlighten the world with his annota- tions on our author, I shall not think that the least reward or happiness arising to me from these my endeavours. I shall waive at present what hath caused such feuds in the learned world, whether this piece was original!}^ written by Shakspeare, though certainly that, were it true, must add a considerable share to its merit, especially with such who are so generous as to buy and commend what they never read, from an implicit faith in the author only : a faith which our ase abounds in as much as it can be called defi- cient in any other. Let it suffice, that The Tragedy of Tragedies ; or. The Life and Death of Tom Thumb, was writ- ten in the reign of queen Elizabeth. Nor can the objection made by Mr. D , that the tragedy must then have been antecedent to the history, have any weight, when we consider that, though the History of Tom Thumb, printed by and for Edward M r, at the Looking-glass on London-bridge, be of a later date, still must we suppose this history to have been transcribed from some other, unless we [ 47 ] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF suppose the writer thereof to be inspired : a gift very faintly contended for by the writers of our age. As to this history's not bearing the stamp of sec- ond, third, or fourth edition, I see but httle in that objection; editions being very uncertain lights to judge of books by : and perhaps Mr. M r may have joined twenty editions in one, as Mr. C 1 hath ere now divided one into twenty. Nor doth the other argument, drawn from the lit- tle care our author hath taken to keep up to the letter of this history, carry any greater force. Are there not instances of plays wherein the history is so perverted, that we can know the heroes whom they celebrate by no other marks than their names ? nay, do we not find the same character placed by differ- ent poets in such different lights, that we can dis- cover not the least sameness, or even likeness, in the features ? The Sophonisba of Mairet and of Lee is a tender, passionate, amorous mistress of Massinissa : Corneille and Mr. Thomson give her no other pas- sion but the love of her country, and make her as cool in her affection to Massinissa as to Syphax. In the two latter she resembles the character of queen Eliz- abeth ; in the two former she is the picture of Mary queen of Scotland. In short, the one Sophonisba is as different from the other as the Brutus of Voltaire is from the Marius, jun., of Otway, or as the Mi- nerva is from the Venus of the ancients. Let us now proceed to a regular examination of the tragedy before us, in which I shall treat sepa- rately of the Fable, the Moral, the Characters, the Sentiments, and the Diction. And first of the [48] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Fable ; which I take to be the most simple imagi- nable ; and, to use the words of an eminent author, " one, regular, and uniform, not charged with a mul- tiplicity of incidents, and yet affording several revo- lutions of fortune, by which the passions may be excited, varied, and driven to their full tumult of emotion." — Nor is the action of this tragedy less great than uniform. The spring of all is the love of Tom Thumb for Huncamunca ; which caused the quarrel between their majesties in the first act ; the passion of Lord Grizzle in the second ; the rebellion, fall of Lord Grizzle and Glumdalca, devouring of Tom Thumb by the cow, and that bloody catastro- phe, in the third. Nor is the Moral of this excellent tragedy less noble than the Fable ; it teaches these two instruc- tive lessons, viz., that human happiness is exceeding transient ; and that death is the certain end of all men : the former whereof is inculcated by the fatal end of Tom Thumb ; the latter, by that of all the other personages. The Characters are, I think, sufficiently described in the dramatis personag ; and I believe we shall find few plays where greater care is taken to maintain them throughout, and to preserve in every speech that characteristical mark which distinguishes them from each other. " But (says Mr. D ) how well doth the character of Tom Thumb, whom we must call the hero of this tragedy, if it hath any hero, agree with the precepts of Aristotle, who defineth ' Tragedy to be the imitation of a short but perfect action, containing a just greatness in itself'.'' &c. VOL. II. — 4 [ "^9 ] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF What greatness can be in a fellow whom history relateth to have been no higher than a span ? " This gentleman seemeth to think, with serjeant Kite, that the greatness of a man's soul is in pro- portion to that of his body ; the contrary of which is affirmed by our English physiognomical writers. Besides, if I understand Aristotle right, he speaketh only of the greatness of the action, and not of the person. As for the Sentiments and the Diction, which now only remain to be spoken to ; I thought I could af- ford them no stronger justification than by produc- ing parallel passages out of the best of our English wTiters. Whether this sameness of thought and expression, which I have quoted from them, pro- ceeded from an agreement in their way of thinking, or whether they have borrowed from our author, I leave the reader to determine. I shall adventure to affirm this of the Sentiments of our author, that they are generally tlie most familiar which I have ever met with, and at the same time delivered with the highest dignity of phrase ; which brings me to speak of his diction. Here I shall only beg one postu- latum, viz.. That the greatest perfection of the lan- guage of a tragedy is, that it is not to be understood ; which granted (as I think it must be), it will neces- sarily follow that the only way to avoid this is by being too high or too low for the understanding, which will comprehend everything within its reach. Those two extremities of stile Mr. Dryden illustrates by the familiar image of two inns, which I shall term the aerial and the subterrestrial. [50] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Horace goes farther, and shevveth when it is proper to call at one of these inns, and when at the other : Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque, Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba. That he approveth of the sesquipedalia verba is plain ; for, had not Telephus and Peleus used this sort of diction in prosperity, they could not have dropt it in adversity. The aerial inn, therefore (says Horace), is proper only to be frequented by princes and other great men in the highest affluence of for- tune ; the subterrestrial is appointed for the enter- tainment of the poorer sort of people only, whom Horace advises, — dolere sermone pedestri. The true meaning of both which citations is, that bombast is the proper language for joy, and doggrel for grief; the latter of which is literally imphed in the sermo pedestris, as the former is in the sesqui- pedalia verba. (Cicero recommendeth the former of these : " Quid est tam furiosum vel tragicum quam verborum soni- tus inanis, nulla subjecta sententia neque scientia." What can be so proper for tragedy as a set of big sounding words, so contrived together as to convey no meaning ? which I shall one day or other prove to be the sublime of Longinus. Ovid declareth absolutely for the latter inn: Omne genus script! gravitate tragoedia vincit Tragedy hatli, of all writings, the greatest share in the bathos ; which is the profound of Scriblerus. [51] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF I shall not presume to determine which of these two stiles be properer for tragedy. It sufficeth, that our author excelleth in both. He is very rarely within sight through the whole play, either rising hio-her than the eye of your understanding can soar, or sinking lower than it carcth to stoop. But here it may perhaps be observed that I have given more frequent instances of authors who have imitated him in the sublime than in the contrary. To which I answer, first, Bombast being properly a redundancy of genius, instances of this nature occur in poets whose names do more honour to our author than the writers in the doggrel, which proceeds from a cool, calm, weighty way of thinking. Instances whereof are most frequently to be found in authors of a lower class. Secondly, That the works of such authors are difficultly found at all. Thirdly, That it is a very hard task to read them, in order to extract these flowers from them. And lastly, it is very difficult to transplant them at all ; they being like some flowers of a very nice nature, which will flourish in no soil but their own : for it is easy to transcribe a thought, but not the want of one. The Earl of Essex, for instance, is a little garden of choice rarities, whence you can scarce transplant one line so as to preserve its original beauty. This must account to the reader for his missing the names of several of his acquaint- ance, which he had certainly found here, had I ever read their works ; for which, if I have not a just esteem, I can at least say with Cicero, "Quae non contemno, quippe quae nunquam legerim." Howevei-, that the reader may meet with due satisfaction in [52] TOM THUMB THE GREAT this point, I have a young connnentatoi- from the university, who is reading over all the modern trag- edies, at five shillings a dozen, and collecting all that they have stole from our author, which shall be shortly added as an appendix to this work. [53] DRAMATIS PERSONS. Men. King Arthur, a passionate sort of krng.l husband to queen DoUallolla, of whom he stands a httle in fear ; father to Hunca- \ Mr. Mitllart. munca, whom he is very fond of, and in I love with Gluradalca J Tom Thumb the Great, a httle hero with a^ great soul, something violent in his I Young temper, which is a little abated by his j' Verhuyck. love for Huncamimca j Ghost of Gaffer llmmb, a whimsical sort of"\ ii» y ghost / Lord Grizzle, extremely zealous for the liberty^ of the subject, very cholerick in his temper \ Mr. Jones. and in love with Huncamunca ... J Merlin, a coniurer, and in some sort father ~\ ,;r tt i. rr. riV . \ Mr. Hallam. to lom thumb J Noodle, Doodle, courtiers in place, and conse-) Mr. Reynolds, quently of that party that is uppermost j Mr. Wathan. Foodie, a courtier that is out of place, and con-\ -^ A^tifs sequently of that party that is vmdermost j Bailiff, and Follower, of the party of the \ Mr. Peterson, plaintiff j Mr. Hicks. Parson, of the side of the church .... Mr. Watson. Women. ►Mrs. MuiXART. -Mrs. Jones. Queen DoUallolla, wife to king Arthur, and' mother to Huncamunca, a woman intirely faultless, saving that she is a little given to drink, a little too much a virago to- wards her husband, and in love with Tom Thumb j The Princess Huncamunca, daughter to their ~ majesties king Arthur and queen DoUal- lolla, of a very sweet, gentle, and amorous disposition, equally in love with Lord Grizzle and Tom Thumb, and desirous to be married to them both . . . . , Glumdnlca, of the giants, a captive queen, ^ beloved by the king, but in love with \ Mrs. Dove. Tom Thumb J Cleora, Mustachn, maids of honour in love with Noodle and Doodle. — Courtiers, Guards, Rebels, DruTns, Trumpets, Thunder and Lightning. Scene, the court of king Arthur, and a plain thereabouts. ACT I Scene I. — TJie Palace. Doodle^ Noodle. Doodle. Sure such a ^ day as this was never seen ! The sun himself, on this auspicious day, Shines hke a beau in a new birth-day suit : This down the seams embroidered, that the beams. All nature wears one universal grin. Nood. This day, O Mr. Doodle, is a day ^ Corneille recommends some very remarkable day wherein to fix the action of a tragedy. This the best of our tragical writers have understood to mean a day remarkable for the serenity of the sky, or what we generally call a fine summer's day : so that, according to this their exposition, the same months are proper for tragedy which ai-e proper for pastoral. Most of our celebrated English tragedies, as Cato, Mariamne, Tamerlane, &c., begin with their observations on the morning. Lee seems to have come the nearest to this beautiful description of our author's : The morning dawns with an unwonted crimson. The flowers all odorous seem, the garden birds Sing louder, and the laughing sun ascends The gaudy earth with an unusual brightness : All nature smiles. — Gais. Borg. Massinissa, in the New Sophonisba, is also a favourite of the sun : The sun too seems As conscious of my joy, with broader eye To look abroad the world, and all things smile Like Sophonisba. [ 55 J THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Indeed ! — A dav,^ we never saw before. The mighty '^ Thomas Thumb victorious comes ; ISIillions of giants crowd his chariot wheels, ^ Giants ! to whom the giants in Guildhall Memnon, in the Persian Princess, makes the sun decline rising, that he may not peep on objects which would profane his brightness : The morning rises slow. And all those ruddy streaks that used to paint The day's approach are lost in clouds, as if The horrors of the night had sent 'em back. To warn the sun he should not leave the sea, To peep, &c. 1 This line is highly conformable to the beautiful simplicity of the antients. It hath been copied by almost every modern. Not to be is not to be in woe. — State of Innocence. Love is not sin but where 't is sinful love. — Don Sebastian. Nature is nature, LaeUus. — Sophonisba. Men are but men, we did not make ourselves. — Revenge. 2 Dr. B— y reads. The mighty Tall-mast Thumb. Mr. D— s. The mighty Thumbing Thumb. Mr. T — d reads. Thundering. I think Thomas more agreeable to the great simplicity so ' apparent in our author. 2 That learned historian Mr. S — n, in the third number of his criticism on our author, takes great pains to explode this pas- sage. "It is," says he, " difficult to guess what giants are here meant, unless the giant Despair in the Pilgrim's Progress, or the giant Greatness in the Royal Villain ; for I have heard of no other sort of giants in the reign of King Arthur. " Petrus Burmannus makes three Tom Thumbs, one whereof he sup- poses to have been the same person whom the Greeks called Hercules ; and that by these giants are to be understood the Centaurs slain by that hero. Another Tom Thumb he con- tends to have been no other than the Hermes Trismegistus of the antients. The third Tom Thumb he places under the reign of king Arthur ; to which third Tom Thumb, says he, the [56] ' TOM THUMB THE GREAT Are infant dwarfs. They frown, and foam, and roar, Wliile Thumb, regardless of their noise, rides on. So some cock-sparrow in a farmer's yard, Hops at the head of an huge flock cf turkeys, Dood. When Goody Thumb first brought this Thomas forth, The Genius of our land triumphant reign'd ; Then, then, O Arthur ! did thy Genius reign. Nood. They tell me it is ^ whisper'd in the books actions of the other two were attributed. Now, though I know that this opinion is supported by an assertion of Justus Lipsius, '* Thomam ilium Thumbum non alium qukm Herculem fuisse satis constat," yet shall I venture to oppose one line of Mr. Midwinter against them all : In Arthur's court Tom Thumb did live. " But then," says Dr. B— y, " if we place Tom Thumb in the court of king Arthur, it will be proper to place that court out of Britain, where no giants were ever heard of" Spenser, in his Fairy Queen, is of another opinion, where, describing Albion, he says, Far within a savage nation dwelt Of hideous giants. And in the same canto : Then Elfar, with two brethren giants had. The one of which had two heads The other three. Risum teneatis, amici. 1 "To whisper in books," says Mr. D— s, "is arrant non- sense." I am afraid this learned man does not sufficiently understand the extensive meaning of the word whisper. If he had rightly understood what is meant'by the " senses whisp'ring the soul," in the Persian Princess, or what " whisp'ring like winds " is in Aurengzebe, or like thunder in another author, he would have understood this. Emraeline in Dryden sees a [57] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Of all our sages, that this mighty hero, By Merlin's ai-t begot, hath not a bone Within his skin, but is a lump of gristle. Dood. Then 'tis a gristle of no mortal kind; Some God, my Noodle, stept into the place Of Gaffer Thumb, and more than ^ half begot This mighty Tom. Nood. — 2 Sure he was sent express From Heaven to be the pillar of our state. Though small his body be, so very small A chairman's leg is more than twice as large, Yet is his soul like any mountain big ; And as a mountain once brought forth a mouse, ^ So doth this mouse contain a mighty mountain. voice, but she was born blind, which is an excuse Panthea can- not plead in Cyrus, who hears a sight : Your description will surpass All fiction, painting, or dumb shew of horror. That ever ears yet heard, or eyes beheld. When Mr. D — s understands these, he will understand whisper- ing in books. ^ — Some ruiBan stept into his father's place. And more than half begot him. — Mary Queen of Scots. ' — For Ulamar seems sent express from Heaven, To civilize this rugged Indian clime. — Liberty Asserted. * " Omne majus continet in se minus, sed minus non in se majus continere potest," says Scaliger in Thumbo. I suppose he would have cavilled at these beautiful lines in the Earl of Essex : Thy most inveterate soul. That looks through the foul prison of thy body. And at those of Dryden : The palace is without too well design'd ; Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. — Aurengzehe. [58] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Dood. Mountain indeed ! So terrible his namo. ^ The giant nurses frighten children with it, And cry Tom Thumb is come, and if you are Naughty, will surely take the child away, Nood. But hark ! ^ these trumpets speak the king's approach. Dood. He comes most luckily for my petition. \_Flourish. Scene II. — King, Queen, Grizzle, Noodle, Doodle, FOODLE. King. ^ Let nothing but a face of joy appear ; The man who frowns this day shall lose his head, That he may have no face to frown withal. Smile Dollallolla — Ha ! what wrinkled sorrow 1 Mr. Banks hath copied this almost verbatim : It was enough to say, here 's Essex come, And nurses stilFd their children with the fright — Earl of Essex. 2 The trumpet in a tragedy is generally as much as to say. Enter king, which makes Mr. Banks, in one of his plays, call it the trumpet's formal sound. ^ Phraortcs, in the Captives, seems to have been acquainted with King Arthur : Proclaim a festival for seven days' space. Let the court shine in all its pomp and lustre. Let all our streets resound with shouts of joy ; Let musick's care-dispelling voice be heard ; The sumptuous banquet and the flowing goblet Shall warm the cheek and fill the heart with gladness. Astarbe shall sit mistress of the feast. [59i THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ^ Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy knitted brow ? Whence flow those tears fast down thy blubber''d cheeks, Like a swoln gutter, gushing through the streets ? Queen. ^ Excess of joy, my lord, I 've heard folks say. Gives tears as certain as excess of grief. King. If it be so, let all men cry for joy, ^ Till my whole court be drowned with their tears ; * Repentance frowns on thy contracted brow. — Sophonisba. Hung on his clouded brow, I mark'd despair. — Ibid. A sullen gloom Scowls on his brow. — Brisiris. 2 Plato is of this opinion, and so is Mr. Banks : Behold these tears sprung from fresh pain and joy. — Earl of Essex. * These floods are very frequent in the tragick authors : Near to some murmuring brook I '11 lay me down, Whose waters, if they should too shallow flow. My tears shall swell them up till I will drown. — Lee's Sophonisba, Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate. That were the world on fire they might have drown'd The wrath of heaven, and quench 'd the mighty ruin. — Mithridates One author changes the waters of grief to those of joy : These tears, that sprung from tides of grief. Are now augmented to a flood of joy. — Cyrus the Oreat. Another : Turns all the streams of heat, and makes them flow In pity's channel. — Royal Villain. [60] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Nay, till they overflow my utmost land, And leave me nothing but the sea to rule. Dood. My liege, I a petition have here got. King. Petition me no petitions, sir, to-day : Let other hours be set apart for business. To-day it is our pleasure to be ^ drunk. And this our queen shall be as drunk as we. One drowns himself : Pity like a torrent pours me down, Now I am drowning all within a deluge. — Anna Bullen. Cyrus drowns the whole world : Our swelling grief Shall melt into a deluge, and the world Shall drown in tears. — Cyrus the Great. 1 An expression vastly beneath the dignity of tragedy, says Mr. D— s, yet we find the word he cavils at in the mouth of Mithridates less properly used, and applied to a more terrible idea : I would be drunk with death. — Mithridates. The author of the New Sophonisba taketh hold of this mono- syllable, and uses it pretty much to the same purpose : The Carthaginian sword with Roman blood Was drunk. I would ask Mr. D— s which gives him the best idea, a dnmken king, or a drunken sword ? Mr. Tate dresses up King Arthur's resolution in heroick : Merry, my lord, o' th' captain's humour right, I am resolved to be dead drunk to-night Lee also uses this charming word : Love 's the drunkenness of the mind. — Gloriana, [61] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Queen. (Though I aheady ^ half seas over am) If the capacious goblet overflow With arrack punch Tore George ! I '11 see it out : Of rum and brandy 1 11 not taste a drop. King. Though rack, in punch, eight shillings be a quart, And rum and brandy be no more than six, Rather than quarrel you shall have your will. [ Trumpets. But, ha ! the warrior comes — the great Tom Thumb, The little hero, giant-killing boy. Preserver of my kingdom, is arrived. Scene III. — Tom Thumb to them, with Officers, Pris- oners, a9id Attendants. King. 2 Oh ! welcome most, most welcome to my arms. What gratitude can thank away the debt Your valour lays upon me ? Queen. ® Oh ! ye gods ! [J side. Thumb. When I 'm not thank'd at all, I 'm thank'd enough. ^ I \e done my duty, and I Ve done no more, 1 Dryden hath borrowed this, and applied it improperly : I 'm half seas o'er in death. — Cleomenes. 2 This figure is in great use among the tragedians : 'T is therefore, therefore 't is. — Victim. I long, repent, repent, and long again. — Btisiris. 3 A tragical exclamation. * This line is copied verbatim in the Captives. [62] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Queen. Was ever such a godlike creature seen ? [Aside. King. Thy modesty "'s a ^ candle to thy merit, It shines itself, and shews thy merit too. But say, my boy, where didst thou leave the giants ? Thumb. My liege, without the castle gates they stand, The castle gates too low for their admittance. King. What look they like ? Tlnnnh. Like nothing but themselves. Queen. ^ And sure thou art like nothing but thy- self. [Aside. King. Enough ! the vast idea fills my soul. I see them — yes, I see them now before me ; The monstrous, ugly, barbarous sons of \vhores. But ha ! what form majestick strikes our eyes ? ^ So perfect, that it seems to have been drawn 1 We find a candlestick for this candle in two celebrated authors : Each star withdraws His golden head, and burns within the socket. — Nero. A soul grown old and sunk into the socket. — Sebastian. * This simile occurs very frequently among the dramatic writers of both kinds. 8 Mr. Lee hath stolen this thought from our author : This perfect face, drawn by the gods in council, Which they were long a making. — Luc. Jun. Brut. At his birth the heavenly council paused, And then at last cry'd out. This is a man ! Dryden hath improved this hint to the utmost perfection : So perfect, that the very gods who form'd you wonder'd At their own skill, and cry'd, A lucky hit [63] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF By all the gods in council : so fair she is, That surely at her birth the council paused, And then at length cry'd out, This is a woman ! Thumb. Then were the gods mistaken — she is not A woman, but a giantess whom we, ^ With much ado, have made a shift to hawl Within the town : ^ for she is by a foot Shorter than all her subject giants were. Glum. We yesterday were both a queen and wife. One hundred thousand giants own''d our sway. Twenty whereof were married to ourself Queen. Oh ! happy state of giantism where husbands Like mushrooms grow, whilst hapless we are forced To be content, nay, happy thought, with one. Has mended our design ! Their envy hindered, Or you had been immortal, and a pattern. When Heaven would work for ostentation sake. To copy out again. — All for Love. Banks prefers the works of Michael Angelo to that of the gods : A pattern for the gods to make a man by, Or Michael Angelo to form a statue. 1 It is impossible, says Mr. W , sufficiently to admire this natural easy line. 2 This tragedy, which in most points resembles the ancients, differs from them in this — that it assigns the same honour to lowness of stature which they did to height. The gods and heroes in Homer and Virgil are continually described higher by the head than their followers, the contrary of which is ob- served by our author. In short, to exceed on either side is equally admirable ; and a man of three foot is as wonderful a sight as a man of nine. [64] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Glum. But then to lose them all in one black day, That the same sun which, rising, saw me wife To twenty giants, setting should behold Me widow'd of them all. ^ My worn-out heart, That ship, leaks fast, and the great heavy lading, My soul, will quickly sink. Queen. Madam, believe I view your sorrows with a woman's eye : But learn to bear them with what strength you may, To-morrow we will have our grenadiers Drawn out before you, and you then shall choose What husbands you think fit. Glum. 2 Madam, I am Your most obedient and most humble servant. King. Think, mighty princess, think this court your own, Nor think the landlord me, this house my inn ; Call for whatever you will, you ""ll nothing pay. ^ I feel a sudden pain within my breast. Nor know I whether it arise from love 1 My blood leaks fast, and the great heavy lading My soul will quickly sink. — Mithridates. My soul is like a ship. — Injured Love. 2 This well-bred line seems to be copied in the Persian Princess : — To be your humblest and most faithful slave. 8 This doubt of the king puts me in mind of a passage in the Captives, where the noise of feet is mistaken for the rustling of leaves. Methinks I hear The sound of feet : No ; 't was the wind that shook yon cypress boughs. VOL. II — 5 [ 65 ] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Or only the wind-cholick. Time must shew. Thumb ! what do we to thy valour owe ! Ask some reward, great as we can bestow. Thumb. ^ I ask not kingdoms, I can conquer those; 1 ask not money, money I 've enough ; For what I 've done, and what I mean to do, For giants slain, and giants yet unborn. Which I will slay if this be called a debt, Take my receipt in full : I ask but this, — ^ To sun myself in Huncamunca's eyes. King. Prodigious bold request. > r ^ -^ Queen. ^ Be still, my soul. S ^ Thumb. * My heart is at the threshold of your mouth, 1 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this passage in his eye in the first page of Love Triumphant. - Don Carlos, in the Revenge, suns himself in the charms of his mistress : While in the lustre of her charms I lay. * A tragical phrase much in use. * This speech hath been taken to pieces by several tragi- cal authors, who seem to have rifled it, and shared its beauties among them. My soul waits at the portal of thy breast, To ravish from thy lips the welcome news. — Anna BulUn. My soul stands list'ning at my ears. — Cyrus the Great. Love to his tune my jarring heart would bring. But reason overwinds, and cracks the string. — D. of Guise. I should have loved. Though Jove, in muttering thunder, had forbid it. — New Sophonisba. And when it (my heart) wild resolves to love no more. Then is the triumph of excessive love. — Ibid. [66] TOM THUMB THE GREAT And waits its answer there. Oh ! do not frown. I \'e try'd to reason's tune to tune )ny soul, But love did overwind and crack the string. Thouffh Jove in thunder had crv'd out, you shan't, I should have loved her still for oh, strange fate, Then when I loved her least I loved her most ! King. It is resolv'd — the princess is your own. Thumb. Oh ! ^ happy, happy, happy, happy Thumb. Queen. Consider, sir ; reward your soldier's merit. But give not Huncamunca to Tom Thumb. King. Tom Thumb ! Odzooks ! my wide-extended realm. Knows not a name so glorious as Tom Thumb. Let Macedonia Alexander boast. Let Rome her Caesars and her Scipios show, Her Messieurs France, let Holland boast Mynheers, Ireland her O's, her Macs let Scotland boast. Let England boast no other than Tom Thumb. Queen. Though greater yet his boasted merit was. He shall not have my daughter, that is pos'. King. Ha ! sayst thou, Dollallolla ? Queen. 1 say he shan't. King. 2 Then by our royal self we swear you lie. Queen. ^ Who but a dog, who but a dog 1 Massinissa is one-fourth less happy than Tom Thumb. Oh ! happy, happy, happy ! — New Sophonisba. * No by myself. — Anna Bullen, * Who caused This dreadful revolution in my fate. Ulamar. Who but a dog — who but a dog ? — Liberty As, [67] THE LIPE AND DEATH OF Would use me as thou dost ? Me, who have lain 1 These twenty years so loving by thy side ! But I will be revenged. I '11 hang myself. Then tremble all who did this match persuade, ^ For, riding on a cat, from high 1 11 fall, And squirt down royal vengeance on you all. Food. ^ Her majesty the queen is in a passion. King. ^ Be she, or be she not, I '11 to the girl And pave thy way, oh Thumb — Now by ourself, We were indeed a pretty king of clouts To truckle to her will For when by force Or art the wife her husband over-reaches. Give him the petticoat, and her the breeches. Thumb. ^ Whisper ye winds, that Huncamunca's mine ! Echoes repeat, that Huncamunca's mine ! The dreadful business of the war is o'er, And beauty, heav'nly beauty ! crowns my toils ! I \e thrown the bloody garment now aside A bride, Who twenty years lay loving by your side. —Banks. 2 For, borne upon a cloud, from high I '11 fall, And rain down royal vengeance on you all. — Alb. Queens. 8 An information very like this we have in the tragedy of Love, where, Cyrus having stormed in the most violent manner, Cyaxares observes very calmly. Why, nephew Cyrus, you are moved. * 'T is in your choice. Love me, or love me not. — Conquest of Granada. 5 There is not one beauty in this charming speech but what hath been borrow'd by almost e\cry tragick writer. [68] TOM THUMB THE GREAT And hymeneal sweets invite my bride. So when some chimney-sweeper all the day Hath through dark paths pursued the sooty way. At night to wash his hands and face he flies, And in his V other shirt with his Brickdusta lies. Scene IV. Grizzle (solus.) ^ Where art thou, Grizzle ? where are now thy glories ? Where are the drums that waken thee to honour ? Greatness is a laced coat from Monmouth -street, Which fortune lends us for a day to wear, To-morrow puts it on another's back. The spiteful sun but yesterday surveyed His rival high as Saint Paul's cupola ; Now may he see me as Fleet-ditch laid low. Scene V. — Queen, Grizzle. Queen. ^ Teach me to scold, prodigious-minded Grizzle, Mountain of treason, ugly as the devil. Teach this confounded hateful mouth of mine To spout forth words malicious as thyself. Words which might shame all Billingsgate to speak. Griz. Far be it from my pride to think my tongue 1 Mr. Banks has (I wish I could not say too servilely) imi- tated this of Grizzle in his Earl of Essex : Where art thou, Essex, &c. 2 The countess of Nottinfrham, in the Earl of Essex, is appar- ently acquainted with Doll;i Holla. [69] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Your royal lips can in that art instruct, Wherein you so excel. But may I ask, AVithout offence, wherefore my queen would scold ? Queen. Wherefore? Oh! blood and thunder! han't you heard (What every corner of the court resounds) That little Thumb will be a great man made ? Griz. I heard it, I confess — for who, alas ! 1 Can always stop his ears ? — But would my teeth, By grinding knives, had first been set on edge ! ' Queen. Would I had heard, at the still noon of night. The hallalloo of fire in every street ! Odsbobs ! I have a mind to hang myself, To think I should a gi-andmother be made By such a rascal ! — Sure the king forgets When in a pudding, by his mother put, The bastard, by a tinker, on a stile Was dropp d. — O, good lord Grizzle ! can I bear To see him from a pudding mount the throne? Or can, oh can, my Huncamunca bear To take a pudding^s offspring to her arms ? Griz. Oh horror ! horror ! horror ! cease, my queen, 2 Thy voice, like twenty screech-owls, wracks my brain. 1 Grizzle was not probably possessed of that glew of which Mr. Banks speaks in his Cyrus. I '11 glew ray ears to every word. 2 Screech-owls, dark ravens, and amphibious monsters. Are screaming in that voice. - Mary Queen of Scots. [70] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Queen. Then rouse thy spirit — we may yet pre- vent this hated match. Griz. We will ^ ; nor fate itself, Should it conspire with Thomas Thumb, should cause it. I '11 swim through seas ; I '11 ride upon the clouds ; I ""ll dig the earth ; 1 11 blow out every fire ; I "11 rave ; I '11 rant ; 1 11 rise ; 1 11 rush ; 1 11 roar ; Fierce as the man whom ^ smiling dolphins bore From the prosaick to poetick shore. 1 11 tear the scoundrel into twenty pieces. Queen. Oh, no ! prevent the match, but hurt him not ; For, though I would not have him have my daughter, Yet can we kill the man that kilPd the giants ? Griz. I tell you, madam, it was all a trick ; He made the giants first, and then he kilFd them ; As fox-hunters bring foxes to the wood. And then with hounds thev drive them out again. Queen. How ! have you seen no giants ? Are there not Now, in the yard, ten thousand proper giants ? 1 The reader may see all the beauties of this speech in a late ode called the Naval Lyrick. ^ This epithet to a dolphin doth not give one so clear an idea as were to be wished ; a smiling fish seeming a little more diffi- cult to be imagined than a flying fish. Mr. Dryden is of opinion that smiling is the property of reason, and that no irrational creature can smile : Smiles not allow'd to beasts from reason move. — State of Innocence. [71] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Griz. ^ Indeed I cannot positively tell, But firmly do believe there is not one. Qiieen. Hence ! from my sight ! thou traitor, hie away ; By all my stars ! thou enviest Tom Thumb. Go, sirrah ! go,^ hie away ! hie ! thou art A setting dog: be gone. Grk'. Madam, I go. Tom Thumb shall feel the vengeance you have raised. So, when two dogs are fighting in the streets. With a third dog one of the two dogs meets, With angrv teeth he bites him to the bone. And this dog smarts for what that dog has done. 1 These lines are written in the same key with those in the Earl of Essex : Why, say'st thou so ? I love thee well, indeed I do, and thou shalt find by this 't is true. Or with this in Cyrus : The most heroick mind that ever was. And with above half of the modern tragedies, 2 Aristotle, in that excellent work of his which is very justly stiled his masterpiece, earnestly recommends using the terms of art, however coarse or even indecent they may be. Mr. Tate is of the same opinion. Bru. Do not, like young hawks, fetch a course about, Your game flies fair. Fra. Do not fear it. He answers you in your own hawking phrase. — Injured Love. I think these two great authorities are sufficient to justify Dol- lallolla in the use of the phrase, " Hie away, hie ! " when in the same line she says she is speaking to a setting-dog. [72] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Scene VI. Queen (sola). And whither shall I go ? — Alack a day! I love Tom Thumb — but must not tell him so ; For what 's a woman when her virtue 's gone ? A coat without its lace ; wig out of buckle ; A stocking with a hole in 't I can't live Without my virtue, or without Tom Thumb. ^ Then let me weigh them in two equal scales ; In this scale put my virtue, that Tom Thumb. Alas ! Tom Thumb is heavier than my virtue. But hold ! — perhaps I may be left a widow : This match prevented, then Tom Tliumb is mine ; In that dear hope I will forget my pain. So, when some wench to Tothill Bridewell's sent With beating hemp and flogging she 's content ; She hopes in time to ease her present pain. At length is free, and walks the streets again. 1 We meet with such another pair of scales in Dry den's King Arthur : Arthur and Oswald, and their different fates, Are weighing now within the scales of heaven. Also in Sebastian : This hour my lot is weighing in the scales. [73] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ACT IT. Scene I. — The street. Bailiff, Follower. 1 Bail. Come on, my trusty follower, come on ; This day discharge thy duty, and at night A double mug of beer, and beer shall glad thee. Stand here by me, this way must Noodle pass. Fol. No more, no more, oh Bailiff! every word Inspires my soul with virtue. Oh ! I long To meet the enemy in the street — and nab him : To lay arresting hands upon his back, And drag him trembling to the spunging-house. Bail. There when I have him, I will spunge upon him. Oh ! glorious thought ! by the sun, moon, and stars, I will enjoy it, though it be in thought ! Yes, yes, my follower, I will enjoy it, Fol. Enjoy it then some other time, for now Om- prey approaches. Bail. Let us retire. Scene II. — Tom Thumb, Noodle, Bailiff, Follower. Thumb. Trust me, my Noodle, I am wondrous sick; For, though I love the gentle Huncamunca, 1 Mr. Rowe is generally imagined to have taken some hints from this scene in his character of Bajazet ; but as he, of all the tragick writers, bears the least resemblance to our author in his diction, I am unwilling to imagine he would condescend to copy him in this particular. [74] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Yet at the thought of niairiage I grow pale : For, oh ! — ^ but swear thou It keep it ever secret, I will unfold a tale will make thee stare. Nood. I swear by lovely Huncamunca's charms. Thumb. Then know — ^ my grandmamma hath often said, Tom Thumb, beware of marriage. Nood. Sir, I blush To think a warrior, great in arms as you. Should be affrighted by his grandmannna. Can an old woman's empty dreams deter The blooming hero from the virgin's arms ? Think of the joy that will your soul alarm, When in her fond embraces clasp'd you lie. While on her panting breast, dissolved in bliss. You pour out all Tom Thumb in every kiss. Thumb. Oh ! Noodle, thou hast fired my eager soul ; Spite of my grandmother she shall be mine ; I '11 hug, caress, I '11 eat her up with love : Whole days, and nights, and years shall be too short For our enjoyment ; every sun shall rise ^ Blushing to see us in our bed together. 1 This method of surprizing an audience, by raising their ex- pectation to the highest pitch, and then baulking it, hath been practised with great success by most of our tragical authors. ■■^ Almeyda, in Sebastian, is in the same distress : Sometimes methinks I hear the groan of ghosts. Thin hollow sounds and lamentable screams ; Then, like a dying echo from afar. My mother's voice that cries. Wed not, Almeyda ; Forewarn'd, Almeyda, marriage is thy crime. ^ " As very well he may, if he hath any modesty in him," says Mr. D — s. The author of Busiris is extremely zealous to prevent the sun's blushing at any indecent object ; and there- ITo] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Nood. Oh, sir ! this purpose of your soul pursue. Bail. Oh ! sir ! I have an action against jou. Nood. At whose suit is it ? Bail. At your taylor's, sir. Your taylor put tliis warrant in my hands, And I arrest you, sir, at his commands. Thumb. Ha ! dogs ! Arrest my friend before my face ! Think you Tom Thumb will suffer this disgrace .? But let vain cowards threaten by their word, Tom Thumb shall shew his anger by his sword. [^Kills Bailiff and Follower. Bail. Oh, I am slain ! Fol. I am murdered also. And to the shades, the dismal shades below, My bailiflTs faithful follower I go. Nood. ^ Go then to hell, like rascals as you are, And give our service to the bailiffs there. fore on all such occasions he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to keep out of the way. Rise never more, O sun ! let night prevail, Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene. — Busirls. Sun hide thy face, and put the world in mourning. — Ihid. Mr. Banks makes the sun perform the office of Hymen, and therefore not likely to be disgusted at such a sight : The sun sets forth like a gay brideman with you. — Mary Queen of Scots. 1 Nourmahal sends the same message to heaven ; For I would have you, when you upwards move. Speak kindly of us to our friends above. — Aurengzehe. We find another to hell, in the Persian Princess : Villain, get thee down To hell, and tell them that the fray 's begun. [76] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Thumb. Thus perish all the bailiffs in the land, Till debtors at noon-day shall walk the streets, And no one fear a bailiff or his writ. Scene III. — The Princess Huncamunca's Apartment, HuNCAMUNCA, ClEORA, MusTACHA. Hunc. ^ Give me some music — see that it be sad. Cleora sings. Cupid, ease a love-sick maid, Bring thy quiver to her aid ; With equal ardour wound the swain, Beauty should never sigh in vain. Let him feel the pleasing smart. Drive the arrow through his heart : When one you wound, you then destroy ; When both you kill, you kill with joy. Hunc. ^O Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! where- fore art thou Tom Thumb.' Why hadst thou not been born of rojal race.? Why had not mighty Bantam been thy father.? Or else the king of Brentford, Old or New ? Must. I am surprised that your highness can give yourself a moment's uneasiness about that little in- significant fellow,^ Tom Thumb the Great — one 1 Anthony gives the same command in the same words. 2 Oh ! Marius, Marius, wherefore art thou Marius ? Otxoay^s Marius. ' Nothing is more common than these seeming contradic- tions ; such as. Haughty weakness. — Victim. Great small world. — Noah's Flood. [77] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF properei- for a play thing than a husband. Were he my husband his horns should be as long as his body. If you had fallen in love with a grenadier, I should not have wondered at it. If you had fallen in love with something ; but to fall in love with nothing ! Htmc. Cease, my Mustacha, on thy duty cease. The zephyr, when in flowery vales it plays. Is not so soft, so sweet as Thummy's breath. The dove is not so gentle to its mate. Must. The dove is every bit as proper for a hus- Ijand. — Alas ! Madam, there 's not a beau about the court looks so little like a man. He is a perfect but- terfly, a thing without substance, and almost without shadow too. Hunc. This rudeness is unseasonable : desist ; Or I shall think this railing comes from love. Tom Thumb 's a creature of that charming form. That no one can abuse, unless they love him. Must. Madam, the king. Scene IV. — King, Huncamunca. King. Let all but Huncamunca leave the room. [^Exeunt Clkora and Mustacha. Daughter, I have observed of late some grief Unusual in your countenance : your eyes ^ That, like two open windows, used to shew 1 Lee hath improved this metaphor : Dost thou not view joy peeping from my eyes, The casements open'd wide to gaze on thee ? So Rome's glad citizens to windows rise, When they some young triumpher fain would see. : — Gloriana, [78] TOM THUMB THE GREAT The lovely beauty of the rooms within, Have now two blinds before them. What is the cause? Say, have you not enough of meat and drink ? We've given strict orders not to have you stinted. Hunc. Alas ! my lord, I value not myself That once I eat two fowls and half a pig ; ^ Small is that praise ! but oh ! a maid may ATant What she can neither eat nor drink. King. ^Vhat 's that ? Hunc. O ^ spare my blushes ; but I mean a husband. ^ Almahide hath the same contempt for these appetites. To eat and drink can no perfection be. — Cunqnent of Granada. The earl of Essex is of a different opinion, and seems to place the chief happiness of a general therein : Were but commanders half so well rewarded. Then they might eat. — Baiiks's Earl of Essex. But, if we may believe one who knows more than either, the devil himself, we shall find eating to be an aflf^iir of more moment than is generally imagined : Gods are immortal only by their food. — Lnicifer, in the State of Innocence. 2 " This expression is enough of itself," says Mr. D. , " utterly to destroy the character of Huncamunca ! " Yet we find a woman of no abandoned character in Dryden adventuring farther, and thus excusing herself: To speak our wishes first, forbid it pride. Forbid it modesty ; true, they forbid it. But Nature does not. When we are athirst, Or hungry, will imperious Nature stay. Nor eat, nor drink, before 't is bid fall on ?—Cleomenes. Cassandra speaks before she is asked : Hunc;amunca after- wards. Cassandra speaks her wishes to her lover : Hunca- munca only to her father. [ T9 J THE LIFE AND DEATH OF King. If that be all, I have provided one, A husband great in arms, whose warlike sword Streams with the yellow blood of slaLighter''d giants. Whose name in Terra Incognita is known, Whose valour, wisdom, virtue make a noise Great as the kettle-drums of twenty armies. Hunc, Whom does my royal father mean ? King. Tom Thumb. Hunc. Is it possible ? King. Ha! the window-blinds are gone ; ^ A country -dance of joy is in your face. Your eyes spit fire, your cheeks grow red as beef. Hunc. O, there ""s a magick-musick in that sound, Enough to turn me into beef indeed ! Yes, I will own, since licensed by your word, I 'll own Tom Thumb the cause of all my grief. For him I Ve sigh'd, I 've wept, I 've gnaw'd my sheets. King. Oh ! thou shalt gnaw thy tender sheets no more. A husband thou shalt have to mumble now. Hunc. Oh ! happy sound ! henceforth let no one tell That Huncamunca shall lead apes in hell. Oh ! I am overjoyed ! King. I see thou art. ^Joy lightens in thy eyes, and thunders from thy brows; ^ Her eyes resistless magick bear ; Angels, I see, and gods, are dancing there. — Lee's Sophonisba. 2 Mr. Dennis, in that excellent tragedy called Liberty As- serted, which is thought to have given so great a stroke to the [80] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Transports, like lightning, dart along thy soul, As small-shot through a hedge. Hunc. Oh ! say not small. King. This happy news shall on our tongue ride post, Ourself we bear the happy news to Thumb. Yet think not, daughter, that your powerful charms Must still detain the hero from his arms ; Various his duty, various his delight ; Now in his turn to kiss, and now to fight, And now to kiss again. So, mighty ^ Jove, When with excessive thundering tired above, Comes down to earth, and takes a bit — and then Flies to his trade of thundVing back again. Scene V. — Grizzle, Huncamunca. ^ Griz. Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh ! Thy pouting breasts, like kettle-drums of brass, late French king, hath frequent imitations of this beautiful speech of King Arthur : Conquest light'ning in his eyes, and thund'ring in his arm. Joy lighten'd in her eyes. Joys like lightning dart along my souL 1 Jove, with excessive thund'ring tired above. Comes down for ease, enjoys a nymph, and then Mounts dreadful, and to thund'ring goes again. — Gloriana. ^ This beautiful line, which ought, says Mr. W , to be written in gold, is imitated in the New Sophonisba : Oh ! Sophonisba ; Sophonisba, oh ! Oh ! Narva ; Narva, oh ! The author of a song called Duke upon Duke hath improved it : Alas ! O Nick ! O Nick, alas ! Where, by the help of a little false spelling, you have two meanings in the repeated words. VOL. II. — 6 [ ^1 ] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Beat everlasting loud alarms of joy ; As bright as brass they are, and oh, as hard. Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh ! Hunc. Ha ! dost thou know me, princess as I am, ^ That thus of me you dare to make your game ? Griz. Oh ! Huncamunca, well I know that you A princess are, and a king's daughter, too ; But love no meanness scorns, no grandeur fears ; Love often lords into the cellar bears, And bids the sturdy porter come up stairs. For what 's too high for love, or what 's too low ? Oh ! Huncamunca, Huncamunca, oh ! Hunc. But, granting all you say of love were true. My love, alas ! is to another due. In vain to me a suitoring you come. For I 'm already promised to Tom Thumb. Griz. And can my princess such a durgen wed? One fitter for your pocket than your bed ! Advised by me, the worthless baby shun, Or you will ne'er be brought to bed of one. Oh take me to thy arms, and never flinch, Who am a man, by Jupiter ! every inch. 2 Then, while in joys together lost we lie, I '11 press thy soul while gods stand wishing by. 1 Edith, in the Bloody Brother, speaks to her lover in the same familiar language : Your grace is full of game. ' Traverse the glitt'ring chambers of the sky. Borne on a cloud in view of fate I '11 lie. And press her soul while gods stand wishing by. — Hannibal. [82] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Hunc. If, sir, what you insinuate vou prove. All obstacles of promise you remove ; For all engagements to a man must fall. Whene'er that man is proved no man at all. Griz. Oh ! let him seek some dwarf, some fairy miss. Where no joint-stool must lift him to the liiss ' But, by the stars and glory ! you appear Much fitter for a Prussian grenadier ; One globe alone on Atlas' shoulders rests. Two globes are less than Huncaraunca's breasts ; The milky way is not so white, that 's flat. And sure thy breasts are full as large as that. Hunc. Oh, sir, so strong your eloquence I find, It is impossible to be unkind. Griz. Ah ! speak that o'er again, and let the ^ sound From one pole to another pole rebound ; The earth and sky each be a battledore, And keep the sound, that shuttlecock, up an hour : To Doctors' Commons for a licence I Swift as an arrow from a bow will fly. Hunc. Oh, no ! lest some disaster we should meet 'T were better to be married at the Fleet. Gr'iz. Forbid it, all ye powers, a princess should By that vile place contaminate her blood ; 1 Let the four winds from distant corners meet, And on their wings first bear it into France ; Then back again to P^dina's proud walls. Till victim to the sound th' aspiring city falls. — Albion Queens. [83] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF My quick retuni shall to my charmer prove I travel on the ^ post-horses of love. Hunc. Those post-horses to me will seem too slow- Though they should fly swift as the gods, when they Ride on behind that post-boy, Opportunity. Scene VI — Tom Thumb, Huncamunca. Thumb. Where is my princess ? where 's my Hun- camunca ? Where are those eyes, those cardmatches of love, That 2 light up all with love my waxen soul ? Where is that face which artful nature made 3 In the same moulds where Venus's self was cast .? 1 I do not remember any metaphors so frequent in the tragic poets as those borrowed from riding post : The gods and opportunity ride post. — Hannibal. Let 's rush together. For death rides post ! — I>ake of &uis0. Destruction gallops to thy murder post, — Gloriana. ' This image, too, very often occurs : Bright as when thy eye First lighted up our loves. — Aurengzehe. T is not a crown alone lights up my name. — Busiris. « There is great dissension among the poets concerning the method of making man. One tells his mistress that the mould she was made in being lost, Heaven cannot form such another. Lucifer, in Dryden, gives a merry description of his own formation : Whom heaven, neglecting, made and scarce design 'd. But threw me in for num ber to the rest. — State of Innocence. [84] TOM THUMB THE GREAT Hunc. ^ Oh ! what is music to the ear that ""s deaf, Or a goose-pie to him that has no taste? What are these praises now to me, since I Am promised to another ? Thumb. Ha ! promised ? In one place the same poet supposes man to be made of metal : I was form'd Of that coarse metal which, when she was made The gods threw by for rubbish. — All for Love. In another of dough : When the gods moulded up the paste of man, Some of their clay was left upon their hands, And so they made Egyptians. — Cleomenes. In another of clay : Rubbish of remaining clay. — Sebastian. One makes the soul of wax : Her waxen soul begins to melt apace, — Anna Bullen. Another of flint : Sure our two souls have somewhere been acquainted In former beings, or, struck out together. One spark to Africk flew, and one to Portugal. — Sebastian. To omit the great quantities of iron, brazen, and leaden souls which are so plenty in modern authors — I cannot omit the dress of a soul as we find it in Dryden : Souls shirted but with air. — King Arthur. Nor can I pass by a partic:ular sort of soul in a particular sort of description in the New Sophonisba : Ye mysterious powers, Whether thro' your gloomy depths I wander. Or on the mountains walk, give me the calm, The steady smiling soul, where wisdom sheds Eternal sunshine, and eternal joy. ^ This line I\Ir. Banks has plunder'd entire in his Anna Bullen. [85j THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Hunc. Too sure ; 't is written in the book of fate. Thumb. ^ Then I will tear away the leaf Wherein it's writ ; or, if fate won't allow So large a gap within its journal-book, 1 11 blot it out at least. Scene VII. — Glumdalca, Tom Thumb, Huncamunca. Glum. 2 1 need not ask if you are Huncamunca. Your brandy-nose proclaims Hunc. I am a princess ; Nor need I ask who you are. Glum. A giantess ; The queen of those who made and unmade queens. Hunc. The man whose chief ambition is to be My sweetheart hath destroyed these mighty giants. Glum. Your sweetheart ? Dost thou think the man who once Hath worn my easy chains will e'er wear thine? Hunc. Well may your chains be easy, since, if fame Says true, they have been tried on twent}' husbands. 1 Good Heaven ! the book of fate before me lay, But to tear out the journal of that day. Or, if the order of the world below -\ Will not the gap of one whole day allow, > Give me that minute when she made her vow. ) — Conquest of Granada. ^ I know some of the commentators have imagined that Mr. Dryden, in the altercative scene between Cleopatra and Octavia, a scene which Mr. Addison inveighs against with great bitterness, is much beholden to our author. How just this their observation is I will not presume to determine. [86] TOM THUMB THE GREAT ^The glove or boot, so many times pulPd on, May well sit easy on the hand or foot. Glum. I glory in the number, and when I Sit poorly down, like thee, content with one, Heaven change this face for one as bad as thine. Hunc. Let me see nearer what this beauty is That captivates the heart of men by scores. \_Holds a candle to her face. Oh ! Heaven, thou art as ugly as the devil. Ghim. You 'd give the best of shoes within your shop To be but half so handsome. Hunc. Since you come ^ To that, I '11 put my beauty to the test : Tom Thumb, I 'rn yours, if you with me will go. 1 " A cobling poet indeed," says Mr. D. ; and yet I believe we may find as monstrous images in the tragick authors : I '11 put down one : Untie your folded thoughts, and let them dangle loose as a bride's hair. — Injured Love. Which line seems to have as much title to a milliner's shop as our author's to a shoemaker's. 2 Mr. L takes occasion in this place to commend the great care of our author to preserve the metre of blank verse, in which Shakspeare, Jonson, and Fletcher, were so notoriously negligent ; and the moderns, in imitation of our author, so laudably observant : Then does Your majesty believe that he can be A traitor ? — Earl of Essex. Every page of Sophonisba gives us instances of this excel- lence. [87] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Glum. Oh ! stay, Tom Thumb, and you alone shall fill That bed where twenty giants used to lie. Thumb. In the balcony that overhangs the stage, I 've seen a whore two 'prentices engage ; One half-a-crown does in his fingers hold. The other shews a little piece of gold ; She the half-guinea wisely does purloin. And leaves the larger and the baser coin. Glum. Left, scornd, and loathed for such a chit as this ; ^ I feel the storm that 's rising in my mind, Tempests and whirlwinds rise, and roll, and roar. 1 'm all within a hurricane, as if 2 The world's four winds were pent within my carcase. 8 Confusion, horror, murder, guts, and death ! Scene VIII. — King, Glumdalca. King. * Sure never was so sad a king as I ! ^ My life is worn as ragged as a coat 1 Love mounts and rolls about my stormy mind, — Aurengzehe. Tempests and whirlwinds thro' ray bosom move. — Cleomenes. 2 With such a furious tempest on his brow, As if the world's four winds were pent within His blustering carcase. — Anna Bullen. ' Verba Tragica. * This speech has been terribly mauled by the poet 6 My life is worn to rags. Not worth a prince's wearing. — Love Triumphant. [88 J TOM THUMB THE GREAT A beggar wears ; a prince should put it off. 1 To love a captive and a giantess ! Oh love ! oh love ! how great a king art thou I My tongue 's thy trumpet, and thou trunipetest, Uni There, while brisk wine improves our conversation, We at our pleasure will reform the nation. Trap. There ends act the third. [Exeunt Sir Harry, Tankard, and Mayor. FtLst. Pray, sir, what 's the moral of this act ? Trap. And you really don't know ? Fv^t. No, really. Trap. Then I really will not tell you ; but come, sir, since you cannot find that out, I '11 try whether you can find out the plot; for now it is just going to begin to open, it will require a very close atten- tion, I assure you ; and the devil take me if I give you any assistance. Fust. Is not the fourth act a little too late to open the plot, Mr. Trapwit ? Trap. Sir, 't is an error on the right side : I have known a plot open in the first act, and the audience, and the poet too, forget it before the third was over: VOL. u. — 10 [ 14<5 ] PASQUIN now, sir, I am not willing to burden either the au- dience's memory or my own ; for they may forget all that is hitherto past, and know full as much of the plot as if they remembered it. Promp. Call Mr. Mayor, Mrs. Mayoress, and Miss. Enter Mayor, Mrs. and Miss Mayoress. Mrs. M. Oh ! have I found you at last, sir ? I have been hunting for you this hour. May. Faith, my dear, I wish you had found me sooner ; I have been drinking to the good old cause with Sir Harry and the squire : you would have been heartily welcome to all the company. Mrs. M. Sir, I shall keep no such company; I shall converse with no clowns or country squires. Miss M. My mama will converse with no Jaco- bites. May. But, my dear, I have some news for you ; I have got a place for myself now. Mrs. M. O ho ! then you will vote fcr my lord at last ? May. No, my dear; Sir Harry is to give me a place. Mrs. M. A place in his dog-kennel ? May. No, 't is such a one as you never could have got me from my lord ; I am to be made an embassador. Mrs. M. What, is Sir Harry going to change sides then, that he is to have all this interest ? May. No, but the sides are going to be changed ; and Sir Harry is to be — I don't know what to call [146] PASQUIN him, not I — some very great man ; and as soon as he is a very great man I am to be made an embassador of. Mrs. M. Made an ass of ! Will you never learn of me that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ? May. Yes, but I can''t find that you had the bird in hand ; if that had been the case I don't know what I might have done ; but I am sure any man's promise is as good as a courtier's. Mrs. M. Look'ye, Mr. Embassador that is to be ; will you vote as I would have you or no ? I am weary of arguing with a fool any longer ; so, sir, I tell you you must vote for my lord and the colonel, or I '11 make the house too hot to hold you ; I '11 see whether my poor family is to be ruined because you have whims. Miss M. I know he is a Jacobite in his heart. Mrs. M. What signifies what he is in his heart ? have not a hundred, whom everybody knows to be as great Jacobites as he, acted like very good whigs ? What has a man's heart to do with his lips ? I don't trouble my head with what he thinks ; I only desire him to vote. Mhss M. I am sure mama is a very reasonable woman. Mrs. M. Yes, I am too reasonable a woman, and have used gentle methods too long ; but I '11 try others. [Goes to a comer of the stage and takes a stick. May. Nay, then, liberty and property, and no excise ! [Runs off. [ 147 ] PASQUIN Mrs. M. I 'll excise you, you villain ! [^Runs after him. Miss. M. Hey ho ! I wish somebody were here now. Would the man that I love best in the world were here, that I might use him like a dog ! Fust. Is not that a very odd wish, Mr. Trapwit .? Trap. No, sir ; don't all the young ladies in plays use all their lovers so ? Should we not lose half the best scenes in our comedies else ? Promp. Pray, gentlemen, don't disturb the re- hearsal so : where is this servant .? [^Enter Servant.] Why don't you mind your cue.? Sew. Oh, ay, dog 's my cue. Madam, here 's Miss Stitch, the taylor's daughter, come to wait on you. Miss M. Shew her in. What can the impertinent flirt want with me ? She knows 1 hate her too for being of the other party : however, I '11 be as civil to her as I can. [Eriter Miss Stitch.] Dear miss! your servant ; this is an unexpected favour. Miss S. I am sure, madam, you have no reason to say so ; for, though we are of different parties, I have always coveted your acquaintance. I can't see why people may not keep their principles to themselves. \^Aside. Miss M. Pray, miss, sit down. Well, have you any news in town ? Miss S. I don't know, my dear, for I have not been out these three days ; and I have been employed all that time in reading one of the " Craftsmen : " 't is a very pretty one ; I have almost got it by heart. J/m M. [Aside.] Saucy flirt ! she might have [ 148 ] PASQUIN spared that to me when she knows that I hate the paper. Miss S. But I ask your pardon, my dear ; I know you never read it. Miss M. No, madam, I have enough to do to read the " Daily Gazetteer." My father has six of 'em sent him every week for nothing : they are very pretty papers, and I wish you would read them, miss. Afiss S. Fie upon you ! how can you read what 's writ by an old woman ? Miss M. An old woman, miss ? Miss S. Yes, miss, by Mrs. Osborne. Nay, it is in vain to deny it to me. Miss M. I desire, madam, we may discourse no longer on this subject ; for we shall never agree on it. Miss S. Well, then, pray let me ask you seriously — are you thoroughly satisfied with this peace ? Miss M. Yes, madam, and I think you ought to be so too. Miss S. I should like it well enough if I were sure the queen of Spain was to be trusted. Miss M. [rising]. Pray miss, none of your insinu- ations against the queen of Spain. Miss S. Don't be in a passion, niadam. Miss M. Yes, madam, but I will be in a passion, when the interest of my country is at stake. Miss S. [rising.] Perhaps, madam, I have a heart as warm in the interest of my country as you can have ; though I pay money for the papers I read, and that's more than you can say. [ 149 ] PASQUIN il/m M. .Aliss, miss, my papers are paid for too by somebody, though I don't pay for them ; I don't suppose the old woman, as you call her, sends 'em about at her own expence ; but I 'd have you to know, miss, I value my money as little as you in my country's cause ; and rather than have no army, I would part with every farthing of these sixteen shill- inirs to maintain it. Miss S. And if my sweetheart was to vote for the colonel, though I like this fan of all the fans I ever saw in my life, I would tear it all to pieces, be- cause it was his Valentine's gift to me. Oh, heav- ens ! I have torn my fan ; I would not have torn my fan for the world ! Oh ! my poor dear fan ! I wish all parties were at the devil, for I am sure I shall never get a fan by them. Miss M. Notwithstanding all you have said, madam, I should be a brute not to pity you under this calamity : comfort yourself, child, I have a fan the exact fellow to it ; if you bring your sweetheart over to vote for the colonel you shall have it. Miss S. And can I sell my country for a fan ? What 's mv country to me ? I shall never get a fan by it. And will you give it me for nothing ? Miss M. I'll make you a free present of it. Miss S. I am ashamed of your conquest, but I '11 take the fan. Miss M. And now, my dear, we '11 go and drink a dish of tea together. And let all parties blame me if they can. Who 're bribed by honours trifling as a fan. lEa:eunt Misses. r 150 ] PASQUIN Trap. There ends act the fourth. If you want to know the moral of this, the devil must be in you. Faith, this incident of the fan struck me so strongly that I was once going to call this comedy by the name of The Fan. But come, now for act the fifth. Prornp. Sir, the player who is to begin it is just stepped aside on some business ; he begs you would stay a few minutes for him. Trap. Come, Fustian, you and I will step into the green-room, and chat with the actresses mean- while. Fust. But don't you think these girls improper persons to talk of parties.? Trap. Sir, I assure you it is not put of nature : and I have often heard these affairs canvast by men who had not one whit more understanding than these girls. [Exeunt. [151] ACT III Scene I. — Enter Trapwit, Fustian, and Sneerwell. Trap. Fie upon 't, fie upon 't ! make no excuses. Sneer. Consider, sir, I am my own enemy. Trap. I do consider that you might have past your time, perhaps, here as well as in another place. Sneer. But I hope I have not transgressed much. Trap. All 's over, sir, all 's over ; you might as well have stayed away entirely ; the fifth act 's be- ginning, and the plot's at an end. Sneer. What ! ""s the plot at an end before the fifth act is begun ? Trap. No, no, no, no, I don't mean at an end; but we are so far advanced in it that it will be im- possible for you to comprehend or understand any- thing of it. FiLst. You have too mean an opinion of Mr. Sneerwell's capacity ; I '11 engage he shall under- stand as much of it as I, who have heard the other four. Trap. Sir, I can't help your want of understand- ing or apprehension ; 't is not my fault if you cannot take a hint, sir : would you have a catastrophe in every act ? Oons and the devil ! have not I promised you you should know all by and by ? but you are so impatient ! [152 J PASQUIN Fust. I think you have no reason to complain of my want of patience. Mr. Sneerwell, be easy ; 't is but one short act before my tragedy begins ; and that I hope will make you amends for what you are to undergo before it. Trapwit, I wish you would begin. Trap. I wish so too. Come, prompter! are the members in their chairs .? Promp. Yes, sir. Trap. Then carry them over the stage : but, hold, hold, hold ! where is the woman to strew the flowers .'* [The members are carried over the stage.^ Halloo, mob, halloo, halloo ! Oons, Mr. Prompter ! you must get more mob to halloo, or these gentlemen will never be believed to have had the majority. Promp. Sir, I can get no more mob; all the rest of the mob are gone to St. James's-park to see the show. Sneer. Pray, Mr. Trapwit, who are these gentle- men in the chairs ? Trap. Ay, sir, this is your staying away so long ; if you had been here the first four acts you would have known who they were. Fust. Dear Sneerwell, ask him no more questions; if you enquire into every absurdity you see we shall have no tragedy to-day. Trap. Come, Mr. Mayor and Mrs. Mayoress. Enter Mayor and Mrs. Mayoress. May. So, now you have undone yourself your own way ; you have made me vote against my con- science and interest too, and now I have lost both parties. [Vo'6] PASQUIN Mrs. M. How have you lost btilh parties ? May. Why, my lord will never remember my voting for him, now he has lost the day; and Sir Han-y, who has won it, will never forgive my voting against him : let which side will be uppermost, I shall have no place till the next election. Mrs. M. It will be your own fault then, sir ; for you have it now in your power to oblige my lord more than ever ; go and return my lord and the colonel as duly elected, and I warrant you I do your business with him yet. May. Return 'em, my dear? Why, there was a majority of two or three score against 'em. Mrs. M. A fig for a majority of two or three score ! if there had been a majority of as many hun- dreds, you '11 never be called to an account for re- turning them ; and when you have returned 'em, you '11 have done all in your power. How can you expect that great men should do anything to serve you if you stick at anything to serve them ? May. My conscience boggles at this thing — but yet it is impossible I should ever get anything by the other side. Mrs. M. Ay, let that satisfy your conscience, that it is the only way to get anything. May. Truly, I think it is. Sjieer. I think, Mr. Trapwit, interest would be a better word there than conscience. Trap. Ay, interest or conscience, they are words of the same meaning ; but I think conscience rather politer of the two, and most used at court. Mrs. M. Besides, it will do a service to your [ 154 ] PASQUIN town, for h;Jf of them must be carried to London at the candidates' expence ; and I dare swear there is not one of them, whatever side he votes of, but would be glad to put the candidate to as much ex- pence as he can in an honest way. [E.vit Mayor. Enter Miss Mayoress, crying. Miss M. Oh, mama, I have grieved myself to death at the court party's losing the day ; for if tlie others should have a majority in the house, what would become of us ? alas, we should not go to London ! Mrs. M. Dry up your tears, my dear, all will be well ; your father shall return my lord and the colonel, and we shall have a controverted election, and we will go to London, my dear. Miss M. Shall we go to London ? then I am easy ; but if we had staid here I should have broke my heart for the love of my country. — Since my father returns them, I ho{)e justice will find some friends above, where people have sense enough to know the right side from the left ; however, happen what will, there is some consolation in o-oing to London. Mrs. M. But I hope you have considered well what my lord told you, that you will not scruple going into keeping : perhaps, you will have it in your power to serve your family, and it would be a great sin not to do all you can for your family. Miss M. I have dreamt of nothing but coaches and six, and balls, and treats, and shows, and mas- querades ever since. [ 155 ] PASQUIN Fust. Dreamt, sir ? why, I thought the time of your comedy had been confined to the same day, Mr. Trap wit ? Trap. No, sir, it is not ; but suppose it was, might she not have taken an afternoon's nap ? Sneer. Ay, or dreamt waking, as several people do. Enter Lord Place and Col. Promise. Place. Madam, I am come to take my leave of you; I am very sensible of my many obligations to you, and shall remember them till the next election, when I will wait on you again ; nay, I don't question but we shall carry our point yet, though they have given us the trouble of a petition. Mrs. M. No, no, my lord, you are not yet reduced to that ; I have prevailed on my husband to return you and the colonel. Place. To return us, madam ? Mrs. M. Yes, my lord, as duly elected ; and when we have returned you so, it will be your own fault if you don't prove yourself so. Place. Madam, this news has so transported my spirits, that I fear some ill effect unless you instantly give me a dram. Mis. M. If your lordship please to walk with me into my closet, I '11 equip your lordship. \^Exit. Trap. How do you like that dram, sir.'* Sneer. Oh ! most excellent ! Fust. I can't say so, unless I tasted it. Trap. Faith, sir, if it had not been for that dram my play had been at an end. [156] PASQUIN Fust. The devil take the dram with all my heart ! Trap. Now, Mr. Fustian, the plot, which has hitherto been only carried on by hints, and opened itself like the infant spring by small and impercep- tible degrees to the audience, will display itself like a ripe matron, in its full summer's bloom ; and can- not, I think, fail with its attractive charms, like a loadstone, to catch the admiration of every one like a trap, and raise an applause like thunder, till it makes the whole house like a hurricane. I must desire a strict silence through this whole scene. Colonel, stand you still on this side of the stage ; and, miss, do you stand on the opposite. — There, now look at each other. \^A long silence here. Fust. Pray, Mr. Trapwit, is nobody ever to speak again ? Trap. Oh ! the devil ! You have interiTipted the scene ; after all my precautions the scene \s desti'oyed ; the best scene of silence that ever was penned by man. Come, come, you may speak now ; you may speak as fast as you please. Col. Madam, the army is very much obliged to you for the zeal you shew for it ; me, it has made your slave for ever ; nor can I ever think of being happy unless you consent to marry me. Miss M. Ha ! and can you be so generous to for- give all my ill usage of you ? Fust. What ill usage, Mr. Trapwit ? For, if I mistake not, this is the first time these lovers spoke to one another. Trap. What ill usage, sir ? a great deal, sir. Fust. When, sir ? where, sir ? [157] PASQUIN Trap. Why, beliind the scenes, sir. What, would you have everything brought upon the stage ? I intend to bring ours to the dignity of the French stage ; and I have Horace's advice on my side. We have many things both said and done in our come- dies which might be better performed behind the scenes : the French, you know, banish all cruelty from their stage ; and I don't see why we should bring on a lady in ours practising all manner of cruelty upon her lover : besides, sir, we do not only produce it, but encourage it ; for I could name you some comedies, if I would, where a woman is brought in for four acts together, behaving to a worthy man in a manner for which she almost deserves to be hanged ; and in the fifth, forsooth, she is rewarded with him for a husband : now, sir, as I know this hits some tastes, and am willing to oblige all, I have given every lady a latitude of thinking mine has behaved in whatever manner she would have her. Sneer. Well said, my little Trap ! but pray let us have the scene. Trap. Go on, miss, if you please. Miss M. I have struggled with myself to put you to so many trials of your constancy ; nay, perhaps have indulged myself a little too far in the innocent liberties of abusing you, tormenting you, coquetting, lying, and jilting ; which as you are so good to forgive, I do faithfully promise to make you all the amends in my power, bv making you a good wife. Trap. That single promise, sir, is more than any of my brother authors had ever the grace to put into the mouth of any of their fine ladies yet ; so [158] PASQUIN that the hero of a comedy is left in a much worse condition than the villain of a tragedy, and I would choose rather to be hanged with the one than mar- ried with the other. Sneer. Faith, Trapwit, without a jest, thou art in the right on't. Fust. Go on, go on, dear sir, go on. Col. And can you be so generous, so great, so good ? Oh ! load not thus my heart with obliga- tions, lest it sink beneath its burden ! Oh ! could I live a hundred thousand years, I never could repay the bounty of that last speech ! Oh ! my paradise ! Eternal honey drops from off your tongue ! And when you spoke, then Farinelli sung ! Trap. Open your arms, miss, if you please ; re- member you are no coquet now : how pretty this looks ! don't it ? [Mimicking her.'\ Let me have one of your best embraces, I desire : do it once more, pray — There, there, that 's pretty well ; you must practise this behind the scenes. [Exeimt Miss M. and Col. Sneer. Are they gone to practice, now, Mr. Trapwit ? Trap. YouVe a joker, Mr. Sneerwell ; you're a joker. Enter Lord Place, Mayor, and Mrs. Mayoress. Place. I return you my hearty thanks, Mr. Mayor, for this return ! and in return of the favour, I will certainly do you a very good turn very shortly. Fust. I wish the audience don't do you an ill turn, Mr. Trapwit, for that last speech. [ 159 J PASQUIN Sneer. Yes, faith, I think I would cut out a turn or two. Trap. Sir, I ll sooner cut off an ear or two : sir, that 's the very best thing in the whole play. Come, enter the colonel and Miss married. Sneer. Upon my word, they have been very ex- peditious. Trap. Yes, sir ; the parson understands his busi- ness, he has plyed several years at the Fleet. Enter Col. Promise and Miss Mayoress. Col. and Miss (kneeling). Sir, and madam, your blessing. Mrs. M. and May. Ha ! Col. Your daughter, sir and madam, has made me the happiest of mankind. Mrs. M. Colonel, you know you might have had my consent ; why did you choose to marry without it ? However, I give you both my blessing. May. And so do I. Place. Then call my brother candidates ; we will spend this night in feast and merriment. Fust. What has made these two parties so sud- denly friends, Mr. Trapwit ? Trap. What? why the marriage, sir; the usual reconciler at the end of a comedy. I would not have concluded without every person on the stage for the world. Place. Well, colonel, I see you are setting out for life, and so I wish you a good journey. And you, gallants, from what you Ve seen to-night, [160] PASQUIN If you are wrong, may set your judgments right ; Nor, like our misset*, about bribing quarrel^ When better herring is in neither barrel. [Ma7ient Fust., Trap., and Sneer. Trap. Thus ends my play, sir. Fiisf. Pray, Mr. Trapwit, how has the former part of it conduced to this marriage ? Trap. Why, sir, do you think the colonel would ever have had her but on the prospect her father has from this election ? Sneer. Ay, or to strengthen his interest with the returning officer ? Trap. Ay, sir, I was just going to say so. Sneer. But where 's your epilogue ? Trap. Faith, sir, I can't tell what I shall do for an epilogue. Sneer. What ! have you writ none ? Trap. Yes, faith, I have writ one, but Sneer. But what ? Trap. Faith, sir, I can get no one to speak it ; the actresses are so damned difficult to please. When first I writ it they would not speak it, because there were not double-entendres enough in it ; upon which I went to Mr. Watt's and borrowed all his plays ; went home, read over all the epilogues, and crammed it as full as possible ; and now, forsooth, it has too many in it. Oons ! I think wc must get a pair of scales and weigh out a sufficient quantity of that same. Fust. Come, come, Mr. Trapwit, clear the stage, if you please. Trap. With all my heart ; for I have overstayed VOL. II. — 11 [ 161 ] PASQUIN my time already ; I am to read my play to-day to six different companies of quality. FiLst. You'll stay and see the tragedy rehearsed, I hope ? Trap. Faith, sir, it is my great misfortune that I can't ; I deny myself a great pleasure, but cannot possibly stay — to hear such damn'd stuff as I know it must be. \Aside. Sneer. Nay, dear Trapwit, you shall not go. Consider, your advice may be of some service to Mr. Fustian ; besides, he has stayed the rehearsal of your play Fust. Yes, I have — and kept myself awake with much difficulty. \^Aside. Trap. Nay, nay, you know I can't refuse you — though I shall certainly fall asleep in the first act. YAskle. Sneer. If you '11 let me know who your people of quality are, I '11 endeavour to bring you off. Trap. No, no, hang me if I tell you, ha, ha, ha ! I know you too well. — But prithee, now, tell me, Fustian, how dost thou like my play ,? dost think it will do ? Fust. 'T is my opinion it will. Trap. Give me a guinea, and I '11 give you a crown a night as long as it runs. Sneer. That 's laying against yourself, Mr. Trap- wit. Trap. I love a hedge, sir. Fu^t. Before the rehearsal begins, gentlemen, I must beg your opinion of my dedication : you know, a dedication is generally a bill di'awn for value [162] PASQUIN therein contained ; which value is a set of nauseous fulsome compliments which my soul abhors and scorns ; for I mortally hate flattery, and therefor© have carefully avoided it. Sneer. Yes, faith, a dedication without flattery will be worth the seeing. Fust. Well, sir, you shall see it. Read it, dear Trapwit ; I hate to read my own works. Trai). [Reads.'\ " My lord, at a time when non- sense, dulness, lewdness, and all manner of profane- ness and immorality are daily practised on the stage, I have prevailed on my modesty to offer to your lordship's protection a piece which, if it has no merit to recommend it, has at least no demerit to disgrace it ; nor do I question at this, when every one else is dull, you will be pleased to find one ex- ception to the number. " I cannot indeed help assuming to myself some little merit from the applause which the town has so universally conferred upon me," Fust. That you know, Mr. Sneerwell, may be omitted, if it should meet with any ill-natured op- position ; for which reason, I shall not print off my dedication till after the play is acted. Trap. l^Reads.^ " I might here indulge myself with a delineation of your lordship's character ; but as I abhor the least imputation of flattery, and as I am certain your lordsliip is the only person in this nation that does not love to hear your praises, I shall be silent — only this give me leave to say, That you have more wit, sense, learning, honour, and hun)an- ity, than all mankind {)ut together ; and your person [ 16;3 J PASQUIN comprehends in it everything that is beautiful ; your air is everything that is graceful, your look every- thing that is majestic, and your mind is a store- house where every virtue and every perfection are lodged : to pass by your generosity, which is so great, so glorious, so diffusive, that like the sun it eclipses, and makes stars of all your other virtues — I could say more "' Sneer. Faith, sir, that's more than I could. Trap. " But shall commit a violence upon myself, and conclude with assuring your lordship, that I am, my lord, your lordship''s most obedient, most de- voted, most obsequious, and most obliged humble servant." Fust. There you see it, sir, concise, and not ful- some. Sneer. Very true, sir, if you had said less it would not have done. Fust. No, I think less would have been downright rude, considering it was to a person of the first quality. Sneer. Prithee, Trapwit, let's see yours. Trap. I have none, sir FvM. How, sir ? no dedication ? Trap. No, sir, for I have dedicated so many plays, and received nothing for them, that I am resolved to trust no more ; I '11 let no more flattery go out of my shop without being paid beforehand. Fust. Sir, flattery is so cheap, and every man of quality keeps so many flatterers about him, that egad our trade is quite spoil'd ; but if I am not paid for this dedication, the next I write shall be a satirical [ 164 ] PASQUIN one ; if they won''t pay me for opening my mouth, I '11 make them pay me for shutting it. But since you have been so kind, gentlemen, to like my dedi- cation, I '11 venture to let you see my prologue. Sir, I beg the favour of you to repeat the prologue, if you are perfect in it. [To a Player. Plai/. Sir, I '11 do it to the best of my power. J^ust. This prologue was writ by a friend. Prologue. When Death's sharp scythe has mowed the hero down, The muse again awakes him to renown ; She tells proud Fate that all her darts are vain, And bids the hero live and strut about again : Nor is she only able to restore. But she can make what ne'er was made before ; Can search the realms of Fancy, and create What never came into the brain of Fate. Forth from these realms, to entertain to-night, She brings imaginary kings and queens to Hght, Bids Common Sense in person mount the stage. And Harlequin to storm in tragick rage. Britons, attend ; and decent reverence shew To her, who made th' Athenian bosoms glow ; Whom the undaunted Romans could revere. And who in Shakspeare's time was worshipp'd here : If none of these can her success presage, ^ Your hearts at least a wonder may engage : v Oh ! love her like her sister monsters of the age. ) Sneer. Faith, sir, your friend has writ a very fine prologue. Fust. Do you think so ? Why then, sir, I must assure you, that friend is no other than myself. But come, now for the tragedy. Gentlemen, I must desire [165] PASQUIN you all to clear the stage, for I have several scenes which I could wish it was as big again for. 2d Player enters and whispers Trap wit. 2 Play. Sir, a gentlewoman desires to speak to you. Trap. Is she in a chair ? 2 Pkuj. No, sir, she is in a riding-hood, and says she has brought you a clean shirt. {Exit. Trap. I '11 come to her. — Mr. Fustian, you must excuse me a moment ; a lady of quality hath sent to take some boxes. {Exit. Promp. Common Sense, sir, desires to speak with you in the green-room. Fust. I ""ll wait upon her. Sneer. You ought, for it is the first message, I be- lieve, you ever received from her. {Aside. {Exeunt Fus. and Sneer. Enter a Dancer. Dane. Look'e, Mr. Prompter, I expect to dance first goddess ; I will not dance under Miss Minuet ; I am sure I shew more to the audience than any lady upon the stage. Promp. Madam, it is not my business. Da7ic. I don't know whose business it is; but I think the town ought to be the judges of a dancer's merit ; I am sure they are on my side ; and if I am not used better, I '11 go to France ; for now we have got all their dancers away, perhaps they may be glad of some of ours. Promp. Heyday ! what 's the matter ? {A noise within. [166] PASQUIN Enter Player. Play. The author and Common Sense are quarrel- ling in the green-room, Promp. Nay, then, that ""s better worth seeing than anything in the play. {^Extt Promp. Dane. Hang this play, and all plays ; the dancers are the only people that support the house ; if it were not for us they might act their Shakspeare to empty benches. [167] ACT IV Scene I. Enter Fustian and Sneerwell. Fiu^t. The«e little thing.-*, Mr. Sneerwell, will some- times happen. Indeed a poet undergoes a great deal before he comes to his third night ; first with the muses, who are humorous ladies, and must be attended; for if they take it into their head at any time to go abroad and leave you, you will pump your brain in vain : then, sir, with the master of a playhouse to get it acted, whom you generally follow a quarter of a year before you know whether he will receive it or no ; and then, perhaps, he tells you it won't do, and returns it to you again, reserving the subject, and per- haps the name, which he brings out in his next pan- tomime; but if he should receive the play, then you must attend again to get it writ out into parts and rehearsed. Well, sir, at last, the rehearsals begin ; then, sir, begins another scene of trouble with the actors, some of whom don''t like their parts, and all are continually plaguing you with alterations : at length, after having waded through all these difficulties, his play appears on the stage, where one man hisses out of resentment to the author, a second out of dislike to the house, a third out of dislike to the actor, a fourth out of dislike to the play, a fifth for the joke sake, a sixth to keep all the rest in company. Enemies [168] PAS^UIN abuse him, friends give him up, the play is damned' and the author goes to the devil : so ends the farce. Sneer. The tragedy, rather, I think, Mr. Fustian. But what 's become of Trapwit ? Fust. Gone off, I suppose ; I knew he would not stay ; he is so taken up with his own performances, that he has no time to attend any others. But come, Prompter, will the tragedy never begin 't Enter Prompter. Promp. Yes, sir, they are all ready ; come, draw up the curtain. [FiREBEAND, Law, aiid Physick discovered. Sneer. Pray, Mr. Fustian, \\ ho are these person- ages ? Fust. That in the middle, sir, is Firebrand, priest of the Sun ; he on the right represents Law, and he on the left Physick. Fireb. Avert these omens, ye auspicious stars ! Fiist. What omens ? where the devil is the thunder and lightning ? Promp. Why don't you let go the thunder there, and flash your rosin .? [Thunder and lightning. Fust. Now, sir, begin if you please. I desire, sir, you will get a larger thunderbowl and twopenny worth more of lightning against the representation. Now, sir, if you please. Fireb. Avert these omens, ye auspicious stars ! Law ! O Phy.sick ! As last, even late, 1 ofFerd sacred incense in the temple. The temple sliook — strange prodigies appeai'ed ; [ 169 ] PASQUIN A cat in boots did dante a i-igadoon, While a huge dog play'd on the vioHn ; And whilst I trembling at the altar stood, V'oices were heard i' th' air, and seeni'd to say, " Awake, my drowsy sons, and sleep no more."" They must mean something ! — Law. Certainly they must. We have our omens too ! The other day A mighty deluge swam into our hall, As if it meant to wash away the law : Lawyers were forced to ride on porters' shoulders : One, O prodigious omen ! tumbled down, And he and all his briefs were sous'd together. Now, if I durst my sentiments declare, I think it is not hard to guess the meaning. Fireb. Speak boldly ; by the powers I serve, I swear You speak in safety, even though you speak Against the gods, provided that you speak Not against priests. Law. What then can the powers Mean by these omens, but to rouse us up From the lethargick sway of Common Sense ? And well they urge, for while that drowsy queen Maintains her empire, what becomes of us ? Phys. My lord of Law, you speak my sentiments ; For though I wear the mask of loyalty, And outward shew a reverence to the queen, Yet in my heart I hate her : yes, by heaven, She stops my proud ambition ! keeps me down When I would soar upon an eagle*'s wing, And thence look down, and dose the world below. Law. Thou know'st, my lord of Physick, I had long r 170 1 ^ PASQUIN Been privileged by custom immemorial, In tongues unknown, or rather none at all, My edicts to deliver through the land ; When this proud queen, this Common Sense abridged My pov/er, and made me understood by all. Phys. My lord, there goes a rumour through the court That you descended from a family Related to the queen ; Reason is said T' have been the mighty founder of your house. Law. Perhaps so ; but we have raised ourselves so high. And shook this founder from us off so far, We hardly deign to own from whence we came. Fireh. My lords of Law and Physick, I have heard With perfect approbation all you 've said : And since I know you men of noble spirit, And fit to undertake a glorious cause, I will divulge myself: know, through this mask, Which to impose on vulgar minds I wear, I am an enemy to Common Sense ; But this not for Ambition's earthly cause, But to enlarge the worship of the Sun ; To give his priests a just degree of power. And more than half the profits of the land. Oh ! my good lord of Law, woukFst thou assist, In spite of Common Sense it may be done. Latv. Propose the method. Fireh. Here, survey this list In it you '11 find a certain set of names, "VA'hom well I know sure friends to Common Sense ; [ ni 1 PASQUIN These it must be our care to represent The greatest enemies to the gods and her. But hush ! the queen approaches. Enter Queen Common Sense, attended hy two Maids of Honour. Ftist. What ! but two maids of honour ? Promp. Sir, a Jew carried off the other, but I shall be able to pick up some more against the play is acted. Q. C. S. My lord of Law, I sent for you this morning ; I have a strange petition given to me. Two men, it seems, have lately been at law For an estate, which both of them have lost, And their attorneys now divide between them. Law. Madam, these things will happen in the law. Q: C. S. Will they, my lord ? then better we had none : But I have also heard a sweet bird sing. That men unable to discharge their debts At a short warning, being sued for them. Have, with both power and will their debts to pay, Lain all their lives in prison for their costs. Lawi That may, perhaps, be some poor person's case, Too mean to entertain your royal ear. Q. C. S. My lord, while I am queen I shall not think One man too mean or poor to be redressed. [172] PASQUIN Moreover, lord, I am informed your laws Are grown so large, and daily yet increase, That the great age of old Metliusalem Would scarce suffice to read your statutes out. Fir eh. Madam, a more important cause demands Your royal care ; strange omens have appeared ; Sights have been seen, and voices have been heard, The gods are angry, and must be appeas'd ; Nor do I know to that a readier way Than by beginning to appease their priests, Who groan for power, and cry out after honour. Q. C. S. The gods, indeed, have reason for their anger, And sacrifices shall be ofFerd to them ; But would you make "'em welcome, priest, be meek, Be charitable, kind, nor dare affront The Sun you worship, while yourselves prevent That happiness to men you ask of him. Enter an Officer. Q. C. S. What means this hasty message in your looks ? Offic. Forgive me, madam, if my tongue declares News for your sake, which most my heart abhors ; Queen Ignorance is landed in your realm, With a vast power from Italy and France Of singers, fidlers, tumblers, and rope-dancers. Q. C. S. Order our army instantly to get Themselves in readiness ; ourself will head 'em. My lords, you are concerned as well as we T" oppose this foreign force, and we expect [1-3] PASQUIN You join us with your utmost levies straight. Go, priest, and drive all frightful omens hence ; To fright the vulgar they are your pretence, But sure the gods will side with Common Sense- [Ea^it cum siiis. Fireb. They Icnow their interest better ; or at least Their priests do for 'em, and themselves. Oh ! lords, This queen of Ignorance, whom you have heard Just now described in such a horrid form. Is the most gentle and most pious queen ; So fearful of the gods, that she believes Whatever their priests affirm. And by the Sun, Faith is no faith if it falls short of that. I 'd be infallible ; and that, I know, Will ne''er be granted me by Common Sense : Wherefore I do disclaim her, and will join The cause of Ignorance. And now, my lords, Each to his post. The rostrum I ascend ; My lord of Law, you to your courts repair ; And you, my good lord Physick, to the queen ; Handle her pulse, potion and pill her well. Phys. Oh ! my good lord, had I her royal ear, Would she but take the counsel I would give, You ""d need no foreign power to overthrow her : Yes, by the gods ! I would with one small pill Unhinge her soul, and tear it from her body ; But to my art and me a deadly foe. She has averr*'d, ay, in the publick court, That Water Gruel is the best physician ; For which, when she 's forgiven by the college, [174] PASQUIN Or when we own the sway of Common Sense, May we be forced to take our ovvn prescriptions ! Fireh. My lord of Physick, I applaud thy spirit. Yes, by the Sun, my heart laughs loud within me, To see how easily the world 's deceived ; To see this Common Sense thus tumbled down By men whom all the cheated nations own To be the strongest pillars of her throne. \_Exeu7it FiREB., Law, and Phys. Fiist. Thus ends the first act, sir. Sneer. This tragedy of yours, Mr. Fustian, I ob- serve to be emblematical ; do you think it will be understood by the audience ? Fust. Sii', I cannot answer for the audience ; though I think the pancgyrick intended by it is very plain and very seasonable. Sneer. What panegyrick ? Fust. On our clergy, sir, at least the best of them, to shew the difference between a heathen and a Christian priest. And, as I have touched only on generals, I hope I shall not be thought to bring anything improper on the stage, which I would carefully avoid. Sneer. But is not your satire on law and physick somewhat too general ? Fust. What is said here cannot hurt either an honest lawyer or a good physician ; and such may l)e, nay, I know such are : if the opposites to these are the most general I cannot help that ; as for the pi'ofessors themsehes, I have no great reason to be their friend, for they once joined in a particular conspiracy against me. [175] PASQUIN Stieer. Ah, how so ? Fust. Why, an apothecary brought me in a long bill, and a lawyer made me pay it. Sneer. Ha, ha, ha ! a conspiracy, indeed ! Fitst. Now, sir, for my second act ; my tragedy consists but of three. Sneer. I thought that had been immethodical in tragedy. Ficst. That may be ; but I spun it out as long as I could keep Common Sense alive ; ay, or even her ghost. Come, begin the second act. The scene draws and discovers Queen Common Sense asleep. Sneer. Pray, sir, who 's that upon the couch there ? Fust. I thought you had known her better, sir : that 's Common Sense asleep. Sneer. I should rather have expected her at the head of her army. Fust. Very likely, but you do not understand the practical rules of writing as well as I do ; the first and greatest of which is protraction, or the art of spirming, without which the matter of a play would lose the chief property of all other mattei-, namely, extension ; and no play, sir, could possibly last longer than half an hour. I perceive, Mr. Sneerwell, you are one of those who would have no character brought on but what is necessary to the business of the play. — Nor I neither — But the business of the play, as I take it, is to divert, and therefore every character [176] PASQUIN that diverts is necessary to the business of the play. Sneer. But how will the audience be brought to conceive any probable reason for this sleep ? Ficst. Why, sir, she has been meditating on the present general peace of Europe, till by too intense an application, being not able thoroughly to com- prehend it, she was overpowered and fell fast asleep. Come, ring up the first ghost. [Ghost arises.^ You know that ghost ? Sneer. Upon my word, sir, I can''t recollect any acquaintance with him. Fust. I am surprized at that, for you must have seen him often : thafs the ghost of Tragedy, sir ; he has walked all the stages of London several years ; but why are not you floured .? — What the devil is become of the barber.'* Ghost. Sir, he's gone to Drury-lane playhouse to shave the Sultan in the new entertainment. Fust. Come, Mr, Ghost, pray begin. Ghost. From the dark regions of the realms below The ghost of Tragedy has ridden post ; To tell thee, Common Sense, a thousand things. Which do import thee nearly to attend : [Cock croxvs. But, ha ! the ciu'sed cock has warn VI me hence ; I did set out too late, and therefore must Leave all my business to some other time. [Ghost descends. Sneer. I presume this is a character necessary to divert ; for I can see no great business he has fulfilled. Fust. Where 's the second gliost .'' Sneer. I thought the cock had crowed. VOL. II. —12 [ 177 ] PASQUIN FvM. Yes, but the second ghost need not be sup- posed to have heard it. Pray, Mr. Prompter, observe, the moment the first ghost descends the second is to rise : they are like the twin stars in that. [2 Ghost rises. 2 Ghost. Awake, great Common Sense, and sleep no more. Look to thyself ; for then, when I was slain. Thyself was struck at ; think not to survive My murder long ; for while thou art on earth, The convocation will not meet again. The lawyers cannot rob men of their rights ; Physicians cannot dose away their souls ; A courtier"'s promise will not be believed ; Nor broken citizens again be trusted. A thousand newspapers cannot subsist In which there is not any news at all. Playhouses cannot flourish, while they dare To nonsense give an entertainment's name. Shakspeare, and Jonson, Dryden, Lee, and Rowe, Thou wilt not bear to yield to Sadler's Wells ; Thou wilt not suffer men of wit to starve, And fools, for only being fools, to thrive. Thou wilt not suffer eunuchs to be hired At a vast price, to be impertinent. [3 Ghost rises. 3 Ghost. Dear ghost, the cock has crow'd ; you cannot get Under the ground a mile before ''t is day. 2 Ghost. Your humble servant then, I cannot stay. [Ghost descends. Fust. Thunder and lightning ! thunder and light- ning ! Pray don't forget this w^hen it is acted. [178] PASQUIN Sneer. Pray, Mr. Fustian, why must a ghost always rise in a storm of thunder and lightning ? for I have read much of that doctrine and don't find any men- tion of such ornaments. Fust. That may be, but they are very necessary ; they are indeed properly the paraphernalia of a ghost. Sneer. But, pray, whose ghost was that ? Fust. Whose should it be but Comedy's ? I thought, when you had been told the other was Tragedy, you would have wanted no intimation who this was. Come, Common Sense, you are to awake and rub your eyes. Q. C. S. [IVal'ing.] Who's there.?— Enter Maid of Honour. Did you not hear or see some wond'rous thing.? Maid. No, may it please your majesty, I did not. Q. C. S. I was a-dream'd I overheard a ghost. Maid. In the next room I closely did attend, And had a ghost been here I must have heard him. Enter Firebrand. Q. C. S. Priest of the Sun, you come most opportune, For here has been a dreadful apparition : As I lay sleeping on my couch, methought I saw a ghost. Siieei: Then I suppose she sleeps with her eyes open. [179 J PASQUIN Fiwit. Why, you would not l^ave Common Sense see a ghost, unless in her sleep, I hope. Fireb. And if such toleration Be suffered as at present you maintain. Shortly your court will be a court of ghosts. Make a huge fire and burn all unbelievers : Ghosts will be hang'd ere venture near a fire. Q. C. S. Men caimot force belief upon themselves, And shall I then by torture force it on them ? Fireb. The Sun will have it so. Q^ C. S. How do I know that ? Fireb. Why I, his priest infallible, have told you. Q. C. S. How do I know you are infallible ? Fireb. Ha ! do you doubt it ! nay, if you doubt that, I will prove nothing. But my zeal inspires me, And I will tell you, madam, you yourself Are a niost deadly enemy to the Sun ; And all his priests have greatest cause to wish You had been never born. Q. C. S. Ha ! sayest thou, priest ? Then know, I honour and adore the Sun : And when I see his light, and feel his warmth, I glow with flaming gratitude towards him ; But know, I never will adore a priest, Who wears pride's face beneath religion's mask, And makes a pick -lock of his piety To steal away the liberty of mankind : But while I live, 1 11 never give thee power. Fireb. Madam, our power is not derived from you, Nor any one : 't was sent us in a box [180] PASQUIN From the great Sun himself, and carnage paid : Phaeton brought it when he overturned The chariot of the Sun into the sea, Q. C. S. Shew me the instrument and let me read it. Fireb. Madam, you cannot read it, for, being thrown Into the sea, the water has so damaged it That none but priests could ever read it since. Q. C. S. And do you think I can believe this tale ? Fireb. I order you to believe it, and you must. Q. C. S. Proud and imperious man, I can't be- lieve it. Religion, law, and physick, were designed By heaven the greatest blessings on mankind ; But priests, and lawyers, and physicians, made These general goods to each a private trade ; With each they rob, with each they fill their purses, And turn our benefits into our curses. \_Ea:it. Ftist. Law and Physick. Where 's Law ? Enter Physic, Phys. Sir, Law, going without the playhouse pas- sage, was taken up by a lord chief-justice's warrant. Fireb. Then we must go on without him. Fust. No, no, stay a moment ; I must get some- body else to rehearse the part. Pox take all war- rants for me ! if I had known this before I would have satirized the law ten times more than I have. [181] ACT V Scene I. — Enter Fustian, Sneerwell, Prompter, Firebrand, Law, Physick. Fust. I am glad you have made your escape ; but I hope you will make the matter up before the day of action : come, INIr. Firebrand, now if you please go on ; the moment Common Sense goes off the stage Law and Physick enter. F'lreb. Oh ! my good lords of Physick and of Law, Had you been sooner here you would have heard The haughty queen of Common Sense throw out Abuses on us all. Law. I am not now To learn the hatred which she bears to me. No more of that — for now the warlike queen Of Ignorance, attended with a train Of foreigners, all foes to Conmion Sense, Arrives at Covent-garden ; and we ought To join her instantly with all our force. At Temple-bar some regiments parade ; The colonels, Clifford, Thavies, and Furnival, Through Holborn lead their powers to Drury-Iane, Attorneys all compleatly armed in brass : These, bailiffs and their followers will join. With justices, and constables, and watchmen. Phys. In Warwick-lane my powers expect me now ; A hundred chariots with a chief in each, [182] PASQUIN Well-famed for slaughter, in his hand he bears A feathered dart that seldom errs in flight. Next mai-ch a band of choice apothecaries, Each arm'd with deadly pill ; a regiment Of surgeons terrible maintain the rear, All ready first to kill, and then dissect. F'lreh. My lords, you merit greatly of the queen, And Ignorance shall well repay your deeds ; For I foretel that by her influence Men shall be brought (what scarce can be believed) To bribe you with large fees to their undoing. Success attend 3'our gloi'ious enterprize ; 1 11 go and beg it earnest of the Sun : I, by my office, am from fight debarred. But I '11 be with you ere the booty 's shared. \_Exeunt Firebraxd, Law, and Physick. Fust. Now, Mr. Sneerwell, we shall begin my third and last act ; and I believe I may defy all the poets who have ever writ, or ever will write, to pro- duce its e(|ual : it is, sir, so crammed with drums and trumpets, thunder and lightning, battles and ghosts, that I believe the audience will want no en- tertainment after it : it is as full of shew as Merlin's cave itself; and for wit — no rope-dancing or tum- bling can come near it. Come, begin. \_A ridiculous march is played. Enter Queen Ignoraxce, attended with Singers, Fidlers, Rope-dancers, Tumblers, &c. Q. Ign. Here fix our standard ; what is this place called ? I Att. Great madam, Covent-garden is its name. [183] PASQUIN Q. Ig)i. Ha ! then methinks we have ventured too far, Too near those theatres where Common Sense Maintains her garrisons of mighty force ; Who, should they sally on us ere we're joined By Law and Physick, may offend us much. [Drum beats within. But ha ! what means this drum ? I Jtt. It beats a parley, not a point of war. Enter Harlequin. Harl To you, great queen of Ignorance, I come Embassador fi'om the two theatres ; Who both congratulate you on your arrival ; And to convince you with what hearty meaning They sue for your alliance, they have sent Their choicest treasure here as hostages. To be detained till you are well convinced They 're not less foes to Common Sense than you. Q. Ign. Where are the hostages ? Harl Madam, I have brought A catalogue, and all therein shall be Deliver d to your order ; but consider, Oh mighty queen ! they offer you their all ; And gladly for the least of these would give Their poets and their actors in exchange. Q. Ign. Read the catalogue. Harl [Reads.] " A tall man, and a tall woman, hired at a vast price. A strong man exceeding dear. Two dogs that walk on their hind legs only, and personate human creatures so well, they might be [184] PASQUIN mistaken for them. A human creature that person- ates a dog so well that he might almost be taken for one. Two human cats. A most curious set of pup- pies. A pair of pigeons. A set of rope-dancers and tumblers from Sadlers-wells." Q. Ign. Enough, enough ; and is it possible That they can hold alliance with my friends Of Sadler's-wells ? then are they foes indeed To Common Sense, and I 'm indebted to 'em. Take back their hostages, for they may need 'em ; And take this play, and bid 'em forthwith act it ; There is not in it either head or tail. Harl. Madam, they will most gratefully receive it. The character you give would recommend it, Though it had come from a less powerful hand. Q. Ign. The Modish Couple is its name ; myself Stood gossip to it, and I will support This play against the town. I Att. Madam, the queen Of Common Sense advances with her powers. Q. Ign. Draw up my men, I '11 meet her as I ought ; This day shall end the long dispute between us. Enter Queen Common Sense with a Drummer. Fust. Hey-day ! where 's Common Sense's army ? Promp. Sir, I have sent all over the town, and could not get one soldier for her, except that poor drununer, who was lately turned out of an Irish regiment. Drum. Upon my shoul but I have been a drum- [185] PASQUIN mer these twenty years, master, and have seen no wars yet ; and I was wilhng to learn a little of my trade before I died. Fust. Hush, sirrah ! don't you be witty ; that is not in your part. Drum. I don't know what is in my part, sir ; but I desire to have something in it ; for I have been tired of doing nothing a great while. Fust. Silence ! Q. C. S. Wliat is the reason, madam, that you bring These hostile arms into my peaceful realm ? Q. Ign. To ease your subjects from that dire oppression They groan beneath, which longer to support Unable, they invited my redress. Q. C. S. And can my subjects then complain of wrong ? Base and ungrateful ! what is their complaint ? Q. Ign. They say you do impose a tax of thought Upon their minds, which they 're too weak to bear. Q. C. S. Wouldst thou from thinking then absolve mankind ? Q. Ign. I would, for thinking only makes men wretched ; And happiness is still the lot of fools. Why should a wise man wish to think, when thought Still hurts his pride ; in spite of all his art, Malicious fortune, by a lucky train Of accidents, shall still defeat his scliemes, And set the greatest blunderer above him. [186] PASQUIN Q. C. S. Urgest thou that against me, which thy- seh" Has been the wicked cause of? Which thy power, Thy artifice, thy favourites have done ? Could Connnon Sense bear universal sway, No fool could ever possibly be great. Q. Ign. What is this folly, which you try to paint In colours so detestable and black ? Is 't not the general gift of fate to men ? And though some few may boast superior sense. Are they not calPd odd fellows by the rest ? In any science, if this sense peep forth. Shew men the truth, and strive to turn their steps From ways wherein their gross forefathers err'd, Is not the general cry against them straight ? Sneer. This Ignorance, Mr. Fustian, seems to know a great deal. Fust. Yes, sir, she knows what she has seen so often ; but you find she mistakes the cause, and Connnon Sense can never beat it into her. Q. Ign. Sense is the parent still of fear ; the fox, Wise beast, who knows the treachery of men, Flies their society, and skulks in woods. While the poor goose, in happiness and ease. Fearless grows fat within its narrow coop, And thinks the hand that feeds it is its friend ; Then yield thee. Common Sense, nor rashly dare Try a vain combat with superior force. Q. C. S. Know, queen, I never will give up the cause Of all these followers : when at the head [187] PASQUIN Of all these heroes I resign my right, May my curst name be blotted fi'om the earth ! Sneer. Methinks, Common Sense, though, ought to give it up, when she has no more to defend it. Fust. It does indeed look a little odd at present ; but I '11 get her an army strong enough against its acted. Come, go on. Q. Ign. Then thus I hurl defiance at thy head. Draw all your swords. Q. C. S. And, gentlemen, draw yours. Q. Ign. Fall on ; have at thy heart. [J Jight. Q. C. S. And have at thine. Fiist. Oh, fie upon 't, fie upon 't ! I never saw a worse battle in all my life upon any stage. Pray, gentlemen, come some of you over to the other side. S}ieer. These are Swiss soldiers, I perceive, Mr. Fustian ; they care not which side they fight of. Ftist. Now, begin again, if you please, and fight away ; pray fight as if you were in earnest, gentle- men. [They Jight.'] Oons, Mr. Prompter ! I fancy you hired these soldiers out of the trained bands — they are afraid to figlit even in jest. \They Jight again.'] There, there — pretty well. I think, Mr. Sneerwell, we have made a shift to make out a good sort of a battle at last. Sneer. Indeed I cannot say I ever saw a better. Fust. You don't seem, Mr. Sneerwell, to relish this battle greatly. Srieer. I cannot profess myself the greatest admirer of this part of tragedy ; and I own my imagination can better conceive the idea of a battle from a skilful relation of it than from such a representation ; for L188] PASQUIN my mind is not able to enlarge the stage into a vast plain, nor multiply half a score into several thousands. Fust. Oh ; your humble servant ! but if we write to please you and half a dozen others, who will pay the charges of the house ? Sir, if the audience will be contented with a battle or two, instead of all the raree-fine shows exhibited to them in what they call entertainments Sneer. Pray, Mr. Fustian, how came they to give the name of entertainments to their pantomimical farces ? Fust. Faith, sir, out of their peculiar modesty ; intimating that after the audience had been tired with the dull works of Shakspeare, Jonson, Vanbrugh, and others, they are to be entertained with one of these pantomimes, of which the master of the play- house, two or three painters, and half a score dancing-masters are the compilers. What these entertainments are, I need not inform you, who have seen 'em ; but I have often wondered how it was possible for any creature of human understand- ing, after having been diverted for three hours with the production of a great genius, to sit for three more and see a set of people running about the stage after one another, without speaking one syllable, and playing several juggling tricks, which are done at Fawks\s after a much better manner ; and for this, sir, the town does not only pay additional prices, but loses several fine parts of its best authors, which are cut out to make room for the said farces. Sneer. 'T is very true ; and I have heai'd a hun- [ 189 ] PASQUIN dred say the same thing, who never failed being present at them. Fust. And while that happens, they will force any entertainment upon the town they please, in spite of its teeth. [^Ghost of Common Sensk rises.^ Oons, and the devil, madam ! what 's the meaning of this .? You have left out a scene. Was ever such an ab- surdity as for your ghost to appear before you are killed. Q. C. S. I ask pardon, sir ; in the hurry of the battle I forgot to come and kill myself Fust. Well, let me wipe the flour off your face then. And now, if you please, rehearse the scene ; take care you don^'t make this mistake any more though, for it would inevitably damn the play if you should. Go to the corner of the scene, and come in as if vou had lost the battle. Q. C. S. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears. Fust. 'Sdeath, madam, I tell you you are no ghost — you are not killed. Q. C. S. Deserted and forlorn, where shall I fly. The battle 's lost, and so are all my friends. Enter a Poet. Poet. Madam, not so ; still you have one friend left. Q. C. S. Why, what art thou .? Poet. Madam, I am a poet. Q. C. S. Whoe'er thou art, if thou'rt a friend to misery, Know Common Sense disclaims thee. [190] PASQUIN Poet. I have been damn''d Because I was your foe, and yet I still Courted your friendship with my utmost art. Q. C. S. Fool ! thou wert damu'd because thou didst pretend Thyself my fi-iend ; for hadst thou boldly dared, Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite, Or, like an opera or pantomime, Profess'd the cause of Ignorance in publick, Thou might\st have met with thy desired success ; But men can't bear even a pretence to me. Poet. Then take a ticket for my benefit night. Q. C. S. I will do more — for Common Sense will stay Quite from your house, so may you not be damn'd. Poet. Ha ! say'st thou ? By my soul, a better play Ne'er came upon a stage ; but, since you dare Contemn me thus, I "11 dedicate my play To Ignorance, and call her Common Sense : Yes, I will dress her in your pomp, and swear That Ignorance knows more than all the world. [^Ecvit. Enter Firebrand. Fireh. Thanks to the Sun for this desired en- counter. Q. C. S. Oh, priest ! all 's lost ; our forces are overthrown — Some gasping lie, but most are run away. Fireh. I knew it all before, and told you too. The Sun has long been out of humour with you. [ 191 J PASQUIN Q. C. S. Dost thou, then, lay upon the Sun the faults Of all those cowards who forsook my cause ? Fireh. Those cowards all were most religious men : And I beseech thee, Sun, to shine upon them. Q. C. S. Oh, impudence ! and darest thou to my face ? Ftreb. Yes, I dare more; the Sun presents you this, [Stabs her. Which I, his faithful messenger, deliver. Q. C. S. Oh, traytor ! thou hast murder'd Com- mon Sense. Farewel, vain world ! to Ignorance I give thee. Her leaden sceptre shall henceforward rule. Now, priest, indulge thy wild ambitious thoughts ; Men shall embrace thy schemes, till thou hast drawn All worship from the Sun upon thyself: Henceforth all things shall topsy-turvy turn ; Physick shall kill, and Law enslave the world ; Cits shall turn beaus, and taste Italian songs, While courtiers are stock -jobbing in the city. Places requiring learning and great parts Henceforth shall all be hustled in a hat. And drawn by men deficient in them both. Statesmen — but oh ! cold death will let me say No more — and you must guess et coetera. [Dies. Fireh. She's gone! but ha! it may beseem me ill T appear her murderer. I "11 therefore lay This dagger by her side ; and that will be Sufficient evidence, with a little money. To make the coroner's inquest find self-murder. I '11 preach her funeral sermon, and deplore [192] PASQUIN Her loss with tears, praise her with all my art. Good Ignorance will still believe it all. [Exit. Enter Queen Ignorance, &c. Q. Ign. Beat a retreat ; the day is now our own ; The powers of Common Sense are all destroyed ; Those that remain are fled away with her. I wish, Mr. Fustian, this speech be conmion sense. Sneer. How the devil should it, when she 's dead ? Fust. One would think so, when a cavil is made against the best thing in the whole play ; and I would willingly part with anything else but those two lines. Harl. Behold! where welfring in her blood she lies. I wish, sir, you would cut out that line, or alter it, if you please. Fust. That's another line that I won't part with; I would consent to cut out anything but the chief beauties of my play. Harl. Behold the bloody dagger by her side, With which she did the deed. Q. Ign. 'Twas nobly done! I envy her her exit, and will pay All honours to her dust. Bear hence her body, And let her lie in state in Goodman's fields. Enter Messenger. Mess. Madam, I come an envoy from Crane-court. The great society that there assemble Congratulate your victory, and request That firm alliance henceforth may subsist Between your majesty's society Of Grub-street and themselves : they rather beg voL.li.— 13 [193] PASQUIN That they may be united both in one. They also hope your majesty's acceptance Of certain curiosities, which in That hamper are contained, wherein you '11 find A horse's tail, which has a hundred hairs More than are usual in it ; and a tooth Of elephant full half an inch too long ; With turnpike-ticket like an ancient coin. Q. Ign. We gratefully accept their bounteous gifts, And order they be kept with proper care, Till we do build a place most fit to hold These precious toys : tell your society We ever did esteem them of great worth, And our firm friends : and tell 'em 't is our pleasure They do prepare to dance a jig before us. l^Exit Messenger. My lords of Law and Physick, you shall find I will not be ungrateful for your service : To you, good Harlequin, and your allies, And vou,,Squeekaronelly, I will be A most propitious queen — But ha ! \^Music tinder the stage. What hideous music or what yell is this ? Sure 't is the ghost of some poor opera tune. Sneer. The ghost of a tune, Mr. Fustian ! Fust. Ay, sir, did you never hear one before ? I had once a mind to have brought the apparition of Musick in person upon the stage, in the shape of an English opera. Come, Mr. Ghost of the Tune, if you please to appear in the sound of soft musick, and let the ghost of Common Sense rise to it. [Ghost of Common Sense rises to soft musick. [194] PASQUIN Ghost. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears. Caitiffs, avaunt ! or I will sweep you off, And clean the land from such infernal vermin. Q. Ign. A ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! haste, scam- per off, My friends ; we Ve kill'd the body, and I know The ghost will have no mercy upon us. Omnes. A ghost ! a ghost ! a ghost ! [Run off. Ghost. The coast is clear, and to her native realms Pale Ignorance with all her host is fled, Whence she will never dare invade us more. Here, though a gliost, I will my power maintain, And all the friends of Ignorance shall find My ghost, at least, they cannot banish hence ; And all henceforth, who murder Common Sense, Learn from these scenes that, though success you boast, You shall at last be haunted with her ghost. Sneer. I am glad you make Common Sense get the better at last ; I was under terrible apprehensions for your moral. Fiist. Faith, sir, this is almost the only play where she has got the better lately. But now for my epi- logue : if you please to begin, madam. EPILOGUE. Ghost. The play once done, the epilogue, by rule. Should come and turn it all to ridicule ; Should tell the ladies that the tragic bards, Who prate of Virtue and her vast rewards, Are all in jest, and only fools should heed 'em ; For all wise women flock to mother Needham. [195] PASQUIN This is the method epilogues pursue, But we to-night in everything are new. Our author then, in jest throughout the play, Now begs a serious word or two to say. Banish all childish entertainments hence ; \ Let all that boast your favour have pretence, > If not to sparkling wit, at least to sense. J With soft Italian notes indulge your ear ; But let those singers, who are bought so dear, Learn to be civil for their cheer at least. Nor use like beggars those who give the feast. And though while nmsick for herself may carve, Poor Poetry, her sister-art, must starve ; Starve her at least with shew of approbation. Nor slight her, while you search the whole creation For all the tumbling-skum of every nation. Can the whole world in science match our soil ? Have they a Locke, a Newton, or a Boyle? Or dare the greatest genius of their stage With Shakspeare or immortal Ben engage ? Content with nature's bounty, do not crave The little which to other lands she gave ; Nor like the cock a barley corn prefer To all the jewels which you owe to her. [ 196 j AN ESSAY OX CONVERSATION AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION MAN is generally represented as an ani- mal formed for, and delighted in, soci- ety ; in this state alone, it is said, his various talents can be exerted, his numberless necessities relieved, the dangers he is exposed to can be avoided, and many of the pleasures he eagerly affects enjoyed. If these assertions be, as I think they are, undoubtedly and obviously certain, those few who have denied man to be a social animal have left us these two solutions of their conduct ; either that there are men as bold in denial as can be ' found in assertion — and as Cicero says there is no absurdity which some philosopher or other hath not asserted, so we may say there is no truth so glaring that some have not denied it ; — or else that these rejectors of society borrow all their information from their own savage dispositions, and are, indeed, them- selves, the only exceptions to the above general rule. But to leave such persons to those who have thought them more worthy of an answer ; there are others who are so seemingly fond of this social state, that they are understood absolutely to confine it to their own species; and entirely excluding the tamer and gen- tler, the herding and flocking parts of the creation, from all benefits of it, to set up this as one grand [199] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION general distinction between the human and the brute species. -- Shall we conclude this denial of all society to the nature of brutes, which seems to be in defiance of every day's observation, to he as bold as the denial of it to the nature of men ? or, may we not more justly derive the error from an improper under- standing of this word society in too confined and special a sense ? in a word, do those who utterly deny it to the brutal nature mean any other by society than conversation? Now, if we comprehend them in this sense, as I think we very reasonably may, the distinction appears to me to be truly just ; for though other animals are not without all use of society, yet this noble branch of it seems, of all the inhabitants of this globe, confined to man only ; the narrow power of communicating some few ideas of lust, or fear, or anger, which may be observable in brutes, falling infinitely short of what is commonly meant by conversation, as may be de- duced from the origination of the word itself, the only accurate guide to knowledge. The primitive and literal sense of this word is, I apprehend, to turn round together ; and in its more copious usage we intend by it that reciprocal interchange of ideas by which truth is examined, things are, in a manner, turned round and sifted, and all our knowledge communicated to each other. In this respect man stands, I conceive, distinguished from, and superior to, all other earthly creatures ; it is this privilege which, while he is inferior in strength to some, in swiftness to others ; without horns or [ 200] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION claws or tusks to attack them, or even to defend him- self against them, hath made him master of them all. Indeed, in other views, however vain men may be of their abilities, they are greatly inferior to their animal neighbours. With what envy must a swine, or a much less voracious animal, be surveyed by a glut- ton ; and how contemptible must the talents of other sensualists appear, when opposed, perhaps, to some of the lowest and meanest of brutes ! but in conver- sation man stands alone, at least in this part of the creation ; he leaves all others behind him at his first start, and the greater progress he makes the greater distance is between them. Conversation is of three sorts. Men are said to converse with God, with themselves, and with one another. The two first of these have been so liberally and excellently spoken to by others, that I shall at present pass them by and confine myself in this essay to the third only ; since it seems to me amazing that this grand business of our lives, the foundation of everything eitlier useful or pleasant, should have been so slightly treated of, that, while there is scarce a profession or handicraft in life, however mean and contemptible, which is not abundantly furnislied with proper rules to the attaining its perfection, men should be left almost totally in the dark, and without the least light to direct, or any guide to conduct them, in the proper exerting of those talents wliich are the noblest privilege of human nature and productive of all rational happiness ; and the rather as this power is by no means self-instructed, and in the possession of the artless and ignorant is of so mean use that it [201 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION raises them very little above those animals who are void of it. As conversation is a branch of society, it follo^\'s that it can be proper to none who is not in his nature social. Now, society is agreeable to no creatures who are not inoffensive to each other ; and we therefore observe in animals who are entirely guided by nature that it is cultivated by such only, while those of more noxious disposition addict themselves to solitude, and, unless when prompted by lust, or that necessary in- stinct implanted in them by nature for the nurture of their young, shun as much as possible the society of their own species. If therefore there should be found some human individuals of so savage a habit, it would seem they were not adapted to society, and, consequently, not to conversation ; nor would any inconvenience ensue the admittance of such excep- tions, since it would by no means impeach the general rule of man's being a social animal ; especially when it appears (as is sufficiently and admirably proved by my friend the author of An Enquiry into Happiness) that these men live in a constant opposition to their own nature, and are no less monsters than the most wanton abortions or extravagant births. Again ; if society requires that its members should be inoffensive, so the more useful and beneficial they are to each other the more suitable are they to the social nature, and more perfectly adapted to its insti- tution ; for all creatures seek their own happiness, and society is therefore natural to any, because it is naturally productive of this happiness. To render therefore any animal social is to render it inoffensive ; [202] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION an instance of which is to be seen in those the fero- city of whose nature can be tamed by man. And here the reader may observe a double distinction of man from the more savage animals by society, and from the social by conversation. But if men were merely inoffensive to each other, it seems as if society and conversation would be merely indifferent ; and that, in order to make it desirable by a sensible being, it is necessary we should go farther and propose some positive good to our- selves from it ; and this presupposes, not only nega- tively, our not receiving any hurt, but positively, our receiving some good, some pleasure or advantage, from each other in it, something which we could not find in an unsocial and solitary state ; otherwise we might cry out with the right honourable poet — ^ Give us our wildness and our woods. Our huts and caves again. The art of pleasing or doing good to one another is thei-efore the art of conversation. It is this habit which gives it all its value. And as man's being a social animal (the truth of which is incontestably proved by that excellent author of An Enquiry, &c., I have above cited) presupposes a natural desire or tendency this way, it will follow that we can fail in attaining this truly desirable end from ignorance only in the means ; and how general this ignorance is may be, with some probability, inferred from our want of even a word to express this art by ; that which comes the nearest to it, and by which, per- * The Duke of Buckingham, [803 J AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION haps, we would sometimes intend it, being so horribly and barbarously corrupted, that it contains at present scarce a simple ingredient of what it seems originally to have been designed to express. The word I mean is good breeding ; a word, I apprehend, not at first confined to externals, much less to any particular dress or attitude of the body ; nor were the qualifications expressed by it to be fur- nished by a milliner, a taylor, or a perriwig-maker; no, nor even by a dancing-master himself. Accord- ing to the idea I myself conceive from this word, I should not have scrupled to call Socrates a well-bred man, though, I believe, he was very little instructed by any of the persons I have above enumerated. In short, by good-breeding (notwithstanding the corrupt use of the word in a very different sense) I mean the art of pleasing, or contributing as much as possible to the ease and happiness of those with whom you converse. I shall contend therefoi*e no longer on this head ; for, whilst my reader clearly conceives the sense in which I use this word, it will not be very material whether I am right or wrong in its original application. Good-breeding then, or the art of pleasing in con- versation, is expressed two different ways, viz., in our actions and our words, and our conduct in both may be reduced to that concise, comprehensive rule in scripture — Do unto all men as you would they should do unto you. Indeed, concise as this rule is, and plain as it appears, what are all treatises on ethics but comments upon it ? and whoever is well read in the book of nature, and hath made much [204] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION observation on the actions of men, will perceive so few capable of judging or rightly pursuing their own happiness, that he will be apt to conclude that some attention is necessary (and more than is commonly used) to enable men to know truly what they would have done unto them, or, at least, what it would be their interest to have done. If therefore men, through weakness or inattention, often err in their conceptions of what would produce their own happiness, no wonder they should miss in the application of what will contribute to that of others ; and thus we may, without too severe a censure on their inclinations, account for that fre- quent failure in ti'ue good-breeding which daily experience gives us instances of. Besides, the commentators have well paraphrased on the above-mentioned divine rule, that it is, to do unto men what you would they (if they were in your situation and circumstances, and you in theirs) should do unto you ; and, as this comment is neces- sary to be observed in ethics, so it is particularly useful in this our art, where the degree of the per- son is always to be considered, as we shall explain more at large hereafter. We see then a possibility for a man well disposed to this golden rule, without some precautions, to err in the practice ; nay, even good-nature itself, the very habit of mind most essential to furnish us with true good-breeding, the latter so nearly resembling the former, that it hath been called, and with the appearance at least of propi-ietv, artificial good- nature. This excellent quality itself sometimes [ 205 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION shoots us beyond the mark, and shews the truth of those lines in Horace : Insani sapiens noraen ferat, aequus iniqui, Ultr4 qukm satis est, Virtutera si petat ipsam. Instances of this will be naturally produced where we shew the deviations from those rules which we shall now attempt to lay down. As this good-breeding is the art of pleasing, it will be first necessary with the utmost caution to avoid hurting or giving any offence to those with whom we converse. And here we are surely to shun any kind of actual disrespect, or affront to their persons, by insolence, which is the severest attack that can be made on the pride of man, and of which Florus seems to have no inadequate opinion when, speaking of the second Tarquin, he says ; in ornnes siiperbia {qucB crudelitate gravior est bonis) grassatus ; " He trod on all with insolence, which sits heavier on men of great minds than cruelty itself." If there is any temper in man which more than all others disqualifies him for society, it is this insolence or haughtiness, which, blinding a man to his own im- perfections, and giving him a hawk's quicksighted- ness to those of others, raises in him that contempt for his species which inflates the cheeks, erects the head, and stiffens the gaite of those strutting animals who sometimes stalk in assemblies, for no other reason but to shew in their gesture and behaviour the disregard they have for the company. Though to a truly great and philosophical mind it is not easy to conceive a more ridiculous exhibition than [206] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION this puppet, yet to others he is Httle less than a nuisance ; for contempt is a murtherous weapon, and there is this difference only between the greatest and weakest man when attacked by it, that, in order to wound the former, it must be just ; whereas, with- out the shields of wisdom and philosophy, which God knows are in the possession of very few, it wants no justice to point it, but is certain to penetrate, from whatever corner it comes. It is this disposition which inspires the empty Cacus to deny his ac- quaintance, and overlook men of merit in distress ; and the little silly, pretty Phillida, or Foolida, to stare at the strange creatures round her. It is this temper which constitutes the supercilious eye, the reserved look, the distant bowe, the scornful leer, the affected astonishment, the loud whisper, ending in a laugh dii-ected full in the teeth of another. Hence spring, in short, those numberless offences given too fi'equently, in public and private assem- blies, by pei'sons of weak understandings, indelicate habits, and so hungry and foul-feeding a vanity that it wants to devour whatever comes in its way. Now, if good-breeding be what we have endeavoured to prove it, how foreign, and indeed how opposite to it, must such a behaviour be ! and can any man call a duke or a dutchess who wears it well-bred ? or are they not more justly entitled to those inhuman names which they themselves allot to the lowest vulgar ? But behold a more pleasing picture on the reverse. See the earl of C , noble in his birth, splendid in liis fortune, and embellished with every endowment of mind ; how affable ! how condescend- [ 207 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION ing ! himself the only one who seems ignorant that he is every way the greatest person in the room. But it is not sufficient to be inoffensive — we must be profitable servants to each other : we are, in the second place, to proceed to the utmost verge in pay- ing the respect due to others. We had better go a little too far than stop short in this particular. My lord Shaftesbury hath a pretty observation, that the beggar, in addressing to a coach with, My lord, is sure not to offend, even though there be no lord there ; but, on the contrary, should plain sir fly in the face of a nobleman, what must be the conse- quence ? And, indeed, whoever considers the bustle and contention about precedence, the pains and labours undertaken, and sometimes the prices given, for the smallest title or mark of pre-eminence, and the visible satisfaction betrayed in its enjoyment, may reasonably conclude this is a matter of no small consequence. The truth is, we live in a world of common men, and not of philosophers ; for one of these, when he appears (which is very seldom) among us, is distinguished, and very properly too, by the name of an odd fellow ; for what is it less than ex- treme oddity to despise what the generality of the world think the labour of their whole lives well em- ployed in procuring ? we are therefore to adapt our behaviour to the opinion of the generality of man- kind, and not to that of a few odd fellows. It would be tedious, and perhaps impossible, to specify every instance, or to lay down exact rules for our conduct in every minute particular. How- ever, I shall mention some of the chief which most [ 208 ] ^ AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION ordinarily occur, after premising that the business of the whole is no more than to convey to others an idea of your esteem of them, which is indeed the sub- stance of all the compliments, ceremonies, presents, and whatever passes between well-bred people. And here I shall lay down these positions : — First, that all meer ceremonies exist in form only, and have in them no substance at all ; but, being imposed by the laws of custom, become essential to good-breeding, from those high-flown compliments paid to the Eastern monarchs, and which pass be- tween Chinese mandarines, to those coarser cere- monials in use bet^veen English farmers and Dutch boors. Secondly, that these cei'emonies, poor as they are, are of more consequence than they at first appear, and, in reality, constitute the only external differ- ence between man and man. Thus, His grace. Right honourable. My lord, Right reverend. Reverend, Hon- ourable, Sir, Esquire, Mr=, &c., have in a philosoph- ical sense no meaning, yet are perhaps politically essential, and must be preserved by good-breeding ; because. Thirdly, they raise an expectation in the person by law and custom entitled to them, and who will consequently be displeased with the disappointment. Now, in order to descend minutely into any rules for good-breeding, it will be necessary to lay some scene, or to throw our disciple into some particular circumstance. We will begin them with a visit in the country ; and as the principal actor on this occasion is the person who receives it, we will, as VOL. 11. -U [209] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION briefly as possible, lay down some general rules for his conduct ; marking, at the same time, the prin- cipal deviations we have observed on these occasions. When an expected guest arrives to dinner at your house, if your equal, or indeed not greatly your in- ferior, he should be sure to find your family in some order, and yourself dressed and ready to receive him at your gate with a smiling countenance. This in- fuses an immediate chearfulness into your guest, and persuades him of your esteem and desire of his com- pany. Not so is the behaviour of Polysperchon, at whose gate you are obliged to knock a considerable time before you gain admittance. At length, the door being opened to you by a maid or some im- proper servant, who wonders where the devil all the men are, and, being asked if the gentleman is at home, answers she believes so, you are conducted into a hall, or back-parlour, where you stay some time before the gentleman, in a dishabille from his study or his garden, waits upon you, asks pardon, and assures you he did not expect you so soon. Your guest, being introduced into a drawing-room, is, after tlie first ceremonies, to be asked whether he will refresh himself after his journey, before dinner (for which he is never to stay longer than the usual or fixed hour). But this request is never to be re- peated oftener than twice, not in imitation of Cale- pus, who, as if hired by a physician, crams wine in a morning down the throats of his most temperate friends, their constitutions being not so dear to them as their present quiet. When dinner is on the table, and the ladies have [210 J AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION taken their places, the gentlemen are to be intro- duced into the eating-room, where they are to be seated with as much seeming indifference as possible, unless there be any present whose degrees claim an undoubted precedence. As to the rest, the general rules of precedence are by marriage, age, and pro- fession. Lastly, in placing your guests, regard is rather to be had to birth than fortune ; for, though purse-pride is forward enough to exalt itself, it bears a degradation with more secret comfort and ease than the former, as being more inwardly satis- fied with itself, and less apprehensive of neglect or contempt. The order in helping your guests is to be regu- lated by that of placing them ; but here I must, with great submission, recommend to the lady at the upper end of the table to distribute her favours as equally and as impartially as she can. I have some- times seen a large dish of fish extend no farther than to the fifth person, and a haunch of venison lose all its fat before half the table had tasted it. A single request to eat of any particular dish, how elegant soever, is the utmost I allow. I strictly prohibit all earnest solicitations, all complaints that you have no appetite, which are sometimes little less than burlesque, and always impertinent and troublesome. And here, however low it may appear to some readers, as I have known omissions of this kind give offence, and sometimes make the offenders, who have been very well-meaning persons, ridiculous, I cannot help mentioning the ceremonial of drinking healths [211] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION at table, which is always to begin with the lady's and next the master's of the house. When dinner is ended, and the ladies retired, though I do not hold the master of the feast obliged to fuddle himself through complacence (and, indeed, it is his own fault generally if his company be such as would desire it), yet he is to see that the bottle circulate sufficient to afford every person present a moderate quantity of wine if he chuses it ; at the same time permitting those who desire it either to pass the bottle or to fill their glass as they please. Indeed, the beastly custom of besotting, and osten- tatious contention for pre-eminence in their cups, seems at present pretty well abolished among the better sort of people. Yet Methus still remains, who measures the honesty and understanding of mankind by a capaciousness of their swallow; who sings forth the praises of a bumper, and complains of the light in your glass ; and at whose table it is as difficult to preserve your senses as to preserve your purse at a gaming-table or your health at a b — ^y-house. On the other side, Sophronus eyes you carefully whilst you are filling out his liquor. The bottle as surely stops when it comes to him as your chariot at Temple-bar ; and it is almost as impos- sible to carry a pint of wine from his house as to gain the love of a reigning beauty, or borrow a shilling of P W . But to proceed. After a reasonable time, if your guest intends staying with you the whole evening, and declines the bottle, you may propose play, walk- ing, or any other amusement ; but these are to be but [212 J AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION bai-ely mentioned, and offered to his choice with all indifference on your part. What person can be so dull as not to perceive in Ag}Ttes a longing to pick your pockets, or in Alazon a desire to satisfy his own vanity in shewing you the rarities of his house and gardens ? When your guest offers to go, there should be no solicitations to stay, unless for the whole night, and that no farther than to give him a moral assur- ance of his being welcome so to do ; no assertions that he shan't go yet ; no laying on violent hands ; no private orders to servants to delay providing the horses or vehicles — like Desmophylax, who never suffers any one to depart from his house without entitling hira to an action of false imprisonment. Let us now consider a little the part which the visitor himself is to act. And first, he is to avoid the two extremes of being too early or too late, so as neither to surprise his friend unawares or unprovided, nor detain him too long in expectation. Orthrius, who hath nothing to do, disturbs your rest in a morning ; and the frugal Chronophidus, lest he should waste some minutes of his precious time, is sure to spoil your dinner. The address at your arrival should be as short as possible, especially when you visit a superior ; not imitating Phlenaphius, who would stop his friend in the rain rather than omit a single bowe. Be not too observant of trifling ceremonies, such as rising, sitting, walking first in or out of the room, except with one greatly your superior ; but when such a one offers you precedence it is uncivil to refuse it ; of which I will give you tlie following instance : An [213] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION English nobleman, being in I'rance, was bid by Louis XIV. to enter the coach before him, which he excused himself from. The king then immediately mounted, and, ordering the door to be shut, drove on, leaving the nobleman behind him. Never refuse anything offered you out of civility, unless in preference of a lady, and that no oftener than once ; for nothing is more truly good breeding than to avoid being troublesome. Though the taste and humour of the visitor is to be chiefly considered, yet is some regard likewise to be had to that of the master of the house ; for otherwise your company will be rather a penance than a pleasure. Methusus plainly discovers his visit to be paid to his sober friend's bottle ; nor will Philopasus abstain from cards, though he is certain they are agreeable only to himself; whilst the slender Leptines gives his fat entertainer a sweat, and makes him run the hazard of breaking his wind up his own mounts. If conveniency allows your staying longer than the time proposed, it may be civil to offer to depart, lest your stay may be incommodious to your friend ; but if you perceive the contrary, by his solicitations, they should be readily accepted, without tempting him to break these rules we have above laid down for him — causing a confusion in his family and among his servants, by preparations for your departure. Lastly, when you are resolved to go, the same method is to be observed which I have prescribed at your arrival. No tedious ceremonies of taking leave — not like Hypei-phylus, who bows and kisses and squeezes by the hand as heartily, and wishes you as much health [214] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION and happiness, when he is going a journey home of ten miles, from a common acquaintance, as if he was leaving his nearest friend or relation on a voyage to the East Indies. Having thus briefly considered our reader in the circumstance of a private visit, let us now take him into a public assembly, where, as more eyes will be on his behaviour, it cannot be less his interest to be instructed. We have, indeed, already formed a general picture of the chief enormities committed on these occasions : we shall here endeavour to explain more particularly the rules of an opposite demeanour, which we may di\ ide into three sorts, viz., our be- haviour to our superiors, to our equals, and to our inferiors. In our behaviour to our superiors two extremes are to be avoided ; namely, an abject and base servility, and an impudent and encroaching freedom. When the well-bred Hyperdulus approaches a nobleman in any public place, you would be persuaded he was one of the meanest of his domestics ; his cringes fall little short of prostration ; and his whole behaviour is so mean and servile that an Eastern monarch would not require more humiliation from his vassals. On the other side, Anaischyntus, whom fortunate accidents, without any pretensions from his birth, have raised to associate with his betters, shakes my lord duke by the hand with a familiarity savouring not only of the most perfect intimacy but the closest alliance. The former behaviour properly raises our contempt, the latter our disgust. Hyperdulus seems worthy of wearing his lordship's livery ; Anaischyntus deserves [215] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION to be turned out of his service for his impudence. Between these two is that golden inean which declares a man ready to acquiesce in allowing the respect due to a title by the laws and customs of his country, but impatient of any insult, and disdaining to purchase the intimacy with and favour of a superior at the ex- pence of conscience or honour. As to the question, who are our superiors ? I shall endeavour to ascertain them when I come, in the second place, to mention our behaviour to our equals : the first instiiaction on this head being carefully to consider who are such ; every little superiority of fortune or profession being too apt to intoxicate men's minds, and elevate them in their own opinion beyond their merit or preten- sions. Men are superior to each other in this our country by title, by birth, by rank in profession, and by age ; very little, if any, being to be allowed to fortune, though so much is generally exacted by it and commonly paid to it. Mankind never appear to me in a more despicable light than when I see them, by a simple as well as mean servility, voluntarily con- curring in the adoration of riches, without the least benefit or prospect from them. Respect and defer- ence are perhaps justly demandable of the obliged, and may be, with some reason at least, from expecta- tion, paid to the rich and liberal from the necessitous ; but that men should be allured by the glittering of wealth only to feed the insolent pride of those who will not in return feed their hunger — that the sordid niggard should find any sacrifices on the altar of his vanity — seems to arise from a blinder idolatry, and a more bigoted and senseless superstition, than any [216] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION which the sharp eyes of priests have discovered in the human mind. All gentlemen, therefore, who are not raised above each other by title, birth, rank in profession, age, or actual obligation, being to be considered as equals, let us take some lessons for their behaviour to each other in public from the following examples ; in which we shall discern as well what we are to elect as what we are to avoid. Authades is so absolutely abandoned to his own humour that he never gives it u}) on any occasion. If Seraphina herself, whose charms one would imagine should infuse alacrity into the limbs of a cripple sooner than the Bath waters, was to offer herself for his partner, he would answer he never danced, even though the ladies lost their ball by it. Nor doth this denial arise from incapa- city, for he was in his youth an excellent dancer, and still retains sufficient knowledge of the art, and suffi- cient abilities in his limbs to practise it, but from an affijctation of gravity which he will not sacrifice to the eagerest desire of others. Dyskolus hath the same aversion to cards ; and though competently skilled in all games, is by no importunities to be pre- vailed on to make a third at ombre, or a fourth at whisk and quadrille. He will suffer any company to be disappointed of their anmsement rather tlian sub- mit to pass an hour or two a little disagreeably to himself The refusal of Philautus is not so general; he is very ready to engage, provided you will indulge him in his favourite game, but it is impossible to persuade him to any other. I should add both these are men of fortune, and the consequences of loss or [217] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION gain, at the rate they are desired to engage, very triflins and inconsiderable to them. The rebukes these people sometimes meet with are no more equal to their deserts than the honour paid to Charistus, the benevolence of whose mind scarce permits him to indulge his own will, unless by acci- dent. Though neither his age nor understanding incline him to dance, nor will admit his receiving any pleasure from it, yet would he caper a whole evening, rather than a fine young lady should lose an opportunity of displaying her charms by the several genteel and amiable attitudes which this ex- ercise affords the skilful of that sex. And though cards are not adapted to his temper, he never once baulked the inclinations of others on that account. But, as there are many who will not in the least instance mortify their own humour to purchase the satisfaction of all mankind, so there are some who make no scruple of satisfying their own pride and vanity at the expence of the most cruel mortification of others. Of this kind is Agroicus, who seldom goes to an assembly but he affronts half his acquaintance by overlooking or disregarding them. As this is a very common offence, and indeed much more criminal, both in its cause and effect, than is generally imagined, I shall examine it very minutely, and I doubt not but to make it appear that there is no behaviour (to speak like a philosopher) more con- temptible, nor, in a civil sense, more detestable, than this. The first ingredient in this composition is pride, which, according to the doctrine of some, is the [218] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION universal passion. There are others who consider it as the foible of great minds ; and others again who will have it to be the very foundation of greatness ; and perhaps it may of that greatness which we have endeavoured to expose in many parts of these works ; but to real greatness, which is the union of a good heart with a good head, it is almost diametrically opposite, as it generally proceeds from the depravity of both, and almost certainly from the badness of the latter. Indeed, a little observation will shew us that fools are the most addicted to this vice ; and a little reflexion will teach us that it is incompatible with true understanding. Accordingly we see that, while the wisest of men have constantly lamented the imbecility and imperfection of their own nature, the meanest and weakest have been trumpeting forth their own excellencies and triumphing in their own sufficiency. Pride may, I think, be properly defined, the pleasure we feel in contemplating our own superior merit, on comparing it with that of others. That it arises from this supposed superiority is evident ; for, how- ever great you admit a man's merit to be, if all men were equal to him, there would be no room for pride. Now if it stop here, perhaps there is no enormous harm in it, or at least no more than is common to all other folly ; every species of which is always liable to produce every species of mischief: folly I fear it is ; for, should the man estimate rightly on this occasion, and the ballance should fairly turn on his side in this particular instance ; should he be indeed a greater orator, poet, general j [319] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION should he be more wise, witty, learned, young, rich, healthy, or in whatever instance he may excel one, or many, or all ; yet, if he examine himself thoroughly, will he find no reason to abate his pride ? is the qual- ity in which he is so eminent, so generally or justly esteemed ? is it so entirely his own ? doth he not rather owe his superiority to tlie defects of others than to his own perfection ? or, lastly, can he find in no part of his character a weakness which may coun- terpoise this merit, and which as justly at least, threatens him with shame as this entices him to pride ? I fancy, if such a scrutiny was made (and nothing so ready as good sense to make it), a proud man would be as rai'e as in reality he is a ridiculous monster. But suppose a man, on this comparison, is, as may sometimes happen, a little partial to him- self, the harm is to himself, and he becomes only ridiculous from it. If I prefer my excellence in poetry to Pope or Young ; if an inferior actor should, in his opinion, exceed Quin or Garrick ; or a sign-post painter set himself above the inimitable Hogarth, we become only ridiculous by our vanity : and the pei'sons themselves who are thus humbled in the comparison, would laugh with more reason than any other. Pride, therefore, hitherto seems an inof- fensive weakness only, and entitles a man to no worse an appellation than that of a fool ; but it will not stop here : though fool be perhaps no desirable term, the proud man will deserve worse ; he is not con- tented with the admiration he pays himself, he now becomes arrogant, and requires the same respect and preference from the world ; for pride, though the [220] AN ESSAY ON CONVEKSATION greatest of flatterers, is by no means a profitable ser- vant to itself ; it resembles the parson of the parish more than the squire, and lives rather on the tithes, oblations, and contributions it collects from others than on its own demesne. As pride therefore is sel- dom without arrogance, so is this never to be found without insolence. The arrogant man must be inso- lent in order to attain his own ends ; and, to con- vince and remind men of the superiority he affects, will naturally, by ill-words, actions, and gestures, endeavour to throw the despised person at as much distance as possible from him. Hence proceeds that supercilious look and all those visible indignities with which men behave in public to those whom they fancy their inferiors. Hence the very notable cus- tom of deriding and often denying the nearest rela- tions, friends, and acquaintance, in poverty and dis- tress, lest we should anywise be levelled with the wretches we despise, either in their own imagination or in the conceit of any who should behold famili- arities pass between us. But besides pride, folly, arrogance, and insolence, there is another simple, which vice never willingly leaves out of any composition — and this is ill-na- ture. A good-natured man may indeed (provided he is a fool) be proud, but arrogant and insolent he cannot be, unless we will allow to such a still greater degree of folly and ignorance of human nature ; which may indeed entitle them to forgiveness in the benign language of scripture, because they know not what they do. For, when we come to consider the effect of this [221 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION behaviour on tlie person who suffers it, we may per- haps have reason to conclude that murder is not a much more cruel injury. What is the consequence of this contempt ? or, indeed, what is the design of it but to expose the object of it to shame? a sensa- tion as uneasy and almost intolerable as those which arise from the severest pains inflicted on the body ; a convulsion of the mind (if I may so call it) which immediately produces symptoms of universal disoider in the whole man ; which hath sometimes been at- tended with death itself, and to which death hath, by great multitudes, been with much alacrity pre- ferred. Now, what less than the highest degree of ill-nature can permit a man to pamper his own van- ity at the price of another's shame ? Is the glutton, who, to raise the flavour of his dish, puts some birds or beasts to exquisite torment, more cruel to the animal than this our proud man to his own species? This character then is a composition made up of those odious, contemptible qualities, pride, folly, arro- gance, insolence, and ill-nature. I shall dismiss it with some general observations, which will place it in so ridiculous a light, that a man must hereafter be possessed of a very considerable portion either of folly or impudence to assume it. First, it proceeds on one grand fallacy ; for, whereas this wretch is endeavouring by a supercilious conduct to lead the beholder into an opinion of his superi- ority to the despised person, he inwardly flatters his own vanity with a deceitful presumption that this his conduct is founded on a general preconceived opinion of this superiority. AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION Secondly, this caution to preserve it plainly indi- cates a doubt that the superiority of our own char- acter is very slightly established ; for which reason we see it cliiefly practised by men who have the weakest pretensions to the reputation they aim at; and, indeed, none was ever freer from it than that noble person whom we have already mentioned in this essay, and who can never be mentioned but with honour by those who know him. Thirdly, this opinion of our superiority is com- monly very erroneous. Who hath not seen a gen- eral behave in this supercilious manner to an officer of lower rank, who hath been greatly his superior in that very art to his excellence in which the general ascribes all his merit ? Parallel instances occur in every other art, science, or profession. Fourthly, men who excel others in trifling instances frequently cast a supercilious eye on their superiors in tlie highest. Thus the least pretensions to pre- eminence in title, birth, riches, equipages, dress, &c., constantly overlook the most noble endowments of virtue, honour, wisdom, sense, wit, and every other quality which can truly dignify and adorn a man. Lastly, the lowest and meanest of our species are the most strongly addicted to this vice — men who are a scandal to their sex, and women who disgrace human nature ; for the basest mechanic is so far from being exempt that he is generally the most guilty of it. It visits ale-houses and gin-shops, and whistles in the empty heads of fidlers, mountebanks, and dancing-n)afsters. To conclude a character on which we have already AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION dwelt lon";er than is consistent with the intended measure of this essay, this contempt of others is the truest symptom of a base and a bad heart. While it suggests itself to the mean and the vile, and tickles their little fancy on every occasion, it never enters the great and good mind but on the strongest mo- tives ; nor is it then a welcome guest, affording only an uneasy sensation, and brings always with it a mixture of concern and compassion. We will now proceed to inferior criminals in society, Theoretus, conceiving that the assembly is only met to see and admire him, is uneasy unless he engrosses the eyes of the whole company. The giant doth not take more pains to be viewed ; and, as he is unfortunately not so tall, he carefully de- posits himself in the most conspicuous place ; nor will that suffice — he must walk about the room, though to the great disturbance of the company ; and, if he can purchase general observation at no less rate, will condescend to be ridiculous ; for he prefers being laughed at to being taken little notice of On the other side, Dusopius is so bashful that he hides himself in a corner ; he hardly bears being looked at, and never quits the first chair he lights upon, lest he should expose himself to public view. He trembles when you bowe to him at a distance, is shocked at hearing his own voice, and would almost swoon at the repetition of his name. The audacious Anedes, who is extremely amorous in his inclinations, never likes a woman but his eyes ask her the question, witliout considering the con- [224 J AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION fusion he often occasions to the object; he ogles and languishes at every pretty woman in the room. As there is no law of morality which he would not break to satisfy his desires, so is there no form of civility which he doth not violate to conimunicate them. When he gets possession of a woman's hand, which those of stricter decency never give him but with reluctance, he considers himself as its master. In- deed, there is scarce a familiarity which he will abstain from on the slightest acquaintance, and in the most public place. Seraphina herself can make no impression on the rough temper of Agroicus ; neither her quality nor her beauty can exact the least complacence from him ; and he would let her lovely limbs ach rather than offer lier his chair : while the gentle Lyperus tumbles over benches and over- throws tea-tables to take up a fan or a glove ; he forces you, as a good parent doth his child, for your own good ; he is absolute master of a lady''s will, nor will allow her the election of standing or sitting in his company. In short, the impertinent civility of Lyperus is as troublesome, though perhaps not so offensive, as the brutish rudeness of Agroicus. Thus we have hinted at most of the common enor- mities committed in public assemblies to our equals ; for it would be tedious and difficult to enumerate all : nor is it needful ; since from this sketch we may trace all others, most of which, I believe, will be found to branch out from some of the particulars here specified. I am now, in the last place, to consider our be- haviour to our inferiors, in which condescension can VOL. II. — 15 [ 225 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION never be too strongly recommended ; for, as a devia- tion on this side is much more innocent than on the other, so the pride of man renders us much less liable to it. For, besides that we are apt to overrate our own perfections, and undervalue the qualifications of our neighbours, we likewise set too high an esteem on the things themselves, and consider them as con- stituting a more essential difference between us than tliey really do. The qualities of the mind do, in reality, establish the truest superiority over one another : yet should not these so far elevate our pride as to inflate us with contempt, and make us look down on our fellow-creatures as on animals of an inferior order ; but that the fortuitous accident of birth, the acquisition of wealth, with some outward ornaments of dress, should inspire men with an in- solence capable of treating the rest of mankind with disdain, is so preposterous that nothing less than daily experience could give it credit. If men were to be rightly estimated, and divided into subordinate classes according to the superior excellence of their several natures, perhaps the lowest class of either sex would be properly assigned to those two disgraces of the human species, commonly called a beau and a fine lady ; for, if we rate men by the faculties of the mind, in what degree must these stand ? nay, admitting the qualities of the body were to give the pre-eminence, how many of those whom fortune hath placed in the lowest station must be ranked above them ? If dress is their only title, sure even the monkey, if as well dressed, is on as high a footing as the beau. But perhaps I shall [226] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION be told they challenge their dignity from birth ; that is a poor and mean pretence to honour when sup- ported with no other. Persons who have no better claim to superiority should be ashamed of this ; they are really a disgrace to those very ancestors from whom they would derive their pride, and are chiefly happy in this, that they want the very moderate portion of understanding which would enable them to despise themselves. And yet who so prone to a contemptuous carriage as these ? I have myself seen a little female tiling which they have called " my lady," of no greater dignity in the order of beings than a cat, and of no more use in society than a butterfly ; whose mien would not give even the idea of a gentlewoman, and whose face would cool the loosest libertine ; with a mind as empty of ideas as an opera, and a body fuller of diseases than an hospital — I have seen this thing express contempt to a woman who was an honour to her sex and an ornament to the creation. To confess the truth, there is little danger of the possessor's ever undervaluing this titular excellence. Not that I would withdraw from it that deference which the policy of government hath assigned it. On the contrary, I have laid down the most exact compliance with this respect, as a fundamental in good-breeding; nay, I insist only that we may be admitted to pay it, and not treated with a disdain even beyond what the eastern monarchs shew to their slaves. Surely it is too high an elevation when, instead of treating the lowest human creature, L227 j AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION in a Christian sense, as our brethren, we look down on such as are but one rank in the civil order re- moved from us as unworthy to breathe even the same air, and regard the most distant communication with them as an indignity and disgrace offered to our- selves. This is considering the difference not in the individual, but in the very species ; a height of in- solence impious in a Christian society, and most absurd and ridiculous in a trading nation. I have now done with my first head, in which I have treated of good-breeding, as it regards our actions. I shall, in the next place, consider it with respect to our words, and shall endeavour to lay down some rules, by observing which our well-bred man may, in his discourse as well as actions, con- tribute to the happiness and well-being of society. Certain it is, that the highest pleasure which we are capable of enjoying in conversation is to be met with only in the society of persons whose under- standing is pretty near on an equality with our own ; nor is this equality only necessary to enable men of exalted genius and extensive knowledge to taste the sublimer pleasures of communicating their refined ideas to each other ; but it is likewise neces- sary to the inferior happiness of every subordinate degree of society, down to the very lowest. For instance ; we will suppose a conversation between Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and three dancing- masters. It will be acknowledged, I believe, that the heel sophists would be as little pleased with the company of the philosophers as the philosophers with theirs. It would be greatly, therefore, for the improve- AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION ment and happiness of convei-sation, if society could be formed on this equality ; but, as men are not ranked in this world by the different degrees of their understanding, but by other methods, and conse- quently all degrees of understanding often meet in the same class, and must ex necessitate frequently converse together, the impossibility of accomplishing any such Utopian scheme very plainly appears. Here therefore is a visible but unavoidable imper- fection in society itself. But, as we have laid it down as a fundamental that the essence of good-breeding is to contribute as much as possible to the ease and happiness of man- kind, so will it be the business of our well-bred man to endeavour to lessen this imperfection to his utmost, and to bring society as near to a level at least as he is able. Now there are but two ways to compass this, viz., by raising the lower, and by lowering what is higher. Let us suppose, then, that very unequal company I have before mentioned met ; the former of these is apparently impracticable. Let Socrates, for in- stance, institute a discourse on the nature of the soul, or Plato reason on the native beauty of virtue, and Aristotle on his occult qualities — What must become of our dancing-masters ? Would they not stare at one another with surprise, and, most prob- ably, at our philosophers with contempt ? "Would they have any pleasure in such society ? or would they not rather wish themselves in a dancing-school, or a green-room at the playhouse.? What, there- [ 229 J AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION fore, have our philosophers to do but to lower them- selves to those who cannot rise to them ? And surely there are subjects on which both can converse. Hath not Socrates heard of harmony ? Hath not Plato, who draws virtue in the person of a fine woman, any idea of the gracefulness of attitude ? and hath not Aristotle himself written a book on motion ? In short, to be a little serious, there are many topics on which they can at least be intelligible to each other. How absurd, then, must appear the conduct of Cenodoxus, who, having had the advantage of a liberal education, and having made a pretty good progress in literature, is constantly advancing learned subjects in common conversation "t He talks of the classics before the ladies,and of Greek criticisms among fine gentlemen. What is this less than an insult on the company over whom he thus affects a superiority, and whose time he sacrifices to his vanity.'* Wisely different is the amiable conduct of Sophro- nus ; who, though he exceeds the former in knowl- edge, can submit to discourse on the most trivial matters, rather than introduce such as his company are utter strangers to. He can talk of fashions and diversions among the ladies ; nay, can even conde- scend to horses and dogs with country gentlemen. This gentleman, who is equal to dispute on the highest and abstrusest points, can likewise talk on a fan or a horse-race ; nor had ever any one who was not himself a man of learning, the least reason to conceive the vast knowledge of Sophronus, unless from the report of others. [ 230 J AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION Let us compare these together. Cenodoxus pro- poses the satisfaction of his own pride from the admiration of others ; Sophronus thinks of nothing but their amusement. In the company of Ceno- doxus every one is rendered uneasy, laments his own want of knowledge, and longs for the end of the dull assembly ; with Sophronus all are pleased, and con- tented with themselves in their knowledge of matters which they find worthy the consideration of a man of sense. Admiration is involuntarily paid the former: to the latter it is given joyfully. The former receives it with envy and hatred ; the latter enjoys it as the sweet fruit of good-will. The former is shunned ; the latter courted by all. This behaviour in Cenodoxus may, in some meas- ure, account for an observation we must have fre- quent occasion to make ; that the conversation of men of very moderate capacities is often preferred to that of men of superior talents ; in which the world act more wisely than at first they may seem ; for, besides that backwardness in mankind to give their admiration, what can be duller or more void of pleasure than discourses on subjects above our com- prehension .? It is like listening to an unknown language ; and, if such company is ever desired by us, it is a sacrifice to our vanity, which imposes on us to believe that we may by these means raise the general opinion of our own parts and knowledge, and not from that cheerful delight which is the natural result of an agreeable conversation. There is another very common fault, ecjually de- structive of this delight, bv much the same means, [23i ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION though it is far from owing its original to any real superiority of parts and knowledge ; this is discours- ing on the mysteries of a particular profession, to which all the rest of the company, except one or two, are utter strangers. Lawyers are generally guilty of this fault, as they are more confined to the conversation of one another ; and I have known a very agreeable company spoilt, where there have been two of these gentlemen present, who have seemed rather to think themselves in a court of justice than in a mixed assembly of persons met only for the entertainment of each other. But it is not sufficient that the whole company understand the topic of their conversation ; they should be likewise equally interested in every subject not tending to their general information or amuse- ment ; for these are not to be postponed to the relation of private affairs, much less of the particular grievance or misfortune of a single person. To bear a share in the afflictions of another is a degree of friendship not to be expected in a common acquaint- ance; nor hath any man a right to indulge the satisfaction of a weak and mean mind by the com- fort of pity at the expence of the whole com- pany's diversion. The inferior and unsuccessful members of the several professions are generally guilty of this fault ; for, as they fail of the reward due to their great merit, they can seldom refrain fi-om reviling their superiors, and complaining of their own hard and unjust fate. Farther, as a man is not to make himself the sub- ject of the conversation, so neither is he to engross [232] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION the whole to himself. As every man had rather please others by what he says than be himself pleased by what they say ; or, in other words, as every man is best pleased with the consciousness of pleasing, so should all have an equal opportunity of aiming at it. This is a right which we are so offended at being deprived of, that, though I remember to have known a man reputed a good companion, who seldom opened his mouth in company, unless to swallow his liquor, yet I have scarce ever heard that appellation given to a very talkative person, even when he hath been capable of entertaining, unless he hath done this with buffoonery, and made the rest amends by partaking of their scorn together with their admiration and applause. A well-bred man, therefore, will not take more of the discourse than falls to his share ; nor in this will he shew any violent impetuosity of temper, or exert any loudness of voice, even in arguing ; for the information of the company, and the conviction of his antagonist, are to be his apparent motives ; not the indulgence of his own pride, or an ambitious desire of victory ; which latter, if a wise man should entertain, he will be sure to conceal with his utmost endeavour ; since he must know that to lay open his vanity in public is no less absurd than to lay open his bosom to an enemy whose drawn sword is pointed against it ; for every man hath a dagger in his hand ready to stab the vanity of another wherever he perceives it. Having now shewn that the pleasure of conversa- tion must arise from the discourse being on subjects [233] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION levelled to the capacity of the whole company ; from being on such in which every person is equally inter- ested ; from every one''s being admitted to his share in the discourse ; and, lastly, from carefully avoiding all noise, violence, and impetuosity ; it might seem proper to lay down some particular rules for the choice of those subjects which are most likely to conduce to the cheerful delights proposed from this social com- munication ; but, as such an attempt might appear absurd, from the infinite variety, and perhaps too dictatorial in its nature, I shall confine myself to rejecting those topics only which seem most foreign to this delight, and which are most likely to be at- tended with consequences rather tending to make society an evil than to procure us any good from it. And, first, I shall mention that which I have hitherto only endeavoured to restrain within certain bounds, namely, arguments ; but which, if they were entirely banished out of company, especially from mixed assemblies, and where ladies make part of the society, it would, I believe, promote their happiness ; they have been sometimes attended with bloodshed, generally with hatred from the conquered party to- wards his victor ; and scarce ever with conviction. Here I except jocose arguments, which often produce much n)irth ; and serious disputes between men of learning (when none but such are present), which tend to the propagation of knowledge and the edification of the company. Secondly, slander : which, however frequently used, or however savoury to the palate of ill-nature, is ex- tremely pernicious, as it is often unjust and highly [234] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION injurious to the person slandered, and always danger- ous, especially in large and mixed companies, where sometimes an undesigned offence is given to an inno- cent relation or friend of such person, who is thus exposed to shame and confusion, without having any right to resent the affront. Of this there have been very tragical instances ; and I have myself seen some very ridiculous ones, but which have given great pain, as well to the person offended, as to him who hath been the innocent occasion of givino; the offence. Thirdly, all general reflections on countries, reli- gions, and professions, which are always unjust. If these are ever tolerable, they are only from the per- sons who with some pleasantry ridicule their own country. It is very common among us to cast sar- casms on a neighbouring nation, to which we have no other reason to bear an antipathy than what is more usual than justifiable, because we have injured it ; but sure such general satire is not founded on truth ; for I have known gentlemen of that nation possessed with every good quality which is to be wished in a man or required in a friend. I remem- ber a repartee made by a gentleman of this country, which, though it was full of the severest wit, the per- son to whom it was directed could not resent, as he so plainly deserved it. He had with great bitterness inveighed against this whole people; upon which one of them who was present very coolly answered, " I don't know, sir, whether I have not more reason to be pleased with the compliment you pay my country than to be angry with what you say against it ; since, by your abusing us all so heavily, you have plainly [235] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION implied you are not of it.'** This exposed the other to so much laughter, especially as he was not unex- ceptionable in his character, that I believe he was sufficiently punished for his ill-mannered satire. Fourthly, blasphemy, and iri'everent mention of religion. I will not here debate what compliment a man pays to his own vmderstanding by the pro- fession of infidelity ; it is sufficient to my purpose that he runs the risque of giving the crudest offence to persons of a different temper ; for, if a loyalist would be greatly affronted by hearing any indecencies offered to the person of a temporal prince, how much more bitterly must a man who sincerely believes in such a being as the Almighty, feel any irreverence or insult shewn to His name. His honour, or His insti- tution .'' And, notwithstanding the impious charac- ter of the present age, and especially of many among those whose more immediate business it is to lead men, as well by example as precept, into the ways of piety, there are still sufficient numbers left who pay so honest and sincere a reverence to religion, as may give us a reasonable expectation of finding one at least of this stamp in every lai'ge company. A fifth particular to be avoided is indecency. We are not only to forbear the repeating of such words as would give an immediate affront to a lady of reputation, but the raising of any loose ideas tending to the offence of that modesty which, if a young woman hath not something more than the affectation of, she is not worthy the regard even of a man of pleasure, provided he hath any delicacy in his con- stitution. How inconsistent with good-breeding it [236] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION is to give pain and confusion to sucli, is sufficiently apparent ; all doiible-entendres and obscene jests are therefoi'B carefully to be avoided before them. But suppose no ladies present, nothing can be meaner, lower, and less productive of rational mirth, than this loose conversation. For my own part, I cannot conceive how the idea of jest or pleasantry came ever to be annexed to one of our highest and most serious pleasures. Nor can I help observing, to the discredit of such merriment, that it is commonly the last re- source of impotent wit, the weak strainings of the lowest, silliest, and dullest fellows in the world. Sixthly, you are to avoid knowingly mentioning anything which may revive in any person the re- membrance of some past accident, or raise an uneasy reflection on a present misfortune or corporal blem- ish. To maintain this inile nicely, perhaps, requires great delicacy ; but it is absolutely necessary to a well- bred man. I have observed numberless breaches of it ; many, I believe, proceeding from negligence and inadvertency ; yet I am afraid some may be too justly imputed to a malicious desire of triumphing in our own superior happiness and perfections ; now, when it proceeds fi'om this motive it is not easy to imagine anything more criminal. Under this head I shall caution my well-bred reader against a common fault, much of the same nature ; which is, mentioning any particular quality as absolutely essential to either man or woman, and exploding all those who want it. This renders every one uneasy who is in the least self-conscious of the defect. I have heard a boor of fashion declare in [ 237 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION the presence of women remarkably plain, that beauty was the chief perfection of that sex, and an essential without whicli no woman was worth regarding ; a certain method of putting all those in the room, who are but suspicious of their defect that way, out of countenance. I shall mention one fault more, which is, not paying a proper regard to the present temper of the company, or the occasion of their meeting,, in introducing a topic of conversation, by which as great an absurdity is sometimes committed, as it would be to sing a dirge at a wedding, or an epithalamium at a funeral. Thus I have, I think, enumerated most of the principal errors which we are apt to fall into in conversation ; and though, perhaps, some particulars worthy of remark may have escaped me, yet an at- tention to what I have here said may enable the reader to discover them. At least I am persuaded that, if the rules I have now laid down were strictly observed, our conversation would be more perfect, and the pleasure resulting from it purer and more unsullied, than at present it is. But I must not dismiss this subject without some animadversions on a particular species of pleasantry, which, though I am far from being de- sirous of banishing from conversation, requires, most certainly, some reins to govern, and some rule to direct it. The reader may perhaps guess I mean raillery ; to which I may apply the fable of the lap- dog and the ass ; for, while in some hands it diverts and delights us with its dexterity and gentleness, in others, it paws, daubs, offends, and hurts. [238] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION The end of conversation being the happiness of mankind, and the chief means to procure tlieir de- light and pleasure, it follows, I think, that nothing can conduce to this end which tends to make a man uneasy and dissatisfied with himself, or which ex- poses him to the scorn and contempt of others. I here except that kind of raillery, therefore, which is concerned in tossing men out of their chairs, tum- bling them into water, or any of those handicraft jokes wliich are exercised on those notable persons connnonly known by the name of buffoons ; who are contented to feed their belly at the price of their br— ch, and to carry off the wine and the p — ss of a great man together. This I pass by, as well as all remarks on the genius of the great men themselves, who are (to fetch a phrase from school, a phrase not improperly mentioned on this occasion) great dabs at tin's kind of facetiousness. But, leaving all such persons to expose human nature among themselves, I shall recommend to my well-bred man, who aims at raillery, the excellent character given of Horace by Persius : — Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico Tangit, et adiiiissus circum praecordia ludit, Callidus excusso populura suspendere naso. Thus excellently rendered by the late ingenious translator of that obscure author : — Yet could shrewd Horace, with disportive wit. Rally his friend, and tickle while he bit ; Winning access, he play'd around the heart, And, gently touching, prick'd the tainted part. The crowd he sneer'd ; but sneer'd with such a grace, It pass'd for downright innocence of face. [239] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION The raillery which is consistent with good-breed- ing is a gentle animadversion on some foible; which, while it raises a laugli in the rest of the company, doth not put the person rallied out of countenance, or expose him to shame and contempt. On the contrary, the jest should be so delicate that the object of it should be capable of joining in the mirth it occasions. All great vices therefore, misfortunes, and noto- rious blemishes of mind or body, are improper sub- jects of raillery. Indeed, a hint at such is an abuse and an affront which is sure to give the person (un- less he be one shameless and abandoned) pain and uneasiness, and should be received with contempt, in- stead of applause, by all the rest of the company. Again ; the nature and quality of the person are to be considered. As to the first, some men will not bear any raillery at all. I remember a gentleman who declared he never made a jest, nor would ever take one. I do not, indeed, greatly reconnnend such a person for a companion ; but at the same time, a well-bred man, who is to consult the pleasure and happiness of the whole, is not at liberty to make any one present uneasy. By the quality, I mean the sex, degree, profession, and circumstances ; on which head 1 need not be very particular. With regard to the two former, all raillery on ladies and superiors should be extremely fine and gentle ; and with re- spect to the latter, any of the rules I have above laid down, most of which are to be applied to it, will afford sufficient caution. Lastly, a consideration is to be had of the persons [240] AN ESSAY OX CONVERSATION before whom we rally. A man will be justly uneasy at being reminded of those railleries in one company whicli lie would very patiently bear the imputation of in another. Instances on this head are so ob- vious that they need not be mentioned. In short, the wliole doctrine of raillery is comprized in this famous line : — " Quill de quoque viro, et crd dicas, saepe caveto. " " Be cautious wliat you say, of whom and to whom." And now, niethinks, I hear some one cry out thai such restrictions are, in effect, to exclude all raillery from conversation ; and, to confess the truth, it is a weapon from which many persons will do wisely in totally abstaining ; for it is a weapon which doth the more misciiief by how much the blunter it is. The sharpest wit therefore is only to be indulged the free use of it, for no more than a very slight touch is to be allowed; no hacking, nor bruising, as if they were to hew a carcase for hounds, as Shakspeare phrases it. Nor is it sufficient that it be sharp, it must be used likewise with the utmost tenderness and good-nature; and, as the nicest dexterity of a gladiator is shewn in being able to hit without cutting deep, so is this of our railler, wlio is rather to tickle than wound. True raillery indeed consists either in playing on peccadilloes, which, however tlicy may be censured by some, are not esteemed as really blemishes in a character in the company where they are made the subject of mirth ; as too nuich freedom with the bottle, or too much indulgence with women, &c. Or, secondly, in pleasantly representing real good VOL. II. — 16 [ 241 ] AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION qualities in a false light of shame, and bantering them as ill ones. So generosity may be treated as prodigality ; oeconomy as avarice ; true courage as foolliardiness ; and so of the rest. Lastly, in ridiculing men for vices and faults which they are known to be free from. Thus the cowardice of A — le, the dulness of Ch — d, the unpoliteness of 1) — ton, may be attacked without danger of offence ; and thus Lyt — n may be censured for whatever vice or folly you please to impute to him. And, however limited these bounds may appear to some, yet, in skilful and witty hands, I have known raillery, thus confined, affcjrd a very diverting, as well as inoffensive, entertainment to the whole company. I shall conclude this essay with these two obser- vations, whicli I think may be clearly deduced from what hath been said. First, that every person who indulges his ill- nature or vanity at the expense of others, and in introducing uneasiness, vexation, and confusion into society, however exalted or high-titled he may be, is thorouo-hlv ill-bred. Secondly, that whoever, from the goodness of his disposition or understanding, endeavours to his ut- most to cultivate the good-humour and happiness of others, and to contribute to the ease and comfort of all his acquaintance, however low in rank fortune may have placed him, or however clumsy he may be in his figure or demeanour, hath, in the truest sense of the word, a claim to good-breeding. [242] THE TRUE PATRIOT THE TRUE PATRIOT No. 13. TUESDAY, January 28, 1746. Qui non recte instituunt atque erudiunt liberos, non solum liberis sed et reipublicae faciunt injuriam. — Cicero. MR. ADAMS having favoured me with a second letter, I shall give it the public without any apology. If any- thing in it should at first a little shock those readers who know the world better, I hope they will make allowances for the ignorance and simplicity of the writer. TO THE TRUE PATRIOT. My worthy Friend, — I am concerned to find, by all our public accounts, that the rebels still continue in the land. In my last I evidently proved that their successes were owing to a judgment denounced acrainst our sins, and concluded with some exhoi-tations for averting the Divine anger by the only methods which suggested themselves to my mind. These ex- hortations, by the event, I perceive have not had that regard paid to them I had reason to expect. Indeed, I am the more confirmed in this conjecture, by a [ 245 ] THE TRUE PATRIOT lad whom I lately met at a neighbouring baronefs, where I sojourned the two last days of the year, with my good friend Mr. Wilson. This lad, whom I imagined to have been come from school to visit his friends for the holidays (for though he is perhaps of sufficient age, I found, on examination, he was not yet qualified for the university), is, it seems, a man sui juris; and is, as I gather from the young damsels. Sir John's daughters, a member of the society of bmoes. I know not whether I spell the word right ; for I am not ashamed to say I neither understand its etymology nor true import, as it hath never once occurred in any lexicon or dictionary which I have yet perused. AVhatever this society may be, either the lad with whom I communed is an unworthy member, or it would become the government to put it down by authority ; for he uttered many things during our discourse for which I would have well scourged any of the youth under my care. He had not long entered the chamber before he acquainted the damsels that he and his companions had carried the opera, in opposition to the puts ; by which I afterwards learnt he meant all sober and discreet persons. " And fags ! " says he (I am afraid, though, he made use of a worse word), " we expected the bishops would have interfered ; but if they had we should have silenced them.'" I then thought to myself, Strippling, if I had you well horsed on the back of another lad, I would teach you more rever- ence to their lordships. [ 246 ] THE TRUE PATRIOT This opera, I am informed, is a diversion in which a prodigious sum of money, more than is to be col- lected out of twenty parishes, is lavished away on foreign eunuchs and papists, very scandalous to be suffered at any time, especially at a season when both war and famine hang over our heads. During the whole time of our repast at dinner the young gentleman entertained us with an account of several drums and routs at which he had been pres- ent. These are, it seems, large congregations of men and women, who, instead of assembling together to hear something that is good, nay, or to divert them- selves with gambols, which might be allowed now and then in holiday times, meet for no other purpose but that of gaming, for a whole guinea and nmch more at a stake. At this married women sit up all night, nay, sometimes till one or two in the morning, neglect their families, lose their money, and some, Mr. Wilson says, have been suspected of doing even worse than that. Yet this is suffered in a Christian kingdom ; nay {quod prorsus increilihile est), the holy sabbath is, it seems, prostituted to these wicked revellings; and card-playing goes on as publickly then as on any other day ; nor is this only among the young lads and damsels, who might be supposed to know no better, but men ad- vanced in years, and grave matrons, are not ashamed of being caught at the same pastime. tempora ! mores! When grace was said after meat, and the damsels departed, the lad began to grow^ more wicked. Sir John, who is an honest Englishman, hath no other [247 ] THE TRUE PATRIOT wine but that of Portugal. This our hoioe could not chink ; and when Sir Jolni very nobly declared he scorned to indulge his palate with rarities, for which he nnist furnish the foe witii money to carry on a war with the nation, the stripling replied, "Rat the nation ! " (God forgive nie for repeating such words) " I had rather live under French government than be debarred from French wine."" Oho, my youth ! if I had you horsed, thinks I again. — But, indeed. Sir John well scourged him with his tongue for that ex- pression, and I should have hoped he had made him ashamed, had not his subsequent behaviour shewn him totally void of grace. For when Sir John asked him for a toast, which you know is another word for drinking the health of one's friend or wife, or some person of public eminence, he named the health of a married woman, filled out a bumper of wine, swore he would drink her health in vinegar, and at last openly profest he woJild connnit adultery with her if he could. Proli picdor! Nay, and if such a sin might admit of any aggravation, she is it seems a lady of very high degree, et quidem, the wife of a lord. Et dies et charta dejicerent si omnia vellum percur- rere, rnulta quidem impura et impudica quce memorare nefas, recitavit. Nor is this youth, it seems, a monster or prodigy in the age he lives; on tJie contrary, I am told he is an exemplar only of all the rest. But I now proceed to what must surprize you. After he had spent an hour in rehearsing all the vices to which youth have been ever too much ad- [248 j THE TRUE PATRIOT dieted, and shewn us that he was possessed of them all — Ut qui impudicus, adulter, g-aneo, alea, nianu, venire, pene, bona patria lacera.verat, he began to enter upon politics : O proceres censore opus an haruspice nobis ! This stripling, this hozce, this rake, discovered like- wise all the wickedness peculiar to age, and that he had not, with those vices which proceed from tlie warmth of youth, one of the virtues which we should naturally expect from the same sanguine disposition. He sliewed us that grey hairs could add nothing but hypocrisy to him ; for he avowed public prostitution, laughed at all honour, public spirit, and patriotism ; and gave convincing proofs that the most phlegmatic old miser upon earth could not be sooner tempted with gold to perpetrate the most horrid ini([uities than himself. Whether this youtli be {quod vix credo) concerned himself in the public weal, or whether he have his information from others, I hope he greatly exceeded the truth in what he delivered on this subject ; for was he to be believed, the conclusion we must draw would be, that the only concern of our great men, even at this time, was for places and pensions; that, instead of applying themselves to renovate and restore our sick and diooping commonweal, they were struggling to get closest to her heart, and, like leeches, to suck her last drop of vital blood. I hope, however, better things, and that this lad [249j THE TRUE PATRIOT deserves a good rod as well for lying as for all his other iniquity ; and if his parents do not take care to have it well laid on, I can assure them they have much to answer for. Mr. Wilson now found me grow very uneasy, as, indeed, I had been from the beginning, nor could anything but respect to the company have prevented me from correcting the boy long before ; he there- fore endeavoured to turn the discourse, and asked our spark when he left London ? To which he answered, the Wednesday before. "How, sir?"" said I ; " travel on Christmas Day ? " " Was it so.?" says he; "fags! that's more than I knew; but why not ti-avel on Christmas Day as well as any other ? '' " Why not ? "" said I, lifting my voice, for I had lost all patience ; " was you not brought up in the Christian religion P Did you never learn your catechism ? "" He then burst out into an un- mannerly laugh, and so provoked me, that I should certainly have smote him, had I not laid my crab- stick down in the window, and had not Mr. Wilson been fortunately placed between us, " Odso ! Mr. Parson," savs he, " are you there ? I wonder I had not smoked you before." " Smoke me ! " answered I, and at the same time leaped from my chair, my wrath being highly kindled. At which instant a jackanapes, who sat on my left hand, whipped my peruke from my head, which I no sooner perceived than I porrcctcd him a remembrance over the face, which laid him sprawling on the floor. I was after- wards concerned at the blow, though the consequence was only a bloody nose, and the lad, who was a com- [ 250 ] THE TRUE PATRIOT panion of the other's, and had uttered many wicked things, wliich I pretermitted in my narrative, very well deserved correction. A bustle now arose, not worth recounting, which ended in my departure with Mr. Wilson, though we had purposed to tarry there that night. In our way home we both lamented the peculiar hardiness of this country, which seems bent on its own destruction, nor will take warning by any visita- tion, till the utmost wrath of Divine vengeance over- takes it. In discoursing upon this subject, we imputed much of the present profligacy to the notorious want of care in parents in the education of youth, who, as my friend informs me, with very httle school- leai-ning, and not at all instructed (ne minime quiclem imhuti) in any principles of religion, virtue, and morality, are brought to the great city, or sent to travel to other great cities abroad, before they are twenty years of age, where they become their own masters, and enervate both their bodies and minds with all sorts of diseases and vices before they are adult. I shall conclude with a passage in Aristotle's Politics, lib. viii. cap. i. "Ort ixev ovv ra> vofxoOeTTj fxdXiaTa TrpayfLarevreov Trepl rrjv rwv veoov iraLheiav^ ovBeU dv a/jL(f)La/3T]r)](reL€. koI yap ev ral^ iroXeaiv ov ytyvo/xevov rovro, ^Xd-meL Tarhaps it may be asked, will Seneca or Plu- tarch make us laugh ? Perhaps not ; but if you are not a fool, my worthy friend, which I can hardly with civility suspect, they will both (the latter espe- cially) please you more than if they did. For my own part, I declare, I have not read even Lucian himself with more delight than I have Plutarch \ but surely it is astonishing that such scribblers as Tom Brown, Tom D'Urfey, and the wits of our age, should find readers, while the writings of so excel- lent, so entertaining, and so voluminous an author as [258 J THE COVENT-GARUEN JOURNAL Plutarch remain in the world, and, as I apprehend, are very little known. The truth I am afraid is, that real taste is a qual- ity with which hvnnan nature is very slenderly gifted. It is indeed so very rare, and so little known, that scarce two authors have agreed in their notions of it ; and those who have endeavoured to explain it to others seem to have succeeded only in shewing us that they know it not themselves. If I might be allowed to give my own sentiments, I should derive it from a nice harmony between the imagination and the judgment ; and hence perhaps it is that so few have ever possessed this talent in any eminent degree. Neither of these will alone be- stow it ; nothing is indeed more common than to see men of very bright imaginations, and of very accu- rate learning (which can hardly be acquired without judgment), who are entirely devoid of taste; and Longinus, who of all men seems most exquisitely to have possessed it, will puzzle his reader very much if he should attempt to decide whether imagination or judgment shine the brighter in that inimitable critic. But as for the bulk of mankind, they are clearly void of any degree of taste. It is a cjuality in which they advance very little beyond a state of infancy. The first thing a child is fond of in a book is a picture, the second is a story, and the third a jest. Here then is the true Pons Asinorum, which very few readers ever get over. From what I have said it may perhaps be thought to appear that true taste is the real gift of nature [259 1 THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL only ; and if so, some may ask to what purpose have I endeavoured to show men that they are without a blessing which it is impossible for them to attain? Now, though it is certain that to the highest con- summation of taste, as well as of every other excel- lence, nature must lend much assistance, yet great is the power of art, almost of itself, or at best with only slender aids from nature ; and, to say the truth, there are very few who have not in their minds some small seeds of taste. " All men," says Cicero, " have a sort of tacit sense of what is right or wrong in arts and sciences, even without the help of arts." This surely it is in the power of art very greatly to improve. That most men, therefore, proceed no farther than as I have above declared, is owing either to the want of any, or (which is perhaps yet worse) to an improper education. I shall probably, therefore, in a future paper, en- deavour to lay down some rules by which all men may acquire at least some degree of taste. In the meanwhile, I shall (according to the method ob- served in inoculation) recommend to my readers, as a preparative for their receiving my instructions, a total abstinence from all bad books. I do therefore most earnestly intreat all my young readers that they would cautiously avoid the perusal of any mod- ern book till it hath first had the sanction of some wise and learned man ; and the same caution I pro- pose to all fathers, mothers, and guardians. " Evil communications corrupt good manners," is a quotation of St, Paul from Menander. Evil books corrupt at once both our vianners and our taste. [260] THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL No. 33. SATURDAY, April 23, 1752. Odi profanum vulgus. — Hor. I hate profane rascals. SIR, — In this very learned and enlightened age, in which authors are almost as num- erous as booksellers, I doubt not but jour correspondents furnish you with a sufficient quantity of waste paper. I perhaps may add to the heap ; for, as men do not always know the motive of their own actions, I may possibly be induced, by the same sort of vanity as other puny authors have been, to desire to be in print. But I am very well satisfied with you for my judge, and if you should not think proper to take any notice of the hint I have here sent you, I shall conclude that I am an impertinent correspondent, but that you are a judi- cious and impartial critic. In my own defence, how- ever, I must say that I am never better pleased than when I see extraordinary abilities employed in the support of His honour and religion, who has so bountifully bestowed them. It is for this reason that I wish you would take some notice of the char- acter, or rather story, here sent you. In my travels westward last sunnner I lay at an inn in Somerset- shire, remarkable for its pleasant situation and the obliging behaviour of the landlord, who, though a downright rustic, had an awkward sort of politeness [261] THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL arising froiTi his good-nature that was very pleasing, and, if I may be allowed the expression, was a sort of good-breeding undrcst. As I intended to make a pretty long journey the next day, I rose time enough to behold that glorious luminary the sun set out on his course, which, by-the-by, is one of the finest sights the eye can behold ; and, as it is a thing seldom seen by people of fashion, unless it be at the theatre at Covent-garden, I could not help laying some stress upon it here. The kitchen in this inn was a very pleasant room ; I therefore called for some tea, sat me in the window that I might enjoy the prospect which the country afforded, and a more beautiful one is not in the power of imagination to frame. This house was situated on the top of a hill ; and for two miles below it meadows, enlivened with variety of cattle, and adorned with a greater variety of flowers, first caught my sight. At the bottom of this vale ran a river which seemed to j)romise coolness and refreshment to the thirsty cattle. The eye was next presented with fields of corn that made a kind of an ascent which was ter- minated by a wood, at the top of which appeared a verdant hill situate as it were in the clouds where the sun was just arrived, and, peeping o'er the sum- mit, which was at this time covered with dew, gilded it over with his rays and terminated my view in the most agreeable manner in the world. In a word, the elegant simplicity of every object round me filled my heart with such gratitude, and furnished my mind with such pleasing meditations, as made me thank Heaven I was boi-n. But this state of [262 J THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL joyous tranquillity was not of long duration : I had scarce begun my breakfast, when my ears were saluted with a genteel whistle, and the noise of a pair of slippers descending the staircase ; and soon after I beheld a contrast to my former prospect, being a very beauish gentleman, with a huge laced hat on, as big as Pistol's in the play ; a wig some- what dishevelled, and a face which at once gave you a perfect idea of emptiness, assurance, and intem- perance. His eyes, which before were scarce open, he fixt on me with a stare which testified surprise, and his coat was immediately thrown open to dis- play a very handsome second-hand gold-laced waist- coat. In one hand he had a pair of saddle-bags, and in the other a hanger of mighty size, both of which, with a graceful G — d d — n you, he placed upon a chair. Then, advancing towards the land- lord, who was standing by me, he said, " By G — d, landlord, your wine is damnable strong.""" " I don't know," replied the landlord ; " it is generally reckoned pretty good, for I have it all from London." — " Pray, who is your wine merchant ? " says the man of importance. " A very great man," says the land- lord, " in his way ; perhaps you may know him, sir ; his name is Kirby." " Ah, what ! honest Tom ? he and I have cracked many a bottle of claret together ; he is one of the most considerable merchants in the city ; the dog is hellish poor, damnable poor, for I don't suppose he is worth a farthing more than a hundred thousand pound ; only a plum, that 's all ; he is to be our lord-mayor next year." " I ask par- don, sir, that is not the man, for our Mr. Kirby 's [263] THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL name is not Thomas but Richard/'' " Ay ! " says the gentleman, "that's liis brother; they are part- ners together." " I beheve," says the landlord, "you are out, sir, for that gentleman has no brother." " D — n your nonsense, with you and your outs ! " says the beau ; " as if I sliould not know better than you country puts ; I who have lived in I^ondon all my lifetime." " I ask a thousand pardons," says the landlord ; " I hope no offence, sir." " No, no," cries t!ie other ; " we gentlemen know how to make al- lowance for your country breeding." Then stepping to the kitchen door, with an audible voice he called the ostler, and in a very graceful accent said, " D — n your blood, you cock-eyed son of a bitch, bring me my boots! did not you hear me call.?" Then turning to the landlord said, " Faith ! that Mr. What-de-callum, tlie exciseman, is a damned jolly fellow." " Yes, sir," says the landlord, " he is a merryish sort of a man." " But," says the gentle- man, " as for that sclioolmaster, he is the queerest bitch I ever saw ; he looks as if he could not say boh to a goose." " I don't know, sir," says the landlord ; " he is reckoned to be a desperate good schollard about us, and the gentry likes him vastly, for he understands the measurement of land and timber, knows how to make dials and such things ; and for ciphering few can outdo ""en." " Ay ! " says the gentleman, " he does look like a cipher indeed, for he did not speak three words all last night." The ostler now produced the boots, which the gentle- man taking in his hand, and having placed himself in the chair, addressed in the following speech : " My [264] THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL good friends, Mr. Boots, I tell jou plainly that, if you plague me so danmably as you did yesterday morning, by G — I '11 commit you to the flames ; stap my vituals ! as my lord Huntingdon says in the play." He then looked full in my face, and asked the landlord if he had ever been at Drury-lane playhouse ; which he answered in the negative. " What ! "" says he, " did you never hear talk of Mr. Garrick and king Richard ? "" " No, sir," says the landlord. " By G — ,■" says the gentleman, " he is the cleverest fellow in England." He then spouted a speech out of King Richard, which begins, " Give me an horse," Sec. " There," says he, " that, that is just like Mr. Garrick." Having pleased himself vastly with this performance, he shook the landlord by the hand with great good-humour, and said, "By G — you seem to be an honest fellow, and good blood ; if you'll come and see me in London, I '11 give you your skinftd of wine, and treat vou with a play and a whore every night you stay. 1 11 show you how it is to live, my boy. But here, bring me some paper, my girl ; come, let us have one of your love-letters to air my boots." Upon which the land- lord presented him with a piece of an old newspaper. " D — n you ! " says the gent, " this is not half enough ; have you never a Bible or Common Prayer- book in the house.? Half a dozen chapters of Genesis, with a few prayers, make an excellent fire in a pair of boots." "Oh! Lord forgive you!" says the landlord ; " sure you would not burn such books as those ? " " No ! " cries the spark ; " where was you born ? Go into a shop of London and buy [265] THE COVENT-GAKDEN JOURNAL some butter or a quartern of tea, and then you '11 see what use is made of these books." " Ay ! " says the landlord, " we have a saying here in our country that 'tis as sure as the devil is in London, and if he was not there they could not be so wicked as they be." Here a country fellow who had been standing up in one corner of the kitchen eating of cold bacon and beans, and who, I observed, trembled at every oath this spark swore, took his dish and pot, and marched out of the kitchen, fearing, as I afterwards learnt, that the house would fall down about his ears, for he was sure, he said, "That man in the gold-laced hat was the devil." The young spark, having now displayed all his wit and humour, and exerted his talents to the utmost, thought he had sufficiently recommended himself to my favour and convinced me he was a gentleman. He therefore with an air addressed himself to me, and asked me which way I was travelling ? To wliich I gave him no answer. He then exalted his voice ; but, at my continuing silent, he asked the landlord if I was deaf. Upon which the landlord told him he did not believe the gentleman was dunch, for that he talked very well just now. The man of wit whispered in the landlord's ear, and said, " I suppose he is either a parson or a fool." He then drank a dram, observ- ing that a n)an should not cool too fast ; paid six- pence more than his reckoning, called for his horse, gave the ostler a shilling, and galloped out of the inn, thoroughly satisfied that we all agreed with him in thinking; him a clever fellow and a man of j^reat importance. The landlord, smiling, took up his [266] THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL money, and said he was a comical gentleman, but that it was a thousand pities he swore so much ; if it was not for that, he was a very good customer, and as generous as a prince, ^or that the night be- fore he had treated everybody in the house. I then asked him if he knew that comical gentleman, as he called him ? "No, really, sir," said the landlord, " though a gentleman was saying last night that he was a sort of rider or rideout to a linendraper at London." This, Mr, Censor, I have since found to be true ; for, having occasion to buy some clotli, I went last week into a linendrapers shop, 'n which I found a young fellow whose decent behaviour and plain dress sliewed he was a tradesman. Upon look- ing full in his face I thought I had seen it before; nor was it long before I recollected where it was, and that this was the same beau I had met with in Somersetshire. The difference in the same man in London, where he was known, and in the country, where he was a stranger, was beyond expression ; and, was it not impertinent to make observations to you, I could inlarge upon this sort of behaviour ; for I am firmly of opinion that there is neither spiint nor good sense in oaths, nor any wit or humour in blasphemy. But as vulgar errors require an abler pen than mine to correct them, I shall leave that task to you, and am, sir, your humble servant, R. S. [267] FAMILIAR LETTERS FAMILIAR LETTERS NOTE. (See Introduction.) The following five letters were given me by the Author of the preface. I should have thought this hint unnecessary, had not much nonsense and scurrility been unjustly imputed to him by the good judgment or goodr-nature of the age. They can know but little of his writings, who want to have them pointed out ; but they know much less of him, who impute any such base and scandalous productions to his pen. LETTER FORTY- ONE A LETTER FROM A FRENCH GENTLEMAN TO HIS FRIEND IN PARIS ; IN IMITATION OF HORACE, ADDISON, AND ALL OTHER WRITERS OF TRAVELLING LETTERS. Done into English. Monsieur, — ^ T Whitehall we took a pair of oars for Put- /^L ney. These we had indeed some diffi- / — ^ culty to procure; for many refused to X jk> go with us farther than Foxhall or Rane- lagh Gardens. At last we prevailed with two fel- lows for three half-crowns to take us on board. I have been told there was formerlv a law regulat- ing the fares of these people ; but that is to be sure obsolete. I think it pitv it was not revived. [271] FAMILIAR LETTERS As the weather was extremely fine, we did not regret the tide's running against us, since by that means we had more opportunity of making observa- tions on the finest river in the world except the Seine. After taking a survey of the New Bridge, which must be greatly admired by all who have not seen the Pontneuf, we past by a row of buildings, not very remarkable for their elegance, being chiefly built of wood, and irregular. Many of them are supported by pillars ; but of what order we could not plainly discern. We came now to Lambeth, where is a palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the metropolitan of England. This is a vast pile of building, not very beautiful indeed in its structure, but wonderfully well calculated, as well to signify, as to answer the use for which it was, I suppose, originally intended ; containing a great number of little apartments for the reception of travelling and distressed Christians. Lambeth is perhaps so called from Lamb, which is the type of meekness. The next place of note, as we ascend the river, is Fox-Hall, or rather Fox-Hole, the first syllable of which is corrupted into Vaux by the vulgar, who tell a foolish story of one Vaux who resided here, and attempted to blow up the Thames. But the true reading is Fox-Hole, as appears by an antient piece of painting, representing that animal whence it takes its name, and which is now to be seen on a high wooden pillar, Anglkc a sign-post, not far from the landing-place. [ 27^ ] FAMILIAR LETTERS A very little farther stands Marble-Hall, of which we had a full view from the water. This is a most august edifice, built all of a rich marble, which, re- flecting the sun-beams, creates an object too dazzling for the sight. Having passed this, we were entertained with a most superb piece of architecture of white, or rather yellow brick. This belongs to one of the bowgeoJM, as do indeed most of the villas which border on both sides this river, and they tend to give as magnificent an idea of the riches which flow in to these people by trade, as the shipping doth, which is to be seen below the bridge of London. Hence a rantje of most delicious meadows begins to open, which, being richly enamelled with flowers of all kinds, seem to contend whether they shall con- vey most pleasure to your sight or to your smell. Our contemplation was however diverted from this scene by a boat, in which were two young ladies ex- tremely handsome, who accosted us in son^e phrase which we, who thought ourselves pretty good masters of the English tongue, did not understand. They were answered however by our watermen, who after- wards told us, that this is called water-language ; and consequently, I suppose, not to be learned on shore. The next place which presents itself on the Surry side (for I reserve the other shore for my return) is the pleasant village of Battersea ; the true reading of which we conjectured to be Rettersee ; and that it was formerly a bishoprick, and had the preference to Shelsee, of which we shall speak anon. It is chiefiy VOL. u. — 18 [ 273 ] FAMILIAR LETTERS famous at present for affording a retreat to one of tlie greatest statesmen of his time, who hath here a magnificent palace. From Bettersee, verging to the south-west, stands Wanser, as it is vulgarly called ; but its true name was undoubtedly Windmill-Shore, from whence it is a very easy corruption ; and several windmills are yet to be found in its neighbourhood. Here are to be seen a parish church, and some houses; but it is otherwise httle worth the curiosity of travellers. As you sail from hence, two lofty towers at once salute your eyes from opposite shores of the river, divided by a magnificent wooden bridge. That on the Surry shore is called Putney or Putnigh, a fair and beautiful town, consisting principally of one vast street, which extends from north to south, and is adorned with most beautiful buildings. Here we went ashore, in order to regale ourselves in one of their houses of entertainment, as they are called ; but in reality there is no entertainment at them. Heie were no tarts nor cheesecakes, nor any sort of food but an English dish called bread and cheese, and some raw flesh. But if it be difficult to find anything to allay luniger, it is still more so to quench your thirst. There is a liquor sold in this country which they call wine (most of the inhabitants indeed call it xcind). Of what ingredients it is composed I cannot tell ; but you are not to conceive, as the word seems to import, that this is a translation of our French word vin, a licjuor made of the juice of the grape ; for I am very well assured there is not a drop of any [274] FAMILIAR LETTERS such juice in it. There must be many ingredients in this liquor, from the many different tastes ; some of which are sweet, others sour, and others bitter ; but though it appeared so nauseous to me and my friend, that we could not swallow it, the English relish it very well ; nay, they will often drink a gal- lon of it at a sitting; and sometimes in their cups (for it intoxicates) will wantonly give it the names of all our best wines. However, though we found nothing to eat or drink, we found something to pay. I send you a copy of the bill produced us on this occasion, as I think it a curiosity : s. d. For Bred and Bear 8 Eating 2 Wind 5 Watermen's Eating and Lickor ... 1 6 9 2 So that, with the drawer, we were at the expence of ten shillings ; though no Catholic ever kept an Ash- Wednesday better. The drawers here may want some explanation. You must know then, that in this country, in what- ever house you eat or drink, whether private or public, you are obliged to pay the servants a fee at your departure, otherwise they certainly affront you. These fees are called \a,ih ; and they serve instead of wages : for though in private houses the master generally contracts with his servant to give him [275] FAMILIAR LETTERS wages, yet these are seldom or never paid ; and in- deed the vails commonly amount to much more. From Putnigh we crossed over to the other shore, where stands the fair and beautiful town of Full- home, vulgarly called Fulham. It is principally remarkable for being the residence of a bishop ; but a large grove of trees prevented our seeing his palace from the water. These two towns were founded by two sisters ; and they received their names from the following occa- sion. These ladies being on the Surry shoi'e, called for a boat to convey thtm across the water. The watermen being somewhat lazy, and not coming near enough to the land, the lady who had founded the town which stands in Surry, bid them jmi fiigh ; upon which her sister immediately cried out, " A good omen ; let Putnigh be the name of the place." When they came to the other side, she who had founded the other town, ordered the watermen to push the ho'At full home; her sister then returned the favour, and gave the name of Fullhome to the place. Here stands a most stately and magnificent bridge. We enquired of the watermen by whose benefaction this was built. " Benefaction, do you call it ? " says one of them with a sneer ; " I heartily wish it had been by mine ; there hath been a fine parcel of money got by thatjoj,-" a name which the English give to all works of a public nature : for so grateful aie these people, that nobody ever doth anything for the public, but he is certain to make his fortune by it. We now returned by the shore of Middlesex, and passed by several beautiful meadows, where the new- [276 1 FAMILIAR LETTERS mowed hay would have wonderfully delighted our smell, had it not been for a great variety of dead dogs, cats, and other animals, which being plenti- fully bestrewed along this shore, a good deal abated the sweetness which must have otherwise impreg- nated the air. We at length arrived at Shelsee, a corruption of Shallowsee ; for the word shallow signifies empty, worthless. Thus a shallow purse and a shallow fel- low are words of contempt. This, formerly, was doubtless a small bishoprick, and inferior to that on the other side of the water, which was called Bettersee. Here are many things worthy the curiosity of travellers. This place is famous for the residence of Don Saltero, a Spanish nobleman, who hath a vast collection of all sorts of rarities ; but we had no time to see them. Here is likewise a walk called Paradise Row, from the delightful situation, and the magnificent build- ings with which it is adorned. We had certainly gone on shore to admire the beauty of this walk ; but here being no landing-place, we must have spoiled our stockings by stepping into the mud ; and were besides informed that the road was so abominably dirty that it would be difficult to cross, the rather, as it seemed entirely stopped up by a ereat number of dust-carts. A little farther stands an hospital, or rather a palace, for the reception of old and wounded soldiers. A benefaction of so noble a kind, that it really doth honour to the English nation. Here are some very [277] FAMILIAR LETTERS beautiful apartments, which they told us belonged to the officers; a word which led us into a mistake, a.s we afterwards discovered : for we imagined that these apartments were allotted to those gentlemen who had borne commissions in the army, and who iiad, by being disabled in the service, entitled themselves to the public favour ; but on farther enquiry, we were surprized to find there was no provision at all for any such ; and that these officers were a certain number of placemen, who had never borne arms, nor had any military merit whatever. Beyond this stands Ranelagh, of which we shall say no more than that it is a very large round room, and will contain abundance of people. This is in- deed a sufficient recommendation to the English, who never inquire farther into the merit of any diversion, when they hear it is very much frequented. A humour, of which we saw many instances : all their publick places being either quite empty of company, or so crouded, that we could hardly get to them. Hence sailing by a shore where we saw little very remarkable, save only the carcases of animals, which were here in much greater quantity than we liad before found them, we arrived at a place called Mill-Bank, or Mile-Bank ; and soon after we passed, as we were informed, by the Senate-houses ; but though we went within a few yards of them, we could not discern with any certainty which were they. Having again shot (as they call it) the New Bridge, we saw the palace of a nobleman, who hath [278 J FAMILIAR LETTERS the honour to be a Duke of France as well as of England, and the happiness to be greatly esteemed in both countries. Near this palace stands that of another Duke, who, among other great and good qualities, is reputed the most benevolent man in the world. A little further we saw the palace of an Earl, of a very high character likewise among his country- men ; and who, in times of corruption, hath main- tained the integrity of an old Roman. The palaces of these three noblemen, who do a real honour to their high rank, and who are greatly beloved and respected by their country, are extremely elegant in their buildings, as well as delightful in their situation ; and, to be sincere, are the only edifices that discover any true taste which we saw in all our voyage. We now approached to Hunger ford-Stairs, the place destined for our landing ; where we were enter- tained with a sight very common, it seems, in this country : this was the ducking of a pickpocket. When we were first told this, we imagined it might be the execution of some legal sentence : but we were informed, that his executioners had been like- wise his judges. To give you some idea of this (for it is impossible for any one who doth not live in what they call a free country, to have an adequate notion of a mob) whenever a pickpocket is taken in the feet, the person who takes him calls out "pickpocket." Upon which word, the mob, who are always at hand in the street, assemble ; and having heard the accusation, [279] FAMILIAR LETTERS and sometimes the defence (though they are not always very strict as to the latter, judging a good deal by appearances), if they believe the accuser, the prisoner is sentenced to be ducked ; and this sentence is immediately executed with such rigour, that he hardly escapes with his life. The mob take cognizance of all other misde- meanours which happen in the streets, and they are a court, which generally endeavours to do justice, though they sometimes err, by the hastiness of their decisions. Perhaps it is the only court in the world, where there is no partiality arising from respect of persons. They are great enemies to the use of swords, as they are weapons with which they are not intrusted. If a gentleman draws a sword, though it be only in terrorem to defend himself, he is certain to be very severely treated by them ; but they give great en- couragement to their superiors, who will condescend to shew their coui'age in the way which the mob themselves use, by boxing, of which we shall presently shew you an instance. Our boat was now with some difficulty close to the landing-place ; for there was a great croud of boats, every one of which, instead of making way for us, served to endeavour to keep us out. Upon this occasion many hundred curses passed between our watei-men and their fellows, and not a few affronts were cast on us, especially as w^e were drest after the manner of our country. At last we arrived safe on shore, where we payed our watermen, who grumbled at our not giving them [ 280] FAMILIAR LETTERS something to drink (for all the labouring people in this country apply their hire only to eatables, for which reason they expect something over and above to drink). As we walked toward the Strand, a drayman ran his whip directly into my friend's face, perhaps with no design of doing this, but at the same time, with- out any design of avoiding it. My friend, who is impatient of an affront, innnediately struck the carter with his fist, who attempted to return the favour with his whip ; but Monsieur Bellair, who is extremely strong and active, and who hath learnt to box in this country, presently closed in with him, and tript up his heels. The mob now assembled round us, and being pleased with my friend for not having drawn his sword, inclined visibly to his side, and commended many blows which he gave his adversary, and other feats of activity, which he displayed during the combat, that lasted some minutes ; at the end of which, the drayman yielded up the victory, crying with a sneer — " D — n you, you have been on the stage, or I am mistaken.'" The mob now gave a huz/a in my friend's favour, and sufficiently upbraided his antagonist, who, they said, was well enough ser\ed for affronting a gentle- man. Monsieur Bellair had on the bcginnintr of the scuffle, while the enemy lay on the ground, delive]'ed his sword to one of the bystanders ; which person had unluckily walked off in the croud, without remtuiberiniT to restore it. [ 281 J "O FAMILIAR LETTERS Upon this the mob raged violently, and swore vengeance against the thief, if he could be discovered ; but as this could not be done, he was obliged at length to submit to the loss. When we began to depart, several of our friends demanded of us something to drink ; but as we were more out of humour with the loss, than pleased with the glory obtained, we could not be prevailed upon to open our purses. The company was incensed with this. We were saluted with the titles of Mounsli'ire, and otl^er con- temptuous appellations ; several missile weapons, such as dirt, &c., began likewise to play on us, and we were both challenged to fight by several, who told my friend, though he beat the drayman, he was not above half a man. We then made the best of our way, and soon escaped into a Hackney-coach. Thus I have sent you a particular account of this voyage, from some parts of which you may perhaps conclude, that the meanest rank of people are in this country better provided for than their superiors ; and that the gentry, at least those of the lower class of that order, fare full as well in other places : for, to say the truth, it appeal's to me, that an Englishman in that station is liable to be opprest by all above him, and insulted by all below him. I am, &c. THE END [282 1 ¥= r T -"I ^1 S r &/ 3> .,_ ,-s I 33 IS^J l^J i=nt.^l 3 ^.!/OJIlVDJO^ w-j '^«!^0dnV3-lt^>' ^^ T J O r LOS Angeles ^^ .K» last date stampeo o This booK IS DUE .-»«'»' O 6 C3 HIBRARYQc^ <^m '^OdlWDJO'^ ,f\F.rAiipnDi< ITf V,' 3 1158 00888 0485 AV-^' uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIT^^ AA 000 368 089 9 .^ ^V A'