THE W : I m ] GOLDSMITH'S BIRTH PLACE. E G IN B UHGH WXLJOXAM P. KXMMO CONTENTS. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. CflAF. PAOK L The description of the family of Wake- field, in which a kindred likeness prevails, as well of minds as of persons . . .3 IL Family misfortunes. The lossof for- tune only serves to increase the pride of the worthy ... 4 I IIL A migration. The fortunate circum- stances of our lives are generally found at last to be of our own pro- curing ..... 5 I V. A proof that even the humblest for- tune may grant happiness, which depends not on circumstances but constitution .... 8 V* A new and great acquaintance intro- duced. What we place most hopes upon generally proves most fatal 9 VI. The happiness of a country fireside 10 VII. A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be comical for a night or two . . . .11 VIII. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet tnay be produc- tive of much . . . .13 IX. Two ladies of great distinction intro- duced. Superior finery ever seems to confer superior breeding . . 15 IL. The family endeavour to cope with their betters. The miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their circumstances . . 17 XL The family still resolve to hold up their heads . . . .18 XII. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield. Morti- fications are often more painful than real calamities . . .20 XIII Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy, for he has the confidence to give disagreeable advice . . 21 XIV. Fresh mortification, or a demon- stration that seeming calamities may be real blessings . . .23 XV. All Mr Burchell's villany at once detected. The follv of oeing over- wise ... . 25 XVI. The family use art, which is op- posed with still greater . . 26 XVII. Scarcely any virtue found to re- CHAP. PAGE sist the power of long and pleasing temptation 28 XVIII. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue . . .31 XIX. The description of a person discon- tented with the present government, and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties 32 XX. The history of a philosophic vaga- bond, pursuing novelty, but losing content 35 XXI. The short continuance of friendship among the vicious, which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction . 40 XXII. Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom . . 43 XX III. None but the guilty can be long - and completely miserable . . 45 XXIV. Fresh calamities ... 46 XXV. No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort attending it . 4.8 XXVI. A reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete they should reward as well as punish . . 49 XXVII. The same subject continued . 51 XXVIII. Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of vir- tue in this life ; temporal evils or felicities being regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves trif- ling and unworthy its care in the distribution ... .5 XXIX. The equal dealing of Provi- dence demonstrated with regard to the happy and the miserable here be- low. That from the nature of plea- sure and pain, the wretched must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter . . .56 XXX. Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and fortune will at last change in our favour 58 XXXI. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest . GO XXXIL The conclusion . C5 AN INQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF PO- LITE LEARNING L Introduction 741.967 CONTENTS. II. The causes which contribute to the decline of learning . . . ib. III. A view of the obscure ages . . 72 IV. Of the present state of polite learning in Italy ..... 73 V. Of polite learning in Germany . . 74 VI. Of polite learning in Holland, and some other countries of Europe . 75 VIII [ Of polite learning in France . 77 I X. Of learning in Great Britain . . 79 X. Of rewarding genius in England . 80 XL Of the marks of literary decay in France and England . . .83 XII. Of the Stage .... 85 XIII. On Universities . . . .87 XIV. The Conclusion .... 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 93 ib. 94 95 ib. 97 ib. 98 103 107 ib. ib. Prologue by Laberius . . . . The Double Transformation . . . New Simile in the manner of Swift . Description of an Author's Bedchamber . The Hermit. A Ballad . . . An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . Stanzas on Woman . . . . The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society The Deserted Village . . . The Gift .... . Epitaph on Dr Parnell ... Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters . Epilogue spoken by Mrs Bulkley and Miss Catley . . . Epilogue intended for Mrs Bulkley . The Haunch of Venison . . . Song from the Oratorio of the Captivity Song ....... The Clown's Reply . . . . ib. Epitaph on Edward Purdon . . ib. An Elegy on Mrs Mary Blaize , . ib. Retaliation ...... 112 Postscript to ditto ..... 114 ib. . ib. .115 . ib. .116 108 109 ib. 111 ib. Song Prologue to Zobeide . . Epilogue spoken by Mr Lewes The Logicians Refuted . . Stanzas on the taking of Quebec On a beautiful Youth struck blind with Lightning ..... ib. A Sonnet ...... ib. DRAMATIC. The Good-Natured Man. A Comedy . 119 She Stoops to Conquer ; or, the Mistakes of a Night. A Comedy . . 145 LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FBIENDS IN THE EAST. LBTTBS L Introduction. A character of the Chi- nese philosopher .... 177 II. The arrival of the Chinese in London LBTTKR PAGE His motives for the journey. Some description of the streets and houses . . . . . ib. III. The description of London continu- ed. The luxury of the English. Its benefits. The fine gentleman. The fine lady . . . .178 IV. English pride. Liberty. An in- stance of both. Newspapers. Politeness 179 V. English passion for politics. A spe- cimen of a newspaper. Character- istic of the manners of different countries 181 VI. Happiness lost by seeking after re- finement. The Chinese philoso- pher's disgraces .... 182 VII. The tie of wisdom only to make us happy. The benefits of travelling upon the morals of a philosopher . 183 VIII. The Chinese deceived by a prosti- tute in the streets of London . 184 IX. The licentiousness of the English, with regard to women. Character of a woman's man . . ib X. The journey of the Chinese from Pe- kin to Moscow. The customs of the Daures . . . .185 XL The benefits of luxury, in making a people more wise and happy . . 186 XII. The funeral solemnities ot the Eng- lish. Their passion for flattering epitaphs . 187 XIII. An accouit of Westminster Al>- bey 188 XIV. The reception of the Chinese from a lady of distinction . . . 190 XV. Against cruelty to animals. A story from the Zendevest of Zoroas- ter 191 XVI. Of falsehood propagated by books seemingly sincere .... 192 XVII. Of the war now carried on be- tween F ance and England, with its frivolous motives . . .193 XVIII. The story of the Chinese matron 194 XIX. The English method of treating women caught in adultery. The Russian method .... XX. Some account of the reDublic of let- ters in England . . 197 XXI. The Chinese goes to see the play 198 XXII. The Chinese philosopher's son made a slave in Persia . . . 200 XXIII. The English subscription in fa- vour of the French prisoners com- mended 201 XXIV. The venders of quack medicines and nostrums ridiculed . . . 202 XXV- The natural rise and decline of kingdoms, exemplified in the his- toiy of the kingdom of Lao . 203 XXVI. The characterof the man in black, with some instances of his incon- sistent conduct . . 204 XXVI. The history of the man in black 205 CONTENTS. vii LKTTKB PAG* XXVII. On the great numbers of old maids and bachelors in London. Some of the causes . . . 208 XXVIII. A description of a club of authors 20S ' XXIX. The proceedings of the club of authors 210 XXX. The perfection of the Chinese in the art of gardening. The descrip- tion of a Chinese garden . .212 XXXI. Of the degeneracy of some of the English nobility. A mush- room feast among the Tartars . 213 XXXII. The manner of writing among the Chinese. The eastern tales of magazines, &c ridiculed . . 214 XXXIII. Of the present ridiculous pas- sior. of the nobility for painting . 216 XXXIV. The philosopher's son de- scribes a lady, his fellow-captive . 218 XXXV. A continuance of his corres- pondence. The beautiful captive consents to marry her lord . . ib. XXXVI. The correspondence still con- tinued. He begins to be disgusted in the pursuit of wisdom. An allegory to prove its futility . .219 XXXVII. The Chinese philosopher praises the justice of a late sentence and instances the injustice of the King of France, in the case of the Prince of Charolais . . 221 XXXVIII. The description of true po- liteness. Two letters of different countries, by ladies falsely thought polite at home .... 222 XXXIX. The English still have poets, though not versifiers . . . 22-1 XL. The behaviour of the congregation in St Paul's church at prayers . 225 XLL The history of China more replete with great actions than that of Europe 22G XLII. An apostrophe on the supposed death of Voltaire . . .227 XLII I. Wisdom and precept may lessen our miseries, but can never increase our positive satisfactions . . 228 XLIV. The ardour of the people of London in running after sights and monsters 230 XLV. A dream 231 XL VI- Misery best relieved by dissipa- I ution . 233 XL VI I. The absurdity of persons in high station pursuing employments beneath them, exemplified in a fairy tale 234 XLVIIL The fairy tale continued . 235 XLIX. An attempt to define what is meant by English liberty . . 236 L. A ^bookseller's visit to the Chinese . 238 LL The impossibility of distinguishing men in England by their dress. Two instances of this . . 239 LETTER PAG* LII. The absurd taste for obscene and pert novels, such as Tristram Shan- dy, ridiculed .... 240 LII I. The character of an important tri- fler 242 L1V. His character continued ; with that of his wife, his house, and furni- ture 243 LV. Some thoughts on the present situa- tion of affairs in the different coun- tries of Europe . . . . 244 L VI. The difficulty of rising in literary re- putation without intrigue or riches 246 LVII. A visitation dinner described . 246 LVIII. The Chinese philosopher's son escapes with the beautiful captive from slavery .... 248 LIX. The history of the beautiful cap- tive 249 LX. Proper lessons to a youth entering the world, with fables suited to the occasion 250 LXI. An authentic history of Catharina Alexowna, wife of Peter the Great 252 LXII. The rise or the decline of litera- ture, not dependent on man, but resulting from the vicissitudes of nature 253 LXIII. The great exchange happiness for show. Their folly in this respect of use to society .... 254 LXI V. The history of a philosophic cob- bler 25J LXV. The difference between love and gratitude 256 LXVI. The folly of attempting to learn wisdom by being recluse . . 258 LXVI I. Quacks ridiculed. Some parti- cularly mentioned . . . 259 L XVIII. The fear of mad dogs ridiculed 2GO LXIX. Fortune proved not to be blind. The story of the avaricious miller . 262 LXX. The shabby beau, the man in Llack, the Chinese philosopher, &c. at Vauxhall . ... 263 LXXL The marriage act censured . 265 LXXIL Life endeared by age . . 266 LXX III. The description of a little great man 267 LXX IV. The necessity of amusing each other with new books insisted upon 268 LXXV. The preference of grace to beauty ; an allegory . . . 270 LXXVI. The behaviour of a shopkeeper 271 after to his journeyman LXXVIL The French ridiculed their own manner . . . 27:$ LXX VIII. The preparations of both theatres for a winter campaign 273 LXXIX. The evil tendency of increas- ing penal laxvs, or enforcing even those already in being with rigour 27i LXXX. The ladies' trains ridiculed . 275 L XXXI. The sciences useful in 9 popu- riii CONTENTS/ lous state, prejudicial in a barbar- ous one ..... 27< LXXXJI. Some cautions on life, taken from a modern philosopher of China . . 277 LXXXIII. The anecdotes of several poets, who lived and died in cir- cumstances of wretchedness . . 279 LXXXIV. The trifling squabbles of stage-players ridiculed . . 28( LXXXV. The races of Newmarket ri- diculed. , The description of a cart race . ... 28 LXXXVI. The folly of the western parts of Europe in employing the Russians to fight their battles . 282 LXXXVII. The ladies advised to get husbands. A stoiy to this pur- pose .... . 283 LXXXVIIL The folly of remote or useless disquisitions among the learned 285 L XX XIX. The English subject to the spleen 286 XC. The influence of climate and soil upon the temper and dispositions of English 287 XCI. The manner in which some philo- sophers make artificial misery 288 XCIL The fondness of some to admire the writings of lords, &c. . . 2S XCIII. The philosopher's son is again separated from his beautiful com- panion ..... 29C XCIV- The father consoles him upon the occasion .... 291 XCV. The condolence and congratula- tion upon the death of the late king ridiculed. English mourning described .... . ib. XCVI. Almost every subject of litera- ture has been already exhausted . 293 XCVIIL A description of the courts of justice in Westminster Hall . . 294. XCVI I. A viait from the little beau. The indulgence with which the fair sex are treated in several parts of Asia . , . 295 XCIX. A life of independence praised 296 C. That people must be contented to be guided by those whom they have appointed to govern. A story to this effect 297 CI. Tlie passion for gaming among ladies ridiculed 298 CII. The Chinese philosopher begins to think of quitting England . . ib. CHI. The arts some make use of to ap- pear learned . . . 299 CIV. The intended coronation described 300 CV. Funeral elegies written upon the great, ridiculed. A specimen of one 301 The English too fond of believing every report without examination. LBTTBR PAGE A story of an incendiary to this purpose. ..... 803 CVII. The utility and entertainment which might result from a journey into the East .... 303 CVIII. The Chinese philosopher at- tempts to find out famous men . 304 CIX. Some projects for introducing Asi- atic employments into the courts of England 306 CX. On the different sects in England, particularly Methodism . . 30 CXI. An election described . . . 3C8 CXII. A literary contest of great impor- tance , in which both sides fight by epigram 309 CXIII. Against the naarriage act. A fable 311 CXI V. On the danger of having too high an opinion of human nature . . 312 CX V. Whether love be a natural or a fic- titious passion . .313 CXVI. A city night-piece . . .314 CXVJJ. On the meanness of the Dutch at the court of Japan . . . 315 CXVIII. On the distresses of the poor, exemplified in the life of a private sentinel 316 CXIX. On the absurdity of some late English titles . . . .318 CXX. The irresolution of the English accounted for . . . .319 CXXI. The manner of travellers in their usual relations ridiculed . . 320 CXXI I. The conclusion . . .321 The Life of Dr Parnell .... 323 The Life of Henry, Lord Viscount Bo- lingbroke . ... 332 Criticism on Massey's Translation of the Fasti of Ovid . . . .349 Criticism on Barrett's Translation of Ovid's Epistles .... 352 THE BEE. No. I. to VIIL 357-404 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. tfo. I. to XXIV. 40d-458 LIFE OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B. ** THE life of a Scholar," Dr Goldsmith has remarked, "seldom abounds with adven- ture: his fame is acquired 'in solitude; and the historian, who only views him at a distance, must be content with a dry detail of actions by which he is scarce distin- guished from the rest of mankind ; but we are fond of talking of those who have given us pleasure ; not that we have any thing important to say, but because the subject is pleasing-." Oliver Goldsmith, son of the Reverend Charles Goldsmith, was born in Elphin, in the county of Hoscommon, in Ireland, in the year 1729. His father had four sons, of whom Oliver was the third. After being well instructed in the classics, at the school of Mr Hughes, he was admitted a sizer in Trinity College, Dublin, on the llth of June, 1744. While he resided there, he exhibited no specimens of that genius, which, in maturer years, raised his character so high. On the 27th of February, 1749, O. S. (two years after the regular time), he obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts. Soon after he turned his thoughts to the profession of physic; and, after attending some courses of anatomy in Dublin, proceeded to Edinburgh, in the year 1751, where he studied the several branches of medicine under the different professors in that university. His beneficent disposition soon involved him in unexpected diffi- culties ; he was obliged precipitately to leave Scotland, in consequence of having en- gaged himself to pay a considerable sum of money for a fellow-student. The beginning of the year 1754, he arrived at Sunderland, near Newcastle, where he was arrested at the suit of one Barclay, a taylor in Edinburgh, to whom he had given security for his friend. By the good offices of Laughlane Maclane, Esq. and Dr Sleigh, who were then in the college, he was soon delivered out of the hands of the bailiff, and took his passage on board a Dutch ship to Rotterdam, where, after a short gtay he proceeded to Brussels. He then visited great part of Flanders ; and, after passing some time at Strasburg and Louvain, where he obtained the degree of Bache- lor in Physic, he accompanied an English gentleman to Geneva. It is undoubtedly a fact, that this ingenious unfortunate man made most part of his tour on foot. He had left England with very little money ; and being of a philosophic turn, and at the time possessing a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, and a heart not easily terrified by danger, he became an enthusiast to the design he had formed of seeing the manners of different countries. He had some knowledge of the French language, and of music; he played tolerably well on the German flute; which, from amusement, became at some times the means of subsistence. His learning produced LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. him a hospitable reception at most of the religious houses he visited ; and his music made him welcome to the peasants of Flanders and Germany. On his arrival at Geneva, he was recommended as a proper person for a travelling tutor to a young man, who had been unexpectedly left a considerable sum of money by his uncle Mr S . This youth, wno was articled to an attorney, on the re- ceipt of his fortune, determined to see the world. During his continuance ia Switzerland, Goldsmith assiduously cultivated his poeti- cal talent, of which he had given some striking proofs at the college of Edinburgh. It was from hence he sent the first sketch of his delightful epistle, called the Traveller, to his brother Henry, a clergyman in Ireland, who, giving up fame and fortune, had retired with an amiable wife to happiness and obscurity, on an income of only forty pounds a year. The great affection Goldsmith bore for his brother, is expressed in the poem before mentioned, and gives a striking picture of his situation. From Geneva Mr Goldsmith and his pupil proceeded to the south of France, where the young man, upon some disagreement with his preceptor, paid him the small part of his salary which was due, and embarked at Marseilles for England. Our wanderer was left once more upon the world at large, and passed through a number of difficulties in traversing the greatest part of France. At length his curiosity being gratified, he bent his course towards England, and arrived at Dover, the beginning of the winter, in the year 1758. His finances were so low on his return to England, that he with difficulty got to the metropolis, his whole stock of cash amounting to no more than a few half-pence. Being an entire stranger in London, his mind was filled with the most gloomy reflec- tions, in consequence of his embarrassed situation. He applied to several apothecaries, in hopes of being received in the capacity of a journeyman ; but his broad Irish accent, and the uncouthness of his appearance, occasioned him to meet with insult from most of the medical tribe. At length, however, a chemist, near Fish Street, struck with his forlorn condition, and the simplicity of his manner, took him into his laboratory, where he continued till he discovered that his old friend Dr Sleigh was in London " It was Sunday," said Goldsmith, " when I paid him a visit ; and it is to be supposed, in my best clothes. Sleigh scarcely knew me ; such is the tax the unfortunate pay to poverty. However, when he did recollect me, I found his heart as warm as ever ! and he shared his purse and his friendship with me during his continuance in London." Goldsmith, unwilling to be a burden to his friend, a short time after, eagerly em- braced an offer which was made him to assist the late Rev. Dr Milner, in instructing the youn gentlemen at the academy at Peckham ; and acquitted himself greatly to the Doctor's satisfaction for a short time ; but, having obtained some reputation by the criticisms he had written in the Monthly Review, Mr Griffith, the principal pro- prietor, engaged him in the compilation of it ; and resolving to pursue the profession of writing, he returned to London, as the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and reward. Here he determined to adopt a plan of the strictest economy, and, at the close of the year 1759, took lodgings in Green- Arbour Court, in the Old Bailey, where he wrote several ingenious pieces. His first works were, The Bee, a weekly pamphlet ; and, An inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe. The late Mr Newberry who, at that time, gave great encour- agement to men of literary abilities, became a kind patron to Goldsmith, and intro- duced him as one of the writers in the Public Ledger, in which his Citizen of the World originally appeared, under the title of ' Chinese Letters.' During this time LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. (according to another account) he wrote for the British Magazine, of which Dr SmoU let was then editor, most of those Essays and Tales, which he afterwards collected and published in a separate volume. He also wrote occasionally for the Critical Review; and it was the merit which he discovered in criticising a despicable translation of Ovid's Fasti, by a pedantic school-master, r.nd his Enquiry into the Present State of Learning in Europe, which first introduced him to the acquaintance of Dr Smollet, who recommended him to several of the literati, and to most of the booksellers, by whom he was afterwards patronised. Through the generosity of Mr Newberry, for whom he had written and compiled a number of pieces, or, in other terms, had held the pen of a ready writer, our author was enabled to shift his quarters from Green-Arbour Court to Wine-Office Court, in Fleet Street, where he put the finishing stroke to his Vicar of Wakefield. Having conciliated the esteem of Dr Johnson by that passport to the human heart, flattery, he gave so strong a recommendation of Goldsmith's novel, that the author obtained sixty pounds for the copy ; a sum far beyond his expectation, as he candidly acknow- ledged to a literary friend. But as Goldsmith's reputation, as a writer, was not yet established, the bookseller was doubtful of the success of the novel, and kept the man- uscript by him till the Traveller appeared, when he published it with great advantage. Among many other persons of distinction who were desirous to know our author, was the Duke of Northumberland ; and the circumstance that attended his introduc- tion to that nobleman, is worthy of being related, in order to show a striking trait of his character. ' I was invited,' said the Doctor, 'by my friend Percy, to wait upon the Duke in consequence of the satisfaction he had received from the perusal of one of my produc- tions. I dressed myself in the best manner I could, and after studying some compli- ments I thought necessary on such an occasion, proceeded to Northumberland House, and acquainted the servants that I had particular business with his Grace. They showed me into the anti-chamber, where, after waiting some time, a gentleman, very elegantly dressed, made his appearance. Taking him for the Duke, I delivered all the fine things I had composed, in order to compliment him on the honour he had done me; when to my great astonishment, he told me I had mistaken him for his master, who would see me immediately. At that instant the Duke came into the apartment; and I was so confounded on the occasion, that I wanted words barely sufficient to express the sense I entertained of the Duke's politeness, and went away exceedingly chagrined at the blunder I had committed.' The Doctor, at the time of this visit, was much embarrassed in his circumstances; but vain of the honour done him, was continually mentioning it. One of those ingenious executors of the law, a bailiff, who had a writ against him, determined to turn this circumstance to his own advantage. He wrote him a letter, that he was steward to a nobleman who was charmed with reading his last production, and had ordered him to desire the Doctor to appoint a place where he might have the honour of meeting him, to conduct him to his Lordship. The vanity of poor Goldsmith immediately swal- lowed the bait : he appointed the British Coffee-house, to which he was accompanied by his friend Mr Hamilton, the printer of the Critical Review, who in vain remon- strated on the singularity of the application. On entering the coffee-room, the bailiff paid his respects to the Doctor, and desired that he might have the honour of imme- diately attending him. They had scarce entered Pall Mall, in their way to his Lord. LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. fehip, when the bailiff produced his writ. Mr Hamilton generously paid the money and redeemed the Doctor from captivity. Dr Goldsmith, 1765, produced his poem of the Traveller, which obtained the com- mendation of Dr Johnson, who candidly acknowledged, "that there had not been so fine a poem since the time of Pope." But such was his diffidence, that he kept the manuscript by him some years ; nor could he be prevailed on to publish it, till per- suaded by Dr Johnson, who furnished him with some ideas for its enlargement. This poem, in consequence of the reception it met with from the public, enhanced his literary character with the booksellers, and introduced him to the notice of several persons eminent for their rank and superior talents, as Lord Nugent, Sir Joshua Rey- nolds, Dr Nugent, Beauclerc, Mr Dyer, c. These distinguished characters were en- tertained with his conversation, and highly pleased with his blunders : at the same time they admired the elegance of his poems, and the simplicity of the man. He published, in the same year, a Collection of Essays, which had previously appeared in the newspapers, magazines, and other periodical publications. But The Vicar of Wah.3- field, published in 1776, established his reputation, as a novelist. Goldsmith's finances augmented with his fame and enabled him to live in a superior style ; for, soon after the publication of his Traveller, he changed his lodgings in Wine-Office Court for a set of chambers in the Inner Temple ; and at the same time, in conjunction with Mr Bott, a literary friend, took a country house on the Edgeware Road, for the benefit of the air, and the convenience of retirement. He gave this lit" tie mansion the jocular appellation of the Shoemaker's Paradise, being built in a fan' tastic style by its original possessor, who was one of the craft. In this rural retirement he wrote his History of England, in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son; 'and, as an incontestable proof of the merit of this production, it was generally supposed to have come from the pen of Lord Lyttleton, one of the most elegant writers of his time ; and it may be further observed, to enhance the reputa- tion of the work, that it was never disavowed by that Noble Lord to any of his most intimate friends. It had a very extensive sale, and was introduced into many semin- aries of learning as a most useful guide to the study of English history. It was a true observation with the Doctor, "that of all his compilations, his Selection of English Poetry showed most the art of the profession." To furnish copy for this work, it required no invention, and but little thought : he had only to mark with a pencil the particular passages for the printer, so that he easily acquired two hundred pounds ; but then he observed, lest the premium should be deemed more than a com- pensation for the labour, " that a man shows his judgment in these selections; and he may be often twenty years of his life in cultivating that judgment." His comedy of the Good-natured Man was produced at Covent Garden Theatre in 1768, which, though it exibited strong marks of genius, and keen observations on men and manners, did not at first meet with that applause which was due to its merit. The bailiff scene was generally reprobated, though the characters were well drawn ; but, to comply, however, with the taste of the town, the scene was afterwards greatly abridged. Many parts were highly applauded, as possessing great comic genius, and particularly that of Croaker ; a character truly original, excellently conceived by the author, and highly supported by Shuter, the most popular comedian of his day. The manner of his reading the incendiary letter in the fourth act, and the expression o/ the different passions by which he was agitated, produced shouts of applause. Gold- LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. smith himself was so transported with the acting of Shuter, that he expressed hisgi&- titude to him before the whole company, assuring him, " he had exceeded his own idea of the character, and that the fine comic richness of his colouring made it almost appear as new to him as to any other person in the house." Dr Johnson, as a token of his friendship for the author, wrote the prologue. The production of this comedy added considerably to his purse, as, from the pro- fits of his three nights, and the sale of the copy, he acquired the sum of five hundred pounds, by which, with an additional sum he had reserved out of the product of a Roman History, in 2 vols. 8vo., and a History of England, 4 vols. 8vo., he was enar- bled to descend from the attic story he occupied in the Inner Temple, and take posses- sion of a spacious suit of chambers in Brook Court, Middle Temple, which he put chased at no less a sum than four hundred pounds. And was at the further charge of furnishing those chambers in an elegant manner. But this improvement in his circumstances, and manner of living, by no means com- pensated for the mortification he underwent from the very severe strictures of some rigid critics on his comedy. Sentimental writing was the prevailing taste of the town, with which a comedy, called False Delicacy, written by Kelly, abounded ; and being got up at the theatre in Drtiry Lane, under the superintendance of Mr Garrick, it met with such general approbation, that it was performed for several successive nights with unbounded applause, and bore away the palm from Goldsmith's comedy, which came out much at the same time at the other theatre. False Delicacy became so popular a piece, that ten thousand copies were sold in the course of only one season ; and the booksellers concerned in the property, as a token of their acknowledgment of the merit of the comedy, apparent from, its extraordinary sale, presented Kelly with a piece of plate of considerable value, and gave an elegant entertainment to him and his friends. These ciYcumstanees irritated Goldsmith to so violent a decree, as to dissolve the bands of friendship between Kelly and him ; for though, in every other instance, he bore a near resemblance to his own character of the good-natured man, yet, in literary fame, he " could bear no rival near his throne" Had not his countryman and fellow-bard aspired at rival-ship, had he been modestly content to move in an humbler sphere, he might not only have retained his friendship, but commanded his purse ; but, as em- phatically expressed by the same author from whom we cited the last quotation ; " To contend for the bow of Ulysses; this was a fault; that way envy lay." But Goldsmith, soon disgusted with such trivial pursuits, applied himself to nobler subjects, and produced a highly finished Poem, called The Deserted Village. The book- seller gave him a note of an hundred guineas for the copy, which Goldsmith returned, saying to a friend, " It is too much ; it is more than the honest bookseller can afford, or the piece is worth." He estimated the value according to the following computa- tion; "that it was near five shillings a couplet, which was more than any bookseller could afford, or, indeed any modern poetry was worth ;" but the sale was so rapid, that the bookseller with the greatest pleasure, soon paid him the hundred guineas, with acknowledgment for the generosity he had evinced upon the occasion. The author addresses this poem to his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds. He writes in the character of a native of a country village, to which he gives the name of Auburn, and which he pathetically addresses. He then proceeds to contrast the innocence and happiness of a simple and a natural state with the miseries and vices that have been introduced by polished life, and gives the following beautiful apostrophe to retirement : LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. ' O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine ; How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state. To spurn imploring famine from the gate j But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, "While resignation gently slopes the way And all his prospects brightening to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be past !' The description of the parish priest (probably intended for a character of his brothei Henry) would have done honour to any poet of any age. In this description the simile of the bird teaching- her young to fly, and of the mountain that rises above the storm, are not easily to be paralleled. The rest of the poem consists of the charac- ter of the village school-master, and a description of the village ale-house, both drawn with admirable propriety and force ; a descant on the mischiefs of luxury and wealth; the vanity of artificial pleasures; the miseries of those who, for want of employment at home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad; and concludes with the following beautiful apostrophe to poetry : And thou, sweet Poetry ! thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well. This finished poem was by no rooans a hasty production ; it occupied two years in composing; and was the effect of the most minute observation, during an excursion of between four and five years. Soon after the appearance of this work, he paid a tri. bute to the merit of Dr Parnell, in a Life prefixed to a new edition of that elegant writer's " Poems on several Occasions ;" a work that does honour to the head and heart of the author. The Doctor did not reap a profit from his poetical labours equal to those of his prose. The Earl of Lisburne, whose classical taste is well known, one day at a dinner of the Royal Academicians, lamented to the Doctor his neglecting the Muses, and inquired of him why he forsook poetry in which he was sure of charming his readers, to compile histories and write novels ? The Doctor replied, ' My Lord, by courting the Muses I shall starve ; but by my other labours, I eat, drink, have good clothes, and enjoy the luxuries of life.' The next comedy the Doctor produced was in the year 1772; it was called, She Stoops to Conquer, and proved more successful than the Good Natured Man. dolman LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. who was then manager of Covent Garden Theatre, and had given incontestable proofs of dramatic genius, in the production of various excellent pieces, was greatly mistaken in his judgment of this comedy, which he thought too farcical, and had consigned to condemnation at the time of its last rehearsal. Indeed, the performers in general, coin- cided with the manager in opinion. The pl?ce, however, notwithstanding the sentence pronounced by that acknowledged critic, was received with great applause, to his mortifi- cation, and the exultation of the author, who was not a little piqued at the critic from the following circumstance. The first night of the performance of his comedy, Goldsmith did not come to the house, till it approached the close, having been ruminating in St James's Park, on the very important decision of the fate of his piece then pending, and such was his anxiety and apprehension of its failure, that he was with great difficulty prevailed on to re- pair to the theatre, on the suggestion of a friend, who pointed rut the necessity of his presence, in order to take cognizance of any passages that might appear objectionable, for the purpose of omission or alteration in the repetition of the performance. Our author, with an expectation suspended between hope and fear, had scarcely entered the passage that leads to the stage, than his ears were shocked at a hiss, which pro- ceeded from the audience, as a token of their disapprobation of the farcical supposition of Mrs Hardcastle being so palpably deluded, as to conceive herself at the distance of fifty miles from her house, when she was not at the distance of fifty yards. Such were the tremour and agitation of the Doctor on this unwelcome salute, that, running up to the manager, he exclaimed, " What's that ?" " Pshaw ! Doctor," replied Col- Aian, in a sarcastic tone, " don't be terrified at squibs, when we have been sitting these two hours upon a barrel of gunpowder." Goldsmith's pride was so hurt by the poig- nancy of this remark, that the friendship which had before subsisted between the manager and the author was dissolved for life. The success of the comedy of She Stoops to Conquer produced a most illiberal per- sonal attack on the author in one of the public prints. Enraged at this abusive pub- lication, Dr Goldsmith repaired to the house of the publisher, and, after remonstrating on the malignity of this attack on his character, began to apply his cane to the shoul- ders of the publisher, who, making a powerful resistance, from being the defensive soon became the offensive combatant. Dr Kenrick, who was sitting in a private room of the publisher's, hearing a noise in the shop, came in and put an end to the fight, and conveyed the Doctor to a coach. The papers instantly teemed with fresh abuse on the impropriety of the Doctor's attempting to beat a person in his own house, on which in the Daily Advertiser of Wednesday, March the 31, 1773, he inserted th following Address . ' TO THE PUBLIC. 1 Lest it may be supposed that I have been willing to correct in others an abuse of which I have been guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that, in all my life, I never wrote, or dictated, a single paragraph, letter, or essay in a newspaper, except a few moral essays, under the character of a Chinese, about ten years ago in the Ledger ; and a letter, to which I signed my name, in the St James's Chronicle. If the liberty of the press therefore has been abused, I have had no hand in it. ' I have always considered the press as the protector of our freedom, and watchful gnardian, capable of uniting the weak against the encroachments of power. What xvi LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. concerns the public most properly admits of a public discussion. But of late, the press has turned from defending public interest, to making 1 inroads upon private life : from combating- the strong-, to overwhelming 1 the feeble. No condition is now too obscure for its abuse, and the protector is become the tyrant of the people. In this manner the freedom of the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution; the great must oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear, till, at last, every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, content with security from its insults. * How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently escapes in the general censure, I am unable to tell ; all I could wish is, that, as the law gives us no protection against the injury, so it should give calumniators no shelter after having provoked correction. The insults which we receive before the public, by being more open, are the more distressing; by treating them with silent contempt, we do not pay a sufficient deference to the opinion of the world. By recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the weakness of the law, which only serves to increase our mortification by failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider himself as a guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his influence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its licentousness becoming at last the grave of its freedom. OLIVER GOLDSTJITH.' The profits arising from his two comedies were estimated at 1300, rating the Good-natured Man, at 500, and She Stoops to Conquer at 800, which, with the product of other works, amounted, as is asserted upon a good authority, to 1800; but, through a profuse liberality to indigent authors, and particularly those of his own country, who played on his credulity, together with the effects of a habit he had contracted for gaming, he found himself, at the close of that very year, not in a state of enjoyment of a pleasing prospect before him, but enveloped in the gloom of des- pondency, and all the perplexities of debt, accumulated by his own indiscretion. It is remarkable, that, about this time, our author altered his mode of address; he rejected the title of Doctor, and assumed that of plain Mr Goldsmith. This innova- tion has been attributed to various causes. Some supposed he then formed a resolution never to engage as a practical professor in the healing art ; others imagined that he conceived the important appellation of Doctor, and the grave deportment attached to the character, incompatible with the man of fashion, to which he had the vanity to aspire ; but whatever might be his motive, he could not throw off the title, which the world imposed on him to the day of his death, and which is annexed to his memory at the present day, though he never obtained a degree superior to that of Bachelor of Physic. Though Goldsmith was indiscreet, he was, at the time, industrious ; and, though his genius was lively and fertile, he frequently submitted to the dull task of compilation. He had previously written Histories of Greece, and Rome ; and afterwards undertook, and finished, a work, entitled, A History of the Earth and Animated Nature ; but if a judgment may be formed of this work from the opinion of the learned, it redounded more to his emolument than his reputation. A short time before he paid the debt of nature, he had formed a design of compiling an Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, and had printed and distributed amongst his friends and acquaintances, a prospectus of the work ; but as he received LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. xv ii very little encouragement from the booksellers, he desisted, though reluctantly, from his design. His last production, Retaliation, though not intended for public view, but merely his own private amusement, and that of a few particular friends, exhibits strong marks of genuine humour. It originated from sorro jokes of festive merriment on the author's person and dialect, in a club of literary friends ; where good nature was sometimes sacrificed at the shrine of wit and sarcasm; and as Goldsmith could not disguise his feelings upon the occasion, he was called upon for Retaliation, which he produced the very next club meeting. It may not be so accurate as his other poetical productions, as he did not revise it, or Jive to finish it in the manner he intended ; yet high eulogiums have been passed on it by some of the first characters in the learned world, and it has obtained a place in most of the editions of the English Poets. Oar author now approached the period of his dissolution. He had been frequently attacked for some years with a strangury, and the embarrassed state of his affairs aggravated the violence of the disorder, which, with the agitation of his mind, brought on a nervous fever, that operated in so great a degree, that he exhibited signs of despair, and even a disgust with life itself. Finding his disorder rapidly increase, he sent for Mr Hawes, his apothecary, as well as intimate friend, to whom he related the symptoms of his malady. He told him he had taken two ounces of ipecacuanha wine as an emetic ; and expressed a great desire of making a trial of Dr James's fever powders, which he desired him to send him. The apothecary represented to his patient the impropriety of taking the medi- cine at that time ; but no argument could prevail with him to relinquish his intention ; BO that Mr ILiwes, apprehensive of the fatal consequences of his putting this rash resolve into execution, in order to divert him from it, requested permission to send for Dr Fordyce, who attended immediately on receiving the message. Doctor Fordyce, of whose medical abilities Goldsmith always expressed the highest sense, corroborated the opinion of the apothecary, and used every argument to disuade him from taking the powders; but, deaf to all the remonstrances of his physician and friend, he fatally persisted in his resolution : and when the apothecary visited him the following day, and inquired of him ho^F he did, he fetched a deep sigh, and said in a dejected tone, " He wished he had taken his friendly advice last night." The Doctor, alarmed at the dangerous symptoms which the disorder indicated, thought it necessary to call in the advice of another physician; and accordingly pro- posed sending for Dr Turton, of whom he knew Goldsmith had a great opinion. The proposal was acceded to ; a servant was immediately despatched with a message ; and on his arrival, the two Doctors assisted at a consultation, which they continued regu- larly every day, till the disorder put a period to the existence of their patient, on the 4th day of April, 1774, in the 45th year of his age. His friends, who were very numerous and respectable, had determined to bury him in Westminster Abbey : his pall was to have been supported by Lord Shelburn, Lord Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, the Hon. Mr Beauclerc, Mr Edmund Burke, and Mr Carrick ; but, from some unaccountable circumstances, this design was dropped ; and his remains were privately deposited in the Temple burial-ground, on Saturday, the 9th of April ; when Mr Hugh Kelly, Messrs John and Robert Day, Mr Palmer, Mr Etherington, and Mr Haweg, gentlemen who had been his friends in life, attended his corpse as mourners, and paid the last tribute to his memory. LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. A subscription, ho \vever, was afterwards raised by his friends, to defray the ex- pense of a marble monument, which was placed in Westminster Abbey, between Gay's monument and the Duke of Argyle's, in the Poets' Corner, with the following Latin inscription, written by his friend Dr Samuel Johnson: OLIVARI GOLDSMITH, Poetae, Physici, Historic!, Qui nullum fere scribendi genus Non tetigit, Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit, Sive Risus essent movendi Sive Lacrymae. Affectuum potens at lenis Dominator, Ingenio sublimis Vividus, Versatilis, Oratione grandis, nitidus, Venustus, Hoc Monumentum Memoriam coluit Sodaliuin Amor Amicorum Fides Lectorum. Veneratio Nalus Hibernia Forniae LonfordJiinsis In Loco cui Nomen Pallas Ncv. xxix. MDCCXXXI. .Sblanaa Literis institutus Obiit Londini April iv. MDCCLXXIV. Translation. This Monument is raised To The Memory of OLIVER GOLDSMITH, Poet, Natural Philosopher, and Historian, "*Vho left no species of writing untouched, or Unadorned by his Pen, Whether to move laughter, Or tU-aw tears : He was a powerful master Over the affections, Though at the same time a gentle tyrant; Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and Equal to every subject : In expression at oiice noble, Pure and delicate. His memory will last As long as society retains affection, Friendship is not vuid of honour, And reading wants not her admirers LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. He was born in the kingdom of Ireland, At Femes, in the province Of Leinster, "Where Pallas had set her name, 29th Nov. 1731. He was educated at Dublin, And died in London, 4th April, 1774-. As to his character, it is strongly illustrated by Mr Pope's line, ' In wit a man, simplicity a child. We insert the following lines, in verse and prose, written by a friend immediately U'ter liis death, as they were deemed faithful transcripts of his character. Here rests, from the cares of the world and his pen, A poet whose like we shall scarce meet again ; Who, though form'd in an age when corruption ran high, And folly alone seem'd with folly to vie ; When genius, with traffic too commonly train'd, Recounted her merits by what she had gain'd ; Yet spurn 'd at those walks of debasement and pelf, And in poverty's spite dared to think for himself. Thus free'd from those fetters the Muses oft bind, He wrote from the heart to the hearts of mankind ; And such was the prevalent force of his song, Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng. The lovers 'twas theirs to esteem and commend, For his Hermit had prov'd him their tutor and friend ; The statesman, his politic passions on fire, Arknowledg'd repose from the charms of his lyre. The moralist too had a feel for his rhymes, For his Essays were curbs on the rage of the times ; Nay, the critic, all school'd in grammatical sense, Who look'd in the glow of description for sense, Reform'd as he read, fell a dupe to his art, And confess'd by his eyes what he felt in his heart. Yet, blest with original powers like these, His principal force was on paper to please ; Like a fleet-footed hunter, though first in the chase, On the road of plain sense he oft slacken'd his pace ; Whilst dullness and cunning, by whipping and goring, Their hard-footed hackneys paraded before him ; Compounded likewise of such primitive parts, That his manners alone would have gain'd him our heart?. So simple in truth, so ingenuously kind, iSo ready to feel for the wants of mankind ; Yet praise but an author of popular quill, His flux of philanthropy quickly stood still ; Transform'd from himself, he grew meanly severe, And rail'd at those talents he ought not to fear. LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. Such then were his foibles ; but though they were sucn As shadow'd the picture a little too much, The style was all graceful, expressive, and grand, And the whole the result of a masterly hand. The prosaic eulogium which follows, does the highest honour to his character, both literary and personal. " In an age when genius and learning are too generally sacrificed to the purposes of ambition and avarice, it is the consolation of virtue, as well as its friends, that they can commemorate the name of Goldsmith as a shining example to the contrary. " Early compelled, like many of the greatest men. into the service of the Muses, he never once permitted his necessities to have the least improper influence on his con- duct; but, knowing and respecting the honourable line of his profession, he made no farther use of fiction than to set off the dignity of truth; and in this he succeeded so happily, that his writings stamp him no less the man of genius than the universal friend of mankind. " Such is the outline of his poetical character, which, perhaps, will be remembered whilst the first-rate poets of this country have any monuments left them. But, alas! his noble and immortal part, the good man, is only consigned to the short-lived me- mory of those who are left to lament his death. " Having naturally a powerful bias on his mind to the cause of virtue, he was cheerful and indefatigable in every pursuit of it ; warm in his friendship, gentle in his manners, and in every act of charity and benevolence, " the very milk of human nature." Nay, even his foibles, and little weaknesses of temper, may be said rather to simplify than degrade his understanding ; for, though there may be many instances adduced, to prove he was no man of the world, most of those instances would attest the unadulterated purity of his heart. One who esteemed the kindness and friendship of such a man, as forming a principal part of the happiness of this life, pays this last sincere and grateful tribute to his memory." The esteem in which onr author was held by Dr Johnson, Is evident from the fol- lowing passage, extracted from a letter of the Doctor to Mr Bos\vell, soon after his de- mise. " Of poor dear Dr Goldsmith there is little to be told, more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by uneasi- ness of mind. His debts began to be heavy, and all his resources were exhausted. Sir Joshua (Reynolds) is of opinion, that he owed no less than ttvo thousand pounds. VVas ever poet so trusted before ?" To so high a degree of literary fame did Goldsmith arrive, that the product of his writings in general is said to have amounted, in the course of fourteen years, to more than eight thousand pounds ; but this sum was dissipated by an improvident liberality, without discrimination of objects, and other foibles incidental to mankind, which our author could not see in himself, or if he could see, wanted resolution to correct. But with these foibles he possessed many virtues, and those particularly of humanity and benevolence, which disposed him to do all the good within his power ; so that he lived respected and died lamented. " The person of Goldsmith," says Mr Boswell, in the Life of Dr Johnson, " was short; his countenance coarse and vulgar; his deportment that of a scholar, awkwardly affecting the complete gentleman. No man had the art of displaying, with more ad- LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. vantage as a writer, whatever literary acquisitions he made. His mind resembled a fer. tile, but thin soil; there was a quick but not a strong vegetation of whatever chanced to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. The oak of the forest did not grow there ; but the elegant shrubhery, and the fragrant parterre, appeared in gay suc- cession. It has been generally circulated, and believed, that he was a mere fool in con- versation. In allusion to this, Mr Horatio Walpole, who admired his writings, said, lie was " an inspired idiot ;" and Garriek describes him as one : for shortness call'd Noll, Who wrote like an angel, and talk'd like poor Poll. But, in reality, these descriptions are greatly exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a more than common share of that hurry of ideas, which we often find in his countrymen, and which sometimes introduces a laughable confusion in expressing them. He was very much what the French call tin etourdi: and from vanity, and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever he was, he frequently talked carelessly, without any knowledge of the subject, or even without thought. Those who were any ways distinguished, excited envy in him to so ridiculous an excess, that the instances of it are hardly cre- dible. He, I am told, had no settled system of any sort, so that his conduct must not he too strictly criticised ; but his affections were social and generous, and when he had money, he bestowed it liberally. His desires of imaginary consequence frequently predominated over his attention to truth." His prose has been admitted as the model of perfection, and the standard of the Eng- lish language. D Johnson says, " Goldsmith was a man of such variety of powers, and such felicity of performance, that he seemed to excel in whatever he attempted ; a man who had the art of being minute without tediousness, and general without con- fusion; whose language was capacious without exuberance; exact without restraint; and easy without weakness. The most admired of his prosaic writings are the Vicar of Wdkefield, Essays t Letters from a Nobleman to his Son, and the Life of Par n ell. With respect to the Vicar of Wahcftcld, it is certainly a composition which has justly merited the applause of all discerning persons as one of the best novels in the English language. The diction is chaste, correct and elegant. The characters are drawn to the life ; and the scenes it exhibits are ingeniously variegated with honour and sentiment. The hero of the piece displays the most shining virtues that can adorn rela- tive and social life ; sincere in his professions, humane and generous in his disposition, he is himself a pattern of the character he represents, enforcing that excellent maxim, that example is more powerful than precept. His wife is drawn as possessing many laudable qualifications ; and her prevailing passion for external parade is an inoffensive foible, calculated rather to excite our mirth than incur our censure. The character of Olivia, the Vicar's eldest daughter, is contrasted with that of Sophia, the younger; the one being represented as of a disposition gay and volatile, the other as rather grave and steady; though neither of them seems to have indulged their peculiar propensity be- yond the bounds of moderation. Upon a review of this excellent production, it may be truly said, that it inculcates the purest lessons of morality and virtue, free from the rigid laws of Stoicism, and adapted to attract the esteem and observation of every ingenuous mind. It excites not xxii LIFE 0? GOLDSMITH. a thought that can be injurious in its tendency, nor breathes an idea that can offend the chastest ear ; or, as it has been expressed, the language is such as " angels might have heard, and virgins told." The writer who suggested this pleasing idea, observes further, that " if we do not always admire his knowledge or extensive philosophy, we feel the benevolence of his heart, and are charmed with the purity of its principles. If we do not follow, with awful reverence, the majesty of his reason, or the dignity of the long extended period, we at least catch a pleasing sentiment in a natural and unaffected style." Goldsmith's merit, as a poet, is universally acknowledged. His writings partake rather of the elegance and harmony of Pope, than the grandeur and sublimity of Milton ; and, as we observed before, from the authority of Dr Johnson, he rivals every writer of verse since the death of Pope ; so that it is to be lamented that his poetical productions are not more numerous; for though his ideas flowed rapidly, he arranged them with great caution, and occupied much time in polishing his periods, and harmonizing his numbers. His most favourite Poems arc the Traveller, Deserted Village, Hermit, and Retalia- tion, These productions may justly be ranked with the most admired works in English Poetry. The Traveller delights us with a display of charming imagery, refined ideas, and happy expressions. The characteristics of the different nations are strongly marked, and the predilection of each inhabitant in favour of his own ingeniously described. The Deserted Village is generally admired : the characters are drawn from the life. The descriptions are lively and picturesque ; and the whole appears so easy and natu- ral, as to bear the semblance of historical truth more than poetical fiction. The poem of ' The Hermit ' was at first inscribed to the Countess (afterwards Duch- ess) of Northumberland, who had shown a partiality for productions of this kind, by patronising Percy's * Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.' This led to a renewed intercourse with the Duke, to whom we have already narrated Goldsmith's first visit; but the time had gone by that his Grace could have been politically useful, and we do not know that our Author reaped any other advantage from the notice which that nobleman took of him, save the gratification his vanity might derive from being re- cognized by a man of the Duke's high rank and consequence as a literary friend. His last Poem of Retaliation, to which we have before adverted, is replete with humour, free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the prominent features of the several characters to which it alludes. Dr Johnson, a& reported by Mr Boswell, sums up his literary character in the following concise manner : " Take him (Goldsmith) as a Poet, his Traveller is a very fine performance and so is his Deserted Village, were it not sometimes too much the echo of his Traveller. Whether we take him as a Poet, as a Comic Writer, or as an Hi c Aorian, he stands in the first class." VICAR OF WAKEFIELI). THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD, CHAPTER I. THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKE- FIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PRE- VAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who continued single and only talked of population. From tbi*> motive, I had scarcely taken orders a y^ar,- be- fore I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did her wedding gown, not lor a fine glossy surface, but for such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable j^ojBfta.; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent CQutrivcr in housekeeping ; though I could r.cver find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we grew old. TJbere w;i_s in i'.iet, nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house situated in a fine country, and a. good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements, in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo , all our adventures were -side, and ail our migrations from the Lluu Li .1 to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste ourgoose- berry-wirie u for which we had great reputation ; aTuTT profess with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth re- move, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the herald's office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that as they wore the same I flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the : same table. So that if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy friends about us ; for this remark will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated : and as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wings of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like ; but never was the family of WAKEFIELD known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of doors. Thus we lived several years in a state -of much happiness, not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to" enhance the value of its favours. My or- chard was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. J.ly children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without softness^ so { they were at once well formed and healthy-; my sens hardy and active, my daughters beau* tiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry II. 's progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I con- sidered them as a very valuable present made VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. to my conntry, and consequently looked upon it as my Debtor. Our eldest son was named GEOHGE, after his uncle, woo left us tenthou. sand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I in- tend, d to call ssftei liei aunt Grissei ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy hid been read- ing romances, insisted upon her being called OLIVIA. In less than another year we had another daughter, and now 1 was determined that Grissei should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called SOPHIA ; so that we had two romantic names in the" family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years, we had two sons more. It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, " Well, upon my word, Mrs Prim- rose, you have the finest children in the whole country :"" Ay, neighbour," she would answer, " they are as heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should scarcely have remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country. Qiivii, now abou/. eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty, with which painters generally draw Iie.be ; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophias features, wui'e not- so striking, at iirsj;,. but often did more certain they were suit, modest, alluring. The one vanquished by .a single blow, the other by efforts successively repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features, at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please. Sophia even represt excellence, from her fears to offend. The one entertained me with her viy^gity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange charac- ters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribbons has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest, son George was bred nt .Gbd'otd, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous edu- cation at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters of young people that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and properly speaking, they had but one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. CHAPTER II. FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF TOE- TUNE ONLY SEUVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. THE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's management ; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own directions. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a T year, I made over to the orphans and 'widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for having sufficient for- tune of my own, I was careless of temporali- ties, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony : so that in a few years it was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses wan- ting customers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and 1 wrote several sermons to prove its happiness : but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting ; for I maintained with Winston, that it was unlaw- ful for a priest of tne church of England, after the .death of his first wife, to take a second, or, to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early initiated into this important dis- pute, on which so many laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but alas ! they had not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. 1 even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston ; so I wrote a similar epi- taph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedi, ence till death , and having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her ; it in- spired her with a passion for fame, and con- stantly put her in mind of her end. It was tli us, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergy- man, who was a dignitary in the church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss AIIAUKLLA Wiuiox was allowed by ali VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with in- difference. As Mr Wilrnot knew that I could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match ; so both fami- lies lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected alliance. Be- ing convinced by experience that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period ; and the various amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other's com- pany, seemed to increase their passion. We were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study : they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead ; for as she always insisted upon carving every thing her- self, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be removed ; and sometimes, with the music- oiaster's assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drink- ing tea, country dances, and forfeits, shortened tiifi.r.e.Si ,9f...th.&dtty, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except back-gammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played together , I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce ace five times running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought convenient to fix a djj Jojr thejiupjiais. of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need not de- scribe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters : in fact, my atten- tion was fixed on another object, the complet- ing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I Jooked upon this as a master-piece, both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation ; but not till too late I discov- ered that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ; for he was at that time actually This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance : but on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides : he asserted that J was heterodox. 1 re- torted the charge ; he replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the controversy was hottest. I was called out by one of my rela- tions, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. " How," cried I, " relinquish the cause of truth, arid let him be a husband already driven to the very verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me to give up my fortune, as my argument." rt Your fortune," returned my friend, " I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of baokmpicy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was un- willing to shock you or the family with the account till after the wedding: but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument ; for, I suppose, your own prudence, will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least, till your son has the young lady's for- tune secure." " Well," returned I, " if what you tell me be true, and if I am to, be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or in- duce uie to disuvow my principles. I'll go the company of my circumstances : and as for the argument, I this moment and inform the company of m) even here retract my former concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now to be a husband in any sense of the ex- pression." It would be endless to describe the differ, ent sensations of both families when I divulg. ed the news of our misfortune : but what others felt was slight to what the lovers ap peared to endure. Mr Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which was pru- dence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. ^ CHAPTER III. A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUM- STANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO HE OF OUR OWN PRO- CURING. THE only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortune might be mali- cious or premature; but a letter from my agent in to\vn soon came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been trifling j the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were to be humble without an education to render them callous to contempt. IV ear a fortnight had passed before I at- Jtenipied to restrain their affliction; for pre- matm-e consolation i but the remembrancer of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. were employed on some future means of sup- porting them ; and at last a small cure of fifteen pounds a-year was offered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still en- joy my principles without molestation. With this p'roposal I joyfully closed, having deter- mined to increase; my salary by managing a little farm. Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the wrecks of my for- tune : and, all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention, there- fore, was now to bring down the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness it- self. " You cannot be ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; but pru- dence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn to live without theirs ? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness, if we are wise ; and let us draw upon content for the deficien- cies of fortune." As my eldest jpn, was .b..red a scholar, I de- termined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most distress- ful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after t-r.king leave of his mother arid the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried I, "to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this staff, and this book too, it will be your comfort on the way : these two lines in it are worth a million, 1 have been young, and now am, old ; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread. Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a-year; still keep a good heart, and farewell." As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no apprehensions from throwing him naked in- to the amphitheatre of life ; for I knew he would act a good part whether vanquished or victorious. His departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrieed a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity, was not without a tear which scarcely fortitude itseL could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehen- sion ; and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to increase it. The first day's journey brought us in safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as what he drank would increase the bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was remov- ing, particularly 'Squire THORNHILL, who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he de- scribed as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being particu- larly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sux. He observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarcely a farmer's daughter within ten miles round, but what had found him successful and fjAJtb- le.,5g. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an .approaching tri- umph : nor was my wife less pleased and con- fident of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning. " Want money !" replied the host, "that must be im- possible ; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be -vhipped through the town for dog-stealing." The hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and dry in his address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. "_I take it with all my heart, Sir," replied he, " and am glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had about me, has shown me that there are still 'so'cbJe men like. you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. repay him as soon as possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. " This," cried he, " happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, hav- ing been detained here two days' by the floods, which I hope by to-morrow will be found pass- able." I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to \>tay supper. The stranger's conversation, which,/ ' x Was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high time to retire and take refresh- ment against the fatigues of the following day. The next morning we all set forward toge- ther : my family on horseback, while Mr Buu- CHELL, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by the road-side, observing with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving us hehind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mf BiiitnlHtll nnrl I bringing up the rear. Vt'e lightened tl.e fatigues of the load with philo- sophical disputes, which he seemed to und/tar. stand.uerfec.tly. But what surprised me mow was, that though lie was a money-borrowerV he defended his opinions with as much obsti-V uacy as if he had been my patron. He now nnd then also informed me to whom the diffe- rent seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. " That," cried he, point- ing to a very magnificent house which stood at some distance, "belongs to Mr Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town." ' What!" cried I, "is my young landlord then the nephew of a man, whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known ? I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most gen- erous yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate benevolence. "r"jlsome- thing, pernaps,~Too > mucTTscs^rcpIied IVTr Bur- chell ; " at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young ; for his passions were then strong, and as they were all upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and scholar ; was soon distinguish, ed inth~e ajrny^uncl had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most plea- sure from flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of their character ; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were y a.afals- Pbysicians tell us of a disorder, in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch gives pain : what some thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whe- ther real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjec- tured he found numbers disposed to solicit ; his profusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature ; that, indeed, was seen to increase as the other seemed to decay ; /he grew provident as he grew poor ; and though he talked like a man of sense, his ac- tions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew round him crowds of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited re- proaches and contempt. But in proportion as he became contemptible to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learnt to rev- erence. The world now began to wear different aspect ; the flattery of his friends be- gan to dwindle into simple approbation. Ap- probation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected produced their reproaches. He now therefore found, that such friends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable ; he now found that a man's own heart must be ever jfiven to gain that of another. I now found, that that I forget what I was going to ob- lerve : in short, Sir, he resolved to respect jiimself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he tra^eJUbed.-ihxough, JE- rope on foot, and. now, jLhough he has scarcely- attained the age of thirty, his, duccumstaaces are more afiiueut than ever. At present, his Bounties are more rational and moderate than before ; but still he preserves the character of centric virtues." My attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell's account, that I scarcely looked forward as he went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my family, when turning, I per- ceived my youngest daughter in the ipidst of i rapid stream, thrown from, her horse, and vtm^lin-- vvkk the torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My sen- sations were even too violent to permit my attempting her rescue : she must have certain- ly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowledgments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive as- sistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr Burchell was going to a different part of the country, he took leave ; and we pursued our journey, my wife observing as we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to jjjajh into such a family as our's, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain ; but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy. CHAPTER IV. A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FOUTUHK MAY GRANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES BUT CONSTITUTION. THE place of our retreat was in a little neigh- bourhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities, in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of man- ners,and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love- knots on Valentine morning, eat pan- cakes on Shrove- tide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprised of our ap- proach. the whole neighbourhood cuuie out to tatTr minister, dressed iu their iizui.st clothes, and preceded by pipe, and tabor. A fjejist also was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what the conversation wanted in \jyyt, was made up in Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river be- : fore : on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My for consisted of about tsyenjty .acxes^ of excellent land, having given an Hun- dred pounds for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures; the elms .arid,. hedge.-J.Q^s appear- ing with inexpressible beauty. My house tonsisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snug- ness: the walls on the inside were nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own desing. ing. Though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made :'t the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppecs being well scoured, and all disposed in im#bt rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two daugh- ters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children. T.he little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following manner; by $juwisfi.we all assembled in our common apart- ment; the fire being previously kindled by the servant. After we had ^1"*^ each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent ingratitude to that IJeing who gave us .another, day. ThTs~cTuty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in providing bjEaJsJaat, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, arid in philosophical arguments be- tween my son and me. As we rose with the sun, so we never pur- sued our labours after it was gone down, bu! returned home to the expecting family; where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant lire, were "prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests : sometimes farmer Flam- borough, our talkative neighbour, and often the bJjjmLpiper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine ; for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputa- tion. These hanr ess people had several ways of being good company; while one played, the other would s^ing some soothing baJUgd, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of Barbary Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my young- est boys being appointed to re.ad the lessojfc oi tlifijlay ; and he that read loudest, distinctest, .aad^hest, was to have an halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box. When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of fi.ner^ which all my sumptuary edicts could not I'eslraiu. How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters ; yet I found them still secretly attached to all their former finery : they still loved wB rjhr^ds, Iflflfa-fl 1 rAtpj- m y - wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. The first Sunday in particular their behavi- our served to mortify me ; I had desired my VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. girls the preceding night to be drest early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congrega- tion. They punctually obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daugh- ters, drest out in all their former splendour : their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, parti- cularly that of my wife, from whom J expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; but I repeated it with more solemnity than before " Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife, " we can walk it perfectly well : we want no coach to carry us now." " You mistake, child," re- turned I, " we do want a coach ; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us." "Indeed," replied my wife, " I always imagined that my diaries was fond of seeing his children Bg&j; Ml 1 * hyndfinmf h^"^ him." " You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These millings,. aj^ pi'^kjns r *uul paU&iugs, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our neighbours. " I\o, my children," continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. J do not know whether such flouncing and shred- ding is becoming even in the rich, if we con- sider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be clothed from the trimmings of the vain. This remonstrance had a proper effect ; they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and the next day I had the satisfaction of iinding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for l)ick and 13ill, the two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. CHAPTER V. A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT WE PLACE HOST HOPES UPON, GENE- RALLY PROVES iMOST FATAL. At a small distance from the house, my pre- decessor had made a seat, nv . ( 'jhad^vvf d. by *w hedgji o Jiayvthon.i .-mH hQBflyftUpkk* - Here, wLentlie weatTier was fine and our labour soon finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an Here too we drank fce_a. which was now become an occasional banquet ; and as we had it but seldom it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these occasions our two little ones always read to us, and they wore regularly served after we had done. Some- times, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the guitar ; and while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was embell- ished with blue-bells and centaury, talk of our children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. In this manner we began to find that every situation in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures : every morning awaked us to a repe- tition of toil ; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning ..of. autumn,- on a holiday, for I kept such as intervals of relaxa- tion from labour, that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within abouttwenty.pueesoi where .' sitting and by its panting it ^eia^a ! the hunters. Vv'c had not much time CMreBect upon the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was in- stantly for returning in with my family; but either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hid- den motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, past us with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste.(/ At last, a young gentleman of a more gentell appearance than the rest came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pursu- ing the chase, stopt bhort, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us with a .Can^-ss. ^"^rinr ^lr. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters, as one certain of a kind reception ; but they had early learnt the lesson of looking flreaumptHW j ftHi-i*i*fnifftT >n ' rMM> " Upon which he let us know his name was Tj^pj^tuli^ and that he was owner of the estate that lay for some extent round us. He again therefore offered to salute the female part of the family, and such was the power of fortune uud iinu clothes, that he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintances, 1 wink- ed upon my daughters in order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was counteracted by one from their mother ; so that, with u cheerful air, they gave us a-,ik^ouile> .song ot IkpaWs. Mr Thorn hill seemed highly de- lighted with, their ptrioruumte .awtLclioictt, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently ; however, my eldest, daughter repaid his former applause with in- 10 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. terest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a courtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his understanding; an age could not have made them better acquainted : While the fond mother, too, equally Chappy, insisted upon her landlord's stepping in, and tasting a glass of gooseberry. The whole family seemed earnest to please him : My girls attempted to entertain him with topics they thought most modern, while Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two from the a.ftcJJitS for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at : my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stran- ger. All my endeavours could scarcely keep their dirty lingers from handling -and .tauiislung the lace on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was there. At the approach of evening he took leave , but not till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed too. As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate hit ; for that she had known even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she pro-tested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinkles should marry great for- tunes, and her children get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it either, nor why Mr Simkims got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we sat down with a blank. "I protest, Charles," cried my \vite, " this is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of, our new visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be good-natured!" "Immensely so indeed, Mamma," replied she. "I. think he has a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at loss ; and the more trifling the sub- Ject7"the"more he has to say." " Yes," cried Olivia, " he is well enough for a man ; but for my o\vri part, I don't much like him, iuj is. so extremely impudent and familiar; but .on the guitar he is shocking." These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. J. found by this, that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly admired him. '' Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children," cried I, " to confess the truth, he has not prepossessed me in. his f a .vo'"v__Pigr proportioned friendships ever terminate in dis- gust ; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that h seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. .Let us keep to compan- ions of our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than a man that is a for- tune-hunter , and I can see no reason why for- tune-hunting women should not be contemp- tible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemp- tible if his views be honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! I should shudder but to think of that. It is true I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some from his character." I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the 'Squire, who with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well- timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than any thing I had to say could ob- viate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leav- ing it to their own discretion to avoid it, (That virtue which requires to be ever guarded, is scarcely worth the sentinel.) CH AFTER VI. THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRE-BIDE. As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommo- date matters, it was universally agreed, that we should have a part of the venison for supper ; and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. " I am sorry," cried I, " that we have no neighbour or stranger to take a part in this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire a dou- ble relish from hospitality." "Bless me, cried_my wife, " here comes our good friend Mr Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that ran you* down fairly in the argument." " Con- fute me in argument, child 1" cried I. " You mistake there, my dear; I believe there are Gut few that can do that ; I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg vouJX leave argument to me." As I spoke, poor Mr JBurchell entered the house, arid was welcomed by the family, who shook him hearti- ly by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man's friendship .for two reasons ; because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor Gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense ; but in general he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling them stories ; and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them; a piece of gingerbread, or a halfpenny whittle. He generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a-year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospitality. He sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry-wine. The tale went round ; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient GrisseU VJLCAU OF WAKEFIELD. .11 the adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosa- mond's Bower. Our cock, which always crew. at. jeleven, now told us it was time for repose ; but "wPunforeseen difficulty started about lodging the stranger all our beds were already taken up, and it was too late to send him to the ne v t ale-house. In this dilemma, little Dick offer- ed him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him . " And I," cried Bill, "will give Mr Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs." "Well done, my good children," cried I, " hos- pitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world, was he that came to save it. He never had a house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remain- ing amongst us. Deborah, my dear," cried I to my wife, " give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first. In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and our guest of!errtJg"nTs assistance, he was accepted among the number. Our labours went on lightly ; we turned the swath to the wind. I went foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, nowever, observing the assiduity of Mr Bur- chell in assisting my daughter Sophia in lu.-r yarj^o f ^the. task. When he had finished his own, he would join in her's, and enter into a close conversation : but I had too jjopd jm_ opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too well convinced of Lcr ambition, to. be under ;:ny uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When" we were finished for the day, Mr Uur- chell was invited as on the night before ; but he refused, as he was to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at sup- per turned upon our late unfortunate guest. : ' What a strong instance," said I, " is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn ^creature,, where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command ! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio papdfltv&rpvy-ii rich by his extraivavanee. They once praised Iiini, and now they applaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, .and per- haps deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to b^ independent, nor the skill to be useful." Prompted perhaps by some secret rea- sons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved, " Whatsoever his former conduct may Lave been, Papa, his circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly ; and ' have heard my Papa himself say, that we / have uea should never strike one unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment." " You are right, Sophy," cried my son Moses, " and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whos skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another. Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others, by what we might feel if in their place. Hflscever dark the habitatiou of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently, iigh-teeme. And to confess a truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station ; for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you." That was said without the least design, however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh* assuring him, that she scarcely took any notice of what he said to her ; but that she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she un- dertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were sympt< ais I did not internally approve ; but I repressed my suspicions. As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, while I taught the little ones : my daughters seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I observed them fora good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their mother ; but little Dick informed me in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; for I knew that instead of mending the complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore ajyjf (Qscked 4y chair, by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping, the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin another. CHAPTER VII A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. THE DULLKST FEL LOWS MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. WHEN the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were ex- hausted to make an appearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and daughters ex- panded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr Thornhili came with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse, but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr Burchell had hint- ed to us the day before, that he was making; 12 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. some proposals of marriage to Miss. WJlmot^ ray son George's former mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception : but accident in some measure relieved our em- barrassment ; for one of the company happen- ing to mention her name, Mr Thornhill ob- served with an oath, that he never knew any thing more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty: " For strike me ugly," continued he, " if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock at St Dunstan's." At this he laughed, and so did we : the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia too could not avoid whispering loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church ; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was the only mistress of his affections. " Come tell us honestly, Frank," said the Squire, with his usual archness, " suppose the Church, your present mistress, drest in lawn sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other, which would you be for?" " For both, to be sure," cried the chaplain. " Right, Frank," cried the Squire, " for may this glass suffocate me but a line girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. For what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture, and I can prove it." " J wish you would," cried my son Mo- ses ; "and I think, continued he, "that I should be able to answer you." " Very well, Sir," cried the Squire, who immediately smoked him, and winking on the rest of the company to prepare us for the sport, "if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it analogically^ cr dialogically?" " I am for managing it ra- tionally," cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. " Good again," cried the Squire, " and firstly, of the first : I hope you'll not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no further." " Why," returned Moses, " I think I may grant that, and make the best of it." " I hope too," returned the other, " you'll grant that a part is less than the whole." " I grant that too," cried Moses, "it is but just and rea- sonable." "I hope," cried the 'Squire, " you will not deny, that the two angles of a criangle are equal to two right ones." " No- thing can be plainer," returned t'other, and looked round with his usual importance." " Very well," cried the Squire, speaking very quick, "the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problema- tical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable." " Hold, hold," cried the other, " I deny that : Do you think I can thus tamelv submit to such heterodox doctrines?* " What!" replied the Squire, as if in a passion, " not submit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when he says, that iclatives are related ?" " Undoubtedly," replied the other. " If so, then," cried the Squire, " answer me directly to what I propose : Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give me your reasons : give me your reasons, I say, directly." " I protest," cried Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.* 1 " O Sir," cried the Squire, " I am your most humble servant ; I find you want me to furnish you v/ith argument and in- tellects too. No, Sir, there I protest you are too hard for me." This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; nor did he offer a single syllable more during the whole entertainment. But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the memory. She thought him therefore a~ very fine gentleman; and such as consider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr Thornhill, notwith- standing his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not sur- prising then, that such talents should win the affections of a girl, who by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in another. Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our young land- lord. As he directe.d his. looks and conversa- tion to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her bro- ther and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter's victory, as if it were her own. " And now my dear," cried she to me, " I'll fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our land- lord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now see that I was right; for who knows how this may end ?" " Ay, who knows that indeed !" answered I, with a groan : " For my part, I don't much like it; and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity, for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no free-thinkei shall ever have a child of mine." " Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too severe in this : for Heaven will nevo.r arraign him for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts- winch arise without his power to suppress. VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 13 Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that allowing his sen- timents to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors, than the governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford ?."< invading enemy." " True, my son," cried I ; " but if the go- vernor invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see ; but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. j So that, though our erroneous opinions be in- j voluntary when formed, yet as we have been i wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly." My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argument: she observed, that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very good hus- bands ; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make converts of their spouses : " And who knows, my dear," con- tinued she, " what Olivia may be able to do. | Thejgirl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well " Why, my dear, what controversy can she ! have read ?" cried I : "It does not occur to I me that I ever put such books into her hands : I you certainly over-rate her merit." " Indeed, papa," replied Olivia, " she does not ; I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwack urn and Square-, the controversy between' Robinson Crusoe and Friday, the savage, and am now employed in reading the controversy in Jleligious Court- sjhjjj." " Very well," cried I, " that's a good girl, I find you are Ffirffrtilyqilr nHfip d fnr making ! converts ; and so go help your mother to make the gooseberry-pie." CHAPTER VIII. AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. THE next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, To be displeased with the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my company and my fire-side. It is true, his lahau_more than requited his entertainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he- discovered to my daughter : He wonld, in a jesting manner, call her/his Jittle mistress, arid when he bought each ot the girls a set of ribands, h^rs_was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume, the siujei;ior_uit:s ot- Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two., blackbirds, an- swered each other from opposite liodge&r tha - familiar red-breast came and pecked the crumba- from our hands, and every sound seemed, but lESESOrBUUiiiirvty- " I never sit thus," says Sophia, "but I think of the so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck duiid iu eack-otuar'A- arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture." " In my opinion," cried my son, " the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Q'"^ The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better ; and upon that vigour art- fully managed, all strength in the pathetic de- pends." "It is remarkable," cried Mr Bur- chell, "that both the poets vou jneutiotuhavg. equally contributed to introduce a. .false, taste, into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their de- fects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, with- out plot or connexion ; a string of epithets that improve the sound, withouc cafryiu^ on tjjfi. Aimse. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, i*, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned." A BALL AD. " Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forloin and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flics To lure thee to thy doom. 14 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ** Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. '* Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows : My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. " No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them : '* But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, Arid water from the spring. " Then, pilgrim turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong ; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from Heaven descends, His gentle accents fell, The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care ; The wicket, op'ning with a latch, Received the harmless pair And now, when busy crowds retire To take their ev'ning rest, The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store, And gayly press'd, and smil'd ; And skill'd in legendary lore, The ling'ring hours beguil'd. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, "With answ'ring care opprest : fc And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? " From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay; And those who prize the paltry thing*, More trifling still than they. " And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep ? " And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise. Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. " Arid ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried ; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. " But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. " To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came ; Who prais'd me for imputed charms. And felt, or feign'd a flame. " Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. " In humble, simplest habit clad. No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had. But these were all to me. VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. u ' And when beside me in the dale, He carol'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove. " The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. " The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but wo to me, Their constancy was mine. " For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. " Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. * And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die ; Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." M Forbid it, Heaven !" the Hermit cried. And clasp'd her to his breast : The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide 'Twas Edwin's self that prest. '* Turn, Angelina, ever dear ! My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign : And shall we never, never part, My life my all that's mine ? " No never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too." While this ballad was reading, Sophia seem- ed to mix an air of tenderness with her appro- bation. But our tranquillity was soon dis- turbed by the T f 'Jl nr ,tr ftf a -fi'W- 1" st by us > an ^ immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright bad thrown hersqlf.iuia. &r, Erote.qtip.ri,, The gentleman came up and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirm- ing that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daugh- ter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with some reluct- ance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing, that ophy had made a con quest .of the chaplain, as well as her &is-. ter had.o..f the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections were placed upon a different object. The chap- lain's errand was to inform us, that Mr Thorn- hill had provided music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grassplot before our door. " Nor can I deny," continued he, "but I have an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be hon- oured with Miss Sophy's hand as a partner." To this my girl replied, that she should have no objection, if she could do it with honour ; " But here," continued she, " is a gentleman," | looking at Mr Burchell, " who has been my I companion in the task for the day, and it is fit i he should share in its amusements." Mr Bur- chell returned her a compliment for her inten- tions j but resigned her up to the chaplain, ad- ding, that he was to go that night five miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His re- fusal appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a man of brok- en fortunes to one whose expectations were much greater. .But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted lor mutual inspection.^ CHAPTER IX. TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRO- DUCED. SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. Mr BURCHELL had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with the chap- lain, when my little ones came running out to tell us, that the Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon our return in, we found our landlord, with a couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly drest, whom he introduced as women of very great distinction and fashion from town. We hap. pened not to have chairs enough for the whole company; but Mr Thornhill immediately proposed, that every gentleman should sit in * lady's lap. This I positively objected to, not- 16 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. withstanding a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was therefore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set at country dances, the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flamborough's jgsjLdailghlfirs, flaunting with red top-knots ; but an unlucky circumstance was not adverted to though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and round-about to perfection, yet they were totally unacquainted with country dances. This at first discom- posed us : however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our music consisted of twp^.fij^le^ mtk.a, pipe arid tabor. The moon shone bright. Mr Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators ; for the neighbours, hearing what was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much cj.ujyd_jy,v:acit that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart, by assuring me, that though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were jtolen from herself. " The ladies, of tlie town strove hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled Inntriiishpd "-"* the gazers indeed owned that it was fine -, but neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livyjsfeet^ eeemed to pat to the music asTflTecn'o. After the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed, that by the living jingo she was all of a muck of sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The conversation at this time was more reserved than before. The tvo ladies threw my girls quite into the shade ; for the wojjliLtalk_j and high : liyed company ; with other fashion able topics, such us pictures, tuste, Shakspeai*,. and the musical glasses. 'Tis true they once or t\vice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me. as the surest symptom of their distinction (though I am since informed that swearing is perfectly un- fashionable;. Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in tljeir conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments with envy; and what ap- peared amiss, was ascribed to tip- top quality breeding. J3ut the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other accomplish. ments. One of them observed, that had Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would greatly improve her. To which the other add- ed, that a single winter in town would make her little Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; adding, that there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a. single winter's polishing. To this I could riot help" repIyingT'that theii breeding was already superior to their fortune : and that greater refinement would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. " And what pleasures," cried Mr Thornhill, " do they not deserve to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow ? As for my part," continued he, " my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure are my maxims ; but curse me if a settlement or half my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and the only favour I would ask in return would be to add -myself to the benefit." I was not such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to disguise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress my resentment. " Sir." cried I, " the family which you now conde- scend to favour with your company, has been bred with us nice a sense of honour -as you. Any attempts to injure that, may be attended with very dangerous consequences. J^no. u Ji.Si r is our only possession at present, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful." I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. " As to your present hint," continued he, " 1 protest nothing was farther from my heart than such a thought. No, by all that's tempt- ing, the virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried by a coup-de-main." The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very dis- creet and serious dialogue upon virtue ; in this my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon joined ; and the 'Squire himself was at last brought to con- fess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal: and in "this manner the night was passed in a most com- fortable way, till at last the company began to think of returning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular affection, and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company home. The 'Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife added her entreaties; thp. girls too looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made two or three excuses, which my daughters as readily re- moved ; so that at last I was obliged to give a VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 17 peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing but sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. CHAPTER X. THE FAMILY ENDEAVOURS TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES. I NOW began to find, that all my long and pain- ful lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment, were entirely disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride which I had laid asleep, but not re- moved. Our windows, again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the neck tad-fate. The suii"was dreaded as an enemy to the skin witTTofir doors, and the fire as a spoiler of tliii ^nT?eiu,{i. \lilluii*. IVIy wife observed that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eves^ that working after dinner would redden their and she convinced me that the never looked so white as when they did no- thing. Instead therefore of finishing George's shirts, we now had them new-modelling thi old .uan/es, or ilouri^hin, poor Miss Flamboroug ig u hs, upon flaliinit' The their former gay companions, were cast off as mean acquain- tance, and the whole coB.vcr.sa.tion run upuu hi^h life ami high- lived company, wkk pic- tast j r But we could have borne all this, had not a come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny siby} no sooner appeared, than my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth I was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling ; though for the honour of the family it must be observed, that they never went without money themselves, as my wife always let them have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets, but with strict injunc- tions never to change it. After they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their looks, upon their return- ing, that they had been promised something great " Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee a pennyworth ?" " I protest, Papa," says the girl, " I believe she deals with somebody that's not right; for she positively declared, that I am to be married to a 'Squire in less than a twelvemonth I" " Well, now Sophy, my child," said I, " and what sort of a husband are you to have ?" " Sir," replied she, " I am to have a Luni ,-oon after my sister uas mar- ried the "Squire." "How," cried i, "is that Only a Lord and a ' Squire Jar .two shillings ! You fools, I could have promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the niouey." This curiosity of theirs, however, ?vas at. tended with very serious effects : we now be- gan to think ourselves designed by the stars tc something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more, that the;' hours we pass with happy prospects in view, are pleasing than those crnvyfled,. vvit.h_.fjn.'f.iss% As :or my part, it appeared to me one of the vil- est instances of unprovoked ^QmtituAo l haxT met with ; nor could I account for it in any other manner, than by imputing it to his de- sire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have the more frequent opportuni- ;ies of an interview. In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes Qf,nYP 1 ?Sfia n .f g j when our other Tittle b"6y came running in to tell us ;hat Mr Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to con- ceive than describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent in. ury, and the pleasure of an approaching ven- geance. ) Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be >erfectly cutting. For this purpose^ yxg Jgrjg&$ o .meet him with qur usual smile.s ; to .chat ir. he beginning with more thaa ordinary land- less ; to amuse him a little ; and then, in the nidst of the flattering calm, to burst upon \ n'm like an earthquake, and overwhelm him vith a sense of his o\vn baseness. This being esolvcd upon, my wife undertook to manage he business herself, as she really had som3 alents for such an undertaking. We saw him ipproach ; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down "A fine day, Mr Burchell." " A r ery fine day, Doctor; though I fancy we hall have some rain by the shooting of my corns" " The shooting of your horns ! " cried my wife in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke "Dear Vladam,'' replied he, " I pardon you with all ny heart, for I protest I should not have thought t a joke had you not told me." " Perhaps not, Sir," cried my wife, winking at us ; " and pet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes jo to an ounce.'' " I fancy, Madam,' 1 returned Burchell, " you have been reading a jest book his morning, that ounce of jokes is so very jood a conceit ; and yet, Madam, I had rather ee half an ounce of understanding." " I be- ieve you might,'' cried my wife, still smiling us, though the laugh' was against her; VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 4 and yet I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very little." " And no doubt," returned her antagonist, " you have known ladies set up for wit that had none." I quickly began to find that my wife was Jikely to gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a style of more seve- rity myself. " Both wit and understanding," cried I, "are trifle* without integrity; it is t which gives value to every character..' e ignorant peasant without fault, is greatetf a the philosopher with many ; for what i$ genius or courage without an heart ? At. honest man is the noblest work of GW." " I always held that hackneyed muxinp of Pope," returned Mr Burchell, " as verr unworthy a man of genius, and a base deserl tion of his own superiority. As the reputa- tion of books is raised, not bv their freedom Irom defect, but the greatness of their beau- ties ; so should that of men be prized, not for their exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic,, who laboriously plods through life without! censure or applause ? We might as well pre fer the tame correct paintings of the Flemis' school, to the erroneous but sublime anima- tions of the Roman pencil." " Sir," replied I, "your present observatio Is just, when there are shining virtues an minute defects ; but when it appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a character de- serves contempt." " Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of their existence : on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the mind was capacious, the affections were good. And indeed Pro- vidence seems kindly our Mend in this par- ticular, thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power, where there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other ani- mals : the little vermin race are ever treacher- ous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those endow- ed with strength and power, are generous, brave, and gentle." / " These observations sound well," returned " and yet it would be easy this moment to point out a man," and I fixed my eyes stedfast- ly upon him, " whose head and heart form most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir," continu- ed I, raising my voice, " and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst^ of his fancied security. Do you know this, Sir, this pocket book ?" " Yes, Sir," return- ed he, with a face of impenetrable assurance, ' that pocket book is mine, and I am glad you have found it." "And do you know," cried J, " this letter ? Nay, never falter, man ; M> < P Uj in but look me full in the face : 1 say do you know this letter?" " That letter," returned he ; "yes, it was I that wrote that letter." " And how could you," said I, "so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this letter ?" " And how came you," replied he with looks of unparalleled effrontery, ' ; so basely to pre- sume to break open this letter? Don't you know, now, I could hang you all for this? All that I have to do is to swear at the next Justice's, that you have been guilty of break- ing open the lock of my pocket book, and so hang you all up at this door." This piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could scarcely govern my pas- sion. " Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness ! begone, and never let me see thee again ! Go from my door, and the only punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor !" So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost composure, left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his villanies. " My dear," cried I, willing to calm those passions that had been raised too high among us, " we are not to be surprised that bad men want shame ; they only blush at being detected in doing good, but glory in their vices." ^^ ***4* Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and in the beginning of their journey, inseparably kept together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both : Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame often betray- ed the secret conspiracies or Guilt. After long disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner; but Shame being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey they had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a few stages in vice, Shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upop the few virtues they have still remaining." CHAPTER XVI. 'THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH is O?POSED WITH STILI. GREATER. WHATEVER might have been Sophia's sezi- sations, the rest of the family was easily con- [soled for Mr Burchell's absence by the com- my of our landlord, whose visits now became lore frequent, and longer. Though he tad uen disappointed in procuring my daughters the amusements of the town us he designed, VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. he iQok every opportunity of supplying them with those little recreations which our retire- ment would admit of. He usually came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing the town, with every part of which he was paru- cularly acquainted. He could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmo- sphere of the playhouses, and had all the good j things of the high wits by rote, long before they made their way into the jest books. The intervals between conversation were employed j in teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes | in setting my two little ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it : but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. J^rnjifif. hp owned, that my .wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; or, to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. ' It' the cakes at tea eat short and crisp, they 'were made by Olivia ; if the goose- berry wine was well knit, the gooseberries \\viv of her gathering ; it was her lingers which gave the pickles, their peculiar grccu ; awl in die composition of a pudding, it was her jodg-- nicnt that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes tell the Squire, that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see which was tallest. There instances of c.utijjiflg, j which she thought impenetrable, yet which every body saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of his passion, which, though they had not arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of it : and his was attributed sometimes to native bashtu 10 his fiax .of of- ien.dln^.his_uude. An occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of our family ; my wife even regarded it as an absolute promise. My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got "their pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen shillings a-head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry injjomt^fja&te, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner f for what could I do ? our next deliberation was, to show the superiority of our taste in the atti- tudes. As for our neighbour's family, there were seven of thenij and they were dra\va with. seven oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. We desired to have something in a brigluerjjtyje, and after many debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of bein^r drawn together in one large historical family This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more, geAtgel ; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. Aa we did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historical figures. -Viy wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, while I in my gown and band, was to present her with my books on the Whistoman eontro- \&y. Olivia would be drawn as an A^a^on sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Joseph,, rjf |]]y ]ftd witfr ynlH ^ a whip uf her hand, Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could put in for iiothing; and Moaeswas to be dressed out with H kit and white feather. Onr taste so muck pleased the 'Squire, that he insisted on being -put in as one' of the family in the charactei of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an indica- tion of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as he wrought with assjduity ,andL exj^djiiou, ic less than four days_ the whole was completed. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did riot spare his colours ; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We were all per- fectly satisfied with his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large that vye had no place 1 in the. House to fix.. it. How we ail came to disregard so material a point is in- conceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leftUfid, in a most mortifying manner against the kitchen wall, where the canvass was stretched. and painted, much too large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest of ail our neigh- hours. One compared it to Robinson Cru- soe's long-boat, too large to be removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle : some wondered how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in. But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more malicious suggestions .n many. The 'Squire's portrait being found united with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whisnjers began to circulate at our "expense, and our tranquillity was continually disturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what was oaid of us by enemies. These reports we always re seiited, with becoming spirit ; but scandal ever improves by opposition. We once again therefore entered into a consultation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had too much cunning to give me entire 23 VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. satisfaction. It was this : as our principal object was to discover the honour of Mr Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sowul him, by pretending .to ask his advice in the. choice of a husband for her eldest, daugh- fer. If this was not f ound. sufficient to indu.ce him to a (.leclamtion, it . was then resolved to terrTFj lam wkh jv.jisai. To this last step, However, I would by no means give my con- sent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn as- surances that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, which, though I j did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely approve. The next time, therefore, that Mr Thorn- hill came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their Mamma im opportunity of putting her scheme in exe- cution ; but they only retired to the next room, whence they could overhear the whole conversation. My wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss Flam- uoroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr Spanker. To this the 'Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands : "But heaven help," continued she, " the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, Mr Thornhill? or what signifies all the virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? It is not, what is she ? but, what has she ? is all the cry." " Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the justice, as well as the novelty of your re- marks, and if I were a king, it should be other- wise. It should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide. " "Ah, Sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased to be facetious : but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daugh- ter should look for a husband. But, now that you have put it into my head, seriously, Mr Thornhill, can't you recommend me a proper husband for her? she is now nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, arid in my numble opinion, does not want for parts. " " Madam," replied he, " If I were to choose, I would find out a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and since- rity ; such, Madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband." " Ay, Sir," said she, " but do you know of any such person ?" ' ^.'o, .Madam," returned he, " it ib impossible I' know any person that., deserves .to ba her us band : she's too great a treasure for one man's possession j she's a goddess ! Upon my coul, I speak what I think, she's an angel." "Ah, Mr Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl; but we have been thinking of marrying Tiei to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager; yon know whom I mean, farmer Williams ; a warm man, Mr Thornhill, able to give her good bread ; and who has several times made her proposals, (which was actually the case) : but, Sir," concluded she, " I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice. " " How, Madam," replied he, "my approbation ! My approbation of such a choice ! Never. What ! sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and good- ness, to a creature insensible of the blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice ! And I have my reasons."' " Indeed, Sir," cried Deborah, " if you have your reasons, that's another affair : but I should be glad to know these reasons." " Excuse me, Madam," returned he, " they lie too deep for discovery, (laying his hand upon his bosom) ; they remain buried, rivetted here." After he was gone, upon a general consul- tation, we could not tell what to make'of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them : yet whatever they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of fanner Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. CHAPTER XVII. SCASCZLY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THB POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION, As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encourage- ment to revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and Mr Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger ; but Williams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation. Qlffl a - on her side, acted thj coquette tojxn;fection, if that mightTTe caf acting which was her real character, Rret o lavish all her tenderness on her ne w'lover, ?,Ir TliornTiill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though I own it puzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring an honourable passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's an- guish was still greater. After any of these interviews between her lovers, of which there were several, she usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situa- tion I found her one evening, after she had been for some time supporting a fictitious gaiety. You now see, my child," said I, " that your VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 20 confidence in Mr Thornhill's passion was all a dieam : he permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid declaration." " Yes, Papa," returned she, "but he has his reasons for this delay: I know he has. The sincerity of his looks azii words convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just than yours." " Olivia, my darling," returned I, "every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to com- pel him to a declaration, has been proposed and planned by yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my dear,, that .1 .will e instrumental in suffering his hoii^tt be the- dupe uf your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation, shall be granted; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must absolutely in- sist that honest Mr Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life demands this from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence my integrity as a man. Name then your day ; let it be as distant as you think proper ; and in the mean time, take care to let Mr Thornhill know the exact time on which I design delivering you up to another. If he really loves you his own good sense will readily suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you for ever." This proposal, which she could not avoid con- sidering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her most positive promise of marrying Mr Williams, in case of the other's insensibility; and at the next op- portunity, in Mr Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. Such vigorous proceedings seemed to re- double Mr Thornhill's anxiety: but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence '\nd passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every op- portunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr Thorn- hill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous : but not more open. On the third he discon- tinued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I ex- pected, she seemed to retain a pensive tran- quillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation. It was within about four days of her intend- ed nuptials, that my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future jusied in forming a tnousand projects, and aughing at whatever folly came uppermost. ' Well Moses," cried I, "' we shall soon, my 3oy, have a wedding in tne family: what is your opinion of matters and things in general?" " My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just now thinking, that ,vhen sister Livy is married to farmer .Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cyder-press and brewing tubs for nothing,", r< That we shall, Moses," cried I, " and he will sing ue Death and the Lady, to raise our spirits into the bargain." " He has taught that song to our Dick," cried Moses, " and I think he goes hrough it very prettily." " Does he so?" cried I, then let us have it: where's little Dick? et him up with it boldly." " My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, " is just gone out with sister Livy: but Mr Williams has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, Papa. Wtocji^sonsjdc iw^hojg&Jfa Swart) or the Eleyy on the Death of a The elegy, child by all means," said l ; " I never heard that yet ; and Deborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry-wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome me ; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little." AM ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man ; Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found; As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye. ; 30 YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light. That show'd the rogues they lied The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died. " A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that may be truly called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day be a bishop !" " With all my heart," cried my wife ; " and if he but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family by the mother's side, could sing a good song : it was a common saying in our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story." " How- ever that be," cried, I, " the most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases -me -better than ".he fine modern odes, and things that petrify us in a single stanza ; productions that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother Moses. The great fault of these ele- giasts is, that they are iu despair for griefs that give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muliy her _ fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to ver- ^hat may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sublimer compositions ; but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould : Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; ne gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they gave good advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can." " And very good advice too," cried I ; " and I am told there is not a place in the world where advice can be given with so much pro- priety as there ; for as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife : and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, ivhere we are told what we want, and supplied with it when wanting." " Yes Sir," returned Moses, " and I know but of two such markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a- year; but our English wives are saleable every night." " You are right, my boy," cried his mother, " Old England is the only place in the world for husbands to get wives." " And for wives to manage their husbands, "interrupted I. " It is a proverb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the continent would come over to take pattern from ours j lor there are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life ; and Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, ana competence. I think myself happier now than the greatest, monarch upon earth. He has no such fire -side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and vir- tuous race of children behind us. While we live, they will be our support and our pleasure here ; and when we die, they will transmit our honour untainted to posterity.<&Come, my son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia ? That little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the con- cert." Just as I spoke Dick came running in. " O Papa, Papa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us ; my sister Livy is gone from us for ever." " Gone, child !" " Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he would die for her : and she cried very much, arid was for coming back ; but he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, O what will my poor Papa do when he knows am undone I 1 * " Now then," cried I, " my children go and be miserable : for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And O may / Heaven's everlasting fury light upon him and/ his! Thus to rob me of my child! And I sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent \ that I was leading up to heaven. Such sin- \ cerity as my child was possessed of ! But all our earthly happiness is now over ! Go my children, go and be miserable and infamous : for my heart is broken within me !" " Father," cried my son, " is this your forti- tude? " Fortitude, child ! yes, ye shall see I have fortitude ! Bring me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor : While he is on earth Til pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The villain ! The perfidious villain !" I had by this time reached down my pistols, when my poor wife, whose pas- sions were not so strong as mine, caught me in her arms. " My dearest, dearest husband," cried she, " the Bible is the only weapon thaf is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived us." " Indeed, Sir," resumed my son, after a pause, " your rage is too violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character, thus to curse your greatest enemy : you should not have cursed him, villain as he is." " I did not curse him, child, did I?" " Indeed, Sir, you did ; you curst him twice,." " Then may Heaven forgive me and him If I did ! And now, my son, I see it was mote than human benevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies ! Blessed be his holy name for all the good he hath given, and for all thai he hath taken away. But it is not it is not VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. a small distress that can wnng tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. My child ! To undo my darling ; May confusion seize Heaven forgive me. what am I about to say ! You may remember my love, how good she was, and how chard, ing ; till this vile moment all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! But she is gone, the honour of our family conta- minated, and I must look out for happiness in / other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off : perhaps he forced her away ? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent." " Ah, no, Sir," cried the child ; " he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast." " She's an ungrate- ful creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, " to use us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her affec- tions. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation, thus to bring your grey hairs to the grave ; and I must Shortly follova^" . . .. j.- TiT this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of en- thusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. " Never," cried she, " shall that vilest stain of our family again darken these harmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile seducer : she may bring us to shame, but she shall never more deceive us." " Wife," said I, " do not talk thus hardly : my detestation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house and this heart be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her transgres- sions, the more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time the very best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of sim- plicity, but every other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though stained with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang j fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance I there. My son, bring hither my Bible and . my staff : I will pursue her, wherever she is ; and though I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity." CHAPTER XVIII. THE PURSUIT OP A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. THOUGH the child could not describe the gentleman's person who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon pur young landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thorn- hill-castle, resolving to upbraid him, and ii possible to bring back my daughter : but be- fore I had reached his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw a young lady resembling my daughter, in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only guess to be Mr Burcheil, and that they drove very fast. This information, however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young 'Squire's, and though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately. He soon appeared with, the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed^ at my daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was quite a stranger tu it, I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and could turn them only on Mr BiUflihfill who I recollected had of late several private conferences with her : but the appear- ance of another witness left me no room to doubt his villany, who averred, that he and my daughter, were actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right. I never debated with myself, whether these accounts might not have been given by per- sons purposely placed in my way to mislead me. but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fan- cied deluder thither. I walked along with ear- nestness, and inquired of sereral by the way ; but received no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom I re- membered to have seen at the 'Squire's, and he assured me, that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty miles farther, J might depend upon overtaking them ; for he had seen them dance there the night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter's performance. Early the next day, I walked forward to the races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The company made a very brilliant appear- ance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure ; how different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought I perceived Mr Burcheil at some dis- tance from me : but, as if he dreaded an inter- view, upon my approaching him, he mixed among a crowd arid I saw him no more. I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family who want- ed my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which I per ceived before I came off the course. This was another unexpected stroke, as J was more than seventy miles distant from home ; how- ever, I retired to a little ale-house by the road- side, and in this place, the usual retreat of in- VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. digence and frugality, I laid me down patient- ly to wait the issue of my disorder. I lan- guished here for nearly three weeks ; but at last my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible the anxi- ety from this last circumstance alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller, who stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St Paul's Church-yard, who has written so many little books for children : he called himself their friend ; but he was the friend of all man- kind. He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the utmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling materials for the history of one Mr Thomas Trip. I immedi- ately recollected this good-natured man's red pimpled face ; for he had published for me against the Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, J resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten miles a-day. .My health and usual tranquillity were almost re- stored, and I now condemned that pride which had made me refractory to the hand of correc- tion. Man little knows what calamities are be- yond his patience to bear, till he tries them : as in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to ts own amusement, finds, as we descend, something to flatter and to please. Still, as we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I perceived what ap- peared at a distance like a waggon, which I was resolved to overtake j but when I came up with it, found it to be a ^tjolliag . jc.Q.nipapy.y Eart^that was carrying their scenes and other '.li.;itri;:;il furniture to the next village, where rTiey~\Yere to exhibit. The cart was attended only by the person who drove it, and one of the company, as the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day. " Good company upon the road," says the proverb, " is the shortest cut." I therefore enfreje^jnjffl (Ml-. . versation with^tlie 99JJpJaEer and as I once hUd somVth'eatncal powers myself, I descanted on such topics with my usual freedom : but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the ^j-^dens and Otwaj^ j^fjj,^ $$y ? " I fancy, Sir, ' cnecftKe playerV " few of our modern dramatists would think themselves much honoured by being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden's and Howe's manner, Sir, are quite out of fashion , our taste has gone back a whole century ; FletchgL SfilLJfla&OJ^-^ndjalLthe pto.jQljSl^Dearg,, are the only things that go down." " How," cried I, " is it possible the present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obso- lete humour, those overcharged characters, which abound in the works you mention ?" " Sir," returned my companion, " the public think nothing about dialer, or humour, or character, for that is none of their business ; they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspeare's name." " So then, I suppose," cried I, "that our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shakspeare than of nature." " To say the truth," returned my companion, " I don't know that they imitate any thing at all ; nor indeed does the public require it of them : it is not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced intc it, that elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the poet's throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works of Congreve and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present taste ; our modern dialect is much more na- tural." By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived at the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, and was come out to gaze at us ; for my compa- nion observed, that strollers always have more spectators without doors than within. I did not consider the impropriety of my being in such company, till I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possi- ble, in the first alehouse that offered, and being shown into. the common room, was accosted by a very well dressed gentleman, who demanded whether I was the real chaplain of the com- pany, or whether it was only to be my mas- querade character in the play. Upon my in- forming him of the truth, and that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he was condescending enough to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest. I set him down in my own mind for nothing less than a parlia- ment-man at least : but was almost confirmed in my conjectures, when, upon asking what there was in the house for supper, he insisted that the player and I should sup with him a: his house ; with which request, after soms entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply. CHAPTEK XIX. THE DESCRIPTION Of A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND AP- PREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS Of OUR LIBERTIES. THE house where we were to be entertained VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 33 lying at a small distance from the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach was not ready, he would conduct us on foot ; and we soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the coun- try. The apartment into which we wti^ shown was perfectly el egan t and _naodaaa< he went to give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon re~ turned : an elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies in 'easy diVhubille' were intro- duced, nn-1 ifiou began with some "PoTTties, however, was the sub. ject on which our entertainer chiefly expatiat- ed ; for he asserted that liberty wflVnf " n/>fl hjg boast and his terror. After the cloth was re- moved,' ^ne asked me if I had seen the last Monitor? to which replying in the nega- tive. " What, not the Auditor, I suppose ?" cried he. " Neither, Sir," returned I. ' That's strange, very strange," replied my entertainer. " Now I read all the politics ,hat come out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen Maga- zines, and the two Reviews ; and though they hate each other, I love them all. Liber- ty, Sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my coal-mines in Cornwall. I reverence its guardians." " Then it is to_be hoped," cried I, " you reverence the king." " Yes," return- ed my entertainer, " when he does what we would have him ; but if he goes on as he has done of late, I'll never trouble myself more with his matters. I say nothing. I think, only, I could have directed some things better. I don't think there has been a sufficient num- ber of advisers : he should advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should have things done in another guess manner." " I wish," cried I, "that such intruding ad- visers were fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power which has for some years been every clay de- clining, and losing its due share of influence in the state. But these ignorants still con- tinue the same cry of liberty ; and if they have any weight, basely throw it into the subsiding scale." " How," cried one of the ladies, " do I live to see one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glori- ous privilege of Britons !" " Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that there should be any found at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving up the* privileges of Britons ? Can anj', Sir, be so abject?" ' No^Sir," replied I, " J am for liberty, that attribute of God! Glori-.,. therne. of modern declamation. I would have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal right to the throne : we are all originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of honest men who were called LevellerSv They tried to erect themselves into a commun- ity, where all should be equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer ; for there were some among them stronger, and some more cun- ning than others, and these became masters of the rest ; for as sure as your groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since then it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and s.pme are born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as_Jjjejce_m.iis bejtyjrants, whether it is bet- ter to have them in the lame house with us, or in the same village, or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, Sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the better pleased am L The generality of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have unani. mously created one king, whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the great- est number of people. Now, the great, who were tyrants themselves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate or- ders. It is the interest of the great, there- fore, to diminish kingly power as much as pos- sible ; because whatever they take from that, is naturally restored to themselves; and al) they have to do in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, by which they resume their primeval authority. Now the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so dis- posed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For, in the firs* place, if the circumstances of our state be such us to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more rich, this will in- crease their ambition. An agcj^rriu.la^i^in, QJ ' wealth, however, must necessarily be the cors- i sequence, when, as at present, more riches flow in from external commerce than arise from in ternal industry : for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the rich, arid 1 they have also at the same time all the emolu- ' ments arising from internal industry ; so that the rich, with us, have two sources^ of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this rea- son, wealth, in all commercial states, is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this country may contribute to the accumulation of wealth ; as when, by their means, the natural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the ricb, 34 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. or when the learned are held unqualified to serve their country as counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of a wise man's ambition ; by these means, I say, and such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of ac- cumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the superfluity of his for- tune but in purchasing power. That is, differ- ently speaking, in making dependents, by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the renal, of men who are willing to bear the mor- tification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the peo- ple j and the polity abounding in accumulated wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a great man's vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except the name. But there must still be a large number of the people without the sphere of the opulent man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsist between the very rich and the very rabble ; those men who are possest of too large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the people. Now it may happen that this middle order of man- kind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of the rabble : for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced into the political sys- tem, arid they ever moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all that the middle order has left, is to preserve the prero- gative and privileges of the one principal governor with the most sacred circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town, of which the opulent are forming the siege, and to which the governor from without is has- tening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges , but if they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect, may be seen by tnnriatz *m w* to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the laws. I am then for, and would die for monarchy, sacred monarchy ; for if there be any thing sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed SOVEREIGN of his people ; and every diminution of his power, in war, or in peace, is an infringement upon the real liber- ties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already done much , it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. I have known many of those pretended cham- pions for liberty in my time, yet do I not re- member one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant." My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good breeding but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. " What," cried he, " then I have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit Jn_ parson's clothes ! but by all the coal-mines o? Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkinson." I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth , with which I had spoken. " Pardon !" returned he in a fury : " I think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What ? give up liberty, property, and, as the Gazeteer says, lie down to be saddled witluv.Qpden siio.es ! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house imme- diately, to prevent worse consequences : Sir, I insist upon it." I was going to repeat my remonstrances j but just then we heard a foot- man's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, " As sure as death there is our master and mistress come home." It seems my en- tertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman himself ' and, to say the truth, he talked poli- tics as well us most country gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise at finding such company and good cheer, less than ours. " Gentlemen," cried the real master of the house to me and my companion, " my wife and I are your most humble servants ; but I protest this is so un- expected a favour, that we almost sink under the obligation." However unexpected our company might be to them, theirs I am sure was still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella AVilmut, who was formerly designed to be married to my son George, but whose match was broken off as already related. As soon as she saw me, she flew to my arms with the utmost joy " My dear Sir," cried she, " to what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit ? am sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good Dr Prim- rose for their guest." Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely stept VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. up, and welcomed me with the most cordial hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being informed of the nature of my pre- sent visit : but the unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my intercession forgiven. Mr Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon having the plea- sure of my stay for some days ; and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some measure had been formed under my own in- structions, joined in their entreaties, I complied. That ui,;ht I was shown to a maguiiiceni and the next morning Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the modern manner. .After some time spent in pointing out the teauties of the place, she inquired with seem- ing unconcern, when last I had heard from my son George ? " Alas ! madam," cried I, " he has now been nearly three years absent, with- out ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not ; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear Madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our lire-side at Wake- field. My little family are now dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy upon us." The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I forebore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me, to find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected several offers that had been made her, since our leaving aer part of the country. She led me round all the extensive improvements of the place, point- ing to the several walks and axU>ut6, and at the same time catching from every object a hint for some new question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company that I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening, the part of Horatio by ^i ruling gentleman who had never appeared on *M1Y "jfita^p- He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new performer, and averred that he never saw any who bid so fair for ex- cellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day ; " but this gentleman," continued he, " seems born to tread the stage. Uic V^J^P hjs ..Jigmfo.. auil attitudes, are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our journey down." This account, in some measure, ex- cited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon t.gu. Accompany Lliuiu t -^ which was no other than a barn. As the company with which I went was incontestibly the chief of the place, we were received with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre ; where we sat for some time with no small im- patience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new performer advanced at last ; and let parents think of my sensations by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and im- m.Qyeable. The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but instead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears>_aiul.. retired off the sta^e. I 'don't know what were my feelings on this occasion, for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description ; but I was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale, and with a trem- bling voice desired me to conduct her back to her uncle's. When got home, Mr Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the new per- former was my son, sent his coach and an in- vitation for him ; arid as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had him with us. Mr Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated : she said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the conscious- ness of irresistible beauty, and often would ask questions without giving any manner of atten- tion to the answers. CHAPTER XX. THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING NOVELTY, PUT LOSING CONTENT. AFTER we had supped, Mrs Arnold politely offered to send a couple of her footmen for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed to decline ; but upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that a stick and wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he could boast of. " Why, ay, my son," cried I, " you left me but poor, and poor I find you are come back ; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a great deal of the world." Yes, Sir," replied my son, " but travelling after fortune is not the way to secure her; and indeed of late I have desisted from the pur- suit." " I fancy, Sir," cried Mrs Arnold, " that the account of your adventures would be amusing : the first part of them I have often heard from my niece : but could the company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obligation." "Madam," replied my son, " promise you the pleasure you have in hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in repeal- VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. ing them ; yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, was great ; but though it dis- tressed, it could not sink me. No person ever had a better nack at hoping than I. The less kind I found fortune at one time, the more I expected from her another, and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I pro- ceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that carolled by the road, and comforted myself with reflecting, that London was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and re- ward. " Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to deliver your letter of recommenda- tion to our cousin, who was himself in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true Sar- donic grin-. Ay, cried he, this is indeed a very pretty career that has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher at a boarding school myself; and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but JLbad rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate. xTl was up early and late : Iwas bV^wJbfiat^b.jf.liie. master, hated-, ibr, my"!!ugly, face _by, th-s.... mistress, WGniecL Joy. -the -boys within, and never permitted.. .to.. atir,.jQutaou meejr"cmTUj:.^uraaji. "Bui are you sure you ijre lit for a school ? Let me examine you a ]it-:lc. Have you be'eh" bred art 'apprentice to the business? No. Then you won't do for a school. OH:: you dress "the "boys' hair? No. Then you won't dp for. a school. Have you' had "the small-pox? No- ^hen you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed? No. Then you will never do For a school. Have vou got a good stomach? Yes, Then .you jyllLby, no means do fur a school. No, Sir, if JflE- a -genteel - easy- profession, ...bind yourself seven years an apprentice to turn a ^"cutler's" wlioc-1 ; but avoid a school by any uti|pii^ iti T*rT^ "j [ nn are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me ? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade. At present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about town ihat live by it in opulence ; all hc-ne^t, jflgJifll; Mfiflj who go on smoothly and' dully, and write history and politics, and are praised: men, Sir, who had they been bred cab,bles r Jwwy all their lives have only .mended shoes, but never made them. " Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposals ; and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antfqna mater of Grub-street with reverence. I v> tTiought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I con- sidered the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence ; and however an intercourse with the world might give us good sense, the poverty she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of genius ! Big with these reflections, I sat down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore drest up three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by others, that nothing was lef for me to i m P rt but some splendid things that at a distance looked every bit ar welL Witness, ye powers, what fancied im, portance sat perched upon my quill while 1 was writing! The whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I was prepared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer." " Well said, my boy," cried I, " and what subject did you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt ; go on : you published your paradoxes; well, and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes ? " Sir," replied my son, the " lear,ned world said nothing to my paradoxes f nothing -at all, [ SJj^. Every man of them was -employed- in praising his friends and himself, or condemning Demies; and unfortunately, as I kid neither, I suffered the. cruellest. mortification, " As I was meditating one day in a coffee- house on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed him- self in the box before me, and after some pre- liminary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subcribe to a new edition he was going to give to the world of Progertius with notes. This , demand necessarily proftucea if' rep"Ty that I had no money ; and that concession led him to inquire into the nature of my expectations. Finding that my expectations were just as j great as my purse, I see, cried he, you are ; unacquainted with the town ; I'll teach you a j part of it. Look at these proposals, upon j these very proposals I have subsisted very j comfortably for twelve years. Tlie moment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Crcoliun . -rnvcs from Jamaica,, or a dowager from hci ' country-seat, I strike for a subscription. . J first besiege their hearts with .'* pour in my "proposals at" the breach. II' they ibe readily the first time, I renesv._iny_ Ye quest to beg a dedication .fee. ~Jf tfrpy Jfift me have that, I smite them once more graving their coat of .'anas, at the top. continued he, I live by vanity and laugh at it, But between ourselves, I am now too \rcTT ' known : I should be glad to borrow your face u. bit i a nobleman of distinction has just return- VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ed from Italy ; my face is familiar to his por- ter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and \ve divide the spoil." " Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the employment of poets now ! Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread ?" " O no, Sir," returned he, "a true poet can never be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there is pride. The creatures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt ; and none but those who are unworthy protection, condescend to solicit it. ' Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause ; but usually con- sumed that time in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed and unknown. The public were more im- portantly employed than to observe tl , simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropes all wpote better, because they wrote faster than I. *' Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but djsappnjntfid jm t.hnrs like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in an- other could please me. My unfortunate par- adoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade. " In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a bench in St James's park, a young gentleman of distinc- tion, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We salut- ed each other with some hesitation ; he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a re- pulse. But my suspicions soon vanished ; for Wed Thornhill was at the bottom a very good- natured fellow.'' " What did you say, George !" interrupted It " Thornhill, was not that his name ? It em certainly be no other than my landlord." " Bless me," cried Mrs Arnold, " is Mi Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend to our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly." ' Mv friend'^ firs.t ^HM," continued my son, to alter my appearance fry JJ 1 I I I.I I L j --.--^-^ !,n ^1 I suit of his own clothes, and Ayj-4 wa^ Amit - Ms table, upon, the footi:; t , QJ Iiuiruiuiiu. ItalF underling. ]\Iy Im^no-s was to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to as- sist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, J had twenty other little employments in the family. I was to do many small things with- out bidding ; to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler's children ; to sing when I was bid ; to be never out of humour ; L ways to be humble, and if I could, to be very happy. " In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, op- posed me in my patron's affections. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them who were as dull 'as himself, that permitted his assidui- ties. As flattery was his trade, he practised it with the easiest address imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff from me : and as every day my patron's desire of flattery increased, so every hour being better acquainted with his defects I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my friend found occasion for my assistance. This wfls prying less than to fight a duel for him, \yith a L 1UJL llliU j \\ I I was Pretenc ipned with 1 , a whose sister 'it I readily comp ^^_^_^ ^ his request, and though I see you are displeased with my conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. This piece of ser- vice was repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude ; but as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other method of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction who enjoyed a post under the government. When he was gone, my first care was to carry his recom- mendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the most hospitable smiles ; for the looks of the domestic ever transmit their master's benevo- lence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I deli- 38 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. vered my message, and letter, which he read, and after pausing some minutes, Pray, Sir, cried he, inform me what you have done for my kinsman to deserve this warm recommen- dation : But I suppose, Sir, I guess your merits ; you have fought for him ; arid so you would expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal may be some punishment for your guilt; but still more, that it may be some inducement to your repentance. The severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost ever beset with beg- gars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, J found it no easy matter to gain admittance. However, after bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being previ- ously sent up for his lordship's inspection. During this anxious interval I had full time to look round me. Every thing, ^aa.. grand .and of happy contrivance ; the paintings, the fur- niture, the ; gildings, jjutxiflcd JUie, with .awjti, and . my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, ho\v very great must the possessor of all these things., be, wlio jerries in his head tlie business of the state, and whose house dis- plays half the wealth of a kingdom ; sure his genius must be unfathomable ! During these awful reflection's, I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself ! No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon after. This must be he ! No, it was only the great man's valet de cham- bre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. Are you, cried he, the bearer of this here letter ? I answered with a bow. I learn by this, continued he, as hovy that But just at that instant a servant delivered him a card, and without taking farther notice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure ; I saw no more of him, till told by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my voice to that of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for favours. His lordship, how- ever, went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his chariot wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till looking round me, I found myself alone at his lordship's gate. " My patience," continued my son, " was now quite exhausted : stung with the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself as one of those vile things that nature designed should be j thrown by into her lumber-room, there to i perish in obscurity. I had still, however, | half a guinea left, and of that I thought for- j time herself should not deprive me ; but in j order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go ! instantly and spend it, while I had it, and i then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I ' was going along with this resolution, it hap- pened that Mr Crispe's office seemed invit- ingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this office Mr Crispe kindly offers all his Majesty's subjects a generous promise of 30 a-year, for which promise all they give in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place, where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell (for it had the appearance of one) with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in circumstances '' like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr Crispe, i presenting a true epitome of English impa- j tience. Each untractable soul at variance with fortune, wreaked her injuries on their own hearts : but Mr Crispe at last came down, and all our murmurs were hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar , approbation, and indeed he was the first man who for a month past had talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for every thing in the world. He paused awhile upon the properest means of ; providing for me, and slapping his forehead as j if he had found it, assured me, that there was ' at that time an embassy talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasau Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my half-guinea, one half of which went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and j with the other half I resolved to go to the next ' tavern, to be there more happy than he. " As I was going out with that resolution, j I was met at the door by the captain of a ship with whom I had formerly some little acquain- tance, and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never choose to make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point of ruin, in ' listening to the office-keeper's promises : for j that he only designed to sell me to the planta- ' tions. But, continued he, I fancy you might, ; by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam. What if you go in her as a passenger ? The moment you land, all you have to do is to teach theDutchmeriEnglish,and I'll warrant you'll get pupils and money enough. I suppose you under- stand English,addedhe,by this time,or the deuce is in it. I confidently assured him of that: bnt expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 39 be willing to learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they were fond of it to distrac- tion ; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half my move- ables, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed myself therefore to two or three of those I met, whose appearance seemed most promising ; but it was impossible to wake ourselves mutually understood, not till this very moment j ffi^^ order to teach the Dutchmen Ki> necessary . that tl necessa DuU'^ 1 - How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to me amazing; but certain it is I overlooked it. " This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back to England again ; but falling into company with an Irish student who was returning from Lonvain our conversation turning upon topics of literature, (for by the way it may be observed, that I always forgot the meanness of my circum- stances when I could converse upon such sub- jects,) from him I learned that there were not two men in his whole university who under- stood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek ; and in this design I was heartened by my brother student, who threw out some hints that a fortune might be got by it. " I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened the burden of my move- ubles, like JEsop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When I came to T,mivain_ I was resolved not to go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly tendered my talents to the principal himself. I \vent,hadadmittance,and offered him my service a"s a master of the Greek language, which I had been told was a desidera- tum in his university. The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince him by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus ; You see me, young man : Iney^j^jpariLtid. Xircuk. mid I don't iinti that 1 have ever missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and qown without Greek; I have ten thousand flprhfs a-year without Greek I eat. heartily without Greek ; and ill i>hort continued Le, as J foq't kiimv.Gre.dv.jI do not beJit-vn tJn-.m j* " I was now too far from home to think of returning ; so I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amuse- ment into a present means of subsistence. I l>assed among the harmless peasants of Flan- ders, and among such of the P'rench as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next Hay. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion ; but they always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded Tne even with a trifle. This was to me more ex- traordinary, as whenever I used in better days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means, it was re- ceived with contempt a proof how ready the world is to underrate those talents by which a man is supported. " In thjs maj^TiPr T pi-no p|f firf ^ P.,^ w j t ] 1 no design but just to look about mo, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money than those that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no great favourite. After walk- ing about the town four or five days, and see- ing the outsides of the best houses, I was pre- paring to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing through one of the principal streets, whom should I im-Pt font ou,r 7""*;" to whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to me, and I be- lieve not displeasing to him. He inquired in- to the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own business there, which \VilS to Colle *Lall lor tcutuuuu -iu. J was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscente so very sud- denly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules : the one, always to ob- serve the picture might have been better if the painter had taken more pains ; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. But, says he, as I once taught you how to be an author in London, I'll now undertake to in- struct you in the art of picture-buying at Paris. " With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, and now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, im- proved my dress by his assistance, and after -some time accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were ex- pected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people of the best of fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or medal, ns to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked his opinion, he would gravely 40 VICAU OF WAKE FIELD. take me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, re- turn, and assure the company that he could give no opinion, upon an 'affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an oc- casion for a more important assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally ly- ing by, and rub it over the piece with great composure before all the company, and then ask if he had not improved the tint. " When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly recommended to several men of distinction, as a person very proper for a travelling, tut^r,; and after some time I was employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's governor, but with a proviso that he should al- ways be permitted to govern himself. My pupil in fact understood the art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West In- dies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for the management of it had bound him an ap- prentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion : all his questions on the road were, how money might be saved -, which was the least expensive course of travel ; whe- ther any thing could be bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in London? Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not observe how amazingly ex- pensive travelling was, and all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the passage by sea home to England. This he was informed was but a trifle compared to his returning by land; he was therefore un- able to withstand the temptation; so paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked with only one at- tendant for London. " I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large ; but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than I ; but by this time I had acquired another talent which answered my purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and convents there are, upon cer- tain days, philp^nphicpjl thPS6 -.IBiU.UtiiJUfrd fc-ryhich. the champion opposes with any dexterity, h _ In tills manner, therefore, I fought my way towards England, walked along from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, how- ever, are but few : I found that monarchy was the best government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches in general were in every country another name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not to be de- sirous of subjecting the will of some indivi- duals in society to his own. " Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay my respects first to you, and then to irilist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was going forward ; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company of comedians that were going tf) make a summer campaign in the cftimtry. company seemed not 'much' "to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however, ap. prised me of the importance of the task at which I aimed ; that the public was a many, headed monster, and that only such as had very good heads could please it ; that acting was not to be learned in a day, and that with- out some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping. I was driven for some time from one character to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of the present company has happily hindered me from acting." CHAPTER XXI. THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FR1ENDSHU AMONGST THE VICIOUS, WHICH 13 COEVAJ. ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION. MY son's account was too long to be deliv- ered at once, the first part of it was begun that night, and he w r as concluding the rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr Thornhill's equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my friend in the family, informed me with a whisper, that the Squire had already made some over- tures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed that to surprise, and not dis- pleasure. However, upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting- with the most apparent candour; and after a short time his presence served only to increase the general good humour. After tea be called me aside to inquire after my daughter ; but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. 41 surprised ; adding that he had been since fre- quently at my house in order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and pre- caution, desiring me by all means to keep it i secret : " For at best," cried he, " it is but divulging one's own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine." We were here interrupted by a servant who came to ask the 'Squire in, to stand up at country dances : so that he left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mistaken : and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of her aunt than real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other could neither extort by his fortune nor assidu- ity. Mr Thornhill's seeming composure, how- ever, not a little surprised me : we had now continued here a week at the pressing instances of Mr Arnold ; but each day the more ten- derness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr Thornhill's friendship seemed proportionably to increase for him. He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest to serve the family; but now bis generosity was not con- fined to promises alone. The morning I de- signed for my departure, Mr Thjpmhill came to me with looks of real pleasure, to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his friend George. This was nothing less than his having procured^ him an ensign.'s^ Sion in One nf thp rocrimPTita flfflf urnc behind, any way da nipt d his spirits. Afttr he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. " And now, my boy," cried I, " thou art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred King, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are those with which heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier." The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good-breed- ing procure, and returned towards home, de- spairing of ever linding my daughter moro, but sending a sigh to heaven to spare and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comfort- ed myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night com- ing on, I put up at a little public-house by the road side, and asked for the landlord's com- pany over a pint of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the news of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of youi.g .'Squire. Thonihiil, who, the ho; " r \ ns iHUfib lfPi . rfr IhF LM "' >A ' He went fluTWest Xnd7es,ibi \vlucklii: liud promised hut one Hundred pounds, hi- having been. simuncijLOo'fiot an. abu.tcuieut of the. olio: "two. j "As for this trifling piece of service," continued the young gentleman, " I desire no other re- ! ward but the pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure." This was a favour we wanted words to express our sense of: I readily there- fore gave my bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to Pay- George was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient to use despatch, lest in the mean time another should step in with more advantageous proposals. The next morning therefore our young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to en- j counter, nor the friends and mistress for Miss WiJmot actually loved him he was leaving . on to observe, that he made it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks' possession, turned them out un- rewarded and abandoned to the world. As we continued our discourse in this mariner, his wife, who had been out to. get change, re- turned, and perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him in an angry tone, wha; he did there ? to which he. only replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. " Mr Symmonds," cried she, " you use me very ill, arid I'll bear it no longer. Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished : while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long; where- as, if a spoonful of liquor were to cure rne of a fever, I never touch a drop." I now found what she would beat, and immediately poured her out a glass, which she received with a cur- tesy, and drinking towards my good healtn, " Sir," resumed she, " it is riot so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it when the house is going out of windows. Jf the customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies upon my back ; he'd as lief eat that glass as budge after them 12 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. himself. There, now, above stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't believe she has got any money, by her over civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it." "What signifies minding her," cried the host, " if she be slow she is sure." " I don't know that," replied the wife ; " but I know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight and we have not yet seen the cross of her money." " I suppose, my dear," cried he, " we shall have it all in a lump." " In a lump !" cried the other, " I hope we may get it any way; and that I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage."" Consider my dear," cried the husband, " she is a gentlewo\ man and deserves more respect."- " As for the matter of that," returned the hostess, "gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they take : but for my part, I never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow."-^* Thus saying, she ran up a narrow flight ov ff stairs that went from the kitchen to a room over-head ; and I soon perceived, by the loud- ness of her voice, and the bitterness of her re- proaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly : " Out, I say ; pack out this moment ! tramp, thou infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for this three months. What ! you trumpery, to come and take up an honest house without cross or coin to bless yourself with ; come along, I say." " O dear Madam," cried the stranger, " pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest." I instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to your poor old father's bosom ! Though the vicious for- sake thee, there is yet one in the world that will never forsake thee ; though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them all." " O my own dear," for minutes she could say no more " my own dearest good Papa ! Could angels be kinder ! How do I deserve so much ! The villain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You can't forgive me, I know you cannot." " Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee ! Only repent, arid we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleas- ant days yet, my Olivia !" " Ah ! never, Sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad, and shame at home. But, alas ! Papa, you look paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself." " Our wisdom, young woman," replied I " Ah, why so cold a name, Pnpa? 11 cried she. This is the first time you ever called me by so cold a name." '< I ask par- don, my darling," returned I : " but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one." The landlady now returned to know if we did not choose a more genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown a room where we could converse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some de- gree of tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations that led to her present wretched situation. " That villain, Sir," said she, " from the first day of our meeting, made me honourable though private 1 1 proposals." " Villain, indeed !" cried I : "and yet it in some measure surprises me, how a person of Mr Burchell's good sense and seeming honour could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it." " My dear Papa," returned my daughter, "you labour under a strange mistake. Mr Burchell never attempted to deceive me ; in- stead of that, he took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices of Mr Thornhill, who 1 now find was even worse than he represented him." "Mr Thornhill!" interrupted I; "can it be?" " Yes, Sir," returned she ; " it was Mr Thorn- hill who seduced me ; who employed the two ladies, as he called them, but who in fact were abandoned women of the town, without breed- ing or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices you may remember would have cer- tainly succeeded, but for Mr Burchell's letter, who directed those reproaches at them, which we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat their in- tentions, still remains a secret to me ; but 1 am convinced he was ever our warmest, sin- cerest friend." You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I find my first suspicions of Mr Thorn - hill's baseness were too well grounded : but he can triumph in security : for he is rich, and we are poor, But tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as thine ?" " Indeed, Sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph to the desire I had of making him, and not myself happy. I knew that the cere- mony of our marriage, which was privately performed by a popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour." " What !" interrupted I, " and were you indeed married by a priest, and in orders ?" " Indeed, Sir, we were," replied she, " though we were both sworn to conceal his name." " Why, then, my child, come to my arms again : and now you are a thousand times more welcome than before ; for you are now his wife to all intents and purposes : nor can VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 43 all the laws of man, though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connexion." "Alas, Papa," replied she, "you are but little acquainted with his villanies ; he has been married already by the same priest to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has de- ceived and abandoned." " Has he so ?" cried I, " then we must hang the priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow." " But, Sir," returned she, " will that be right, when I am sworn to secrecy?" " My dear," I replied, " if you have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even though it may benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good ; as, in politics, a j province may be given away to secure a king- dom ; in medicine, a limb may be lopt off to preserve the body : but in religion, the law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of contingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval between commission and ad- vantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the things we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed for ever. But I inter- rupt you, my dear ; go on." " The very next morning," continued she, " I found what little expectation I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every moment of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to increase my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young Baronet of his acquaintance. Is'eed I de- scribe, Sir, how his ingratitude stung me? My answer to this proposal was almost mad- ness. I desired to parr. As 1 was going, he offered me a purse ; but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that interval a stage coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being my aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I de- spised and detested. I was set down here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's unkindness have been my only companions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister, now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much ; but mine are greater than theirs, for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy." " Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope things will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this has gone to her heart : but she loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it." CHAPTER XXII. OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM. THE next morning I took my daughter be- hind me, and set out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove by every persua- sion to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kinder llciiven was to us than we to each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very few. I assured her, that she should never perceive any change in my affections, and that during my life, which yt might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instruc- tor. I armed her against the censures of the world, showed her that books were sweet un- reproaching companions to the miserable, and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house ; and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next morn- ing. It was night before we reached our ap- pointed stage : however, after seeing her pro- vided with a decent apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refresh- ments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my heart caught new sensa- tions of pleasure the nearer I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections out-went my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side with iill the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and an- ticipated the welcome I was to receive. 1 already felt my wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The labourers of the day were all retired to rest ; the lights were out in every cottage j no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, 4-1 VICAU OF TVAKEFIELD. and the deep-mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me. It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door ; all was still and silent ; my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every aper- ture red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep, and he perceiving the j flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter ; 1 and all running out, naked, and wild with ap- prehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of new terror ; for the flames had by this time caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part con- tinuing to fall in, while the family stood with silent agony looking on as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, arid then looked round me for my two little ones ; but they were not to be seen. O misery ! " Where," cried I, " where are my little ones?" "They are burnt to death in the flames," says my wife, calmly, "and I will die with them." That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. " Where, where are my children ?" cried I, rushing through the flames, and burst- ing the door of the chamber in which they were confined ; " Where are my little ones ?" " Here, dear Papa, here we are," cried they together, while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. " Now," cried I, holding up my children, "now let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are ; I have saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand times; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns. I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was therefore out of my power to give my son any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames spread- ing to our corn. By this time the neighbours were alarmed, and came running to our assis- tance ; but all they could do was to stand like us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consum- ed, except a box with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more of little consequence, which my son brought away in the beginning. The neighbours con- tributed, however, what they could to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, arid furnished one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils ; so that by day-light we had another, though a wretched dwelling, to retire to. My honest next neighbour and his children were not the least assiduous in providing us with every thing necessary, and offering whatever consolation untutored benevolence could sug- gest. When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause of my long stay began to take place : having therefore inform- ed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare for the reception of our lost one, and though we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a wel- come to what we had. This task would have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, arid blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruc- tions of mine could persuade to a perfect re- conciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. " Ah, Madam," cried her mother, " this is but a pool place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons who have kept com- pany only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffer- ed very much of late ; but I hope Heaven will forgive you." During this reception, the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, un- able to weep or to reply ; but I could not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with instant submission, " I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for all ; I have here brought you back a poor de- luded wanderer : her return to duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hard- ships of life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not, therefore, increase them by dissension among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet be con ten ted, as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is promised to the peni- tent, and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have supported a course of un- deviating rectitude. And this is right ; fov that single effort by which we stop short in th<:> down-hill path to perdition, is itself a greate/. exertion of virtue than a hundred acts oi justice." VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 45 CHAPTER XXIII. NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MIS2BABLE. SOME assiduity was now required to make | our present abode as convenient as possibly | and we were soon ae;ain qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family the few books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by amus- ing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart Our good neighbours, too, came tvery tlay with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in \\hich they were all to assist at repair- ing my former dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last among these visitors ; but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but she rejected him in such a man- ner, us totally represt his future solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little society that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her mind ; her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister, brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her eye'; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages of history as a strong memory and some reading could suggest. " Our happiness, my dear," I would say, " is in the power of one who can bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing his- torian. " Matilda was married very young to a jN T eapolitan nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the a^e of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an apart- ment which hung over the river Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, plunged iu after ; but far from being able to assist the infant, she herself with great diffi- culty escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were plundering the country on that side, who immediately made her their prisoner. "As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with the utmost in- humanity, they were going at once to perpe- trate those two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution, however,, was opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit soon alter his heart. They were married : he rose to the highest posts ; they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent : after an interval of several years, the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can produce more various instances of cruelty? than those which the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; but particularly by the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their determinations were in general executed almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood ready while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only sus- pended till the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention her for- j mer dangers. He was her son, tne infant for whom she had encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed : tbe captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, and duty, could confer on each, were united." In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter: but she listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company she- dreaded contempt ; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her wretchedness, when we received certain in formation that Mr Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had a real passion, though he took every opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This news only served to increase poor Olivia's affliction : such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more certain infon- VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. mation, and to defeat, if possible, the completion j of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr Wilmot's with instructions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilrnot a letter, intimating Mr Thornhill's conduct in my family. My son went in pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned assuring us of the truth of the account ; but that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared to- gether at Church the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many gentle- men. Their approaching nuptials rilled the whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in the grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were there, particularly the 'Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added that nothing but mirth and feasting were going forward ; that all the country praised the young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each other ; concluding, that he could nof. help thinking Mr Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world. " Why, let him live if he can," returned I : " but, my son, observe this bed of straw, and unsheltering roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor ; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round me for bread ; you have come home, my child, t jto all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would little regard the elegance and splendour of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards home ; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile." My compassion for my poor daughter, over- powered by this new disaster, interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution : but appearances de- ceived me ; for her tranquillity was the languor of over -wrought resentment. A sup- ply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerful- ness among the rest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus once more the tale went round and the song was demand- ed, and cheerfulness condescended to hover round our little habitation. CHAPTER XXIV. FRESH CALAMITIES. THE next morning the sun arose with pe- culiar warmth for the season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honey-suckle bank ; where, while we sat, my youngest daughter at my request joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. It was in this place that my poor Olivia first met her se- ducer, and every object served to recall hei sadness. But that melancholy which is ex- cited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart, instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as before. " Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, " let us have that little melancholy air your Papa was so fond of; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child, it will please your old father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away. The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is to die. As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of shun- ning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In u few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air of familiarity. " Sir," replied I, " your present assurance only serves to aggravate the baseness of your character and there was a time when I would have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear before me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them." " I vow, my dear Sir, 1 ' returned he, " I am amazed at all this ; nor can I understand what it means ! I hope you don't think your daughter's late excursion with me had any- thing criminal in it ?" VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. " Go," cried I, " thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every way a liar : but your meanness secures you from my anger ! Yet, Sir, I am descended from a family that would not have borne this ! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for lift, and polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their portion !" "If she or you," returned he," are resolved to be miserable, I cannot help it. But you may still be happy ; and whatever opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can marry her to another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard for her." I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal ; for though the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little vil- lany can at any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. " Avoid my sight thou reptile !" cried I, "nor continue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave son at home he would not suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, and every way undone." " I find,'' cried he, " you are bent upon obliging me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shown you what may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be improper to represent what may be the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the course of justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have been at some expenses lately, previous to my intended mar- riage, is not so easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the rent: it is certain he knows his duty ; for I never trou- ble myself with affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have you arid your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse." Mr Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for all : As to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; aud though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast Jnce woefully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have found its baseness. Never more therefore expect friendship from me. Go, and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindi- cate its dignity , and though thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my con- tempt." If so " returned he, " depend upon it you shall feel the effects of this insolence ; and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or me." Upon which he depart- ed abruptly. My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified with the apprehen- sion My daughters also finding that he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our conference which, when known, alarm- ed them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevolence : he had already struck the blow, and now I stood prepared to repel every new effort ; like one of those instruments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy. We soon however found that he had not threatened in vain ; for the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which by the train of accidents already relat- ed, I was unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was his driving my rattle that evening, and their being apprised and sold the next day for less than half their value. My '.?i fe and children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather than in- cur certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit his visits once more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure ; the terrors of a pri- son in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that threatened my health from the late accident that happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible. " Why, my treasures," cried I, " why wilP you thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but my conscience will not per- mit me to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world, what my heart must in- ternally condemn? Would you have nre tamely sit down and flatter our infamous be- trayer ; and, to avoid a prison, continually suifer the more galling bonds of mental con- finement? No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right ; and wherever we are thrown, we can still re- tire to a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure !" In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in clearing it away, and open- ing a passage before the door. He had not been thus engaged long, when he came running in. with looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, were making towards the house. Just as he spoke they came in, and approach- ing the bed where I lay, after previously in- forming me of their employment and business, made me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol, which was eleven miles off. 4i Aly friends,'' said I, " this Is severe VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. weather in which you have come to take rne to a prison ; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of rny arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want clothes to cover me ; and I am now too weak and old to walk far in such deep snow ; but if it must be so " I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and desired my son to assist his eldest sister, who from a consciousness that she was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and trem- bling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the meantime my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received several hints to use despatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart. CHAPTER XXV. NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WTRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTEND- ING IT. WE set forward from this peaceful neighbour- hood, and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, who had a horse, kindly took her behind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest them- selves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell not for her own but my distresses. We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a crowd run- ning and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest of my parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would never see their minister go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them with the greatest severity. The consequence might have been fatal had I not immediately interposed, and with some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon ray delivery now as certain, appeared tran- sported with joy, and were incapable of con- taining their raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me service. " What ! my friends," cried I, " and is this the way you love me ? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given you from the pulpit ? Thus to fly in the face of justice, and bringdown ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your country and to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in greater felicity here, and contribute to make your lives more happy. But let it at least be my comfort when I pen my fold for immortal- ity, that not one here shall be wanting." They now seemed all repentance, and melt- ing into tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceed- ed forward without meeting any farther in- terruption. Some hours before night we reached the town or rather village, for it con- sisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but the gaol. Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we had such refreshments as could most read- ily be procured, and I supped with my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for that night, I next attended the sheriff's officers to the prison, which had formerly been built for the puq>oses of war, and consisted of one large apartment, strongly grated and paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night. I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations and various sounds of misery ; but it was very different. The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in merriment or clamour. I was apprized of the usual per- quisite required upon these occasions, and immediately complied with the demand, though the little money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled with riot, laughter, and proianeness. " How," cried I to myself, " shall men so very wicked be cheerful, and shall I be mel- ancholy ; I feel only the same confinement with them, and I think I have more reason to be happy." With such reflections I laboured to become cheerful ; but cheerfulness was never yet pro- duced by effort which is itself painful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the goal, in a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sitting by me, entered into con- versation. It was my constant rule in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire it : for if good I might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it was called, or VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 49 properly speaking, of human nature on ron side. He asked me if I had taken more the wrong care to provide myself with a bed, which was a. circumstance I had never once attended to. " That's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are allowed here nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However you seem to be something of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your service." I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such humanity in a gaol in misfor- tunes ; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, " That the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in affliction, when he said, Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and in fact," continued I, "what is the world if it affords only solitude ?" " You talk of the world, Sir," returned rny fellow-prisoner ; " the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world ! San- choniathon, Manetho, JBcrosiis, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all alie-.nptcd it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelu- taion to pan, which implies" " I ask pardon, Sir," cried I, ' for interrupting so much learning; but I think I have heard all this before. Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Wei bridge fair, and is riot your name Ephraim Jenkinson ?" At this demand he only sighed. " I suppose you must recol- lect," resumed I, " one Doctor Primrose, from whom yqu bought a horse ?" He now at once recollected me ; for the gloominess of the place and the approaching night had prevented his distinguishing my features before. " Yes, Sir," returned Mr Jenkinson, " I remember you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbour Flamborough is the only pro- secutor I am any way afraid of at the next assizes : for he intends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, Sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see," continued he, showing his shackles, " what my tricks have brought me to." " Well, Sir," replied I, " your kindness in offering me assistance when you could expect no return, shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften or totally suppress Mr Flamborough's evidence, and I will send my son to him for thctf purpose the first opportunity ; nor do I iu the least doubt but he will comply with my request; and as to my own evidence, you need be und-r no uneasiness about that." " Well, Sir," cried he, " all the return I can make shall be yours. You shall have niore than half my bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand your friend in the pri- son, where I think I have some influence." I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present youthful change in his aspect ; for at the time I had seen him before, he appeared at least sixty. " Sir,* answered he, " you are little acquainted with the world ; I had at that time false hair, and have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah! Sir, had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in learning to be a scoun- drel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But rogue as I am, still I may be youi friend, and that perhaps when you least e* pect it." We were now prevented from further con- versation by the arrival of the gaoler's servants, who came to call over the prisoners' names, and lock up for the night. A fellow alsc with a bundle of straw for my bed attended, who led me along a dark narrow passage into a room paved like the common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, bade me a good night. After my usual meditations, and having praised my Heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning. CHAPTER XXVI. A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL. TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. THE next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in tears at my bed- side. The gloomy strength of every thing about us, it seems, had daunted them. J gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to , send my son to procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the prison as conveni- ently could be found. He obeyed ; but could only find one apartment, which was hired at a small expense for his mother and sisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and his two little brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered very conveniently. I was willing, however, previously to know whether my little children chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon entrance. " Well," cried I, " my good boys, how do you like your bed ? J hope you are not afraid to lie in this room dark as it appears ?" " No, Papa," says Dick, " I am not afraid to lie anywhere where you are." " And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years old, " love every place best that my Papa is in." 50 YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her declining sister's health ; my wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to read to me. " And as for you my son," continued I, " it is by the labour of your hands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages as a day-labourer will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength ; and it was given thee, my son, for I very useful purposes ; for it must save from I famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then this evening to look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every night what money you earn for our support." Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and room. But I was not long there when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me back to my apartment again. Here I sat for some time pondering upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, finding all mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to make themselves a future and a tremendous enemy. Their insensibility excited my highest com- passion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I re- solved therefore once more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give them my advice, and conquer them by my perseverance. Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. The proposal was received with the greatest good-humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who bad now no other resource for mirth, but what jould be derived from ridicule or debauchery. I therefore read them a portion of the ser- vice with a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of contrition bur- lesqued, winking and coughing, alternately excited laughter. However, I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might mend some, but could itself receive no contamination from any. After reading I entered upon my exhorta- tion, which was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I previously observed, that no other motive but their welfare could induce me to this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane ; because they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal : " For be assured, my friends," cried I, " for you are my friends, however the world may disclaim your friendship, though you swore a thousand oaths in a day it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you? He has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly ; and by the best accounts I have of him, he will give you nothing that's good hereafter. " If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you may like the usage of another master, \vho gives you fair promises at least to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And yet how are you more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious being than any thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of all will not let you loose after the hangman is done." When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audienee, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired my further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of making a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion, that no man was past the hour 01 amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He had not yet seen my family ; for as they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow passage already described, by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson at the first interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten : and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. " Alas, Doctor," cried he, " these children are too handsome and too good for such a place as this !" " Why, Mr Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Heaven, my children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they be good, it matters little for the rest." " I fancy, Sir," returned my fellow pri- soner, " that it must give you great comfort to have all this little family about you." " A comfort, Mr Jenkinson !" replied I ! " yes, it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world ; for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring them." " I am afraid then, Sir," cried he, " that I VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 51 am in some measure culpable ; for I think I see here (looking at my son Moses,) one that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven." My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, with a smile forgave him. " Yet," continued he, " I can't help wondering at what you could see in my face, to think me a proper mark for deception." " My dear Sir," returned the other, " it was not your face, but your white stockings, and the black riband in your hair, that allured me. But no disparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my time j and yet with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at last." " I suppose," cried my son, " that the narra- tive of such a life as yours must be extremely instructive and amusing." " Not much of either," returned Mr Jenkin- son. " Those relations which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increas- ing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveller that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's end. " Indeed I think, from my own experience, that the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very childhood : when but seven years old the ladies would say that I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so cunning, that not one would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever since, iny head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of detec- tion. I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another generally cheated him once a-year. Yet still the honest man went forward with- out suspicion, and grew rich, while I still con- tiuued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, without the consolation of being honest. How- ever," continued he, " let me know your case, and what has brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate my friends." In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter inability to get free. After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapt his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and took his leave, saying he would try what could be done. CHAPTER XXVII. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. THE next morning, I communicated to my wife and children the scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners, which they received with universal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility and impropriety of it ; adding that my endeavours would no way contribute to their amendment, but might probably dis- grace my calling. "Excuse me," returned I; " these people, however fallen, are still men; and that is a very good title to my affections. Good coun- sel rejected, returns to enrich the giver's bosom ; and though the instruction I com- municate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, my children, were princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their ministry; but, in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will : perhaps they will not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain : for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human soul ?" Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival; and each prepared with some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through his teeth, wjiich fell in showers upon my book. A third "would cry amen in such >' VT an affected tone, as gave the rest great delight, r* ** A fourth had slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest ; for observing the manner in which I had dis- posed my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest book of his own in the place. However, I took no notice of all that this mischievous group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would be permanent. My design succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. It was now that I applauded my persever- ance and address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling ; and now began to think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto been divided between famine and ex- cess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only employment was quarrelling among VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as ctiose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought Ly a general subscription, and when manufac- tured sold by my appointment ; so that each earned something every day a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus, in less than a fort- night I had'formed them into something social and humane, and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had brought men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience. And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity : that it would seem convinced, that the work of eradi- cating crimes is riot by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which inclose wretches for the com- mission of one crime, and return them, if re- turned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be attended by such as could give them repentance if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punishment, is the way to mend a state. Is T or can I avoid even ques- tioning the validity of that right which social combinations have assumed, of capitally pun- ishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder, their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the life of another. Against such, all nature rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If then I have any right, it must be from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false compact, because no man has a right to barter his life any more than to take it away, as it is not his own. And beside, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling con- venience, since it is far better that two men should live than that one man should ride. But a compact that is false between two men, is equally so between a hundred, or a hundred thousand ; for as ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Sa- vages that are directed by natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of each other ; they sel- dom shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they vvert in war, had but few executions in times ol peace ; and in all commencing governments that have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any crime is held capital. It is among the citizens of a refined com- munity that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Govern- ment, while it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age ; and as if our property were become dearer in proportion as it in. creased ; as if the more enormous our wealth the more extensive our fears, all our posses- sions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every in- vader. I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually produce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the same punishment affixed to dissimilar de- grees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and this distinctionis the bulwark of all morality : Thus the mul- titude of the laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh restraints. It were to be wished then, that power, in- stead of contriving new laws to punish vice ; instead of drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion come to burst them : instead of cutting awa wretches as useless before we have tried their utility ; instead of converting correction into vengeance, it were to be wished that we tried the restrictive arts of go- vernment, and make law the protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We should then find that creatures, whose souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner. We should then find that creatures, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a mo- mentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the state in times of danger; that as their faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it; and that very little blood will serve to cement oui securitv. CHAPTER XXVIII. HAPPINESS AND MISERY BATHER THE RESUL1 OF PRUDENCE THAN VIRTUE, IN THIS LIFE ; TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING RE- GARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION. I HAD now been confined more than a fort- night, but had not since my arrival been visit VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 53 ed by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl enter- ed my apartment leaning on her sister's arm. The change which I saw on her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that ouce resided there were now fled, and the hand of 3eath seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her fore- head was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. " I am glad .to see thee, my dear," cried I : " but why this dejection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me to permit disappointment thus to under- mine a life which I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier days. " " You have ever, Sir," replied she, " been kind to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that hap- piness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here ; and I long to be rid of a place where 1 have only found distress. Indeed, Sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to Mr Thornhill : it may in some measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in dying. " Never, child," replied I ; " never will I be brought to acknowledge my daughter a pros- titute ; for though the world may look upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to re- gard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, uowever dismal it may seem ; arid be assured, that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying another." After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated on my obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. " Besides," added he, " I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy." Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted ivith the man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my submission and approbation could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would .ijrant neither, as something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder these who wish for a union. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him married, to prevent the consequen- ces of his future debaucheries. But now, should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus, to escape one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand ?" He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid observing, that he feared my daughter's life was already too much wast- ed to keep me long a prisoner. " .However," continued he, " though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your case before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for every thing that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage, and my life for it, that in three days you shall have an answer." I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions : however, he supplied me. For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know what reception my letter might meet with ; but in the mean time was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter: the complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew were no way likely to succeed; so that these hope? soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however still supported itself, though confine- ment and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire grew worse. My children, however, sat by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daugh- ter's health declined faster than mine ; every message from her contributed to increase my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter which was sent | to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it ! was that confinement was truly painful to \ me ; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to Heaven ! Another account came : She was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner, some time after came with the last account. He bade me be patient : She was dead ! The next morn- ing he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only companions who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort ma They entreated to read to me, and bade me not cry, for I was now too old to weep. " And is not my sister an angel now, Papa ?" cned 54 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. the eldest ; " and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my Papa were with me." " Yes,'' added my youngest darling, " Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are very bad." Mr Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by observing, that, now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added, that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who depended on me for support ; and that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. " Heaven be praised," replied I, " there is no pride left me now : I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my op- pressor has been once my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, Sir, I have no resentment now, and though he has taken from me what I held dearer than all his trea- sures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fel- low-prisoner, yet that shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve his marriage : and if this submission can do him any pleasure, let him know that if I i have done him any injury I am sorry for it." Mr Jenkinson took pen an ink, and wrote down my submission nearly as I have expres- sed it, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr Thorn- hill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, and in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the ser- vants were insolent and suspicions : but he accidentally saw him as he was going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in three days. He continued to inform us, that he stept up in the humblest manner, and delivered the letter, which when Mr Thornhill had read, he said that all sub- mission was now too late and unnecessary ; that he had heard of our application to his uncle, which met with the contempt it de- served : and as for the rest, that all future application should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion of the discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable intercessors. " Well, Sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you now discover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be face- tious and cruel ; but let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I ap proach it : this expectation cheers my afflic- tions, and though I leave a helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken ; some friend perhaps will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly Father." Just as I had spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to speak. " Why, my love," cried I, " why will you increase my afflictions by your own ? What though no submissions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall bo no more." " We have indeed lost," returned she, " a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest is gone ; snatched from us, carried off by ruffians !" " How, madam," cried my fellow-prisoner, " Miss Sophia carried off by villains ! sure it cannot be." She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of the prisoner's wives who was present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct account : she informed us, that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road, a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopt. Upon which a well-drest man, but not Mr Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. " Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is it in the power of any thing on earth to give me another pang. What ! not one left ! not to leave me one ! The mon- ster ! The child that was next to my heart I she has the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one !" " Alas ! my husband," said my wife, " you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great ; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you." My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate her grief ; he bade us take corntort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. " My child," cried I, "look round the world, and see if there be any hap- piness left me now. Is not every ray of com- fort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave ! " My dear father, returned he, " I hope there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction^; for I have a letter from my brother George." What of him, child?" interrupted I, "does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is ex- empt from any part of what his wretched family suffers ?" " Yes, Sir," returned he, "he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy VICAE, OF WAKEFIELD. 55 His letter brings nothing but good news : he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant." " And are you sure of all this !" cried my wife : " Are you sure that nothing ill has be- fallen my boy?" "Nothing indeed, Madam," returned my son ; " you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure ; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I am sure that will."" But are you sure," still re- peated she, " that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy?" " Yes, Madam," replied he, " it is certainly his, and he will one .day be the credit and support of our family." " Then I thank Providence," cried she, " that my last letter to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turning to me, " I will now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. 13y the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him upon his mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. Cut thanks be to Him that directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest." " Woman," cried I, " thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh ! what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried thee and him in endless ruin. Provi- dence indeed has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children ;vhen I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stript of every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, and insen- sible of our afflictions ; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to pro- tect his brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left ? he has no sisters now ; they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone." " Father," interrupted my son, " I beg you will give me leave to read this letter, I know it will please you." Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows : HONOURED SIR, I HAVE called off my imagination a few mo- ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little fire-side at home. My fancy draws that harmless group as listening to every line of this with great composure. I view those faces with delight which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress ! But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it to hear, that I am perfectly pleased with my sit- uation, and every way happy here. Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the kingdom : The colonel, who pro- fesses himself my friend, takes me with him I to ail companies where he is acquainted, and ! after my first visit I generally find myself re- ceived with increased respect upon repeating it. I danced last night witn Lady G , and could I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, while I am myself for- gotten by most of my absent friends ; and in this number, I fear, Sir, that I must consider you ; for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from home, to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am at this moment in a most violent passion with them ; yet still, I know not how, though J want to bluster a little, my heart is respon- dent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, Sir, that after all I love them affectionately, and be assured of my ever remaining. Your dutiful Son. " In all our miseries," cried I, " what thanks have we not to return, that one at least of our family is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to be the supporter of his widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour!" I had scarcely said these words, when a noise like that of a tumult seemed to proceed from the prison below ; it died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was heard along the pas- sage that led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons. J looked with compassion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was my own son. " My George ! my George ! and do I behold thee thus ? Wounded fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? is this the manner you return to me ? O that this sight could break my heart at once, and let me die !" " Where, Sir, is your fortitude ?" returned my son with an intrepid voice. " I must suf- fer ; my life is forfeited, and let them take it." I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, but I thought I should have died with the effort. " O my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment when I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus again ! Chained, wounded! And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day ! To see my children all un- timely falling about me, while I continue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin ! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children ! May he live, like me, to see " " Hold, Sir," replied my son, " or I shall blush for thee. How, Sir, forgetful of yom age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the 56 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. justice of Heaven, and fling those curses up- ward that must soon descend to crush thy own grey head with destruction ! No, Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer ; to arm me with hope and resolution ; to give me courage to drink of that bitterness which must shortly be my portion." " My child, you must not die : I am sure no offence of thine can deserve so vile a pun- ishment. My George could never be guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him." " Mine, Sir," returned my son, " is, I fear, an unpardonable one. When I received my mother's letter from home, I immediately came down, determined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, not in person, but by despatching four of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I fear desperately ; but the rest made me their prisoner. The coward is determined to put the law in execution against me ; the proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, and as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude ; let me now, Sir, find them in your example." " And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this world, and all the Pleasures it can produce. From this moment break from my heart all the ties that held it down to earth, arid will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our llight toge- ther. I now see and am convinced you can expect no pardon here ; and I can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhortation, but let all our fellow-prisoners have a share : Good gaoler, let them be permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline against the wall. The prisoners assembled themselves according to my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel : my son and his mother supported me on either side ; I looked and saw that none were wanting, and then addressed them with the following ex- hortation. CHAPTER XXIX. THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DE- MONSTRATED WITH REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW. THAT FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BAL- ANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER. i MY friends, my children, and fellow-suf- ferers, when I reflect on the distribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine the whole world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for; I but we daily see thousands, who, by suicide, show us they have nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely blest, but yet we may be completely miserable. Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretchedness should be requisite in the forma- tion of universal felicity ; why, when all other systems are made perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great system should require for its perfection parts that are not only subordinate to others, but imperfect in themselves ; these are questions that never can be explained, and might be useless if known. On this subject, Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with granting us motives to consolation. In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance of philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console him, has given him the aid of religion. The con- solations of philosophy are very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them ; and on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be over. Thus do these consolations destroy each other ; for, if life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparing it for an- other abode. When the good man leaves the body and is all a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven of hap- piness here ; while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body With terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of heaven. To religion then we must hold in every circum- stance of life for our truest comfort ; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think that we can make that happiness unending ; and if we are miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance of bliss : to the~wfetched, a change from pain. ^Blit "'though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised peculiar rewards to the un- happy : the sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our sacred law. The author of our religion everywhere pro- fesses himself the wretch's friend, arid, unlike the false ones of this world, besto-.vs all his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a prefer- ence without merit to deserve it. But they VICAH OF WAKEFIELD. never reflect, that it is not in the power even of Heaven itself to make the offer of unceas- ing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the miserable. To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since at most it but increases what they already possess. To the latter, it is a double advantage ; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. But Providence is in another respect kind- er to the poor than the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a long familiarity with every face of terror. The man of sorrows lays himself quietly down, without possessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his departure : he feels only nature's pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater than he has often faint- ed under before : for after a certain degree of pain, every new breach that death opens in the constitution, nature kindly covers with insensibility. Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy in this life greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that superiority ot pleasure which arises from con- trasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and seems to . be one of the pleasures of the poor man in the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to his happiness, that he had once been wretched, and now was comforted ; that he had known what it was to be miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy. Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy could never do : it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy and the un- happy, and levels all human enjoyments to i nearly the same standard. It gives to both rich and poor the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleusnre here, the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity hereafter ; and even though this should be called a small advantage, yet being an eternal one, it must make up by duration what the temporal hap. piness of the great may have exceeded by in- tenseness. These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the rest of mankind ; in other respects, they are below them. They who would know the miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, is only repeating what none either believe or practise. The men who have the necessaries of living are not poor, and they who want th^m must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we must h^ miserable. No vain efforts of a refined imagination can soothe the wants of nature.. can give elastic sweetness to the dark vapour of a dungeon, or case to the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher from his couch of softness tell us that we can resist all these : Alas ! the effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain. Death is slight, and any man may sustain it ; but tor- ments are dreadful, and these no man can endure. To us then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our reward be in this life alone, we are then indeed of all men the most miserable. "When I look round these gloomy walls, mado to terrify as well as to confine us; this light, that only serves to show the horrors of the place ; those shackles, that tyranny has im posed, or crime made necessary ; when I sur- vey these emaciated looks, and hear those groan". O! my friends, what a glorious ex- change would Heaven be for these. To fiy through regions unconfined as air, to bask in \ the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of Good- ness himself for ever in our eyes ! when I think of these things, death becomes the messenger of very glad tidings ;. when I think of these things, his sharpest, arrow becomes the staff of my support ; when I think of these things, what is there in life worth having? when I think of these things, what is there that should not be spurned away ? Kings in their palaces should groan for such advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn fo^ them. And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly be if we but try for them ; and what is a comfort, we are shut out from many temptations that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them, arid they will certain- ly be ours 4 and what is still a comfort, shortly too : for if we look back on a past life, it ap- pears but a very short span, and whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of less duration ; as we grow older, the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever lessons the perception of his stay. Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our journey's end ; we shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us; and though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and like his ho- rizon still flies before him ; yet the time will certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease from our toil ; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when we shall think wi: h pleasure of our sufferings below ; when we shall be sur- rounded with all our friends, or such as de- served our friendship ; when our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unend- ing. VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. CHAPTER XXX. HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET OS BE INFLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOUR. WHEN I had thus finished, and my audience \vas retired, the gaoler, who was one of the most humane of his profession, hoped I would not be displeased, as what he did was but his duty, observing, that he must be obliged to re- move my son into a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit me every morn- ing. I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that was before him. I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sat by my bed-side reading, when Mr Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was news of my daughter ; for that she was seen by a person about two hours before in a strange gentleman's company; and that they had stopt at a neighbouring village for refresh- ment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had scarcely delivered this news when the gaoler came with looks of haste and pleasure to inform me, that my daughter was found. Moses came running in a moment after, cry- ing out that his sister Sophy was below, and coming up with our old friend Mr Burchell. Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered, and with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affec- tion. Her mother's tears and silence also showed her pleasure. ." Here, Papa," cried the charming girl, "here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and safety " A kiss from Mr Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than her's, inter- rupted what she was going to add. " Ah, Mr Burchell," cried I, " this is but a wretched habitation you now find us in ; and we are now very different from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend ; we have long discovered our errors with regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then received at our hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your face : yet I hope you'll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, who under the mask of friendship has undone me." " It is impossible," cried Mr Burchell, " that I should forgive you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and as it was out of my power to re- strain, I could only pity it." " It was ever my conjecture," cried I, "that your mind was noble, but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how thou hast been relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried thee away.*' t Sir WilTIam years who, a stranger to my fortune, could think that I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongst the nPrtand th naly, 1,, ^of n. Inn. .... 1_ ^ense and such "heavenlynbeautv^" Then turning to JeH-l!l5ttli : "As 1 'cannot, Sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has ought in justice to accept his offer. While 1 was pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom I communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already possessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his offer without any hesitation. His business, however, was to in- form me that as he had the night before sent for the licenses, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making all the company happy that morning. A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned j and as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry as aiHuence and innocence could make them. fiG VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Howver, as they were now preparing for a Very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of the grave, be- coming, and sublime deportment they should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies, and a thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed perfectly refractory and un- governable. Even as we were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This was, which couple should be married first. My son's bride warmly in- sisted that lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the lead ; but this the other refus- ed with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument was supported for some time be- tween both with equal obstinacy and good- breeding. But as I stood all this time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest ; and shutting it, " I perceive," cried J, " that none of you have a mind to be marri- ed, and I think we had as good go back again ; for I suppose there will be no business done here to-day." This at once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and his lady were first married, and then my son and his lovely part- ner. I had previously that morrwng given orders that a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his family ; by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flam- boroughs alighted before us. Mr Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son Moses led up the other (and I have since found that he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall have, when, ever he thinks proper to demand them). We were no sooner returned to the inn, but num- bers of my parishioners, hearing of my success, came to congratulate me , but among the rest were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and reproved them with great severity ; but finding them quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea a-piece to 1 drink his health, and raise their dejected spirits. Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which was dressed by Mr Tfcjrjju^lfcjfiflpk- And it may not be improper to observe, with respect to that gen- tleman, that he now resides, in quality ot companion, at a relation'! house, being very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side- table, except when there is no room at the other ; for they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, however, still re members him with regret ; and she has even told me, though I make a great secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent. But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus ; when we were to sit down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be re- newed. The question was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above the two young brides ; but the debate was cut short by my son George, who propos- ed that the company should it indiscrimi- nately, every gentleman by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, except- ing my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, and carving the meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe our good-humour. I can't say whe ther we had more wit among us now than usu al ; but I am certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly remember : old Mr Wilmot drink- ing to Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son replied, " Madam, I thank you." Upon which the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, observed, that he was thinking of his mistress : at which jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according to my old custom, I re- quested that the table might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family as- sembled once more by a cheerful fire-side. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish for ; all my cares were over ; my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only remained, that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former submission in adversity. AN INQUIRY DITO THK PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. AN INQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING. CHAPTER I. Ix'nas been so Ion? the practice to represent literature as declining, that every renewal of this complaint now comes with diminisho.l in- fluence. The public has been so often excited by a false alarm, that at present the nearer we approach the threatened period of decay, the more our security increases. It will now probably be said, that, taking the decay of genius for granted, as I do, ar- gues either resentment or partiality. The writer possessed of fame, it may be asserted, is wiling to enjoy it without a rival, by les- sening every competitor: or, if unsuccessful, he is desirous to turn upon others the contempt which is levelled at himself ; and being con- victed at the bar of literary justice, hopes for pardon bv accusing every brother of the same profession. Sensible of this, I am at a loss where to find an apology for persisting to arraign the merit of the age ; for joining in a cry which the judicious have long since left to be kept up by the vulgar : arid for adopting the senti- ments of the multitude, in a performance that at best can please only a few Complaints of degeneracy in literature, us well as in morals, I own, have been frequently exhibited of late, but seem to be enforced more with the ardour of devious declamation than the calmness of deliberate inquiry. The dullest critic, who strives at a reputation for delicacy, by showing he cannot Ue pleased, may pathetically, assure us, that our taste is upon the decline ; may consign every modern performance to oblivion, arid bequeath nothing to posterity, except the labours of our ances- tors, or his own. Such general invective, however, conveys no instruction ; all it teaches is, that the writer dislikes an age by which he IB probably disregarded. The manner of being aseful on the subject would be, to point out I the symptoms, to investigate the causes, and direct to the remedies of the approaching de- cay. _ This is a subject hitherto unattempted in criticism, perhaps it is the only subject in which criticism can be useful. How far the writer is equal to such an undertaking, the reader must determine : yet perhaps his observations may be just, though lu's manner of expressing them should only serve as an example of the errors he under- takes to reprove. Novelty, however, is not pe-mitted to usurp the place of reason ; it may attend, but shall not conduct the inquiry. But it should be observed, that the more original any perfor- mance is, the more it is liable to deviate ; for cautious stupidity is always in the right, CHAPTER II. THE CAUSES WHICH CONTRIBUTE TO THE DB- CLIXE OF LEARNING. IF we consider the revolutions which have happened in the commonwealth of letters, survey the rapid progress of learning in one period of antiquity, or its amazing decline in another, we shall be almost induced to accuse nature of partiality ; as if she had exhausted ;ill her efforts in adorning one age, while she left the succeeding entirely neglected. It is not to nature, however, but to ourselves alone, that this partiality must be ascribed : the seeds of excellence are sown in every age, and it is wholly owing to a wrong direction in the pas- sions or pursuits of mankind, that they bare not received the proper cultivation. As in the best regulated societies, the very laws which at first give the government soli- dity, may in the end contribute to its dissolu- tion, so the efforts which might have promoted learning in its feeble commencement, may, if continu-sdj retard its progress. The paths of 70 PRESENT STATE science, which were at first intricate because untrodden, may at last grow toilsome, because too much frequented. As learning advances, the candidates for its honours become more numerous, and the acquisition of fame more uncertain : the modest may despair of attain- ing it, and the opulent think it too precarious to pursue. Thus the task of supporting the honour of the times may at last devolve on indigence and effrontery, while learning must partake of the contempt of its professors. To illustrate these assertions, it may be pro- per to take a slight review of the decline of an- cient learning ; to consider how far its deprava- tion was osving to the impossibility of support- ing continued perfection ; in what respects it proceeded from voluntary corruption ; and how far it was hastened on by accident. If modern learning be compared with ancient, in these dif- ferent lights, a parallel between both, which has hitherto produced only vain dispute, may con- tribute to amusement, perhaps to instruction. We shall thus be enabled to perceive what period of antiquity the present age most re- sembles, whether we are making advances towards excellence, or retiring again to pri- meval obscurity; we shall thus be taught to acquiesce in those defects which it is impos- sible to prevent, and reject all faulty innova- tions, though offered under the specious titles of improvement. Learning when planted in any country, is transient and fading ; nor does it flourish till slow gradations of improvement have natural- ized it to the soil. Jt makes feeble advances, begins among the vulgar, and rises into repu- tation among the great. It cannot be esta- blished in a state at once, by introducing the learned of other countries ; these may grace a court, but seldom enlighten a kingdom. Pto- lemy Fhiladelphus, Constantine Porphyro- genera, Alfred, or Charlemagne, might have invited learned foreigners into their dominions, but could not establish learning. While in the radiance of royal favour, every art and science seemed to flourish ; but when that was withdrawn, they quickly felt the rigours of a strange climate, and with exotic constitu- tions perished by neglect. As the arts and sciences are slow in coming to maturity, it is requisite, in order to their perfection, that the state should be permanent which gives them reception. There are num- berless attempts without success, and experi- ments without conclusion, between the first rudiments of an art, and its utmost perfection between the outlines of a shadow, and the picture of an Apeiles. Leisure is required to go through the tedious interval, to join the ex- perience of predecessors to our own, or enlarge our views, by building on the ruined attempts of former adventurers. All this may be per- formed in a society of long continuance, but i the kingdom be but of short duration, as was the case of Arabia, learning seems coeval ympathizes with its political struggles, and is .nnihilated in its dissolution. But permanence in a state is not sufficient ; t is requisite also for this end that it should ie free. Naturalists assure us, that all animals re sagacious in proportion as they are remov- d from the tyranny of others. In native iberty, the elephant is a citizen, and the )eaver an architect ; but whenever the tyrant nan intrudes upon their community, their pirit is broken, they seem anxious only for afety, and tbeir intellects suffer an equal diminution with their prosperity. The paral- el will hold with regard to mankind. Fear laturally represses invention, benevolence, mbition ; for in a nation of slaves, as in the despotic governments of the East, to labour after fame is to be a candidate for danger. To attain literary excellence also, it is requisite that the soil and climate should, as much as possible, conduce to happiness. The earth must supply man with the necessaries of ife, before he has leisure or inclination to pursue more refined enjoyments. Tb climaf also must be equally indulgent; for in too warm a region the mind is relaxed into languor, and by the opposite excess is chilled into torpid inactivity. These are the principle advantages which tend to the improvement of learning : and all these were united in the states of Greece and Rome. We must now examine what hastens, or prevents its decline. Those who behold the phenomena of nature, and content themselves with the view, without inquiring into their causes, are perhaps wiser than is generally imagined. In this manner our rude ancestors were acquainted with facts ; and Poetry, which helped the imagination and the memory, was thought the most proper vehicle for conveying their knowledge to pos- terity. It was the poet who harmonized the ungrateful accents of his native dialect, who lifted it above common conversation, and shaped its rude combinations into order. From him the orator formed a style; and though poetry first rose out of prose, in turn it gave birth to every prosaic excellence. Musical period, concise expression, and deli- cacy of sentiment were all excellencies derived from the poet ; in short, he not only proceed- ed, but formed the orator, philosopher, and historian. When the observations of past ages were collected, philosophy next began to examine their causes. She had numberless facts from which to draw proper inferences, and poetry had taught her the strongest expression to en- force them. Thus the Greek philosophers, for instance, exerted all their happy talents in the investigation of truth, and the produc- tion of beauty. They saw that there was more excellence in captivating the judgment, than in raising a momentary astonishment. OF POLITE LEARNING. 71 In their arts, they imitated only such parts of nanire as might please in the representation ; in the sciences, they cultivated such parts of knowledge as it was every man's duty to know. Thus learning was encouraged, pro- tected, honoured, and in its turn adorned, strengthened, and harmonized the community. But as the mind is vigorous and active, and experiment is dilatory and painful, the spirit of philosophy being excited, the reasoner, when destitute of experiment, had recourse to theory, and gave up wnat was useful for re- finement. Critics, sophists, grammarians, rhetoricians, and commentators, now begin to figure in the literary commonwealth. In the dawn of sci- ence such are generally modest, and not en- tirely useless. Their performances serve to mark the progress of learning, though they seldom contribute to its improvement. But as nothing but speculation was required in making proficients in their respective depart- ments, so neither the satire nor the contempt of the wise, though Socrates was of the num- ber, nor the laws levelled at them by the state, though Cato was in the legislature, could pre- vent their approaches.* Possessed of all the advantages of unfeeling dullness, laborious, in- sensible, and persevering, they still proceeded mending and mending every work of genius, or, to speak without irony, undermining all that was polite and useful. Libraries were loaded, but not enriched, with their labours, while the fatigues of reading their explanatory comments was tenfold that which might suf- fice for understanding the original, and their I works effectually increased our application, bv professing to remove it. Against so obstinate and irrefragable an enemy, what could avail the unsupported sal- lies of genius, or the opposition of transitory resentment ? In short they conquered by persevering, claimed the right of dictating upon every work of taste, sentiment, or ge- nius, and, at last, when destitute of other em- ployment, like the supernumerary domestics of the great, made work for each other. They now took upon them to teach poetry to those who wanted genius ; and the power of disputing, to those who knew nothing of the subject in debate. It was observed how some of the most admired poets had copied nature. From these they collected dry rules, dignified with long names, and such were ob- truded upon the public for their improvement. Common sense would be apt to suggest, that the art might be studied to more advantage, rather by imitation than precept. It might suggest that those rules were collected, not from nature, but a copy of nature, and would consequently give us still fainter resemblances of original beauty. It might still suggest, that explained wit makes but a feeble impres-. * Vide Sueton. Hist. Gram,. sion ; that the observations of others are soon forgotten, those made by ourselves are perma- nent and useful. But it seems, understand- ings of every size were to be mechanically instructed in poetry. If the reader was too dull to relish the beauties of Virgil, the com- ment of Servius was ready to brighten his imagination ; if Terence could not raise him to a smile, Evantius was at hand, with a long- winded scholium to increase his titillation. Such rules are calculated to make blockheads talk, but all the lemmata of the Lyceum are unable to give him feeling. But it would be endless to recount all the absurdities which were hatched in the schools of those specious idlers ; be it sufficient to say, that they increased as learning improved, but swarmed on its decline. It was then that every work of taste was buried in long com- ments, every useful subject in morals was dis- tinguished away into casuistry, and doubt and subtlety characterized the learning of the age. Metrodorus, Valerius Probus, Aulus Gellius, Pedianus, Boethius, arid a hundred others, to be acquainted with whom might show much reading, and but little judgment; these, I say, made choice each of an author, aud delivered all their load of learning on his back. Shame to our ancestors ! many of their works have reached our times entire, while Tacitus him. self has suffered mutilation. In a word, the commonwealth of literature was at last wholly overrun by these studious triflers. Men of real genius were lost in the multitude, or, as in a world of fools it were folly to aim at being an only exception, obliged to conform to every prevailing absurdity of the times. Original productions seldom appeared, and learning, as if grown superannuated, be- stowed all its panegyric upon the vigour of its youth, and turned encomiast upon its former achievements. It is to these, then, that the depravation of ancient polite learning is principally to be ascribed. By them it was separated from common sense, and made the proper employ- ment of speculative idlers. Men bred up among books, and seeing nature only by re- flection, could do little, except hunt after per- plexity and confusion. The public, therefore, with reason rejected learning, when thus ren- dered barren, though voluminous ; for we may be assured, that the generality of mankind never lose a passion for letters, while thej continue to be either amusing or useful. It was such writers as these, that rendered learning unfit for uniting and strengthening civil society, or for promoting the views of ambition. True philosophy had kept the Grecian states cemented into one effective body, more than any law for tha,t purpose and the Etrurian philosophy, which prevailed in the first ages of Rome, inspired those pa- triot virtues which paved the way to universal empire. But by the labours of commentators, when philosophy became abstruse, or tritlingly PKESENT STATE minute, when doubt was presented instead of knowledge, when the orator was taught to charm the multitude with the music of his periods, and pronounced a declamation that might be sung as well as spoken, and often upon subjects wholly fictitious ; in such cir- cumstances, learning was entirely unsuited to all the purposes of government, or the designs of the ambitious. As long as the sciences could influence the state, and its politics were strengthened by them, so long did the com- munity give them countenance and protection. But the wiser part of mankind would not be imposed upon by unintelligible jargon, nor, like the knight in Pantagruel, swallow a chimera for a breakfast, though even cooked by Aristotle. As the philosopher grew use- less in the state, he also became contemptible. In the times of Lucian, he was chiefly remark- able for his avarice, his impudence, and his beard. Under the auspicious influence of genius, arts and sciences grew up together, and mutu- ally illustrated each other. JBut when once pedants became lawgivers, the sciences began to want grace, and the polite arts solidity; these grew crabbed and sour, those meretri- cious and gaudy ; the philosopher became dis- gustingly precise, and the poet, ever strain- ing after grace, caught only finery. These men also contributed to obstruct the progress of wisdom, by addicting their readers to one particular sect, or some favour- ite science. They generally carried on a pet- ty traffic in some little creek : within that they busily plied about, and drove an insignificant trade : but never ventured out into the great ocean of knowledge, nor went beyond the bounds that chance, conceit, or laziness, had first prescribed their inquiries. Their disci- ples, instead of aiming at being originals them- selves, became imitators of that merit alone which was constantly proposed for their admira- tion. In exercises of this kind, the most stupid are generally most successful ; for there is not in nature a more imitative animal than a dunce. Hence ancient learning may be distinguish- ed into three periods. Its commencement, or the age of poets ; its maturity, or the age of philosophers ; and its decline, or the age of critics. In the poetical age commentators were very few, but might have in some respects been useful. In its philosophical, their assis- tance must necessarily become obnoxious ; yet, as if the nearer we approached perfection, the more we stood in need of their directions, in this period they began to grow numerous. But when polite learning was no more, then it was those literary lawgivers made the most formidable appearance. Corruptissima repub- tica, plurinue leges. TACIT. But let us take a more distinct view of those ages of ignorance in which false refine- ment had involved mankind, and ses how far they resemble our own. CHAPTER III. A VIEW OP THE OBSCUUE AGES. WHATEVER the skill of any country may be in sciences, it is from its excellence in polite learning alone, that it must expect a character from posterity. The poet and the historian are they who diffuse a lustre upon the age, and the philosopher scarcely acquires any applause unless his character be introduced to the vulgar by their mediation. The obscure ages, which succeeded the de- cline of the Roman empire, are a striking in- stance of the truth of this assertion. What- ever period of those ill-fated times we happen to turn to, we shall perceive more skill in the sciences among the professors of them, more abstruse and deeper inquiry into every philoso- phical subject, and a greater show of subtle and close reasoning, than in the most enlight- ened ages of all antiquity. But their writings were mere speculative amusements, and all their researches exhausted upon trifles. Un- skilled in the arts of adorning their knowledge, or adapting it to common sense, their volu- minous productions rest peacefully in our libra- ries, or at best are inquired after from motives of curiosity, not by the scholar, but the vir- tuoso. I am not insensible, that several late FrencL historians have exhibited the obscure ages in a very different light. They have represented them as utterly ignorant both of arts and sciences, buried in the profoundest darkness, or only illuminated with a feeble gleam, which, like an expiring taper, rose and sunk by inter- vals. Such assertions, however, though they serve to help out the declaimer, should be cautiously admitted by the historian. For instance, the tenth century is particularly dis- tinguished by posterity with the appellation of obscure. Yet, even in this, the reader's me- mory may possibly suggest the names of some, whose works, still preserved, discover a most extensive erudition, though rendered almost useless by affectation arid obscurity. A few of their names and writings may be mentioned, which will serve at once to confirm what I assert, and give the reader an idea of what kind of learning an age declining into obscurity chiefly chooses to cultivate. About the tenth century flourished Leo the philosopher. We have seven volumes folio of his collections of laws, published at Paris 1647. He wrote upon the art military, and*understood also astronomy and judicial astrology. He was seven times more voluminous than Plato. Solomon, the German, wrote a most elegant dictionary of the Latin tongue, still preserved in the university of Louvain; Pantaleon, in the lives of his illustrious countrymen, speaks of it in the warmest strains of rapture. Dic- tionary writing was at that time much in fashion. OF POLITE LEARNING. 7 Coustantine Porphyrogeneta was a man universally skilled in the sciences. His tracts on the administration of an empire, on tactics, and on laws, were published some years since at Leyden. His court, for he was emperor of the East, was resorted to by the learned from all parts of the world. Luitprandus was a most voluminous histo- rian, and particularly famous for the history of his own times. The compliments paid him as a writer are said to exceed even his own voluminous productions. I cannot pass over one of a later date made him by a German divine. JLuitprandus nunquam J^uiiprando dissimilis. I have mentioned but a very inconsiderable number of writers in this age of obscurity. The multiplicity of their publications will at least equal those of any similar period of the most polite antiquity. As, therefore, the writers of those times are almost entirely for- gotten, we may inter, that the number of pub- lications alone will never secure any age whatsoever from oblivion. Nor can print- ing, contrary to what Mr Bautnelle has re- marked, prevent literary decline for the future, since it only increases ihe number of books without advancing their intrinsic merit. Alfric composed several grammars and dic- tionaries still preserved among the curious. Pope Sylvester the second wrote a treatise on the sphere, on arithmetic and geometry, published some years since at Paris. Michael Psellus lived in this age, whose books in the sciences, I will not scruple to assert, contain more learning than those of any one of the earlier ages. His erudition was indeed amazing ; and he was as voluminous as he was learned. The character given by CHAPTER IV. OF THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEABNIN9 IN ITALY FROM ancient we are now come to modern times, and, in running over Europe, we shall lind, that wherever learning has been culti- Allatius has, perhaps, more truth in it than | vated, it has flourished by the same advantages will be granted by those who have seen none of his productions. There was, says he, no science with whicii he was unacquainted, none which he did not write something upon, and none which he did not leave better than he found it. To mention his works would be endless. His commentaries on Aristotle alone amount to three folios. Bertholdus Teutonicus, a very voluminous as in Greece and Rome ; and that, wherever it has declined, it sinks by the same causes of decay. Dante, the poet of Itkly, who wrote in the thirteenth century, was the first who attempt- ed to bring learning from the cloister into the community, and paint human nature in a lan- guage adapted to modern manners. He ad- dressed a barbarous people in a method suited historian, was a politician, and wrote against , to their apprehensions ; united purgatory and the river Styx, St Peter and Virgil, heaven the government under which he lived : but most of his writings, though not all, are lost. Constantius Afer was a philosopher and physician. We have remaining but two re- lumes folio of his philological performances. However, the historian who prefixes the life of die author to his works, says, that he wrote many more, as he kept on writing during the course of a long life. JLambertus published an universal history about this time, which has been printed at Frankfort in folio. An universal history in one folio ! If he had consulted with his book- seller, he would have spun it out to ten at least ; but Lambertus much modesty. might have had too By this time the reader perceives the spirit of learning which at that time prevailed. The ignorance of the age was not owing to a dis- like of knowledge, but a false standard of taste was erected, and a wrong direction given to philosophical inquiry. It was the fashion of the day to write dictionaries, commentaries, and compilations, and to evaporate in a folio the spirit that could scarcely have sufficed for an epigram. The most barbarous times had men of learning, if commentators, compilers, polemic divines, and intricate metaphysicians, deserved the title. and hell together, and shows a strange mixture of good sense and absurdity. The truth is, he owes^most of his reputation to the obscurity of the times in which he lived. As in the land of Benin a man may pass for a prodigy of parts who can read, so in an age of barba- rity, a small degree of excellence ensures suc- cess. But it was great merit in him to have lifted up the standard of nature, in spite of all the opposition and the persecution he received from contemporary criticism. To this stand- ard every succeeding genius resorted ; the germ of every art and science began to unfold ; and to imitate nature was found to be the surest way of imitating antiquity. In a century or two after, modern Italy might justly boast of rivalling ancient Rome ; equal in some branch- es of polite learning and not far surpassed in others. They soon, however, fell from emulating the wonders of antiquity into simple admiration. As if the word had been given, when Vida and Tasso wrote on the arts of poetry, the whole swarm of critics was up. The Spe- ronis of the age attempted to be awkwardly merry ; and the Virtuosi and the Nascotti sat upon the merits of every contemporary per- -urmance. After the age of Clement VII. the 74 PRESENT STATE Italians seemed to think that there was more merit in praising or censuring well, than in writing well; almost every subsequent perform- ance since their time, being designed rather to show the excellence of the critic's taste than his genius. One or two poets, indeed, seem at present born to redeem the honour of their country. Metastasio has icstored nature in all her simplicity, and Maffei is the first that has introduced a tragedy among his country- men without a love-plot. Perhaps the Samson of Milton, and the Athalia of Racine, might have been his guides in such an attempt. But two poets in an age are not sufficient to revive the splendour of decaying genius , nor should we consider them as the standard by which to characterize a nation. Our measures of lite- rary reputation must be taken rather from that numerous class of men, who, placed above the vulgar, are yet beneath the great, and who confer fame on others without receiving any portion of it themselves. In Italy, then, we shall nowhere find a stronger passion for the arts of taste, yet no country making more feeble efforts to promote either. The Virtuosi and Filosofi seem to have divided the Encyclopedia between each other. Both inviolably attached to their re- spective pursuits ; and, from an opposition of character, each holding the other in the most sovereign contempt. The Virtuosi, professed critics of beauty in the works of art, judge of medals by the smell, and pictures by feeling : In statuary, hang over a fragment with the most ardent gaze of admiration : though want- ing the head and the other extremities, if dug from a ruin, the Torse becomes inestimable. An unintelligible monument of Etruscan bar- barity cannot be sufficiently prized; and any thing from Herculaneum excites rapture. When the intellectual taste is thus decayed, its relishes become false, and, like that of sense, nothing will satisfy but what is best suited to feed the disease. Poetry is no longer among them an imita- tion of what we see, but of what a visionary might wish. The zephyr breathes the most exquisite perfume, the trees wear eternal ver- dure ; fawns, and dryads, and hamadryads, stand ready to fan the sultry shepherdess, who has forgot indeed the prettinesses with which Guarini's shepherdesses have been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as often to have no meaning. Happy country, where the pas- toral age begins to revive ! Where the wits even of Rome are united into a rural group of nymphs and swains, under the appellation of modern Arcadians : Where in the midst of porticoes, processions, and cavalcades, abbes turned shepherds, and shepherdesses without sheep, indulge their innocent divertimenti. The Filosofi are entirely different from the former. As those pretend to have got their Juiowledge from conversing with the living and polite, so these boast of having theirs from books and study. Bred up all their lives in colleges, they have there learned to think in track, servilely to follow the leader of their sect, and only to adopt such opinions as their universities, or the inquisition, are pleased to allow. By these means, they are behind the rest of Europe in several modern improve- ments afraid to think for themselves : and their universities seldom admit opinions as true, till universally received among the rest of mankind. In short, were I to personize my ideas of learning in this country, I would re- present it in the tawdry habits of the stage, or else in the more homely guise of bearded school-philosophy. CHAPTER V. OF POLITE LEARNING IN GERMANY. IF we examine the state of learning in Ger- many, we shall find that the Germans early discovered a passion for polite literature ; but unhappily, like conquerors, who, invading the dominions of others, leave their own to deso- lation, instead of studying the German tongue, they continue to write in Latin. Thus, while they cultivated an obsolete language, and vainly laboured to apply it to modern manners, they neglected their own. At the same time also, they began at the wrong end, I mean by being commentators .- and though they have given many instances of their industry, they have scarcely afforded any of genius. If criticism could have improved the taste of a people, the Germans would have been the most polite nation alive. We shall nowhere behold the learned wear a more im- portant appearance than here ; nowhere more dignified with professorships, or dressed out in the fopperies of scholastic finery. However, they seem to earn all the honour of this kind which they enjoy. Their assiduity is unpa- ralleled, and did they employ half those hours on study which they bestow on reading, we might be induced to pity as well as praise theii painful pre-eminence. But guilty of a fault too common to great readers, they write through volumes, while they do not think through a page. Never fatigued themselves, they think the reader can never be weary ; so they drone on, saying all that can be said on the subject, not selecting what may be advanced to the purpose. Were angels to write books, they never would write folios. But let the Germans have their due ; if they are dull, no nation alive assumes a more laudable solemnity, or better understands all the decorums of stupidity. Let the discourse of the professor run on ever so heavily, it can- not be irksome to his dosing pupils, who fre- quently lend him sympathetic nods of appro- bation. I have sometimes attended their dis- putes at gradation. On this occasion they often dispense with their gravity, and seem OF POLITE LEARNING. 75 really all alive. The disputes are managed between the followers of Cartesius, whose exploded system they continue to call the new philosophy, and those of Aristotle. Though both parties are in the wrong, they argue with an obstinacy worthy the cause of truth ; Nego. Probo, and Distinguo, grow loud ; the dis- putants become warm, the moderator cannot be heard, the audience take part in the debate, till at last the whole hall buzzes with sophistry and error. There are, it is true, several societies in this country, which are chiefly calculated to pro- mote knowledge. His late majesty, as elector of Hanover, has established one at Gottingen, at an expense of not less than a hundred thou- sand pounds. This university has already pickled monsters, and dissected live puppies without number. Their transactions have been published in the learned world, at proper intervals since their institution : and will, it is hoped, one day give them just reputation. But had the fourth part of the immense sum above-mentioned been given in proper rewards to genius, in some neighbouring countries, it would have rendered the name of the donor immortal, and added to the real interests of society. Yet it ought to be observed, that, of late, learning has been patronized here by a prince, who, in the humblest station, would have been the first of mankind. The society established by the king of Prussia at Berlin, ic one of the finest literary institutions that any age or na- tion hai; produced. This academy compre- hends all the sciences under four different j classes ; and although the object of each is different, and admits of being separately treat- ed, yet these classes mutually influence the progress of each other, and concur in the same general design. Experimental philoso- phy, mathematics, metaphysics, and polite literature, are here carried on together. The members are not collected from among the students of some obscure seminary, or the wits of a metropolis, but chosen from all the literati of Europe, supported by the bounty, and or- namented by the productions of their royal founder. We can easily discern, how much such an institution excels any other now subsisting. One fundamental error among societies of this kind, is their addicting them- selves to one branch of science, or some par- ticular part of polite learning. Thus, in Germany, there are no where so many estab- lishments of this nature ; but as they generally profess the promotion of natural or medical knowledge, he who reads their Acts will only find an obscure farrago of experiment, most frequently terminated by no resulting phenom- ena. To make experiments, is, I own, the only way to promote natural knowledge -, but to treasure up every unsuccessful inquiry into nature, or to communicate every experiment Without conclusion, is not to promote science, I but to oppress it. Had the members of these I societies enlarged their plans, and taken in art as well as science, one part of knowledge would have repressed any faulty luxuriance in the other's promotion. Besides, the society which, with a contempt of all collateral as- sistance, admits of members skilled in one science only, whatever their diligence or labour may be, will lose much time in the dis, covery of such truths as are well known already to the learned in a different line ; con- sequently, their progress must be slow in gain, ing a proper eminence from which to view their subject, as their strength will be ex- hausted in attaining the station whence they should have set out. With regard to the Royal Society of London, the greatest, and perhaps the oldest institution of the kind, had it widened the basis of its institution, though they might not have propagated more disco- veries, they , would probably have delivered them in a more pleasing and compendious form. They would have been free from the contempt of the ill-natured, and the raillery of the wit, for which, even candour must allow, there is but too much foundation. But the Berlin academy is subject to no one of all these inconveniences, but every one of its in- dividuals is in a capacity of deriving more from the common stock than he contributes to it, while each academician serves as a check upon the rest of his fellows. Yet, very probably, even this fine institu- I tion will soon decay. As it rose, so it will decline with its great encourager. The society if I may so speak, is artificially supported. The introduction of foreigners of learning was right ; but in adopting a foreign language also, I mean the French, in which all the transactions are to be published, and questions debated, in this there was an error. As I have already hinted : the language of the natives of every country should be also the language of its polite learning. To figure in polite learning every country should make their own language from their own manners . nor will they evei succeed by introducing that of another, which has-been formed from manners which are differ- ent. Besides, an academy composed of foreigners must still be recruited from abroad, unless all the natives of the country to which it belongs, are in a capacity of becoming can- didates for its honours or rewards. While France therefore continues to supply Berlin, polite learning will flourish; but when royal favour is withdrawn, learning will return to its natural country. CHAPTER VI. OF POLITE LEARNING IN HOLLAND, AND 3OMB OTHER COUNTRIES OF EUROPE. HOLLAND, at first view, appears to have some pretensions to polite learning. It may PRESENT STATE be regarded as the great emporium, net less of literature than of every other commodity. Here, though destitute of what may be pro- perly called a language of their own, all the languages are understood, cultivated, and spoken. All useful inventions in arts, and new discoveries in science, are published here almost as soon as at the places which first produced them. Its individuals have the same taults, however, with the Germans, of making more use of their memory than their judgment. The chief employment of their literati is to criticise, or answer the new performances which appear elsewhere. A dearth of wit hi France or England natu- rally produces a scarcity in Holland. What Ovid says of Echo, cnay be applied here, Nee loqui prius didicit nee rcticcre louqenti. They wait till something new comes out from others ; examine its merits, and reject it, or make it reverberate through the rest of Europe. After all, I know not whether they should be allowed any national character for polite learning. All their taste is derived to them from neighbouring nations, and that iu a lan- guage not their own. They somewhat re- semble their brokers, who trade for immense sums without having any capital. The other countries of Europe may be con- sidered as immersed in ignorance, or making but feeble efforts to rise. Spain has long fallen from amazing Europe with her wit, to amusing them with the greatness of her catho- lic credulity. Rome considers hers as the most favourite of all her children, and school divinity still reigns there in triumph. In spite of all attempts of the Marquis D'Ensamula, who saw with regret the barbarity of his coun- trymen, and bravely offered to oppose it by introducing new systems of learning, and sup- pressing the seminaries of monastic ignorance ; in spite of the ingenuity of Padre Feio, whose book of vulgar errors so finely exposes the monkish stupidity of the times ; the religious have prevailed. Erisanada has been banished, and now lives in exile. Feio has incurred the hatred and contempt of every bigot whose er- rors he has attempted to oppose, and feels no doubt the unremitting displeasure of the priest- hood. Persecution is a tribute the great must ever pay for pre-eminence. It is a little extraordinary, however, how Spain, whose genius is naturally fine, should be so much behind the rest of Europe in this particular; or why school divinity should hold its ground there for nearly six hundred years. The reason must be, that philosophical opin- ions, which are otherwise transient, acquire stability in proportion as they are connected with the laws of the country ; and philosophy arid law have nowhere been so closely united as here. Sweden has of late made some attempts in oolite learning in its own language. Count Tessin's instructions to the prince, his pupil, are no bad beginning. If the Ateses can fix their .residence so far northward, perhaps no countVy bids so fair for their reception. They have, I am told, a language rude but energetic; if so, it will bear a polish. They have also a jealous sense of liberty, and that strength of thinking peculiar to northern climates, with- out its attendant ferocity. They will cer- tainly in time produce somewhat great, if their intestine divisions do not unhappily prevent theui. The history of polite learning in Denmark may be comprised in the life of one single man : it rose and fell with the late famous Baron Holberg. This was, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary personages that has done honour to the present century. His being the son of a private sentinel did not abate the ardour of his ambition, for he learn- ed to read though without a master. Upon the death of his father, being left entirely des- titute, he was involved in all that distress which is common among the poor, and of which the great have scarcely any idea. How- ever, though only a boy of nine years old, he still persisted in pursuing his studies, travelled about from school to school, and begged his learning and his bread. When at the age of seventeen, instead of applying himself to any of the lower occupations, which seem best adapted to such circumstances, he t was re- solved to travel for improvement from Nor- way, the place of his birth, to Copenhagen the capital city of Denmark. He lived there by teaching French, at the same time avoid- ing no opportunity of improvement that his scanty funds could permit But his ambition was not to be restrained, or his thirst of know- ledge satisfied, until he had seen the world. Without money, recommendations, or friends, he undertook to set out upon his travels, and make the tour of Europe on foot. A good voice, and a trifling skill in music, were the only finances he had to support an undertak- ing so extensive ; so he travelled by day, and at night sung at the doors of peasants' nouses to get himself a lodging. In this manner, while yet very young, Holberg passed through France, Germany, and Holland ; and coming over to England took up his residence for two years in the university of Oxford. Here he subsisted by teaching French and music, and wrote his universal history, his earliest, but worst performance. Furnished with all the learning of Europe, he at last thought proper to return to Copenhagen, where his ingenious productions quickly gained him that favour he deserved. He composed not less than eighteen comedies. Those in his own language are said to excel, and those which are translated into French have peculiar merit. He was honoured with nobility, arid enriched by the bounty of the king; so that a life begun r. N contempt and penury, ended in opulence ami esteem. Thus we see in what a low state polite is in the countries I have mentioned; ruLITE LEAENING. 77 ! either past its prime, or not yet arrived at maturity. And though the sketch I have drawn be general, yet it was for the most part taken on the spot. I am sensible, however, of the impropriety of national reflection ; and did not truth bias me more than incLwtion iu this particular, I should, instead of the account already given, have presented the reader with a panegyric on many of the individuals of every country, whoso merits deserve the wannest strains of praise. Apostol Zeno, Algarotti, Goldoni, Muratori, and Stay, in Italy; Haller, Klopstock, and Rabner, in Germany; Muschenbrook, and Gaubius, in Holland ; all deserve the highest applause. Men like these, united by one bond, pursuing one design, spend their labour and their lives in making their fellow-creatures happy, and in re- pairing the breaches caused by ambition. In this light, the meanest philosopher, though all his possessions are his lamp or his cell, is more truly valuable than he whose name echoes to the shout of the million, and who stands in all the glare of admiration In this light, though po- verty and contemptuous neglect are all the wages of his good- will from mankind, yet the rectitude of his intention is an ample recompense ; and self-applause for the present, and the alluring prospect of fame for futurity, rewards his labours. The perspective of life brightens upon us, when terminated by an object so charming. Every intermediate image of want, banishment, or sorrow, receives a lustre from its distant influence. With this in view, the patriot, philosopher, and poet, have often looked with calmness on disgrace and famine, and rested on their straw with cheerful serenity. Even the last terrors of departing nature abate of their severity, and loci; kindly on him who considers his sufferings as a pa->sport to immor- ' tality, and lays his sorrows on ihe bed of fame. ! CHAPTER VII. V OF POLITE LEARNING IX ITvANCE. WE have hitherto seen, that wherever the poet was permitted to begin by improving his native language, polite learning Nourished ; but where the critic undertook the same task, it has never risen to any degree of perfection. Let us now examine the merits of modern learning in France and England ; where, though it may be on the decline, yet it is still capable of retrieving much of its former splen- dour. In other places learning has not yet been planted, or has suffered a total decay. To attempt amendment there, would be only like the application of remedies to an insen- sible or a mortified part ; but here there is Btili life and there is hope. And indeed the French themselves are so far from giving in to any despondence of this kind. that on the contrary, they admire the pio~ gress they are daily making- in every science. That levity, for which we are apt to des- pise this nation, is probably the principal source of their happiness. An agreeable obli- vion of past pleasures, a freedom from solici- tude about future ones, and a poignant zest of every present enjoyment, if they be not phi- losophy, are at least excellent substitutes. By this they are taught to regard the period in which they live with admiration. The pro- sent manners, and the present conversation, surpass all that preceded. A similar enthu- siasm as strongly tinctures their learning anil their taste. While we, with a despondence characteristic of our nature, are for removing back British excellence to the reign of Queen Elizabeth, our most happy rivals of the con- tinent cry up the writers of the present times with rapture, and regard the age of Louis XV. as the true Augustan age of France. The truth is, their present writers have not fallen so short of the merits of their ancestors as ours have done. That self-sufficiency now mentioned, may have been of service to them in this particular. By fancying themselves superior to their ancestors, they have been en- couraged to enter the lists with confidence ; and by not being dazzled at the splendour of another's reputation, have sometimes had sa- gacity to mark out an unbeaten path to fame Ibr themselves. Other causes ulso may be assigned, that their second growth of genius is still more vigorous than ours. Their encouragements to merit are more skilfully directed, the link of patronage and learning still continues un- broken. The French nobility have certainly a most pleasing way of satisfying the vanity of an author, without indulging his avarice. A n;an of literary merit is sure of being caressed by the great, though seldom enriched. His j pension from the crown just supplies half a competence, and the sale of his labours make ' some small addition to his circumstances. Thus the author leads a life of splendid pov- erty, and seldom beconvjs wealthy, or indolent enough to discontinue an exertion of thos abilities by which he rose. With the English it is different. Our writers of rising merit are generally neglected, while the few of an established reputation are overpaid by luxuri- ous affluence. The young encounter every hardship which generally attends upon aspir- ing indigence ; the old enjoy the vulgar, and perhaps the more prudent satisfaction, ot put- ting riches in competition with fame. Those are often seen to spend their youth in want and obscurity ; these are sometimes found to lead an old age of indolence and avarice. But such treatment must naturally be expected from Englishmen, whose national character it is to be slow and cautious in making friends, but violent in friendships once contracted. The English nobility, in short, are often PRESENT STATE known to give greater rewards to genius than the French, who, however, ape much more judi- cious in the application of their empty favours. The fair sex in France have also not a little contributed to prevent the decline of taste and literature, by expecting stuth qualifications in their admirers. A man of fashion at Paris, however contemptible we may think him here, must be acquainted with the reigning modes of philosophy as well as of dress, to be able to entertain his mistress agreeably. The sprightly pedants are not to be caught by dumb show, by the squeeze of the hand, or the ogling of a broad eye ; but must be pursued at once through all the labyrinths of the Newtonian system, or the metaphysics of Locke. I have seen as bright a circle of beauty at the chemical lectures of Rouelle as gracing the court of Versailles. And indeed wisdom never appears so charm- ing, as when graced and protected by beauty. To these advantages may be added, the re- ception of their language in the different courts of Europe. An author who excels, is sure of having all the polite for admirers, and is encouraged to write, by the pleasing expecta- tion of universal fame. Add to this, that those countries who can make nothing good from their own language, have lately begun to write in this, some of whose productions contributed to support the present literary re- putation of France, There are, therefore, many among the French who do honour to the present age, ! and whose writings will be transmitted to pos- j terity with an ample share of fame ; some of the most celebrated are as follow : Voltaire, whose voluminous, yet spirited productions are too well known to require a eulogy. Does he not resemble the champion mentioned by Xenophon, of great reputation in all the gymnastic exercises united, but in- ferior to each champion singly, who excels only in one ? > Montesquieu a name equally deserving fame with the former. The Spirit of laws is an in- stance how much genius is able to lead learn- ing. His system has been adopted by the literati ; and yet, is it not possible for opinions equally plausible to be formed upon opposite principles, if a genius like his could be found to attempt such an undertaking? He seems more a poet than a philosopher. Rousseau of Geneva, a professed man-hater, or more properly speaking, a philosopher en- raged with one half of mankind, because they unavoidably make the other half unhappy. Such sentiments are generally the result of much good nature and little experience. Pyron, an author possessed of as much wit as any man alive, yet with as little prudence to turn it to his own advantage. A comedy of his called La Metromanie, is the best theatrical production that has appeared of late in Europe. But 1 know not whether I should most com- mend his genius or censure his obscenity, His ode a Priape, has justly excluded him from a place in the academy of Belles Lettres. How- ever, the good-natured Montesquieu, by hla interest, procured the starving bard a trifling pension. His own epitaph was all the revenge he took upon the academy for being repulsed. Cy Gii Pyjon; gui nefutjamais rien, fas meme .dcademicien. Crebillon, junior ; a writer of real merit, but guilty of the same indelicate faults with the former. Wit employed in dressing up obscen- ity, is like the art used in painting a corpse ; it maybe thus rendered tolerable to one sense, but fails not quickly to offend some other. Gresset is agreeable and easy. His comedy called the Mechant, and a humorous poem en- titled Ververt, have original merit. He was bred a Jesuit ; but his wit procured his dis- mission from the society. This last work particularly could expect no pardon from the Convent, being a satire against nunneries ! Dalembert has united an extensive skill in scientih'cal learning with the most refined taste for the polite arts. His excellence in both has procured him a seat in each academy. Diderot is an elegant writer and subtile rea- soner. He is the supposed author of the fa. mous thesis which the abbe Prade sustained before the doctors of the Sorbonne. It was levelled against Christianity, and the Sorbonne too hastily gave it their sanction. They per- ceived its purport, however, when it was too late. The college was brought into some con- tempt, and the abbe obliged to take refuge at the court of Berlin, The Marquis d'Argens attempts to add the character of a philosopher to the vices of a debauchee. The catalogue might be increased with se- veral other authors of merit, such as Marivaux, Le Franc, Saint Foix, Destouches, and Mon- donville ; but let it suffice to say, that by these the character of the present age is tolerably supported. Though their poets seldom rise to fine enthusiasm, they never sink into ab- surdity ; though they fail to astonish, they are generally possessed of talents to please. The age of Louis XIV. notwithstanding these respectable names, is still vastly superior. For beside the general tendency of critical corruption, which shall be spoken of by and bye, there are other symptoms which indi- cate a decline. There is, for instance, a fondness for scepticism, which runs through the works of some of their most applauded writers, and which the numerous class of their imitators have contributed to diffuse. Nothing can be a more certain sign that genius is in the wane, than its being obliged to fly to paradox for support, and attempting to be erroneously agreeable. A man who, with all the impotence of wit, and all the eager desires of infidelity, writes against the religion of his country, may raise doubts, but will never give conviction j all he can do is to render society less happy OF POLITE LEAKNING. 79 than he found it. It was a good manner which the father of the late poet, Saint Foix, took to reclaim his son from this juvenile error. The young poet had shut himself up for some time in his study ; and his father, willing f "> know what had engaged his attention so close- ly, upon entering, found him busied in drawing up a new system of religion, and endeavour- ing to show the absurdity of that already esta- blished. The old man knew by experience, that it was useless to endeavour to convince a vain young man by right reason, so only desir- ed his company up stairs When come into the father's apartments he takes his son by the hand, and drawing back a curtain at one end of the room, discovered a crucifix exquisitely painted. " My son," says he, " you desire to change the religion of your country, behold the fate of a reformer." The truth is, vanity is more apt to misguide men than false reason- ing. As some would rather be conspicuous in a mob than unnoticed even in a privy-council, so others choose rather to be foremost in the retinue of error, than follow in the train of truth. What influence the conduct of such writers may have on the morals of a people, is not my business here to determine. Certain 1 am, that it has a manifest tendency to sub- vert the literary merits of the country in view. The change of religion in every nation L'is hitherto produced barbarism and ignorance ; and such will be probably its consequences in every future period. For when the laws and opinions of society are made to clash, harmony is dissolved, and all the parts of peace unavoid- ably crushed in the encounter. The writers of this country have also of late fallen into a method of considering every part of art and science as arising from simple principles. The success of Montesquieu, and one or two more, has induced all the subordi- nate ranks of genius into vicious imitation. To this end they turn to our view that side of the subject which contributes to support their hypothesis, while the objections are generally passed over in silence. Thus a universal system rises from a partial representation of the question, a whole is concluded from a part, a book appears entirely new, and the fancy- built fabric is styled for a short time very in- genious. In this manner, we have seen of late almost every subject in morals, natural history, politics, economy, and commerce, treated Subjects naturally proceeding on many princi- ples, and some even opposite to each other, are all taught to proceed along the line of syste- matic simplicity, and continue, like other agree- able falsehoods, extremely pleasing till they are detected. I must still add another fault, of a nature somewhat similar to the former. As those above-mentioned are for contracting a single science into system, so those I am going to speak of, are for drawing up a system of all the sciences united. Such undertakings as these are carried on by different writers ce- mented into one body, arid concurring in th same design by the mediation of a bookseller. From these inauspicious combinations proceed those monsters of learning, the Trevoux, En- cyclopedies, and Bibliotheques of the age. In making these, men of every rank in literature are employed, wits and dunces contribute their share, and Diderot, as well as Desmaretz, are candidates for oblivion. The genius of the first supplies the gale of favour, and the latter j adds the useful ballast of stupidity. By such means, the enormous mass heavily makes its way among the public, and, to borrow a book- seller's phrase, the whole impression moves off. These great collections of learning may serve to make us inwardly repine at our own ignorance ; may serve, when gilt and lettered, to adorn the lower shelves of a regular library ; but woe to the reader, who, not daunted at the immense distance between one great paste- board and the other, opens the volume, and ex- plores his way through a region so extensive, but barren of entertainment. No unexpected landscape there to delight the imagination ; no diversity of prospect to cheat the painful jour- ney. He sees the wide extended desert lie before him : what is past only increases his terror of what is to come. His course is not half finished ; he looks behind him with af- fright, and forward with despair. Perseverance is tt last overcome, and a night of oblivion lends its friendly aid to terminate the perplex- ity. CHAPTER IX OF LEARNING IN GREAT BRITAIN. To acquire a character for learning among the English at present, it is necessary to know much more than is either important or useful. It seems the spirit of the times for men here to exhaust their natural sagacity in exploring the intricacies of another man's thought, and thus never to have leisure to think for them- selves. Others have carried on learning from that stage, where the good sense of our ances. tors have thought it too minute or too specu- lative to instruct or amuse. By the industry of such, the sciences, which in themselves are easy of access, affright the learner with the severity of their appearance. He sees them surrounded with speculation arid subtlety, plac- ed there by their professors as if with a view of deterring his approach. Hence it happens, that the generality of readers fly from the scho, lar to the compiler, who offers them a more safe and speedy conveyance. From this fault also arises that mutual cor- tempt between the scholar and the man of the world, of which every day's experience furnish - eth instances. The man of taste, however, stands neutral in this controversy. He seems placed in a so middle station, between the world and the cell, Detween learning and common sense. He teaches the vulgar on what part of a character to lay the emphasis of praise, and the scholar where to point his application so as to deserve 't. By his means, even the philosopher ac- quires popular applause, and all that are truly great the admiration of posterity. By means of polite learning alone, the patriot, and the hero, the man who praiseth virtue, and he who practises it, who lights successfully for his country, or who dies in its defence, becomes immortal. But this taste now seems cultivat- ed with less ardour than formerly, and conse- quently the public must one day expect to see the advantages arising from it, and the exquisite pleasures it affords our leisure, entirely anni- hilated. For if, as it should seem, the rewards of genius are improperly directed ; if those who are capable of supporting the honour of the times by their writings prefer opulence to fame ; if the stage should be shut to writers of merit, and open only to interest or intrigue ; if such should happen to be the vile complexion of the times (and that it is nearly so we shall shortly see), the very virtue of the age will be forgotten by posterity, and nothing remembered, except our filling a chasm in the registers of time or having served to continue the species. CHAPTER X. OF REWARDING GENIUS IN ENGLANU THERE is nothing authors are more apt to lament, than want of encouragement from the ge. Whatever their differences in other re- spects, they are all ready to unite in this com- plaint, and each indirectly offers himself as an instance of the truth of nis assertion. The beneficed divine, whose wants are only imaginary, expostulates as bitterly as the poor- est author. Should interest or good fortune advance the divine to a bishopric, or the poor son of Parnassus into that place which the other has resigned, both are authors no longer ; the one goes to prayers once a-day, kneels upon cushions of velvet, and thanks gracious Heaven for having made the circumstances of all man- kind so extremely happy ; the other battens on all the delicacies of life, enjoys his wife and his easy chair, and sometimes for the sake of conversation, deplores the luxury of these de- generate days. All encouragements to merit are therefore misapplied, which make the author too rich to continue his profession. There can be nothing more just than the old observation, that authors, like running horses, should be fed but not fattened. If we would continue them in our service, we should reward them with a little money and a great deal of praise, still keeping "their avarice subservient to their ambition. Not that I think a writer incapable of filling an employment with dig- nity : I would only insinuate, that when made a bishop or statesman, he will continue to please us as a writer no longer ; as to resume a former allusion, the running horse when fattened, will still be fit for very useful pur poses, though unqualified for a courser No nation gives greater encouragements tc learning than we do ; yet, at the same time, none are so injudicious in the application. We seem to confer them with the same view that statesmen have been known to grant em- ployments at court, rather as bribes to silence than incentives to emulation. Upon this principle, all our magnificent endowments of colleges are erroneous, and at best more frequently enrich the prudent than Steward the ingenious. A lad whose passions are not strong enough in youth to mislead him from that path of science which his tutors, and not his inclinations, have chalked out, by four or five years' perseverance may proba- bly obtain every advantage and honour his college can bestow. I forget whether the simile has been used before, but I would com- pare the man, whose youth has been thus passed in the tranquillity of dispassionate prudence, to liquors which never ferment, and conse- quently continue always muddy. Passions Kiay raise a commotion in the youthful breast, but they disturb only to refine it. However this be, mean talents are often rewarded in colleges with an easy subsistence. The can- didates for preferments of this kind often re- gard their admission as a patent for future in- dolence ; so that a life begun in studious labour, is often continued in luxurious indo- lence. Among the universities abroad, I have ever observed their riches and their learning in a reciprocal proportion, their stupidity and pride increasing with their opulence. Happening once in conversation with Gaubius of Leyden, to mention the college of Edinburgh, he began by complaining, that all the English students which formerly came to his university now went entirely there ; and the fact surprised him more, as Leyden was now as well as ever furnished with masters excellent in their respective professions. He concluded by asking if the professors of Edinburgh were rich ? I replied, that the salary of a profes- sor there seldom amounted to more than thirty, pounds a-year. Poor men, says he, I heartily wish they were better provided for ; until they become rich, we can have no ex- pectation of English students at Leyden. Premiums also, proposed for literary ex- cellence, when given as encouragements to boys, may be useful ; but when designed as re- wards to men, are certainly misapplied. We have seldom seen a performance of any great merit, in consequence of rewards proposed in this manner. Who has ever observed a writer of any eminence a candidate in so precarious a contest? The man who knows the reaJ OF POLITE LEARNING. value of his own genius, will no more venture It upon an uncertainty, than he who knows the true use of a guinea will stake it with a sharper. Every encouragement given to stupidity, when known to be such, is also a negative insult upon genius. This appears in nothing more evident than the undistinguished success of those who solicit subscriptions. When first brought into fashion, subscriptions were conferred upon the ingenious alone, or those who were reputed such. But at present, we see them made a resource of indigence, and requested, not as rewards of merit, but as a relief of distress. If tradesmen htippen to want skill in conducting their own business, yet they are able to write a book: if mechanics want money, or ladies shame, they write books and solicit subscriptions. Scarcely a morning passes, that proposals of this nature are not thrust into the half-opening doors of the rich, with, perhaps, a paltry petition, showing the author's wants, but not his merits. I would riot willingly prevent that pity which is due to j indigence; but while the streams of liberality ' are thus diffused, they must, in the end, be- come proportionally shallow. What then are the proper encouragements of genius? I answer, Babflistence aM respect; for these are rewards congenial to its nature. Every animal has an aliment peculiarly suited to its constitution. The heavy ox seeks nourishment from earth; the light camcleon has been supposed to exist on air ; a sparer diet than even this will satisfy the man of true genius, for he makes a luxurious banquet upon empty applause. It is this alone which has inspired all that ever was truly great and noble among us. It is, ?.s Cicero finely calls it, the echo of virtue. .Avarice is the passion of inferior natures ; money the pay of the common herd. The author who draws his quill merely to take a purse, no more deserves success than he who presents a pistol. When the link between patronage and learn- ing was entire, then all who deserved fame were in a capacity of attaining it. When the great Somers was at the helm, patronage \v;is fashionable among our nobility. The middle ranks of mankind, who generally imitate the great, then followed their example, and ap- plauded from fashion if not from feeling. I have heard an old poet* of that glorious age say, that a dinner with his lordship has pro- cured him invitations for the whole week fol- lowing; that an airing in his patron's chariot has supplied him with a citizen's coach on every future occasion. For who would not be proud to entertain a man who kept so much good company ? But this link now seems entirely broken. Since the days of a certain prime minister of inglorious memory, the learned have been kept * Dr Ynni',7 pretty much at a distance. A jockey, or a laced player, supplies the place of the scholar, poet, or the man of virtue. Those conversa- tions, once the result of wisdom, wit, and in- nocence, are now turned to humbler topics,- little more being expected from a companion than a laced coat, a pliant bow, and an im- moderate friendship for a well-served table, Wit, when neglected by the great, is gener- ally despised by the vulgar. Those who are unacquainted with the world, are apt to fancy the ma.: of wit as leading a very agreeable life. They conclude, perhaps, that he is attended to with silent admiration, and dictates to the rest of mankind with all the eloquence of con- scious superiority. Very different is his pre- sent situation. He is called an author, and all know that an author is a thing only to be laughed at. His person, not his jest, becomes the mirth of the company. At his approach, the most fat unthinking face brightens into malicious meaning. Even aldermen laugh, and revenge on him the ridicule which was lavished on their forefathers : Eti.im victis redit in praecordia virius, Victoresque caduiit. It is indeed a reflection somewhat mortify- ing to the author, who breaks his ranks, anj singles out for public favour, to think that he must combat contempt before he can arrive at glory. That he must expect to have all the ' fools of society united against him, before he can hope for the applause of the judicious. For this, however, he must prepare before- hand ; as those who have no idea of the diffi- culty of his employment, will be apt to re- gard his inactivity as idleness, and not having a notion of the pangs of uncomplying thought in themselves, it is not to be expected they should have any desire of rewarding it in others. Voltaire has finely dumbed the hardships a man must encounter who writes for the pub- lic. I need make no apology for the length of the quotation. " Your fate, my dcarLe Fevre, is too strong- ly marked to permit your retiring. The bee must toil in making honey, the silk-worm must spin, the philosopher must dissect them, and you are born to sing of their labours. You must be a poet and a scholar, eveii though your inclinations should resist ; nature is too strong -for inclination. But hope not, my friend, to find tranquillity in the employ- ment you are going to pursue. The rout of i genius is aot less obstructed with disappoint- ment than that of ambition. " If you have the misfortune not to excel in your profession as a poet, repentance must tinc- ture all your future enjoyments : If you suc- ceed, you make enemies. You tread a narrow path. Contempt on one side, and hatred ou the other, are ready to seize you upon tJbe slightest deviation. " But why r.: i:st I be hsted, you will per- 82 PRESENT STATE haps reply; why must I be persecuted for having written a pleasing poem, for having pro- duced an applauded tragedy, or for otherwise instructing or amusing mankind or myself? " My dear friend, these very successes shall render you miserable for life. Let me sup- pose your performance has merit ; let me sup- pose you have surmounted the teasing employ- ments of printing and publishing ; how will you be able to lull the critics, who, like Cerberus, are posted at all the avenues of literature, and who settle the merits of every new per- formance ? How, I say, will you be able to make them open in your favour ? There are always three or four literary journals in France, as many in Holland, each supporting opposite interests. The booksellers who guide these periodical compilations, find their account in being severe ; the authors employed by them have wretchedness to add to their natural ma- lignity. The majority may be in your favour, but you may depend on being torn by the rest. Loaded with unmerited scurrility, perhaps you reply ; they rejoin ; both plead at the bar of the public, and both are condemned to ri- dicule. "But if you write for the stage, your case is still more worthy of compassion. You are there to be judged by men whom the custom of the times has rendered contemptible. Ir- ritated by their own inferiority, they exert all their little tyranny upon you, revenging upon the author the insults they receive from the public. From such men, then, you are to ex- pect your sentence. Suppose your piece ad- mitted, acted : one single ill-natured jest from the pit is sufficient to cancel all your labours. But allowing that it succeeds. There are a hundred squibs flying all abroad to prove that it should not have succeeded. You shall find your brightest scenes burlesqued by the igno- rant; and the learned, who know a little Greek, and .nothing of their native language, affect to despise you. " But, perhaps, with a panting heart you carry your piece before a woman of quality. She gives the labours of your brain to her maid to be cut into shreds for curling her hairj while the laced footman, who carries the gaudy livery of luxury, insults your ap- pearance, who bear the livery of indigence. But granting your excellence has at last forced envy to confess that your works have some merit ; this then is all the reward you can expect while living. However, for this tribute of applause, you must expect persecu- tion. You will be reputed the author of scandal which you have never seen, of verses you despise, and of sentiments directly contrary to your own. In short, you must embark in some one party, or all parties, will be against you. " There are among us a number ot learned societies, where a lady presides, whose wit begins to twinkle when the splendour of her beauty begins to decline. One or two men of learning compose her ministers of state. These must be flattered, or made enemies by being neglected. Thus, though you had the merit of all antiquity united in your person, you grow old in misery and disgrace. Every place designed for men of letters, is filled up by men of intrigue. Some nobleman's private tutor, some court flatterer, shall bear away the prize, and leave you to anguish and to disap- pointment." Yet it were well if none but the dunces of society were combined to render the profession of an author ridiculous or unhappy. Men of the first eminence are found to indulge this illiberal vein of raillery. Two contending writers often, by the opposition of their wit, render their profession contemptible in the eyes of ignorant persons, who should have been taught to admire And yet, whateve. the reader may think of himself, it is at least two to one but he is a greater blockhead than the most scribbling dunce he affects to despise. The poet's poverty is a standing topic of contempt. His writing for bread is an unpar- donable offence. Perhaps of all mankind an author in these times is used most hardly. We keep him poor, and yet revile his poverty. Like angry parents who correct their children till they cry, and then correct them for crying, we reproach him for living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means to live. His taking refuge in garrets and cellars, has of late been violently objected to him, and that by men, who I dare hope are more apt to pity than to insult his distress. Is poverty the writer's fault ? No doubt he knows how to prefer a bottle of champaign to the nectar of the neighbouring alehouse, or a venison pasty to a plate of potatoes. Want of delicacy is not in him but in us, who deny him the opportunity of making an elegant choice. Wit certainly is the property of those who have it, nor should we be displeased if it is the only property a man sometimes has. We must not underrate him who uses it for sub- sistence, and flies from the ingratitude of the age even to a bookseller for redress. If the profession of an author is to be laughed at by the stupid, it is certainly better to be con- temptibly rich, than contemptibly poor. For all the wit that ever adorned the human mind, will at present no more shield the author's poverty from ridicule, than his high-topped gloves conceal the unavoidable omissions of his laundress. To be more serious, new fashions, follies, and vices, make now monitors necessary in every age. An author may be considered as a merciful substitute to the legislature. He acts not by punishing crimes, but preventing them. However virtuous the present age, there may be still growing employment for ridicule or reproof, for persuasion or satire. If the author be therefore still so necessary among us, let us treat him with proper con- sideration as a child of the public, not a rent- OF POLITE LEARNING. charge on the community. And indeed child of the public he is in all respects ; for while to well able to direct others, how incapable is I he frequently found of guiding himself! His j simplicity exposes him to all the insidious approaches of cunning; his sensibility, to tLc slightest invasions of contempt. Though pos- sessed of fortitude to stand unmoved the ex- pected bursts of an earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant as to agonize under the slightest disappointment. Broken rest, tasteless meals, and causeless anxiety, shorten his life, or render it unfit for active employ- ment ; prolonged vigils arid intense application still farther contract his span, and make his time glide insensibly away. Let us not, then, aggravate those natural inconveniences by neglect ; we have had sufficient instances of this kind already. Sale and Moore will suffice ror one age at least. But they are dead, and their sorrows are over. The neglected author of the Persian eclogues, which, however inac- curate, excel any in our language, is still alive. Happy, if insensible of our neglect, not raging at our ingratitude.* It is enough that the age has already produced instances of men pressing foremost in the lists of fame, and worthy of better times ; schooled by continued adversity into a hatred of their kind, flying from thought to drunkenness, yielding to the united pressure of labour, penury, and sorrow, sinking unheeded, without one friend to drop a tear on their unattended obsequies, and in- ilebted to charity for a grave. The author, when unpatronized by the grgat, has naturally recourse to the bookseller. There cannot be perhaps imagined a combina- tion more prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of the one to allow as little for writing, and of the other to write as much, as possible. Accordingly tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the result of their joint endeavours. In these circumstances, the author bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only imagination is seldom called in. He sits down to address the venal muse with the most phlegmatic apathy; and as we are told of the Russian, courts his mistress by falling asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he works off in a given tune. A long habit of writing for bread thus turns the ambition of every author at last into ava- rice. He finds that he has written many years, that the public are scarcely acquainted even with his name ; he despairs with applause, and turns to profit which invites him. He finds that money procures all those advantages, that respect, and that ease, which he vainly ex- pected from fame. Thus the man who, under Our author here alludes to the insanity of Collins. the protection of the great, might have done honour to humanity, when only patronized by the bookseller, becomes a thing little superior to the fellow who works at the press CHAPTER XL OF THE MARKS OF LITERARY DECAY IN FRANCE AND ENGLAND. THE faults already mentioned are such as learning is often found to flourish under ; but there is one of a much more dangerous nature, which has begun to fix itself among us. I mean criticism, which may properly be called the na- tural destroyer of polite learning. We have seen that critics, or those whose only business is to write books upon other books, are always more numerous, as learning is more diffused ; and experience has shown, that instead of pro- moting its interest, which they profess to do, they generally injure it. This decay which criticism produces may be deplored, but can scarcely be remedied, as the man who writes against the critics is obliged to add himself to the number. Other depravations in the re- public of letters, such as affectation in some popular writer leading others into vicious imi- tation ; political struggles in the state ; a de- pravity of morals among the people ; ill-direct- ed encouragement, or no encouragement from the great, these have been often found to co- operate in the decline of literature ; and it has sometimes declined, as in modern Italy, without them ; but an increase of criticism has always portended a decay. Of all misfortunes there- fore in the commonwealth of letters, this of judging from rule, and not feeling, is the most severe. At such a tribunal no word of original merit can please. Sublimity, if carried to an exalted height, approaches burlesque, and humour sinks into vulgarity. The person who cannot feel may ridicule both as such, and bring rules to corroborate his assertion. There is, in short, no excellence in writing that such judges may not place among the neighbouring defects. Rules render the reader more difficult to be pleased, and abridge the author's power of pleasing, If we turn to either country, we shall per- ceive evident symptoms of this natural decay beginning to appear. Upon a moderate cal- culation, there seem to be as many volumes of criticism published in those countries, as of all other kinds of polite erudition united. Paris sends forth not less than four literary journals every month, the Anne-literaire, and the Feuille by Freron, the Journal Etrangere by Chevalier D'Arc, and Le Mercure by Mar- montel. We have two literary reviews in London, with critical newspapers and maga- zines without number. The compilers of these resemble that commoners of Rome ; they are all for levelling property, not by increasing their 84 PRESENT STATE own, but by diminishing that of others. The man who has any good-nature in his disposition must, however, be somewhat displeased to see distinguished reputations often the sport of ignorance, to see, by one false pleasantry, the future peace of a worthy man's life disturbed, and this only, because he has unsuccessfully attempted to' instruct or amuse us. _ Though ill-nature is far from being wit, yet it is gene- rally laughed at as such. The critic enjoys the triumph, and ascribes to his parts what is only due to his effrontery. I fire with indig- nation, when I see persons wholly destitute of education and genius indent to the press, and thus turn book-makers, adding to the sin of criticism the sin of ignorance also; whose trade is a bad one, and who are bad workmen in the trade. When I consider those industrious men as indebted to the works of others for a precari- ous subsistence, when I see them coming down at stated intervals to rummage the book- seller's counter for materials to work upon, it raises a smile though mixed with pity. It re- minds me of an animal called by naturalists the soldier. This little creature, says the histo- rian, is passionately fond of a shell, but not being supplied with one by nature, has recourse to the deserted shell of some other. I have seen these harmless reptiles, continues he, come down once a-year from the mountains, rank and file, cover the whole shore, and ply busily about, each in quest of a shell to please it. Nothing can be more amusing than their industry upon this occasion. One shell is too big, another too little ; they enter and keep possession sometimes for a good while, until one is, at last, found entirely to please. When all are thus properly equipped, they march up again to the mountains, arid live in their new acquisition till under a necessity of changing. There is indeed scarcely an error of which our present writers are guilty, that does not arise from their opposing systems : there is scarcely an error that criticism cannot be brought to excuse. From this proceeds the affected security of our odes, the tuneless flow of our blank verse, the pompous epithet, la- boured diction, and every other deviation from common sense, which procures the poet the applause' of the month ; he is praised by all, read by a few, and soon forgotten. There never was an unbeaten path trodden by the poet that the critic did riot endeavour to reclaim him, by calling his attempt innova- tion. This might be instanced in Dante, who tirst followed nature, arid was persecuted by the critics as long as he lived. Tims novelty, one ot the greatest beauties in poetry, must ce avoided, or the connoisseur be displeased. It is one of the chief privileges, however, of genius, to fly from the herd of imitators by some happy singularity ; for should he stand still, his heavy pursuers will at length certainly come up, and fairly dispute the victory. The ingenious Mr Hogarth used to assert. that every one except the connoisseur was a judge of painting. The same maybe asserted of writing ; The public, in general, set th whole piece in the proper point of view ; the critic lays his eye close to all its minuteness, and condemns or approves in detail. And this may be the reason why so many writers at present are apt to appeal from the tribunal oi criticism to that of the people. From a desire in the critic, of grafting the spirit of ancient languages upon the English, have proceeded, of late, several disagreeable instances of pedantry. Among the number, I think we may reckon blank verse. Nothing but the greatest sublimity of subject can render such a measure pleasing : however, we now see it used upon the most trivial occasions. It has particularly found its way into our didactic poetry, and is likely to bring that species oi composition into disrepute, for which the Eng- lish are deservedly famous. Those who are acquainted with writing, know, that our language runs almost naturally into blank verse. The writers of our novels, romances, and all of this class who have no no- tion of style, naturally hobble into this inhar- monious measure. If rhymes, therefore, be more difficult, for that very reason I would have our poets write in rhyme. Such a re- striction upon the thought of a good poet, often lifts and increases the vehemence of every sen- timent : for fancy, like a fountain, plays high- est by diminishing the aperture. But rhymes, it will be said, are a remnant of monkish stu- j pidity, an innovation upon the poetry of the t ancients. They are but indifferently acquaint- j ed with antiquity who make the assertion. Rhymes are probably of older date than either j the Greek or Latin dactyl and spondee. The Celtic, which is allowed to be the first language spoken in Europe, has ever preserved them, as we may find in the Edda of Ireland, and the Irish carols, still sung among the original inhabitants of that Island. Olaus Wormius gives us some of the Teutonic poetry in this way ; and Pantopidan, bishop of Bergen, some of the Norwegian. In short, this jirigle of sounds is almost natural to mankind, at least it is so to our language, if we may judge f;-om many unsuccessful attempts to throw it off. I should not have employed so much time in opposing this erroneous innovation, if it were riot apt to introduce another in its train I mean, a disgusting solemnity of manner into our poetry: and, as the prose writer has been ever found to follow the poet, it must conse- quently banish in both all that agreeable tn. fling, which, if I may so express it, often de- ceives us into instruction. The finest senti- ment and the most weighty truth may put on a pleasant face, and it is even virtuous to jest when serious advice must be disgusting. But instead of this, the most trifling performance among us now assumes all the didactic stiffness , of wisdom. The most diminutive son of j I'.vir.e or of famine has his we arid his u* t OF POLITE LEARNING. Hi' atlas and his secondly s, as methodical as if bound in cow-hide and closed with clasps of rass. Were these Monthly Reviews and Magazines frothy, pert, or absurd, they might find some pardon ; but to be dull and dronish is an encroachment on the prerogative ot a folio. These things should be considered as pills to purge melancholy; they should be made up in our splenetic climate to be taken as physic, and no* so as to be used when we take i't. However, by the power of one single mono- eyDable, our critics have almost got the victory over humour amongst us. Does the poet paint the absurdities of the vulgar, then he is tow, does .he exaggerate the features of folly to render it more thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very low. In short, they have proscribed the comic or satirical muse from every walk but high life, which, though abounding in fools as well as the humblest station, is by no means so fruitful in absurdity. Among well-bred fools we may despise much, but have little to laugh at ; nature seems to present us with a universal blank of silk, ribbons, smiles, and whispers. Absurdity is the poet's game, and good-breeding is the nice concealment of absurdities. The truth is, the critic generally mistakes humour for wit, which is a very differ- ent excellence. Wit raises human nature above its level ; humour acts a contrary part, and equally depresses it. To expect exalted humour is a contradiction in terms ; and the critic, by demanding an impossibility from the comic poet, has, in effect, banished new co- medy from the stage. .But, to put the same thought in a different light, when an unexpect- ed similitude in two objects strikes the imagi- nation ; in other words, when a thing is wittily expressed, all our pleasure turns into admira- tion of the artist, who had fancy enough to draw the picture. When a thing is humorously described, our burst of laughter proceeds from a very different cause ; we compare the absur- dity of the character represented with our own, and triumph in our conscious superiority. No natural defect can be a cause of laughter, because it is a misfortune to which ourselves are liable. A defect of this kind changes the passion into pity or horror. We only laugh at those instances of moral absurdity, to which we are conscious we ourselves are not liable. For instance, should I describe a man as wanting his nose, there is no humour in this, as it is an accident to which human na- ture is subject, and may be any man's case ; but should I represent this man without his nose as extremely curious in the choice of his snuff-box, we here see him guilty of an absur- dity of which we imagine it impossible for ourselves to be guilty, and therefore applaud our own good sense on the comparison. Thus then, the pleasure we receive from wit turns on the admiration of another; that which we feel from humour, centres in the admiration of ourselves. The poet, therefore, must place the object he would hare the subject of hu- mour in a state of inferiority ; in other words, the subject of humour must be low. The solemnity worn by many of our modern writers, is, I fear, often the mask of dulness ; for certain it is, it seems to fit every author who pleases to put it on. By the complexion of many of our late publications, one might be apt to cry out with Cicero, Civ em mehercuk non puto esse qui his temporibus ridere possit. On my conscience, I believe \ve have all for- got to laugh in these days. Such writers probably make no distinction between what is praised and what is pleasing; between those commendations which the reader pays his own discernment, and those which are the genuine result of his sensations. It were to be wished, therefore, that we no longer found pleasure with the inflated style that has for some years been looked upon as fine writing, and which every young writer is now obliged to adopt, if he chooses to be read. We should now dis- pense with loaded epithet and dressing ur> trifles with dignity. , For, to use an obvious instance, it is not those who make the greates t noise with their wares in the streets that hav c most to sell. Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write naturally : not hunt after lofty expressions to deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping, when we only mean to deliver a whisper. CHAPTER XII. OF THE STAGE. Oim Theatre has been generally confessed to share in this general decline, though par- taking of the show and decoration of the Italian opera with the propriety and de- clamation of French performance. The stage also is more magnificent with us than any other in Europe, and the people in general fonder of theatrical entertainment. Yet still as our plea- sures, as well as more important concerns, are generally managed by party, the stage has felt its influence. The managers, and all who es- pouse their side, are for decoration and orna- ment ; the critic and all who have studied French decorum, are for regularity and decla- mation. Thus it is almost impossible to please both parties ; and the poet, by attempting it, finds himself often incapable of pleasing either. If he introduces stage pomp, the critic consigns his performance to the vulgar ; if he indulges in recital and simplicity, it is accused of insi- pidity, or dry affectation. From the nature, therefore, of our theatre, and the genius of our country, it is extremely difficult for a dramatic poet to please his audi- ence. But happy would he be, were these the only difficulties he had to encounter; there are many other more dangerous combinations against the little wit of the age. Our poets' 86 PRESENT STATE performance must undergo a process truly che- mical, before it is presented to the public. It must be tried in the manager's fire, strained through a licenser, suffer from repeated correc- tions, till it may be a mere caput mortuum when it arrives before the public. The success, however, of pieces upon the stage would be of little moment, did it not in- fluence the success of the same piece in the closet. Nay, I think it would be more for the interests of virtue, if stage performances were read, not acted ; made rather our companions in the cabinet than on the theatre. While we are readers, every moral sentiment strikes us in all its beauty, but the love scenes are frigid, tawdry, and disgusting. When we are specta- tors, all the persuasives to vice receive an ad- ditional lustre. The love scene is aggravated, the obscenity heightened, the best actors figure in the most debauched characters, while the parts of morality, as they are called, are thrown to some mouthing machine, who puts even vir- tue out of countenance by his wretched imita- tion. But whatever be the incentives to vice which are found at the theatre, public pleasures are generally less guilty than solitary ones. To make our solitary satisfactions truly innocent, the actor is useful, as by his means the poet's work makes its way from the stage to the closet ; for all must allow, that the reader re- ceives more benefit by perusing a well-written play, than by seeing it acted. But how is this rule inverted on our theatres at present? Old pieces are revived, and scarcely any new ones admitted. The actor is ever in our eye, and the poet seldom permitted to appear ; the public are again obliged to ru- minate over those hashes of absurdity, which were disgusting to our ancestors even in an age of ignorance; and the stage, instead of serving the people, is made subservient to the interest of avarice. We seem to be pretty much in the situation of travellers at a Scotch inn ; vile entertain- ment is served up, complained of, and sent down ; up comes worse, and that also is changed ; and every change makes our wretched cheer more unsavoury. What must be done ? only sit down contented, cry up all that conies before us, and admire even the ab- surdities of Shakspeare. Let the reader suspend his censure. I admire the beauties of this great father of our stage as much as they deserve, but could wish, for the honour of our country, and for his honour too, that many of his scenes were for- gotten. A man blind of one eye should always be painted in profile. Let the specta- tor, who assists at any of these new revived pieces, only ask himself whether he would ap- prove such a performance if written by a modern poet ? I fear he will find that much of his applause proceeds merely from the sound of a name, and an empty veneration for antiquity. In fact, the revival of those pieces of forced humour, far-fetched conceit, and un- natural hyperbole, which have been ascribed to Shakspeare, is rather gibbetting than raising a statue to his memory ; it is rather a trick of the actor, who thinks it safest acting in exaggerated characters, and who, by out- stepping nature, chooses to exhibit the ridicu- lous outre of a harlequin under the sanction of that venerable name. What strange vamped comedies, farcical tragedies, or what shall I call them, speaking pantomimes, have we not of late seen ? No matter what the play may be, it is the actor who draws an audience. He throws life into all ; all are in spirits and merry, in at one door and out at another ; the spectator, in a fool's paradise, knows not what all this means, till the last act concludes in matrimony. The piece pleases our critics, because it talks old English ; and it pleases the galleries, because it has ribaldry. True taste, or even common sense, are out of the question. But great art must be sometimes used be- fore they can thus impose upon the public. To this purpose, a prologue written with some spirit generally precedes the piece, to inform us that it was composed by Shakspeare, 01 old Ben, or somebody else who took them for his model. A face of iron could not have th-o assurance to avow dislike ; the theatre has its partisans who understand the force of com- binations, trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands and clattering of sticks : and though a man might have strength sufficient to over- come a lion in single combat, he may run the risk of being devoured by an army of ants. I am not insensible, that third nights are disagreeable drawbacks upon the annual profits of the stage. I am confident it is much more to the manager's advantage to furnish up all the lumber which the good sense of our an- cestors, but for his care, had consigned to oblivion. It is not with him, therefore, but with the public I would expostulate ; they have a right to demand respect, and surely those newly revived plays are no instances of the manager's deference. I have been informed that no new play can be admitted upon our theatres unless the author chooses to wait some years, or, to use the phrase in fashion, till it comes to be played in turn. A poet thus can never expect to contract a familiarity with the stage, by which alone he can hope to succeed ; nor can the most signal success relieve immediate want. Our Saxon ancestors had but one name for a wit and a witch. I will not dispute the pro- priety of uniting those characters then ; but the man who, under the present discourage- ments, ventures to write for the stage, what- ever claim he may have to the appellation of a wit, at least he has no right to be called a conjuror. From all that has been said upon the state of our theatre, we may easily foresee whether it is likely to improve or decline ; and whether OF POLITE LEARNING. 87 the free-born muse can hear to submit to those restrictions which avarice or power would im- pose. For the future, it is somewhat unlikely, that he whose labours are valuable, or who knows their value, will turn to the stage for either fame or subsistence, when he must ac once flatter an actor and please an audience. CHAPTER XIII. ON UNIVERSITIES. INSTEAD of losing myself in a subject of such extent, I shall only off era few thoughts as they occur, and leave their connexion to the reader. We seem divided, whether an education formed by travelling or by a sedentary life be preferable. We see more of the world by travel, but more of human nature by remain- ing at home ; as in an infirmary, the student, who only attends to the disorders of a few patients, is more likely to understand his pro- fession, than he who indiscriminately examines them all. A youth just landed at the Brille resembles a clown at a puppet-show ; carries his amaze- ment from one miracle to another ; from this cabinet of curiosities to that collection of pic- tures : but wondering is not the way to grow wise. Whatever resolutions we set ourselves, not to keep company with our countrymen abroad, we shall find them broken when once we leave home. Among strangers we consider our- selves as in a solitude, and it is but natural to desire society. In all the great towns of Europe there are to be found Englishmen residing either from interest or choice. These generally lead a life of continued debauchery. Such are the countrymen a traveller is likely to meet with. This may be the reason why Englishmen are all thought to be mad or melancholy by the vulgar abroad. Their money is giddily and merrily spent among sharpers of their own country ; and when that is gone, of all nations the English bear worst that disorder called the maladie du poche. Countries wear very different appearances to travellers of different circumstances. A man who is whirled through Europe in a post-chaise, and the pilgrim who walks the grand tour on foot, will form very different conclusions.* To see Europe with advantage, a man should appear in various circumstances of for- tune ; but the experiment would be too dan- gerous for young men. There are many things relative to other * in the first edition our Author added, Hand inex- i jiertns kjuor ; for he travelled through France &c. 1 on foot. countries which can be learned to more adVan. tage at home ; their laws and policies are among the number. The greatest advantages which result to youth from travel, are an easy address, the shaking off national prejudices, and the finding nothing ridiculous in national peculiarities. The time spent in these acquisitions could have been more usefully employed at home. An education in a college seems therefore pre- ferable. We attribute to universities either too much or too little. Some assert that they are the only proper places to advance learning ; while others deny even their utility in forming an education. Both are erroneous. Learning is most advanced in populous cities, where chance often conspires with industry to promote it ; where the members of this large university, if I may so call it, catch manners as they rise, study life, not logic, and have the world for correspondents. The greatest number of universities have ever been founded in times of the greatest ignorance. New improvements in learning are seldom adopted in colleges until admitted everywhere else. And this is right ; we should always be cautious of teaching the rising generation un- certainties for truth. Thus, though the pro- fessors in universities have been too frequent- ly found to oppose the advancement of learn- ing, yet when once established, they are the properest persons to diffuse it. Thene is more knowledge to be acquired from one page of the volume of mankind, if the scholar only knows how to read, than in vol- umes of antiquity. We grow learned, not wise, by too long a continuance at college. This points out the time in which we should leave the university. Perhaps the age of twenty-one, when at our universities the first degree is generally taken, is the propen period The universities of Europe may be divided into three classes. Those upon the old scho- lastic establishment, where the pupils are im- mured, talk nothing but Latin, and support every day syllogistical disputations in school philosophy. Would not one be apt to ima- gine this was the proper education to make a man a fool ? Such are the universities of Prague, Louvain, end Padua. The second is, where the pupils are under few restrictions, where all scholastic jargon is banished, where they take a degree when they think proper, and live not in the college, but the city. Such are Edinburgh, Leyden, Gottingen, Geneva. The third is a mixture of the two former, where the pupils are restrained, but not confined; where many, though not all, the absurdities of scholastic philosophy are suppressed, and where the first degree is taken after four years' ma- triculation. Such are Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin. As for the first class, their absurdities are too apparent to admit of a parallel. It is dis- 83 PRESENT STATE puted \vhich of the two last are more condu- cive to national improvement. Skill in the professions is acquired more by practice than study ; two or three years may be sufficient for learning their rudiments. The universities of Edinburgh, c. grant a license for practising them when the student thinks proper, which our universities refuse till after a residence of several years. The dignity of the professions may be sup- ported by this dilatory proceeding ; but many men of teaming are thus too long excluded from the lucrative advantages, which superior skill has a right to expect. Those universities must certainly be most frequented, which promise to give in two years the advantages which others will not under twelve. The man who has studied a profession for three years, and practised it for nine more, will certainly know more of his business than lie who has only studied it for twelve. The universities of Edinburgh, &c. must certainly be most proper for the study of those professions in which men choose to turn their learning to profit as soon as possible. The universities of Oxford, &c. are impro- per for this, since they keep the student from the world, which, after a certain time, is the only true school of improvement. When a degree in the professions can be taken only by men of independent fortunes, the number of candidates in learning is lessen- ed, and consequently the advancement of learn- ing retarded. This slowness of conferring degrees is a remnant of scholastic barbarity. Paris, Lou- vain, and those universities which still retain their ancient institutions, confer the doctor's degree slo'.vcr even than we. The statutes of erery university should be considered as adapted to the laws of its respec- tive government. Those should alter as these happen to fluctuate. Four years spent in the arts, (as they are called in colleges,) is perhaps laying too labori- ous a foundation. Entering a profession with- out any previous acquisitions of this kind, is building too bold a superstructure. Teaching by lecture, as at Edinburgh, may make men scholars, if they think proper ; but instructing by examination, as at Oxford, will make them so, often against their inclina- tion Edinburgn only disposes the student to re- ceive learning ; Oxford often makes him actu- ally learned. In a word, were I poor, I should send my son to Leyden or Edinburgh, though the an- nual expense in each, particularly in the first, is very great. Were I rich, I would send him to one of our own universities. By an education received in the first, he has the best likelihood of living ; by that received in the latter, he has the best chance of becoming great. We have of late heard much of the necessity of studying oratory. Vespasian was the firsi who paid professors of rhetoric for publicly in- structing youth at Rome. However, those pedants never made an orator. The best orations that ever were spoken were pronounced in the parliaments of King Charles the First. These men never studied the rules of oratory. Mathematics are, perhaps, too much studied at our universities. This seems a science to which the meanest intellects are equal. I for- get who it is that says, " All men might un- derstand mathematics if they would." The most methodical manner of lecturing, whether on morals or nature, is first rational!}' to explain, and then produce the experiment. The most instructive method is to show the experiment first; curiosity is then excited, and attention awakened to every subsequent de- duction. Hence it is evident, that in a well formed education a course of history should ever precede a course of ethics. The sons of our nobility are permitted to enjoy greater liberties in our universities than those of private men. I should blush to ask the men of learning and virtue who preside in our seminaries, the reason of such a prejudicial distinction. Our youth should there be inspir- ed with a love of philosophy ; and the firs* maxim among philosophers is, That merit only makes distinction. Whence has proceeded the vain magnificence of expensive architecture in our colleges ? Is it that men study to more advantage in a palace than in a cell? One single performance of taste or genius confers more real honours on its parent university, than all the labours of the chisel. Surely pride itself has dictated to the fellows of our colleges the absurd passion of being at- tended at meals, and on other public occasions, by those poor men who, willing to be scholars, come in upon some charitable foundation. It implies a contradiction, for men to be at once learning the liberal arts, and at the same time treated as slaves ; at once studying freedom and practising servitude. CHAPTER XIV. THE CONCLUSION'. EVERY subject acquires an adventitious im- portance to him who considers it with applica- tion. He finds it more closely connected with human happiness than the rest of mankind are apt to allow; he sees consequences resulting from it which do not strike others with equal conviction ; and still pursuing speculation beyond the bounds of reason, too frequently becomes ridiculously earnest in trifles or ab- surdity. It will perhaps be incurring this imputation, to deduce a universal degeneracy of manners OF POLITE LEARNING. from so slight an origin as the depravation of taste; to assert that, as a nation grows dull, it sinks into debauchery. Yet such probably may be the consequence of literary decay ; or, not to stretch the thought beyond" what It will bear, vice and stupidity are always mutual i^ productive of each other. Life, at the greatest and best, has been com- pared to a fro ward child, that must be humour- ed and played with till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. Our few years are labour- ed away in varying its pleasures ; new amuse- ments are pursued with studious attention ; the most childish vanities are dignified with titles of importance ; and the proudest boast of the most aspiring philosopher is no more, than that he provides his little playfellows the greatest pastime with the greatest innocence. Thus the mind, ever wandering after amuse- ment, when abridged of happiness on one part, endeavours to find it on another ; when in- tellectual pleasures are disagreeable, those of sense will take the lead. The man who in this age is enamoured of the tranquil joys of study and retirement, may in the next, should learn- ing be fashionable no longer, feel an ambition of being foremost at a horse-course ; or, if such could be the absurdity of the times, of being himself a jockey. Reason and appetite are therefore masters of our revels in turn ; and as we incline to the one, or pursue the other, we rival angels, or imitate the brutes. In the pur- suit of intellectual pleasure lies every virtue : of sensual, every vice. It is this difference of pursuit which marks the morals and characters of mankind ; which ioys the line between the enlightened philoso- pher and the half-taught citizen ; between the civil citizen and illiterate peasant; between the law-obeying peasant and the wandering savage of .Africa, an animal less mischievous indeed than the tiger, because endued with fewet powers of doing mischief. The man, the nation, must therefore be good, whose chiefest Hixti- ries consist in the refinement of reason ; and reason can never be universally cultivated, unless guided by taste, which may be consider- ed as the link between science and common sense, the medium through which learning should ever be seen by society. Taste will therefore often be a proper stand- ard, when others fail, to judge of a nation's improvement or degeneracy in morals. We have often no permanent characteristics, by which to compare the virtues or the vices of our ancestors with our own. A generation may rise and pass away without leaving any traces of what it really was ; and all complaints of our deterioration, may be only tokens of declamation, or the cavillings of disappoint- ment : but in taste we have standing evidence ; we can with precision compare the literary performances of our fathers with our own, and from their excellence or defects determine the moral, as well as the literary, merits of either. If, then, there ever comes a time when taste is so far depraved among us that critics shall load every work of genius with unnecessary comment, and quarter their empty performances with the substantial merits of an author, both for subsistence and applause ; if there comes a time when censure shall speak in storms, but praise be whispered in the breeze, while real excellence often finds shipwreck in either; if there be a time when the Muse shall seldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as if she wept her own decline, while laiy compilations supply the place of original thinking; should there ever be such a time, may succeeding critics, both for the honour of our morals, as well as our learning, say, that such a period bears no resemblance to the preswt n#e ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A EOMAN K.VIGHT, WHOM C/ESAK FORCED UPON' THE STAGE. PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.' WHAT ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age ! Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, What, in the name of dotage, drives me here ? A time there was, when glory was my guide, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside j Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear, With honest thrift I held my honour dear : But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more ; For ah ! too partial to my life's decline, Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ; Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. Here then at once I welcome every shame, And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame ; No more my titles shall my children tell, The old buffoon will fit my name as well ; This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honour ends. DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION; A TALE.f SECLUDED from domestic strife, Jack Book-worm led a college life ; * This translation was first printed in one of our A.uthor's earliest works, " The Present State of Learn- ing in Europe, 12mo., 1759;" but was omitted in the second edition, which appeared in 1774. f This and the following Poem were published by Dr Goldsmith, in his Volume of Essav.s which ap- peared in 17G5. A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man alive , He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. Such pleasures unalloy'd with care, Could any accident impair ? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? O had the archer ne'er come down To ravage in a country town ! Or Flavia been content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop ' O had her eyes forgot to blaze ! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! O ! but let exclamations cease, Her presence banish'd all his peace. So with decorum all things carried ; Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was married. Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night ? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains closed around? Let it suffice that each had charms ; He clasp'd a goddess in his arms ; And though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew The second brought its transports too ; A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss: But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay ; Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; But still the worst remain'd behind, That very face had robb'd her mind. Skill'd in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee ; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head. 94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend ? Could any curtain lectures bring To decency so fine a thing ? In short, by night, 'twas fits for fretting ; By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee -, The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations : Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were pass'd between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown ; He fancies every vice she shows, Or thins her lip, or points her nose : Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ; He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now to perplex the ravelled noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower : Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes ; In vain she tries her paste and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams j Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And ev'n the captain quit the field. Poor madam now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old : With modecty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean : No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day : Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. NEW SIMILE IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. LONG had I sought in vain to find A. likeness for the scribbling kind ; The modern scribbling kind who write, n wit, and sense, and nature's spite : Till reading, I forget what day on, A. chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, ^irst please to turn to god Mercurius ! You'll find him pictured at full length, n book the second, page the tenth : The stress oi all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side mark that. Well ! what is it from thence we gather 2 Why these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather ! very right, With wit that's flighty beaming light ; Such as to modern bards decreed j A just comparison, proceed. In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes ; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites, For in the modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand ^ By classic authors term'd caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good ; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore, Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then ; His wand's a modern author's pen ; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind, Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom'd bites, An equal semblance still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep, This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 95 And here my simile almost tiipt, Vet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover Merc'ry had a failing ; Well ! what of that ? out with it stealing ; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he : But even this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards ! why, what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks. DESCRIPTION AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-Iane ; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug; A window, patched with paper, lent a ray, That dimly showed the state in which he lay ; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The seasons framed with listing, found a place, And -brave Prince William showed his lamp- black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a lire : With beer and milk arrears thq frieze was scored, And five cracked tea-cups dressed the chimney- board ; A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night a stocking all the day ; The folloiving Letter addressed to the Printer of the St James's Chronicle, appeared in that Paper in June, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon tri- fles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I re- commended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr Percy. * The Friar of Orders Gray. " Reliq. of Anc. Poetry." 7oL i. Book 2. No. !, I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr Percy some years ago -, and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such pretty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE HERMIT; BALLAD. " TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.'' " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. " Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. " No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them : ' But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care ; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair.. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheered his pensive guest t And spread his vegetable store, And gayly pressed, and smiled ; And, skilled in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest ; " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? " From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? ' " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. " And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows weaith or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep ? "And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one's jest ;. On earth unseen, or only found To warm the -turtle's nest. ** For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surprised he sees new beauties rise, Swift Bantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands contest A maid in all her charms. " And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried ; " Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. " But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And ail his wealth was mark'd as mine* He had but only me- " To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber d suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feigned a flame. (l Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bovver}. But never talked of love. " In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he : Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. " And when, beside me in the dale, He caroled lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the dale, And music to the grove. " The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refined, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. " The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but woe to me : Their constancy was mine. " For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; Arid while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain ; " Till quite dejected with rny scorn,) He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 97 ; ' JBnt mine the sorrow, mine the fault, Around from all the neighbouring streets, And well my life shall pay ; The wondering neighbours ran, 111 seek the solitude he sought, And swore the dog had lost his wits, And stretch me where he lay. To bite so good a man. " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, The wound it seem'd both sore and sad I'll lay me down and die ; To every Christian eye ; "Twas so for me that Edwin did, And while they swore the dog was mad, And so for him will I." They swore the man would die. " Forbid it Heaven !" the Hermit cried, But soon a wonder came to light, And clasp'd her to his breast ; That showed the rogues they lied ; The wondering fair one turn'd to chide The man recover'd of the bite, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest The dog it was that died. " Turn, Angelina, ever dear, _____ My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, STANZAS ON WOMAN. Restor'd to love and thee. Thus let me hold thee to my heart, WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, And every care resign : What charm can sooth her melancholy, And shall we never, never part, What art can wash her guilt away ? My life my all that's mine ? The only art her guilt to cover, " No, never from this hour to part, To hide her shame from every eye, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is to die. Shall break thy Edwin's too." - ! TO TUB A T^" 17 T "I? f 1 V Al> Hj.L/Iiilj' 1 REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. ON THE DEAR SIR, DEATH OF A MAD DOG.* I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremo- GOOD people all, of every sort, nies of a dedication ; and perhaps it demands Give ear unto my song, an excuse thus to prefix your name to my at- And if you find it wondrous short, tempts, which you decline giving with your It cannot hold you long. own. But as a part of this poem was former- ly written you from Switzerland, the whole In Islington there was a man, can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to Of whom the world might say, you. It will also throw a light upon many That still, a godly race he ran, parts of it, when the reader understands, Whene'er he went to pray. that it is addressed to a man, who despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happi- A kind and gentle heart he had, ness and obscurity, with an income of forty To comfort friends and foes ; pounds a-year. The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wis- dom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, is great, and the labourers are but few ; while you have left the field of ambition, where the Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, labourers are many, and the harvest not worth And curs of low degree. carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from This dog and man at first were friends ; different systems of criticism, and from the But when a pique began, divisions of party, that which pursues poeti- The dog, to gain some private ends, cal fame is the wildest. Went mad, and bit the man. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations ; but in a country verging * This and the following poem, appeared in the Vicar of Wakefield which was published in the year 17S5. to the extremes ot refinement, painting and. music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment^ THE TRAVELLER. they at first rival poetry, and at length sup. plant her ; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in great danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric orders, choruses, anapests and iambics, alli- terative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say ; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean party. , Party entirely dis- torts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what con- tributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man, after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader who has once gratified, his appetite with calumny, makes ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half wit- ted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbu- lence is said to be force, and his phrenzy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to sup- port it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espous- ing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own ; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge, better than yourself, how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, Dear Sir, Your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE TRAVELLER ; OR A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; In this poem, as it passed through different edi- tions, several alterations were made, and some addi- tional verses introduced. We have followed the ninth edition, which was the last that appeared in the life- ritne of the Author. Or onward, wnere the rude Carmthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies ; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints at- tend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair : Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests of pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life, in wandering spent, and care ; Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And plac'd on high above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundred realms ap- pear ; Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around com- bine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splen- dour crown'd ; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale 5 For me your tributary stores combine : Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : THE TRAVELLER. 99 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies ; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small : And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked Negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; With food as well the peasant is supplied On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; And though the rocky crested summits frown, These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. Yet these each other's power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, And honour sinks where commerce long pre- vails. Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the favourite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; Till carried to excess in each domain, This favourite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; Here for a while my proper cares resign'd, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; Its uplands sloping, deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; While oft some temple's mouldering tops be- tween With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; And even in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind ; For health was theirs, not far remov'd the date, When commerce proudly flourish'd thro' the state ; At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without slave : And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied, By arts, the splendid wrecks for former pride ; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'ii mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like those are all their cares beguiled, The spots of children satisfy the child ; Each nobler aim, repressed by long controul, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind ; As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, Defac'd by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed : And, wondering man could want the largei pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them ; turn we 10 surrey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 100 THE TRAVELLER. Where the bleak S \yi_ss their stormy mansion tread^ And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, ' Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. i Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast tho' small, j He sees his little lot the lot of all ; i Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys j His children's looks that brighten at the blaze ; I While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board : And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. j Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; ( And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, I Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, i So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But binds him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states as- sign'd ; Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants,- their pleasures are but few ; For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies ; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame, Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Umuiench'd by want, unfann'd by strong de- sire ; Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a-year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Urialter'd, uriimprov'd the manners run ; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Thro' life's more cultured walks, and charm the way ; These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land" of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ; Arid haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms dis- play, Thus idly busy rolls their world away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or even imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; THE TRAVELLER. 101 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tRwdry arl. fantS for th Vulgar praisP wfar.h fnnla impart .Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robps of f p p7p Copper IQ Here Ijeggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where tJpHfl,pfl MRS. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coining tide, "Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride, Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here displayed. There much-lov'd wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, Even liberty itself is barter'd here. harmg all fmJum fl The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Her wretches seek dishonourable graves, And calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic. sires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow I How much unlike the sons of Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind ! Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great ; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by ; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; Too blest indeed were such without alloy, But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Represt ambition struggles round her shore, Till over-wrought, the general system feels Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force un willing awe. Hence all obedience bows to thee alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : Till time may come, when stript, of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flarne, Where kings have toiPd, and poets wrote i'ot fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet think not, thus while Freedom's ills 1 state, I mean to flatter kings or court the great ; Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire ; Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure : For just experience tells, in every soil, That those who think must govern those that toil; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion'd grovr, Its double weight must ruin all below. O then how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms : But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; DESERTED VILLAGE. Wlien I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Laws grind the " jJ f The wealth" of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home j Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power ; And thus polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ? Seen opulence her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main ; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through danger- ous ways ; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find, That bliss which only centres in the mind . Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, How small of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ; Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we make or find : With secret course, which no loud storms an- noy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Darnien's bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own DESERTED VILLAGE; A POEM. FIUST PRINTED IN M1JCCLXIX. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. DEAR SIR, I CAN have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain no- thing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of your judg- ment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulg- ed at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to in scribe this Poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the ver sification and mere mechanical parts of this at- tempt, I do not pretend to inquire : but 1 know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opi- nion), that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagi- nation. To this I can scarcely make any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopulating or not ; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove my- self, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfeigned attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the coun- try, I inveigh against the increase of our luxu- ries ; and here also I expect the shout of mo- dern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest nation- al advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular as erroneous. Still, how- ever, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states .by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have DESERTED VILLAGE. 103 been undone. Inaeed so much has been pour- ed out of late on the other side of the ques- tion, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. S\\ EET AUBURN ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms de- lay'd ; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene j How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot i _the_jeuiriYatpH fa -, The fnpt^the neighbouring ._ Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade , A breath can i::ake them, as a breath Las Bllt a bold peasantry, tft p1 ' r When once destroy'd, can nevej bfi A time there was, ere England's griefs began, rnnd nf frrmin/1 maintain' The decent TiilL The hawthorn bush, with seats ber.eath the snaae. For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree-, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contended as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tie each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place: The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. [like these, These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- ence shed, These were thy charms but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- drawn : Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walk the lapwing flies* And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the lanjL jto ia5twiin^.Ul For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches^ ignorance of wealth. But times are ultar'd ; Usurp the land . .. thelawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet AUBURN, parent of the blissful hour! Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain, In all my waiid'rings ro.mid this \\ In all mjjjnefe and Gfld.hfis.gi.Ye.ji srI rl _a iven mv share. IstiTl_ liad hoy eg . wy .latest . ho Amidst these humble bowers to layme downj To husband out Ide's* tabeif &t ifle cTAfee. ""*' And -keep thelflaroe frpm .wais^in^by repose ; I -till had hopes fur pride attends us suit- _ Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'J """skill."'" Around my fire an evening group to draw And tell ofall 1 ieTL'and allTsi.v. 104 DESERTED VILLAGE. And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pur- sue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate : But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend : Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as J past with careless steps arid slow, The mingling notes came softened from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful -children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisper- ing wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot- way tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled ; All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, J To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garde smiled, And still where many a garden flower growal wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, village preacher's modest mansion rose, man fie was to all the couriitry dear, ' "" "" [And passing rich with forty pounds a-year : emote from towns he ran his godly race, for e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place 5 'Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved then pain : The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims al- low'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; \ felt /But in his duty prompt at every call, 'He watch 'd and wept, he prayed and for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, \ Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dis- may'd, The reverend champion stood. At his con- trol, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, /His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; ^ Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained pray. ' t0 \ The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their care distrest ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall clifJxUat. .lifts, iteaw&Lan%.- Swells ."from the.. vale, and imdw.ay,leaBft.ibfi- storm, Tho' round its breast ,th.e rolling^-filQijflg flrf- s^read, Eternal sunshine settle? on t h&xl... DESERTED VILLAGE. 105 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master, taught his little school : A man severe he was, and stem to view, 'I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to tract The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed with counterfeited gleei At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling rcdnd, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault ; ;The village all declared how much he knew, Twas certain he could write and cypher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre- sage, And e'eu the story ran that he could gauge : In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill ; For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; While words pf ^ y m^ Ipr^i- -! tlmiuT Amazedthcrazing rustics ran. g p ^ i the gayM T^ 11 That one sma But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, "Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, Where villno-P ctnn.cmmi tiillr'/l wifb profound, A.nd news much older tbau.- tiuor. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place : The \22JJi- wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The xarnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest contrived a double debt to .pay, A bed by nigh^ a cheat. of drawers bv dav : Tne pictures place"3 for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and, flowers and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, KanerTo'er the chimuey. gli&teued Vain transitory splendour ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet obli vion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round : Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art : Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-boni sway ; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ?. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay ! 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and ujide Tiikggjm a space that many poor su.ppjic4.; tor Iiis lake, Ins park's; extended bounds, Sj.aee for hi* horses, e-fuipa^e, and houuds; Xks.robe that, \vruys. liikj^jubiiu sijjouj ;>loth. Has. robji'tl tlio, neighbouring h>lds or' half tick gunvtk ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress sup- plies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, ,'oiiii^ impotence of e known. Oliv. And that, I fear, will shortly be. Leant. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, and you find every creature in the family takes you for her. Oliv. But rnay not she write, may not her aunt write ? Leant. Her aunt scarce ever wntes, and all my sister's letters are directed to me. Oliv. But won't your refusing Miss Rich- land, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ? Leant. There, there's my master-stroke. I have resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my fa- ther to make her an offer of my heart and for- tune. Oliv. Your heart and fortune ! Leant. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for hap- piness from any but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room to sus- pect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart I am convinced she will refuse ; as I am con- fident, that without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr Honeywood. Oliv. Mr Honeywood ! You'll excuse my apprehensions ; but when your merits come to be put in the balance Leant. You view them with too much par- tiality. However, by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father's command ; and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself. Oliv. Wei!, I submit. And yet, my Leon- tine, I own I shall envy her even your pre- tended addresses. I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly perhaps ; I allow it ; but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression on one's own heart, may be powerful over that of another. Leant. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; and Enter Croaker. Croak. Where have you been boy? I have been seeking you. My ft/end HoneywooJ here has been saying such comfortable things Ah ! he's an example indeed. Where is he , I left him here. Leant. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear him too, in the next room ; he's preparing to go out with the ladies. Croak. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or my ears ! I'm struck dumb with hig vivacity, and stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation ! (a laugh behind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes ; a plague take their balderdash ! yet I could expect nothing less, when my precious wife was of the party. On my conscience, I believe she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a tabernacle. Leant. Since you find so many objections to a wife, Sir, how can you be so earnest in re- commending one to me ? Croak. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find comfort in the money whatever one does in the wife. Leant. But, Sir, though in obedience to your desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be pos- sible she has no inclination to me. Croak. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in .a claim upon government, which my good friend, Mr Lofty, assures me the treasury will allow. One-half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in case she re- fuses to marry you. So if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl into the bargain. Leant. But, Sir, if you will listen to rea- son Croak. Come then, produce your reasons. I tell you, I'm fixed, determined : so now pro- duce your reasons. When I'm determined, I always listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. Leant. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. Croak. Well, and you have both of you <\ mutual choice. She has her choice to marry you or lose half her fortune : and you have your choice to marry her, or pack out of doors without any fortune at all. Leant. An only son, Sir, might expect more indulgence. Croak. An only father, Sir, might expect more obedience : besides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? He's a sad dog Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. But U J shan't, I tell you he shan't, for you shall have your share. Oliv. Dear Sir, I wish you'd be convinced, that I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his. Croak. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no more ; but come with me, and we shall see something that will give us a great deal oi THE GOODOsTATUEED MAN. pleasure, 1 promise you ; old Ruggins, the t:urry-comb maker, lying in state : I am told oe makes a very handsome corpse, and be- comes his coffin prodigiously. He was an in- timate friend of mine, and these are friendly hiugs we ought to do for each other. [Exeunt. ACT SECOND. SCENE CllOAKER'S HOUSE. Miss Richland, Garnet. Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister? Olivi not Leontine's sister ? You amaze me ! Gar. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all from his own servant : I can get any thing from that quarter. Miss Rich. But how? Tell me again, Gar- net. Gar. Why, Madam, as I told you before, instead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt these ten years, he never went further than Paris : there he saw and fell in love with this young lady, by the bye, of a prodigious family. Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guardian as his daughter? Gar. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! Would you believe it, Garnet, I told lier all my secrets ; and yet the sly cheat con- cealed all this from me ? Gar. And upon my word, Madam, I don't much blame her : she was loth to trust one with her secrets, that was so very bad at keep- ing her own. Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be here presently, to open the affair in form. You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. Gar. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as ! you are, in love with Mr Horieywood, Mad- am Miss Rich. How ! Idiot, what do you mean. In love with Mr Honeywood ! Is this to pro- voke me ? Gar. That is, Madam, in friendship with him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. Miss Rich. Well, no more of this : as to my guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to receive them : I'm resolved to ac- cept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon them. Gar. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness. Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their cunning, and practise a les- son they have taught me against themselves. Gar. Then you're likely not long to want employment, for here they come, and in close conference. Enter Croaker, Leontine. Leon. Excuse me, Sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point of putting to the lady so im- portant a question. Croak. Lord ! good Sir, moderate your fears ; you're so plaguy shy, that one would thin)* you had changed sexes. I tell you we mus1 have the half or the whole. Come, let me se with what spirit you begin : Well, why don't you? Eh! What? Well then I must, it, seems Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you guess at our business ; an affair which my son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happiness. Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with any thing that comes re- commended by you. Croak. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening ? Why don't you begin, I say ? [ To Leontine. Leon. 'Tis true, Madam, my father, Madam has some intentions hem of explaining un affair, which himself can best explain, Mu- dam. Croak. Yes, my dear; it comes entirely from my son ; it's all a request of his own, Madam. And I will permit him to make the best of it. - Leon. The whole affair is only this, Ma- dam ; my father has a proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall deliver. Croak. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought on (Aside). In short? Madam, you see before you one that loves you ; one whose whole happiness is all in yon. Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, Sir; and I hope you can have none of my duty. Croak. That's not the thing, my little sweeting; my love! No, no, another guess lover than I : there he stands, Madam, bis very looks declare the force of his passion- Call up a look, you dog ! (Aside.) BiU then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping speaking soliloquies and blank verse, some* times melancholy, and sometimes absent Miss Rich. I fear, Sir, he's absent now ; oc such a declaration would have come most pro- perly from himself. Croak. Himself ! Madam, he would die be- fore he could make such a confession ; and if he had not a channel for his passion through me, it would ere now have drowned his under-, standing. Miss Rich. I must grant, Sir, there are at- tractions in modest diffidence above the forca of words. A silent address is the genuine elo- quence of sincerity. Croak. Madam, he has forgot to speak cjiy 126 THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. Other language ; silence is become his mother tongue. Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, Sir, it speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet I shall be thought too forward in making such a confession ; shan't I, Mr Leontine. Leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll try. (Aside.} Don't imagine from my silence, Madam, that I want a due sense of the honour and happiness in- tended me. My father, Madam, tells me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to you he admires you : I adore you ; and when we come together, upon my soul I be- lieve we shall be the happiest couple in all St James's. Miss Rich. If I could natter myself you thought as you speak, Sir Leont. Doubt my sincerity, Madam ? By your dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory ? ask cowards if they covet safe- ty Croak. Well, well, no more questions about it. Leont. Ask the sick if they long for health ? ask misers if they love money ? ask Croak. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What's come over the boy? What signifies asking, when there's not a soul to give you an answer? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent to make you happy. Miss Rich. Why indeed. Sir, his uncom- mon ardour almost compels me forces me to comply And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained with too much ease ; won't you, Mr Leontine ? Leont. Confusion! (Aside.} Oh, by no means, Madam, by no means. And yet, Ma- dam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No. Madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. Croak. But I tell you, Sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. Leont. But, Sir, she talked of force. Con- sider, Sir, the cruelty of constraining her in- clinations. Croak. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, blockhead, that girls have always a round about way of saying yes before com- pany ? So get you both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. Leont. But, Sir, I must beg leave to in- sist Croak. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his mother. [Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine. Enter Mrs Croaker. Mr* Croak. Mr Croaker I bring you some- thing, my dear, that I believe will make you smile. Croak. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. Mrs Croak. A letter ; and as I knew the hand, I ventured to open it. Croak. And how can you expect your break- ing open my letters should give me pleasure ! Mrs Croak. Poo ! it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains good news ; read it. Croak. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter. Mrs Croak. Fold a fiddlestick. Read what it contains. Croaker, (reading.} " DEAR Nick, An English gentleman, large fortune, has for some time made private, though honourable proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, will induce you to forgive her. Yours ever, RACHAEL CROAKER.* My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large fortune ! This is good news, indeed. My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how slily the little baggage has car- ried it since she came home ; not a word on'c to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal. Mrs Croak. Well, if they have concealed their amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall be public, I m resolved. \ Croak. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the most se- rious part of the nuptial engagement. Mrs Croak. What, would you have me think of their funeral ? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you care to confess ? Would you have ever been known to Mr Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaint- ance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout? Who got him to promise us his interest? Is not a back-stairs favourite, one that can do what he pleases with those that do what they please ! Is not he an acquaintance that all your groan- ing and lamentation could never have got us ? Croak. He is a man of importance, I grant you. And yet what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the world, he can't get one for himself. Mrs Croak. That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not easily sa- tisfied. Enter French Servant. Serv. An express from Monsieur Lofty. THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN". 127 He vil be vait upon your honours iristrammant. He be only giving four or five instruction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. Mrs Croak. You see now, my dear. What an extensive department ! Well, friend, Jet your master know, that we are extremely ho- noured by this honour. Was there any thing ever in a higher style of breeding ? All mes- sages among the great are now done by express. Croak. To be sure, no man does little things with more solemnity, or claims more respect than he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, respect is given where respect is claimed. Mrs Croak. Never mind the world, my dear ; you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving him with proper respect, (a loud rapping at the door,} and there he is, by the thundering rap. Croak. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his own express, as an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to steal a marriage with- out mine or her aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise my authority. [Exit. Enter Lnfty^ speaking to his Servant. Loft. 'And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teazing creature the Marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Dam'me, I'll be pack-horse to none of them.' My dear Madam, I have just snatched a moment * And if the ex- presses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they're of importance,' Madam, I ask a thousand pardons. Loft. * And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the commission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : you understand me.' Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. Mrs Croak. Sir, this honour Loft. And, Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him, I say.' Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. ' And if the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call to-day, I believe.' And now, Madam, I have just got time to ex- press my happiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant. Mrs Croak. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the pub- lic while I detain you. Loft. Sink the public, Madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. Mrs Croak. Excuse me, Sir. * Toils ol empires pleasures are,' as Waller says. Loft. Waller, Waller, is he of the house ? Mrs Croak. The modern poet of that name, Sir. Loft. Oh, a modern ! we men of business despise the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daugh- ters ; but not for us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of books. I say, Madam, I know nothing of books ; and yet, I believe, upon land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my two hours without feel- ing the want of them. Mrs Croak. The world is no stranger to Mr Lofty's eminence in every capacity. Loft. I vow to gad, Madam, you make me blush, I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present mi- nisters are pleased to represent me as a formi- dable man. I know they are pleased to bespat- ter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, have al- ways been my mark ; and I vow, by all that's honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm that is as mere men. Mrs Croak. What importance, and yet what modesty ! Loft. Oh, if you talk of modesty, Madam, there I own, I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so, the Duke of Brentford used to say of me. 'I love Jack Lofty,' he used to say : ' no man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a man of information ; and when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord he's prodigious, he scouts them ; and yet all men have their faults ; too much modesty is his,' says his Grace. Mrs Croak. And yet I dare say, you don't want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. Loft. O, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apropos ! I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain personage ; we must name no names. When I ask, I'm not to be put off, Madam. No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, Sir ; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough in- terest. Business must be done, Mr Sec retary. I say, Mr Secretary, her business must be done, Sir. That's my way, Madam. Mrs Croak. Bless me ! you said all this to the Secretary of State, did you ? Loft. I did not say the secretary, did I? Well, curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the secretary. Mrs Croak. This was going to the ibun- tainhead at once, not applying to the undei- strappers, as Mr Honeywood would have had us. Loft. Hcneywood ! he ! he ! He was, in- 128 THE GOOD-NATURED MAX. I deed, a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him? Mrs Croak. Poor dear man; no accident, t I hope? Loft. Undone, madam, that's all. His cre- ditors have taken him into custody. A pri- soner in his own house. Mrs Croak. A prisoner in his own house ! I How ? At this very time ? I'm quite unhap- j py for him. Loft. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was 'immensely good-natured. But then I could never find that he had any thing in him. Mrs Croak. His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion. Loft. It can't be concealed, Madam ; the \ man was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! a poor impracticable creature ? I tried once or twice to know if he was fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. Mrs Croak. How differently does Miss Richland think of him ! For, I believe, with all his faults, she loves him. Loft. Loves him ? does she ? You should cure her of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation ? My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect an- tidote to love. Suppose we join her in the next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, Madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and rather than she should be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. [Exeunt. Enter Olivia and Leonline. Leant. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect Miss Richland's re- fusal, as I did every thing in my power to de- serve it. Her indelicacy surprises me. Oliv. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so in- delicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. Leont. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with her. What more could I do ? Oliv. Let us now rather consider what is to f >e done. We have both dissembled too long. I have always been ashamed I am now quite weary of it. Sure I could never have under- gone so much for any other but you. Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. Oliv. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I may be the favourite of your lather, it is true ; but can it ever be thought, that his present kindness to a supposed child will continue to a known deceiver ? Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him already at a distance, and find all his an- swers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expres- sion or two that dropped from him, I am in- duced to think he knows of this affair. Olii'. Indeed ! But that would be a happi- ness too great to be expected. Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have power over him ; and I'm persuaded, if you in- formed him of our situation, that he would be disposed to pardon it. Oliv. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last scheme with Miss Ricliland, which you find has succeeded most wretchedly. Leont. And that's the best reason for trying another. Oliv. If it must be so, I submit. Lont. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to share your danger, or confirm your victory. [Exit. Enter Croaker. Croak. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority. Oliv. How I tremble to approach him ! Might I presume, Sir, if I interrupt you Croak. No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little thing that can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things. Oliv. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill I deserve this partiality ; yet, Heaven knows, there is nothing I would not do to gain it. Croak. And you have but too well succeed- ed, you little hussy, you. With those endear- ing ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. Oliv. But mine is such an offence When you know my guilt Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. Croak. Why, then, if it be so very great a Sain, you may spare yourself the trouble ; for know every syllable of the matter before you begin. Oliv. Indeed ! then I'm undone. Croak. Ay, Miss, you wanted to steal a match without letting me know it, did you ? But I'm not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's to be a marriage in my own fa- mily. No, I'm to have no hand in the disposal of my children. No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber; a piece of cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner. Oliv. Dear Sir, nothing but the dread of THE GOOD-NATURED MAN". your authority could induce us to conceal it from you. Croak. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in win- ter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth til 1 there comes a thaw It goes to my heart to ve.v her. [Aside. Oliv. I was prepared, Sir, for your anger, and despaired of pardon, even while I presum- ed to ask it. But your severity shall never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice. Croak. And yet you should not despair r.either, Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. Oliv. And do you permit me to hope, Sir ? Can I ever expect to be forgiven? But hope lias too long deceived me. Croak. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I forgive you this very moment ; 1 forgive you all ! and now you are indeed my daughter. Oliv. O transport ! this kindness over- powers me. Croak. I was always against severity to our children. We have been young and giddy our- selves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be old before their time Oliv. What generosity ! but can you forget the many falsehoods, the dissimulation Croak. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; but where's the girl that won't dissemble for a husband? My wife and I had never been _ married, if we had not dissembled a little be- forehand. Otic. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity to a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, from his native honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I can answer for him that Enter Leontinc. Leant. Permit him thus to answer for him- self. ( Kneeling J. Thus, Sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, Sir, this even exceeds all your former tender- ness. I now can boast the most indulgent of' fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. Croak. And, good Sir, who sent for you, | with that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner ? I don't know what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occasion. Leont. How, Sir ! Is it possible to be silent, when so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to my Olivia's? of sharing in. the ' transports that you have thus occasioned ? Croak. Lord, Sir, we can be happy enough j without your coming in to make up the party. J don't know what's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has got into such a rhodomon- tade manner all this morning ! Leont. But, Sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy ? is the being admitted to your favour so slight an obligation ? is the happiness of mar rying my Olivia so small a blessing? Croak. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister ! Leont. My sister ! Oliv. Sister ! How have I been mistaken ! [Aside. Leont. Some cursed mistake in all this, I find. [Asiilc. Croak. What does the booby mean ? or has he any meaning? Eh, what do you mean ; you blockhead, you ? Leont. Mean, Sir, why, Sir only when my sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of marrying her, Sir, that is, of giving her away, Sir I have made a point of it. Croak. O, is that all? Give her away. You have made a point of it. Then you had as good mike a point of first giving away your- self, as I'm going to prepare the writings between you asd Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing! Why, what's the matter now? I thought I had made you at least as happy as you could wish. Oliv. O ! yes, Sir ; very happy. Croak. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look as if you did. I think if any tiring w;is to be *oreseen, I have as sharp a look out /is another ; and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit Lcontine, Olinu. Oliv. What can it mean ? Leont. Hi? knows something, and yet for my life I can't tell what. Oliv. It can't be the connexion between ua I'm pretty certain. Leont. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm re- solved to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortification. I'll haste and pre- pare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend Houeywood has promised me his advice and assistance. I'll go to him and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom; and I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasinesses, he will at least share them. [Exeunt. ACT THIRD. SCENE YOUXG HOXEYWOOD'S HOUSE. Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. Bailiff. LOOKYE, Sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my time : no disparage- ment of you neither : Men that would go forty guineas on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a man in more genteeler practice than myself. Honeywood. Without all question, Mr . I forget your name, Sir ? Bail. How can you forget what you never knew ? he ! he ! he ! 130 THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. Honeyw. May I beg leave to ask your name ? Bail Yes, you may. Honeyw. Then, pray, Sir, what is your name ? Bail That I didn't promise to tell you. He ! he ! he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise the law. Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, perhaps ? Bail The law does nothing without reason. I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, Sir. If you can show cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I should prove my name But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. And, now you know my name, what have you to say to that ? Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mr Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. Bail. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we say among us that prac- tise the law. I have taken an oath against granting favours. Would you have me perjure myself ? Honeyw. But my request will come recom- mended in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you'll have no scruple (pulling out his purse). The thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the affair known for the world, I have thoughts of keep- ing you, and your good friend here, about me, till the debt is discharged j for which I shall be properly grateful. Bail Oh ! that's another maxim, and alto- gether within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get any thing by a thing, there's no reason why all things should not be done in civility. Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. ( Gives him money. ) Bail Oh ! your honour ; I hope your hon- our takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw that a gentle- man was a gentleman, I have taken money riot to see him for ten weeks together. Honeyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr Twitch. Bail Ay, Sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I hare a tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a but no matter for that. Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr Twitch. The ingratitude of the world can never de- prive us of the conscious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves. Bail Humanity, Sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I love humanity. People may say, that we in our way have no humanity; but I'll show you my humanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan with a wife and four children, a guinea or two would be more to him, than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me. Honeyw. I assure you, Mr Twitch, yours is a most powerful recommendation. (Giving money to the follower.) Bail Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do with your money. But, to business : we are to be with you here as your friends, I suppose. But set in case company conies. Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very good face ; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us that prac- tise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. Honeyw. Well, that shall be remedied with, out delay. Enter Servant. Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. Honeyw. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must improve my good friend little Mr Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr Flanigan have a suit of my clothes quick the brown and silver Do you hear ? Ser. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new. Honeyw. The white and gold then. Ser. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was good for nothing, Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand then. The blue and gold then, I believe Mr Flanigan will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. Bail. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in any thing. Ah, if your honoui knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy- cock than he : scents like a hound ; sticks like a weazle. He was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. (Re-enter Flanigan.) Heb, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a suit from the same place for myself. Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being directed. Bail Never you fear me ; I'll show the lady that I have something to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and another man has another, that's all the difference between them. Enter Miss Richland an$ her Maid. Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, Sir, with this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library. Honeyw. Thanks, Madam, are unnecessary; as it was I that was obliged by your commands. THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 131 Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr Twitch and Mr Flanigan. Pray, gentle- men, sit without ceremony. Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be ! I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. ( 'Aside. , Bail. (After a pause.) Pretty weather; very pretty weather for the time of the year, Madam. Fol. Very good circuit weather in the coun- try. Honeyw. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. My friends, Madam, have been up.ori very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should in some measure re- compense the toils of.the brave? Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen are in the ma- rine service, I presume Sir ? Honeyw. Why, Madam, they do occasion- ally serve in the fleet, Madam. A dangerous service ! Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised me, that while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it. Honeyw. I grant, Madam, that our poets ,'iave not written as our soldiers have fought ; but they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. Honeyw. We should not be so severe against dull writers, Madam. It is ten to one but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him. Fol Damn the French, the parle vous. and all that belongs to them. M'ms Rirh. Sir ! Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr Flanigan. A true English officer, Madam ; he's not con- tented with beating the French, but he will scold them too. Miss Rich. Yet, Mr Honeywood, this does not convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first ^adopting the severity of French taste, that has brought them in turn to taste us. Bail. Taste us! By the Lord, Madam, they devour us. Give monseers but a taste, and I'll be damn'd but they come in for a bellyful. Miss Rich. Very extraordinary, this ! Fol. But very true. What mahes the bread rising? the parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence a pound? the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot ? Honeyw. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be out. (Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, Madam, between the mental taste and that of our senses. We are injured as much by the French severity in the one, as by the French rapacity in the other. That's their meaning. Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. Bail That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the law says : for set in case Honeyw. I'm quite of your opinion, Sir I see the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, what writer can be free ? Bail. By his habus corpus. His habus cor- pus can set him free at any time : for set in case Honeyw. I'm obliged to you, Sir, for the hint. If, Madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. FoL Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, you know Honeyw. Mr Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not improve the last observa- tion. For my own part, I think it conclusive. Bail. As for the matter of that, mayhap Honeyw. Nay, Sir, give me leave in this in- stance to be positive. For where is the ne>- cessity of censuring works without genius> which must shortly sink of themselves ? what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands of justice? J5az7. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you talk about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a course of law Honeyw. My dear Mr Twitch, I discern what you'd be at perfectly ; and I believe the lady must be sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, Madam, of his course of law. Miss Rich. I protest, Sir, I do not. I per- ceive only that you answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the other before he has well begun. Bail. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the matter out. This here ques- tion is about severity, arid justice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now to explain the thing Honeyw. O ! curse your explanations. [Aside. Enter Servant. Sen-. Mr Leontine, Sir, below, desires to speak with you upon earnest business. Honeyw. That's lucky. (Aside.) Dear Ma- dam, you'll excuse me and my good friends here, for a few minutes. There are books, Madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with such friends. After you, Sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must. But I know your natural polite- ness. Bail. Before and behind, you know. 132 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Fol Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind. [Exeunt ffoneywood, Bailiff, and Follower. Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet? Garn. Mean, Madam ! why, what should it mean, but what Mr Lofty sent you here to gee ? These people he calls officers are officers sure enough ; sheriff's officers ; bailiffs, Madam. Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there's something very ri- diculous in them, and a just punishment for his dissimulation. Garn. And so they are. But I wonder, Madam, that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts, and set him free, has not done it by this time. He ought at least to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. Enter Sir William. Sir Wil For Miss Richland to undertake setting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a number of worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition of real value; for there must be some softer passion on her side that prompts this generosity. Ha ! here be- fore me ? I'll endeavour to sound her affec- tions. Madam, as I am the person that have had some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, it, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. Miss Rich. The precaution was very un- necessary, Sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy. Sir Wil Partly, Madam. But I was also willing you should be fully apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended to serve. Miss Rich. It must come, Sir, with a very ill grace from you. To censure it after what you have done, would look like malice ; and to speak favourably of a character you have oppressed, would be impeaching your o\vn. And sure, his tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for many ' faults. Sir Wil. That friendship, Madam, which is exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty like a drop of \vater, disappears when diffused too widely. They, who pretend most to this universal benevolence, are either deceivers, or dupes. Men who desire to cover their private ill- nature, by a pretended regard for all ; or men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of useful virtues. Miss Rich. 1 am surprised, Sir, to hear one, who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. Sir Wil. Whatever I may have gained by folly, Madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. Miss Rich. Your cares for me, Sir, are unnecessary. I always suspect those services which are denied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, Sir, my directions have been given, and I insist upon their being complied with. Sir Wil. Thou amiable woman ! I can no longer contain the expressions of my gratitude, my pleasure. '..You see before you one, who has been equally careful of his interest ; one, who has for some time been a concealed spec- tator of his follies, and only punished in hopes to reclaim him his uncle ! Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ! You amaze me. How shall I conceal my confu- sion ? I fear, Sir, you'll think I have been too forward in my services. I confess I Sir WiL Don't make any apologies, Madam. I only find myself unable to repay the obliga- tion. And yet, I have been trying my inter- est of late to serve you. Having learned, Madam, that you had some demands upon Government, 1 have, though unasked, been your solicitor there. Miss Rich. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your intentions. But my guardian has em- ployed another gentleman, who assures him of success. Sir Wil Who, the important little man that visits here ? Trust me, Madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to serve you. Mr Lofty's promises are much better known to people of fashion, than his person, I assure you. Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be here he comes. Sir Wil Does he? Remember I'm to continue unknown. My return to England has not yet been made public. With what impudence he enters ! Enter Lofty. Loft, Let the chariot let my chariot drive off ; I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very sorry, Madam, things of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried amongst us as a par- ticular acquaintance. Miss Rich. I find, Sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of others your own. Loft,. My dear, Madam, what can a private man like me do ? One man can't do every thing ; and then, I do so much in this way every day : Let me see ; something consider- able might be done for him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. Ill undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower Louse, at my own peril. Sir Wil. And, after all, it's more than pro- bable, Sir, he might reject the offer of sur:h powerful patronage. THE GOOD-NATURED MAX. Loft. Then, Madam, \vhat can we do ? You know I never make promises. In truth, 1 once or t\vice tried to do something with him in the way of business ; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable. Sir \\ r il. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular friend of yours. Loft. Meaning me, Sir ? Yes, Madam, as I often said, My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do any thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family : but what can be done? there's no procuring first - rate places for ninth-rate abilities. Miss filch. 1 have heard of Sir William Honeywood ; he's abroad in employment : he confided in your judgment, I suppose ? Loft. Why, yes, Madam, I believe Sir Wil- liam had some reason to confide in my judg- ment ; one little reason, perhaps. Miss Rich. Pray, Sir, what was it ? Loft. Why, Madam, but let it go no far- ther it was J procured him his place. Sir Will Did you, Sir? Loft. Either you or J, Sir. Miss Rich. This, Mr Lofty, was very kind indeed. Loft. I did love him, to be sure ; he had .-ome amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to he a toast-master to a club, or had a better head. Miss Pick. A better head ? Loft. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was r.s dull as a choice spirit: but hang it, he was i. ;-ateful, very grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. Sir Will. He might have reason perhaps. His place is pretty considerable, I'm told. Loft. A trine, a mere trifle among us men of business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. Sir Will. Dignity of person, do you mean, Sir? I'm told he's much about my size and ;': :ure. Sir, Loft. Ay, tall enough for a marching regi- ment; but then he wanted a something a con- sequence of form a kind of a I believe the lady perceives my meaning. Miss Rich. O, perfectly ; you courtiers can do any thing I see. Loft. My dear Madam, all this is but a mere exchange ; we do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose you the first lord of the treasury ; vou have an employment in you that I want ; J have a place in me that you want ; do me here, do you there : interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. Sir Will A thought strikes me. (Aside.) !S T ow you mention Sir William Honeywood, Madam, and as he seems, Sir, an acquaintance of yours, you'll be glad to hear he is ar- rived from Italy ; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information. Left. The devil he is ! If I had known i that we should not have been so well acquaint' ed. [Aside. Sir Wil. He is certainly returned ; and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be 3 of signal sen-ice to us, by introducing me to him ; there are some papers relative to your affairs that require despatch, and,his inspection- Miss Rich. This gentleman, 'Mr Lofty, is a person emploved in my affairs ; I know you'll serve us. Loft. My dear Madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it. Sir Wil. That would be quite unnecessary. Loft. Well, we must introduce you then. Call upon me let me see ay, in two days. Sir Wil. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. Loft. Well, if it must be now, now let it be But damn it, that's unfortunate ; my lord Grig's cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I'm engaged to attend another time Sir WilL A short letter to Sir William will do. Loft. You shall have it ; yet, in my opi- nion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to face, that's my way. Sir W r iU. The letter, Sir, wilLdo quite as well. Loft. Zounds ! Sir, do you pretend to direct me ? direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, Sir? who am 1 Miss Rich. Dear Mr Lofty, tms request is not so much his as mine ; if my commands but you despise my power. Loft. Delicate creature ! your commands could even control a debate at midnight : to a power so constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter: where is my secretary ? Dubardieu ! Arid yet, I protest I don't like this way of doing busi- ness. I think if I spoke first to Sir William But you will have it so. [Exit with Miss Richland. Sir Wil (alone.) Ha, ha, ha ! This too is one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O r anity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt, serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings, like those employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I'm not displeased at this interview : exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it de serves, may be of use to my design ; at least if he can reflect, it will be of use to himself. Enter Jar vis. Sir Wil How now, Jarvis, where's your master, my nephew ? Jar. At his iwit's ends, I believe : he's scarce gotten out of one scrape, but he's run- ning his head into another. Sir Wil How so ? Jar. The house has just been cleared ol the bailiffs, arid now he's again engaging tooth and nail in assisting- old Croaker's son to patch 134 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. up a clandestine match with the young lady that passes in the house for his sister. Sir Wil. Ever busy to serve others. Jar. Ay, any body but himself. The young couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scot- land ; and he supplies them with money for the journey. Sir Wil. Money ! how is he able to supply others, who has scarce any for himself? Jar. Why, there it is : he has no money that's true ; but then, has he never said JVo to any request in his life, he has given them a bill, drawn by a friend of his upon a merchant in the city, which I am to get changed ; for you must know that I am to go with them to Scotland myself? Sir Wil How? Jar. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a different road from his mis- tress, as he is to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their reception when they return ; so they have borrowed me from my master as the properest person to attend the young lady down. Sir Wil. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey, Jarvis. Jar. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't. Sir WiL Well, it may be shorter, and less fatiguing, than you imagine. I know but too much of the young lady's family and connex- ions, whom I have seen abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Richland is not indiffer- ent to ray thoughtless nephew; and will en- deavour, though I fear in vain, to establish that connexion. But, come, the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; I'll let you far- ther into my intentions in the next room. [Exeunt. ACT FOURTH. SCENE CROAKER'S HOUSE. Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for running my head into such defiles, as nothing but a genius like my own could draw me from. I was formerly contented to husband out my places and pensions with some degree of fru- gality ; but curse it, of late, I have given away the whole Court Register in less time than they could print the title page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing. Ha ! Honeywood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty ? Enter Honeywood. Mr Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again. I find my concurrence was not neces- sary in ;your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in a train to do your business ; but it if, not for me to say wiiat I intended doing. Honeyw. It was unfortunate indeed, Sir. But what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my misfortune - J myself continue still a stranger to my bene- factor. Loft. How ! not know the friend that served you? Honeyw. Can't guess at the person. Loft. Inquire. Honeyw. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to remain concealed, and that all in- quiry must be fruitless. Loft. Must be fruitless ! Honeyw. Absolutely fruitless. Loft. Sure of that ? Honeyw. Very sure. Loft. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever know it from me. Honeyw. How Sir ? Loft. I suppose now, Mr Honeywood, you think my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The world to be sure, says such things of me. Honeyw. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your generosity. But where does this tend ? Loft. To nothing; nothing in the world. ' The town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that I never yet patronized a man of merit. Honeyw. I have heard instances to the con- trary, even from yourself. Loft. Yes, Honeywood : and there are in- stances to the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. Honeyw. Ha ! dear, Sir, permit me to ask you but one question. Loft. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, Sir, ask me no questions; I'll be damn'd if 1 answer them. Honeyw. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem reproaches. Loft. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr Honeywood: You treat me very cavalierly. I do assure you, Sir Blood, Sir, can't a man be permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, without all this parade V Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. Loft. Confess it, Sir! fortune itself, Sir, shall never bring me to confess it. Mr Honey, wood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 135 this may make no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more familiar Indeed we must. Honeyw. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friendship? Is there anyway? Thou best of men, can I ever return the obligation ? Loft. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. Honeyw. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way ? Loft. From this moment'you're mine. Yes, my friend, you shall know it I'm in love. Honeyw. And can I assist you ? Loft. Nobody so well. Honeyw. In what manner? I'm all impa- tience. Loft. You shall make love for me. Honeyw. And to whom shall I speak in your favour ? Loft. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I assure you : Miss Richland. Honeyw. Miss Richland! Loft. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Ju- piter. Honeyw. Heavens ! was ever any thing more unfortunate? It is too much to be en- dured. Loft. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can endure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. Honeyw. Indeed ! But, do you know the person you apply to ? Loft. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion. I'll say no more, let friendship do the rest. I hare only to add, that if at any time my little interest can be of service but, hang it, I'll make no promises you know my interest is yours at any time. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered ; it shall be so. [Exit. Honeyw. Open, generous, unsuspecting man! He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! But then it was ever but a vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecution ! What shall I do ? Love, friend- ship ; a hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! Love that has been my tormentor ; a friend that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and exert all my influence in his favour. And yet to see her in the possession of another ! Insupport- able ! But then to betray a generous, trusting friend ! Worse, worse! Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their happi- ness, and then quit a country, where I must for ever despair of finding my own. [Exit. Enter Olivia, and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box. Ohv. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. No news of Jarvis yet ? I believe thq old peevish creature delays purely to vex me. Gam. Why, to be sure, Madam, I did hear him say, a little snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear it the better afterwards. Olio. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! Gam. I'll lay my life, Mr Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn : and here you are left be- hind. Oliv. Well, let us be prepared for his com ing, however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, Garnet? Garn. Not a stick, Madam all's here. Yet I wish you could take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red ; and, as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. Oliv. No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of the house. Garn. Bless me, Madam, I had almost for- got the wedding ring! The sweet little thing I don't think it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, Madam ? But here's Jar- vis. Enter Jarvis. Oliv. O Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. Let us fly. Jarv. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. Oliv. How! what's the matter? Jarv. Money, money, is the matter, Madam. We have got no money. What the plague do you send me of your fool's errand for? My master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is j Mrs Garnet may pin up her hair with it. Oliv. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us so ? What shall we do ? Can't we go without it ? Jarv. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scotland without money ! Lord, how some people understand geography ! We might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork- jacket. Oliv. Such a disappointment ! What a base insincere man was your master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good-nature ? Jarv. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, Madam, I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself. Garn. Bless us ! now I think on't, Madam, you need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just before he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A short letter will reach him there. Oliv. Well remembered, Garnet j I'll write immediately. How's this ! Bless me, my hand trembles so, I can't write a word. l)o 136 THE COOD-NATUKED MAN. you write, Garnet; and, upon second thought, it will be better from you. Cram. Truly, Madam, I write and indite but poorly. I never was 'cute at my learning. But I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my own head, I suppose ! Oliv. Whatever you please. Garn. ( Writing.) Muster Croaker Twen- ty guineas, Madam ? Oliv. Ay, twenty will do. Garn. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition Will be blown up All of a flame Quick despatch Cupid, the little god of love. I conclude it, Madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love-letter end like poetry. Otiv. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. Garn. Odso, Madam, Mr Honeywood's butler is in the next room : he's u dear, sweet man : he'll do any thing for me. Jam. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. Oliv. No matter. Fly, Garnet : any body we can trust will do. [Exit Garnet. ] Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to in- terrupt us ; you may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ! Jarv. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, think things can never be done too fast ; but we, that are old, and know what we are about, must elope methodi- cally, Madam. Olii>. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be clone over again Jarv. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. Oliv. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how unhappy they make me Jarv. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just as unhappy when I was going to be mar- ried myself. I'll tell you a story about that Oliv. A story ! when I am all impatience to be away. Was there ever sucL a dilatory creature ! Jarv. Well, Madam, if we must march, why we will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing; we should never travel without a case of good razors, and a box of shaving powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. [ Going. Enter Garnet. Garn. Undone, undone, Madam. Ah, Mr Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment read- ing it to himself in the hall. Oliv. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. Cram. Mo, Madam; don't be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was broken loose from Bedlam, about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors ! Oliv. Then let us leave the house this in stant, for fear he should ask farther questions. In the meantime, Garnet, do you write and send off just such another. [Exeunt. Enter Croaker. Croak. Death and destruction ! Are all tin- horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me? Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and confla- gration ? Here it is An incendiary letter drop- ped at my door. " To Muster Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay, plain enough the direc- tion : all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. " With speed." O, confound your speed. But let me read it oncu more. (Reads.} " Muster Croaker, as soon as yowe see this, leave twenty guineas at the bar of the Talboot tell called for, or yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up." Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up ? (Reads.) " Our pockets are low, and money we must have.'' Ay, there's the reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have got low pockets, (Reads.) " It is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this take wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ! The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (Reads.) " Make quick despatch, and so no more at pre- sent. But may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you wherever you go/' The little god of love ! Cupid, the little god of love, go with me ; go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together. I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing bi imstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt in GUI beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds. Enter Miss Richland, Miss Rich. Lord, Sir, what's the matter. Croak. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds before morning. Miss Rich. I hope not, Sir, Croak. What signifies what you hope, Ma- dam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand ; Will nothing alarm my family ? Sleep- ing and eating, sleeping and eating is the only work from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef-sieaks at a vol- cano. THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN. 1S7 Miss Rich. But, Sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; we have nothing but earth- quakes, famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from gear's end to year's end. You remember, Sir, it is not above a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes. Croak. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy with- out? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, to see if their be any combustibles belo\v ; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. Miss Rich. (Alone.') What can he mean by all this ? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day. But Honey wood has' desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean ? or rather, what means this palpitation at his ap- proach ? It is the first time he ever showed any thing in his conduct that seemed parti- cular. Sure he cannot mean to but he's here. Enter Honeywood. ^ Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this inter- view. Madam, before I left town to be permit- ted Miss Rich. Indeed! Leaving town, Sir? Honeyw. Yes, Madam , perhaps the king- dom. I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of this interview, in order to disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And yet my fears Miss Rich. His fears ! What are his fears to mine! (Aside.) We have indeed been long acquainted, Sir; very long. If I remember, our first meeting was at the French ambas- sador's. Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my complexion there ? Honeyw. Perfectly, Madam : I presumed to reprove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company, that the colouring was all from nature. Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it in your good-natured way, to make me pay a com- pliment to myself. In the same manner you danced that night with the most awkward wo- man in company, because you saw nobody else would take her out. Honeyw. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night, by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom every body wished to take out. Miss Rich. Well, Sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a first impression. We generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. Honeyw. The first impression. Madam,, did indeed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty ; I expected to find her vain and insolent. But every day has since taught me, that it is pos- sible to possess sense without pride, and beauty without affectation. Miss Rich. This, Sir, is a style very un- usual with Mr Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his own lessons have taught me to despise. Honeyw. I ask pardon, Madam. Yet, from our long friendship, I presumed I might have some right to offer, without offence, what you may refuse without offending. Miss Rich. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse u request of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, Sir. Honeyio. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the cause of friendship, of one who loves Don't be alarmed, Madam who loves you with the most ardent passions, whose whola happiness is placed in you Miss Rich. I fear, Sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description of him. Honeyw. Ah, Madam, it but too plainly points him out ; though he should be too hum- ble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. Miss Rich. Well ; it would be affectation any longer to pretend ignorance; and I will own, Sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was but natural to wish to make his h,-:ut mine, as he seemed himself ignorant ot its value. Honeyw. I see she always loved him. (Aside.) I- find, Madam, youre' already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the favourite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, and such beauty to reward it. Miss Rich. Your friend, Sir ! What friend ? Honeyw. My best friend my friend, Mi Lofty, Madam. Miss Rich. He, Sir ! Iloneyw. Yes, he, Madam. He is, indeed what your warmest wishes might have formed him ; and to his other qualities be adds that of the most passionate regard for you. Miss Rich. Amazement ! No more of this, I beg you, Sir. Iloneyw. I see your confusion, Madam, and know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read the language of your heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your sentiments ? Miss Rich. By no means. Honeyw. Excuse me, I must ; I know you desire it. Miss Rich. Mr Honeywood, let me tell you, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself When I first applied to your friendship, I ex- pected advice and assistance : but now, Sir. I see that it is in vain to expect happiness from him, who has been so bad an economist of his 138 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to himself. [Exit Honeyw. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him, and yet she seemed to part in dis- pleasure. Can I have done any thing to re proach myself with ! No ; I believe not : ye after all, these things should not be done by i third person : I should have spared her con- fusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and Mrs Croaker. Mrs Croak. Ha ! ha . ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ? ha ! ha ! Croak. (Mimicking.') Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ? Mrs Croak. Positively, my dear ; what is this incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? our house may travel through the air like the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable in it. Croak. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of correction for your benefit! Have we not every thing to alarm us ? Per- haps this very moment the tragedy is begin- ning. Mrs Croak. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done with them. Croak. Give them my money ! And pray, what right have they to my money ? Mrs Croak. And pray, what right then have you to my good-humour ? Croak. And so your good-humour advises me to part with my money ? Why then, to tell your good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd soon- er part with my wife. Here's Mr Honeywood, see what he'll say to it. My dear Honey- wood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; and yet lovely here can read it can read it, and laugh. Mrs Croak. Yes, and so will Mr Honey- wood. Croak. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. Mrs Croak. Speak, Mr Honeywood; is there any thing more foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion ? Honeyw. It would not become me to decide, Madam'; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to renew their villany another time. Mrs Croak. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. Croak. How, Sir ! did you maintain that I should lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by my tears nor complaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me? Honeyw. Pardon me, Sir. You ought to make the loudest complaints, if you desire re- dress. The surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in the pursuit of it. Croak. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? Mrs Croak. But don't you think that laugh ing off our fears is the best way ? Honeyw. What is the best, Madam, few can say ; but I'll maintain it to be a very wise way Croak. But we're talking of the best. Sure ly the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. Honeyw. Why, Sir, as to the best, that that's a very wise way too. Mrs Croak. But can any thing be more ab- surd, than to double our distresses by our ap- prehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling to torment us ? Honeyw. Without doubt, nothing more ab- surd. Croak. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. Croak. Then you are of my opinion. Honeyw. Entirely. Mrs Croak. And you^reject mine ? Honeyw. Heavens forbid, Madam ! No sure, no reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice if we can- not oppose it, and not make the incendiary's sen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's aistol. Mrs Croak. O ! then you think I'm quite right ? Honeyw. Perfectly right. Croak. A plague of plagues, we can't ba )Oth right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to )e glad. My hat must be on my head, or my lat must be off. Mrs Croak. Certainly in two opposite opi- nions, if one be perfectly right. Honeyw. And why may not both be right, Madam ? Mr Croaker m earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with good-humour? Pray, let me see the letter gain. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot Inn. if it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and I, Sir, go there ; and when the writer .omes to be paid for his expected booty, seize lim? Croak. My dear friend, it's the very thing; he very thing. While I walk by the door, you ihall plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; mrst out upon the miscreant like a masked rattery ; extort a confession at once, and so mug him up by surprise. Honeyw. Yes, but I would not choose to ex- ercise too much severity. It is my maxim, Sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. Croak. Well, but we may upbraid him a lit- tle, I suppose ? (Ironically.) Honeyw. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. Croak. Well, well, leave that to my own jenevolence. Honeyw. Well, I do; but remember thai THE GOOD-XATURED MAN. 109 universal benevolence is the first law of na- ture. [Exeunt Honey wood and Mrs Croaker. Croak. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydr^. ACT FIFTH. SCENE AN INN. Enter Olivia, Jarvis. OUv. Well, we have got safe to the inn, how- ever. Now, if the post-chaise were"ready Jarv. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, as they are not going to be married, they choose to take their own time. Oliv. You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. Jarv. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own time ; besides, you don't consider we have got no answer from our fel- low-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from ]\Ir Leontine, we have only one way left us. Oliv. What way ? Jarv. The way home again. Olii'. Not so. 1 have made a resolution to go, and nothing shall induce me to break it. Jarv. Ay ; resolutions are well kept, when they jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten things without. And I'll call, too,^at the bar to see if any thing should be left for us there. Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, Madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit Jarris. Enter Landlady. Land. What ! Solomon, why don't you move ? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody answer ? To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, Madam. OUv. No, Madam. Land. I find as you are for Scotland, Madam. But that's no business of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no questions. To be sure we had a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago for the same place. The gentle- man, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful it was near half an hour before we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. Oliv. But this gentleman and I are not go- ing to be married, I assure you. Land. May be not. That's no business of mine : for certain Scotch marriages seldom turn out. There was of my own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that married her father's footman Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon part- ed, and now_keep separate cellars in Hedge- iiiie. Oliv. A very pretty picture of what lies be- fore me J 'Aside. Enter Leontine. Leont. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were out of danger, was too great to be resist- ed. I could not help coming to see you set out, though it exposes us to a discovery. OUv. May every thing you do prove as for- tunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr Honeywood's bill upon the city, has, it seems, been protested, and we have, been utterly at a loss -how to pro- ceed. Leont. How ? an offer of his own too. Sure he could not mean to deceive us ? OUv. Depend upon his sincerity: he only mistook the desire for the power of serving us. But let us think no more of it I believe the post-chaise is ready by this. Land. Not quite yet ; and begging your lady- ship's pardon, I dont think your ladyship quite ready for the post chaise. The north road is a cold place, Madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble-full to keep the wind off your stomach.- To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good natured Up went the blinds, round went the wheels and drive away post-boy was the word. Enter Croaker Croak. Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary's look ; for where, ever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who have we here ? My son and daughter! What can they be doing here? Land. I tell you, Madam, it will do you good ; I think I know by this time what's good for the north-road. It's a raw night, Madam. Sir Leont. Not a drop more, good Madam. 1 should now take it as a great favour, if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. Land. That shall be done. What, Solomon ' are you all dead there ? What, Solomon, I say ' [Exit, bawling. Oliv. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear, should end in repentance. Every mo- ment we stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. Lwnt. There's no danger, trust me, my dear : there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promis- ed, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. Oliv. I have no doubt of Mr Honeywood's sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without cause, will be but too ready when there's reason. Leont. Why let him, \vhen we are out of his power. But, believe me, Olivia, you have L J40 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. no great reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private amusement. Oliv. I don't know that; but I'm sure, on some occasions it makes him look most shock- ingly. Croaker, discovering himself. Croak. How does he look now ? How does he look now ? Oliv. Ah '. Leont. Undone. Croak. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What, you are going off, are you ? Then, first, if you please, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. Leont. If that be so, our answer might but increase your displeasure, without adding to your information. Croak. I want no information from you, puppy : and you too, good Madam, what an- swer have you got ? Eh ! {A cry without, Stop him!) I think I heard a ncise. My friend Hpneywood without has he seized the incen- dairy ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on't. Leont. Honeywood without ! Then, Sir, it was Mr Honeywood that directed you hither ? Croak. No, Sir, it was Mr Honeywood conducted me hither. Leont. Is it possible ? Croak. Possible ! Why, he's in the house now, Sir j more anxious about me than my own eon, Sir. Leont. Then, Sir, he's a villain. Croak. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of your father? I'll. not bear it. I tell you, I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, arid I'll have him treated as such. Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. Croak. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnest- ly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry without, Stop him /) Fire and fury! they have seized the incendiary: they have the villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer ! stop him ! [Exit. Oliv. O, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean? Leont. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have sa- tisfaction : he shall give me instant satisfac- tion. Oliv. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem or happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfor- nes. Consider that our innocence will short- 1 ly be all that we have left us. You must for- give him. Leont. Forgive him ! has he not in every in- stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow inon- ey from him, which appears a mere trick to dela-j us ; promised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very ccene of our escape ? Oliv. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis ; Honeywood entering soon after. Post. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the reward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. Honeyw. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Discovering his mistake.) Death ! what's here ? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean ? Jarv. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I was an old fool, and that you are my master that's all. Honeyw. Confusion ! Leont. Yes, Sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After such baseness, I won- der how you can venture to see the man you have injured. Honcyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour r Leont. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, Sir, I know you. Honeyw. Why, won't you hear me ! By all that's just, I know not Leont. Hear you, Sir ! to what purpose ? 1 now see through all your low arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your never re- fusing any request ; your friendship's as com mon as a prostitute's favours, and as fallacious ; all these, Sir, have long been contemptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. Honeyw. Ha ! contemptible to the world . that reaches me. [Aside. Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, were only allurements to betray, and all your seeming regret for their consequences, only calculated to co\vv the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain ! Enter Croaker, out of breath. Croak. Where is tnc villain ? Where is the incendiary? (Seizing the Postboy.) Hold bim fast, the dog: he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess j confess all, and hang yourself. Post. Zounds ! master, what do you throt- tle me for ? Croak. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ? do you resist ? Post. Zounds ! master, I'm not he j THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 141 the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. Croak. How! Honeyw. Mr Croaker, we have all been under a strange mistake here ; I find there is I nobody guilty ; it was all an error ; entirely an I error of our own. Croak. And I say, Sir, that you're in an error ; for there's guilt and double guilt, a 5 lot, a damned Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and must have proof of it. Honeyw. Do but hear me. Croak. What, you intend to bring 'em off, I suppose ? I'll hear nothing. Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. Oliv. Excuse me. Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. Jarv. What signifies explanations when the thing is done? Honeyw. Will nobody hear me ? Was there ever such a set, so blinded by passion and pre- judice ! ( To tie Postboy.'} My good friend, J believe you'll be surprised when I assure you Postb. Sure me nothing I'm sure of no- thing but a good beating. Croak. Come then you, Madam, if you ever hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sin- cerely all you know of this affair. Oliv. Unhappily, Sir, I'm but too mnch the cause of your suspicions. You see before you, Sir, one that with false pretences has slept into your family to betray it ; not your daughter Croak. Not my daughter ! Oliv. Not your daughter but a mean de- ceiver who support me, I cannot Honeyw. Help, she's going ; give her air. Croak. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever daughter she may be not so bad as that neither. [Exeunt all but Croaker. Croak. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair : my son is either married, or go- ing to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's the advantage of fret- ting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when they come. Enter Miss Ricldand and Sir William. Sir Wil. But how do you know, Madam, that my nephew intends setting off from this place ? Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom suggested the rest. But what do I see ! my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear Sir, could have expected meeting you here ! to what accident do we owe this pleasure ? Croak. To a fool, I believe. Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come V Croak. To play the iool. Miss Rich. But with whom ? Croak. With greater fools than myself. Miss Rich. Explain. Croak. Why, Mr Honey\vood brought me here, to do nothing, now I am here ; and my son is going to be married to I don't know who, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am. Miss Rich. Married! to whom, Sir? Croak. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. Sir Wil Then, Sir, I can inform you and, though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville Croak. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west ? Sir Wil. Being left by him,. I say, to the care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent to Fiance, under pretence of education ; and there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been once her father's friend, 1 did all in my power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had even meditated to res- cue her from his authority, when your son stept in with more pleasing violence, gave her liber- ty, and you a daughter. Croak. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing, Sir. A young lady, Sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those who have interest, will be double what my son has a right to expect. Do you know Mr Lofty, Sir? Sir Wil. Yes, Sir ; and know that you are deceived in him. But step this way, and I'll convince you. [Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. Enter Honeywood. Honeyw. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to grow contemptible eren to my- self. How have I sunk by too great an assiduity to please ! How have I over-taxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a single fool should escape me ! But all is now over : I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains hence forward for me but solitude and repentance. Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr Honeywood, that you are setting off, without taking leave of your friends? The report is, that you are quit- ting England : can it be ? Honeyw. Yes, Madam; and though I am so unhappy as to have fallen under your dis- pleasure, yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to hap- ; to one who loves you, and deservee 142 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. your love; to one who has power to procure you affluence, and generosity to improve your enjoyment of it. Miss Rich. And are you sure, Sir, that the gentleman you mean is what you describe him ? Honeyw. I have the best assurances of it his serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest happiness, and that is in your power to confer. As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find but in solitude ? what hope, but in being forgotten ? Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. Honeyw. No, Madam, my resolution is fix- ed. Inferiority among strangers is easy -, but among those that once were equals, insupport- able. Nay, to show you how far my resolu- tion can go, I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that among the number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, Madam, while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it was unworthy our friendship, arid let it be forgotten. Miss Rich. You amaze me ! Honeyw. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; since the : confession should riot have come from me even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my intention of never mentioning it more. [Going. Miss Rich. Stay, Sir, one moment Ha ! he here Enter Lofty Loft. Is the coast clear ? None but friends ? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence ; but it goes no farther, things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; your affair at the treasury will be done in less than a thousand years. Mum ! Miss Rich. Sooner, Sir, I should hope. . Loft. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls in- to proper hands that know where to push and where to parry ; that know how the land lies eh, Honeywood ? Miss Rich. It has fallen into yours. Loft. Well, to keep you no longer in sus- pense, your thing is done. It is done, I say that's all. I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the Claim has been, examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the word, Madam. Honeyw. But how ! his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. Loft. Indeed! Then, Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. Miss Rich. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month. Loft. This month ! it must certainly be so Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from New- market, so that he must have met his lordship there j and so it came about. I have his letter about me ; I'll read it to you. ( Taking out a large bundle.} That's from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Ponia- towski, now King of Poland ? Honest'.Pon (Searching.) O, Sir, ; what ! are. 'you here too? I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir Wil- liam Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him. Sir Will. Sir, I have delivered it; and must inform you, it was received with the most mor- tifying contempt. Croak. Contempt ! Mr Lofty, what can that mean ? Loft. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it come to something presently. Sir Will. Yes, Sir ; I believe you'll be ama- zed, if after waiting some time in the ante- chamber, after being surveyed with insolent cu- riosity by the passing servants, I was at last as- sured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been im- posed upon. Loft. Good! let me die;" very good. Ha! ha ! ha ! Croak. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. Loft. You can't ? Ha ! ha ! Croak. No, for the soul of me ! I think. it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. Loft. Arid so you can't find out the force of the message ? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! Croak. Indeed ! How ? why ? Loft. Irt one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. Croak. And so it does, indeed ; and aU my suspi^'ons are over. Loft. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr Croaker, you and I were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over ; I say, it's over. Croak. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be dis- composed. Loft. Zounds ! Sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs ? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St James's? have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant- Tailor's Hall? have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print shops ; and talk to me of suspects? Croak. My dear Sir, be pacified. Wiafc can you have but asking pardon ? THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 143 Loft, Sir, 1 will not be pacified Suspects ! Who am 1 ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends ; tiie lords of the treasury, Sir William Honey- wood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ? Who am I, I say, who am I? Sir Wil. Since you are so pressing for an an swer, I'll tell you who you are : A gentle- man as well acquainted with politics as with men in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty : with lords of the treasury as with truth ; and withal, as you are with Sir William Honeywood, I am Sir William Honeywood. (Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.) Croalt. Sir William Honeywood ! Honeyw. Astonishment ! my uncle! (Aside.) Loft. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. Croak. What, Mr Importance, and are these your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs ; you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you were served right, you should have your head stuck up in a pillory. Loft. Ay, stick it where you will; for by the Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present. Sir Witt. Well, Mr Croaker, I hope you now -see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his influence. Croak. Ay, Sir, too well I see it ; and I can't but say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr Lofty in help- ing him to a better. Sir Will. I approve your resolution ; and liere they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent. Enter Mrs Croaker, Jar vis, Leontinc, and Olivia. Mrs Croak. Where's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, you _know, my dear ; and we never had any reason to repent of it. Croak. I wish we could both say so. How- ever, this gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them to- gether without crossing the Tweed for it. (Joining their hands. ) Leant. How blest and unexpected ! What, what can we say to such goodness ? But our future obedience shall be the best reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe Sir Witt. Excuse me. Sir^if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. (Turning to Honeywood.} Yes, Sir, you are surprised to see me ; and a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. I saw with indig- nation the errors of a mind that only sought applause from others ; that easiness of disposi- tion, which though inclined to the right, had not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors, that still took name from some neighbouring duty ; your charity, that was but injustice, your benevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friendship, 'but credulity. I saw with regret great talents and extensive learning only employed .to add sprightliness to error, and increase your per- plexities. I saw your mind with a thousand natural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served only to heighten my pity for its prostitu- tion. Honeyw. Cease to upbraid me, Sir : I have for some time but too strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, Sir, I have determined this very hour to quit for ever a place where I have made myself the voluntary slave of all. and to seek among strangers that fortitude which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipat- ed virtues. Yet ere I depart, permit me to.solicit favour for this gentleman ; who, notwithstand- ing what has happened, has. laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr Lofty Loft. Mr Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a reformation as well as you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented the art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that I de- sign to speak truth for the future, I must now assure you, fhat you owe your late enlargement to another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So- now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may take my place ; I'm determined to resign. [Exit. Honeyw. How have I been deceived ! Sir Will. No, Sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend, for that favour to Misa Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friend- ship happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. Miss Rich. After what is past, it would but be affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. And if my entrea- ties cannot alter his resolution to quit the coun- try, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. (Giving her hand.) Honeyw. Heavens ! how :an I have deserved' all this ? How express my happiness, my grati- tude ? A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. Croak. Well, now I see content : in every face ; but heaven send we be all better this daj three months ! Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to re- spect yourself. He who seeks only for applause 14-1 THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. from without, has all his happiness in another's! An epilogue, things can't go on without it', keeping. Honeyw.'Yes, Sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors ; my vanity, in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness in It could not fail, would you but set about it. Young man, cries one, (a bard laid up in clover, ) Alas, young man, my writing days are over ; approving folly lest fools should disapprove, j Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I; Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my study to Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try. reserve my pity for real distress ; my friendship What, I ! dear Sir, the doctor interposes : for true merit ; and my love for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy. EPILOGUE.' BY MRS BULKLEY. As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure ; Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend For epilogues and prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. * The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing- one himself till the very last. hour. What is here offered owes all its suc- cess to the graceful manner of the actress who sooke it. What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses ! No, no. I've other contests to maintain ; To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane, Go ask your manager Who, me ! Your par. don ; Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden. Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, Give him good.words indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight at some new play, At the pit door stands elbowing away, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, where his friends, sit snug ; His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now con- form " To 'bide the pelting of this pit'less storm," Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the Good-Natured Mzt* SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OE, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. A COMEDY. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. DEAR SIR, By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years* in in- timacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The un- dertaking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous : and Mr Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, J have every reason to be grateful. 1 am, Dear Sir, Your most sincere Friend and Admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. But why can't I be moral ? Let me try My heart thus pressing fix'd my face and eye With a sententious look that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin "All is not gold that glitters, Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. When ignorance enters, folly is at hand : Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble, And virtue is not virtue if she tumble/' I give it up morals won't do for me ; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill, To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion : A kind of magic charm for be assured, If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose and make wry faces ! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs are mix'd in what he gives. PROLOGUE DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. Enter Mr Woodward, dressed in black, and holdiny a handkerchief to his eyes. EXCUSE me, Sirs, I pray I can't yet speak, I'm crying now and have been all the week. " 'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters " I've that within" for which there are no plasters ! Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying ? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a- dying ! And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop : I am undone, that's all shall lose my bread I'd rather but that's nothing lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed ! Poor Ned and I are dead, to all intents ; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty tup. 146 SHE STOOPS TO CONQTTEK. Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; If not, within he will receive no fee ! The college, you, must his pretensions back. Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. DRAMATIS PERSONS. MEN. Sir Charles Markw . . young Marlow, (his ton) MR GARDNER. Ma Hardcastle MR Hastings MR DuBELLAMST. Tony Lumpkin .... Ma QUICK. Diggory ...... MR SAUN.UERS. WOMEN. Mrs Hardcastle .... MRS GREEN. Miss Hardcastle . . . Mas BUCKLEY. Miss Neville MRS KNIVETON. Maid Miss WILTJAMS, Landlord, Servants, frc* SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT ACT FIRST. SCBNE A CHAMBER IN AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. Enter Mrs Hardcastle and Mr Hardcastle. Mrs Hard. I vow, Mr Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour, Mrs Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and af- fectation to last them the whole year. I won- der why London cannot keep it's own fools at home ! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket. Mrs Hard. Ay, your times were fine times indeed ; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here wa live in an old rumbling mansion that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master ; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old fa- shioned trumpery. v Hard. And I love it. I love every thing that's old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines ; and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand,J you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. Mrs Hard. Lord, Mr Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I pro- mise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, arid make money of that. Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and seven. Mrs Hard. It's false, Mr Hardcastle ; I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr Lumpkin, my firsf husband ; and he's not come to years of discre- tion yet. Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. Mrs Hard. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a- year. Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere composi- tion of tricks and mischief. Mrs Hard. Humour, my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs Frizzle's face. Mrs Hard. And am I to blame ? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A j school would be his death. When he comes j to be a little stronger, who knows what a year , or two's Latin may do for him? Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. Mrs Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Any body that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. Mrs Hard. He coughs sometimes. Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. Mrs Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 148 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hard. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet ( Tony halloo- ing behind the scenes.) O, there he goes a very consumptive figure, truly. Enter Tony crossing the stage. . Mrs Hard. Tony, where are you going.^my charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee ? Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. Mrs Hard. You sha'n't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. Hard. Ay ; the alehouse, the old place ; I thought so. Mrs Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang, the horse doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. Mrs Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind ; but I can't abide to disap- point myself. Mrs Hard. (Detaining him.} You sha'n't SO- Tony. I will, I tell you. Mrs Hard. I say you sha'n't. Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or L [Exit, hauling her out. Hardcastle, solus. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combi- nation to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? There's my pretty darling Kate ! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she's as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Enter Miss Hardcastle. Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! dressed out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. Miss Hard. You know our agreement, Sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement ; and, by the bye, I believe 1 shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. Miss Hard. 1 protest, Sir, I don't compre- hend your meaning. Hard. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentlernan I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. Miss Hard. Indeed! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me ! how shall I behave ? It's a thousand to one I sha'n't like him ; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. Hard. Depend upon it, child, I never will control your choice ; but Mr Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gen- tleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his coun- try. I am told he's a man of an excellent un- derstanding Miss Hard. Is he ? Hard. Very generous. Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. Hard. Young and brave. Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. Hard, And very handsome. Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more (hissing his hand}, he's mine; I'll have him. Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A re- served lover, it is said, always makes a suspi- cious husband. Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom re- sides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. How- ever, if he be so young, so handsome, and so every thing as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have him. Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an ob- stacle. It's more than an even wager he may not have you. Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so ? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the meantime, I'll go prepare the servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. Miss Hani. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; these he put last ; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured ; I like all that. But then reserved and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured of hie SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 149 timidity, by being taught to be projd of his wife ? Yes ; and can't I ? but I vow I'm disposing of the husband, before I have secur- ed the lover. Enter Miss Neville. Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening ? Is there any thing whimsical about me ? Is it one of my well looking days, child ? am I in face to-day ? Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again bless me ! sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last novel been too moving ? Miss Hard. No; nothing of all this. I have been threatened I can scarce get it out I have been threatened with a lover. Miss Neville. And his name Miss Hard. Is JMarlow. Miss Nev. Indeed ! Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles I\!ar- low. Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. Miss Hard. Never. Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man ally ; but his acquaintance give him a very different cha- racter among creatures of another stamp : you understand me. Miss Hard. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do ? Pshaw, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear ? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual ? Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-d-tctes. She has been say- iug a hundred tender things, and setting oft 1 her pretty monster as the very pink of perfec- tion. Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I'm nut sur- prised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. Miss Nev. A. fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to oe too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son ; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. Miss 'Nev. It is a good-natured creature at bottom ; and I'm sure would wish to see me married to any body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Aliens ! Courage is neces- sary, as our affairs are critical. Miss Hard. ' Would it were bed-time, arid all were well.' Exeuxt. Scene An Alehouse Room. Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco. Tony at the head of the table, a little hiylier than the rest, a mallet in his hand. Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! First Fel Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'Squire is going to knock himseli down for a song. Omnes. Ay, a song ! a song ! Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning \ Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, (Jive- tr,-)iu!. O, he takes after his own father for that To be sure old Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or heating n thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the hest horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county. Tony. Ecod ! and when I'm of age, I'll he no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter ? Enler Landlord, Land. There be two gentlemen in a post- chaise, at the door. They have lost their way upon the forest ; and they are talking some- thing about Mr Hardcastle. Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must j be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? Land. I believe they may. They look j woundily like Frenchmen. Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landlord.') Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a mo- ment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt Mob. Tony, (alone.) Father-in-law has been call- ing me whelp and hound this half-year. Now if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian ! But then I'm afraid j afraid of what ? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me out of that if he can. Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. Mar, What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unac- countable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. Mar. I own, Hastings,. I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an unman- nerly answer. Hast. At present, however, we are not like- ly to receive any answer. Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been inquiring for one Mr Hard- castle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in ? Hast. Not in the least, Sir, but should thank you for information. Tony. Nor the way you came ? Hast. No, Sir; but if you can inform us Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that you have lost your way, Mar. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence you came ? Mar. That's not necessary toward directing us where we are to go. Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, isnotthis same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daugh- ter, and a pretty son ? Hast. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family you mention. Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trol- lopping, talkative maypole the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that every body ia fond of? Mar. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. Tony. He-he-hem ! Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. Hast. Unfortunate ! Tony. It's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the \vay to Mr Hardcastle's ! ( Winking upon the Landlord.) Mr Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh ; you understand me ? Land. Master Hardcastle's ! lack-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane. Mar. Cross down Squash Lane ! Land. Then your were to keep straight for- ward, till you came to four roads. Mar. Come to where four roads meet ? Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them. Mar. O, Sir, you're facetious. Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull "Common : there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right; and then to the left, and then to the right-about again, till you find out the old mill. Mar. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! Hast. What's to be done, Marlow ? Mar. This house promises but a poor'recep tion ; though perhaps the landlord can accom- modate us. Land. Alack, master ! we have but one spare bed in the whole house. Tony. Arid, to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. (After a pause, in tv/tich the rest seem disconcerted.) I have it. Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with three chairs and a bolster? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 151 tiast. I hate sleeping by the hre-side. Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. Tony. You do, do you ? then, let me see what if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head, on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county? Hast. O ho ! so we have escaped an adven- ture for this night, however. Land. (Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't send- ing them to your father's as an inn, he you ? Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. ( To them.} You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large eld house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard and call stoutly about you. Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The ser- vants can'c miss the way? Tony. No, no ; but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave oflfbusiness ; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; and, ecod ! if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. Land, A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but he keeps as good wines and beds as any man in the whole country. Mar. Well, if be supplies us with these, we ehall want no farther connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say ? Tony. No, no ; straight forward, I'll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. ( To the Landlord.) Mum ! Land. Ah bless ! your heart, for a sweet, pleasant damn'd mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. ACT SECOND. BCEXE AN OLD-FASHIOXED HOUSE. Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward Servants. Hard. WELL, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can sh6w that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. Omnes. Ay, ay. Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. Omne*. No, no. Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side- cable ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place you. self behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands [ irom your pockets, Roger ; and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill Hard. You must not be so talkative, Dig- gory. You must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talk- ing -, you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's per- fectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod ! he's always wish- ing for a mouthful himself. Hard. Blockhead ! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the par- lour ? Stay your stomach with that reflection. Dig. Ecod ! I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. Dig. Then ecod ! your worship must not tell the story of old grouse in the gun-room : I can't help laughing at that he ! he ! he ! for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years ha ! ha ! ha ! Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? A glass of wine, Sir, if you please, (To Diggory ) Eh, why don't you move ? Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables arid drinkables brought upon the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. Hard. What, will nobody move ? First Serv. I'm not to leave this place. Second Serv. I'm sure it's no place of mine. Third Serv. Nor mine, for sartain. Dig. Wauns ! and I'm sure it canna be mine. Hard. You numskulls l . and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you dunces ! I find I must begin all over again But don't I hear a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go in the mean- time and give my old friend's son a hearty re- ception at the gate. [Exit Hardcastle, Dig. By the elevens! my place is gone quite out of my head. Roger. I know that my place is to be every where. First Serv. Where the devil is mine ? Second Serv. My place is to be nowhere at all j and so I'ze go about my business. Exeunt Servants, running about, as ij frighted, different way* 152 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Enter Servant with candles, showing in Marlow and Hastings. Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This way. Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the com- forts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house ; antique, but creditable. Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good house- keeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble chi:rmey- piece, though not actually put in the bill, in- flame a reckoning confoundedly. Mar. Travellers, George, must pay in all places ; the only/iifference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. Hast. You have lived pretty much among them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your natural good se?ise, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a re- quisite sh.-ire of assurance, Mar. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George, where could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chief- ly teach men confidence. I don't know that I ivas ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman, except my mother. But among females of another class you know Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all conscience. Mar. They are of us, you know. Hast. But in the company of women of re- putation I never saw such an idiot, such a trem- bler ; you look for all the world as if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room. Mar. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of fane eyes has total- ly overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I'll be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them, that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bedmaker Mar. Why, George, I can't say fine things to them ; they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle ; but to me, a modest wo- man, drest out in all her finery, is the most tre- mendous object of the whole creation. Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how caw ^-ou ever expect to marry ? Mar. Never; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never sa\v before, it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, " Madam, will you marry me ?" No, no ; that's a strain much above me, I assure you? Hast. [ pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your father. Ma?: As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low : answer yes or no to all her demands But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my father's again. Hast. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend, can be so cool a lover. Mar. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to be instrumen- tal in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know you ; as my friend you are suixs of a reception, and let honour do the rest. Hast. My dear Marlow ! But I'll suppress the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seek- ing to curry off a fortune, you should be the last in .11 in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. Mar. Happy man ! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward unprepossessing vis- age of mine, can never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. Enter Hardcastle. Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are neart- ily welcome. Which is Mr Marlow ? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty recep. tion in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. Mar. (Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution and hospitality, Sir. (To Hastings.) I have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morn ing. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no cere- mony in this house. Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first blow is half the battle. I intend openir:,.,' the campaign with the white and gold. Hard. Mr. Marlow Mr Hastings- gentle- man pray, be under no restraint in this SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 153 This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here. Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the em- broidery to secure a retreat. Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Mario w, puts me in mind of the Duke of Maryborough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison Mar. Don't you think the venire d'or waist- coat will do with the plain brown ? Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men Mar. The girls like finery. Hard. Which might consist of about live thousand men, well appointed with stores, am- munition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him You must have heard of George Brooks I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So Mar. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime ; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. Hard. Punch, Sir ! (Aside.} This is the yiost unaccountable kind of modesty I ever net with. Mar. Yes, Sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you know. Hard. Here's a cup, Sir. Mar. (Aside.} So this fellow, in his Liberty- hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. Hard. ( Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingre- dients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, Sir ? Here, Mr Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. (Drinks.) Mar. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! but he's a character, and I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. (Drinks.) Hast. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an inn- keeper, before he has learned to be a gentle- man. Mar. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose ? Hard. No, Sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the ex- pedient of electing each other, there is no business " for us that sell ale." Hast. So then you have no turn for politics, I find. Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about- the mistakes ot government, like other people, but finding myself every day grow more angry, arid the government growing 1:0 better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it. Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that' ; certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. Mar. (After drinking.) And you have a:i argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-hall. Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. Mar. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard ot an innkeeper's philosophy ! Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no rea son, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. (Drinks.) Hard. Good, very good, thank you , ha ! ha ! ha ! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear. Mar. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the bouse for supper ? Hard For supper, Sir ! (Aside.) Was ever such a request made to a- man in his own house ! Mar. Yes, Sir, supper, Sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to- night in the larder, I promise you. Hard. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. (To him.) Why really, Sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entiiely to ti:. 111. Mar. You do, do you ? Hard. Entirely. By the bye, I believe t'ney are in actual consultation upon what's for sup- per this moment in the kitchen. Mar. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When I travel I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, Sir ? Har. O no, Sir, none in the least ; yet I don't know how ; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon thesp occasions. Should we send for her, she might tcold us all out of the house. Hast. Let's see your list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favour. I always match my ap- petite to my bill of fare. Mar. ( To Hardcastle, who looks at them with surprise.) Sir, he's very right, and it's rny way too. 154 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper : I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till be had eaten it. Hast. (Aside. ) All upon the high rope ! His uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of peace. But let's hear the bill of fare. Mar. (Pausing.) What's here? For the first course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The devil, Sir, do you think we have brought down the whole joiners' company, or the corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper. Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. Hast. But let's hear it. Mar. (Reading.) For the first course at the top, a pig, and pruin sauce. Hast. Damn your pig, I say. Mar. And damn your pruin sauce, say I. Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry pig with pruin sauce is very good eating. Mar. At the bottom a calf's congueand brains. Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good Sir, I don't like them. Mar. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. (To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there any thing else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? Mar. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff taff taffety cream. Hast. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating. Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I' have no thing you like, but if there be any thing you have a particular fancy to Mar. Why, really Sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and properly taken care of. Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. Mar. Leave that to you! I protest, Sir, you must excuse me, I always look to these things myself. Hard. I must insist, Sir, you'll make your- self easy on that head. Mar. You see I'm resolv'd on it. (Aside. ) A very troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with. Hard. Well, Sir, I'm resolved at least to at- tend you. (Aside.) This may be modern mod- esty, but I never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned impudence. [Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. Hastings. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant to please him? Ha! what do I see? Miss Neville, by all that's happy ! Enter Miss Neville. Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what un- expected good fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting ? Hast. Rather let me ask the same question,- as I could never have hoped to meet my dear- est Constance at an inn. Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, my guardian, lives here. What could in- duce you to think this house an inn ? Hast. My friend, Mr Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us hither. Miss Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ! he of whom I have such just apprehensions? Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to think she has made a conquest. Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws oi marriage are respected. Miss Nev. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeed- ing. The instant they are put into my pos- session, you shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I desire. In the meantime, my friend Mar- low must not be let into his mistake. I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for ex- ecution. Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception ? Miss Hardcastle is just re- turned from walking; what if we still con- tinue to deceive him ? This, this way [ They confer. Enter Marlow. Mar. The assiduities of these good people SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 155 tense me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so fce claps not only himself but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the family. What have we got here? Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me con- gratulate you ! The most fortunate accident! Who do you think is just alighted ? Mar. Cannot guess. Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to intro- duce Miss Constance Neville to your acquain- tance. Happening to dine in the neighbour- hood, they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just slept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky ? eh ! Mar. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and here comes something to complete my embarrassment. Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortu- nate thing in the world ? Mar. Oh ! yes. Very fortunate a most joyful encounter But our dresses, George, you know are in disorder What if we should postpone the happiness till to-morrow ? To- morrow at her own house It will be every bit as convenient and rather more respectful To_rnorrow let it be. [ Offering to yo. Miss Nev. By no means, Sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your im- patience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. Mar. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it? Hem! hem! Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem ! Hast. Pshaw, man ! it's'but the first plunge, and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. Mar. And of all women, she that .1 dread most to encounter. Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. Hast. (Introducing them.} Miss Hard- castle, Mr Mario w. I'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. Miss Hard. (Aside.) Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. (After a pause, in which he appears very uneasy and disconcerted.} I'm glad of your safe arrival, Sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. Mar. Only a few, Madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, Madam, a good many accidents, but should be sorry Madam or rather glad of any accidents that are so agreeably con- cluded. Hem ! Hast. ( To him.) You never spoke better in your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll insure you the victory. Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, Sir. You that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. Mar. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, in- deed, in the world, Madam , but I have kept very little company. I have been but an ob server upon life, Madam, while others were en- joying it. Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. Hast. ( To him) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. Mar. (To him.) Hem ; stand by me, then, and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up again. Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life, were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have had much mere to censure than to approve. Mar. Pardon me, Madam. I was always willing to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than un- easiness. Hast. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr Marlovv are going to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass the inter- view. Mar. Not in the least, Mr Hastings. We like your company of all things. (To him.) Zounds ! George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversa- tion, so we'll retire to the next room. (To him.) You dont consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-d-tete of our own. [Exeunt. Miss Hard. (After a pause.) But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, Sir : the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. Mar. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, Madam, I I I as yet have studied only . to deserve them. Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. Mar. Perhaps so, Madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensi ble part of the sex But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. Miss Hard. Not at all, Sir; there is no- thing I like so much as grave conversation my- self ; I could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. Mar. It's a disease of the mind, Ma- dam. In the variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting a relish for um a um. Miss Hard. I understand you, Sir There M 156 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. must be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are in- capable of tasting. Mar. My meaning, Madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can't help observing Miss Hard. {Aside.) Who could ever sup- pose this fellow impudent upon such occasions ! ( To him.} You were going to observe, Sir Mar. I was observing, Madam I protest, Madam, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Hard. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To him.) You were observing, Sir, that in this age of hypocrisy something about hypocrisy, Sir. Mar. Yes, Madam. In this age of hypo- crisy there are few who upon strict inquiry do a a a Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, Sir. Mar. (Aside. ) Egad ! and that's more than I do myself. Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypo- critical age there are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it. Mar. True, Madam ; those who have most virtue in their mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, Madam. Miss Hard. Not in the least, Sir ; there's something so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force pray, Sir, go on. Mar. Yes, Madam, I was saying that there are some occasions when a total want of courage, Madam, destroys all the and puts us r-upon a a a Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. Mar. Yes, Madam. Morally speaking, Madam But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Hard. I protest, Sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. Mar. Yes, Madam, I was But she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you ? Miss Hard. Well, then, I'll follow. Mar. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. [Exit. Miss Hard. (Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! Was there ever such a sober sentimental interview ? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his un- accountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fear.s, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If 1 could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who is that somebody ? That, faith, is u question I can scarce answer Enter TONY and Miss NEVILLE, followed l>y Mrs HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS. Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con? I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engaging. Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not be to blame. Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a re- lation you want to make me though ; but it won't do. I tell you Cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. \_ShefoUows coquetting him to the back scene. Mrs Hard. Well! I vow, Mr Hastings, you are very entertaining. There is nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as Lon- don, and the fashions, though I was never there myself. Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St James's ; or Tower Wharf. Mrs Hard. O ! Sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; but who can have i\ manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places where the nobility chiefly resort ? All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know every tete-a-tete from the scan- dalous magazine, arid have all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-Lane. Pray, how do you like this head, Mr Hastings ? Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, Madam. Your friseur is a French- man, I suppose ? Mrf> Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the ladies' memorandum- book for the last year. Hast. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house would draw as many gazers as rny Lady Mayoress at a city ball. Mrs Hard. I vow, since innoculation began, there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman, so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape in the crowd. Hast. But that can never be your case. Madam, in any dress. (Bowing.) Mrs Hard. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as Mr Hardcastle : all I can say will never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he WHS bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately with powder. Hast. You are right, Madam ; for, as among the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there are none old. Mrs Hard. But what do you think his an- swer was ? Why, with his usual Gothic viva- city, lie said I only wanted him to throw off SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 157 his wig, to convert it into a tete for my own wearing. Hast. Intolerable '. At your age you may wear what you please, and it must become you. Mrs Hard. Pray, Mr Hastings, what do yon take to be the most fashionable age about town ? Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I'm told the ladies mean to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. Mrs Hard. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the fashion. Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere maker of samplers. Mrs Hard. And yet Mrs Niece thinks her- self as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels as the oldest of us all. Hast. Your niece, is she ? And that young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should pre- sume ? Mrs Hard. My son, Sir. They are contract- ed to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a-day, as if they were man and wife already. ( To them.} Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening ? Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but the stable. Mrs Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear ; he's in another story behind your back. Miss Nev. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He Mis out before faces to be forgiven in private. Tony. That's a damned confounded crack. Mrs Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr Hastings ? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. (Measuring. ) Miss Nev. O lud ! he has almost cracked my head. Mrs Hard. O, the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, and behave so ! Tony. If I'm a man let me have my fortin. Ecod ! I'll not be made a fool of no longer. Mrs Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rocked you in your cra- dle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not I work that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was operating ? Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the Com- plete Housewife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Quincy, next spring. But, ecod ! I'll tell you, I'll no* be made a fool of no longer. Mrs Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper ' Wasn't it all for your good ? Jon//. I wish you would let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come ot itself; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. Mrs Hard. That's false; I never see you when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be de- lighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeel- ing monster ! Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. Mrs Hard. Was ever the like ? But I see he wants to break my heart ; I see he does. Hast. Dear Madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. Mrs Hard. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see, Mr Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutifiil boy ? [Exeunt Mrs Hardcastle and Miss Neville Hastings and Tony. Tony. (Singing.} 'There was a young man riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do didlo dee.' Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour to- gether ; and they said they liked the book the better the more it made them cry. Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentleman ? Tony. That's as I find 'urn. Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. Tony. That's because you don't know her so well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there's not a more bitter cantackerous toad in all Christendom. Hast. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover ! Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's breaking. Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her play-mates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're flung in the ditch. Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little ' beauty. Yes, you must allow her some beauty. Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, mum. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of she. Hast. Well, what say }:ou to a friend thai would take this bitter bargain off your hands.? 158 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Tony. Anon. Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy ? Tony. Ay ; But where is there such a friend, for who would take her ? Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her. Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the last drop of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and may-be get you a part of her fortin beside in jewels that you little dream of. Hast. My dear 'Squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you have done with me. ( Singing.) We are the boys Tliat fear no noise "Where the thundering cannons roar. [Exeunt. ACT THIRD Enter Hardcastle, alone. Hara. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending his son as the mo- destest young man in town ? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous ro know how his. impudence affects my daugh- ter. She will certainly be shocked at it. Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have chang- ed your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, Sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their pro- priety. Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. Miss Hard. You taught me to expect some- thing extraordinary, and I find the original ex- ceeds the description. Hard. 1 was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite confounded all my faculties ! Miss Hard. I never saw any thing like it : and a man of the world too ! Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad what a fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade. Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French dancing.master. Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa 1 A French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look that awkward address- that bashful manner. Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? Miss Hard. Mr Marlow's : his mauvaisc honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight. Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses. Miss Hard. Sure, Sir, you rally I I never saw any one so modest. Hard. And can you be serious ? I never saw such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground. Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lord- ly air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laugh- ed; tired me with apologies for being tire- some ; then left the room with a bow, and " Madam, I would not for the world detain you." Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer ; interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun , and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marl- borough arid Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he shall never have my con- sent. Miss Hard. Arid if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine. Hard. In one thing then we are agreed to reject him. Miss Hard. Yes : But upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming ; if you find him more res- pectful, and I more importunate I don't know the fellow is well enough for a man Cer- tainly we don't meet many such at a horse- race in the country. Hard. If \ve should find him so But that's impossible. The first appearance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in that. Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance. Hard. Ay, wnen a girl finds a fellow's out side to her taste, she then Sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel iigura for every virtue. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 159 Miss Hard. I hope, Sir, a conversation be- gun with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my understanding ? Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr Brazen can find the art of reconciling contr n - dictions, he may please us both, perhaps. Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mis- taken, what if we go to make farther discove- ries ? Hard. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the right. Miss Hard. And depend on't, I'm not much in the wrong. [Exeunt. Enter Tony, running in with a casket. Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother sha'n't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O ! my genus, is that you ? Enter Hasttnys. Hast. My dear friend, how have you man- aged with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cou- sin, and that you are willing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off. Tony. And here's something to bear your charges by the way (giving the casket) your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them. Hast. But how have you procured them from your mother? Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother's bureau, how could I go to the ale- house so often as I do ? An honest man may rob himself of his own at any time. Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very in- stant. If she succeeds, it will be- the most delicate way at least of obtaining them. Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough, she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. Hast. But I dread the effects of her resent- ment, when she finds she has lost them. Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage that. I don't value her resent- ment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morice ! Prance ! [Exit Hastings. Tony, Mrs Hardcastle, and Miss Necille. Mrs Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs. Miss Nev. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, .Madam. Mrs Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thou- sand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my lady Kill-day- light, and Mrs Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back. Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless, would like me best with all my little finery about me ? Mrs Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if with such a pair of eyes you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty? Tony. That's as hereafter may be. Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. Mrs Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table cut things. They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a pup- pet-show. Besides, I believe, I can't readily come at them. They may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. Tony. (Apart to Mrs Hardcastle.^Then why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so long- ing for them ? Tell her they're lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. Mrs Hard. (Apart to Tony.) You know, my dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod. I'll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, Ma- dam. Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. Mrs Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them you should have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know; but we must have patience wherever they are. Miso .Art>. I'll not believe it ; this is but a shallow pretence.to deny me. I know they are too -valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss Mrs Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to be found. Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath on't. Mrs Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear; for though we lost our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. Miss Nev. Ay, people are generaly calm at the misfortunes of others. Mrs Hard. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; and in the meantime you shall make use of my gar- nets till your jewels be found. Miss Nev. I detest garnets. 160 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Mrs Hara. Tne most becoming things in the world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen ho\v well they look upon me : Yon shall have them. [Exit. Miss JVev. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir. Was ever any thing so provoking to mislay my own jewels and force me to wear her trumpery. Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! Ton;/. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. [Exit Miss Neville.] Zounds ! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel. Enter Mrs Hardcastlc. Mrs Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. Tony. What's the matter, what's the mat- ter, mamma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family. Mrs Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I'm undone. Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the laws I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs Hard. Why, boy, I'm ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. I'll bear witness, you know ; call me to bear witness. Mrs Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I'm to say so. Mrs Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs Hard. Was there ever such a block- head, that can't tell the difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby. Tony.. That's right, that's right ; you must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. Mrs Hard. Was there ever such a cross- grained brute, that won't hear me ? Can you bear witness that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs Hard. Bear witness again, you block- head you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as If you enjoyed my distress ? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs Hard. Do you insult me, monster I'll teach you to vex your mother, I will. Tony. I can bear witness to that. (He runs, off, she follows him.') --Enter Miss Hardcastle end Maid. Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn, ha ha ! I don't wonder at his impudence. Maid. But what is more, Madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid ? He mistook you for the bar-maid, Madam. Miss Hard. Did he ? Then as I live I'm resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress ? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux's Stratagem ? Maid. It's the dress, Madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives company. Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person ? Maid. Certain of it. Miss Hard. I vow I thought so ; for though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such that he never once looked up dur- ing the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bon- net would have kept him from seeing me. Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in this mistake ? Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be Been, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall per- haps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of our sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, ex- amine the giant's force before I offer to com- bat. Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person ? Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant Did your honour call ? Attend the Lion there. Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. The Lamb has been outrage- ous this half hour. Maid. It will do, Madam. But he's here. [Exit Maid. Enter Marlow. Mar. What a bawling in every part of the house. I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollections. ( Walks and muses. ) Miss Hard. Did yon call, Sir ? Did your honour call ? SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 101 Mar. (Musing.') As for Miss Hardcastle, the's too grave and sentimental for me. Miss Hard. Did your honour call? (She still places herself before him, he turning away.) Mar. No, child (musing). Besides, from the glimpse 1 had of her, I think she squints. Miss Hard. I'm sure, Sir, I heard the bell ring. Mar. No, no (musing). I have pleased my father, however, by coming down, and I'll to- morrow please myself by returning. ( Taking out his tablets and perusing. J Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, Sir? Mar. I tell you no. Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, Sir. We have such a parcel of servants ! Mar. No, no, I tell you (looks full in her face). Yes, child, I think I did call. I wan- ted I wanted I vow child, you are vastly handsome. Miss Hard. O la, Sir, you'll make one ashamed. Mar. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your a what d'ye call it in the house. Miss Hard. No, Sir, we have been out of that these ten days. Mar. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips j perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor there's no call for in these parts. French I suppose. We keep no French wines here, Sir. Mar. Of true English growth, I assure you. Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years. Mar. Eighteen years ! Why one would think, child, you kept the bar before you was born. How old are you ? Miss Hard. O! Sir, I must not tell my. age. They say women and music should never be dated. Mar. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. ( Approaching. ) Yet nearer I don't think so much. (Approaching.} By coming close to some women, they look younger still ; but when we come very close indeed (Attempting to hiss her.J Miss Hard. Pray, Sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. Mar. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted ? Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquaint- ed with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you do not treat Miss Hard- castle that was here a while ago i-n this obstro- palous manner. I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the is a very merry place, I ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a Justice of Peace. Mar. ( Aside. ) Egad, she has hit it, sure en- ough ! (To her') In awe of her, child? Ha] ha ! ha ! A mere awkward squinting thing ; no, no. I find you don't know me. I laugh- ed and rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me ! Miss Hard. O ! then, Sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies ? Mar. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang m?, I don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in town I'm called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons ; Mr Solomons, my dear, at your service, ( Offering to salute her.J Miss Hard. Hold, Sir, you are introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a favourite there, you say ? Mar. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs Man- trap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buck- skin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. .Miss Hard. Then it is a v< suppose ? Mar. Yes, as merry as card?, supper, wine, and old women can make us. Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ha ! ha ! Mar. ( Aside. ) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? JUM Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have for minding their work or their family. Mar. ( Aside. ) All's well ; she don't laugh at me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child? Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that. Mar. Odso ! then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you must apply to me. ( Seizing her hand.) Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours do not look well by candle-light. You shall see all in the morning. ( Struggling. ) Mar. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires beyond the power of resistance.- Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck : I never nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace three times following. [Exit Marlow. Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. Hard. So, Madam. So I find this is your modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so ! Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest man I first took him for ; you'll be convinced of it as well as L 1G2 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious ! Didn't I see him seize your hand ? Didn't I see him haul you about like a milk-maid? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth ! . Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the rirtues that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him. Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ! I tell you, I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce been three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impu- dence, and call it modesty : but my son-in-law, Madam, must have very different qualifications. Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to con- vince you. Hard. You shall not have halt the time, for I have .thoughts of turning him out this very hour. Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I hope to satisfy you. Hard. Well," an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling>vith your father. All tair and open, do you mind me. Miss Hard. I hope, Sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride ; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt. ACT FOURTH. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Hast. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Mar- low expected here this night ! Where have you had your information ? Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr Hardcastle, in which he tells iiim he intends setting out a few hours after his son. Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He knows me ; and should he find me here, would discover my name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family. . Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe? Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Mar- low, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the meantime I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and if I should not see him again, will write him farther direc- tions. [Exit. Miss Nev. Well ! success attend you. In the meantime I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cou- sin. [Exit. Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. Mar. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a thing us a casket to keep for him, when he knows the oiiK place I have is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you ? Have you put it into her own hands ? Serv. Yes, your honour. Mar. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? Serv. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; she asked me how I came by it ? and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of myself. [Exit Servant. Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. What an unaccountable set of beings have we got amongst ! This little bar-maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mis- taken. Enter Hastings. Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that; I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too ! Mar. Give me joy, George! Crown me, shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don't want for success among the woman. Hast. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour's modesty been crown- ed with now, that it grows so insolent ivnon us? Mar. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, little thing, that runs about the house! with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? Hast. Well, and what then ? Mar. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them though. Hast. But are you sure, so very sure oi her ? Mar. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and I am to improve the pattern. Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honour ? Mar. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the ho- nour of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, take my word for it; there's no- thing in this house I sha'nt honestly pay for, ^ Hast. I believe the girl has virtue. Mar. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. Hast. You hare taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up? It's in safety ? Mar. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! numskull ! I have take-n bet- ter precautions for you than you did for your- self 1 have Hast. What? Mar. 1 have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 163 Hast. To the landlady . Mar. The landlady. Hast. You did? Mar. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know. Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a wit- ness. Mar. Wasn't I right ? I believe you'll allow that I acted prudently upon this occasion. Hast. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasi- ness. Mar. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nothing has happened? Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily un- dertook the charge. Mar. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but, through her great precau- tion, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! ha! Hast. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however? Mar. As a guinea in a miser's purse. Hast, (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. ( To him. ) Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! be ! he ! may you be as successful for yourself, as you have been for me ! [Exit. Mar. Thank ye, George : I ask no more. Ha! ha! ha! Enter Hardcastk. Hard. I no longer 1 know my own house. It's turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no longer ; and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To him.) Mr Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. (Bowing low.} Mar. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) What's to be the wonder now ? Hard. I believe, Sir, you must be sensible, Sir, that no man alive ought to be more wel- come than your father's son, Sir. I hope you think so ? Mar. I do from my soul, Sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, Sir. .But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of vour servants is insufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad ex- ample in this house, I assure you. Mar. I protest, my very good Sir, that is no fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. ( To the side-scene.) Here, let one of my ser- vants come up. ( To him) My positive direc- tions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiences below. Hard. Then they had your orders for what they do? I'm satisfied ! Mar. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. Enter Servant, drunk. Mar. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought tit, for the good of the house ? Hard. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience- Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever! Though I'm but a ser- vant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, Sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup upon my conscience, Sir. Mar. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in a beer-barrel. Hard. Zounds ! he'll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer. Mr Marlow, Sir ; I have submitted to your insolence fof more than four hours, arid I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, Sir, arid I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave mv bouse di- rectly. mar* Leave your house! Sure you jest, my g(;od friend ! What ! when I'm doing what I can to please you. Hard. I tell you, Sir, you don't please me j so I desire you'll leave my house. Mar. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time o' night, and such a night? You only moan to banter me. Hard. I tell you, Sir, I'm serious ! and now that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, S : r ; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly. Mar. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. (In a seri- ous tone.) This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is my house. Mine while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me leave this house, Sir ? I never met with such impudence, curse me ; never in my whole life before Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to in- sult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, " This house is mine, Sir." By all that's impudent it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, Sir, (banter iny) as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire- screen, and here's a pair of brazen -nosed bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them. Mar. Bring me your bill, Sir ; bring me your bill, and let's make no more words about it. Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the Rake's Progress, for yotu own apartment ? Mar. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'l leave you and your infernal house directly. 1G4 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Hard. Then there's a mahogany table that you may see your own face in. Mar. My bill, I say. Hard. I had forgot the great chair for your own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. Mar. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no more on't. Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well -bred modest man as a visitor here,' but now I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. [Exit. Mar. How's this I Sure I have not mis- taken the house. Every thing looks like an inn; the servants cry Coming; the attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she's here, arid will farther inform me. Whither so fast, child? A word with you. Enter Miss Hardcastls. Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. (Aside.) I believe he begins to find out his mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive him. Mar. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may your business in this house be ? Miss Hard. A relation of the family, Sir. Mar. What, a poor relation ? Miss Hard. Yes, Sir, a poor relation, ap- pointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them. Mar. That is, you act as bar-maid of this inn. Miss Hard. Inn ! O la what brought that in your head ? One of the best families in the county keep an inn Ha! ha ! ha ! old Mr Hardcastle's house an inn ! Mar. Mr Hardcastle's house. Is this Mr Hardcastle's house, child ' Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be? Mar. So then, all's out, and I have been dam- nably imposed on. O, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all others for an inn, arid my father's old friend for an innkeeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take me for? What a silly puppy do I find myself? There, again, may I be hang'd, my dear, but I mis- took you for the bar-maid. Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure there's nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. Mar. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw every, thing the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simpli- city for allurement. But it's over This house I no more show my face in. Miss Hard. I hope, Sir, I have done no- thing to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who Lis been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account. I'm sure I should be sorry people said any thing amiss, since I have DO fortune but my char- acter. Mar. (Aside.) By Heaven! she weeps. This is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. ( To her.) Excuse me, my lovely girl : yoa are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, makes an hon- ourable connexion impossible ; and I can never I harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was being too lovely. Miss Hard. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now begin to admire him. ( To him') But I am sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's, and though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind ; and, until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune. Mar And why now, my pretty simplicity ? Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a dis- tance from one, that if I had a thousand.pounds, I would give it all to. Mar. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. ( To her. ) Your partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I to live for my- self alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a father ; so that I can scarcely speak it it affects me, Fare- well. [Exit. Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the char- acter in which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who perhaps may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. Enter Tony and Miss Neville. Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. ' I "have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a mistake of the ser- vants. Mis* Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pe- digree's, which is ten times worse. Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad things. But what can I do? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like whistle-jacket ; and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or twc more, for fear she should suspect us. ( J7/ey retire and seem to fondle.) SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 165 Enter Mrs. llardcastle. ; Hard. "Well, I was greatly flattered, to be sure. But ray son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I sha'irt be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then lot her keep her o\vn fortune. But what do I see ? fondling together, as I'm alive. J never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty doves ? What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken mur- murs ? Ah ! Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grum- ble a little now and then to be sure. But there's no love lost between us. Mrs Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn brighter. Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at home. Indeed, he sha'n't leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it? Tony. O ! it's a pretty creature. Ko, I'd sooner leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becoming. Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that natural humour, that plea- sant, broad, red, thoughtless, (patting his check} ah ! it's a bold face. Mrs Hard. Pretty innocence ! Tony. I'm sure I always^loved cousin Con's hazle eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the haspicolls, like a parcel of bobbins. Mrs Hard. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear ? You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr Drowsy 's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. Enter Diggory. Dig. Where's the 'Squire ? I have got a let- ter for your worship. Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. Dig. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. Tony. Who does it come fron\? Dig. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself. Tuny. I could wish to know though (turning the letter and gazing en it}. Miss Nev. (Aside.) Undone ! undone ! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. ( To Mrs Hardcastle.) But I have riot told you, Madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr Marlow. We so laughed You must know, Madam This way a little, for he must not hear us. ( They confer.) Tony. (Still gazing.} A damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here there are such handles, and shanks, and lashes, that one can scarce know the head rom the tail. " To Anthony Lumpkin, ;squire. : " It's very odd I can read the out- side of my letters, where jny own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it's all buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the nside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. Mrs Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the hilosopher. Miss Nev. Yes, Madam ; but you must hear the rest, Madam. A little more this way, or ie may hear us. You'll hear how he puzvled him again. Mrs Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks, Tony. (Still gazing.} A damned up and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. (Reading.} Dear Sir. Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell. Mrs Hard. What's that, my dear? can I give you any assistance ? Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. N.o- body reads a cramp hand better than I ( Twitching the letter from him.} Do you know who it is from ? Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger the feeder. Miss Nev. Ay, so it is, (pretending to read.} Dear 'Squire, hoping that you're in health, as I ;.m at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentleman of the Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds um odd battle um long fighting urn here, here, it's all. about cocks and righting ; it's of no consequence, here, put it up, put it up. ( Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.} Tony. But I tell you, Miss, it's of all the consequence in the world. I would not losre the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence ! ( Giving Mrs Hardcastle the letter. ) Mrs Hard. How's this! (reads) "Dear 'Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of Despatch is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant me patience : I shall run distracted ! My rage chokes me. Miss Nev. I hope, Madam, you'll suspend your resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to another. Mrs Hard. (Courtesy in ij very low.) Fine spoken. Madam ; you are most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink 166 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. of courtesy and circumspection. Madam. ( Changing her tone.') And you, you great ill- fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut : Were you, too, joined against me ? But I'll defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, Madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would | be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, I instead of running away with your spark, pre- pare, this very moment, to run off with me. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll warrant me. You too, Sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! I'll show you, that I wish you better than you do yourselves. [Exit. Miss Nev. So now I'm completely ruined. Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. Miss Nev. What better could be expected from being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I made him ? Tony. By the laws, Miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you could never be making believe. Enter Hastings. Hast. So, Sir I find by myiservant, that you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman ? Tony. Here's another. Ask Miss there, who betrayed you ? Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. Enter Marlow. Mar. So I have been finely used here among you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam broke loose presently. Miss Nev. And there, Sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every obligation. Mar. What can I say to him ? a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protec- tion. Hast. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction. Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself merry with all our em- barrassments. Hast. An insensible cub. Mar. Replete with tricks and mischief. Tony. Baw ! dam'me, but I'll fight you both one after the other with baskets. Mar. As for him- he's below resentment. But your conduct, Mr Hastings, requires an explanation : You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive me. Hast. Tortured as I am with my own dis- appointments, is this a time for explanations ? Jt is not friendly, Mr Marlow. Mar. But, Sir Jtfiss Nev. Mr Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it was to late too undeceive you. Enter Servant. Serv. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, Madam. The horses are put- ting to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We are to go thirty miles before morn- ing. [Exit Servant. Miss Nev. Well, well, I'll come presently. Mar. (To Hastings.') Was it well done, Sir, to assist in rendering me ridiculous? To hang me out for the scorn of: all my acquaintance ? . Depend upon it, Sir, I shall expect an explana- tion. Hast. Was it well done, Sir, if you're upon that subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care of another, Sir ? Miss Nev. Mr Hastings, Mr Marlow. Why will you increase my distress by this groundless dispute? I implore, I entreat Enter Servant. Serv. Your cloak, Madam. My mistress is impatient. [Exit Servant Miss Nev. I come. Pray be pacified. II j I leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. Enter Servant. Sev. Your fan, muff, and gloves, Madam. The horses are waiting. [Exit Servant. Miss Nev. O, Mr Marlow, if you knew what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I am sure it would convert your re- sentment into pity. Mar. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas- sions, that I don't know what I. do. Forgive me, Madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and should not exasper- ate it. Hast. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years, will but increase the happiness of our future connexion. If Mrs Hard. (Within.) Miss Neville. Con- stance, why Constance, I say. Miss Nev. I'm coming. Well, constancy, remember, constancy is the word. [Exit. Hast. My heart ! how can I support this ? To be so near happiness, and such happiness { Mar. ( To Tony. ) You see now, young geii- leman, the effects of your folly. What might be amusement to you is here disappointment, and even distress. Tony. (From a reverie.') Ecod ! I have hit it j it's here. Your hands. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. My boots there, ho ! Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden ; SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. JG? and if you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more gooti-natured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! [Exeunt. ACT FIFTH. Hastings and Servant. Hast. You sa\v the old iady and Miss Ne- ville drive off, you say ? Serv. Yes, your honour. They went off in a post-coach, and the young 'Squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by this time. Hast. Then all my hopes are over. Strv. Yes, Sir. Old Sir Charles is ar- rived. He and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr Marlovv's mistake this half hour. They are coming this way. Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. [Exit. Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle* Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone u which he sent forth his sublime commands. Sir Char. And the reserve wir.h which I suppose he treated all your advances. Hard. And yet he might have seen some- thing in me above a common innkeeper, too. Sir Char. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal trindships hereditary ; and though my daughter's fortune is but small - Sir Char. Why, Dick, will you talk of for- tune to me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his hap- piness and increase it. If they like each other, as you say they do - Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as good as told me so. Sir Char. But girls are apt to Hatter them- selves you know. Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant him. Enter Hfurlow. Mar. I come, Sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion. Hard. Tut, boy, a trine. You take it too gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never like you the worse for it. Mar. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. Hard. Approbation is buc a cold word, Mr Marlow; if I am not deceived, you have some thing more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ? Mar. Really, Sir, I have not that happiness. Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between you ; but mum. Mar. Sure, Sir, nothing has passed between us but the most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on her's. You don't think, Sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest of the family ? Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that not quite impudence though girls like to be played with and rumpled a little too sometimes. But she has told no tales I assure you. Mar. I never gave her the slightest cause. Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father and I will like you the better for it. Mar. May I die, Sir, if I ever Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you; and as I'm sure you like her Mar. Dear Sir I protest, Sir Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you. M ar. But hear me, Sir Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, so Mar. But why won't you hear me ? By all that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hard. castle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. Hard. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond bearing. Sir Char. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations ? Mar. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope you'll exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many mortifica- tions. [Exit. Sir Char. I'm astonished at the air of sin- cerity with which he parted. Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliber- rate intrepidity of his assurance. Sir Char. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her veracity. Enter Miss Hardcastle. Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and without reserve ; has Mr Marlow, made you any professions of love and affection ? Miss Hard. The question is very aorupl, Sir ! But since you require unreserved sin- cerity, I think he has. Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. Sir' Char. And pray, Madam, have you and my son had more than one interview. Miss Hard. Yes, Sir, several. Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. Sir Char. But did he prof ess any attachment? Miss Hard. A lasting one. Sir Char. Did he talk of love ? Miss Hard. Much, Sir. Sir Char. Amazing! And all this formally ? Miss Hard. Formally. Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. Sir Char. And how did he behave, Madam '.' Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do : Said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rap- ture. Sir Char. Now I'm perfectly convinced in- deed. I know his conversation among women to be modest and submissive : This forward, canting, ranting mariner by no means describes him ; and, I am confident, he never sat for the picture. Miss Hard. Then, what, Sir, if I should convince you to your face of my sincerity ? if you and my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in person. Sir Char. Agreed. Arid if I find him what you describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. [Exit* Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I describe I fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt. Scene changes to the back of the Garden. Enter Hastings. Hast. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow ww probably takes a delight in mor- tifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see ? It is he ! and perhaps with news of my Con- stance. Enter Tony booted and spattered. Hast. My honest 'Squire ! I now find you a man of your word. This looks like friend- ship. Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding, by night, by the bye, is curs- edly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. Hast. But how ? where did you leave your fellow-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they boused ? Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half, is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it : Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such varment. Hast. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die with impatience. ! Tony. Left them Why, where should \ leave them but where I found them. Hast. This is a riddle. Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes round the house, and round the house, and. never touches the house? Hast. I'm still astray. Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough within five mires of the place but they can tell the taste of. Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took them in a round, while they supposed them- selves going forward, and so you have at last brought them home again. Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. I then in- troduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath : and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. Hast. But no accident, I hope ? Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'Squire. Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part oi the country, we kiss and be friends. But ii you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hast- en to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of tne young one. [Ex-it Hastings, Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish ! She's got from the pond, and drag, gled up to the waist like a mermaid. Enter Mrs Hardcastle. Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook ! Battered to death ! I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge, has done rny business. Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. Mrs Hard. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way. Where- about do you think we are, Tony ? Tony. By my guess, we should come upon Crack-skull Common, about forty miles from home. Mrs Hard. O lud ! O lud ! The mcst SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1G9 notorious spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on't. Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that kept here are nanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is that a man that's gallop- ing behind us ? No, it's only a tree Don't be afraid. Mrs Hard. The fright will ctrtainly kill me. Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat moving behind the thicket ? Mrs Hard. Oh, death ! Tony. No : it's only a cow. Don't be a- fraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. Mrs Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone. Tony. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one of his night walks. (To her.} Ah! it's a highwayman, with pis- tols as long as my arm. A damn'd ill-looking fellow. Mrs Hard. Good Heaven defend us ! He approaches. Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep close. ( Mrs Hard- castle hides behind a tree in the back Scene. ) Enttr Hardcastle. Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of peo- ple in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did not expect you so soon back. Are yom mother and her charge in safety ? Tony. Very safe, Sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. Mrs Hard. (From behind.) Ah, death! I find there's danger. Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's too much, my youngster. Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. Hem. Mrs Hard. (From behind.} Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm. Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I should be glad to know from whence it came. Tony. It was I, Sir, talking to myself, Sir. I was saying that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have got a sort of cold by be- ing out in the air. We'll go in, if you please. Hem. Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself. I'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising his voice,) to i:nd the other out. Mrs Hard. (From behind.) Oh! he's com- ing to find me out. Oh . Tony What need you go, Sir, if I tell you ? Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth hem I'll tell you all, Sir. (Detaining him.) Hard. I tell you, I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll be- lieve you. Mrs Hard. (Running forward from behind.) O lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon inc. Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman j spare my child, if you have any mercy. Hard. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come ? or what does she mean ? Mrs Hard. (Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr Highwayman. Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? Mrs Hard. Mr Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here in this frightful place, so far from home ? What has "brought you to follow us ? Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits ? So far from home, when you are with- in forty yards of your own door ! ( To him. ) This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you! (To her.) Dor 't you know the gate and the mulberry-tree? and don't you re- member the horse-pond, my dear ? Mrs Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse- pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death ;n it. ( To Tony. ) And is it to you, you grace- Jess varlet, I owe all this ! I'll teach you ro abuse your mother, I will. Tony. Ecod ! mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. Mrs Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the stage. Exit. Hard. There's morality, however, iu his reply. lExit, Enter Hastings and Miss ^Nei'itte. Hast. My dear Constance, why will you de- liberate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity. Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirit; are so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness. Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than in- constancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from t'his very moment. Perish fortune ! Love and content will in- crease what we possess beyoni 1 , a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! Miss Nev. No, Mr Hastings, no. Pru- dence once more comes to my relief, and 1 will obey its dictates. In the moment of pas- sion, fortune may be despised, but it ever pro- duces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to 170 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. apply to Mr Hardcastle's compassion and jus- tice for redress. Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve you. Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. Hast. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. Scene changes. Enter Sir diaries and Miss Hardcastle. Sir Char. What a situation am I in ! If what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation ; and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit de- claration. But he comes. Sir Char. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. {Exit Sir Charles. Enter Marlow. Mar. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave ; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the se- paration. Miss Hard. (Inker own natural manner.} I believe these sufferings cannot be very great, Sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you now think proper to regret. Mar. (Aside.} This girl every moment im- proves upon me. ( To her. ) It must riot be, Madam, 1 have already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and for- tune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight; and nothing can restore me to myself but this pain- ful effort of resolution. Miss Hard. Then go, Sir : I'll urge nothing more to detain you. Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without equal affluence? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the mock- ery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on fortune. Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles, from behind. Sir Char. Here, behind this screen. Hard. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him with confusion at last. Mar. By Heavens! Madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye ; for who could see that without emotion. But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, Heightens the picture, and gives it stronger ex- pression. What at first seemed rustic plain- ness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence, and con- scious virtue. Sir Char. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! Mar. I am now determined to stay, Madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. Miss Hard. No, Mr Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the small- est room for repentance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours ! Mar. By all that's good, I can have no hap- piness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in riot having seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct. Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll de, sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference, I might have given an hour or two to levity ; but seriously, Mr Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear mercenary, and you im- prudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer ? Mar. (Kneeling. ) Does this look like se- curity ? Does this look like confidence ? No, Madam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue Sir Char. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversa- tion ? Hard. Your cold contempt; your formal interview ! What have you to say now ? Mar. That I'm all amazement ! What can it mean ? Mard. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure. That you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public; that you have one story for us and another for my daughter. Mar. Daughter ! This lady your daughter? Hard. Yes, Sir, my only daughter: My Kate ; whose else should she be ? Mar. Oh, the devil ! Miss Hard. Yes, oir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesying) ; she that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gra- vity, and the bold forward agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mar. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it's worse than death ! SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 171 Miss Hard. In which of your characters, Sir, will you give us leave to address you ? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs Mantrap, and old Miso Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning? Ha! ha! ha! Mar. O, curse on my noisy head ! I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down ! I must be gone. Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, Sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [ They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene. Enter Mrs Hardcastle and Tony* Mrs Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not. Hard. Who gone ? Mrs Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentle- man, Mr Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here. Sir. Char. Who, my honest George Hast- ings ? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion. Mrs Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; mat re- mains in this family to console us for her loss. Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so I mercenary? Mrs Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. Hard. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. Mrs Hard. Ay, But he's not of age, and she tas riot thought proper to wait for his refusal. Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. Mrs Hard. (Aside.) What, returned so soon ! I begin not to like it. Hast. ( To Hardcastle.) For my late at- tempt to ny off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty. 7/Tws Nev. Since his death, I have been ob- liged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid op- pression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I'm now recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer connexion. Mrs Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ; this is all but the whining end of a modern novel. Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now offer you ? Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father, Hard. While Ij thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your im- provement, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? Hard. Above three months. Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. ( Taking Miss Neville's hand. ) Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire of BLANK place, re- fuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkiri is his own man again. Sir Char. O brave 'Squire ! Hast. My worthy friend ! Mrs Hard. My undutiful offspring. Mar. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary. I should be the happiest man alive if you would return me the favour. Hast. (To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, Madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. Hard. (Joining their hands.) And I say se too. And, Mr Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe vou'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning : So boy, take her ; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. ^Exeunt omnes. N 172 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. EPILOGUE, ' Bi 13 R GOLDSMITH, SPOKEN BY MRS B U L K L E Y, MISS HARDCASTLE. WELL, having stoop'd to conquer with sun- cess, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer'd him to conquer you , And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, composed to please, " We have our exits and our entrances." The first act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, tc I hopes as how to give you satisfaction." Her second act displays a livelier scene The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, Ev'n common-council-men forget to eat. The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher ; Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro, And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro : Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheap- side : Ogles and leers with artificial skill, Tilt, having lost in age the power to kili, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives the eventful history The fifth and last act still remains for me. The bar-maid now for your protection prays, Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. EPILOGUE,* TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMPKIN. BY J. CRADOCK, ESQ. WELL now all's ended and my comrades gone, Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son ? A hopeful blade ! in town I'll fix my station, And try to make a bluster in the nation : As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her, Off in a crack I'll carry big Bet Bouncer Why should not I in the great world appear? I soon shall have a thousand pounds a- year ! No matter what a man may here inherit, In London 'gad, they've some regard to spirit, I see the horses prancing up the streets, And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes every night . Not to the plays they say it a'n't polite ; To Sadler's Wells, per haps,, or operas go, And once by chance to the roratorio. Thus here and there, for ever up and down, We'll set the fashions too to half the town And then at auctions money ne'er regard, Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a-yard . Zounds, we shall make these London gentry say, We know what's damn'd genteel as well KS they. fc.This came too late to ba spoken. LETTERS CITIZEN OF THE WORLD FRIENDS IN THE EAST. THE EDITOR'S PREFACE. THE schoolmen had formerly a very exact way of computing the abilities of their saints or authors. Escobar, for instance, was said to have learning as five, genius as four, and gravity as seven. Caramuel was greater than be. His learning was as eight, his genius as six, and his gravity as thirteen. Were I to estimate the merits of our Chinese Philoso- pher by the same scale, I would not hesitate to state his genius still higher ; but as to his learning and gravity, these I think might safely be marked as nine hundred and ninety-nine, within one degree of absolute frigidity. Yet, upon his first appearance here, many were angry not to rind him as ignorant as a Tripoline ambassador, or an envoy from Mujac. They were surprised to find a man born so far j from London, that school of prudence and wisdom, endued even with a moderate capacity. They expressed the same surprise at his knowledge, that the Chinese do at ours. " How comes it," said they, " that the Euro- peans, so remote from China, think with so much justice and precision ? They have never read our books, they scarcely know even our letters, and yet they talk and reason just as we do."* The truth is, the Chinese and we are pretty much iilike. Different degrees of refine- ment, and not of distance, mark the distinc- tions among mankind. Savages of the most opposite climates have all but one character of improvidence and rapacity ; and tutored na- tions, however separate, make use of the very same methods to procure refined enjoyment. The distinctions of polite nations are few ; but such as are peculiar to the Chinese, ap- pear in every page of the following correspon- dence. The metaphors and allusions are all drawn from the East. Their formality our author carefully preserves. Many of their favourite tenets in morals are illustrated. The Chinese are always concise, so is he. Simple, so is he. The Chinese are grave and senten- tious, so is he. But in one particular the re- semblance is peculiarly striking : the Chinese are often dull, and so is he. Nor has my as- sistance been wanting. We are told in an old romance, of a certain knight-errant and bis *LeComte, vol. i. p. 210, horse who contracted an intimate friendship. | The horse most usually bore the knight ; but i in cases of extraordinary despatch, the knight ! returned the favour, and carried his horse. j Thus, in the intimacy between my author and me, he has usually given me a lift of his eastern sublimity, and I have sometimes given him a return of my colloquial ease. Yet it appears strange in this season of panegyric, when scarcely an author passes un- praised, either by his friends or himself, that such merit as our Philosopher's should be for- gotten. While the epithets of ingenious, copious, elaborate and refined, are lavished among the mob, like medals at a coronation, the lucky prizes fall on every side, but not one on him. I could, on this occasion, make my- self melancholy, by considering the capricious- ness of public taste, or the mutability of for- tune : but, during this fit of morality, lest my reader should sleep, I'll take a nap myself, and when I awake, tell him my dream. I imagined the Thames was frozen over, and I stood by its side. Several booths were j erected upon the ice, and I was told by one of ! the spectators, that FASHION FAIR was going to begin. He added, that every author who would carry his works there, might probably find a very good reception. I was resolved however to observe the humours of the place j in safety from the shore; sensible that ice was | at best precarious, and having been always a little cowardly in my sleep. Several of my acquaintance seemed much more hardy than I, and went over the ice with intrepidity. Some carried their works to the fair on sledges, some on carts, and those which . were more voluminous, were conveyed in wag- | gons. Their temerity astonished me. I knew i their cargoes were heavy, and expected every moment they would have gone to the bottom. They all entered the fair, however, in safety, and each soon after returned to my great sur- prise, highly satisfied with his entertainment, and the bargains he had brought away. The success of such numbers at last began to operate upon me. If these, cried I, meet with favour and safety, some luck may, per- haps, for once, attend the unfortunate. I arn resolved to make a new adventure. The fur- niture, frippery, and fire-works of China, have ire PKEFACE. long been fashionably bought up. I'll try the fair with a small cargo of Chinese morality. If the Chinese have contributed to vitiate our taste, I'll try how far they can help to improve our understanding. But as others have driven into the markets in waggons, I'll cautiously begin by venturing with a wheelbarrow. Thus resolved, I baled up my goods, and fairly ven- tured ; when upon just entering the fair, I fancied the ice that had supported a hundred waggons before, cracked under me, and wheel- barrow and all went to the bottom. Upon awaking from my reverie with the fright, I cannot help wishing that the pains taken in giving this correspondence an English dress, had been employed in contriving new political systems, or new plots for farces. I might then have taken my station in the world, either as a poet or a philosopher, and iwtfe one in those little societies where men club to raise each other's reputation. But at present I be- long to no particular class. I resemble one of those animals that has been forced from its forest to gratify human curiosity. My earliest wish was to escape unheeded through life ; but I have been set up for halfpence, to fret and scamper at the end of my chain. Though none are injured by my rage, 1 am naturally too savage to court any friends by fawning ; too obstinate to be taught new tricks ; and too improvident to mind what may happen. I am appeased, though not contented. Too indo- lent for intrigue, and too timid to push for favour, I am But what signifies what I am. Fortune and Hope, adieu ! I see my Port: Too long your dune ; be others utw your spor>. LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE EAST. TO MR LETTER I. MERCHANT IN' I.OXDO.V. Sm, Amsterdam. Youus of the loth instant, covering two ; bills, one on Mossrs R. and D, value L.478 j 10s, and the other on Mr ****, value L.285, ' duly came to hand, the former of which met with honour, but the other has been trifled with, and I am afraid will be returned protested. The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him be yours. He is a native of Honan in China, and one who did me signal services, when he was a Mandarine, and I a factor at Can- ton. By frequently conversing with the Eng- lish there, he has learned their language, though he is entirely a stranger to their manners and customs. I am told he is a philosopher ; I am sure he is an honest man : that to you will be his best recommendation, next to the consideration of his being the friend of, Sir, Yours, &c. LETTER II. FROM LIEN CHI AT.TANGI, TO *** MERCHANT IN AMSTERDAM. FRIEXD OF MY HEART, London. MAY the wings of peace real upon thy dwell- ing, and the shield of conscience preserve thee from rice and miser// I For all thy favours ac- cept my gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor philosophic wanderer can return. Sure, fortune is resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power of testifying their friendship by actions, and leaves me only words to express the sincerity of mine. I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which you endeavour to lessen your own merit and my obligations. By calling your late in- stances of friendship only a return for former favours, you would induce me to impute tc your justice, what I owe to your generosity. The services I did you at Canton, justice, humanity, and my office, bade me perform j those you have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam, no laws obliged you to, no justice required, even half your favours would have been greater than my most sanguineexpectations. The sum of money, therefore, which you pri- vately conveyed into my baggage, when I was leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar ; you consequently love money better than I. You can find pleasure in superfluity ; I am perfectly content with what is sufficient. Take therefore what is yours, it may give you some pleasure, even though you have no occa- sion to use it ; my happiness it cannot improve, for I have already all that I want. My pasage by sea from Rotterdam to Eng- land, was more painful 10 me than all the journeys I ever made on land. I have traversed the immeasurable wilds of Mogul Tartary; felt all the rigours of Siberian skies : I have had my repose a hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and have seen, with- out shrinking, the desert sands rise like a trou bled ocean all around me : against these ca- lamities I was armed with resolution ; but in my passage to England, though nothing occur- red that gave the mariners' any uneasiness, to one who was never at sea before, all was a sub- ject of astonishment and terror. To find the land disappear, to see our ship mount the waves, swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling through the cordage, to feel a sickness which depresses even the spirits of the brave ; these were unexpected distresses, and consequently assaulted me, un- prepared to receive them. You men of Europe think nothing of a voy- age by sea. With us of China, a man who has been from sight of land is regarded upon his return with admiration. I have known some provinces where there is not even a name for 178 CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. the Ocean. What a strange people, therefore, am I got amongst, who have founded an em- pire on this unstable element, who build cities upon billows that rise higher than the moun- tains of Tipertala, and make the deep more formidable than the wildest tempest ! Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives for seeing England. These induced me to undertake a journey of seven hundred painful days, in order to examine its opulence, buildings, sciences, arts, and manufac- tures, on the spot. Judge then my disappoint- ment on entering London, to see no signs of that opulence so much talked of abroad ; wherever I turn, I am presented with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the inhabitants ; none of that beautiful gilding which makes a principal ornament in Chinese architecture. The streets of Nankin are some- times^strewed with gold leaf; very different are those of London : in the midst of their pave- ments, a great lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy laden machines, with wheels of unwieldy thickness, crowd up every passage ; so that a stranger, instead of finding time for observa- tion, is often happy if he has time to escape, from being crushed to pieces. The houses borrow very few ornaments from architecture ; their chief decoration seems to be a paltry piece of painting hung out at their doors or windows, at once a proof of their in- digence and vanity : their vanity, in each having one of those pictures exposed to public view ; and their indigence, in being unable to get them better painted. In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also deplorable. Could you believe it ? I have seen five black lions and three blue boars, in less than the circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that animals of these colours are no where to be found except in the wild imaginations of Europe. From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am induced to conclude that the nation is ac- tually poor ; and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid figure everywhere but at home. The proverb of Xixofou is, that a man's riches may be seen in his eyes : if we judge of the English by this rule, there is not a poorer nation under the sun. I have been here but two days, so will not be hasty in my decision. Such letters as I shall write to Fipsihi in Moscow, I beg you'll endea- vour to forward with all diligence ; I shall send them open, in order that you may take copies or translations, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and Chinese language. Dear friend, think of my absence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even while I write, I lament our Reparation. Farewell. LETTER III. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO THE CARE O* FIPSIHI, RESIDENT IN MOSCOW, TO BE FOR- WARDED BY THE RUSSIAN OARAVAN TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT f/K THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. THINK not, O thou guide of my youth ! that absence can impair my respect, or interposing trackless deserts blot your reverend figure from my memory. The farther I travel I feel the pain of separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind me to my native country and you, are still unbroken. By every remove, I only drag a greater length of chain.* Could I find ought worth transmitting from so remote a region as this to which I have wandered, I should gladly send it ; but, instead of this you must be content with a renewal ot my former professions, and an imperfect ac- count of a people with whom I am as yet but superficially acquainted. The remarks of a man who has been but three days in the coun- try, can only be those obvious circumstances which force themselves upon the imagination. I consider myself here as a newly created be- ing introduced into a new world ; every object strikes with wonder and surprise. The im- agination, still unsated, seems the only active principle of the mind. The most trifling oc- currences give pleasure till the gloss of novelty is worn away. When I have ceased to won- der, I may possibly grow wise ; I may then call the reasoning principle to my aid, and com- pare those objects with each other, which \\ers before examined without reflection. Behold me then in London, gazing at the strangers, and they at me. It seems they find somewhat absurd in my figure ; and had I nevei been from home, it is possible I might find an infinite fund of ridicule in theirs ; but by long travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alone, and to find nothing truly ridiculous but villany and vice. When I had just quitted my native country, and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every deviation from the customs and manners of China was a departing from nature. I smiled at the blue lips and red foreheads of the Ton- guese ; and could hardly contain when I saw the Daures dress their heads with horns. The Ostiacs powdered with red earth , and the Calmuck beauties, tricked out in all the finery of sheep-skin, appeared highly ridiculous : But I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in them but in me ; that I falsely condemned others for absurdity, because they happened to differ from a standard originally founded in prejudice or partiality. * We find a repetition of this beautiful and affecting image in the Traveller : " And drags at each remove lengthening chain." CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 179 I find no pleasure therefore in taxing the English with departing from nature in their external appearance, which is all I yet know of their character : it is possible they only endea- vour to improve her simple plan, since every extravagance in dress proceeds from a desire of becoming more beautiful than nature made us ; and this is so harmless a vanity, that I not only pardon but approve it. A desire to be more excellent than others, is what actually makes us so ; and as thousands find a liveli- hood in society by such appetites, none but the ignorant inveigh against them. You are not insensible, most reverend Fum Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, tooth-stainers, eyebiow pluckers, would all want bread, should their neighbours want vanity. These vanities, however, employ much fewer hands in China than in England ; and a fine gentleman or a line lady here, dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to have a single limb that does not suffer some distortions from art. To make a fine gentleman, several trades are required, but chiefly a barber. You have undoubtedly heard of the Jewish champion, whose strength lay in his hair. One would think that the English were for placing all wisdom there. To appear wise, nothing more is re- ijuisite here than for a man to borrow hair from the heads of all his neighbours, and clap it like a bush on his own : the distributors of law and physic stick on such quantities, that it is ulmost impossible, even in ideas, to distinguish between the head and the hair. Those whom I have been now describing affect the gravity of the lion ; those I am going to describe, more resemble the pert vivacity of smaller animals. The barber, who is still mas- ter of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the crown ; and then with a composition of meal and hog's-lard, plasters the whole in such a manner as to make it impossible to distin- guish whether the patient \\ears a cap or a plas- ter ; but, to make the picture more perfectly striking, conceive the tail of some beast, a grey- hound's tail, or a pig's tail, for instance, append- ed to the back of the head, and reaching down to that place where tails in other animals are generally seen to begin ; thus betailed and be- powdered, the man of taste fancies he improves in beauty, dresses up his hard-featured face in smiles, and attempts to look hideously tender. Thus equipped he is qualified to make love, and hopes for success more from the powder on the outside of his head, than the sentiments within. Yet when I consider what sort of a creature the fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay his addresses, it is not strange to find him thus equipped in order to please. She is herself every whit as fond of powder, and tails, and hog's-lard, as he. To speak my secret sen- timents, most reverend Fum, the ladies here are horribly ugly , I can hardly endure the sight of them ; they no way resemble beauties oi China: the Europeans have a quite different idea of beauty from us. When I reflect on the small-footed perfections of an Eastern beauty, how is it possible I should have eyes for a wo- man whose feet are ten inches long ? I shall never forget the beauties of my native city of Nanfevv. How very broad their faces ! how very short their noses ! how very little their eyes ! how very thin their lips ! how very black their teeth ! the sno\v on the tops of Bao is riot fairer than their cheeks ; and their eyebrows as small as the line by the pencil of Quamsi. Here a lady with such perfections would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but English women are entirely different ; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for ; and then they have such masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking ! Yet uncivil as nature has been, they seem resolved to outdo her in unkindness ; they use white powder, blue powder, and black powder, for their hair, and a red powder for the face on some particular occasions. They like to have the face of various co- lours, as among the Tartars of Koreki, frequent- ly sticking on, with spittle, little black patch- es on every part of it, except on the tip of the nose, which I have never seen with a patch. You'll have a better idea of their manner of placing these spots, when I have finished the map of an English face patched up to the fash- ion, which shall shortly be sent to increase your curious collection of paintings, medals, and monsters. But what surprises more than all the rest is what I have just now been credibly informed by one of this country. " Most ladies here,* says he, " have two faces ; one face to sleep in, and another to show in company -. The first is generally reserved for the husband and family at home ; the other put on to please strangers abroad ; the family face is often in- different enough, but the out-door one looks something better ; this is always made at the toilet, where the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in council, and settle the complexion of the day. " I can't ascertain the truth of this remark ; however it is actually certain, that they wear more clothes within doors than without ; ana I have seen a lady who seemed to shudder at a breeze in her own apartment, appear half nak- ed in the streets. Farewell. LETTER IV. TO THE SAME. THE English seem as silent as the Japan- ese, yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon my arrival I attributed that reserve to 180 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. modesty, which I now find has its origin in pride. Condescend to address them first, and you are sure of their acquaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you conciliate their friendship and esteem. They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life without shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ; they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what they cannot bear. An Englishman fears con- tempt more than death ; he often flies to death as a refuge from its pressure ; and dies when he fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. Pride seems the source not only of their na- tional vices, but of their national virtues also. An Englishman is taught to love his king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other mas- ter than the laws which himself has contribut- ed to enact. He despises those nations, who, that one may be free, are all content to be slaves ; who first lift a tyrant into terror, and then shrink under his power as if delegated from Heaven. Liberty is echoed in all their assemblies ; and thousands might be found ready to offer up their lives for the sound, though perhaps not one of all the number un- derstands its meaning. The lowest mechanic, however looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of his country's freedom, and often uses a language that might seem haughty, even in the mouth of the great ein- peror, who traces his ancestry to the moon. A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, I could not avoid stopping, in ordei to listen to a dialogue which I thought might afford me some entertainment. The conver- sation was carried on between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a porter, who had stop- ped to rest his burden, and a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a threatened invasion from France, and each seemed ex- tremely anxious to rescue his country from the impending danger. " For my part," cries the prisoner, " the greatest of my apprehensions is for our freedom : if the French should con- quer, what would become of English liberty? My dear friends, liberty is the Englishman's pre- rogative ; we must preserve that at the expence of our lives; of that the French shall never deprive us ; it is not to be expected that men who are slaves themselves would preserve our freedom should they happen 'to conquer." "Ay, slaves," cries the porter, " they are all slaves, fit only to carry burdens, everyone of them. Before I would stoop to slavery, may this be my poison (and he held the goblet in his hand), may this be my poison but I would sooner list for a soldier.'' The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, with much awe fervently cried out, u It is not so much our liberties as our religion, that would suffer by such a change : ay, our religion, my lads. May the devil sink me into flames (such was the solemnity of his adjuration), if the French should come over, but our religion would be utterly undone." So saying, instead of a libation, he applied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments with a ceremony of the most persevering devotion. In short, every man here pretends to be a politician ; even the fair sex are sometimes found to mix the severity of national altercation with the blandishments of love, and often be- come conquerors, by more weapons of de- struction than their eyes. This universal passion for politics, is gra- tified by daily Gazettes, as with us at China. But as in ours the emperor endeavours to in- struct his people, in theirs the people endea- vour to instruct the administration. You must not, however, imagine, that they who compile these papers have any actual knowledge of the politics, or the government of a state ; they only collect their materials from the oracle of some coffee-house ; which oracle has himself gathered them the night before from a beau at a gaming-table, who has pillaged his knowledge from a great man's porter, who has had his information from the great man's gentleman, who has invented the whole story for his own amusement the night preceding. The English, in general, seem fonder of gaining the esteem than the love of those they converse with. This gives a formality to their amusements ; their gayest conversations hav something too wise for innocent relaxation .- though in company, you are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool, you are seldom lifted 'into rapture by those strokes of vivacity, which give instant, though not permanent plea- sure. What they want, however, in paiety, they make up in politeness. You smile at hear- ing me praise the English for their politeness ; you who have heard very different accounts from the missionaries at Pekin, who have seen such a different behaviour in their merchants and seamen at home. But I must still repeat it, the English seem more polite than any of their neighbours : their great art in this re- spect lies in endeavouring, while they oblige, to lessen the force of the favour. Other coun- tries are fond of obliging a stranger; but seem desirous that he should be sensible of the ob- ligation. The English confer their kindness with an appearence of indifference, and give away benefits with an air as if they despised them. Walking a few days ago between an English and a Frenchman into the suburbs of the city, we were overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. I was unprepared ; but they had each large coats, which defended them from what seemed to be a perfect inundation, The Englishman see- ing me shrink from the weather, accosted me thus : " Pshaw man, what dost shrink at ? here, take this coat ; I don't want it ; I find it no way useful to me ; I had as lief be without it." The Frenchman began to show his polite- ness in turn." My dear friend, " cries he, " why won't you oblige me by making use of my coat { CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. 181 vou see how well it defends me from the rain ; I should not choose to part with it to others, but to such a friend as you I could even part with my skin to do him service." From such minute instances as these, most reverend Fum Hoam, lam sensible your sa- gacity will collect instruction. The volume of nature is the book of knowledge ; and he becomes most wise, who makes the most judi- cious selection. Farewell. LETTER V TO THE BAMi;. I HAVE already informed you of the singu- lar passion of this nation for politics. .An Englishman not satisfied with finding, by his own prosperity, the contending powers of Eu- rope properly balanced, desires also to know the precise value of every weight in either scale. To gratify this curiosity, a leaf of political in- struction is served up every morning with tea : vhen our politician has feasted upon this, he re- pairs to a coffee-house, in order to ruminate up- on what he has read, and increase his collec- tion ; from thence he proceeds to the ordinary, inquires what news, and, treasuring up every acquisition there, hunts about all the evening in quest of more, and carefully adds it to the rest. Thus at night he retires home, full of the important advices of the day : When lo ! awaking next morning, he finds the instruc- tions of yesterday a collection of absurdity or palpable falsehood. This one would think a mortifying repulse in the pursuit of wisdom ; yet our politician, noway discouraged, hunts on, in order to collect fresh materials, and in order to be again disappointed. I have often admired the commercial spirit which prevails over Europe ; have been surprised to see them carry on a traflic with productions that an Asiatic stranger would deem entirely useless. It is a proverb in China, that a European suffers not even his spittle to be lost ; the maxim, how- ever, is not sufficiently strong, since they sell even their lies to great advantage. Every na- tion drives a considerable trade in this commo- dity with their neighbours. An English dealer in this way, for instance, has only to ascend to his workhouse, and ma- nufacture a turbulent speech, averred to be spo- ken in the senate ; or a report supposed to be dropt at court ; a piece of scandal that strikes at a popular mandarine ; or a secret treaty be- tween two neighbouring powers. When fu.ish- ed, these goods are baled up, and consigned to a factor abroad, who sends in return two bat- tles, three sieges, and a shrewd letter filled with Hashes , blanks and stars **** of great importance. Thus you perceive, that a single gazette is the joint manufacture of Europe ;and he who would peruse it with a philosophical eye, might per- ceive in every paragraph something character- istic of the nation to which it belongs. A map j does not exhibit a more distinct view of the j boundaries and situation of every country, than its news does a picture of the genius and the I morals of its inhabitants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy of Italy, the formality of Spain, the cruelty of Portugal, the fears of Austria, the confidence of Prussia, the levity of France, the avarice of Holland, the pride of England, the absurdity of Ireland, and the na- tional partiality of Scotland, are all conspicu- ous in every page. But, perhaps, you may find more satisfaction in a real newspaper, than in my description of one ; I therefore send a specimen, which may serve to exhibit the manner of their being written, and distinguish the characters of the various nations united in its composition. NAPLES. We have lately dug tip here a cu- rious Etruscan monument, broke in two in the raising. The characters are scarce visible j l)ut Lugosi, the learned antiquary, supposes it to have been erected in honour of Picus, a Latin King, as one of the lines may be plainly dis- tinguished to begin with a P. It is hoped this discovery will produce something valuable, as the literati of our twelve academies are deeply engaged in the disquisition. PIA Since Father Fudgi prior of St Gil- bert's has gone to reside at Rome, no miracles have been performed at the shrine of St Gil- bert : the devout begin to grow uneasy, and some begin actually to fear that St Gilbert has forsaken them with the reverend father. LUCCA. The administrators of our serene republic have frequent conferences upon the part they shall take in the present commotions of Europe. Some are for sending a body of their troops, consisting of one company of foot and six horsemen, to make a diversion in favour ot the empress-queen ; others are as strenuous assertors of the Prussian interest : what turn these debates may take, time only can discover. However, certain it is, we shall be able to bring into the field, at the opening of the next; campaign, seventy-five armed men, a comman- der-in-chiei, and two drummers of great expe- rience. SPAIN. Yesterday the new king showed himself to his subjects, and after having stayed half an hour in his balcony, retired to the royal apartment. . The night concluded on this extra- ordinary occasion with illuminations and other demonstrations of joy. The queen is more beautiful than the rising sun, and reckoned one of the first wits in Eu- rope ; she had a glorious opportunity of dis- playing the readiness of her invention and her skill in repartee, lately at court. The Duke of Lerma coming up to her with a low bow and a smile, and presenting a nosegay set with dia- monds, " Madam," cries he, " I am your most obedient humble servant." " Oh, Sir," replies the queen, without any prompter, or the least he- sitation, " I'm very proud of the very great lion- 182 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. our you do me." Upon which she made a low courtesy, and all the courtiers fell a-laughing at the readiness and the smartness of her reply. LISBON. Yesterday we had an auto da fe, at which were burned three young women, ac- cused of heresy, one of them of exquisite beau- ty two Jews, and an old woman, convicted of being a witch; one of the friars who attend- ed this last, reports, that he saw the devil fly out of her at the stake in the shape of a flame of fire. The populace behaved on this occa- sion with great good humour, joy, arid sincere devotion. Our merciful Sovereign has been for some time past recovered of his fright: though so atro- cious an attempt deserved to exterminate half the nation, yet he has been graciously pleased to spare the lives of his subjects, and not above five hundred have been broken -upon the wheel, or otherwise executed upon this horrid occasion. VIENNA. We have received certain advices that a party of twenty thousand Austrians hav- ing attacked a much superior body of Prus- sians, put them all to flight, and took the rest prisoners of war. BERLIN. We have received certain advices that a party of twenty thousand Prussians, hav- ing attacked a much superior body of Austri- ans, put them to flight, arid took a great num- ber of prisoners, with their military chest, can- non, and baggage. Though we have not succeeded this campaign to our wishes, yet, when we think of him who commands us, we rest in security : while we sleep, our king is watchful for our safety. PARIS We shall soon strike a signal blow. We have seventeen flat-bottomed boats at Havre. The people are in excellent spirits, and our ministers make no difficulty in raising the supplies. We are all undone ; the people are discon- tented to the last degree ; the ministers are obliged to have recourse to the most rigorous methods to raise the expenses of the war. Our distresses are great ; but Madam Pom- padour continues to supply our king, who is now growing old, with a fresh lady every night. His health, thank Heaven ! is still pretty well ; nor is he in the least unfit, as was reported, for any kind of royal exercitation. He was so frightened at the affair of Damien, that his phy- sicians were apprehensive lest hi-s reason should suffer ; but that wretch's tortures soon compos- ed the kingly terrors of his breast. ENGLAND. Wanted an usher to an aca- demy. N. B. He must be able to read, dress hair, and must have had the small-pox. DUBLIN. We hear that there is a benevo- lent subscription on foot among the nobility and gentry of this kingdom, who are great pa- trons of merit, in order to assist Black and All Black, in his contest with the Padderen mare. We hear from Germany that Prince Ferdi- nand has gained a complete victory, and taken twelve kettle-drums, five standards, and four waggons of ammunition, prisoners of war. EDINBURGH. We are positive when we cay that Saunders M'Gregor, who was lately ex- ecuted for horse- stealing, is not a Scotchman, but born in Carrickfergus. Farewell. LETTER VI. FUM HO AM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF 1HE CEREMO- NIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN, TO LIEN CHI ALTAN- GI, THE DISCONTENTED WANDERER ; BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. WHETHER sporting on the flowery banks of the river Irtis, or scaling the steepy mountains of Douchenour ; whether traversing the black deserts of Kobi, or giving lessons of politeness to the savage inhabitants of Europe ; in what- ever country, whatever climate, and whatever circumstances, all hail ! May Tien, the Uni- versal Soul, take you under his protection, and inspire you with a superior portion of himself ! How long, my friend, shall an enthusiasm for knowledge continue to obstruct your happi- ness, and tear you from all the connexions that make life pleasing ? How long will you continue to rove from climate to climate, cir- cled by thousands, and yet without a friend, feeling all the inconveniences of a crowd, and all the anxiety of being alone ? I know you reply, that the refined pleasure of growing every day wiser, is a sufficient re- compense for every inconvenience. I know you will talk of the vulgar satisfaction of solicit- j ing happiness from sensual enjoyment only; and probably enlarge upon the exquisite raptures of sentimental bliss. Yet, believe me, friend, you are deceived ; all our pleasures, though seeming, ly never so remote from sense, derive their origin from some one of the senses. The most exquisite demonstration in mathematics, or the most; pleasing disquisition in metaphysics, if it does not ultimately tend to increase some sensual satisfaction, is delightful only to fools, or to men who have by long habit contracted a false idea of pleasure ; and he who separates sensual and sentimental enjoyments, seeking happiness from mind alone, is in fact as wretched as the naked inhabitant of the forest, who places all happiness in the former, regardless of the latter. There are two extremes in this respect: the savage, who swallows down the draught of pleasure without staying to reflect on his hap- piness ; and the sage, who passeth the cup while he reflects on the conveniences of drink- ing. It is with a heart full of sorrow, my dear Altangi, that 1 must inform you, that what the world calls happiness must now be yours no longer. Our great emperor's displeasure at your leaving China, contrary to the rules of our government, and the immemorial custom of the empire, has produced the most terrible effects. Your wife, daughter, and the rest of your family, have been seized by his order, CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 183 and appropriated to his use ; all, except your son, are now the peculiar property of him who possesses all ; him I have hidden from the officers employed for this purpose ; and even at the hazard of my life I have concealed him. life has been to procure wisdom, and the cWet object of that wisdom was to be happy. My attendance on your lectures, my conferences with the missionaries of Europe, and all my subsequent adventures upon quitting China The youth seems obstinately bent on finding j were calculated to increase the sphere of my you out, wherever you are ; he is determined j happiness, not my curiosity. Let European to face every danger that opposes his pursuit. I travellers cross seas and deserts merely to Though yet but fifteen, all his father's virtues and obstinacy sparkle in his eyes, and mark him as one destined to no mediocrity of fortune. You see, my dearest friend, what impru- dence has brought thee to : from opulence, a tender family, surrounding friends, and your master's esteem, it has reduced thee to want, persecution, and, still worse, to our mighty monarch's displeasure. Want of prudence is too frequently the want of virtue ; nor is there on earth a more powerful advocate for vice than poverty. As I shall endeavour to guard thee from the one, so guard thyself from the other ; and still think of me with affection and esteem. Farewell. LETTER VII. FROM LIEN CHI AI.TANGT TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PKKIN, IN CHINA. The Editor thinks proper to acquaint the reader, that the greatest part of the follow- ing letter seems to him to be little more than a rhapsody of sentences borrowed from Confucius, the Chinese philosopher.] A WIFE, a daughter, carried into captivity to expiate my offence ; a son, scarce yet ar- rived at maturity, resolving to encounter every danger in the pious pursuit of one who has undone him these indeed are circum- stances of distress : though my tears were more precious than the gems of Golconda, yet would they fall upon such an occasion. But I submit to the stroke of heaven : I nold the volume of Confucius in my hand, nnd, as I read, grow humble, and patient, and wise. We should feel sorrow, says he, but .lot sink under its oppression. The heart of a wise man should resemble a mirror, which reflects every object without being sullied by any. The wheel of fortune turns incessantly round ; and who can say within himself, I shall to-day be uppermost ? We should hold the immutable mean that lies between insensi- bility and anguish ; cur attempts should not be to extinguish nature, but to repress it ; not to stand unmoved at distress, but endeavour to turn evety disaster to our own advantage. Our greatest glory is, not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. I fancy myself at present, O thou reverend disciple of Tao, more than a match for all that ean happen. The chief business of my measure the height of a mountain, to describe the cataract of a river, or tell the commodities which every country may produce : merchants or geographers, perhaps, may find profit by such discoveries ; but what advantage can accrue to a philosopher from such accounts, who is de- sirous of understanding the human heart, who seeks to know the men of every country, who desires to discover those differences which re- sult from climate, religion, education, prejudice, and partiality. I should think my time very ill bestowed, were the only fruits of my adventures to con- sist in being able to tell, that a tradesman of London lives in a house three times as high as that of our great Emperor ; that the ladies wear longer clothes than the men ; that the priests are dressed in colours which we are taught to detest ; and that their soldiers wear scarlet, which is with us the symbol of peace and innocence. How many travellers are there who confine their relations to such minute and useless particulars ! For one who enters into the genius of those nations with whom he has conversed ; who discloses their morals, their opinions, the ideas which they entertain of religious worship, the intrigues of their ministers, and their skill in sciences; there are twenty who only mention some idle particulars, which can be of no real use to a true philosopher. All their remarks tend neither to make themselves nor others more happy ; they no way contribute to control their passions, to bear adversity, to inspire true virtue, or raise a detestation of vice. Men may be very learned, and yet very mi- serable ; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sublime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good man. I esteem, therefore, the travellei who instructs the heart, but despise him who only indulges the imagination. A man who leaves home to mend himself and others, is a philosopher ; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curi- osity, is only a vagabond. From Zerdusht down to him of Tyana, I honour all those great names who endeavour to unite the world by their travels : such men grew wiser as well as better, the farther they departed from home, and seemed like rivers, whose streams are not I ini occiucu nj^c iivcjBj wuuae BUCHUU are in only increased, but refined, as they travel fro their source. For my own part, my greatest glory is, that travelling has not more steeled my constitution against all the vicissitudes of climate, and all the depressions of fatigue, than it has my mind against the accidents of fortune, or the accesses of despair. Farewell. CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. LETTER VIJL TO THE SAME How insupportable, O thou possessor of heavenly wisdom, would be this separation, this immeasurable distance from my friend, were I not able thus to delineate my heart upon paper, and to send thee daily a map of my mind ' I am every day better reconciled to the people among whom I reside, and begin to fancy, that in time I shall find them more opu- lent, more charitable, and more hospitable, than I at first imagined. I begin to learn somewhat of their manners and customs, and to sec reasons for several deviations which they make from us, from whom all other nations derive their politeness, as well as their original. In spite of taste, in spite of prejudice, I now begin to think their women tolerable. I J can now look on a languishing blue eye with- out disgust, and pardon a set of teeth, even though whiter than ivory. I now begin to fan - cy there is 1:0 universal standard for beauty. The truth is, the manners of the ladies in this city are so very open, and so vastly engaging, that I am inclined to pass over the more glar- ing defects of their persons, since compensat- ed by the more solid, yet latent beauties ot the mind. What though they want black teeth, or are deprived of the allurements of feet no bigger than their thumbs, yet still they have souls, my friend ; such souls ! so free, so press- ing, so hospitable, and so engaging I have received more invitations in the streets of Lon- don from the sex in one night, than I have met with at Pekiri in twelve revolutions of the moon. Every evening, as I return home from my usual solitary excursions, I am met by sev- eral of those well-disposed daughters of hospi- tality, at different times and in different streets, richly dressed, and with minds not less noble than their appearance. You know that nature has indulged me with a person by no means agreeable ; yet are they too gener- ous to object to my homely appearance : they feel no repugnance at my broad face and flat nose ; they perceive me to be a stranger, and that alone is a sufficient recommenda- tion. They even seem to think it their duty to do the honours of the country by every act of compliance in their power. One takes me under the arm, and in a manner forces me along: another catches me round the neck, and desires to partake in this office of hospi- tality ; while a third, kinder still, invites me to refresh my spirits with wine. Wine is in Eng- land reserved only for the rich ; yet here even wine is given away to the stranger ! A few nights ago, one of these generous creatures, dressed all in white, and flaunting like a meteor by my side, forcibly attended me home to my own apartment. She seemed charmed with the elegance of the furniture? and the convenience of my situation acd well indeed she might, for 1 have hired an apartment for not less than two shillings of their money every week. But her civility did not rest here ; for at parting, being de- sirous to know the hour, and perceiving my watch out of order, she kindly took it to be repaired by a relation of her own, which you may imagine will save some expense ; and she assures me, that it will cost her nothing. ] shall have it back in a few days, when mended, and am preparing a proper speech, expressive of my gratitude on the occasion : " Celestial excellence !" I intend to say, " happy J am in having found out, after many painful adven- tures, a land of innocence, and a people of hu- manity : I may rove into other climes, and converse with nations yet unknown, but where shall I meet a soul of such purity as that which resides in thy breast ! Sure thou hast been nurtured by the bill of the Shin Shin, or suck- ed the breasts of the provident Gin Hiung. The melody of thy voice could rob the Chong Fou of her whelps, or inveigle the Boh that j lives in the midst of the waters. Thy servant shall ever retain a sense of thy favours ; and one day boast of thy virtue, sincerity, and truth, among the daughters of China." Adieu. LETTER IX. TO THE SAME. I HAVE been deceived ; She whom I fancied a daughter of paradise, has proved to be one of the infamous disciples of Han ! I have lost a trifle ; I have gained the consolation of having discovered a deceiver. I once more, therefore, relax into my former indifference with regard to the English ladies ; they once more begin to appear disagreeably in my eyes. Thus is my whole time passed in forming conclusions which the next minute's experience may pro- bably destroy ; the present moment becomes a comment on the past, and I improve rather in humility than wisdom. Their laws and religion forbid the English to keep more than one woman; I therefore con- cluded, that prostitutes were banished from society. I was deceived ; every man here keeps as many wives as he can maintain ; the laws are cemented with blood, praised, arid dis- regarded. The very Chinese, whose religion allows him two wives, takes not half the liber- ties of the English in this particular. Their aws may be compared to the books of the Sibyls ; they are held in great veneration, but seldom read, and seldomer understood ; even those who prefend to be their guardians, dis- pute about the meaning of many of them, and confess their ignorance of others. The law, therefore, which commands them to have but one wife, is strictly observed only by those for whom one is more than sufficient, or by such CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 185 as have not money to buy t\vo. As for the rest, they violate it publicly, and some glory in its violation. They seem to think, like the Persians, that they give evident marks of man- hood by increasing the seraglio. A rmndarine, therefore, here generally keeps four wives, .1 gentleman three, and a stage-player two. As for magistrates, the country justices, and squires, they are employed first in debauching young virgins, and then punishing the transgres- sion. From such a picture you will be apt to con- clude, that he who employs four ladies for his amusement, has four times as much constitu- tion to spare as he who is contented with one ; that a mandarine is much cleverer than a gen- tleman, arid a gentleman than a player ; and yet it is quite the reverse : a mandarine is fre- quently supported on spindle shanks, appears emaciated by luxury, and is obliged to have recourse to variety, merely from the weakness, not the vigour of his constitution, the number of his wives being the most equivocal symptom of his virility. Beside the country 'squire, there is also another set of men, whose whole employment consists in corrupting beauty ; these, the silly part of the fair sex call amiable; the more sensible part of them, however, give them the title of abominable. You will probably demand what are the talents of a man thus caressed by the majority of the opposite sex ? what talents, or what beauty is he possessed of superior to the rest of his fellows ? To answer you directly, he has neither talents nor beauty ; but then lie is possessed of impudence and assiduity. With assiduity and impudence, men of all ages, and all figures, may commence admirers. I have even been told of some who made professions of expiring for love, when all the world could perceive they were going to die of old age : and what is more surprising still, such battered beaux are generally most infamously successful. A fellow of this kind employs three hours every morning in dressing his head, by which is understood only his hair. He is a professed admirer, not of any par- ticular lady, but of the whole sex. Ho is to suppose every lady has caught cold every night, which gives him an opportunity of calling to see how she does the next morning. He is upun all occasions to show himself in very great pain for the ladies : if a lady drops even a pin, he is to fly in order to present it. Pie never speaks to a lady without advancing his mouth to her ear, by which he frequently addresses more senses than one. Upon proper occasions he looks excessively tender. This is performed by laying his hand upon his heart, shutting his eyes, and showing his teeth. He is excessively fond of dancing a minuet vnt'i the ladies, by which is only meant walking round the floor eight or ten times with his hut on, affecting great gravity, and sometimes look- ing tenderly on his partner. He never affronts any man himself, and never resents an affront from another. He has an infinite variety of small talk upr:i all occasions, and laughs when he has nothing more to say. Such is the killing creature who prostrates himself to the sex till he has undone them ; all whose submissions are the effects of design, and who to please the ladies almost becomes himself a lady. LETTER X. TO THE SAME. I HAVE hitherto given you no account of my journey from China to Europe ; of my travels through countries, where nature sports in pri- meval rudeness, where she pours forth her won- ders in solitude ; countries, from whence the rigorous climate, the sweeping inundation, the drifted desert, the howling forest, and moun- tains of immeasurable height, banish the hus- bandman and spread extensive desolation ; countries, where the brown Tartar wanders for a precarious subsistence, with a heart that never felt pity, himself more hideous than the wilderness he makes. You will easily conceive the fatigue of cross- ing vast tracts of land, either desolate, or still more dangerous by its inhabitants : the re- treat of men, who seem driven from society, in order to make war upon all the human race ; nominally professing a subjection to Muscovy or China, but without any resemblance to the countries on which they depend. After I had crossed the great wall, the first objects that presented themselves were the re- mains of desolate cities, and all the magnifi- cence of venerable ruin. There were to be seen temples of beautiful structure, statues wrought by the hand of a master, arid around, a country of luxuriaiit plenty; but not one single inhabitant to reap the bounties of na- ture. These were prospects that might hum- ble the pride of kings, and repress human vanity. I asked my guide the cause of such desolation. These countries, says he, were once the dominions of a Tartar prince ; and these ruins, the seat of arts, elegance, and ease. This prince waged an unsuccessful war with one of the emperors of China ; he was con- quered, his cities plundered, and all his subjects carried into captivity. Such are the effects of the ambition of kings ! Ten dervises, says the Indian proverb, shall sleep in peace upon a single carpet, while two kings shall quarrel, though they have kingdoms to divide them. Sure, my friend, the cruelty and the pride of man have made more deserts than nature evei made ! she is kind, but man is ungrateful ! Proceeding in my journey through this pen- sive scene of desolated beauty, in a few days I arrived among the Daures, a nation still de- 186 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. pendent on China. Xai/igar is their principal city, which compared with those of Europe, scarcely deserves the name. The governors, and other officers, who are sent yearly from Pekin, abuse their authority, and often take the wives and daughters of the inhabitants to themselves. The Datires, accustomed to base submission, feel no resentment at those injuries, or stifle what they feel. Custom and neces- sity teach even these barbarians the same art of dissimulation, that ambition and intrigue in- spire in the breast of the polite. Upon be- holding such unlicensed stretches of power, alas ! thought I, how little does our wise and good emperor know of these intolerable exac- tions ! these provinces are too distant for com- plaint, and too insignificant to expect redress. The more distant the government, the ho- nester should be the governor to whom it is jitrusted : for hope of impunity is a strong in- ducement to violation. The religion of the Daures is more absurd than even that of the sectaries of Fohi. How would you be surprised, O sage disciple and follower of Confucius ! you who believed one eternal intelligent Cause of all, should you be S resent at the barbarous ceremonies of this ifatuated people ! How would you deplore the blindness and folly of mankind ! His boasted reason seems only to light him astray, and brutal instinct more regularly points out the path to happiness. Could you think it? they adore & wicked divinity ; they fear him and they worship him ; they imagine him a malicious Being, ready to injure and ready to be appeased. The men and women assemble at midnight in a but, which serves for a tem- ple. A priest stretches himself on the ground, and all the people pour forth the most horrid cries, while drums and timbrels swell the infernal concert. After this dissonance, miscalled music, has continued about two Lours, the priest rises from the ground, assumes an air of inspiration, grows big with the in- spiring demon, and pretends to a skill in futurity. In every country, my friend, the bonzes, the brahmins, and the priests, deceive the people: all reformations begin from the laity ; the priests point us out the way to heaven with their fingers, but stand still themselves, nor seem to travel towards the country in view. The customs of this people correspond to their religion ; they keep their dead for three days on the same bed where the person died ; after which they bury him in a grave moderately deep, but with the head still uncovered. Here for several days they present him different sorts of meat; which, when they perceive he does not consume, they fill up the grave and desist from desiring him to eat for the future. How, how can mankind be guilty of such strange absurdity ? to entreat a dead body, already pu- trid, to partake of the banquet ! Where, I again lepeat it, is human reason? not only some men but whole nations, seem divested of its illumination. Here we observe a whole coun- try adoring a divinity through fear, and attempt- ing to feed the dead. These are their most serious and most religious occupations. Are these men rational, or are not the apes of Borneo more wise ? Certain I am, O thou instructor of my youth ! that without philosophers, without some few virtuous men, who seem to be of a differ- ent nature from the rest of mankind, without such as these, the worship of a wicked divinity would surely be established over every part of the earth. Fear guides more to their duty than gratitude: for one man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from the obligation that he thinks he lies under to the Giver of all, there are ten thousand who are good only from the apprehensions of punishment. Could these last be persuaded, as the Epicureans were, that heaven had no thunders in store for the villain, they would no longer continue to acknowledge subordination, or thank that Being who gave them existence. Adieu. LETTER XL TO THE CAME. F&OM such a picture of nature in primeval simplicity, tell me, my much respected friend, are you in love with fatigue and solitude ? Do you sigh for the severe frugality of the wan- dering Tartar, or regret being born amidst the luxury and dissimulation of the polite ? Ra- ther tell me, has not every kind of life vices peculiarly its own ? Is it not a truth, that re- fined countries have more vices, but those not so terrible ; barbarous nations few, and they of the most hideous complexion ? Perfidy and fraud are the vices of civilized nations, cre- dulity and violence those of the inhabitants of the desert. Does the luxury of the one pro- duce half the evils of the inhumanity of the other? Certainly, those philosophers who declaim against luxury, have but little under- stood its benefits ; they seem insensible, that to luxury we owe not only the greatest part of our knowledge, but even of our virtues. It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaim, er, when he talks of subduing our appetites, of teaching every sense to be content with a bare sufficiency, and of supplying only the wants of nature ; but is there not more satis- \ faction in indulging those appetites, if with innocence and safety, than in restraining them ? Am not I better pleased in enjoyment, than in the sullen satisfaction of thinking that I can live without enjoyment? The more various our artificial necessities, the wider is our cir- cle of pleasure ; for all pleasures consist in obviating necessities as they rise : luxury, therefore, as it increases our wants, increases our capacity for happiness. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 187 Examine the history of any country remark- able for opulence and wisdom, you will find they would never have been wise had they not been first luxurious ; you will find poets, philo- sophers, and even patriots, marching in luxury's train. The reason is obvious : we then oiuy are curious after knowledge, when we find it connected with sensual happiness. The sen- ses ever point out the way, and reflection com- ments upon the discovery. Inform a native of the desert of Kobi, of the exact measure of the parallax of the moon, he finds no satisfac- tion at all in the information ; he wonders how any could take such pains, and lay out such treasures, in order to solve so useless a diffi- culty : but connect it with his happiness, by showing that it improves navigation, that by such an investigation he may have a warmer coat, a better gun, or a finer knife, and he is instantly in raptures at so great an improve- ment. In short, we only desire to know what we desire to possess; and whatever we may talk against it, luxury adds the spur to curi- osity, and gives us a desire of becoming more wise. But not our knowledge only, but our virtues are improved by luxury. Observe the brown savage of Thibet, to whom the fruits of the spreading pomegranate supply food, and its branches a habitation. Such a character bus few vices, I grant, but those he has are ot the most hideous nature : rapine and cruelty are scarcely crimes in his eye ; neither pity nor tenderness, which ennoble every virtue, have any place in his heart ; he hates his enemies, and kills those he subdues. On the other hand, the polite Chinese and civilized Euro- pean, seem even to love their enemies. I have just now seen an instance, where the English have succoured those enemies, whom their own countrymen actually refused to relieve. The greater the luxuries of every country, the more closely, politically speaking, is that country united. Luxury is the child of soci- ety alone ; the luxurious man stands in need ot a thousand different artists to furnish out his happiness : it is more likely, therefore, that he should be a good citizen who is con- nected by motives of self-interest with so many, than the abstemious man who is united to none. In whatsoever light, therefore, we consider luxury, whether as employing a number of hands, naturally too feeble for more laborious employment ; as finding a variety of occupa- tion for others who might be totally idle ; or as furnishing out new inlets to happiness, with- out encroaching on mutual property ; in what- ever light we regard it, we shall have reason to stand up in its defence, and the sentiment of Confucius still remains unshaken, That we should enjoy as many of the luxuries of life as are consistent with our own safety, and the prosperity of others ; and that he who finds out a new pleasure, is one of the most useful members of society. LETTER XII. TO THE SAME. FROM the funeral solemnities of the Daures, who think themselves the politest people in the world, I must make a transition to the funeral solemnities of the English, who think themselves as polite as they. The number- less ceremonies which are used here when a person is sick, appear to me so many evident, marks of fear and apprehension. Ask an Eng- lishman, however, whether he is afraid of death, and he boldly answers in the negative ; but observe his behaviour in circumstances of ap- proaching sickness, and you will find his actions give his assertions the lie. The Chinese are very sincere in this re- spect ; they hate to die, and they confess theii terrors ; a great part of their life is spent in preparing things proper for their funeral. A poor artisan shall spend half his income in pro- viding himself a tomb twenty years before he wants it ; and denies himself the necessaries of life, that he may be amply provided for when he shall want them no more. But people of distinction in England really deserve pity, for they die in circumstances of the most extreme distress. It is an establish- ed rule, never to let a man know that he is dying: physicians are sent for, the clergy are called, and every thing passes in silent solem- nity round the sick-bed. The patient is in agonies, looks round for pity, yet not a single creature will say that he is dying. If he is possessed of fortune, his relations entreat him to make his will, as it may restore the tranquillity of his mind. He is desired to undergo the rites of the church, for decency requires it. His friends take their leave, only because they do not care to see him in pain. In short, a hundred stratagems are used to make him do what he might have been induced to perform, only by being told, Sir, you are past all hopes, and had as good think decently of dying. Besides all this, the chamber is darkened, the whole house echoes to the cries of the wife, the lamentations of the children, the grief of the servants, and the sighs of friends. The bed is surrounded with priests and doctors in black, and only flambeaux emit a yellow gloom. Where is the man, how intrepid soever, that would nor shrink at such a hideous solemnity ? For fear of affrighting their expiring friends, the English practise all that can fill them with terror. Strange effect of human prejudice, thus to torture, merely from mistaken tender- ness ! You see, my friend, what contradictions there are in the tempers of those islanders : when prompted by ambition, revenge, or dis- appointment, they meet death with the utmost resolution : the very man who in his bed would have trembled at the aspect of a doctor, shall O 188 CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. with intrepidity to attack a bastion, or de- liberately noose himself up in his garters. The passion of the Europeans for magni- ficent interments, is equally strong with that of the Chinese. When a tradesman dies, his frightful face is painted up by an undertaker, and placed in a proper situation to receive company: this is called lying in state. To this disagreeable spectacle, all the idlers in town flock, and learn to loath tbe wretch dead, whom they despised when living. In this manner, you see some who would have refused a shilling to save the life of their dearest friend, bestow thousands on adorning their putrid corpse. I have been told of a fellow, who, grown rich by the price of blood, left it in his will that he should lie in state ; and thus un- knowingly gibbeted himself into infamy, when he might have otherwise quietly retired into oblivion. When the person is buried, the next care is to make his epitaph : they are generally reck- oned best which flatter most ; such relations, therefore, as have received most benefits from the defunct, discharge this friendly office, and generally flatter in proportion to their joy. When we read those monumental histories of the dead, it may be justly said, that all men are equal in the dust ; for, they all appear equally remarkable for being the most sincere Chris- tians, the most benevolent neighbours, and the honestest men of their time. To go through a European cemetery, one would be apt to wonder how mankind have so basely degener- ated from such excellent ancestors. Every tomb pretends to claim your reverence and regret ; some are praised for piety in those in- scriptions, who never entered the temple until they were dead; some are praised for being excellent poets, who were never mentioned, except for their dulness, when living ; others for sublime orators, who were never noted ex- cept for their impudence ; and others still, for military achievements, who were never in any other skirmishes but with the watch. Some even make epitaphs for themselves, and be- speak the reader's good-will. It were indeed to be wished, that every man would early learn in this manner to make his own ; that he would draw it up in terms as flattering as possible, and that he would make it the em- ployment of his whole life to deserve it. I have not yet been in a place called West- minster-abbey, but soon intend to visit it. There, I am told, I shall see justice done to deceased merit : none, I am told, are per- mitted to be buried there, but such as have adorned as well as improved mankind. There, no intruders, by the influence of friends or fortune, presume to mix their unhallowed ashes with philosophers, heroes, and poets. Nothing but true merit has a place in that awful sanctuary. The guardianship of the tombs is committed to several reverend priests, who are never guilty, for a superior reward, of taking down the names of good men, to make room for others of equivocal character,, nor ever profane the sacred walls with pageants that posterity cannot know, or shall blush to own. 1 always was of opinion, that sepulchral honours of this kind should be considered as a national concern, and not trusted to the care of the priests of any country, how respectable soever ; but from the conduct of the reverend personages, whose disinterested patriotism I shall shortly be able to discover, I am taught to retract my former sentiments. It is true t the Spartans and the Persians made a fine political use of sepulchral vanity : they per- mitted none to be thus interred, who had not fallen in the vindication of their country. A monument thus became a real mark of distinc- tion ; it nerved the hero's arm with tenfold vigour, and he fought without fear, who only fought for a grave. Farewell. LETTER XIII. FROM THE SAME. I AM just returned from Westminster-abbey, the place of sepulture for the philosophers, heroes, and kings of England. What a gloom do monumental inscriptions, and all the ven- erable remains of deceased merit, inspire ? Imagine a temple marked with the hand of antiquity, solemn as religious awe, adorned with all the magnificence of barbarous profu- sion, dim windows, fretted pillars, long colon- nades, and dark ceilings. Think, then, what were my sensations at being introduced to such a scene. I stood in the midst of the temple, and threw my eyes round on the walls, filled with the statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments of the dead. Alas ! I said to myself, how does pride attend the puny child of dust even to the grave ! Even humble as I am, . I possess more consequence in the present scene than the greatest hero oi them all : they have toiled for an hour to gain a transient immortality, and are at length retir- ed to the grave, where they have no attendant but the worm, none to flatter but the epitaph. As I was indulging such reflections, a gen- tleman dressed in black, perceiving me to be a stranger, came up, entered into conversation, and politely offered, to be my instructor and guide through the temple. If any monument, said he, should particularly excite your curiosity, I shall endeavour to satisfy your demands. I accepted with thanks the gentleman's offer? add. ing, that I was" come to observe the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the English, in conferring rewards upon deceased merit. If adulation like this (continued I) be properly conducted, as it can no ways injure those who are flattered, so it may be a glorious incentive to those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of every good government to turn CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 189 this monumental pride to its own advantage : to become strong in the aggregate from the weakness of the individual. If none but the j truly great have a place in this awful repository, ; a temple like this will give the finest lessons of morality, and be a strong incentive to true am- J bition. I am told, that none have a place here but characters of the most distinguished merit. ! The man in black seemed impatient at my ob- servations, so I discontinued my remarks, and we walked on together to take a view of every particular monument in order as it lay. ,* As the eye is naturally caught by the finest objects, I could riot avoid being particularly curious about one monument, which appeared more beautiful than the rest : that, said I to my guide, I take to be the tomb of some very j great man. By the peculiar excellence of the workmanship, ind the magnificence of the design, this must be a trophy raised to the memory of some king who has saved his country from ruin, or lawgiver, w ho has reduced his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just subjection. It is not re- quisite, replied my companion, smiling, to have such qualifications, in order to have a very fine monument bere. More humble abilities will suffice. What ! I suppose, then, the gaining two or three battles, or the taking half a score ! of towns, is thought a sufficient qualification ? Gaining battles, or taking towns, replied the man in black, may be of service ? but a gentle- j man may have a very fine monument here with- out ever seeing a battle or a siege. This, then, ! is the monument of some poet, I presume, of | one whose wit has gained him immortality ? No, Sir, replied my guide, the gentleman who lies here never made verses ; and as for wit, he despised it in others, because he had none him- self. Pray tell me then in a word, said I, pee- vishly, what is the great man who lies here par- ticularly remarkable for ? Remarkable, Sir ! said my companion ; why, Sir, the gentleman that lies here is remarkable, very remarkable for a tomb in Westminster Abbey.' But, head of my ancestors ! how has he got here ? I fancy he could never bribe the guardians of the tem- ple to give him a place. Should he not be ashamed to be seen among company, where even moderate merit would look like infamy ? I suppose, replied the man in black, the gentle- man was rich, and his friends, as is usual in such a case, told him he was great. He readily believed them ; the guardians of the temple, as they got by the self-delusion, were ready to be- lieve him too ; so he paid his money for a fine monument ; and the workman, as you see, has made him one the most beautiful. Think not, however, that this gentleman is singular in his desire of being buried among the great ; there are several others in the temple, who, hated and shunned by the great while alive, have come here, fully resolved to keep them company now they are dead. As we walked along to a particular part of the temple, There, says the gentleman, point- ing with his finger, that is the poet's corner ; there you see the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, and Prior, and Drayton. Dray, ton ! I replied ; I never heard of him before ; but I have been told of one Pope : is he there ? It is time enough, replied my guide, these hun- dred years ; he is not long dead ; people have not done hating him yet. Strange, cried I, can any be found to hate a man whose life was wholly spent in entertaining and instruct- ing his fellow-creatures? Yes, says my guide, they hate him for that very reason. There are a set of men called answerers of books, who take upon them to watch the republic of letters, and distribute reputation by the sheet; they somewhat resemble the eunuchs in a seraglio, who are incapable of giving pleasure themselves, and hinder those that would. These answer- ers have no other employment but to cry out Dunce, and Scribbler ; to praise the dead, and revile the living ; to grant a man of confessed abilities, some small share of merit ; to applaud twenty blockheads in order to gain the reputa- tion of candour; and to revile the moral char- acter of the man whose writings they cannot injure. Such wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary bookseller, or more frequently the bookseller himself takes this dirty work off their hands, as all that is required is to be very abusive and very dull. Every poet of any genius is sure to find such enemies ; he feels, though he seems to despise, their malice ; they make him miserable here, and in the pursuit of emp- ty fame, at last he gains solid anxiety. Has this been the case with every poet 1 see here ? cried I Yes, with every mother's son of them, replied he, except he happened to be born a mandarine. If he has much money, he may Iniy reputation from your book answerers as well as a monument from the guardians of the temple. But are there not some men of distin- guished taste, as in China, who are willing to patronize men of merit, and soften the ran- cour of malevolent dulness ? I own there are many, replied the man in black ; but, alas ! Sir, the book-answerers crowd about them, and call themselves the writers of books ; and the patron is too indo- lent to distinguish : thus poets are kept at a distance, while their enemies eat up all their rewards at the mandarine's table. Leaving this part of the temple, we made up to an iron gate, through which my compan- ion told me we were to pass in order to see the monuments of the kings. Accordingly I marched up without farther ceremony, and was going to enter, when a person, who held the gate in his hand, told me I must pay first. I was surprised at such a demand ; and asked the man, whether the people of England kept a show ? whether the paltry sum he demanded was not a national reproach ? whether it was not more to the honour of the country to let their magnificence or their antiquities be openly seen, than thus meanly to tax a curiosity which tended to their own honour? As for your 190 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. questions, replied the gate-keeper, to be sure they may be very right, because I don't under- stand them ; but, as for that there threepence, I farm it from one, who rents it from another, who hires it from a third, who leases it from the guardians of the temple, and we all must live. I expected upon paying here, to see something extraordinary, since what I had seen for nothing filled me with so much sur- prise : but in this I was disappointed ; there was little more within than black coffins, rusty armour, tattered standards, and some few slovenly figures in wax. I was sorry I had paid, but I comforted myself by considering it would be my last payment. A person attend- ed us, who without once blushing, told a hundred lies ; he talked of a lady who died by pricking her finger ; of a king with a golden head, and twenty such pieces of absurdity. Look ye there, gentlemen, says he, pointing to an old oak chair, there's a curiosity for ye ; in that chair the kings of England were crowned: you see also a stone underneath, and that stone is Jacob's pillow. I could see no curiosity either in the oak chair or the stone : could I, indeed, behold one of the old kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head laid upon the other, there might be some- thing curious in the sight ; but in the present case there was no more reason for my surprise, than if I should pick a stone from their streets, and call it a curiosity, merely because one of the kings happened to tread upon it as he passed in a procession. From hence our conductor led us through several dark walks and winding ways, uttering lies, talking to himself, and flourishing a wand which he held in his hand. He reminded me of the black magicians of Kobi. After we had been almost fatigued with a variety of objects, he at last desired me to consider at- tentively a certain suit of armour, which seemed to show nothing remarkable. This armour, said he, belonged to General Monk. Very surprising, that a general should wear armour ! And pray, added he, observe this cap, this is General Monk's cap. Very strange indeed, very strange, that a general should have a cap also ! Pray, friend, what might this cap have cost originally ? That, Sir, says he, I don't know; but this cap is all the wages I have for my trouble. A very small recompense, truly, said I. Not so very small, replied he, for every gentleman puts some money into it, and I spend the money. What, more money ! still more money ! Every gentleman gives some- thing, Sir. I'll give thee nothing, returned I ; the guardians of the temple should pay you your wages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus from every spectator. When we pay our money at the door to see a show, we never give more as we are going out. Sure the guardians of the temple can never think they get enough. Show me the gate ; if I stay longer, I may probably meet with more of those ecclesiastical beg gars. Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I re- turned to my lodgings, in order to ruminate over what was great, and to despise what was mean in the occurrences of the day. LETTER XIV. FROM THE SAME. I WAS some days ago agreeably surpnsed by a message from a lady of distinction, who sent me word, that she most passionately desired the pleasure of my acquaintance ; and, with the utmost impatience, expected an interview. I will not deny, my dear Fum Hoam, but that my vanity was raised at such an invitation : I flattered myself that she had seen me in some public place, and had conceived an affection for my person, which thus induced her to deviate from the usual decorums of the sex. My imagination painted her in all the bloom of youth and beauty. I fancied her attended by the Loves and Graces ; and I set out with the most pleasing expectations of seeing the conquest I had made. When I was introduced into her apartment, my expectations were quickly at an end ; I perceived a little shrivelled figure indolently reclined on a sofa, who nodded, by way of ap- probation, at my approach. This, as I was afterwards informed, was the lady herself, a woman equally distinguished for rank,politeness, taste, arid understanding. As 1 was dressed after the fashion of Europe, she had taken me for an Englishman,and consequently saluted me in her ordinary manner : but when the foot- manjnformed her grace that I was the gentle- man' from China, she instantly lifted herself from her couch, while her eyes sparkled with unusual vivacity. Bless me ! can this be the gentleman that was born so far from home ? What an unusual share of somethingness in his whole appearance ! Lord, how I am charmed with the outlandish cut of his face ! how be- witching the exotic breadth of his forehead ! I would give the world to see him in his own country dress. Pray, turn about, Sir, and let me see you behind. There, there's a travelled air for you ! You that attend there, bring up a plate of beef cut into small pieces ; I have a violent passion to see him eat. Pray, Sir, have you got your chop-sticks about you ? It will be so pretty to see the meat carried to the mouth with a jerk. Pray, speak a little Chinese : I have learned some of the language myself. Lord ! have you nothing pretty fiom China about you ; something that one does not know what to do with ? I have got twenty things from China that are of no use in the world. Look at those jars, they are of the right pea-green : these are the furniture. Dear Madam, said I, these, though thev may CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. sppear fine in your eyes are but paltry to a Chinese : but, as they are useful utensils, it is proper they should have a place in every apartment. Useful ! Sir, replied the lady ; sure you mistake, they are of no use in tbe world. What ! are they not filled with an in- fusion of tea, as in China ? replied I. Quite empty and useless, upon my honour, Sir. Then they are the most cumbrous and clumsy furniture in the world, as nothing is truly ele- gant but what unites use with beauty. I pro- test, says the lady, I shall begin to suspect thee of being an actual barbarian. I suppose you hold my two beautiful pagods in contempt. What ! cried I, has Fohi spread his gross su- perstitions here also ! Pagods of all kinds are my aversion. A Chinese, a traveller, and want taste ! it surprises me. Pray, Sir, examine the beauties of that Chinese temple which you see at the end of the garden. Is there any thing in China more beautiful ? Where I stand, I see nothing, Madam, at the end of the garden, that may not as well be called an Egyptian pyramid as a Chinese temple; for that little building in view is as like the one as t'other. What ! Sir, is not that a Chinese temple ? you must surely be mistaken. Mr Freeze, who designed it, calls it one, and nobody dis- putes his pretensions to taste. I now found it vain to contradict the lady in any thing she thought fit to advance ; so was resolved rather to act the disciple than the instructor. She took me through several rooms, all furnished, as she told me, in the Chinese manner ; sprawling dragons, squatting pagods, and clumsy mandarines, were stuck upon every shelf; in turning round, one must have used caution not to demolish a part of the precarious furniture. In a house like this, thought I, one must live continually upon the watch ; the inhabitant must resemble a knight in an enchanted castle, who expects to meet an adventure at every turning. JBut, Madam, said I, do not acci- dents ever happen to all this finery? Man, Sir, replied the lady, is born to misfortunes, and it is but fit I should have a share. Three weeks ago a careless servant snapped off the head of a favourite mandarine : I had scarce done grieving for that, when a monkey broke a beautiful jar ; this I took the more to heart as the injury was done me by a friend ! How- ever, I survived the calamity ; when yesterday crash went half a dozen dragons upon the mar- ble hearth-stone : and yet I live ; I survive it all : you can't conceive what comfort I find under afflictions from philosophy. There is Seneca, and Bolingbroke, and some others, who guide me through life, and teach me to support its calamities. I could not but smile at a wo- man who makes her own misfortunes, and then deplores the miseries of her situation. Where- fore, tired of acting with dissimulation, and willing to indulge my meditations in solitude, I took leave just as the servant was bringing in a plate of beef, pursuant to the directions of Itik mistress. Adieu. BETTER XV. FROM THE SAME. The better sort here pretend to the utmost compassion for animals of every kind : to hear them speak, a stranger would be apt to ima- gine they could hardly hurt the gnat that stung them ; they seem so tender, and so full of pity, that one would take them for the harmless friends of the whole creation ; the protectors of the meanest insect or reptile that was privileg- ed with existence. And yet (would you be- lieve it ?) I have seen the very men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, at the same time devouring the flesh of six different animals tossed up in a fricassee. Strange contrariety of conduct ! they pity, and they eat the objects of their compassion ! The lion roars with terror over its captive ; the tiger sends forth its hideous shriek to intimidate its prey ; no creature shows any fondness for its short-lived prisoner, except a man and a cat. Man was born to live with innocence and simplicity, but he has deviated from nature ; he was born to share the bounties of heaven, but he has monopolized them ; he was born to govern the brute creation, but he has become their tyrant. If an epicure now shall happen to surfeit on his last night's feast, twenty ani- mals the next day are to undergo the most ex- quisite tortures, in order to provoke his ap- petite to another guilty meal. Hail, O ye sim- ple, honest brahmins of the East ; ye inoffen- sive friends of all that were born to happiness as well as you; you never sought a short- lived pleasure from the miseries of other creatures ! You never studied the tormenting arts of ingenious refinement ; you never sur- feited upon a guilty meal ! How much more purified and refined are all your sensations than ours ! you distinguish every element with the utmost precision ; a stream untasted before is new luxury, a change of air is a new banquet, too refined for Western imaginations to con- ceive. Though the Europeans do not hold the transmigration of souls, yet one of their doctors has, with great force of argument, and great plausibility of reasoning, endeavoured to prove that the bodies of animals are the habitations of demons and wicked spirits, which are oblig- ed to reside in these prisons till the resurrection pronounces their everlasting punishment ; but are previously condemned to suffer all the pains and hardships inflicted upon them by man, or by each other, here. If this be the case, it may frequently happen, that while we whip pigs to death, or boil live lobsters, we are putting some old acquaintance, some near relation, to excruciating tortures, and are serving him up to the very same table where he was once the most welcome companion. " Kabul," says the Zendavesta , " was born 192 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. on uie rushy banks of the river Mawra ; his possessions were great, and his luxuries kept pace with the affluence of his fortune ; he hated the harmless brahmins, and despised their holy religion ; every day his table was decked out witli the flesh of a hundred different animals, and his cooks had a hundred different ways of dressing it, to solicit even satiety. " Notwithstanding all his eating, he did not arrive at old age ; he died of a surfeit caused by intemperance ; upon this his soul was carried off, in order to take its' trial before a select as- sembly of the souls of those animals which his gluttony had caused to be slam, and who were row appointed his judges. " He trembled before a tribunal, to every member of which he had formerly acted as an unmerciful tyrant : he sought for pity, but found none to grant it. Does he not remem- ber, cries the angry boar, to what agonies I was put, not to satisfy his hunger, but his vanity ? I was first hunted to death, and my flesh scarce thought worthy of coming once to his table. Were my advice followed, he should do pen- ance in the shape jof a hog, which in life he most resembled. " I am rather, cries a sheep upon the bench, for having him suffer under the appearance of a lamb ; we may then send him through four or five transmigrations in the space of a month. Were my voice of any weight in the assembly, cries a calf, he should rather assume such a form as mine ; I was bled every day in order to make my flesh white, and at last killed without mercy. Would it not be wiser, cries a hen, to cram him in the shape of a fowl, and then smo- ther him in his own blood, as I was served? The majority of the assembly were pleased with this punishment, and were going to con- demn him without further delay, when the ox rose up to give his opinion : I am informed, says this counsellor, that the prisoner at the bar has left a wife with child behind him. By my knowledge in divination, I foresee that this child will be a son, decrepit, feeble, sickly, a plague to himself, and all about him. What say you, then, my companions, if we condemn the father to animate the body of his own son ; and by this means make him feel in himself those miseries his intemperance must other- wise have entailed upon his posterity? The whole court applauded the ingenuity of his torture; they thanked him for his advice. Kabul was driven once more to revisit the earth ; and his soul, in the body of his own son, passed a period of thirty years loaded with misery, anxiety, and disease." LETTER XVI. FROM THE SAME. I KNOW not whether I am more obliged to the Chinese missionaries for the instruction I have received from them, or prejudiced by t'no falsehoods they have made me believe. By them I was told that the Pope was universally allowed to be a man, and placed at the head of the church ; in England, however, they plain- ly prove him to be a whore in man's clothes, and often burn him in effigy as an impostor. A thousand books have been written on either side of the question ; priests are eternally dis- puting against each other ; and those mouths that want arguments are filled with abuse. Which party must I believe, or shall I give credit to neither ? When I survey the absur- dities and falsehood with which the books of the Europeans are filled, I thank Heaven for having been born in China, and that I have sagacity enough to detect imposture. The Europeans reproach us with false history and fabulous chronology ; how should they blush to see their own books, many of which are written by the doctors of their reli- gion, filled with the most monstrous fables, arid attested with the utmost solemnity. The bounds of a letter do riot permit me to mention all the absurdities of this kind, which in my reading I have met with. I shall confine my- self to the accounts which some of their letter- ed men give of the persons of some of the in- habitants on our globe : and not satisfied with the most solemn asseverations, they sometimes pretend to have been eye-witnesses of what they describe. A Christian doctor, in one of his principal performances,* says, that it was not impossible for a whole nation to have but one eye in the middle of the forehead. He is not satisfied with leaving it in doubt ; but in another work, assures us, that the fact was certain, and that he himself was an eye-witness of it. When, says he, I took a journey into Ethiopia, in company with several other ser- vants of Christ, in order to preach the gospel, there I beheld, in the southern provinces of that country, a nation which had only one eye in the midst of their foreheads. You will no doubt be surprised, reverend Fum, with this author's effrontery, but, alas ! he is not aione in this story ; he has only bor- rowed it from several others who wrote before him. Solinus creates another nation of Cy clops, the Arimaspians, who inhabit those countries that border on the Caspian Sea. This author goes on to tell us of a people of India, who have but one leg and one eye, and yet are extremely active, run with great swift- ness, and live by hunting. These people we scarcely know how to pity or admire; but the men whom Pliny calls Cynamolci, who have got the heads of dogs, really deserve our com- passion ; instead of language, they express theii sentiments by barking. Solinus confirms what Pliny mentions : and Simon Mayole, a French * Augustin. de Civit. Dei, lib. xvi. p. 422. f- Augustin. ad fratres in Eremo, Serm. xxxyil CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 193 bishop, talks of them as of particular and fami- liar acqviaintances. After passing the deserts of Egypt, says he, we met with the Kunokephaloi ; who inhabit those regions that border on Ethiopia; they live by hunting ; they cann?t speak, but whistle; their chins resemble a serpent's head ; their hands are armed with long sharp claws ; their breast resembles that of a greyhound; and they excel in swiftness and agility. Would you think it, my friend, that these odd kind of people are, notwithstanding their figure, excessively delicate ; not even an alderman's wife, or Chinese mandarine, can excel them in this particular. " These people," continues our faithful bishop, " never refuse wine ; love roast and boiled meat ; they are particularly curious in having their meat well dressed, and spurn at it if in the least tainted. When the Ptolemies reigned in Egypt (says he a little farther on) those men with dogs' heads taught grammar and music." For men who had no voices to teach music, and who could not speak, to teach grammar, is, I con- fess, a little extraordinary. Did ever the dis- ciples of Fohi broach any thing more ridicu- lous ? Hitherto \\e have seen men with heads strangely deformed, and with dogs' heads ; but what would you say if you heard of men with- out any heads at all ? Pomponius Mela, Soli- nus, and Aulus Gellius, describe them to our hand : " The Blemise have a nose, eyes, and mouth on their breast ; or, as others will have it, placed on their shoulders." One would think that these authors had an antipathy to the human form, and were re- solved to make a new figure of their own : but let us do them justice. Though they some- times deprive us of a leg, an arm, a head, or some such trifling part of the body, they often as liberally bestow upon us something that we wanted before. Simon Mayole seems our particular friend in this respect ; if he has denied heads to one part of mankind, he has given tails to another. He describes many of the English of his time, which is not more than a hundred years ago, as having tails. His own words are as follows : " In England there are some families which have tails, as a punishment for deriding an Augustin friar sent by St Gregory, and who preached in Dorset- shire. They sewed the tails of different ani- mals to his clothes; but soon they found that those tails entailed on them and their posterity for ever." It is certain that the author had some ground for this description. Many of the English wear tails to their wigs to this very day, as a mark, I suppose, of the anti- not their families, and perhaps as a symbol ose tails with which they were formerly distinguished by nature. You see, my friend, there is nothing so ridiculous that has not at some time been said by some philosopher. The writers of books in Europe seem to think themselves authorized *o say what they please; and an ingenious philosopher among them* has openly asserted, that he would undertake to persuade the whole republic of readers to believe, that the sun was neither the cause of light nor heat, if he he could only get six philosophers on his side. Farewell. LETTER XVIL FROM THE SAME. WERE an Asiatic politician to read the treaties of peace and friendship that have been annually making for more than a hundred years among the inhabitants of Europe, he would probably be surprised how it should ever hap- pen that Christian princes could quarrel among each other. Their compacts for peace are drawn up with the utmost precision, and rati- fied with the greatest solemnity ; to these each party promises a sincere and inviolable obe- dience, and all wears the appearance of open friendship and unreserved reconciliation. Yet, notwithstanding those treaties, the people of Europe are almost continually at war. There is nothing more easy than to break a treaty ratified in all the usual forms, and yet neither party the aggressor. One side, for instance, breaks a trifling article by mis- take ; the opposite party, upon this, makes a small but premeditated reprisal ; this brings on a return of greater from the other ; both sides complain of injuries and infractions ; war is declared ; they beat and are beaten ; some two or three hundred thousand men are killed ; they grow tired ; leave off just where they began ; and so sit coolly down to make new treaties. The English and French seem to place themselves foremost among the champion states of Europe. Though parted by a nar- row sea, yet are they entirely of opposite char- acters ; and from their vicinity are taught to fear and admire each other. They are at present engaged in a very de- structive war, have already spilled much blood, are excessively irritated, and all upon account of one side's desiring to wear greater quantities of furs than the other. The pretext of the war is about some lands a thousand leagues off:, a country cold, deso- late, and hideous ; a country belonging to a people who w r ere in possession for time imme- morial. The savages of Canada claim a pro- perty in the country in dispute ; they have all the pretensions which long possession can con^ fer. Here, they had reigned for ages without rivals in dominion, and knew 110 enemies but the prowling bear or insidious tiger; their native forests produced all the necessaries of life, and they found ample luxury in the enjoy- ment In this manner they might have con- Fontsnelli'. 194 CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. turned to live to eternity, had not the English Deen informed that those countries produced furs in great abundance. From that moment the country became an object of desire ; It was found that furs were things very much wanted in England ; the ladies edged some of their clothes with furs, and muffs were worn both by gentlemen and ladies. In short, furs were found indispensably necessary for the hap- piness of the state ; and the king was conse- quently petitioned to grant, not only the coun- try of Canada, but all the savages belonging to it, to the subjects of England, in order to I have the people supplied with proper quantities ' of this necessary commodity. So very reasonable a request was immediate- ly complied with, and large colonies were sent abroad to procure furs, and take possession. The French, who were equally in want of furs (for they were as fond of muffs and tippets as the English), made the very same request to their monarch, and met with the same gracious reception from their king, who generously granted what was not his to give. Wherever the French landed they called the country their own ; and the English took possession wherever they came, upon the same equitable pretensions. The harmless savages made no opposition ; and, could the intruders have agreed together, they might peaceably have shared this desolate country between them ; but they quarrelled about the boundaries of their settlements, about grounds and rivers to which neither side could show any other right than that of power, and which neither could occupy but by usurpation. Such is the con- test, that no honest man can heartily wish suc- cess to either party. The war has continued for some time with various success. At first the French seemed victorious ; but the English have of late dis- possessed them of the whole country in dis- pute. Think not, however, that success on one side is the harbinger of peace ; on the contrary, both parties must be heartily tired, to effect even a temporary reconciliation. It should seem tbe business of the victorious party to offer terms of peace : but there are many in England who, encouraged by success, are for still protracting the war. The best English politicians, however, are sensible, that to keep their present conquests would be rather a burden than an advantage to them ; rather a diminution of their strength than an increase of power. It is in the politic as in the human constitution ; if the limbs grow too large for the body, their size, instead of improving, will diminish the vigour of the whole. The colonies should always bear an exact proportion to the mother country ; when they grow populous, they grow powerful, and by becoming powerful, they become indepen- dent also ; thus subordination is destroyed, and a country swallowed up in the extent of its own dominions. The Turkish empire would be more formidable, were it less exten- | sive, were it not for those countries wbicU. it can neither command, nor give entirely away- which it is obliged to protect, but from which it has no power to exact obedience. Yet, obvious as these truths are, there are many Englishmen who are for transplanting. new colonies into this late acquisition, for peo- pling the deserts of America with the refuse of their countrymen, and (as they express it) with the waste of an exuberant nation. But who are those unhappy creatures who are to be thus drained away ? Not the sickly, for they are unwelcome guests abroad as well as at. home, nor the idle, for they would starve as well behind the Apalachian mountains as in. the streets of London. This refuse is com- posed of the laborious and enterprising, of such men as can be serviceable to their country at home, of men who ought to be regarded as the sinews of the people, and cherished with every degree of political indulgence. And what are the commodities which this colony, when established, is to produce in return ? whyy raw silk, hemp, arid tobacco England, there- fore, must make an exchange of her best and bravest subjects for raw silk, hemp, and to- bacco ; her hardy veterans and honest trades- men must be trucked for a box of snuff or a silk petticoat. Strange absurdity ! Sure the politics of the Daures are not more strange,, who sell their religion, their wives, and their liberty, for a glass bead, or a paltry penknife. Farewell. LETTER XVIII. FROM THE SAME. THE English love their wives with much passion, the Hollanders with much prudence : the English when they give their hands fre- j quently give their hearts ; the .Dutch give the j hand, but keep the heart wisely in their own possession. The English love with violence,, and expect violent love in return ; the Dutch are satisfied with the slightest acknowledgment, for they give little away. The English ex- pend many of the matrimonial comforts in the first year ; the Dutch frugally husband out their pleasures, and are always constant because they are always indifferent. There seems very little difference between a Dutch bridegroom and a Dutch husband. Both are equally possessed of the same cool unexpecting serenity; they can see neither Elysium nor Paradise behind the curtain ; and Yiffrowis not more a goddess on the wedding- night, than after twenty years' matrimonial ac- quaintance. On the other hand, many of the English marry in order to have one hap y month in their lives; they seem incapable of looking beyond that period ; they unite in hopes of finding rapture, and disappointed in that, dis- dain ever to accept of happiness. From hence CITIZEN" OF THE "WORLD. 193 we see open hatred ensue ; or what is worse, concealed disgust under the appearance of ful Borne endearment. Much formality, great civility, and studied compliments are exhibited in public ; cross looks, sulky silence, or open recrimination, fill up their hours of private en- tertainment. Hence I am taught, whenever I see a new- married couple more than ordinarily fond be- fore faces, to consider them as attempting to impose upon the company or themselves ; either hating each other heartily, or consuming that stock of love in the beginning of their course, which should serve them through their whole journey. Neither side should expect those instances of kindness which are inconsis- tent with true freedom or happiness to bestow. Love, when founded in the heart, will show itself in a thousand unpremeditated sallies of fondness ; but every cool deliberate exhibition of the passion, only argues little understanding, or great insincerity. Choang was the fondest husband, and Hansi, the most endearing wife in all the king, j dom of Korea : they were a pattern of conjugaJ ; bliss ; the inhabitants of the country around saw, and envied their felicity : wherever j Choang came, Hansi was sure to follow ; and in all the pleasures of Hansi, Choang was ad- mitted a partner. They walked hand in hand wherever they appeared, showing every mark ot' mutual satisfaction, embracing, kissing, their mouths were for ever joined, and, to speak iu the language of anatomy, it was with them nnt j perpetual anastomosis. Their love was so great, that it was thought nothing could interrupt their mutual peace ; when an accident happened, which, in some measure, diminished the husband's assurance of his wife's fidelity ; for love so refined as his was subject to a thousand little disquie- tudes. Happening to go one day alone among the tombs that lay at some distance from his house, ; he there perceived a lady dressed in the deepest mourning (being clothed all over in white), fanning the wet clay that was raised over one of the graves with a large fan which she held in her hand. Choang, who had early been taught wisdom in the school of Lao, was una- ble to assign a cause for her present employ- ment ; and coming up, civilly demanded the reason. Alas, replied the lady, her eyes bathed in tears, how is it possible to survive the loss of my husband, who lies buried in this grave ! he was the best of men, the tenderest of hus- bands ; with his dying breath he bid me never marry again till the earth over his grave should be dry ; and here you see me steadily resolving to obey his will, and endeavouring to dry it | with my fan. I have employed two whole ; days in fulfilling his commands, and am deter- mined not to marry till they are punctually obeyed, even though his grave should take up four days in drying. Choang, who was struck with the widow's beauty, could not, however, avoid smiling at her haste to be married ; but concealing tha cause of his mirth, civilly invited her home, adding, that he had a wife who might be capa- ble of giving her some consolation. As soon as he and his guest were returned, he imparted to Hansi in private what he had seen, and could not avoid expressing his uneasiness that such might be his own case if his dearest wife should one day happen to survive him. It is impossible to describe Hansi's resent- ment at so unkind a suspicion. As her pas- sion for him was not only great, but extremely delicate, she employed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, to chide his suspicions ; the widow herself was inveighed against; and Hansi declared, she was resolved never to sleep under the same roof with a wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of such bare-faced inconstancy. The night was cold and stormy ; however, the stranger was obliged to seek another lodging, for Choang was not disposed to resist, and Hansi would have her way. The widow had scarcely been gone an hour, when an old disciple of Choang's whom he had not seen for many years, came to pay him a visit. He was received with the utmost ceremony, placed in the most honourable seat at supper, and the wine began to circulate with great freedom. Choang and Hansi ex- hibited open marks cf mutual tenderness, and unfeigned reconciliation : nothing could equal their apparent happiness ; so fond a husband, so obedient a wife, few could behold without regretting their own infelicity : When, lo ! their happiness was at once disturbed by a most fatal accident. Choang fell lifeless in an apo- plectic fit upon the floor. Every method was used, but in vain, for his recovery. Hansi was at first inconsolable for his death : after some hours, however, she found spirits to read his last will. The ensuing day, she began to moralize and talk wisdom ; the next day, she was able to comfort the young disciple ; and on the third, to shorten a long story, they both agreed to be married. There was now no longer mourning in the apartments ; the body of Choang was now thrust into an old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest rooms, there to lie unattended until the time prescribed by law for its inter- ment. In the meantime, Hansi and the young disciple were arrayed in the most magnificent habits ; the bride wore in her nose a jewel of immense price, and her lover was dressed in all the finery of his former master, together with a pair of artificial whiskers that reached down to his toes. The hour of their nuptials was arrived; the whole family sympathized with their approaching happiness ; the apart- ments were brightened up with lights that dif- /used the most exquisite perfume, and a lustre 'more bright than noon-day. The lady expect- ed her youthful lover in an inner apartment with impatience; when his servant, approaching with terror in his countenance, informed her, 196 CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. that his master was fallen into a fit which would certainly be mortal, unless the heart of a man lately dead could be obtained, and ap- plied to his breast. She scarcely waited to hear the end of his story, when tucking up her clothes, she ran with a mattock in her hand to the coffin where Choang lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead husband as a cure for the living. She therefore struck the lid with the utmost violence. In a few blows the coffin flew open, when the body, which to all appearance xiadbeen dead began to move. Terrified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, and Cboang walked out, astonished at his own situation, his wife's unusual magnificence, and her more amazing surprise. He went among the apartments, unable to conceive the cause of so much splendour. He was not long in suspense before his domestics informed him of every transaction since he first became insensible. He could scarcely believe what they told him, and went in pursuit of Hansi herself, in order to receive more certain in- formation, or to reproach her infidelity. But she prevented his reproaches : he found her weltering in blood ; for she had stabbed her- self to the heart, being unable to survive her shame and disappointment. Choang, being a philosopher, w r as too wise to make any loud lamentations : he thought it best to bear his loss with serenity ; so, mend- ing up the old coffin where he had lain himself, he placed his faithless spouse in his room ; and unwilling that so many nuptial preparations should be expended in vain, he the same night married the widow with the large fan. As they both were apprized of the foibles of each other before-hand, they knew how to ex- cuse them after marriage. They lived toge- ther for many years in great tranquillity, and not expecting rapture, made a shift to find content- ment. Farewell. LETTER XIX. TO THE SAME. THE gentleman dressed in black, who was my companion through Westminster-abbey, came yesterday to pay me a visit ; and, after drinking tea, we both resolved to take a walk together, in order to enjoy the freshness of the country, which now begins to resume its ver- dure. Before we get out of the suburbs, however, \\e were stopped in one of the streets by a crowd of people, gathered in a circle round a man and his wife, who seemed too loud and too angry to be understood. The people were highly pleased with the dispute, which, upon inquiry, we found to be between Dr Cacafogo, an apothecary, and his wife. The doctor, it seems coming unexpectedly into his wife's apartment found a gentleman there, in cir- cumstances not in the least equivocal. The doctor, who was a person of nice hon. our, resolving to revenge the flagrant insult, immediately flew to the chimney-piece, and taking down a rusty blunderbuss, drew the trigger upon the defiler of his bed : the delin- quent would certainly have been shot through the head, but that the piece had not been charg- ed for many years. The gallant made a shift to escape through the window, but the lady still remained ; and, as she well knew her husband's temper, undertook to manage the quarrel without a second. He was furious, and she loud ; their noise had gathered all the mob, who charitably assembled on the occa- sion, not to prevent, but to enjoy the quarrel. Alas ! said I to my companion, what will become of this unhappy creature thus caught in adultery? Believe me, I pity her from myheart ; her husband I suppose, will show her no mercy. Will they burn her as in India, or behead her as in Persia? Will they load her with stripes as in Turkey, or keep her in perpetual im- prisonment, as with us in China? Prithee, what is the wife's punishment in England for such offences ? When a lady is thus caught trip- ping, replied my companion, they never punish her, but the husband. You surely jest, inter- rupted I; I am a foreigner, arid you would abuse my ignorance ! I am really serious, re- turned he : Dr Cacafogo has caught his wife in the act ; but, as he had no witnesses, his small testimony goes for nothing : the conse- quence, therefore, of his discovery will be, that she will be packed off to live among her rela- tions, and the doctor will be obliged to allow her a separate maintenance. Amazing, cried I ; is it not enough that_ she is permitted to live separate from the object she detests, but must he give her money to keep her in spirits too ? That he must, said my guide, and be called a cuckold by all his neighbours into the bargain. The men will laugh at him, the ladies will pity him ; and all that his warmest friends can say in his favour will be, that the poor good soul has never had any harm in him. I want patience, interrupted I ; What ! are there no private chastisements for the wife ; no schools of penitence to show her folly ; no rods for such delinquents ? Pshaw, man, re plied he smiling, if every delinquent among us were to be treated in your manner, one half of the kingdom would flog the other. I must confess, my dear Fum, that if I were an English husband, of all things I would take care not to be jealous, nor busily pry into those secrets my wife was pleased to keep from me. Should I detect her infidelity, what is the consequence ? If I calmly pocket the abuse, I am laughed at by her and her gallant j If I talk my griefs aloud, like a tragedy hero, I am laughed at by the whole world. The course then I would take would, be, whenever I went out, to tell my wife where I was going, lest I should unexpectedly meet her abroad in com pany with some dear deceiver. Whenever I re- turned, I would use a peculiar rap at the door,and give four loud hems as I walked deliberately up the stair-case. I would never inquisitively CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 197 peep under her bed, or look behind tbe curtains. And even though I knew the captain was there, I would calmly take a dish of my wife's cool tea, and talk of the army with reverence. Of all nations, the Russians seem to me t behave most wisely in such circumstances. The wife promises her husband never to let him see her transgressions of this nature ; and he as punctually promises, whenever she is so detected, without the least anger, to beat her without mercy : so they both know what each has to expect ; the lady transgresses, is beaten, taken again into favour, and all goes on as before. When a Russian young lady, therefore, is to be married, her father, with a cudgel in his hand, asks the bridegroom, whether he chooses this virgin for his bride ? to which the other replies in the affirmative. Upon this, the father turning the lady three times round, and giving her three strokes with his cudgel on the back ; " My dear," cries he, "these are the last blows you are to receive from your tender father : I resign my authority, and my cudgel, to your husband ; he knows better than me the use of either." The bridegroom knows decorum too well to accept of the cudgel abruptly ; he as- sures the father that the lady will never want it, and that he would not. for the world, make any use of it : but the father, who knows what the lady may want better than he, insists upon his acceptance ; upon this there follows a scene of Russian politeness, while one refuses, and the other offers the cudgel. The whole, how- ever, ends with the bridegroom's taking it; upon which the lady drops a courtesy in token of obedience, and the ceremony proceeds as usual. There is something excessively fair and open in this method of courtship : by this both sides are prepared for all the matrimonial adventures that are to follow. Marriage has been com- pared to a game of skill for life : it is generous thus in both parties to declare they are sharp- ers in the beginning. In England, I am told, both sides use every art to conceal their defects from each other before marriage, and the rest of their lives may be regarded as doing penance for their former dissimulation. Farewell. LETTER XX. FROM THE SAME. THE Republic of Letters is a very com- mon expression among the Europeans ; and yet when applied to the learned of Europe, is the most absurd that can be imagined, since nothing is more unlike a republic, than the society which goes by that name. From this expression, one would be apt to imagine that the learned were united into a single body, joining their interests, and concurring in the same design. From this one might be apt to compare them to our literary societies in China, where each acknowledges a just subordination, and all contribute to build the temple of science, without attempting, from ignorance or envy, to obstruct each other. But very different is the state of learning here : every member of this fancied republic, is desirous of governing, and none willing to obey ; each looks upon his fellow as a rival, not an assistant in the same pursuit They calumniate, they injure, they despise, they ridicule each other ; if one man writes a book that pleases, others shall write books to show that he might have given still greater pleasure or should not have pleased. If one happened to hit upon something new, there are numbers ready to assure the public that all this was no novelty to them or the learned ; that Cardan- us or Bniims, or some other author too dull to be generally read had anticipated the dis- covery. Thus, instead of uniting like the members of a commonwealth, they are divid- ed into almost as many factions as there are men; and their jarring constitution, instead of being styled a republic of letters, should be en- titled an anarchy of literature. It is true, there are some of superior abili- ties who reverence and esteem each other; but their mutual admiration is not sufficient to shield off the contempt of the crowd. The wise are but few, and they praise with a feeble voice ; the vulgar are many, and roar in re- proaches. The truly great seldom unite in societies ; have few meetings, no cabals ; the dunces hunt in full cry, till they have run down a reputation, and then snarl and light with each other about dividing the spoil. Here you may see the compilers and the book- answerers of every month, when they have cut up some respectable name, most frequently reproaching each other with stupidity and dulness ; resem- bling the wolves of the Russian forest, who prey upon venison, or horse-flesh, when they can get it ; but in cases of necessity, lying in wait to devour each other. While they have new books to cut up, they make a hearty meal ; but if this resource should unhappily fail, then it is that critics eat up critics, and compilers rob from compilations. Confucius observes, that it is the duty of the learned to unite society more closely, and to persuade men to become citizens of the world ; but the authors I refer to, are not only for dis- uniting society but kingdoms also : If the Eng- lish are at war with France, the dunces of France think it their duty to be at war with those of England Thus Freron, one of their first-rate scribblers, thinks proper to character- ize all the English writers in the gross : " Their whole merit (says he) consists in exaggeration, and often in extravagance : correct their pieces as you please, there still remains a leaven which corrupts the whole. They sometimes discover genius, but not the smallest share of taste : England is not a soil for the plants of genius to thrive in." This is open enough, with not the least adulation in the picture : but 198 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. hear what a Frenchman of acknowledged abi- lities says upon the same subject : " I am at a loss to determine in what we excel the English, or where they excel us ; when I compare the me- rits of both in any one species of literary com- position so many reputable and pleasing writers present themselves from either country, that my judgment rests in suspense : I am pleased with the disquisition, without finding the object of my inquiry." But lest you should think the French alone are faulty in this respect, hear how an English journalist delivers his sentiments of them ; " We are amazed (says he) to find so many works translated from the French, while we have such numbers neglected of our own. In our opinion,notwithstanding their famethrough- out the rest of Europe, the French are the most contemptible reasoners (we had almost said writers) that can be imagined. However, nevertheless, excepting," &c. Another Eng- lish writer, Shaftesbury, if I remember, on the contrary, says that the French authors are pleasing and judicious, more clear, more methodical and entertaining, than those of his own country. From these opposite pictures, you perceive, that the good authors of either country praise, and the bad revile each other ; and yet, per- haps, you will be surprised that indifferent writers should thus be the most apt to censure, as they have the most to apprehend from re- crimination ; you may, perhaps, imagine, that such as are possessed of fame themselves, should be most ready to declare their opinions, since what they say might pass for decision. But the truth happens to be, that the great are solicitous only of raising their own reputa- tions, while the opposite class, alas ! are soli- citous of bringing every reputation down to a level with their own. But let us acquit them of malice and envy. A critic is often guided by.the same motives that direct his author : The author endeavours to persuade us, that he has written a good book ; the critic is equally solicitous to show that he could write a better, had he thought proper. A critic is a being possessed of all the vanity, but not the genius of a scholar ; incapable from his native weakness, of lifting himself from the ground, he applies to conti- guous merit for support ; makes the sportive sallies of another's imagination his serious employment : pretends to take our feelings under his care ; teaches where to condemn, where to lay the emphasis of praise ; and may with as much justice be called a man of taste, as the Chinese who measures his wisdom by the length of his nails. If then a book, spirited or humorous, hap- pens to appear in the republic of letters, several critics are in waiting to bid the public not to laugh at a single line of it ; for themselves had read it, and they know what is most proper to excite laughter. Other critics contradict the fulminations of this tribunal, call them all spiders, and assure the public, that they ought to laugh without restraint Another set are in the meantime quietly employed in writing notes to the book, intended to show the par- ticular passages to be laughed at : when these are out, others still there are who write notes upon notes : Thus a single new book employs not only the paper-makers, the printers, the pressmen, the book-binders, the hawkers, but twenty critics, and as many compilers. In short, the body of the learned may be com- pared to a Persian army, where there are many pioneers, several sutlers, numberless servants, women and children in abundance, and but few soldiers. Adieu. LETTER XXI. TO THE SAME. THE English are as fond of seeing piays acted as the Chinese -, but there is a vast dif- ference in the manner of conducting them. We play our pieces in the open air, the Eng- lish theirs under cover ; we act by daylight, they by the blaze of torches. One of our plays continues eight or ten days successively ; an English piece seldom takes up above four hours in the representation. My companion in black, with whom I am now beginning to contract an intimacy, intro- duced me a few nights ago to the play-house, where we placed ourselves conveniently at the foot of the stage. As the curtain was not drawn before my arrival, I had an opportunity of observing the behaviour of the spectators, and indulging those reflections which novelty generally inspires. The rich in general were placed in the lowest seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees proportioned to their poverty. The order of precedence seemed here inverted ; those who were undermost all the day, now enjoyed a temporary eminence, and became masters of the ceremonies. It was they who called for the music, indulging every noisy freedom, and testifying all the insolence of beggary in exaltation. They who held the middle region seemed not so riotous as those above them, nor yet so tame as those below : to judge by their looks, many of them seemed strangers there as well as myself ; they were chiefly employed, during this period of expectation, in eating oranges, reading the story of the play, or making as- signations. Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are called the pit, seemed to consider them- selves as judges of the merits of the poet and the performers ; they were assembled partly to be amused, and partly to show their taste ; ap- pearing to labour under that restraint which an affectation of superior discernment generally produces. My companion, however, informed me, that not one in a hundred of them knew CITIZEN" OF THE "WOELD. 199 even the first principles of criticism : that they assumed the right of being censors because there was none to contradict their pretensions ; and that every man who now called himself a Connoisseur, became such to all intents and purposes. Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the most unhappy situation of all. The rest of the audience came merely for their own amuse- ment ; these, rather to furnish out a part of the entertainment themselves. I could not avoid considering them as acting parts in dumb show not a courtesy or a nod, that was not the result of art ; not a look nor a smile that was not de- signed for murder. Gentlemen and ladies ogled each other through spectacles; for my com- panion observed, that blindness was of late be- come fashionable; all affected indifference and ease, while their heartsat the same time burn- ed for conquest. Upon the whole, the lights, the music, the ladies in their gayest dresses, the men with cheerfulness and expectation in their looks, all conspired to make a most agree- able picture, and to fill a heart that sympathi- zes at human happiness with inexpressible se- renity. The expected time for the play to begin at last arrived ; the curtain was drawn, and the actors came on. A woman, who personated a queen, came in courtesying to the audience, who clapped their hands upon her appearance. Clapp- ing of hands is, it seems, the manner of applaud- ing in England ; the manner is absurd, but every country you know has its peculiar absurdi- ties. I was equally surprised, however, at the submission of the actress, who should have con- sidered herself as a queen, as at the little dis- cernment of the audience who gave her such marks of applause before she attempted to de- serve them. Preliminaries between her and the audience being thus adjusted, the dialogue was supported between her and a most hope- ful youth, who acted the part of her confidant. They both appeared in extreme distress, for it seems the queen had lost a child some fifteen years before, and still keeps its dear resem- blance next to her heart, while her kind com- panion bore a part in her sorrows. Her lamentations grew loud ; comfort is of- fered, but she detests the very sound ; she bids them preach comfort to the winds. Upon this her husband comes in, who, seeing the queen so much afflicted, can himself hardly refrain from tears, or avoid partaking in the soft dis- tress. After thus grieving through three scenes, the curtain dropped for the first act. Truly, said 1 to my companion, these kings and queens are very much disturbed at no very great misfortune : certain I am, were people of hum- bler stations to act in this manner, they would be thought divested of common sense. I had scarcely finished this observation, when the curtain rose, and the king came on in a violent passion. His wife had, it seems, refused his proffered tenderness, had spurned his royal em. brace ; and he seemed resolved riot to survive her fierce disdain. After he had thus fretted, and the queen had fretted through the second act, the curtain was let down once more. Now, says my companion, you perceive the king to be a man of spirit ; he feels at every pore ; one of your phlegmatic sons of clay would have given the queen her own way, and let her come to herself by degrees ; but the king is for immediate tenderness, or instant death : death and tenderness are leading passions of every modern buskined hero ; this moment they em- brace, and the next stab, mixing daggers and kisses in every period. , r I was going to second his remarks, when my attention was engrossed by a new object : a man came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the audience were clapping their hands in all the raptures of applause. To what purpose, cried I, does this unmeaning figure make his appearance ? is he a part of the plot ? Unmean- ing, do you call him ? replied my friend in black ; this is one of the most important characters of the whole play ; nothing pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced: there is a great deal of meaning in the straw ; there is something suited to every apprehension in the sight ; and a fellow possessed of talents like these is sure of making his fortune. The third act now began with an actor who came to inform us that he was the villain of the play, and intended to show strange things before all was over. He was joined by an- other, who seemed as much disposed for mischief as he ; their intrigues continued through this whole division. If that be a villain, said I, he must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets without being asked ; such soliloquies of late are never admitted in China. The noise of clapping interrupted me once more ; a child of six years old was learning to dance on the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarines infinite satisfaction. I am sorry, said I, to see the pretty creature so early learn- ing so bad a trade; dancing being, I presume, as contemptible here as in China. Quite the re- verse, interrupted my companion ? dancing is a very reputable and genteel employment here ; men have a greater chance for encouragement from the merit of their heels than their heads. One who jumps up and flourishes his toes three times before he comes to the ground, may have three hundred a-year ; he who flourishes them four times, gets four hundred j but he who ar- rives at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary he thinks proper. The female dan. cers, too, are valued for this sort of jumping and crossing ; and it is a cant word among them, that she deserves most who shows highest. But the fourth act is begun; let us be attentive. In the fourth act the queen finds her long- lost child, now grown up into a youth of smart parts and great qualifications ; wherefore she wisely considers that the crown will fit his head better than that of her husband whom she knows to be a driveller. The king discovers her design, and here comes on the deep dis- 200 CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. tress : he loves the queen, and he loves the kingdom ; he resolves, therefore, in order to possess both, that her son must die. The queen exclaims at his barbarity, is frantic with rage, and at length, overcome with sorrow, falls into a fit ; upon which the curtain drops, and the act is concluded. Observe the art of the poet, cries my com- panion. When the queen can say no more, she falls into a fit. While thus her eyes are shut, while she is supported in the arms of her Abigail, what horrors do we not fancy ! We feel it in every nerve : take my word for it, that fits are the true aposiopesis of modem tragedy. The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs hallooing, carpets spreading, guards bustling from one door to another : gods, demons, dag- gers, racks, and ratsbane. But whether the king was killed, or the queen was drowned, or the eon was poisoned, I have absolutely forgot- ten. When the play was over, I could not avoid observing, that the persons of the drama ap- peared in as much distress in the first act as the last : How is it possible, said I, to sym- pathize with them through five long acts ! Pity is but a short-lived passion ; I hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles ; neither start- ings, strainings, nor attitudes affect me, unless there be cause : after I have been once or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, my heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by the principal distress. There should be one great passion aimed at by the actor as well as the poet ; all the rest should be subordinate, and only contribute to make that the greater ; if the actor, therefore, exclaims upon every oc- casion in the tones of despair, he attempts to move us too soon ; he anticipates the blow, he ceases to affect, though he gains our applause. I scarcely perceived that the audience were almost all departed ; wherefore mixing with the crowd, my companion and I got into the street; where, essaying a hundred obstacles from coach-wheels and palanquin poles, like birds in their flight through the branches of a forest, after various turnings we both at length got home in safety. Adieu. LETTER XXII. TO THE SAME. THE letter which came by the way of Smyrna, and which you sent me unopened, was from my son. As I have permitted you to take copies of all those I sent to China, you might have made no ceremony in opening those directed to me. Either in joy or sorrow, my friend should participate in my feelings. It would give pleasure to see a good man pleased at my success j it would give almost equal pleasure to see him sympathize at my disappointment. Every account I receive from the East seems to come loaded with some new affliction. My wife and daughter were taken from me, and yet I sustained the loss with intrepidity ; my son is made a slave among the barbarians, which was the only blow that could have reached my heart : yes, I will indulge the transports of nature for a little, in order to show I can overcome them in the end. True magnanimity consists not in never fulling, but in rising every time we fall. When our mighty emperor had published his displeasure at my departure, and seized upon all that was mine, my son was privately secreted from his resentment. Under the protection and guardianship of Fum Hoam, the best and the wisest of all the inhabitants of China, he was for some time instructed in the learning of the missionaries, and the wis- dom of the East. But hearing of my adven- tures, and incited by filial piety, he was re- solved to follow my fortunes, and share my distress. He passed the confines of China in disguise,, hired himself as a camel-driver to a caravan that was crossing the deserts of Thibet, and was within one day's journey of the river Laur, which divides that country from India, when a body of wandering Tartars falling unexpectedly upon the caravan, plundered it, and made those who escaped their first fury slaves. By those he was led into the extensive and deso- late regions that border on the .shores of the Aral lake. Here he lived by hunting ; and was obliged to supply every day, a certain proportion of the spoil, to regale his savage masters. His learning, his virtues, arid even his beauty, were qualifications that no way served to recom- mend him ; they knew no merit, but that of providing large quantities of milk and raw flesh ; and were sensible of no happiness but that of rioting on the undressed meal. Some merchants from Mesched, however, coming to trade with the Tartars for slaves, he was sold among the number, and led into the kingdom of Persia, where he is now de- tained. He is there obliged to watch the looks of a voluptuous and cruel master, a man fond of pleasure, yet incapable of refinement, whom many years' service in war has taught pride, but not bravery. That treasure which I still keep within my bosom, my child, my all that was left to me, is now a slave.* Good Heavens, why was this ? Why have I been introduced into this mortal apartment, to be a spectator of my own misfortunes, and the misfortunes of my fellow- creatures ? Wherever I turn, what a labyrinth of doubt, error, and disappointment appears ! Why was I brought into being ; for what pur- * This whole apostrophe seems almost literally tauis. lated from Ambulaa/Oiampd, tke Arabian poet. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 201 poses made ; from whence have I come ; whither strayed ; or to what regions am I has- tening ? Reason cannot resolve. It lends a ray to show the horrors of my prison, but not a light to guide me to escape them. Ye boasted revelations of the earth, how little do you aiJ the inquiry I How am I surprised at the inconsistency of the magi ! their two principles of good and evil affright me. The Indian who bathes his visage in urine, and calls it piety, strikes me with astonishment. The Christian who believes in three Gods is highly absurd. The Jews, who pretend that deity is pleased with the effusion of blood, are not less displeasing. I am equally surprised, that rational beings can come from the extremities of the earth, in order to kiss a stone, or scatter pebbles. How contrary to reason are those ; and yet all pretend to teach me to be happy. Surely all men are blind and ignorant of truth. Mankind wanders, unknowing his way, from morning till evening. Where shall we turn after happiness ; or is it wisest to desist from the pursuit ? Like reptiles in a corner of some stupendous palace, we peep from our holes, look about us, wonder at all we see but are ignorant of the great architect's design. O tor a revelation of himself, for a plan of his universal system ! O for the reasons of our creation ; or why were we created to be thus unhappy ! If we are to experience no other felicity but what this life affords, then are we miserable indeed ; if we are born only to look about us, repine and die, then has Heaven been guilty of injustice. If this life terminates my existence, I despise the blessings of Pro- vidence, and the wisdom of the giver : If this life be my all, let the following epitaph be written on the tomb of Altangi: " 13 y my father's crimes I received this ; by my own crimes I bequeath it to posterity !" LETTER XXIIL TO THE SAME. YET, while 1 sometimes lament the case of humanity, and the depravity of human nature, there now and then appear gleams of greatness that serve to relieve the eye oppressed with the hideous prospect, and resemble those cul- tivated spots that are sometimes found in the midst of an Asiatic wilderness. I see many superior excellencies among the English, which kis not in the power of all their follies to hide : I see virtues, which in other countries are known only to a few, practised here by every rank of people. I know not whether it proceeds from their superior opulence that the English are more charitable than the rest of mankind ; whether by being possessed of all the convenjencies of life themselves, they have more leisure to per. ceive the uneasy situation of the distressed ; whatever be the motive, they are not only the most charitable of any other nation, but most judicious in distinguishing the properest objects of compassion. In other countries, the giver is generally in- fluenced by the immediate impulse of pity ; his generosity is exerted as much to relieve his own uneasy sensations, as to comfort the ob- ject in distress. In England, benefactions are of a more general nature. Some men ot fortune and universal benevolence, propose the proper objects ; the wants ana the merits of the petitioners are canvassed by the people ; neither passion nor pity find a place in the cool discussion ; and charity is then only exerted when it has received the approbation of reason. A late instance of this finely directed be- nevolence forces itself so strongly on my im- agination, that it in a manner reconciles me to pleasure, and once more makes me the univer- sal friend of man. The English and French have not only poli- tical reasons to induce them to mutual hatred, but often the more prevailing motive of private interest to widen the breach. A war between other countries is carried on collectively ; army fights against army,and a man's own private re. sentment is lost in that of the community : but in England and France, the individuals of each country plunder each other at sea without re- dress, and consequently feel that animosity against each other which passengers do at a robber. They have for some time carried on an expensive war; and several captives have been taken on both sides : those made prison ers by the French have been used with cruelty, and guarded with unnecessary caution ; those taken by the English being much more nu- merous, were confined in the ordinary manner ; and not being released by their countrymen, began to feel all those iriconveniencies which arise from want of covering and long confine- ment. Their countrymen were informed of their deplorable situation ; but they, more intent on annoying their enemies than relieving their friends, refused the least assistance. The English now saw thousands of their fellow- creatures starving in every prison, forsaken by those whose duty it was to protect them, la- bouring with disease, and without clothes to keep off the severity ofthe season. National be. nevolence prevailed over national animosity ; their prisoners were indeed enemies, but they were enemies in distress ; they ceased to be hate- ful, when they no longer continued to be formi- dable : forgetting, therefore, their national hatred the men who were brave enough to conquer, were generous enough to forgive ; and they whom all the world seemed to have disclaimed, at last found pity and redress from those they attempted to subdue. A subscription was open- ed, ample charities collected, proper necessaries 202 CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. procured, and the poor gay sons of a merry na- tion were once more taught to resume their former gaiety. When I cast my eye over the list of those who contributed on this occasion, I find the the names almost entirely English ; scarcely one foreigner appears among the number. It ivas for Englishmen alone to be capable of such exalted virtue. Io\vn, I cannot look over this ca- talogue of good men and philosophers, without thinking better of myself, because it makes me entertain a more favourable opinion of man- kind. I am particularly struck with one who writes these words upon the paper that inclo- sed his benefaction : " the mite of an English- man, a citizen of the world, to Frenchmen pri- saners of war, and naked." I only wish that he may find as much pleasure from his virtues, as I have done in reflecting upon them : that alone will amply reward him. Such a one, my friend, is an honour to human nature; lie makes no private distinctions of party ; all that are stamped with the divine image of their Crea- tor, are friends to him : he is a native of the world ; and the Emperor of China may be J proud that he has such a countryman. To rejoice at the destruction of our enemies, is a foible grafted upon human nature, and we must be permitted to indulge it : the true way of atoning for such an ill-founded pleasure, is thus to turn our triumph into an act of bene- volence, and to testify our own joy by endea- vouring to banish anxiety from others. Hamti, the best and wisest Emperor that ever filled the throne, after having gained three signal victories over the Tartars, who had invaded his dominions, returned to Nankin in order to en- joy the glory of his conquest. After he had rested for some days, the people, who are natur- ally fond of processions, impatiently expect- ed the triumphant entry, which emperors upon Buch occasions were accustomed to make : their murmurs came to the emperor's ear; he loved his people, and was willing to do all in his power to satisfy their just desires. He there- fore assured them, that he intended, upon the next feast of the Lanthorns, to exhibit one of the most glorious triumphs that had ever been seen in China. The people were in raptures at his condescen- sion ; and, on the appointed day, assembled at the gates of the palace with the most eager ex- pectations. Here they waited for some time, rt'ithout seeing any of those preparations which usually precede a pageant. The lanthorn, with ten thousand tapers, was not yet brought forth ; the fireworks, which usually covered the city tvalls, were riot yet lighted : the people once more began to murmur at this delay, when, in the midst of their impatience, the palace-gates flew open, and the emperor himself appeared, aot in splendour or magnificence, but in an or- dinary habit, followed by the blind the maim- ed, and the strangers of the city, all in new clothes, and each carrying in his hand money enough to supply his necessities for the year. The people were at first amazed, but soon perceived the wisdom of their king, who taught them, that to make one man happy, was more truly great, than having ten thousand cap- tives groaning at the wheels of his chariot. Adieu. LETTER XXIV. TO THE SAME. WHATEVER may be the merits of the English in other sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of healing. There is scarcely a dis- order incident to humanity, against which they are not possessed with a most infallible anti- dote. The professors of other arts confess the inevitable intricacy of things ; talk with doubt, and decide with hesitation : but doubting is en- tirely unknown in medicine ; the advertising professors here delight in cases of difficulty : be the disorder ever so desperate or radical you will find numbers in every street, who, by levelling a pill at the part affected, promise a certain cure, without loss of time, knowledge of a bed fellow, or hinderance of business. When I consider the assiduity of this pro- fession, their benevolence amazes me. They not only in general give their medicines for half value, but use the most persuasive remonstran- ces to induce the sick to come and be cured. Sure, there must be something strangely ob- stinate in an English patient, who refuses so much health upon such easy terms : Does he take a pride in being bloated with a dropsy ? does he find pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever? or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as he founu pleasure in acquiring it ? He must, otherwise he would never reject such repeated assurances of instant relief. What can be more convincing than the manner in which the sick are invited to be well ? The doctor first begs the most earnest attention of the public to what he is going to propose ; he solemnly affirms the pill was never found to want success : he produces a list of those who have been rescued from the grave by taking it : Yet, notwithstanding all this, there are many here who now and then think proper to be sick. Only sick, did I say ? there are some who even think proper to die ! Yes, by the head of Confucius ! they die ; though they might have purchased the health-restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner. I am amazed, my dear Fum Hoam, that these doctors, who know what an obstinate set of people they have to deal with, have never thought of attempting to revive the dead. When the living are found to reject their pre- scriptions, they ought in conscience to apply to the dead, from whom they can expect nc such mortifying repulses ; they would find m the dead the most complying patients imagina- ble : and what gratitude might they not expect CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 203 from the patients son, now no longer an heir, Mid his wife, now no longer a widow ! Think not, my friend, that there is anything chimerical in such an attempt ; they already perform cures equally strange. What can be more truly astonishing, than to see old age re- stored to youth, and vigour to the most feeble constitutions ? Yet this is performed here every day ; a simple electuary effects these wonders, even without the bungling ceremo- nies of having the patient boiled up in a ket- tle, or ground down in a mill. Few physicians here go through the ordinary courses of education, but receive all their know- ledge of medicine by immediate inspiration from Heaven. Some are thus inspired even in the womb : and, what is very remarkable, understand their profession as well at three years old, as at threescore. Others have spent a great part of their lives unconscious of any latent excellence, till a bankruptcy, or a residence in jail, have called their miraculous powers into exertion. And others still there are, indebted to their superlative ignorance alone for success ; the more ignorant the prac- titioner, the less capable is he thought of de- ceiving. The people here judge as they do in the East ; where it is thought absolutely re- quisite that a man should be an idiot, before \ie pretend to be either a conjurer or a doctor. When a physician by inspiration is sent for, *ae never perplexes the patient by previous ex- amination ; he asks very few questions, and those only for form's sake. He knows every disorder by intuition ; he administers the pill or drop for every distemper ; nor is more in- quisitive than the farrier while he drenches a horse. If the patient lives, then has he one more to add to the surviving lists ; if he. dies, then it may be justly said of the patient's dis- order, " that as it was not cured, the disorder was incurable." LETTER XXV. FROM THE SAME. I WAS some days ago in company with a politican, who very pathetically declaimed upon the miserable situation of his country : he as- sured me, that the whole political machine was moving in a wrong track, and that scarcely even abilities like his own could ever set it right again. " What have we," said he, " to do with the wars on the continent ? we are a commercial nation ; we have only to cultivate commerce, like our neighbours the Dutch ; it is our business to increase trade by settling new colonies ; riches are the strength of a nation ; nd for the rest, our ships, our ships alone will protect us." I found it vain to oppose my fee- ble arguments to those of a man who thought himself wise enough to direct even the minis- try. I fancied, howe ver, that I saw with more certainty, because I reasoned without prejudice* I therefore begged leave, instead of argument, to relate a short history. He gave me a smile at once of condescension and contempt ; and I proceeded as follows, to describe THE RISE AND DECLENSION OF THE KINGDOM OP LAO. Northward of China, and in one of the dou- blings of the great wall, the fruitful province of Lao enjoyed its liberty, and a peculiar go- vernment of its own. As the inhabitants were on all sides surrounded by the wall, they fear- ed no sudden invasion from the Tartars ; and being each possessed of property, they were zealous in its defence. The natural consequences of security and affluence in any country, is a love of pleasure ; when the wants of nature are supplied, we seek after the conveniences ; when possessed of these, we desire the luxuries of life ; and when every luxury is provided, it is then ambition takes up the man, and leaves him still some- thing to wish for ; the inhabitants of the coun- try, from primitive simplicity, soon began to aim at elegance, and from elegance proceeded to refinement. It was now found absolutely requisite, for the good of the state, that the people should be divided. Formerly, the same hand that was employed in tilling the ground, or in dressing up the manufactures, was also in time of need a soldier ; but the custom was now changed ; for it was perceived, that a man bred up from childhood to the arts of either peace or war, became more eminent by this means in his respective profession. The in- habitants were, therefore, now distinguished into artisans and soldiers ; and while those im- proved the luxuries of life, these watched for the security of the people. A country possessed of freedom has always two sorts of enemies to fear ; foreign foes, who attack its existence from without, and internal miscreants, who betray its liberties within. The innabitants of Lao were to guard against both. A country of artisans were most like- ly to preserve internal liberty ; and a nation of soldiers were fittest to repel a foreign inva- sion. Hence naturally rose a division of opin- ion between the artisans and soldiers of the kingdom. The artisans, ever complaining that freedom was threatened by an armed in- ternal force, were for disbanding the soldiers, and insisted that their walls, their walls alone, were sufficient to repel the most formidable in- vasion ; the warriors, on the contrary, repre- sented the power of the neighbouring kings, the combinations formed against their state, and the weakness of the wall, which every earthquake might overturn. While this alter* cation continued, the kingdom might be justly said to enjoy its greatest'share of vigour : every order in the state, by being watchful over each other, contributed to diffuse happiness equally, and balanced the state. The arts of peace flourished, nor were those of war neglected : the neighbouring powers, who had nothing to apprehend from the ambition of men whom they 204 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD only saw solicitous, not for riches, but freedom, were contented to traffic with them ; they sent their goods to be manufactured in Lao, and paid a large price for them upon their re- turn. By these means, this people at length be- came moderately rich, and their opulence na- turally invited the invader : a Tartar prince led an immense army against them, and they as bravely stood up in their own defence ; they were still inspired with a love of their country ; they fought the barbarous enemy with forti- tude, and gained a complete victory. From this moment, which they regarded as the completion of their glory, historians date their downfall. They had risen in strength by a love of their country, and fell by indulging ambition. The country possessed by the in- vading Tartars, seemed to them a prize that would not only render them more formidable for the future, but which would increase their opulence for the present; it was unanimously resolved, therefore, both by soldiers and arti- sans, that those desolate regions should be peo- pled by colonies from Lao. When a trading nation begins to act the conqueror, it is then perfectly undone : It subsists in some measure by the support of its neighbours : while they continue to regard^it without envy or appre- hension, trade may flourish ; but when once it presumes to assert as its right what is only en- joyed as a favour, each country reclaims that part of commerce which it has power to take back, and turns it into some other channel more honourable, though perhaps less conve- nient. Every neighbour now began to regard with jealous eyes this ambitious commonwealth, and forbade their subjects any future intercourse with them. The inhabitants of Lao, however, still pursued the same ambitious maxims ; it was from their colonies alone they expected riches; and riches, said they, are strength, and strength is security. Numberless were the mi- grations of the desperate and enterprising of this country, to people the desolate dominions lately possessed by the Tartar. Between these colonies and the mother-country, a very advantageous traffic was at first carried on : the republic sent their colonies large quantities of the manufac- tures of the country, and they in return provided the republic with an equivalent in ivory and gingsen. By this means the inhabitants be- came immensely rich, and this produced an equal degree of voluptuousness ; for men who have much money will always find some fati- astical modes of enjoyment. How shall I mark the steps by which they declined? Every colony in process of time spreads over the whole country where it first was planted. As it grows more populous it becomes more polite; and ihose manufactures for which it was in the beginning obliged to others, it learns to dress up itself Such was the case with the colonies of Lao ; they, in less than a century, became a I it is true, are tinctured with some strange in- powerful and a polite people, and the moie polite they grew, the less advantageous waf the commerce which still subsisted between them and others. By this means the mother- country being abridged in its commerce, grew poorer but not less luxurious. Their former wealth had introduced luxury ; and wherever luxury once fixes, no art can either lessen or remove it. Their commerce with their neigh- bours was totally destroyed, and that with their colonies was every day naturally and necessarily declining; they still, however, preserved the insoles e of wealth, without a power to sup- port it, and persevered in being luxurious, while contemptible from poverty. In short, the state resembles one of those bodies bloated with disease, whose bulk is only a symptom of its wretchedness. Their former opulence only rendered them more impotent, as those individuals who are re- duced from riches to poverty, are of all men the most unfortunate and helpless. They had imagined, because their colonies tended to make them rich upon the first acquisition, they would still continue to do so ; they now found, how- ever, that on themselves alone they should have depended for support; that colonies ever af- forded but temporary affluence ; and when cul- tivated and polite, are no longer useful. From such a concurrence of circumstances they soon became contemptible. The Emperor Honti invaded them with a powerful army. Histo- rians do not say whether their colonies were too remote to lend assistance, or else were desirous of shaking off their dependence ; but certain it is, they scarcely made any resistance : their walls were now found but a weak defence, and they at length were obliged to acknowledge subjection to the empire of China. Happy, very happy might they have been, had they known when to bound their riches and their glory : had they known that extend- ing empire is often diminishing power ; that countries are ever strongest which are internal- ly powerful ; that colonies, by draining away the brave and enterprising, leave the country in the hands of the timid and avaricious ; that walls gave little protection, unless manned with resolution ; that too much commerce may injure a nation as well as too little ; and that there is a wide difference between a conquering and a flourishing empire. Adieu, LETTER XXVI. TO THE SAME. THOUGH fond of many acquaintances, I de- sire an intimacy only with a few. The man in black whom I have often mentioned, is ona whose friendship I could wish to acquire, be- cause he possesses my esteem. His manners, CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. 205 consistencies ; and he may be justly termed a humorist in a nation of humorists. Though he is generous even to profusion, he affects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and pru- [ dence ; though his conversation be replete with 1 the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart i is dilated with the most unbounded love. I 1 have known him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek was glowing with compassion ; and, while his looks were softened into pity, I have heard him use the language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of having such dispositions from nature ; but he is the only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal his indifference ; but on every un- guarded moment the mask drops off, and re- veals him to the most superficial observer. In one of our late excursions into the coun- try, happening to discourse upon the provision that was made for the poor in England, he seemed amazed how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly weak as to relieve oc- casional objects of charity, when the laws had made such ample provision for their support. In every parish-house, says he, the poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and a bed to lie on ; they want no more, I desire no more myself; yet still they seem discontented. I am surprised at the inactivity of our magis- trates, in not taking up such vagrants, who are only a weight upon the industrious : I am surprised that the people are found to relieve them, when they must be at the same time sensible that it, in some measure, encourages idleness, extravagance, and imposture. Were I to advise any man for whom I had the least re- gard, I would caution him by all means not to be imposed upon by their false pretences : let me assure you, Sir, they are impostors, every one of them, and rather merit a prison than relief. He was proceeding in this strain earnestly, to dissuade me from an imprudence of which I am seldom guilty, when an old man, who still had about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored our compassion. He assured us that he was no common beggar, but forced into the shameful profession, to support a dying wife, and five hungry children. Being prepos- sessed against such falsehoods, his story had not the least influence upon me : but it was quite otherwise with the man in black : I could see it visibly operate upon his countenance, and effectually interrupt his harangue. I could easily perceive, that his heart burned to relieve the five starving children, but he seemed ashamed to discover his weakness to me. While he thus hesitated between compassion and pride, I pretended to look another way, and he seized this opportunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidding him, at the same time, in order that I should not hear, go work for his bread, and not tease pas- sengers with such impertinent falsehoods for the future. As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, he continued, as he proceeded, to rail against beggars with as much animosity as before ; he threw in some episodes on his own amazing prudence and economy, with his profound skill in discovering impostors ; he explained the manner in which he would deal with beggars were he a magistrate, hinted at enlarging some of the prisons for their reception, and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by beggar- men. He was beginning a third to the same purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once more crossed our walks, desiring our pity, and blessing our limbs. I was for going on with- out taking any notice, but my friend looking wishfully upon the poor petitioner, bid me stop, arid he would show me with how much ease he could at any time detect an impostor. He now therefore assumed a look of im- portance, and in an angry tone began to ex- amine the sailor, demanding in what en- gagement he was thus disabled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor replied, in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been an officer on board a private ship of war, and that he had lost his leg abroad, in defence of those who did nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's importance vanished in a moment ; he had not a single question more to ask ; he now only studied what method he should take to relieve him unobserved. He had, however, no easy part to act, as he was obliged to pre- serve the appearance of ill-nature before me, and yet relieve himself by relieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a look upon some bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a string at his back, my friend demanded how he sold his matches : but, not waiting for a reply, de- sired in a surly tone to have a shilling's worth. The sailor seemed at first surprised at his de- mand, but soon recollected himself, and pre- i seuted his whole bundle, " Here, master," says he, " take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bargain." It is impossible to describe with what an air of triumph my friend marched off with his new purchase ; he assured me, that he was firmly of opinion that those fellows must have stolen their goods, who could thus afford to sell them at half value. He informed me of several different uses to which those chips might be ap- plied ; he expatiated largely upon the sayings that would result from lighting candles with a match, instead of thrusting them into the fire. He averred, that he would as soon have parted with a tooth as his money to those vagabonds, unless for some valuable consideration. I can- not tell you how long this panegyric upon fru- gality and matches might have continued, had not his attention been called off by another ob- ject more distressful than either of the former. A woman in rags, with one child in her arms, and another on her back, was attempting to 20G CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. sing ballads, but with such a mournful voice, that it was difficult to determine whether she was singing or crying. A wretch, who in the deepest distress still aimed at good-humour, was an object my friend was by no means capable of withstanding : his vivacity and his discourse were instantly interrupted ; upon this occasion, his very dissimulation had forsaken him. Even in my presence he immediately applied his hands to his pockets, in order to relieve her ; but guess his confusion when he found he had already given away all the money he carried about him to former objects. The misery painted in the woman's visage was not half so strongly express- ed as the agony in his. He continued to search for some time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting himself, with a face of ineffable good nature, as he had no money, he put into her hands his shilling's worth of matches ' LETTER XXVI. TO THE SAME. As there appeared something reluctantly good in the character of my companion, I must own it surprised me what could be his motives for thus concealing virtues which others take such pains to display. I was unable to repress my desire of knowing the history of a man who thus seemed to act under continual restraint, and whose benevolence was rather the effect of appetite than reason. It was not, however, till after repeated soli- citations he thought proper to gratify my curi- osity, " If you are fond," says he, " of hearing hair-breadth escapes, my history must certainly please ; for I have been for twenty years upon the very verge of starving, without ever being starved. " My father, the younger son of a good fa- mily, was possessed of a small living in the church. His education was above his fortune, and his generosity greater than his educa- tion. Poor as he was, he had his flatterers still poorer than himself; for every dinner he gave, they returned an equivalent in praise, and this was all he wanted. The same ambition that actuates a monarch at the head of an army, influenced my father at the head of bistable; he told the story of the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at; he repeated the jest of the two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the company laughed at that ; but the story of Taffy in the sedan-chair, was sure to set the table in a roar : thus his pleasure increased in propor- tion to the pleasure he gave ; he loved all the world, and he fancied all the world loved him. " As his fortune was but small, he lived up to the very extent of it ; he had no intentions of leaving his children money, for that was dross ; lie was resolved they should have learning ; for learning, he used to observe, was better than silver or gold. For this purpose, he under- took to instruct us himself; and took as much pains to form our morals, as to improve oui understanding. We were told, that universal benevolence was what first cemented society ; we were taught to consider all the wants of mankind as our own ; to regard the human face divine with affection and esteem ; he wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us incapable of withstanding the slightest im- pulse made either by real or fictitious distress ; in a word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving away thousands, before we were taught the more necessary qualifications of getting a farthing. " I cannot avoid imagining, that thus refined by his lessons out of all my suspicion, and di- vested even of all the little cunning which nature had given me, I resembled, upon my first en- trance into the busy and insidious world, one of those gladiators who were exposed without armour in the Amphitheatre at Rome. My father, however, who had only seen the world on one side, seemed to triumph in my superior discernment ; though my whole stock of wis- dom consisted in being able to talk like himself upon subjects that once were useful, because they were then topics of the busy world, but that now were utterly useless, because connect- ed with the busy world no longer. " The first opportunity he had of finding his expectations disappointed, was in the very middling figure I made in the university ; he had flattered himself that he should soon see me rising into the foremost rank in literary reputation, but was mortified to find me utterly unnoticed and unknown. His disappointment might have been partly ascribed to his having overrated my talents, and partly to my dislike of mathematical reasonings, at a time when my imagination and memory, yet unsatisfied, were more eager after new objects, than desirous of reasoning upon those I knew. This did not, however, please my tutor, who observed, indeed, that I was a little dull ; but at the same time allowed, that Iseemedto be very good-natured, and had no harm in me. " After I had resided at college seven years, my father died, and left me his blessing. Thus shoved from shore without ill-nature to protect, or cunning to guide, or proper stores to subsist me in so dangerous a voyage, I was obliged to embark in the wide world at twen- ty-two. But, in order to settle in life, my friends advised, (for they always advise when they begin to despise us,) they advised me, J say, to go into orders. " To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked a short one, or a black coat, when I generally dressed in brown, I thought was such a restraint upon my liberty, that I absolutely rejected the proposal. A priest in England is not the same mortified creature with a bonze in China : with us, not he that fasts best, but eats best, is reckoned the best liver ; yet I re. jected a life of luxury, indolence, arid ease, from no other consideration but that boyish one of dress. So that my friends were now CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 207 perfectly satisfied I was undone ; and yet they thought it a pity for one who had not the least harm in him, and was so very good-natured. " Poverty naturally begets dependence, and I was admitted as flatterer to a great ma,. At first I was surprised, that the situation of a flatterer at a great man's table could be thought disagreeable : there was no great trouble in listening attentively when his lordship spoke, and laughing when he looked round for ap- plause. This even good manners might have obliged me to perform. I found, however, too soon, that his lordship was a greater dunce than myself; and from that very moment flattery was at an end. I now rather aimed at setting him right, than at receiving his absurdities with submission : to flatter those we do not know is an easy task ; but to flatter our inti- mate acquaintances, all whose foibles are strong- ly in our eye, is drudgery insupportable. Every time I now opened my lips in praise, Qiy falsehood went to my conscience ; his lordship soon perceived me to be very unfit for service ; I was therefore discharged ; my pa- tron at the same time being graciously pleased to observe, that he believed I was tolerably good, natured, and had not the least barm in me. " Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse to love. A young, lady, who lived with her aunt, and was possessed of a pretty fortune in her own disposal, had given me, as I fancied, some reason to expect success. The symp- toms by which I was guided were striking. She had always laughed with me at her awk- ward acquaintance, and at her aunt among the number ; she always observed, that a man of sense would make a better husband than a fool, and I as constantly applied the observation in my own favour. She continually talked, in my company, of friendship and the beauties of the mind, and spoke of Mr Shrimp my rival's high-heeled shoes with detestation. These were circumstances which I thought strongly in my favour ; so, after resolving, and re-re- solving, I had courage enough to tell her my mind. Miss heard my proposal with serenity, seeming at the same time to study the figures of her fan. Out at last it came : There was but one small objection to complete our hap- piness, which was no more than that she was married three months before to Mr Shrimp, with high-heeled shoes ! By way of consola- tion, however, she observed, that, though I was disappointed in her, my addresses to her aunt would probably kindle her into sensibility; as the old lady always allowed me to be very good-natured, and not to have the least share of harm in me. " Yet still I had friends, numerous friends, and to them I was resolved to apply. O Friendship ! thou fond soother of the human breast, to thee we fly in every calamity ; to thee the wretched seek for succour ; on thee the care-tired son of misery fondly relies ; for thy land assistance the unfortunate always hopes relief, and may be ever sure of disappoint- ment ! My first application was to a city- scrivener, who had frequently offered to lend me money, when he knew I did not want it. I informed him, that now was the time to put his friendship to the test; that I wanted to borrow a couple of hundreds for a certain oc- casion, and was resolved to take it up from him. And pray, Sir, cried my friend, do you want all this money ? Indeed I never wanted it more, returned I. I am sorry for that, cries the scrivener, with all my heart ; for they who want money when they come to borrow, will always want money when they should come to pay. " From him I flew with indignation to one of the best friends I had in the world, and made the same request Indeed, Mr Dry- bone, cries my friend, I always though it would come to this. You know, Sir, 1 would riot advise you but for your good ; but your con- duct has hitherto been ridiculous in the highest degree, and some of your acquaintance always thought you a very silly fellow. Let me see, you want two hundred pounds. Do you only want two hundred, Sir, exactly ? To confess a truth, returned I, I shall want three hundred; but then I have another friend, from whom I can borrow the rest. Why then, replied my friend, if you would take my advice, (and you know I should not presume to advise you but for your own good,) I would recommend it to you to borrow the whole sum from that other friend ; and then one note will serve for all, you know. " Poverty now began to come fast upon me ; yet instead of growing more provident ot cautious as I grew poor, I became every day more indolent and simple. A friend was ar- rested for fifty pounds ; I was unable to extri- cate him, except by becoming his bail. When at liberty, he fled from his creditors, and left me to take his place. In prison I expected greater satisfactions than I had enjoyed at large. I hop- ed to converse with men in this new world, sim- ple and believing like myself, but I found them as cunning and as cautious as those in the world I had left behind. They spunged up my money whilst it lasted, borrowed my coals, and never paid for them, and cheated me when I played at cribbage. All this was done be- cause they believed me to be very good-na- tured, and knew that I had no harm in me. " Upon my first entrance into this mansion, which is to some the abode of despair, I felt no sensations different from those I experienc- ed abroad. I was now on one side the door, and those who were unconfined were on the other : this was all the difference between us, At first, indeed, I felt some uneasiness, in considering how I should be able to provide this week for the wants of the week ensuing; but, after some time, if I found myself sure of eating one day, I never troubled my head how I was to be supplied another. I seized every precarious meal with the utmost good- humour ; indulged no rants of spleen at my 208 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. situation ; never called down Heaven and all the stars to behold me dining upon a half- penny worth of radishes ; my very companions were taught to believe that I liked salad better than mutton. I contented myself with think- ing, that all my life I should either eat white bread or brown ; considered that all that hap- pened was best ; laughed when I was not in pain, took the world as it went, and read Ta- citus often, for want of more books and com- pany. '' How long I might have continued in this torpid state of simplicity I cannot tell, had I not been roused by seeing an old acquaintance, whom I knew to be a prudent blockhead, pre- ferred to a place in the government. I now found that I had pursued a wrong track, and that the true way of being able to relieve others, was first to aim at independence my- self; my immediate care, therefore, was to leave my present habitation, and make an en- tire reformation in my conduct and behaviour. For a free, open, undesigning deportment, I put on that of closeness, prudence, and eco- nomy. One of the most heroic actions I ever performed, and for which I shall praise my- self as long as I live, was the refusing half-a- crown to an old acquaintance, at the time when he wanted it, and I had it to spare ; for this alone I deserve to be decreed an ovation. " I now therefore pursued a course of unin- terrupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was consequently invited to twenty. I goon began to get the character of a saving nunks that had money, and insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbours have asked my ad- vice in the disposal of their daughters ; and I have always taken care not to give any. I have contracted a friendship with an alder- man, only by observing, that if we take a farthing from a thousand pounds, it will be a thousand pounds no longer. I have been in- vited to a pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy ; and am now actually upon treaty of marriage with a rich widow, for only having observed that the bread was rising. If ever I am asked a question, whether I know it or not, instead of answering, I only smile and look wise. If a charity is proposed, I go about with the hat, but put nothing in myself. If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the world is filled with impostors, and take a cer- tain method of not being deceived, by never relieving. In short I now find the truest way of finding esteem, even from the indigent, is to give away nothing, and thus have much in our power to give." LETTER XXVII. TO THE SAME. LATELY, in company with my friend in black, whose conversation is now both my am- usement and instruction, I could not avoid ob- serving the great numbers of old bachelors and maiden ladies with which this city seems to be overrun. Sure, marriage, said I, is not suf- ficiently encouraged, or we should never be- hold such crowds of battered beaux and decay- ed coquettes, still attempting to drive a trade they have been so long unfit for, and swarming upon the gaiety of the age. I behold an old bachelor in the most contemptible light, as an animal that lives upon the common stock with- out contributing his share : he is a beast of prey, and the law should make use of as many stratagems arid as much force, to drive the re- iuctant savage into the toils, as the Indians when they hunt the rhinoceros. The mob should be permitted to halloo after him, boys may play tricks on him with impunity, every well-bred company should laugh at him ; and if, when turned of sixty, he offered to make love, his mistress might spit in his face, or, what would be perhaps a greater punishment, should fairly grant the favour. As for old maids, continued I, they should not be treated with so much severity, because I suppose none would be so if they could. No lady in her senses would choose to make a sub- ordinate figure at christenings or lyings-in, when she might be the principal herself ; nor curry favour with a sister-in-law, when she might command a husband ; nor toil in preparing custards, when she might lie a-bed, and give directions how they ought to be made ; nor stifle all her sensations in demure formality, when she might, with matrimonial freedom shake her acquaintance by the hand, and wink at a double entendre. No lady could be so silly as to live single, if she could help it. I consider an unmarried lady, declining into the vale of years, as one of those charming countries bor- dering on China, that lies waste for want of pro- per inhabitants. We are not to accuse the country, but the ignorance of its neighbours, who are insensible of its beauties, though at liberty to enter and cultivate the soil. " Indeed, Sir," replied my companion," you are very little acquainted with the English ladies, to think they are old maids against their will. I dare venture to affirm, that you can hardly select one of them all, but has had frequent offers of marriage, which either pride or avarice has not made her reject. Instead of thinking it a disgrace, they take every occasion to boast of their former cruelty : a soldier does not exult more when he counts over the wounds he has received, than a female veteran when she relates the wounds she has formerly given : exhaustless when she begins a narra- tive of the former death-dealing power of her eyes, She tells of the knight in gold lace, who died with a single frown, and never rose again till he was married to his maid; of the squire, who being cruelly denied, in a rage flew to the window and lifting up the sash, threw himself in an agony into his arnt- chair ; of the parson, who, crossed in love, re- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 209 solutely swallowed opium, which banished the stings of despised love by making him sleep. In short, she talks over her former tosses with pleasure, arid, like some tradesmen, finds consolation in the many bankruptcies sL? fcas suffered. " For this reason, whenever I see a super- annuated beauty still unmarried, I tacitly ac- cuse her either of pride, avarice, coquetry, or affectation. There's Miss Jenny Tinder-box, I once remember her to have had some beauty, and a moderate fortune. Her elder sister hap- pened to marry a man of quality, and this seemed as a statute of virginity against poor Jane. Because there was one lucky hit in the family, she was resolved not to disgrace it by introducing a tradesman. By thus rejecting her equals, and neglected or despised by her superiors, she now acts in the capacity of tu- toress to her sister's children, and undergoes the drudgery of three servants, without receiv- ing the wages of one. j u Miss Squeeze was a pawnbroker's claugh- , ter ; her father had early taught her that mo- j n ey was a very good thing, and left her a moder- ate fortune at his death. She was so perfect- ly sensible of the value of what she had got, that she was resolved never to part with a farthing without an equality on the part of her suitor : she thus refused several offers made her by people who wanted to better them- selves, as the saying is; and grew old and ill- natured, without ever considering that she should have made an abatement in her preten- sions, from her face being pale, and marked with the small-pox. " Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, had beauty, with fortune and family. But fond of conquest, she passed from triumph to triumph : she had read plays and romances, and there had learned, that a plain man of common sense was no better than a fool; such she refused, and sighed only for the gay, giddy, inconstant, and thoughtless ; after she had thus rejected hundreds who liked her, and sighed for hundreds who despised her, she found herself insensibly deserted : at present she is company only for her aunts and cousins, and sometimes makes one in a country-dance, with only one of the chairs for a partner, casts off round a joint-stool, and sets to a corner cupboard. In a word, she is treated with civil contempt from every quarter, and placed, like a piece of old-fashioned lumber, merely to fill up a corner. " But Sophronia, the sagacious Sophronia, how shall I mention her ? She was taught to love Greek, and hate the men from her very infancy : she has rejected fine gentlemen be- cause they were not pedants, and pedants, be- cause they were not fine gentlemen ; her ex- quisite sensibility has taught her to discover every fault in every lover, and her inflexible justice has prevented her pardoning them : thus she rejected several offers, till the wrinkles of a^e had overtaken her; and now, without one good feature in her face, she talks inces- santly of the beauties of the mind." well LETTER XXVIII. FJIOM THE SAME. WERE we to estimate the learning of the English by the number of books that are every day published among them, perhaps no coun- try, not even China itself, could equal them in this particular. I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new books published in one day, which, upon computation, makes eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not confined to one single science, but embrace the whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathematics, me- taphysics, and the philosophy of nature, are all comprised in a manual not larger than that in which, our children are taught the letters. If, then, we suppose the learned of England to read but an eighth part of the works which daily come from the press, (and surely none can pretend to learning upon less easy terms), at this rate every scholar will read a thousand books in one year. From such a calculation, you may conjecture what an amazing fund of literature a man must be possessed of, who thus reads three new books every day, not one of which but contains all the good things that ever were said or written. And yet I know not how it happens, but the English are not, in reality, so learned as would seem from this calculation. We meet but few who know all arts and sciences to per- fection ; whether it is that the generality are incapable of such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of those books are not adequate in- structors. In China, the emperor himself takes cognizancek)f all the'doctors in the kingdom who profess authorship. In England, every man may be an author, that can write ; for they have by law a liberty not only of saying what they please, but of being also as dull as they please. Yesterday, I testified my surprise to the man in black, where writers could be found in sufficient number to throw off the books I daily saw crowding from the press. I at first im- agined that their learned seminaries might take this method of instructing the world. But to obviate this objection, my companion assured me, that the doctors of colleges never wrote, and that some of them had actually forgot their reading; but if you desire, continued he, to see a collection of authors, I fancy I can in- troduce you this evening to a club, which as- semble every Saturday at seven, at the sign of the Broom near Islington, to talk over the business of the last, and the entertainment of the week ensuing. I accepted this invitation \ we walked together, and entered the house 210 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. some time before the usual hour for the com- pany assembling. My friend took this opportunity of letting me into the characters of trie principal mem- bers of the club, not even the host excepted : who, it seems, was once an author himself, but preferred by a bookseller to this situation as a reward for his former services. The first person, said he, of our society, is Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people think him a profound scholar ; but as he seldom speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular : he generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very good company. I'm told he writes indexes to perfection, he makes essays on the origin of evil, philosophi- cal inquiries upon any subject, and draws up an answer to any book upon twenty-four hours' warning. You may distinguish him from the rest of the company by his long grey wig, and the blue handkerchief round his neck. The next to him in merit and esteem is Tim Syllabub, a droll creature ; he sometimes shines as a star of the first magnitude among the choice spirits of the age ; he is reckoned equally excellent at a rebus, a riddle, a bawdy song, and a hymn for the tabernacle. You \vill know him by a shabby finery, his powder- ed wig, dirty shirt and broken silk stockings. After him succeeds Mr Tibs, a very useful hand ; he writes receipts for the bite of a mad log, and throws offan Eastern tale to perfection : he understands the business of an author as \vell as any man, for no bookseller alive can cheat him. You may distinguish him by the peculiar clumsiness of his figure, and the coarseness of his coat ; however, though it be coarse (as he frequently tells the company) he has paid for it. Lawyer Squint is the politician of the socie- ty ; he makes speeches for Parliament, writea addresses to fellow-subjects, and letters to no- ble commanders ; he gives the history of every new play, and finds seasonable thoughts upon every occasion. My companion was proceed- ing in his description when the host came run- ning in with terror on his countenance to tell us, that the door was beset with bailiffs. If that be the case then, says my companion, we had as good be going ; for I am positive we shall not see one of the company this night. Where- fore, disappointed, we were both obliged to return home, he to enjoy the oddities which compose his character alone, and I to write as usual to my friend the occurrences of the day. Adieu. LETTER XXIX. FROM THE SAME. BY my last advices from Moscow, I find the caravan has not yet departed for China : I still continue to write, expecting that you may receive a large number of letters at oncft. In them you will find rather a minute detail of English peculiarities, than a general picture of their manners or dispositions. Happy it were for mankind if all travellers would thus, instead of characterizing a people in general terms, lead us into a detail of those minute cir- cumstances which first influenced their opinion. The genius of a country should be investigat- ed with a kind of experimental inquiry : by this means, we should have more precise and just notions of foreign nations, and detect tra- vellers themselves when they happened to form wrong conclusions. My friend and I repeated our visit to the club of authors ; where, upon our entrance, we found the members all assembled, and en- gaged in a loud debate. The poet in shabby finery, holding a manu script in h.s hand, was earnestly endeavouring to persuade the company to hear him read the first book of an heroic poem, which he had com. posed the day before. But against this all the members very warmly objected. They knew no reason why any member of the club should be indulged with a particular hearing, when many of them had published who! e volumes which had never been looked in. They insisted that the law should be observed where reading in company was expressly noticed. It was in vain | that the poet pleaded the peculiar merit of his piece ; he spoke to an assembly insensible to all his remonstrances : the book of laws was open ed, and read by the secretary, where it was ex- pressly enacted, " That whatsoever poet, speech-maker, critic, or historian, should pre sume to engage the company by reading his own works, he was to lay down sixpence previous to opening the manuscript, and should be charged one shilling an hour while he continued read- ing: the said shilling to be equally distributed among the company as a recompense for their trouble." Our poet seemed at first to shrink at the pe- nalty, hesitating for some time whether he should deposit the fine, or shut up the poem ; but, looking round, and perceiving two strangers in the room, his love of fame outweighed his prudence, and laying down the sum by law es- tablished, he insisted on his prerogative. A profound silence ensuing, he began by ex- plaining his design. " Gentlemen," says he, " the present piece is not one of your common epic poems, which come from the press like paper-kites in summer ; there are none of your Turnuses or Didos in it ; it is an heroical de- scription of Nature. I only beg you'll endea- vour to make your souls in unison with mine, and hear with the same enthusiasm with which I have written. The poem begins with the description of an author's bed-chamber : the picture was sketched in my own apartments for you must know, gentlemen, that I am my. self the hero." Then putting himself into tha attitude of an orator, with all the emphasis of voice and action, he proceeded : CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 211 "Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calverts butt, and Parson's black champagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane j There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scrosriren stretch'd beneath a rug j A window patch 'd with paper lent a ray, That dimly slu-w'd the state in which he lay ; The sanded floor, that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread j The royal game of goose was there in view And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William showed hi-; lamp black face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire Tin- rusty grate, unconscious of a fire ; With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scorM, And five cracked tea-cups dress'd the chimney board ; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night a stocking all the day ! " ' With this last line he seemed so much elated that he was unable to proceed. "There, gentle- men," cries he, " there is a description for you ; llabelais's bed-chamber is but a fool to it. A cap by night a slocking all the day ! There is sound, and sense, and truth, and na- ture in the trifling compass often syllables." He was too much employed in self-admira- tion to observe the company ; who, by nods, winks, shrugs, and stifled laughter, testified every mark of contempt. He turned severally to each for their opinion, and found all, how- ever, ready to applaud. One swore it was in- imitable ; another said it was damn'd fine ; and a third cried out in a rapture, Carissimo. At last, addressing himself to the president, " and pray, Mr Squint,'' says he, " let us have your opinion. 1 ' " Mine !" answered the president, (taking the manuscript out of the author's hand), " May this glass suffocate me, but I think it equal to any thing I have seen ; and I fancy (continued he, doubling up the poem and forcing it into the author's pocket), that you will get great honour when it comes out ; so I shall beg leave to put it in. We will not intrude upon your good-nature, in desiring to hear more of it at present ; ex ungue Herculem, we are satisfied, perfectly satisfied." The author made two or three attempts to pull it out a second time, and the president made as many to prevent him. Thus, though with reluctance, he was at last obliged to sit down, contented with the com- mendations for which he had paid. When this tempest of poetry and praise was blown over, one of the company changed the subject, by wondering how any man could be so dull as to write poetry at present, since prose itself would hardly pay. " Would you think it, gentlemen," continued he, " I have actually written last week sixteen prayers, twelve baw- dy jests, and three sermons, all at the rate of sixpence a-piece ; and what is still more extraor- dinary, the bookseller has lost by the bargain. Such sermons would once have gained me a prebend's stall ; but now, alas, we have neither piety, taste, or humour, among us. Positively, if this season does not turn out better than it has be- gun, unless the ministry commit some blunders to furnish us with a new topic of abuse, I shall resume my old business of working at the press, instead of finding it employment." The whole club seemed to join in condemn- ing the season, as one of the worst that had come for some time : a gentleman particularly observed that the nobility were never known to subscribe worse than at present. " I know not how it happens,'* said he, " though I follow them up as close as possible, yet I can hardly get a single subscription in a week. The houses of the great are as inaccessible as a frontier garri- son at midnight. I never see a nobleman's door half-opened, that some surly porter or footman does not stand full in the breach. I was yes- terday to wait with a subscription-proposal upon my Lord Squash the Creolin. I had post- ed myself at his door the \vhole morning, aiul just as he was getting into his coach, thrust my proposal snug into his hand, folded up in the form of a letter from myself. He just glanced at the superscription, and not knowing the hand, consigned it to his valet-de-chambre ; this respectable personage treated it as his mas ter, and put it into the hands of the porter ; the porter grasped my proposal frowning ; and measuring my figure from top to toe, put i* back into my own hands unopened." " To the devil I pitch all the nobility," cries a little man, in a peculiar accent, " I am sure they have of late used me most scurvily. You must know, gentlemen, some time ago, upon the arrival of a certain noble duke from his travels, I sat myself down, and vamped up a fine flaunting poetical panegyric, which I had written in such a strain, that I fancied it would have even wheedled milk from a mouse. In tin's I represented the whole kingdom welcom- ing his grace to his native soil, not forgetting the loss France and Italy would sustain in their arts by his departure. I expected to touch for a bank-bill at least ; so folding up my verses in gilt paper, I gave my last half-crown to a genteel servant to be the bearer. My letter was safely conveyed to his grace, and the servant, after four hours' absence, during which time I led the life of a fiend, returned with a letter four times as big as mine. Guess my ecstacy at the prospect of so fine a return. I eagerly took the packet into my hands, that trembled to receive it. I kept it some time unopened before me, brooding over the ex- pected treasure it contained ; when opening it, as I hope to be saved, gentlemen, his grace had sent me in payment for my poem, no bank- bills, but six copies of verses, each longer than mine, addressed to him upon the same occason." "A nobleman," cries a member, who had hitherto been silent, " is created as much for the confusion of us authors, as the catch-pole. I'll tell you a story, gentlemen, which is as true as that this pipe is made of clay. When I was delivered of my first book, I owed my tailor for a suit of clothes ; but that is nothing new, you know and may be any man's case as 212 CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD.* well as mine. Well, owing him for a suit of clothes, and hearing that my book took very well, he sent for his money, and insisted upon being paid immediately : though I was at the time rich in fame, for my book ran like wild- fire, yet I was very short in money and being unable to satisfy his demand, prudently resolved to keep my chamber, preferring a prison of my own choosing at home, to one of my tailor's choosing abroad. . In vain the bailiffs used all their arts to decoy me from my citadel ; in vain they sent to let me know that a gentle- man wanted to speak with me at the next ta- vern ; in vain they came with an urgent message from my aunt in the country ; in vain I was told that a particular friend was at the point of death, and desired to take his last farewell. I was deaf, insensible, rock, ada- mant ; the bailiffs could make no impression on my hard heart, for I effectually kept my liberty by never stirring out of the room. " This was very well for a fortnight ; when one morning I received a most splendid mess- age from the Earl of Doomsday, importing, that he had read my book, and was in raptures with every line of it ; he impatiently longed to see the author, and had some designs which might turn out greatly to my advantage. I paused upon the contents of this message, and found there could be no deceit, for the card was gilt at the edges, aTid the bearer, I was told had quite the looks of a gentleman. Witness, ye powers, how my heart triumphed at my own importance ! I saw a long perspective of feli- city before me ; I applauded the taste of the times which never saw genius forsaken : I had prepared a set introductory speech for the occa- sion ; five glaring compliments for his lordship, and two more modest for myself. The next morn- ing, therefore, in order to be punctual to my ap- pointment, I took coach, and ordered the fellow to drive to the street and house mentioned in his lordship's address. I had the precaution to pull up the window as I went along, to keep off the busy part of mankind, and, big with ex- pectation, fancied the coach never went fast enough. At length, however, the wished for moment of its stopping arrived : this for some time I impatiently expected, and letting down the window in a transport, in order to take a previous view of his lordship's .magnificent palace and situation, I found, poison to my sight ! I found myself not in an elegant street, but a paltry lane ; not at a nobleman's door, but the door of a spunging-house ! I found the coachman had all this while been just driving me to jail ; and I saw the bailiff, with a de- vil's face, coming out to secure me." To a philosopher, no circumstance, however trifling, is too minute ; he finds instruction and entertainment in occurrences, which are pass- ed over by the rest of mankind, as low, trite, and indifferent ; it is from the number of these particulars, which to many appear insignifi- tant, that he is at last enabled to form general conclusions : this, therefore, must be my ex- cuse for sending so far as China, accounts ol manners and follies, which, though minute in their own nature, serve more truly to character- ize this people, than histories of their public treaties, courts, ministers, negotiations, and am- bassadors. Adieu. LETTER XXX. FROM THE SAME. THE English have riot yet brought the art of gardening to the same perfection with the Chinese, but have lately begun to imitate them : Nature is now followed with greater assiduity than formerly ; the trees are suffered to shoot out into the utmost luxuriance ; the streams, no longer forced from their native beds, are permitted to wind along the valleys : spontane- ous flowers take place of the finished par-, terre, and the enamelled meadow of the shaven green. Yet still the English are far behind us in this charming art ; their designers have not yet attained the power of uniting instruction with beauty. A European will scarcely conceive my meaning, when I say that there is scarcely a garden in China which does riot contain some fine moral, couched under the general design, where one is taught wisdom as he walks, and feels the force of some noble truth, or delicate precept, resulting from the disposi- tion of the groves, streams or grottos. Per- mit me to illustrate what I mean by a descrip- tion of my gardens at Quinsi. My heart stil] hovers round those scenes of former happiness with pleasure ; and I find a satisfaction in en- joying them at this distance, though but in imagination. You descended from the house between two groves of trees, planted in such a manner, that they were impenetrable to the eye ; while on each hand the way was adorned with all that was beautiful in porcelain, statuary, painting. This passage from the house opened into an area surrounded with rocks, flowers, trees, and shrubs, but all so disposed as if each was the spontaneous production of nature. As you proceeded forward on this lawn, to your right and left hand were two gates, opposite each other, of very different architecture and design ; and before you lay a temple, built ra- ther with minute elegance than ostentation. The right hand gate was planned with the Tit- most simplicity, or rather rudeness ; ivy clasp- ed round the pillars, the baleful cypress hung over it; time seemed to have destroyed all the smoothness and regularity of the stone ; two champions with lifted clubs appeared in the act of guarding its access ; dragons and ser- pents were seen in the most -hideous attitudes, to deter the spectator from approaching ; and the perspective view that lay behind seemed CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 213 dark and gloomy to the last degree ; the stranger was tempted to enter only from the motto PERVIA VIRTUTI. The opposite gate was formed in a very dif- ferent manner ; the architecture was light, ele- gant, and inviting; flowers hung in wreaths round the pillars ; all was finished in the most exact and masterly manner ; the very stone of which it was built still preserved its polish ; aymphs, wrought by the hand of a master, in ihe must alluring attitudes, beckoned the stran- ger to approach ; while all that lay behind, as far as the eye could reach, seemed gay and luxu- riant, and capable of affording endless pleasure. The motto itself contributed to invite him ; for over the gate were written these words, FACILIS DESCENSUS. By this time I fancy you begin to perceive, that the gloomy gate was designed to represent the road to virtue ; the opposite, the more agreeable passage to Vice. It is but natural to suppose, that the spectator was always tempted to enter by the gate which offered him so many allurements. I always in these cases left him to his choice ; but generally found that he took to the left, which promised most enter- tainment. Immediately upon his entering the gate of Vice, the trees and flowers were disposed in such a manner as to make the most pleasing impression ; but as he walked farther on, he insensibly found the garden assume the air of a wilderness, the landscapes began to darken, the paths grew more intricate, he appeared to go downwards, frightful rocks seemed to hang over his head, gloomy caverns, unexpected pre- cipices, awful ruins, heaps of unburied bones, 2nd terrifying sounds, caused by unseen waters, tegan to take place of what at first appeared so lovely ; it was in vain to attempt return- ing, the labyrinth was too much perplexed for any but myself to find the way back. In short, when sufficiently impressed with the horrors of what he saw, and the imprudence of bis choice, I brought him by a hidden door a shorter way back into the area from whence at first he had strayed. The gloomy gate now presented itself before the stranger ; and though there seemed little in its appearance to tempt his curiosity, yet encouraged by the motto, he gradually proceed- ed. The darkness of the entrance, the fright- ful figures that seemed to obstruct his way, the trees, of a mournful green, conspired at first to disgust him; as he went forward, however,all be- gan to open and wear a more pleasing appearance ; beautiful cascades, beds of flowers, trees loaded with fruit or blossoms, and unexpected brooks improved the scene -, he now found that he was ascending, and, as he proceeded, all nature grew more beautiful, the prospect widened as he went higher, even the air itself seemed to be- come more pure. Thus pleased and happy from unexpected beauties, I at last led him to an arbour, from whence he could view the garden, and the whole country around, and where he might own, that the road to VIRTUE terminated in HAPPINESS. Though" from this description you may im- agine, that a vast tract of ground was necessary to exhibit such a pleasing rariety in, yet be as, sured, I have seen several gardens in England take up ten times the space which mine did, without half the beauty. A very small extent of ground is enough for an elegant taste ; the greater room is required if magnificence is in view. There is no spot, though ever so little, which a skilful designer might not thus improve, so as to convey a delicate allegory, and impress the mind with truths the most useful andneces- sarv. Adieu. LETTER XXXL FROM THE SAME. Lv a late excursion with my friend into the country, a gentleman with a blue ribbon tied round his shoulder, and in a chariot drawn by six horses, passed swiftly by us, attended 'with a numerous train of captains, lacqueys, and coach- es filled with women. When we were re- covered from the dust raised by this cavalcade, and could continue our discourse without dan- gjer of suffocation, I observed to my companion, that all this state and equipage, which he seem- ed to despise, would in China be regarded with the utmost reverence, becsuse such distinctions were always the reward of merit ; the greatness of a mandarine's retinue being a most certain mark of the superiority of his abilities or virtue. The gentleman who has now passed us, re- plied my companion, has no claims from his own merit to distinction j he is possessed nei- ther of abilities nor virtue ; it is enough for him that one of his ancestors was possessed of these qualities two hundred years before him. There was a time, indeed, when his family deserved their title, but they are long since degenerated, and his ancestors, for more than a century, have been more and more solicitous to keep up the breed of their dogs and horses, than that of their children. This very nobleman, sim- ple as he seems, is descended from a race of statesmen and heroes : but unluckily, his great-grandfather marrying a cook-maid, and she having a trifling passion for his lordship's groom, they somehow crossed the strain, and produced an heir, who took after his mother in his great love to good eating, and his father in a violent affection for horse-flesh. These passions have for some generations passed OH from father to son, and are now become the characteristics of the family, his present lord- ship being equally remarkable for his kitchen and his stable. But such a nobleman, cried I, deserves our pity, thus placed in so high a sphere of life, which only the more exposes to contempt. A king may confer titles, but it is personal me- rit alone that insures respect. I suppose, added I, that such men are despised by their equals, neglected by their inferiors, and con- 214 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. demned to live among involuntary dependents in irksome solitude. You are still under a mistake, replied my companion ; for though this nobleman is a stranger to generosity ; though he takes twen- ty opportunities in a day of letting his guests know how much he despises them ; though he is possessed neither of taste, wit, nor wis- dom ; though incapable of improving others by his conversation, and never known to en- rich any by his bounty ; yet, for all this, his company is eagerly sought after : he is a lord, and that is as much as most people desire in a companion. Quality and title have such allurements, that hundreds are ready to give up all their own importance, to cringe, to flat- ter, to look little, and to pall every pleasure in constraint, merely to be among the great, though without the least hopes of improving their understanding, or sharing their genero- sity : they might be happy among their equals, but those are despised for company, where vhey are despised in turn. You saw what a crowd of humble cousins, card-ruined beaux, and captains on half-pay, were willing to make up this great man's retinue down to his coun- try-seat. Not one of all these that could not lead a more comfortable life at home, in their little lodging of three shillings a-week, with their lukewarm dinner, served up between two pewter plates from a cook's shop. Yet, poor devils ! they are willing to undergo the im- pertinence and pride of their entertainer, merely to be thought to live among the great : they are willing to pass the summer in bond- age, though conscious they are taken down only to approve his lordship's taste upon every occasion, to tag all his stupid observations with a very true, to praise his stable, and des- cant upon his claret and cookery. The pitiful humiliations of the gentlemen you are now describing, said I, put me in mind of a custom among the Tartars of Koreki, not entirely dissimilar to this we are now consi- dering. * The Russians who trade with them, carry thither a kind of mushrooms, which they exchange for furs or squirrels, ermines, sables, and foxes. These mushrooms the rich Tartars lay up in large quantities for the winter ; and when a nobleman makes a mushroom-feast, all the neighbours around are invited. The mush- rooms are prepared by boiling, by which the water acquires an intoxicating quality, and is a sort of drink which the Tartars prize beyond all other. When the nobility and ladies are assembled, and the ceremonies usual between people of distinction over, the mushroom-broth goes freely round ; they laugh, talk double en- tendre, grow fuddled, and become excellent company. The poorer sort, who love mush- room-broth to distraction as well as the rich, * Van Stralenberg, a writer of credit, gives the same account of this people. See an Historico Geographical Description of the north-eastern parts of Europe and Asia, p. 397. but cannot afford it at the first hand, post them- selves on these occasions round the huts of the rich, and watch the opportunities of the ladies and gentlemen as they come down to pass their liquor : and holding a wooden bowl, catch the delicious fluid, very little altered by filtration, being still strongly tinctured with the intoxi- cating quality. Of this they drink with the utmost satisfaction, and thus they get as drunk and as jovial as their betters. Happy nobility, cries my companion, who can fear no diminution of respect, unless by being seized with strangury, and who when most drunk are most useful ! Though we have not this custom among us, I foresee, that if it were introduced, we might have many a toad-eater in England ready to drink from the wooden bowl on these occasions, and to praise the flavour of his lordship's liquor. As we have different classes of gentry, who knows but we may see a lord holding the bowl to a minister, a knight holding it to his lordship, and a simple 'squire drinking it double distilled from the loins of the knighthood ? For my part, I shall never for the future hear a great man's flatterers haranguing in his praise, that I shall not fancy I behold the wooden bowl ; for I can see no reason why a man, who can live easily and happily at home, should bear the drudgery of decorum and the imperti- nence of his entertainer, unless intoxicated with a passion for all that was quality ; unless he thought that whatever came from the great was delicious and had the tincture of the mushroom in it. Adieu. LETTER XXXII. FROM THE SAME. I AM disgusted, O Fum Hoam, even to sick ness disgusted. Is it possible to hear the pre- sumption of those islanders, when they pretend to instruct me in the ceremonies of China ! They lay it down as a maxim, that every person who comes from thence must express himself in me- taphor ; swear by Alia, rail against wine, and be- have, and talk, and write, like a Turk or Per- sian. They make no distinction between our elegant manners, and the voluptuous barbarities of our Eastern neighbours. Wherever I come, 1 raise either diffidence or astonishment : some fancy me no Chinese, because I am formed more like a man than a monster ; and others wonder to find one born five thousand miles from England, endued with common sense, Strange, say they, that a man who has received his education at such a distance from London, should have common sense : to be born out of England, and yet have com- mon sense ! Impossible ! He must be some Englishman in disguise , his veiy visage has nothing of the true exotic barbarity. I yesterday received an invitation from a CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 215 lady of distinction, who it seems had collected all her knowledge of Eastern manner from fictions every day propagated here, under the titles of Eastern tales and Oriental histories ; she received me very politely, but seemed to wonder that I neglected bringing opium . 'id a tobacco-box; when chairs were drawn for the rest of the company, I was assigned my place on a cushion on the floor. It was in vain that I protested the Chinese used chairs as in Europe : she understood decorum too well to entertain me with the ordinary civili- ties. I nad scarcely been seated according to her directions, when the footman was ordered to pin a napkin under my chin ; this I protest- ed against, as being no way Chinese ; how- ever, the whole company, who it seems were a club of connoisseurs, gave it unanimously against me, and the napkin was pinned accord- ingly. It was impossible to be angry with people, who seemed to err only from an excess of po- liteness, and I sat contented, expecting their importunities were now at an end ; but as soon as ever dinner was served, the lady demanded, whether I was for a plate of Bears' claws, or a slice of Birds' nests? As these were dishes with which I was utterly unacquainted, I was desirous of eating only what I knew, and therefore begged to be helped from a piece of beef that lay on the side-table ; my request at once disconcerted the whole company. A Chinese eat beef! that could never be ! there was no local propriety in Chinese beef, what- ever there might be in Chinese pheasant. Sir, said my entertainer, I think I have some reason to fancy myself a judge of these mat- ters : in short, the Chinese never eat beef j so that 1 must be permitted to recommend the Pilaw. There was never better dressed at Pekin; the saffron and rice are well-boiled, and the spices in perfection. I had no sooner begun to eat what was laid before me, than I found the whole company as much astonished as before ; it seems I made no use of my chop-sticks. A grave gentleman, whom I take to be an author, ha- rangued very learnedly (as the company seem- ed to think) upon the use which was made of them in China. He entered into a long argu- ment with himself about their first introduc- tion, without once appealing to me, who might be supposed best capable of silencing the in- quiry. As the pentleman therefore took my silence for a mark of his own superior sagacity, he was resolved to pursue the triumph ; he talked of our cities, mountains, arid animals, as familiarly as if he had been born in Quamsi, but as erroneously as if a native of the moon. He attempted to prove that I had nothing of the true Chinese cut in my visage ; showed that my cheek-bones should have been higher, and my forehead broader. In short, he almost reasoned me out of my country, and effectually persuaded the rest of the company to be of his opinion. I was going to expose his mistakes, when it was insisted that I had nothing of the true Eastern manner in my delivery. This gentle- man's conversation (says one of the ladieSj who was a reader) is like our own, mere chit- chat and common sense : there is nothing like sense in the true Eastern style, where nothing more is required but sublimity. Oh! for a history of Aboulfaouris, the grand voyager, of genii, magicians, rocks, bags of bullets, giants, and enchanters where all is great, obscure, magnificent, and unintelligible. I have written many a sheet of Eastern tale myself, interrupts the author, and I defy the severest critic to say but that I have stuck close to the true manner. I have compared a lady's chin to the snow upon the mountains of Bomek; a sol- dier's sword, to the clouds that obscure the face of heaven. If riches are mentioned, I compare them to the flocks that graze the verdant Tef- flis ; if poverty, to the mists that veil the brow of mount Baku. I have used thee and thou upon all occasions ; I have described fallen stars and splittingmountains, not forgetting the little Houries, who make a pretty figure in every description. But you. should hear how I generally begin : " Eben-ben-bolo, who was the son of Ban, was born on the foggy summits of Benderabassi. His beard was whiter than the feathers which veil the breasts of the Pen- guin ; his eyes were like the eyes of doves when washed by the dews of the morning ; his hair, which hung like the willow weeping over the glassy stream, was so beautiful that it seem- ed to reflect its own brightness ; arid hig feet were as the feet of a wild deer which fleeth to the tops of the mountains." There, there is the true Eastern taste for you; every advance made towards sense, is only a deviation from sound. Eastern tales should always be sonorous, lofty, musical, and un- meaning. I could not avoid smiling, to hear a native of England attempt to instruct me in the true Eastern idiom ; and after he looked round some time for applause, I presumed to ask him, whether he had ever travelled into the East, to which he replied in the negative. I demand- ed whether he understood Chinese or Arabic ; to which also he answered as before. Then how, Sir, said I, can you pretend to determine upon the Eastern style, who are entirely unac- quainted with the Eastern writings ? Take, Sir, the word of one who is professedly a. Chinese, and who is actually acquainted with the Arabian writers, that what is palmed upon you daily for an imitation of Eastern writing, no way resembles their manner, either in senti- ment "or diction. In the East, similes are seldom used, and metaphors almost wholly un. known ; but in China particularly, the very re. verse of what you allude to takes place : a cool phlegmatic method of writing prevails 216 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. there. The writers of that country, ever more assiduous to instruct than to please, ad- dress rather the judgment than the fancy. Un- like many authors of Europe, who have no consideration of the readers time, they gene- rally leave more to be understood than they express. Besides, Sir, you must not expect from an inhabitant of China the same ignorance, the same unlettered simplicity, that you find in a Turk, a Persian, or native of Peru. The Chinese are versed in the sciences as well as you, and are masters ot several arts un- known to the people of Europe. Many of them are instructed not only in their own national learning, but are perfectly well acquainted with the languages and learning of the West. If my word in such a case is not to be taken, consult your own travellers on this head, who affirm, that the scholars of Pekin and Siam sustain theological theses in Latin. " The col- lege of Masprend, which is but a league from Siam," says one of your travellers,* " came in a body to salute our ambassador. Nothing gave me more sincere pleasure, than to behold a number of priests, venerable both from age and modesty, followed by a number of youths of all nations, Chinese, Japanese, Tonquinese. of Cochin China, Pegu, and Siam, all willing to pay their respects in the most polite manner imaginable. A Cochin Chinese made an ex- cellent Latin oration upon this occasion; he was succeeded and even outdone by a student of Tonquin, who was as well skilled in the Western learning as any scholar of Paris." Now, Sir, if youths, who never stirred from home, are so perfectly skilled in your laws and learning, surely more must be expected from one like me, who have travelled so many thou- sand miles ; who have conversed familiarly for Eeveral years with the E.. fe lish factors estab- lished at Canton, and the missionaries sent us from every part of Europe.., The unaf- fpcted of every country nearly resemble each other, and a page of our Confucius and of your Tillotson, have scarcely any material difference. Paltry affectation, strained allusions and dis- gusting finery, are easily attained by those who choose to wear them ; and they are but too frequently the badges of ignorance, or of stupidity, whenever it would endeavour to I was proceeding in my discourse, when, looking round, I perceived the company no way attentive to what I attempted, with so much earnestness to enforce. One lady was whis- pering her that sat next, another was studying the merits of a fan, a third began to yawn, and the author himself fell fast asleep. I thought it, therefore, high time to make a retreat ; nor did the company, seem to show any regret at my preparations for departure : even the lady * Journal on suite de Voyage de Siam, en forme de Lettres familieres, fait en 1685 et 1686, par N. L. D. C. p. 174. Amstelod. 16S6. who had invited me, with the most mortifying insensibility, saw me seize my hat, and 'rise from my cushion ; nor was I invited to repeat my visit, because it was found that I aimed at appearing rather a reasonable creature, than an outlandish idiot. Adieu. LETTER XXXIIL TO THE SAME. THE polite arts are in this country subject to as many revolutions as its laws or politics : not only the objects of fancy and dress, but even of delicacy and taste, are directed by the capricious influence of fashion. I am told there has been a time when poetry was univer- sally encouraged by the great ; when men of the first rank not only patronized the poet, but produced the finest models for his imita- tion. It was then the English sent forth those glowing rhapsodies, which we have so often read over together with rapture; poems big with all the sublimity of Mentius, and sup- ported by reasoning as strong as that of Zimpo. The nobility are fond of wisdom, but they are also fond of having it without study ; to read poetry required thought ; and the Eng . lish nobility were not fond of thinking : they soon therefore placed their affections upon music, because in this they might indulge a happy vacancy, and yet still have preter.sions to delicacy and taste as before. They soon brought their numerous dependents into an ap- probation of their pleasures ; who in turn led their thousand imitators to feel or feign simi- litude of passion. Colonies of singers were now imported from abroad at a vast expense ; arid it was expected the English would soon be able to set examples to Europe. All these expectations, however, were soon dissipated. In spite of the zeal which fired the great, the ignorant vulgar refused to be taught to sing ; refused to undergo the ceremonies which wen? to imitate them in the singing fraternity : thus the colony from abroad dwindled by degrees ; for they were of themselves unfortunately in- capable of propagating the breed. Music having thus lost its splendour, paint- ing is now become the sole object of fash- ionable care. The title of connoisseur in that art is at present the safest passport in every fashionable society ; a well-timed shrug, an ad- miring attitude, and one or two exotic tones of exclamation, are sufficient qualifications for men of low circumstances to curry favour. Even some of the young nobility are themselves early instructed in handling the pencil, while their happy parents, big with expectation, foresee the walls of every apartment covered with the manufactures of their posterity. But many of the English are not content with giving all their lime to this art at home ; some young men of distinction are found to travel CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD. 217 through Europe, with no other intent than lLat of understanding and collecting pictures, studying seals, and describing statues. On they travel from this cabinet of curiosities to that gallery of pictures ; waste the prime of life in wonder ; skilful in pictures, ignorant in men ; yet impossible to be reclaimed, because their follies take shelter under the names of delicacy and taste. It is true, painting should have due encou ragement ; as the painter can undoubtedly fi up our apartments in a much more elegan manner than the upholsterer ; but I shouli think a man of fashion makes but an indiffer ent exchange, who lays out all that time in furnishing his house, which he should have employed in the furniture of his head. A person who shows no other symptoms of tast< than his cabinet or gallery, might as well boas to me of the furniture of his kitchen. I know no other motive but vanity, that in- duces the great to testify such an inordinat passion for pictures. After the piece is botiph and gazed at eight or ten days successively, the purchaser's pleasure must surely be over ; al the satisfaction he can then have is to show it to others ; he may be considered as the guar- dian of a treasure of which he makes no man. ner of use : his gallery is furnished not foi himself but the connoisseur, who is generally some humble flatterer, ready to feign a rapture he does not feel, and as necessary to the hap- piness of a picture buyer, as gazers are to the magnificence of an Asiatic procession. I have inclosed a letter from a youth of dis- tinction, on his travels to his father in Eng- land, in which he appears addicted to no vice, seems obedient to his governor, of a good na- tural disposition, and fond of improvement : but at the same time early taught to regard cabinets and galleries as the only proper schools for im- provement, and to consider a skill in pictures as the properest knowledge for a man of quality. "Mr LORD, " We have been but two days at Antwerp ; wherefore I have sat down as soon as possible, to give you some account of what we have seen since our arrival, desirous of letting no opportunity pass without writing to so good a father. Immediately upon alighting from our Rotterdam machine, my governor, who is im- moderately fond of .paintings and at the same time an excellent judge, would let no time pass till we paid our respects to the church of the virgin-mother, which contains treasure beyond estimation. We took an infinity of pains in knowing its exact dimensions, and differed half a foot in our calculation ; so I leave that to some succeeding information. I really believe my governor and I could have lived and died there. There is scarce a pillar in the whole church that is not adorned by a Reubens, a Vander Meuylen, a Vandyke, or a Wover- Bfian. What attitudes, carnations, and draper- ies ! I am almost induced to pity the Etiglisb who have none of those exquisite pieces among them. As we were willing to let slip no op portunity of doing business, we immediately after went to wait on Mr Hogendorp, whom you have so frequently commended for his judicious collection. His cameos are indeed beyond price ; his intaglios not so good. He j showed us one of an officiating flamcn, which he thought to be an antique ; but my governor, who is not to be deceived in these particulars, soon found it to be an arrant cinque cento. J could not, however, sufficiently admire the genius of Mr Hogendorp, who has been able to collect, from all parts of the world, a thou- s;md things which nobody knows the use of. Except your lordship and my governor, I do riot know any body I admire so much. He is indeed a surprising genius. The next morn- ing early, as we were resolved to take the whole day before us, we sent our compliments to Mr Van Sprokken, desiring to see his gal- lery, which request he very politely complied with. His gallery measures fifty feet by twen- ty, and is well filled ; but what surprised me most of all, was to see a holy family just like your lordship's, which this ingenious gentleman assures me is the true original. I own this gave me inexpressible uneasiness, and I fear it will to your lordship, as I had flattered myself that the only original was in your lordship's possession : I would advise you, however, to take your's down, till its merit can be ascer- tained, my governor assuring me, that he in- tends to write a long dissertation to prove its originality. One might study in this city for ages, and still find something new : We went from this to view the cardinal's statues, which are really very fine ; there were three spintria executed in a very masterly manner, all arm ,'n arm : the torse which I heard you ta_k sc rr.v,cb of, is at last discovered to be a Hercules spin- ning, and not a Cleopatra bathing, as your lord- ship had conjectured : thf.ic nas been a treatise written to prove it, "My Lord Firmly is certainly a Goth, a Vandal, no taste in the world for painting. I \vonderhow any rail him a man of taste: Passing through the streets of Antwerp a ew days ago, and observing the nakedness of the inhabitants, he was so barbarous as to ob- serve, that he thought the best method the Flemings could take, was to sell their pictures, ind buy clothes. Ah, Cogline ! We shall go o-morrow to Mr Carwarden's cabinet, and he next day we shall see the curiosities col- ected by Van Rau, and the day after we shall my a visit to Mount Calvary, and after that >ut I find my paper finished ; so, with the most incere wishes for your lordship's happiness, ,nd with hopes, after having seen Italy, tha: :entre of pleasure, to return home worthy the are and expense which has been generously laid jut in my improvement, I remain, my Lord, ours," &c. 218 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. LETTER XXXIV. FROM HINGPO, A SLAVE IX PERSIA, TO ALTANGI, A TRAVELLING PHILOSOPHER OF CHINA, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. FORTUNE has marie me the Slave of another, Dut nature and inclination render me entirely subservient to you ; a tyrant commands my body, but you are master of my heart. And yet let not thy inflexible nature condemn me when I confess, that I find my soul shrink with my circumstances. I feel my mind not ess than my body bend beneath the rigours of servitude ; the master whom I serve grows every day more formidable. In spite of reason, which should teach me to despise him, his hide- ous image fills even my dreams with horror. A few days ago, a Christian slave, who wrought in the gardens, happening to enter an arbour where the tyrant was entertaining the ladies of his Haram with coffee, the unhappy captive was instantly stabbed to the heart for his intrusion. I have been preferred to his place, which, though less laborious than my for- mer station, is yet more ungrateful, as it brings me nearer him whose presence excites sensations at once of disgust and apprehension. Into what a state of misery are the modern Persians fallen ! A nation famous for setting the world an example of freedom, is new be- come a land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. The houseless Tartar of Kamtschatka, who en- ioys his herbs and his fish in unmolested free- dom, may be envied, it' compared to the thou- sands who pine here in hopeless servitude, and curse the day that gave them being. Is this iust dealing, Heaven ! to render millions wretch- ed to swell up the happiness of a few? can- not the powerful of this earth be happy with- out our sighs and tears ? must every luxury of the great be woven from the calamities of the poor? It must, it must surely be, that this jar- ring discordant lite is but the prelude to some future harmony : the soul attuned to virtue nere shall go from hence to fill up the universal choir where Tien presides in person, where there shall be no tyrants to frown, no shackles to bind, nor no whips to threaten ; where I shall once more meet my father with rapture, and give a loose to filial piety; where I shall bang on his neck, and hear the wisdom of his lips, and thank him for all the happiness to which he has introduced me. The wretch whom fortune has made my mas- ter, has lately purchased several slaves of both sexes ; among the rest I hear a Christian cap- tive talked of with admiration. The eunuch who bought her, and who is accustomed to survey beauty with indifference, speaks of her with emotion ! Her pride, however, astonish- es her attendant slaves not less than her beauty. It is reported that she refuses the warmest so- ] licitations of her haughty lord : he has even offered to make her one of his four wives upon changing her religion, and conforming to his. It is probable she cannot refuse such extraor- dinary offers, and her delay is perhaps intended to enhance her favours. I have just now seen her; she inadvertent- ly approached the place without a veil, where I sat writing. She seemed to regard the hea- vens alone with fixed attention ; there her most ardent gaze was directed. Genius of the sun ! what unexpected softness! what animated grace ! her beauty seemed the transparent covering of virtue. Celestial beings could not wear a look of more perfection, while sorrow humanized her form, and mixed my admiration with pity. I rose from the bank on which I sat, and she re- tired ; happy that none observed us ; for such an interview might have been fatal. I have regarded, till now, the opulence and the power of my tyrant without envy. I saw him with a mind capable of enjoying the gifts of fortune, and consequently regarded him as one loaded, rather then enriched, with its fa- vours ; but at present, when I think that so much beauty is reserved only for him ; that so many charms should be lavished on a wretch incapable of feeling the greatness of the bless- ing, I own I feel a reluctance to which I have hitherto been a stranger. But let not my father impute those uneasy sensations to so trifling a cause as love. No, ne- ver let it be thought that your son, and the pu- pil of the wise Fum Hoam, could stoop to so degrading a passion ; I am only displeased at see- ing so much excellence so unjustly disposed of. The uneasiness which I feel is not for my- self, but for the beautiful Christian. When I reflect on the barbarity of him for whom she is designed, I pity, indeed I pity her ; when 1 think that she must only share one heart, who deserves to command a thousand, excuse me if I feel an emotion, which universal benevolence extorts from me. As I am convinced that you take a pleasure in those sallies of humani- ty, and are particularly pleased with compas. sion, I could not avoid discovering the sensi- bility with which I felt this beautiful stranger's distress. I have for a while forgot, in her's, the miseries of my own hopeless situation: the tyrant grows every day more severe; and love, which softens ail other minds into tenderness, seems only to have increased his severity. Adieu. LETTER XXXV. FROM THE SAME. THE whole Harem is filled with a tumultuous joy ; Zelis, the beautiful captive, has consented to embrace the religion of Mahomet, and be- come one of the wives of the fastidious Persian. It is impossible to describe the transport that sits on every face on this occasion. Musio CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 219 and feasting fill every apartment, the most miserable slave seems to forget his chains, and sympathizes with the happiness of Mostadad. The herb we tread beneath our feet is not made more for our use than every slave around him for their imperious master ; mere machines of obedience, they wait with silent assiduity, feel his pains, and rejoice in his exultation. Heavens ! how much is requisite tp make one man happy ! Twelve of the most beautiful slaves, and I amonir the number, have got orders to prepare for carrying him in triumph to the bridal apart- ment. The blaze of perfumed torches is to imitate the day : the dancers and singers are hired at a vast expense. The nuptials are to be celebrated on the approaching feast of Barboura, when a hundred taels in gold are to be dis- tributed among the barren wives, in order to pray for fertility from the approaching union. What will not riches procure ! A hundred domestics, who curse the tyrant in their souls, are commanded to wear a face of joy, and they are joyful. An hundred flatterers are ordered to attend, and they fill his eais with praise. Beauty, all-commanding beauty, sues for ad- mittance, and scarcely receives an answer : even love itself seems to wait upon fortune, or though the passion be only feigned, yet it wears every appearance of sincerity ; and what greater pleasure can even true sincerity confer, or what would the rich have more ? Nothing can exceed the intended magnificence of the bridegroom but the costly dresses of the liride : six eunuchs in the most sumptuous ha- bits are to conduct him to the nuptial couch, and wait his orders. Six ladies, in all the mag- nificence of Persia, are directed to undress the bride. Their business is to assist, to encourage her, to divest her of every encumbering part of her dress, all but the last covering, which, by an artful complication of ribands, is purposely made difficult to unloose, and with which she is to part reluctantly even to the joyful posses- sor of her beauty. Mostadad, O my father, is no philosopher ; and yet he seems perfectly contented with ig- } norance. Possessed of numberless slaves, ca- mels, nnd women, he desires no greater posses- sion. He never opened the page of Mentius, and yet all the slaves tell me that he is happy. Forgive the weakness of my nature, if I sometimes feel my heart rebellious to the dic- tates of wisdom, and eager for happiness like his. Yet why wish for his wealth with his igno- rance ? to be like him, incapable of sentimental uleasures, incapable of feeling the happiness of making others happy, incapable of teaching the beautiful Zelis philosophy ? What ! shall I in a transport of passion give up the golden mean, the universal harmony, tiie unchanging essence, for the possession of n hundred camels, as many slaves, thirty-five beautiful horses, and seventy-three fine women ? First blast me to the centre ! degrade me be- neath the most degraded ! pare my naiJs. ye powers of Heaven ere I would stoop to snch an exchange. What ! part with philosophy, which teaches me to suppress my passions in stead of gratifying them, which teaches me even to divest my soul of passion, which teach- es serenity in the midst of tortures ! philoso. phy, by which even now I am so very serene, and so very much at ease, to be persuaded to part with it for any other enjoyment ! Never, never, even though persuasion spoke in the ac- cents of Zelis ! A female slave informs me that the bride is to be arrayed in a tissue of silver, and her hair adorned with the largest pearls of Ormus : but why teaze you with particulars, in which we both are so little concerned. The pain I feel in separation throws a gloom over my mind, which in this scene of universal joy I fear may be attributed to some other cause : how wretched are those who are, like me, de- nied even the last resource of misery, their tears ! Adieu. LETTER XXXVI. FROM THE SAME. I BEGIX to have doubts whether wisdom be alone sufficient to make us happy : whether every step we make in refinement is not an in- let into new disquietudes. A mind too vigor- ous and active, serves only to consume the body to which it is joined, as the richest jewels are soonest found to wear their settings. When we rise in knowledge, as the prospect widens, the objects of our regard become more obscure : and the unlettered peasant, whose views are only directed to the narrow sphere around him, beholds Nature with a finer relish, and tastes her blessings with a keener appetite, than the philosopher whose mind attempts to grasp an universal system. As I was some days ago pursuing this sub- ject among a circle of my fellow-slaves, an ancient Guebre of the number, equally re- markable for his piety and wisdom, seemed touched with my conversation, and desired to il- lustrate what I had been saying with an allegory taken from the Zendevesta of Zoroaster : By this we shall be taught, says he, that they who travel in pursuit of wisdom, walk only in a circle ; and after all their labour, at last re- turn to their pristine ignorance ; and in this also we shall see, that enthusiastic confidence or unsatisfying doubts terminate all our in- quiries. In early times, before myriads of nations covered the earth, the whole human race lived together in one valley. The simple inhabi- tants, surrounded on every side by lofty moun- tains, knew no other world but the little spot to which they were confined. They fancied the heavens bent down to meet the mountain tops, and formed an impenetrable wall to sur- round them. None had ever yet ventured to 220 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. .clirnb the steepy cliff, in order to explore those regions that lay beyond it; they, knew the nature of the skies only from a tradition, which mentioned their being made of ada- mant : traditions make up the reasonings of the simple, and serve to silence every inquiry. In this sequestered vale, blessed with all the spontaneous productions of Nature, the honeyed blossom, the refreshing breeze, the gliding brook, and golden fruitage, the simple inhabitants seemed happy in themselves, in each other ; they desired no greater pleasures, for they knew of none greater ; ambition, pride, and envy, were vices unknown among them j and from this peculiar simplicity of its pos- sessors, the country was called " The valley of Ignorance." At length, however, an unhappy youth, more aspiring than the rest, undertook to climb the mountain's side, and examine the summits which were hitherto deemed inacces- sible. The inhabitants from below gazed with wonder at his intrepidity ; some applaud- ed his courage, others censured his folly ; still, however, he proceeded towards the place where the earth and heavens seemed to unite, and at length arrived at the wished-for height with extreme labour and assiduity. His first surprise was to find the sides, not as he expected within his reach, but still as far off as before ! his amazement increased when he saw a wide extended region lying on the opposite side of the mountain, but it rose to astonishment when he beheld a country at a distance, more beautiful and alluring than even that he had just left behind. As he continued to gaze with wonder a genius, with a look of infinite modesty, ap- proaching, offered to be his guide and instruc- tor. The distant country which you so much udmire, says the angelic being, is called the " Land of Certainty ;" in that charming retreat, sentiment contributes to refine every sensual banquet; the inhabitants are blessed with every solid enjoyment, and still more blessed in a perfect consciousness of their own feli- city : ignorance in that country is wholly un- icnown ; all there is satisfaction without alloy, for every pleasure first undergoes the examina- tion of reason. As for me, I am called the genius of Demonstration, and am stationed here in order to conduct every adventurer to that land of happiness, through those inter- vening regions you see overhung with fogs and darkness, and horrid with forests, cataracts, caverns, and various other shapes of danger. But follow me, and in time I may lead you to that distant desirable land of tranquillity. The intrepid traveller immediately put him- self under the direction of the genius, and both journeying on together with a slow but agree- able pace, deceived the tediousness of the way by conversation,. The beginning of the journey seemed to promise true satisfaction, but as they proceeded forward, the skies be- came more glcomy and the way more intricate; they often inadvertently approached the brow of some frightful precipice, or the brink of a torrent, and were obliged to measure back their former way : the gloom increasing as they proceeded, their pace became more slow ; they paused at every step, frequently stumbled, and their distrust and timidity increased. The genius of Demonstration now therefore ad- vised his pupil to grope upon hands and feet, as a method, though more slow, yet less liable to error. In thia manner they attempted to pursue their journey for some time, when they were overtaken by another genius, who with a pre- cipitate pace seemed travelling the same way. He was instantly known by the other to be the genius of Probability. He wore two wide extended wings at his back, which incessant- ly waved, without increasing the rapidity of his motion ; his countenance betrayed a confi- dence that the ignorant might mistake for sin- cerity, and he had but one eye, wiiich was fixed in the middle of his forehead. Servant of Hormizda, cried he, approach- ing the mortal pilgrim, if thou art travelling to the Land of Certainty, how is it possible to arrive there under the guidance of a genius, who proceeds forward so slowly, and is so little acquainted with the way? Follow me, w* shall soon perform the journey to where every pleasure waits our arrival. The peremptory tone in which this genius spoke, and the speed with which he moved forward, induced the traveller to change his conductor, and leaving his modest companion behind, he proceeded forward with his more confident director, seeming not a little pleased at the increased velocity of his motion. But soon he found reason to repent. When- ever a torrent crossed their way, his guide taught him to despise the obstacle by plunging him in ; whenever a precipice presented, he was directed to fling himself forward. Thus each moment miraculously escaping, his re- peated escapes only served to increase his- temerity. He led him therefore forward, amidst infinite difficulties, till they arrived at the borders of an ocean, which appeared in- navigable from the black mists that lay upon its surface. Its unquiet waves were of the darkest hue, and gave a' lively representation of the various agitations of the human mind. The genius of Probability now confessed his temerity, owned his being an improper guide to the Land of Certainty, a country where no mortal had ever been permitted to arrive ; but at the same time offered to supply the traveller with another conductor, who should carry him to the Land of Confidence, a region where the inhabitants lived with the utmost tranquillity, and tasted almost as much satis faction as if in the Land of Certainty. Not waiting for a reply, he stamped three times on the ground, ami called forth the demon of Error, a gloomy fiend of the servants of Ari- manes. The yawning earth gave up the reluc- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 221 taut savage, who seemed imable to bear the light of the day. His stature was enormous, his colour black and hideous, his aspect be- trayed a thousand varying passions, and he spread forth pinions that were fitted for fte most rapid flight. The traveller at first was shocked at the spectre ; but finding him obe- dient to a superior power, he assumed his for- mer tranquillity. I have called you to duty, cries the genius to the demon, to bear on your back a son of mortality over the ocean of Doubts, into the Land of Confidence : I expect you'll perform your commission with punctuality. And as for you, continued the genius, addressing the traveller, when once I have bound this fillet round your eyes, let no voice of persuasion, nor threats the most terrifying, persuade you to unbind it in order to look round ; keep the fillet fast, look not at the ocean below, and you may certainly expect to arrive at a region of pleasure. Tims saying, and the traveller's eyes being covered, the demon, muttering curses, raised him on his back, and instantly upborne by his strong pinions, directed his flight among the clouds. Neither the loudest thunder, nor the most angry tempest, could persuade the tra- veller to unbind his eyes. The demon directed his flight downwards, and skimmed the surface of the ocean ; a thousand voices, some with loud invectives, others in the sar- castic tones of contempt, vainly endeavoured to persuade him to look round ; but he still continued to keep his eyes covered, and would in all probability have arrived at the happy land, had not flattery effected what other means could not perform. For now he heard himself welcomed on every side to the pro- mised land, a universal shout of joy was sent forth at his safe arrival. The wearied traveller, desirous of seeing the long wished for country, at length pulled the fillet from his eyes, and ventured to look round him. But he had un- loosed the band too soon ; he was not yet above half-way over. The demon, who was still hovering in the air, and had produced those sounds only in order to deceive, was now freed from his commission ; wherefore throw- ing the astonished traveller from his back, the unhappy youth fell headlong into the subja- cent Ocean of Doubts, from whence he never aftT was seen to rise. LETTER XXXVII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMV AT PE5ZX IN CHINA. WHEN- Parmenio the Grecian haa done something which excited a universal shout from the surrounding multitude, he was in- .itauUy struck with the doubt, that what Lad | their approbation must certainly be wrong: j ;;nd turning to a philosopher who stood near 'him, Pray, Sir, says he, pardon me; 1 iear 1 have been guilty of some absurdity. You know that I am not less than him a despiser of the multitude; you know that I equally detest flattery to the great ; yet so many circumstances ITave concurred to give a lustre to the latter part of the present English ! monarch's reign, that I cannot withhold my ' contribution of praise ; I cannot avoid ac- ' knowledging the crowd, for once, just in their | unanimous approbation. Yet think not that battles gained, dominion extended, or enemies brought to submission, are the virtues which at present claim my ad- miration. Were the reigning monarch only famous for bis victories, I should regard his j character with indifference ; the boast of hero- * ism in this enlightened age is justly regarded ) as a qualification of a very subordinate rank, j in id mankind now begin to look with becoming horror on these foes to man. The virtue in this aged monarch which I have at present in view, is one of a much more exalted nature, is one of the most difficult attainment, is the least prized of all kingly virtues, and yet deserves the greatest praise ; the virtue I mean is JUS- TICE ^ a strict administration of justice, with- out severity and without favour. Of all virtues this is the most difficult to be practised by a king who has a power to pardon. .Ail men, even tyrants themselves, lean to mercy when unbiassed by passions or interest ; the heart naturally persuades to forgiveness, and pursuing the dictates of this pleasing de- ceiver, we are led to prefer our private satis- faction to public utility. What a thorough love for the public, what a strong command orer the passions, what a finely conducted judgment must he possess, who opposes the dictates of reason to those of his heart, and pre- iers the future interest of his people to his own immediate satisfaction? If still to a man's own natural bias for ten- derness, we add the numerous solicitations made by a criminal's friend for mercy : if we survey t; king not only opposing his own feelings, but reluctantly refusing those he regards, and this to satisfy the public, whose cries he may never hear, whose gratitude he may never receive, this surely is true greatness ! Let us fancy ourselves for a moment in this just old man's place, sur- rounded by numbers, all soliciting the same fa- vour, a favour that Nature disposes us to grant where the inducements to pity are laid before us in the strongest light, suppliants at our feet, some ready to resent a refusal, none opposing a compliance; let us, 1 say, suppose our selves in such a situation, and I fancy we should find ourselves more apt to act the char acter of good-natured men than of upright ma. gistrates. What contributes to raise justice above all other kingly virtues is, that it is seldom attend- ed with a due share of applause, and thos* 3 222 CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. who practise it must be influenced by greater motives than empty fame ; the people are gene- rally well pleased with a remission of punish- ment, and all that wears the appearance of humanity ; it is the wise alone who are capable of discerning that impartial justice is the truest mercy; they know it to be very difficult, at once to compassionate, and yet condemn an object that pleads for tenderness. I have been led into this common-place train of thought by a late striking instance in this country of the impartiality of justice, and of the king's inflexible resolution of inflicting punishment where it was justly due. A man of the first quality, in a fit either of passion, melancholy, or madness, murdered his servant ; it was expected that his station in life would have lessened the ignominy of his punishment ; however, he was arraigned, condemned, and underwent the same degrading death with the meanest malefactor. It was well considered that virtue alone is true nobility; and that he whose actions sink him even beneath the vul- gar, has no right to those distinctions which should be the rewards only of merit ; it was perhaps considered that crimes were more heinous among the higher classes of people, as necessity exposes them to fewer temptations. Over all the East, even China not excepted, a person of the same quality, guilty of such a crime, might, by giving up a share of his for- tune to the judge, buy off his sentence. There are several countries, even in Europe, where the servant is entirely the property of his mas- ter ; if a slave kills his lord, he dies by the most excruciating tortures ; but if the circum- stances are reversed, a small fine buys off the punishment of the offender. Happy the coun- try where all are equal, and where those who sit as judges have too much integrity to re- ceive a bribe, and too much honour to pity from a similitude of the prisoner's title or cir- cumstances with their own. Such is England; yet think not that it was always equally famed for this strict impartiality. There was a time, even here, when title softened the rigours of the law, when dignified wretches were suffer- ed to live, and continue for years an equal dis- grace to justice and nobility. To this day, in a neighbouring country, the great are often most scandalously pardoned for the most scandalous offences. A person is still alive among them who has more than once deserved the most ignominious severity of justice. His being of the blood royal, how- ever, was thought a sufficient atonement for his being a disgrace to humanity. This re- markable personage took pleasure in shooting at the passengers below from the top of his palace ; and in this most princely amusement he usually spent some time every day. He was at length arraigned by the friends of a per- son whom in this manner he had killed, was lound guilty of the charge, and condemned to die. His merciful monarch pardoned him, in consideration of his- rank and quality. The un repenting criminal soon after renewed nia usual entertainment, and in the same manner killed another man. He was a second time condemned; and strange to think, a second time received his majesty's pardon ! Would you believe it? A third time the very same man was guilty of the very same offence ; a third time, therefore, the laws of his country found him _ guilty: I wish, for the honour of hu- manity, I could suppress the rest A third time was he pardoned ! Will you not think such a story too extraordinary for belief? will you not think me describing the savage inhabi- tants of Congo ? Alas ! the story is but too true ; and the country where it was transacted, regards itself as the politest in Europe ! Adieu. LETTER XXXVIII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO * * *, IN AMSTERDAM. MERCHANT CEREMONIES are different in every country : but true politeness is everywhere the same. Ceremonies, which take up so much of our at- tention, are only artificial helps which ignorance assumes, in order to imitate politeness, which is the result of good sense and good nature. A person possessed of those qualities, though he had never seen a court, is truly agreeable ; and if without them, would continue a clown, though he had been all his life a gentleman usher. How would a Chinese, bred up in the formalities of an Eastern Court, be regarded, should he carry all his good mariners beyond the Great Wall? How would an English- man, skilled in all the decorums of Western good-breeding, appear at an Eastern entertain- ment would he not be reckoned more fantas- tically savage than even his unbred footman ? Ceremony resembles that base coin which circulates through a country by the royal man- date ; it serves every purpose of real money at home, but is entirely useless if carried abroad ; a person who should attempt to cir- culate his native trash in another country, would be thought either ridiculous or culpable. He is truly well-bred, who knows when to value and when to despise those national pe- culiarities, which are regarded by some with so much observance : a traveller of taste at once perceives that the wise are polite all the world over, but that fools are polite only at home. I have now before me two very fashionable etters upon the same subject, both written by adies of distinction ; one of whom leads the fashion in England, and the other sets the ceremonies of China : they are both regarded n their respective countries, by all the beau monde, as standards of taste, and models of true politeness, and both give us a true idea of what they imagine elegant in their admirers : vhich of them understands true politeness, cr CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 223 whether either, you shall be at liberty to de- termine. The English lady writes thus to her female confidant : As I live, my dear Charlotte, I believe the colonel will carry it at last; he is a most ir- resistible fellow, that is flat. So well dressed, so neat, so sprightly, and plays about one so agreeably, that I vow, he has as much spirits as the marquis of Monkeyman's Italian grey- hound. I first saw him at Ranelagh ; he shines there : he is nothing without Ranelagh ; and Ranelagh nothing without him. The next day, he sent a card and compliments, desiring to wait on mamma and me to the music sub- scription. He looked all the time with such irresistible impudence, that positively he had something in his face gave me as much pleasure as a pair-royal of naturals in my own hand. He waited on mamma and me the next morn- ing to know how we got home : you must know the insidious devil makes love to us both. Rap went the footman at the door; bounce went my heart : I thought he would have rat- tled the house down. Chariot drove up to the window, with his footman in the prettiest liveries ; he has infinite taste, that is flat. Mamma had spent all the morning at her head ; but for my part I was in an undress to receive him ; quite easy, mind that ; no way disturbed at his approach : mamma pretended to be as degagee as I; and yet I saw her blush in spite of her. Positively he is a most killing devil ! We did nothing but laugh all the time he staid with us ; I never heard so many very good things before : at first he mistook mamma for my sister ; at which she laughed : then he mistook my natural complexion for paint ; at which i laughed ; and then he showed us a picture in the lid of his snuff-box, at which we all laughed. He plays picquet so very ill, and is so very fond of cards, and loses with such a grace, that positively he has won me,; I have got a cool hundred ; .but have lost my heart. I need not tell you that he is only a colonel of the trainbands. I am, dear Charlotte, yours for ever, BELINDA. The Chinese lady address-is her confidant, a poor relation of the family, upon the same occasion ; in which she seems to understand decorums even better than the Western beauty. You who have resided so long in China, will readily acknowledge the picture to be taken from nature ; and, by being acquainted with the Chi- nese customs, will better apprehend the lady's meaning. FROM YAOUA TO YAYA. PAPA insists upon one, two, three, four hun- dred taels from the colonel my lover, before he ports with a lock of my hair. Ho, how I wish the dear creature may be able to produce the money, and pay papa my fortune. The colonel is reckoned the politest man in all Shensi. The lirst visit he paid at our house ; mercy ! what stooping, and cringing, and stopping, and fidg- eting, and going back, and creeping forward, there was between him and papa : one would have thought he had got the seventeen books of ceremonies all by heart. When he was come into the hall, he flourished his hands three times in a very graceful manner. Papa, who would not be out-done, flourished his four times ; up- on this the colonel began again, and both thus continued flourishing for some minutes in the politest manner imaginable. I was posted in the usual place behind the screen, where I saw the whole ceremony through a slit. Of this the colonel was sensible, for papa informed him. I would have given the world to have shown him my little shoes, but had no opportunity. It was the first time I had ever the happiness of seeing any man but papa, and I vow, my dear Yaya, I thought my three souls would actually have fled from my lips. Ho, but he looked most charmingly ; he is reckoned the best shap- ed man in the whole province, for he is very fat, and very short; but even those natural ad- vantages are improved by his dress, which is fashionable past description. His head was close shaven, all but the crown, and the hair of that was braided into a most beautiful tail, that reached down to his heels, and was terminated by a bunch of yellow roses. Upon his first entering the room, I could easily perceive he had been highly perfumed with assafoetida. But then his looks, his looks, my dear Yaya, were irresistible. He kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the wall during the whole ceremony, and I sincerely believe no accident could have discomposed his gravity, or drawn his eyes away. After a polite silence of two hours, he gallantly begged to have the singing women in- troduced, purely for my amusement. After one of them had for some time entertained us with her voice, the colonel and she retired for some minutes together. I thought they would never have come back; I must own he is a most agreeable creature. Upon his return, they again renewed the concert, and he continued to gaze upon the wall as usual, when in less than half an hour more, ho ! but he retired out of the room with another. He is indeed a most agreeable creiture. When he came to takeliis leave, the whole ceremony began afresh ; papa would see him to the door, but the colonel swore he would rather see the earth turned upside down than permit him to stir a single step, and papa was at last obliged to comply. As soon as he was got to the door, papa went out to see him on horseback ; here they continued half an hour bowing and cringing, before one would mount or the other go in, but the colonel was at last victorious. He had scarce gone a hundred paces from the house, when papa running out hallooed after him, A good journey! unon which 224 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. the colonel returned, and would see papa into his house before ever he would depart. He was no sooner got home than he sent me a very fine present of duck eggs painted of twenty different colours. His generosity I own has won me. I have ever since been trying over the eight letters of good fortune, and have great hopes. All I. have to apprehend is, that after he has married me, and that I am carried to his house close shut up in my chair, when he comes to have the first sight of my face, he may shut me up a second time and send me back to papa. Howerer I shall appear as fine as possible : mamma and I have been to buy the clothes for my wedding. I am to have a new fong whang in my hair, the beak of which will reach down to my nose , the milliner from whom we bought that and our ribbons cheated us as if she had no conscience, and so to quiet mine, I cheated her. All this is fair you know, I remain, my dear Yaya, your ever faithful YAOUA. LETTER XXXIX. FROM THE SAME. You have always testified the highest esteem for the English poets, and thought them not inferior to the Greeks, Romans, and even the Chinese, in the art. But it is now thought even by the English themselves, that the race of their poets is extinct ; every day produces some pathetic exclamation upon the decadence of taste and genius. Pegasus, say they, has slipped the bridle from his mouth, and our modern -bards attempt to direct his flight by catching him by the tail. Yet, my friend, it is only among the ignorant that such discourses prevail ; men of true dis- cernment can see several poets still among the English, some of whom equal if not surpass their predecessors. The ignorant term that alone poetry which is couched in a certain number of syllables in every line, where a vapid thought is drawn out into a number of ver- ses of equal length, and perhaps pointed with rhymes at the end. But glowing sentiment, striking imagry, concise expression, natural description, and modulated periods, are full sufficient entirely to fill up my idea of this art, and make way to every passion. If my idea of poetry therefore be just, the English are not at present so destitute of poeti- cal merit as they seem to imagine. I can see several poets in disguise among them ; men furnished with the strength of soul, sublimity of sentiment, and grandeur of expression, which constitute the character. Many of the writers of their modern odes, sonnets, tragedies, or re- busses, it is true, deserve not the name, though they have done nothing but clink, rhyme, and measure syllables for years together : their Johnsons and Smollets are truly poets j though lor ought I know they never made a single verse in their whole Lives. In every ina pient language, the poet and the prose writer are very distinct in their qualificn- tions : the poet ever proceeds first ; treading unbeaten paths, enriching his native sounds, and employed in new adventures. The other follows with more cautious steps, and though slow in his motions, treasures up every useful or pleasing discovery. But when once all the extent and the force of the language is known, the poet then seems to rest from his labour, and is at length overtaken by his assiduous pursuer. Both characters are then blended into one ; the historian and orator catch all the poet's fire, and leave him no real mark of distinction, ex- cept the iteration of numbers regularly return- ing. Thus in the decline of ancient Euro- pean learning, Seneca, though he wrote in prose, is as much a poet as Lucan,and Longinus, though but a ciitic, more sublime than Apollonius. From this then it appears, that poetry is not discontinued, but altered among the English at present; the outward form seems different from what it was, but poetry still continues in- ternally the same : the only question remains, whether the metric feet used by the good writ- ers of the last age, or the prosaic numbers em- ployed by the good writers of this, be preferable ? And here the practice of the last age appears to me superior ; they submitted to the restraint of numbers and similar sounds ; and this re- straint, instead of diminishing, augmented the force of their sentiment and style. Fancy re- trained may be compared to a fountain, which plays highest by diminishing the aperture. Of the truth of this maxim in every language, every fine writer is perfectly sensible from his own experience, and yet to explain the reason would be perhaps as difficult as to make a frigid genius profit by the discovery. There is still another reason in favour of the practice of the last age, to be drawn from the variety of modulation. The musical period in prose is confined to a very few changes ; the numbers in verse are capable of infinite va- riation. I speak not now from the practice of modern verse-writers, few of whom hare any dea of musical variety, hut run on in the same monotonous flow through the whole poem, but rather from the example of their former poets, who were tolerable masters of this variety, and also from a capacity in the language of still ad- mitting various unanticipated music. Several rules have been drawn up for va- rying the poetic measure, and critics have ela- borately talked of accents and syllables ; but good sense and a fine ear, which rules can ne- ver teach, are what alone can in such a case de- termine. The rapturous Sowings of joy, or the interruptions of indignation, require accents placed entirely different, and a structure con- sonant to. the emotions they would express. Changing passions, and numbers changing with those passions, makeihe wholesecretof Western as well as Eastern poetry. In a word, the CITIZEN OF THE WOELD. 225 great faults of the modern profess**! English poets are, that they seem to want numbers which should vary with the passion, and are more employed in describing to the imagina- tion than striking at the heart. LETTER XL. FROM THE SAME. SOME time since I sent thee, O lioly disci- ple of Confucius, an account of the grand abbey or mausoleum of the kings and heroes of this nation : I have since been introduced to a temple not so ancient, but far superior in beau- ty and magnificence. In this, which is the most considerable of the empire, there are no pompous inscriptions, no flattery paid the dead, but all is elegant and awfully simple. There are, however, a few rags hung round the walls, which have, at a. vast expense, been taken from the enemy in the present war. The silk of which they are composed, when new, might be valued at half a string of copper money in Chi- na ; yet this wise people iitted out a fleet and an army in order to seize them, though now grown old, and scarcely capable of being patched up into a handkerchief. By this con- quest, the English are said to have gained, and the French to have lost much honour. Is the honour of European nations placed only in a tattered silk ? In this temple I w:is permitted to remain during the whole service ; and were you not already acquainted with the religion of the English, you might, from my description, be inclined to believe them as grossly idolatrous as the disciples of Lao. The idol which they seam to address, strides like a colossus over the door of the inner temple, which here, as with the Jews, is esteemed the most sacred part of the building. Its oracles are delivered in a hundred various tones, which- seem to inspire the worshippers with enthusiasm and awe : an old woman, who appeared to be the priestess, was employed in various attitudes, as she felt the inspiration. . When it began to speak, all the peo- ple remained iixed in silent attention, nodding as- sent, looking approbation, appearing highly edifi- ed by those sounds which to a stranger might seem inarticulate and unmeaning. When the idol had done speaking, and the priestess had locked up its lungs with a key, observing almost all the company leaving the temple, I concluded the service was over, and taking my hat, was going to walk away with the crowd, when I was stopped by the man in black, who assured me that the ceremony had scarcely yet begun ! What, cried I, do I not see almost the whole body of the worshippers leaving the church ? Would you persuade me that such numbers who profess religion and raoralitv, would, in this shameless manner, quit the temple before the service was conclud- ed ? You surely mistake : not even the Kal- mucks would be guilty of such an indecency, though all the object of their worship was but a joint-stool. My friend seemed to blush for his countrymen, assuring me that those whom I saw running away, were only a parcel of mu- sical blockheads, whose passion was merely for sounds, and whose heads are as empty as a fiddle-case; those who remained behind, says he, are the true religious ; they make use of mu- sic to warm their hearts, and to lift them to a proper pitch of rapture : examine their beha- viour, and you will confess there are some among us who practise true devotion. I now looked round me as directed, but sa\v nothing of that fervent devotion which he had promised : one of the worshippers appeared to be ogling the company through a glass ; ano- ther was fervent, not in addresses to Heaven, but to his mistress ; a third whispered, a fourth took snuff, and the priest himself, in a drowsy tone, read over the duties of the day. Bless my eyes, cried I, as I happened to look towards the door, what do I see ! one of the worshippers fallen fast asleep, and actually i sunk down on his cushion ! Is he now enjoy- ing the benefit of a trance, or does he receive the influence of some mysterious vision ? " Alas ! alas !" replied my companion, "no such thing ; he has only had the misfortune of eating too hearty a dinner, and finds it impos- sible to keej) his eyes open." Turning to an- other part of the temple, I perceived a young lady just in the same circumstances and attu tude : Strange, cried I, can she too have over-eaten herself? " O fie !" replied my friend, " you now grow censorious. She grow drowsy from eating too much ! that would be profanation ! She only sleeps now from hav- ing sat up all night at a brag party." Turn me where I will then, says I, I can perceive no single symptom of devotion among the wor- shippers, except from that old woman in the corner, who sits groaning behind the long sticks of a mourning fan ; she indeed seems greatly edified with what she hears. " Ay," replied iny friend, " I knew we should find some to catch you ; I know her ; that is tie deaf lady who lives in the cloisters." In short, the remissness of behaviour in al- most all the worshippers, and some even of the guardians, struck me with surprise. I had been taught to believe that none were ever promoted to offices in the temple, but men re- markable for their superior sanctity, learning, and rectitude j that there was no such thing heard of, as persons being introduced into the church merely to oblige a senator, or provide for the younger branch of a noble family : I expected as their minds were continually set upon hea- venly things, to see their eyes directed there also ; and hoped, from their behaviour, to per- ceive their inclinations corresponding with their duty. But I r.m since informed, that 226 CITIZEN OF THE WOELD. aome are appointed to preside over temples they never visit ; and, while they receive all the money, are contented with letting others do all the good. .Adieu. LETTER XLI. fROM FUM KOAM, TO LTEN CHI ALTANGI, THE DISCONTENTED WANDERER, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. I ever continue to condemn thy per- severance, and blame that curiosity which de- stroys thy happiness ! What yet untasted ban- quet, what luxury yet unknown, has rewarded thy painful adventures ? Name a pleasure which thy native country could not amply procure; frame a wish that might not have been satisfied in China ! Why then such toil, and such flanger, in pursuit of raptures within your reach at home ? The Europeans, you will say, excel us in sciences and in arts ; those sciences which bound the aspiring wish, and those arts which tend to gratify even unrestrained desire. They may perhaps out-do us in the arts of building ships, casting cannons, or measuring mountains; but are they superior in the greatest of all arts, the art of governing kingdoms and our selves? When I compare the history of China with that of Europe, how do I exult in being a na- tive of that kingdom which derives its original from the sun. Upon opening the Chinese history, I there behold an ancient extended empire, established by laws which nature arid reason seem to have dictated. The duty of children to their parents, a duty which nature implants in every breast, forms the strength of that government which has subsisted for time immemorial. Filial obedience is the first and greatest requisite of a state : by this we become good subjects to our emperors, capable of be- having with just subordination to our supe- riors, and grateful dependents on Heaven : by this we become fonder of marriage, in order to be capable of exacting obedience from others in our turn : by this we become good magis- trates, for early submission is the truest lesson to those who would learn to rule. By this the whole state may be said to resemble one family, of which the emperor is the protector, tather, and friend. In this happy region, sequestered from the rest of mankind, I see a succession of princes who in general considered themselves as the fathers of their people ; a race of philosophers who brarely combated idolatry, prejudice, and tyranny, at the expense of their private happi- ness and immediate reputation. Whenever an usurper or a tyrant intruded into the adminis- tration, how have all the good and great been united against him ! Can European history produce an instance like that of the twelve mandarines, who all resolved to apprize the vicious emperor Tisiang of the irregularity ol his conduct? He who first undertook the dangerous task was cut in two by the emper or's order, the second was ordered to be tor- mented, and then put to a cruel death, the third undertook the task with intrepidity, and was instantly stabbed by the tyrant's hand : in this manner they all suffered, except one. But I not to be turned from his purpose, the brave survivor entering the palace with the instru- ments of torture in his hand, " Here," cried he, addressing himself to the throne, "here, O Tisi- ang, are the marks your faithful subjects receive for their loyalty ; I am wearied with serving a tyrant, and now come for my reward." The emperor, struck with his intrepidity, instantly forgave the boldness of his conduct, and re- formed his own. What European annals can boast of a tyrant thus reclaimed to lenity ? When five brethren had set upon the great emperor Ginsong alone, with his sabre he slew four of them ; he was struggling with the fifth, when his guards coming up were going to cut the conspirator into a thousand pieces. " No, no," cried the emperor, with a calm and placid cpuntenance,"of all his brothers he is the onlyone remaining, at least let one of the family be suf- fered to live, that his aged parents may have somebody left to feed and comfort them!' 1 When Haitong, the last emperor of the house of Ming, saw himself besieged in his own city by the usurper, he was resolved to issue from his palace with six hundred of his guards, and give the enemy battle ; but they forsook him. Being thus without hopes, and choosing death rather than to fall alive into the hands of a rebel, he retired to his garden, conducting his little daughter, an only child, in his hand ; there, in a private arbour, unsheathing his sword, he stabbed the young innocent to the heart, and then despatched himself, leaving the following- words written with his blood on the border of his vest : "Forsaken by my subjects, abandoned by my friends, use my body as you will, but spare, O spare my people !" An empire which has thus continued inva- riably the same for such a long succession of ages ; which though at last conquered by the Tartars, still preserves its ancient laws and learning ; and may more properly be said to annex the dominions of Tartary to its empire, than admit a foreign conqueror ; an empire as large asEurope, governed by one law, acknow- ledging subjection to one prince, and experienc- ing but one revolution of any continuance in the space of four thousand years; this is something so peculiarly great, that I am naturally led to des- pise all other nations on the comparison. Here we see no religious persecutions, no enmity between mankind, for difference in opinion. The disciples of Lao Kium, the idolatrous sectaries of Fohi, and the philosophical children of Confucius, only strive to show by their ac- tions the truth of their doctrines. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 227 Now turn from this happy, peaceful scene to Europe, the theatre of intrigue, avarice, am ambition. How many revolutions does it no e.Tperience in the compass even of one age ! anc to what do these revolutions tend but the De- struction of thousands ! Every great event is replete xvithsome new calamity. The seasons of serenity are passed over in silence, their histories seem to speak only of the storm. There we see the Romans extending their power over barbarous nations, and in turn be- come a prey to those whom they had conquered. We see those barbarians, when become Christ- ans, engaged in continual war with the follow- ers of Mahomet ; or more dreadful still, des- troying each other. We see councils in the earlier ages authorising every iniquity ; cru- sades spreading desolation in the country left, as well as that to be conquered ; excommuni- cations freeing subjects from natural allegiance and persuading to seditions ; blood flowing in the tields and on scaffolds, tortures used as arguments to convince the recusant : to heighten the horror of the piece, behold it shaded with wars, rebellions, treasons, plots, politics, and poison. And what advantage has any country of Europe obtained from such calamities ? Scarce- ly any. Their dissensions for more than a thousand years have served to make each other unhappy, but have enriched none. All the 2;reat nations still nearly preserve their anaient limits ; none have been able to subdue the other, and so terminate the dispute. France, in spite of the conquests of Edward the third, and Henry the fifth, notwithstanding the efforts of Charles the tifth and Philip the second, still remains within its ancient limits. Spain, Germany, Great Britain, Poland, the states of the North, are nearly still the same. What effect then has the blood of so many thousands, the destruction of so many cities, produced ? Nothing either great or considerable. The Christian princes have lost, indeed, much from the enemies of Christendom, but they have gained nothing from each other. Their prin- ces, because they preferred ambition to justice, deserve the character of enemies to mankind ; and their priests, by neglecting morality for opinion, have mistaken the interests of society. On whatever side we regard the history of Europe, we shall perceive it to be a tissue of crimes, follies, and misfortunes, of politics with design, and wars without consequences : in this long list of human infirmity, a great cha- racter, or a shining virtue, may sometimes hap- pen to arise, as we often meet a cottage or a cultivated spot in the most hideous wilderness. But for an Alfred, an Alphonso, a Frederick, or an Alexander III., we meet a thousand princes who have disgraced humanity. LETTER XLII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUJI HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT CF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. WE have just received account here, that Voltaire, the poet and philosopher of Europe, is dead ! He is now beyond the reach of the thousand enemies, who while living, degraded his writings, and branded his character. Scarcely a page of his latter productions, that does not betray the agonies of a heart bleeding under the scourge of unmerited reproach. Happy, therefore, at last in escaping from ca- lumny : happy in leaving a world that was un- worthy of him and his writings ! Let others, my friend, bestrew the hearses of the great with panegyric ; but such a loss as the world has now suffered, affects me with stronger emotions. When a philosopher dies, I consider myself as losing a patron, an instruc- tor, and a friend. I consider the world losing one who might serve to console her amidst the desolations of war and ambition. Nature every day produces in abundance men capable of fill- ing all the requisite duties of authority ; but she is niggard in the birth of an exalted mind, scarcely producing in a century a single genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age. Pro- digal in the production of kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to have forgotten, for more than three thousand years, the manner in which she once formed the brain of a Confucius ; and well it is she has forgotten, when a bad world gave him so ,-ery bad a reception. Whence, my friend, this malevolence which has ever pursued the great even to the tomb ? whence this more than fiend-like disposition of "mbittering the lives of those who would make us more wise and more happy? When I cast my eye over the fates of several Dhilosophers, who have at different periods en- ightened mankind, I must confess it inspires me with the most degrading reflections on hu- manity. When I read of the stripes of Men- ius, the tortures of Tchin, the bowl of So- crates, and the bath of Seneca ; when I hear of the persecutions of Dante, the imprisonment of Galileo, the indignities suffered by Mon- taigne, the banishment of Cartesius, the infamy of Bacon, and that even Locke himself escap- ed not without reproach : when I think on such subjects, I hesitate whether most to jlame the ignorance or the villany of my fel- "ow creatures. Should you look for the character of Vol- taire among the ournalists, and illiterate writers of the age, we will there find him characterized as a monster, with a head turned to wisdom, and a heart inclining to vice ; the powers of his mind, and the baseness of his principles form- ng a detestable contrast. But seek for 3ii3 character among writers like himself, and you 228 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. find him very differently described. You per- ceive him, in their accounts, possessed of good- nature, humanity, greatness of soul, fortitude, and almost every virtue; in this description those who might be supposed best acquainted with his character are unanimous. The royal Prussian,* Dargents,f Diderot.f d'Alemberr, and Fontenelle, conspire, in drawing the pic- ture, in describing the friend of man, and the patron of every rising genius. An inflexible perseverance in what he thought was right, and a generous detestation of flattery, formed the ground-work of this great man's character. From these principals many strong virtues and few faults arose ; as he was warm in his friendship, and severe in his resentment, all that mention him seem possess- ed of the same qualities, and speak of him with rapture or detestation. A person of his emi- nence can have few indifferent as to his cha- racter ; every reader must be an enemy or an admirer. This poet began the course of glory so early as the age of eighteen, and even then was au- thor of a tragedy which deserves applause. Possessed of a small patrimony, he preserved his independence in an age of venality, and supported the dignity of learning, by teaching his contemporary writers to live like him above the favours of the great. He was banished his native country for a satire upon the royal con- cubine. He had accepted the place of histo- rian to the French king, but rufused to keep it, when he found it was presented only in order that he should be the first flatterer of the state. The great Prussian received him as an orna- ment to his kingdom, and had sense enough to value his friendship, and profit by his instruc- tions. In this court he continued till an in- trigue, with which the world seems hitherto unacquainted, obliged him to quit that country. His own happiness, the happiness of the mo- narch, of his sister, of a part of the court, ren- dered his departure necessary. Tired at length of courts, and all the follies of the great, he retired to Switzerland, a coun- try of liberty, where he enjoyed tranquillity and the muse. Here, though without any taste for magnificence himself, he usually entertained at his table the learned and polite of Europe, who were attracted by a desire of seeing a per- son from whom they had received so much satisfaction. The entertainment was conduct- ed with the utmost elegance, and the conver- sation was that of philosophers. Every country that at once united liberty and science, was his peculiar favourite. The being an En- glishman was to him a character that claimed admiration and respect. Between Voltaire and the disciples of Con- fucius, there are many differences; however, oeing ot a different opinion does not in the Philosophe sans soud, Eucycloped. f Let Chin. least diminish my esteem ; I am not displeased with my brother, because he happens to ask our father for favours in a different mariner trom me. Let his errors rest in peace, his excellen- cies deserve admiration ; let me with the wise admire his wisdom ; let the envious arid the ignorant ridicule his foibles : the folly of others is ever most ridiculous to those who are them- selves most foolish. Adieu. LETTER XLIII. FHOM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO HINGPO, A SLAVE IN PERSIA. IT is impossible to form a philosophic sys- tem of happiness, which is adapted to every condition in life, since every person who tra- vels in this great pursuit takes a separate road. The differing colours which suit different com- plexions, are not more various than the differ- ent pleasures appropriated to different minds. The various sects who have pretended to give lessons to instruct me in happiness, have de- scribed their own particular sensations without considering ours, have only loaded their dis- ciples with constraint, without adding to their real felicity. If I find pleasure in dancing, how ridiculous would it be in me to prescribe such an amuse- ment for the entertainment of a cripple : should he, on the other hand, place his chief delight in painting, yet would he be absurd in recom- mending the same relish to one who had lost the power of distinguishing colours. General directions are, therefore, commonly useless : and to be particular would exhaust volumes, since each individual may require a particular system of precepts to direct his choice. Every mind seems capable of entertaining a certain quantity of happiness, which no institu- tions can increase, no circumstances alter, and entirely independent of fortune. Let any man compare his present fortune with the past, and he will probably find himself, upon the whole, neither better nor worse than formerly. Gratified ambition, or irreparable calamity, may produce transient sensations of pleasure or distress. Those storms may discompose in proportion as they are strong, or the mind is pliant to their impression. But the soul, though at first lifted up by the event, is every day operated upon with diminished influence, and ac length subsides into the level of its usual tranquillity. Should some unexpected turn of fortune take thee from fetters, and place thee on a throne, exultation would be natural upon the change ; but the temper, like the face, would soon resume its native serenity. Every wish, therefore, which leads us to ex- pect happiness somewhere else but where we are, every institution which teaches us that we should be better by being possessed of some- thing new, which promises to lift us a step higher than we are, only lays a foundation for CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 229 uneasiness, because it contracts debts which [ we cannot repay ; it calls that a good, which, when we have found it, will, in tact, add no. thing to our happiness. To enjoy the present, without regret for t\ t ; past, or solicitude for the future, has been the advice rather of poets than philosophers. And yet the precept seems more rational than is generally imagined. It is the only general precept respecting the pursuit of happiness, that can be applied with propriety to every condition of life. The man of pleasure, the man of business, and the philosopher, are equally interested in its disquisition. If we do not find happiness in the present mo- ment, in what shall we find it ? either in re- flecting on the past, or prognosticating the future. But let us see how these are capable of producing satisfaction. A remembrance of what is past, and an an- ticipation of what is to come, seem to be the two faculties by which man differs most from other animals. Though brutes enjoy them in a limited degree, yet their whole life seems taken up in the present, regardless of the past and the future. Man, on the contrary, en- deavours to derive his happiness, and experi- ences most or' his miseries, from these two sources. Is this superiority of reflection a prerogative of which we should boast, and for which we should thank nature: or is it a misfortune of which we should complain and be humble? Either from the abuse, or from the nature of things, it certainly makes our condition more miserable. PI ad we a privilege of calling up, by the power of memory, only such passages as were pleasing, unmixed with such as were disagree- able, we might then excite at pleasure an ideal happiness, perhaps more poignant than actual sensation. But this is not the case : the past is never represented without some disagreea- ble circumstance, which tarnishes all its beauty ; the remembrance of an evil carries in it no- thing agreeable, and to remember a good is al- ways accompanied with regret. Thus we lose more than we gain by the remembrance. And we shall find our expectation of the future to be a gift more distressful even than the former. To fear an approaching evil, is certainly a most disagreeable sensation ; and in expecting an approaching good, we experi- ence the inquietude of wanting actual posses- sion. Thus, whichever way we look, the prospect is disagreeable. Behind, we have left plea- sures we shall never more enjoy, arid therefore regret ; and before, we see pleasures which we languish to possess, and are consequently un- easy till we possess them. Was there any method of seizing the present, unimbittered by *uch reflections, then would our state be toler- ably easy. This, indeed, is the endeavour of all man- kind, who, untuto;ed by philosophy, pursue as much as they can a life of amusement and dis- sipation. Every rank in life, and every size ot" understanding, seems to follow this alone ; or not pursuing it deviates from happiness. The man of pleasure pursues dissipation by profes- sion ; the man of business pursues it not less, as every voluntary labour he undergoes is only dissipation in disguise. The philosopher him- self, even while he reasons upon the subject, does it unknowingly, with a view of dissipat- ing the thoughts of what he was, or what he must be. The subject, therefore, comes to this 1 Which is the most perfect sort of dissipation pleasure, business, or philosophy ? Which best serves to exclude those uneasy sensations which memory or anticipation produce ? The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by intervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a moment ; and all the senses seem so combin- ed, as to be soon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is only among the poets we hear of men changing to one delight when satiated with another. In nature it is very different : the glutton, when sated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleasure of drinking ; the drunkard in turn finds few of those transports which lovers boast in enjoyment ; and the lover, when cloy- ed, finds a diminution of every other appetite. Thus, after a full indulgence of any one sense, the man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in a chasm between past and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which must be tilled up. The present can give no satis- faction, because he has already robbed it ot every charm, a mind thus left without immedi- ate employment, naturally recurs to the past or future ; the reflector finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be so now : he sees that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was come : thus every period of his continu- ance is miserable, except that very short one of immediate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none has more frequent conversations with disagreeable self than he ; his enthusiasms are but few and transient ; his appetites, like angry creditors, continually making fruitless demands for what he is un- able to pay ; and the greater his former plea- sures, the more strong his regret, the more impatient his expectations. A life of plea- sure, is therefore the most unpleasing life in the world. Habit has rendered the man of business more cool in his desires ; he finds less regret for past pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come. The life he now leads, though tainted in some measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly with regret, and is less di- vided between short-lived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to expect can- not consequently create so much anxiety. The philosopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, must still have a smaller concern 230 CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD. for what lias already affected, or may here- after affect, himself: the concerns of others make his whole study, and that study is his pleasure ; and this pleasure is continuing in its nature, hecause it can be changed at will, leav- ing but few of these anxious intervals which are employed in remembrance or anticipation. The philosopher by this means leads a life of almost continued dissipation; and reflection, which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, serves as a companion and instructor to him. In a word, positive happiness is constitu- tional, and incapable of increase ; misery is ar- tificial, and generally proceeds from our folly. Philosophy can add to our happiness in no other manner, but by diminishing our misery : it should not pretend to increase our present stock, but make us economists of what we are possessed of. The great source of cala- mity lies in regret or anticipation ; he, there- fore, is most wise, who thinks of the present alone, regardless of the past or the future. This is impossible to the man of pleasure ; it is dif- ficult to the man of business ; and is in some measure attainable by the philosopher. Happy were all born philosophers, all born with a talent of thus dissipating our own cares, by spreading them upon all mankind ! Adieu. LETTER XLIV. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. THOUGH the frequent invitations I receive from men of distinction here might excite the vanity of some, I am quite mortified, how- ever, when I consider the motives that inspire their civility. I am sent for, riot to be treated as a friend, but to satisfy curiosity ; not to be entertained so much as wondered at ; the same earnestness which excites them to see a Chi- nese, would have made them equally proud of a visit from the rhinoceros. From the highest to the lowest, this people seem fond of sights and monsters. I am told of a person here who gets a very comfortable livelihood by making wonders, and then selling or showing them to the people for money ; no matter how insignificant they were in the be- ginning, by locking them up close, and show- ing for money, they soon become prodigies ! His first essay in this way was to exhibit him- self as a wax-work figure behind a glass door at a puppet show. Thus, keeping the spectators at a proper distance and having his head adorn- ed with a copper crown, he looked extremely natural, and very like the life itself. He con- tinued this exhibition with success, thi an in- voluntary fit of sneezing brought him to life before all the spectators, and consequently ren- dered him for that time as entirely useless as the peaceable inhabitant of a catacomb. Determined to act the statue no more, he next levied contributions under the figure of an In- 1 dian king; and by painting his face, and counter- feiting the savage howl, he frighted several ladies and children with amazing success : in this manner, therefore, he might have lived very comfortably, had he not been arrested fora debt that was contracted when he was the figure in wax -work : thus his face underwent an inro- luntary ablution, and he found himself reduced to his primitive complexion and indigence. After some time, being freed from jail, he was now grown wiser, and instead of making himself a wonder, was resolved only to make wonders. He learned the art of pasting up ot mummies ; was never at a loss for an artificial lusus natures ; nay, it has been reported, that he has sold seven petrified lobsters of his own manufacture to a noted collector of rari- ties ; but this the learned Cracovius Putridus has undertaken to refute in a very elaborate dissertation. His last wonder was nothing more than a halter, yet by this halter he gained more than by all his former exhibitions. The people, it i seems, had got in their heads, that a certain j noble criminal was to be hanged with a silken rope. Now there was nothing they so much wished to see as this very rope ; and he was resolved to gratify their curiosity : he therefore got one made, riot only of silk, but to render it more striking, several threads of gold were in- termixed. The people paid their money only to see silk, but were highly satisfied when they found it was mixed with gold into the bargain. It is scarcely necessary to mention, that the projector sold his silken rope for almost what it had cost him, as soon as the criminal was known to be hanged in hempen materials. By their fondness of sights, one would be apt to imagine, that instead of desiring to see things as they should be, they are rathei solicitious of seeing them as they ought not to be. A cat with four legs is disregarded, though never so useful ; but, if it has but two, and is consequently incapable of catching mice, it is reckoned inestimable, and every man of taste is ready to raise the auction. A man, though in his person fault- less as an aerial genius, might starve ; but if stuck over with hideous warts like a porcupine, his fortune is made for ever, and he may pro- pagate the breed with impunity and applause. A good woman in my neigbourhood, who was bred a habit-maker, though she handled her needle tolerably well, could scarcely get employment. But being obliged, by an acci- dent, to have both her hands cut off from the elbows, what would in another country have been her ruin, made her fortune here : she was now thought more fit for her trade than before j | hiness flowed in apace, and all people pavJ CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 231 for seeing the mantua-maker who wrought without hands. A gentleman showing me his collection of pictures, stopped at one with peculiar admira- Vion -. there, cries he, is an inestimable piece. I gazed at the picture for some time, but could see none of those graces with which he seemed enraptured : it appeared to me the most paltry piece of the whole collection : I therefore demanded where those beauties lay, of which I was yet insensible. Sir, cries he, the merit does not consist in the piece, but in the manner in which it was done. The paint- er drew the whole with his foot, and held the pencil between his toes : I bought it at a very great price ; for peculiar merit should ever be rewarded. But these people are not more fond of wonders, than liberal in rewarding those who show them. From the wonderful dog of know- ledge, at present under the patronage of the nobility, down to the man with the box, who professes to show the best imitation of Nature that was ever seen, they all live in luxury. A singing-woman shall collect subcriptions in her own coach and six : a fellow shall make a for- tune by tossing a straw from his toe to his nose ; one in particular has found that eating fire was the most ready way to live ; and an- other who jingles several bells fixed to his cap, is the only man that I know of, who has re- ceived emolument from the labours of his head. A young author, a man of good-nature and learning, was complaining to me some nights ago of this misplaced generosity of the times. Here, says he, have I spent part of my youth ( in attempting to instruct and amuse my fellow- creatures, and all my reward has been solitude, poverty, and reproach ; while a fellow, posses- sed of even the smallest share of fiddling merit, or who has perhaps learned to whistle double, is rewarded, applauded, and caressed ! Pr'y- thee, young man, says I to him, are you igno- rant, that in so large a city as this, it is better to be an amusing than a useful member of society? Can you leap up, and touch your feet four times before you come to the ground? No, Sir. Can you pimp for a man of quality ? No, Sir. Can you stand upon two horses at full speed ? No, Sir. Can you swallow a pen-knife? I can do none of these tricks. Why then, cried I, there is no other prudent mean of subsistence left, but to apprize the town that you speedily intend to eat up your own nose, by subscription. I have frequently regretted that none of our Eastern posture-masters, or show-men, have ventured to England. I should be pleased to see that money circulate in .Asia, which is now sent to Italy and France, in order to bring their vagabonds hither. Several of our tricks would undoubtedly give the English high sat- isfaction. Men of fashion would be greatly pleased with the postures as well as the con- descension of our dancing girls ; and the ladies would equally admire the conductors ot oui fire-works. What an agreeable surprise would it be to see a huge fellow with whiskers flash a charged blunderbuss full in a lady's face, without singeing her. hair, or melting her po- matum. Perhaps, when the first surprise was over, she might then grow familiar with dan- ger ; and the ladies might vie with each other in standing fire with intrepidity. But of all the wonders of the East, the most useful, and I should fancy the most pleas- ing, would be the looking-glass of Lao, which reflects the mind as well as the body. It is said, that the Emperor Chusi used to make his concubines dress their heads and their hearts in one of these glasses every morning : while the lady was at her toilet, he would frequently look over her shoulder ; and it is recorded, that among the three hundred which composed his seraglio, not one was found whose mind was not even more beautiful than her person. I make no doubt but a glass in this country would have the very same effect. The English ladies, concubines and all, would undoubtedly cut very pretty figures in so faithful a monitor. There, should we happen to peep over a lady's shoulder while dressing, we might be able to see neither gaming nor ill-nature ; neither pride, debauchery, nor a love of gadding. We should find her, if any sensible defect appeared in the mind, more careful in rectifying it, than plastering up the irreparable decays of the per- son ; nay, I am even apt to fancy, that ladies would find more real pleasure in this utensil in private, than in any other bauble imported from China, though ever so expensive or amus- ing. LETTER XLV TO THE SAME. UPON finishing my last letter, I retired to rest, reflecting upon the wonders of the glass of Lao, wishing to be possessed of one here, and resolved in such a case to oblige every lady with a sight of it for nothing. What fortune deni- ed me waking, fancy supplied in a dream : the glass, I know not how, was put into my pos- session, and I could perceive several ladies ap- proaching, some voluntarily, others driven for- ward against their wills, by a set of discontent- ed genii, whom by intuition I knew were theii husbands. The apartment in which I was to show away, was filled with several gaming-tables, ai if just forsaken ; the candles were burnt to the socket, and the hour was five o'clock in the morning. Placed at one end of the room, which was of prodigious length, I could more easily distinguish every female figure as she marched up from the door; but guess my sur- prise, when I could scarcely perceive one bloom, ing or agreeable face among the number. This, however, I attributed to the early hour, 232 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. and kindly considered that the face of a lady iust risen from bed, ought always to find a compassionate advocate. The first person who came up in order to view her intellectual face, was a commoner's wife, who, as I afterwards found, being bred up during her virginity in a pawn-broker's shop, now attempted to make up the defects of breed- ing and sentiment by the magnificence of her dress, and the expensiveness of her amusements. Mr Showman, cried she, approaching, I am told you has something to show in that there sort of magic-lanthorn, by which folks can see themselves on the inside : I protest, as my .Lord Beetle says, I am sure it will be vastly pretty, for I have never seen any thing like it before. But how : are we to strip off our clothes and be turned inside out ! if so, as Lord Beetle says, I absolutely declare off; for I would not strip for the world before a man's face, and so I tells his lordship almost every night of my life. I informed the lady that I would dispense with the ceremony of stripping, and immediately presented my glass to her view. As when a first-rate beauty,^after having with difficulty escaped the small pox, revisits her favourite mirror that mirror which had repeated the flattery of every lover, and even added force to the compliment, expecting to see what had so often given her pleasure, she no longer beholds the cherry lip, the polished forehead, and speaking blush; but a hateful phiz, quilted into a thousand seams by the hand of deformity : grief, resentment, and rage, fill her bosom by turns ; she blames the fates and the stars, but most of all, the unhappy glass feels her resentment : So it was with the lady in question ; she had never seen her own mind before, and was now shocked at its deformity. One single look was sufficient to satisfy her curiosity : I held up the glass to her face, and she shut her eyes ; no entreaties could prevail upon her to gaze once more. She was even going to snatch it from my hands, and break it in a thousand pieces. I found it was time, therefore, to dismiss her as incorrigible, and show away to the next that offered. This was an unmarried lady, who continued in a state of virginity till thirty-six, and then ad- mitted a lover when she despaired of a hus- band. No woman was louder at a revel than she, perfectly free-hearted, and almost in every respect a man ; she understood ridicule to per- fection, and was known even to sally out in order to beat the watch. " Here, you my dear with the outlandish face,'' said she, ad- dressing me, " let me take a single peep. Not that I care three damns what figure I may cut in the glass of such an old-fashioned creature ; if I am allowed the beauties of the face by people of fashion. I know the world will be com- plaisant enough to toss me the beauties of the mind into the bargain." I held my glass be- fore her as she desired, and must confess was shocked with the reflection. The lady, how- ever, gazed for some time with the utmost com placency : and at last, turning to me, with the most satisfied smile said, she never could think she had been half so handsome. Upon her dismission, a lady of distinction was reluctantly hauled along to the glass by her husband. In bringing her forward, as he came first to the glass himself, his mind ap peared tinctured with immoderate jealousy, and I was going to reproach him for using her with such severity, but when the lady came to present herself, I immediately retracted ; for alas ! it was seen that he had but too much reason for his suspicions. The next was a lady who usually teased all her acquaintance in desiring to be told of her faults, and then never mended any. Upon ap- proaching the glass, I could readily perceive vanity, affectation, arid some other ill-looking blots on her mind j whereof, by my advice, she immediately set about mending. But I could easily find she was not earnest in the work ; for as she repaired them on one side, they generally broke out on another. Thus, after three or four attempts, she began to make the ordinary use of the glass in setting her hair. The company now made room for a woman of learning, who approached with a slow pace and a solemn countenance, which, for her own sake, I could wish had been cleaner. " Sir," cried the lady, flourishing her hand, which held a pinch of snuff, " I shall be enraptured in having presented to my view a mind with which I have so long studied to be acquainted ; but, in order to give the sex a proper example, I must insist, "that all the company may be permitted to look over my shoulder. " I bowed assent, and presenting the glass, showed the lady a mind by no means so fair as she had expect- ed to see. Ill-nature, ill-placed, pride, and spleen, were too legible to be mistaken. Nothing could be more amusing than the mirth of her female companions who had look- ed over. They had hated her from the begin- ning, and now u the apartment echoed with a universal laugh." Nothing but a fortitude like her's could have withstood their raillery; she stood it, however; and when the burst was exhausted, with great tranquillity she assur- ed the company, that the whole was a deccpfi > visus, and that she was too well acquaint*.-.; with her own mind to believe any false repre- sentations from another. Thus saying, she re- tired with a sullen satisfaction, resolved not to mend her faults, but to write a criticism on the mental reflector. I must own, by this time, I began myself to suspect the fidelity of my mirror ; for, as the ladies appeared at least to have the merit of rising early, since they were up at five, I was amazed to find nothing of this good quality pictured upon their minds in the reflection : 1 was resolved, therefore, to communicate my suspicions to a lady whose 'intellectual coun- tenance appeared more fair than any of the CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. rest, not having above seventy-nine spots in all, besides slips and foibles. " I own, young woman," said I, " that there are some virtues upon that mind of yours ; but there is still one which I do not see represented ; I mean that of rising betimes in the morning ; I fancy the glass false in that particular." The young lady smiled at my simplicity ; arid with a blush con- fessed, that she and the whole company had been up all night gaming. By this time all the ladies, except one, had seen themselves successively, and disliked the show or scolded the showman ; I was resolved, however, that she who seemed to neglect her- self, and was neglected by the rest, should take a view ; and going up to a corner of the room where she still continued sitting, I presented my glass full .in her face. Here it was that I exulted in my success ; no blot, no stain, ap- peared on any part of the faithful mirror. As when the large unwritten page presents its snowy spotless bosom to the writer's hand, so appeared the glass to my view. Here, O ye daughters of English ancestors, cried I, turn hither, and behold an object worthy imitation : look upon the mirror now, and acknowledge its justice and this woman's pre-eminence ! The ladies, obeying the summons, came up in a group, and looking on, acknowledged there was some truth in the picture, as the person now represented had been deaf, dumb, and a fool from her cradle ! This much of my dream I distinctly remem- ber : the rest was filled with chimeras, enchant- ed castles, and flying dragons as usual. As you, my dear Fum Hoam, are particularly vers- ed in the interpretation of those midnight warn- ings, what pleasure should I find in your ex- planation ! But that our distance prevents : I make no doubt, however, but that, from my description, you will very much venerate the good qualities of the English ladies in general, since dreams, you know, go always by contra- ries. Adieu. LETTER XLVI. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO HINGPO, A SLAVE IN PERSIA.* YOUR last letters betray a mind seemingly fond of wisdom, yet tempested by a thousand various passions. You would fondly persuade me, that my former lessons still influence your conduct, and yet your mind seems not less en- skived than your body. Knowledge, wisdom, erudition, arts, and elegance, what are they but the mere trappings of the mind, if they do not serve to increase the happiness of the posses- sor? A mind rightly instituted in the school of * This letter appears to be little more than a rhapso- d 7 of sentiments from Confucius. Vide the Latin trans- I&tion. philosophy, acquires at once the stability of the oak, and the flexibility of the osier. The truest manner of lessening our agonies, is to shrink from their pressure ; is to confess that we feel them. The fortitude of European sages is but a dream ; for where lies the merit in being insen- sible to the strokes of fortune or in dissem- bling our sensibility ? If we are insensible, that arises only from a happy constitution ; that is a blessing previously granted by heaven, and which no art can procure, no institutions im- prove. If we dissemble our feelings, we only ar- tificially endeavour to persuade others that we enjoy privileges which we actually do not pos- sess. Thus, while we endeavour to appear happy, we feel at once all the pangs of inter- nal misery, and all the self-reproaching con- sciousness ot endeavouring to deceive. I know but of two sects of philosophers in the world that have endeavoured to inculcate that fortitude is but an imaginary virtue ; I mean the followers of Confucius, and those who profess the doctrines of Christ. All other sects teach pride under misfortunes ; they alone teach humility. Night, says our Chinese philosopher, not more surely follows the day, than groans and tears grow out of pain, when misfortunes therefore oppress, when ty- rants threaten, it is our interest, it is our duty to fly even to dissipation for support, to seek redress from friendship or seek redress from that best of friends who loved us into being. Philosophers, my son, have long declaimed Hgainst the passions, as being the source of all our miseries : they are the source of all our misfortunes, I own ; but they are the source ot our pleasures too ; and every endeavour of our lives, and all the institutions of philosophy, should tend to this, not to dissemble an ab- sence of passion, but to repel those which lead to vice, by those which direct to virtue. The soul may be compared to a field ot battle, where two armies are ready every mo- ment to encounter ; not a single vice but has a more powerful opponent, and not one virtue but may be overborne by a combination of vices. Reason guides the bands of either host ; nor can it subdue one passion but by the assis- tance of another. Thus as a bark, on every side beset with storms, enjoys a state of rest, so does the mind, when influenced by a just equipoise of the passions, enjoy tranquillity. I have used such means as rny little fortune would admit to procure your freedom. I have lately written to the governor of Argun to pay your ransom, though at the expense of all the wealth I brought with me frot:: China. I. we become poor, we shall at least have the pleasure of bearing poverty together ; for what is fatigue or famine, when weighed against friendship and freedom. Adieu. 234 CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. LETTER XL VII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO * * *, MERCHANT IN AMSTERDAM. HAPPENING some days ago to call at a painter's, to amuse myself in examining some pictures (I had no design to buy), it surprised me to see a young prince in the working-room, dressed in a painter's apron, and assiduously learning the trade. We instantly remembered to have seen each other ; and after the usual compliments, I stood by while he continued to paint on. As every thing done by the rich is praised ; as princes here as well as in China, are never without followers, three or four per- sons, who had the appearance of gentlemen, were placed behind to comfort and applaud him kt every stroke. Need I tell, that it struck me with very dis- agreeable sensations, to see a youth, who by his station in life, had it in his power to be useful to thousands, thus letting his mind run to waste upon canvass, and at the same time fancying himself improving in taste, and filling his rank with proper decorum ? As seeing an error, and attempting to re- dress it, are only one and the same with me, I took occasion, upon his lordship's desiring my opinion of a Chinese scroll intended for the frame of a picture, to assure him, that a mandarine of China thought a minute acquain- tance with such mechanical trifles below his dignity. This reply raised the indignation of some, and the contempt of others : I could hear the names of Vandal, Goth, taste, polite arts, deli- cacy, and fire, repeated in tones of ridicule or resentment. But considering that it was in vain to argue against people who had so much to say, without contradicting them, I begged leave to repeat a fairy tale. This request re- doubled their laughter ; but not easily abashed at the raillery of boys, I persisted, observing, that it would set the absurdity of placing our affections upon trifles in the strongest point of view ; and adding, that it was hoped the moral would compensate for its stupidity. For hea- ven's sake, cried the great man, washing his brush in water, let us have no morality at pre- sent ; if we must have a story, let it be without any moral. I pretended not to hear ; and, while he handled the brush, proceeded as fol- lows. In the kingdom of Bonbobbin, which, by the Chinese annals, appears to have flourished twenty thousand years ago, there reigned a prince endowed with every accomplishment which generally distinguished the sons of kings. His beauty was brighter than the sun. The sun to which he was nearly related, would sometimes stop his course in order to look down arid admire him. His mind was not less perfect than his body : he knew all things without having ever read : philosophers, poets, and historians, sub- mitted their works to his decision : and so pe- netrating was he, that he could tell you the merit of a book, by looking on the cover. He made epic poems, tragedies, and pastorals, with surprising facility ; song, epigram, or rebus, \vas all one to him, though it was observed he could never finish an acrostic. In short, the fairy who presided at his birth had endowed him with almost every perfection, or what was just the same, his subjects were ready to ac- knowledge be possessed them all ; and, for his own part, he knew nothing to the contrary. A prince so accomplished, received a name suit- able to his merit ; and he was called Bonben niri-bonbobbin-bonbobbinet, which signifies, " Enlightener of the Sun." As he was very powerful, and yet unmarried all the neighbouring kings earnestly sought his alliance. Each sent his daughter, dressed out in the most magnificent manner, and with the most sumptuous retinue imaginable, in order to allure the prince ; so that at one time there were seen at his court not less than seven hun- dred foreign princesses of exquisite sentiment and beauty, each alone sufficient to make seven hundred ordinary men happy. Distracted in such a variety, the generous Bonbennin, had he not been obliged by the laws of the empire to make choice of one, would very willingly have married them all, for none understood gallantry better. He spent numberless hours of solicitude in endea- vouring to determine whom he should choose : one lady was possessed of every perfection, but he disliked her eye-brows ; another was bright- er than the morning-star, but he disapproved her fong-whang ; a third did not lay white enough on her cheek ; and a fourth did not sufficiently blacken her nails. At last, after numberless disappointments on the one side and the other, he made choice of the incom- parable Nanhoa, Queen of the scarlet dragons. The preparations for the royal nuptials, or the envy of the disappointed ladies, needs no description ; both the one and the other were as great as they could be : the beautiful Princess was conducted amidst admiring mul- titudes to the royal couch, where, after being divested of every encumbering ornament, she was placed, in expectance of the youthful bridegroom, who did not keep her long in ex- pectation. He came more cheerful than the morning, and printing on her lips a burning kiss, the attendants took this as a proper signal to withdraw. Perhaps I ought to have mentioned in the beginning, that among several other qualifica- tions, the. prince was fond of collecting and breeding mice, which being a harmless pas- time, none of his counsellors thought proper to dissuade him from : he therefore kept a great variety of these pretty little animals in the most beautiful cages enriched with dia- CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 235 rnonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and other pre- cious stones : thus he innocently spent four tours each day, in contemplating their innocent little pastimes. But to proceed. The prince and princess were now in bed ; one with all the love ai.d expectation, the other with all the modesty and fear which is natural to suppose ; both willing yet afraid to begin ; when the prince happen- ing to look towards the outside of the bed, per- ceived one of the most beautiful animals in the world, a white mouse with green eyes, playing about the floor, and performing a hundred pretty tricks. He was already master of blue mice, red mice, and even white mice with yel- low eyes ; but a white mouse with green eyes, was what he had long endeavoured to pos- sess ; wherefore leaping from bed with the utmost impatience arid agility the youthful prince attempted to seize the little charmer, but it was fled in a moment ; for alas ! the mouse was sent by a discontented princess, and was itself a fairy. It is impossible to describe the agony of the prince upon this occasion ; he sought round and round every part of the room, even the bed where the princess lay was not exempt from the inquiry : he turned the princess on one side and the other, stripped her quite naked, but no mouse was to be found ; the princess herself was kind enough to assist, but still to no pur- pose. Alas ] cried the young prince in agony, how unhappy am I to be thus disappointed ! never sure was so beautiful an animal seen : I would give half my kingdom, and my princess, to him that would find it. The princess, though not much pleased with the latter part of his offer, endeavoured to comfort him as well as she could : she let him know that he had a hun- dred mice already, which ought to be at least sufficient to satisfy any philosopher like him. Though none of them had green eyes, yet he should learn to thank Heaven that they had eyes. She told him (for she was a profound moralist), that incurable evils must be borne, and that useless lamentations were vain, and that man was born to misfortunes ; she even entreated him to return to bed, and she would endeavour to lull him on her bosom to repose : but still the prince continued inconsolable ; and regarding her with a stern air, for which his family was remarkable, he vowed never to sleep in the royal palace, or indulge himself in the innocent pleasures of matrimony, till he had found the white mouse with the green eyes. Prithee, Colonel Leech, cried his lordship, interrupting me, How do you like that nose ? don't you think there is something of the man- ner of Rembrandt in it ? A prince in all this agony for a white mouse, O ridiculous ! Don't you think Major Vampyre, that eyebrow stip- pled very prettily ?_- but pray, what are the green eyes to the purpose, except to amuse children 5 I would give a thousand guineas to lay on the colouring of his cheek more smooth., ly. But I ask pardon ; pray, Sir, proceed. LETTER XLVIII. FBOM THE SAME. KINGS, continued I, at that time were dif . ferent from what they are now ; they then ne- ver engaged their word for any thing which they did not rigorously intend to perform. This was the case of Bonbennin, who continued all night to lament his misfortunes to the princess, who echoed groan for groan. When morning came he published an edict, offering half his kingdom and his princess, to the per- son who should catch and bring him the white mouse with the green eyes. The edict was scarcely published when all the traps in the kingdom were baited with cheese ; numberless mice were taken and de- stroyed ; but still the much-wished-for mouse was not among the number. The privy-coun- cil was assembled more than once to give their advice ; but all their deliberations came to no- thing ; even though there were two complete vermin-killers, and three professed rat-catchers of the number. Frequent addresses, as is usual on extraordinary occasions, were sent from all parts of the empire; but though these promised well, though in them he received an assurance that his faithful subjects would as- sist in his search with their lives and fortunes, yet, with all their loyalty, they failed when the time came that the mouse was to be caught. The prince, therefore, was resolved to go himself in search, determined never to lie two nights in one place, till he had found what he sought for. Thus, quitting his palace without attendants, he set out upon his journey, and travelled through many a desert, and crossed many a river, over high hills, and down along vales, still restless and inquiring wherever he came ; but no white mouse was to be found. As one day, fatigued with his journey, he was shading himself from the heat of the mid- day sun, under the arching branches of a banana tree, meditating on the object of his pursuit, he perceived an old woman, hideous- ly deformed, approaching him ; by her stoop, and the wrinkles of her visage, she seemed at least five hundred years old; and the spotted toad was riot more freckled than was her skin. " Ah ! Prince Bonbennin-bonbobbin-bonbob- binet," cried the creature, " what has led you so many thousand miles from your own king- dom ? what is it you look for, and what in- duces you to travel into the kingdom of the Emmets ? The Prince, who was excessively complaisant, told her the whole story three times over; for she was hard of hearing. " Well," says the old fairy, for such she was, " I promise to put you in possession of tho white mouse with green eyes, and that irame- R 23G CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. diately too, upon one condition." " One con- dition," cried the Prince in a rapture, " name a thousand; I shall undergo them all with pleasure." " Nay, :> interrupted the old fairy, " I ask but one, and that not^ very mortifying neither ; it is only taut you instantly consent to marry me." It is impossible to express the Prince's con- fusion at this demand ; he loved the mouse, but he detested the bride ; he hesitated ; he desired time to think upon the proposal ; he would have been glad to consult his friends on such an occasion. " Nay, nay," cried the odious fairy, " if you demur, I retract my pro- mise ; I do not desire to force my favours on any man. Here, you my attendants," cried she, stamping with her foot, " let my machine be driven up ; Barbacela, Queen of Emmets, is not used to contemptuous treatment." She had no sooner spoken, than her fiery chariot appeared in the air, drawn by two snails ; and she was just going to step in, when the Prince reflected, that now or never was the time to be possessed of the white mouse ; and quite forgetting his lawful Princess Nanhoa, falling on his knees, he implored forgiveness for having rashly rejected so much beauty. This Well-timed compliment instantly appeased the angry fairy. She affected a hideous leer of approbation, and taking the young Prince by the hand, conducted him to a neighbouring church, where they were married together in a moment. As soon as the ceremony was performed, the Prince, who was to the last degree desirous of seeing his favourite mouse, reminded the bride of her promise. " To confess a truth, my Prince," cried she, " I my- self am that very white mouse you saw on your wedding-night in the royal apartment. I now, therefore, give you the choice, whether you would have me a mouse by day, and a woman by night, or a mouse by night, and a woman by day." Though the Prince was an ' excellent casuist, he was quite at a loss how to determine, but at last thought it most prudent to have recourse to a blue cat that had followed him from his own dominions, and frequently amused him with its conversation, and assisted him with its advice ; in fact, this cat was no other than the faithful Princess Nanhoa herself, who had shared with him all his hardships in this disguise. By her instructions he was determined in his choice, and returning to the old t'airy, pru- dently observed, that as she must have been sensible he had married her only for the sake of what she had,'' and not for her personal quali- iications, he thought it would for several reasons be most convenient, if she continued a woman by day and appeared a mouse by night. The old fairy was a good deal mortified at her husband's want of gallantry, though she was reluctantly obliged to comply : the day was therefore spent in the most polite amusements, the gentlemen talked smut, the ladies laughed, Kmd were angry. At last, the happy night drew near, the blue cat still stuck by the side of its master, and even followed him to the bridal apartment. Barbacela entered the cham- ber, wearing a train fifteen yards long, supported by porcupines, all over beset with jewels, which served to render her more detestable. She was just stepping into bed to the Prince, for- getting her promise, when he insisted upon seeing her in the shape of a mouse. She ha4 promised, and no fairy can break her word ; wherefore, assuming the figure of the mosc beautiful mouse in the world, she skipped and played about with an infinity of amusement. The Prince, in an agony of rapture, was de- sirous of seeing his pretty play-fellow move a slow dance about the floor to his own singing; he began to sing, and the mouse immediately to perform with the most perfect knowledge of time, arid the finest grace and greatest gravity imaginable; it only began, for Nanhoa, who had long waited for the opportunity, in the shape of a cat, flew upon it instantly without re- morse, and eating it up in the hundredth part of a moment, broke the charm, and then re s'umed her natural figure. The Prince now found that he had all along been under the power of enchantment, that his passion for the white mouse was entirely ficti- tious, and not the genuine complexion of his soul ; he now saw that his earnestness after mice was an illiberal amusement, and much more becoming a rat-catcher than a Prince. All his meannesses now stared him in the face; he begged the discreet Princess's pardon a hun- dred times. The Princess very readily for- ) gave him ; and both returning to their palace in Bonbobbin, lived very happily together, and reigned many years with all that wisdom, which, by the story, they appear to have been possessed off; perfectly convinced by their former adventures, that "they who place their affections on trifles at first for amuse- ment, will find those trifles at last become their most serious concern," Adieu. LETTER XLIX. FROM LIEN CHI ALTAXGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEIIEMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. ASK an Englishman what nation in the world enjoys most freedom, and he immediate- ly answers, his own. Ask him in what that freedom principally consists, and he is instant- ly silent. This happy pre-eminence does not arise from the people's enjoying a larger share in legislation than elsewhere ; for in this parti- cular, several states in Europe excel them ; nor does it arise from a greater exemption from taxes, for few countries pay more : it does not proceed from their being restrained by fewer laws, for no people are burdened with so m:\ny- nor does it particularly consist in the security CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 237 of their property, for property is pretty well secured in every polite state in Europe. How then are the English more free (for I more free they certainly are) than the people 1 of any other country, or under any other form I of government whatever? Their freedom j consists in their enjoying all the advantages of | democracy, with this superior prerogative bor- rowed from monarchy, that " the severity of their laws may be relaxed without endangering *he constitution. In a monarchical state in which the consti- tution is strongest, the laws may be relaxed without danger: for though the people should be unanimous in the breach of any one in par- ticular, yet still there is an effective power su- perior to the people, capable of enforcing obedience, whenever it may be proper to in- culcate the law either towards the support or welfare of the community. But in all those governments where laws derive their sanction from the people alone, transgressions cannot be overlooked without bringing the constitution into danger. They who transgress the law in such a case, are those who prescribe it, by which means it loses not only its influence but its sanction. In every republic the laws must be strong, because the constitution is feeble ; they must resemble an Asiatic husband, who is justly jealous, because he knows himself impotent. Thus in Hol- land, Switzerland, and Genoa, new laws are not frequently enacted, but the old ones are ob- served with unremitting severity. In such re- publics, therefore, the people are slaves to laws of their own making, little less than in unmixed monarchies, where they are slaves to the will of one, subject to frailties like themselves. In England, from a variety of happy acci- dents, their constitution is just strong enough, or if you will, monarchical enough to permit a relaxation of the severity of laws, and yet those laws still to remain sufficiently strong to govern the people. This is the most perfect state of civil liberty, of which we can form any idea. Here we see a greater number of laws than in any other country, while the people at the same time obey only such as are immediately con- ducive to the interests of society ; several are unnoticed, many unknown j some kept to be revived and enforced upon proper occasions ; others left to grow obsolete, even without the necessity of abrogation. There is scarcely an Englishman who does not almost every day of his life offend with im- f unity against some express law, and for which, in a certain conjuncture of circumstan- ces, he would not receive punishment. Gam- ing houses, preaching at prohibited places, as- sembled crowds, nocturnal amusements, public shows, and a hundred other instances, are for- bidden and frequented. These prohibitions are useful ; though it be prudent in their magis- trates, and happy for the people, that they are not enforced, and none but the venal or mer- cenary attempt to enforct them. The law, in this case, like an indulgent pa rent, still keeps the rod, though the child is sel- dom corrected. Were those pardoned offences to rise into enormity, were the.v liknly to ob struct the happiness of society, or endanger the state, it is then that justice would resume her terrors, and punish those lauits she had so overlooked with indulgence. It is to this ductility of the laws, that an Englishman owes the freedom he enjoys superior to others in a more popular government : every step, there- fore, the constitution takes towards a democra- tic form, every diminution of the legal authority is, in fact, a diminution of the subject's freedom; but every attempt to render the government more popular, not only impairs natural liberty, but even will at last dissolve the political con stitution. Every popular government seems calculated to last only for a time ; it grows rigid with age new laws are multiplying, and the old continue in force ; the subjects are oppressed, burdened with a multiplicity of legal injunctions; there are none from whom to expect redress, and nothing but a strong convulsion in the state cau vindicate them into former liberty; thus, the people of Rome, a few great ones excepted, found more real freedom under their emperors, though tyrants, than they had experienced in the old age of the commonwealth, in which their laws were become numerous and painful, in which new laws were every day enacting, and the old ones executed with rigour. They even refused to be reinstated in their formei prerogatives, upon an offer made them to this purpose ; for they actually found emperors the only means of softening the rigours of their constitution. The constitution of England is at present possessed of the strength of its native oak, and the flexibility of the bending tamarisk ; but should the people at any time with a mistaken zeal, pant after an imaginary freedom, and fancy that abridging monarchy was increasing their privileges, they would be very much mis- taken, since every jewel plucked from the crown of majesty, would only be made use of as a bribe to corruption ; it might enrich the ivw who shared it among them, but would in fact impoverish the public. As the Roman senators, by slow and imper ceptible degrees, became masters of the people, yet still flattered them with a show of freedom, while themselves only were free ; so it is possible for a body of men, while they stand up for privileges to grow into an exuberance of power themselves, and the pub- lic become actually dependent, while some of its individuals only govern. If then, my friend, there should in this coun- try ever be on the throne a king, who through good-nature or age, should give up the .small- est part of his prerogative to the people ; if there should come a minister of merit and po- pularity hut J have room for no more. Adieu. 238 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. LETTER L. TO THE SAME. As I was yesterday seated at breakfast, over a pensive dish of tea, my meditations were in- terrupted by my old friend and companion, who introduced a stranger, dressed pretty much like himself. The gentleman made several apologies for his visit, begged of me to impute his intrusion to the sincerity of his respect, and the warmth of his curiosity. As I am very suspicious of my company when I find them very civil without any ap- parent reason, I answered the stranger's ca- resses at first with reserve ; which my friend perceiving, instantly let me into my visitant's trade arid character, asking Mr Fudge, whe- ther he had lately published any thing new ? I now conjectured that my guest was no other than a bookseller, and his answer confirmed my suspicions. " Excuse me, Sir," says he, " it is not the season ; books have their time as well as cu- cumbers. I would no more bring out a new work in summer, than I would sell pork in the dog-days. Nothing in my way goes off in sum- mer, except very light goods indeed. A re- view, a magazine, or a sessions' paper, may amuse a summer reader ; but all our stock of value we reserve for a spring and winter trade. I must confess, Sir, says I, a curi- osity to know what you call a valuable stock, which can only bear a winter perusal. " Sir," replied the bookseller, " it is not my way to cry up my own goods ; but, without exaggera- tion, I will venture to show with any of the trade : my books at least have the peculiar ad- vantage of being always new; and it is my way to clear off my old to the trunk-makers every season. I have ten new title-pages now about me, which only want books to be added to make them the finest things in nature. Others may pretend to direct the vulgar : I always let the vulgar direct me; wherever po- pular clamour arises, I always echo the mil- lion. For instance, should the people in ge- neral say, that such a man is a rogue, I instant- ly give orders to set him down in print a vil- lain ; thus every man buys the book, not to learn new sentiments, but to have the pleasure of see- ing his own reflected." But, Sir, interrupted I, you speak as if you yourself wrote the books you published ; may I be so bold as to ask a sight of some of those intended publications which are shortly to surprise the world ? " As to that, Sir," replied the talkative book- seller, " I only draw out the plans myself; and though I am very cautious of communi- cating them to any, yet, as in the end I have a favour to ask, you shall see a few of them. Here, Sir, here they are ; diamonds of the first water, I assure you. Imprimis, a trans- lation of several medical precepts for the use of such physicians as do not understand Latin. Item, the young cleigyman's art of placing patches regularly, with a dissertation on tha different manners of smiling without distort- ing the face. Item, the whole art of love made perfectly easy, by a broker of 'Change Alley. Item, the proper manner of cutting black-lead pencils, and making crayons ; by the Right Hon. the Earl of * * *. Item, the muster-master-gen, eral, or the review of reviews " Sir, cried I, interrupting him, my curiosity, with regard to title-pages, is satisfied ; I should be glad to see some longer manuscript, a history or an epic poem. " Bless me," cries the man of in- dustry, " now you speak of an epic poem, you shall see an excellent farce. Here it is ; dip into it where you will, it will be found replete with true modern humour. Strokes, Sir ; it is filled with strokes of wit_ and satire in every line." Do you call these dashes of the pen strokes, replied I, for I must confess I can see no other ? " And pray, Sir," returned he, " what do you call them ? Do you see any thing good now-a-days, that is not filled with strokes and dashes ? Sir, a well-placed dash makes half the wit of our writers of modern humour.* I bought apiece last season that had no other merit upon earth than nine hun- dred and ninety-five breaks, seventy-two ha ha's, three good things, and a garter. And yet it played off, and bounced, and cracked, and made more sport than a fire-work." I fancy, then, Sir, you were a considerable gainer ? "It must be owned the piece did pay ; but, upon the whole, 1 cannot much boast of last winter's success : I gained by two murders!; but then I lost by an ill-timed charity sermon. I was a considerable sufferer by my Direct Road to an Estate, but the Infernal Guide brought me up again. Ah, Sir, that was a piece touched off by the hand of a master; filled with good things from one end to the other. The author had nothing but the jest in view ; no dull moral lurking beneath, nor ilLnatured satire to sour the reader's good-humour ; he wisely con- sidered, that moral and humour at the same time were quite overdoing the business." To what purpose was the book then published ? cried I. " Sir, the book was published in order to be sold ; and no book sold better, except the criticisms upon it, which came out soon after: of all kinds of writings, that goes off best at present ; and I generally fasten a criticism upon every selling book that is published. " I once had an author who never left the least opening for the critics ! close was the word, always very right, and very dull, ever on the safe side of an argument ; yet with all his qualifications, incapable of coming into favour. This idea is well ridiculed by our late excellent Eoet, Cowper, who in his Table Talk, has given tht flowing admirable description of " A Prologue, interdash'd with many a stroke, An art contrived to advertise a joke, So that the jest is clearly to be seen, Not in the words but in the gap between/' CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD. 239 J soon perceived that his bent was for criticism-, and, as he was good for nothing else, supplied him with pens and paper, and planted him at the beginning of every month as a censor on the works of others. In short, I found him a, treasure ; no merit could escape him : but what is most remarkable of all, he ever wrote best and bitterest when drunk." But are there not some works, interrupted I, that, from the very manner of their composition, must be ex- empt from criticism ; particularly such as pro- fess to disregard its laws ? " There is no work whatsoever but he can criticise," replied the bookseller ; " even though you wrote in Chinese, he would have a pluck at you. Sup- pose you should take it into your head to publish a book, let it be a volume of Chinese letters, for instance ; write how you will, he shall show the world you could have written better. Should you, with the most local ex- actness, stick to the manners and customs of the country from whence you come ; should you confine yourself to the narrow limits of Eastern knowledge, and be perfectly simple, and perfectly natural, he has then the strong- est reason to exclaim. He may with a sneer send you back to China for readers. He may observe, that after the first or second letter, the iteration of the same simplicity is insup- portably tedious : but the worst of all is, the public in such a case will anticipate his cen- Bures, and leave you, with all your uninstruc- tive simplicity, to be mauled at discretion. '' Yes, cried I, but in order to avoid his in- dignation, and what I should fear more, that of the public, 1 would, in such a case, write with all the knowledge I was master of. As I am not possessedof much learning, at least I would not suppress what little I had ; nor would I appear more stupid than nature has made me. " Here, then," cries the bookseller, " we should Dave you entirely in our power : unnatural, un- eastern ; quite out of character ; erroneously sensible, would be the whole cry : Sir, we should then hunt you down like a rat." Head of my father ! said I, sure there are but two ways -, the door must either be shut, or it must be open. It must either be natural or unna- tural. " Be what you will, we shall criticise you," returned the bookseller, " and prove you a dunce in spite of your teeth. But, Sir, it is ' time that I should come to business. I have ! just now in the press a history of China ; ' and if yon will but put your name to it as the author, I shall repay the obligation with grati- tude. What, Sir, replied I, put my name to a work which I have not written ! Never, while I retain a proper respect for the public and ) myself. The bluntness of my reply quite abated the ardour of the bookseller's conversation ; and after about half an hour's disagreeable re- rerve, he, with some ceremony, took his leave, and withdrew. Adieu. LETTER LI. TO THE SAME. IN all other countries, my dear Fum Hoam, the rich are distinguished by their dress. In Persia, China, and most parts of Europe, those who are possessed of much gold or sil- ver, put some of it upon their clothes ; but in England, those who carry much upon their clothes, are remarked for having but little in their pockets. A tawdry outside is regarded as a badge of poverty ; and those who can sit at home, and gloat over their thousands in si- lent satisfaction, are generally found to do it in plain clothes. This diversity of thinking from the rest of the world which prevails here, I was at first at a loss to account for ; but am since informed, that it was introduced by an intercourse be- tween them and their neighbours the French, who, whenever they came, in order to pay these islanders a visit, were generally very well dressed, and very poor, daubed with lace, but all the gilding on the outside. By this means, laced clothes have been brought so much into contempt, that at present even their manda- rines are ashamed of finery. I must own myself a convert to English simplicity; I am no more for ostentation of wealth than of learning. The person who in company should pretend to be wiser than others, I am apt to regard as illiterate and ill bred ; the person whose clothes are extremely fine, J am too apt to consider as not being possessed of any superiority of fortune, but resembling those Indians who are found to wear all the gold they have in the world, in a bob at the nose. I was lately introduced into a company of the best dressed men I have seen since my ar- rival. Upon entering the room, I was struck with awe at the grandeur of the different dres- ses. That personage, thought I, in blue and gold must be some emperor's son ; that in green and silver, a prince of the blood : he in embroidered scarlet, a prime minister ; all first- rate noblemen, I suppose, and well-looking noblemen too. I sat for some time with that uneasiness which conscious inferiority produces in the ingenuous mind, all attention to their discourse. However, I found their conversa- tion more vulgar than I could have expected from personages of such distinction ; if these, thought I to myself, be princes, they are the most stupid princes I have ever conversed with : yet still I continued to venerate their dress ! for dress has a kind of mechanical in- fluence on the mind. My friend in black, indeed, did not behave with the same deference, but contradicted the finest of them all in the most peremptory tones: of contempt. But I had scarcely time to won- der at the imprudence of his conduct, when I found occasion to be equally surprised at tha 240 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. absurdity of theirs ; for upon the entrance of a middle-aged man, dressed in a cap, dirty shirt, and boots, the whole circle seemed dimi- nished of their former importance, and contend- ed who should be first to pay their obeisance to the stranger. They somewhat resembled a circle of Kalmucks offering incense to a bear. Eager to know the cause of so much seem- ing contradiction, I whispered my friend out of the room, and found that the august company consisted of no other than a dancing-master, two fiddlers, and a third-rate actor, all assem- bled in order to make a set at country-dances ; and the middle-aged gentleman whom I saw enter, was a 'squire from the country, and de- sirous of learning the new mariner of footing, and smoothing up the rudiments of his rural minuet. I was no longer surprised at the authority which my friend assumed among them, nay, was even displeased (pardon my Eastern edu- cation) that he had not kicked every creature of them down stairs. " What," said I, " shall a set of such paltry fellows dress themselves up like sons of kings, and claim even the transitory respect of half an hour ! There should be some law to restrain so manifest a breach of privilege : they should go from house to house as in China, with the instruments of their profession strung round their necks ; by this means, we might be able to distinguish and treat them in a style of becoming con- tempt." Hold, my friend, replied my com- panion, were your reformation to take place, as dancing-masters and fiddlers now mimic gentle- men in appearance, we should then find our fine gentlemen conforming; to theirs. A beau might be introduced to a lady of fashion, with a fiddle-case hanging at his neck by a red rib- and ; and, instead of a cane, might carry a fiddle-stick. Though to be as dull as a first- rate dancing-master might be used with pro- verbial justice ; yet, dull as he is, many a fine gentleman sets him up as the proper standard of politeness ; copies not only the pert vivaci- ty of his air, but the flat insipidity of his con- versation. Jn short, if you make a law against dancing-masters imitating the line gentleman, you should with as much reason enact, that no fine gentleman shall imitate the dancing- master. After I had left my friend, I made towards home, reflecting as I went upon the difficulty of distinguishing men by their appearance. Invited, however, by the freshness of the even ing, I did not return directly, but went to rumi- nate on what had passed, in a public garden belonging to the city. Here, as I sat upo: one of the benches, and felt the pleasing sym- pathy which nature in bloom inspires, a discori. solate figure who sat on the other end of the seat, seemed no way to enjoy the serenity o, the season. His dress was miserable beyond description a thread-bare coat of the rudest materials ; a shirt, though clean, yet extremely coarse ; hai hat seemed to have been long unconscious of he comb ; and all the rest of his equipage im- )ressed with the marks of genuine poverty. As he continued to sigh, and testify every symptom of despair, I was naturally led, from i motive of humanity, to offer comfort and as- sistance. You know my heart ; and that al! vho are miserable may claim a place there. The pensive stranger at first declined my con- versation ; but at last perceiving a peculiarity n my accent and manner of thinking, he began ;o unfold himself by degrees. I now found that he was not so very miser- ible as he at first appeared ; upon my offering lim a small piece of money, he refused my avour, yet without appearing displeased at my intended generosity. It is true, he some- times interrupted the conversation with a sigh, and talked pathetically of neglected merit ; yet still I could perceive a serenity in his countenance, that upon a closer inspection, sespoke inward content. Upon a pause in the conversation, I was going to take my leave, when he begged 1 would favour him with my company home tc supper. I was surprised at such a demand from a person of his appearance, but willing to indulge curiosity, I accepted his invitation ; and, though I felt some repugnance at being seen with one who appeared so very wretched, went along with seeming alacrity. Still as he approached nearer home, his good humour proportionably seemed to increase. Ac last he stopped, not at the gate of a hovel, but of a magnificent palace ! When I cast my eyes upon all the sumptuous elegance which every where presented upon entering, and then when I looked at my seeming miserable conductor, I could scarcely think that all this finery belonged to him ; yet in fact it did. Numerous servants ran through the apartments with silent assi- duity ; several ladies of beauty, and magnifi- cently dressed, came to welcome his return ; a most elegant supper was provided : in short, I found the person whom a little before I had sincerely pitied, to be in reality a most refined epicure, one who courted contempt abroad, in order to feel with keener gust the pleasure of pre-eminence at home. Adieu. LETTER LII. FfiOM THE SAME. How often have we admired the eloquence of Europe ! that strength of thinking, that de- licacy of imagination, even beyond the efforts of the Chinese themselves. How were we enraptured with those bold figures which sent every sentiment with force to the heart. How have we spent whole days together, in learning those arts by which European writers got within the passions, and led the reader as ifby enchantment. r CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 241 But though we have learned most of the rhetorical figures of the last age, yet there seems to be one or two of great use here, which have not yet travelled to China. The figures I mean are called Bawdry and Pertness : none ? r e more fashionable ; none so sure of admirers ; they are of such a nature, that the merest blockhead, by a proper use of them shall have the reputation of a wit ; they lie level to the meanest capacities, and address those passions which all have, or would be ashamed to disown. It has been observed, and I believe with some truth, that it is very difficult for a dunce to obtain the reputation of a wit ; yet by the assistance of the figure Bawdry, this may be easily effected, and a bawdry blockhead often passes for a fellow of smart parts and preten- sions. Every object in nature helps the jokes forward, without scarcely any effort of the ima- gination. If a lady stands, something very good may be said upon that ; if she happens to fall, with the help of a little fashionable pruri- ency, there are forty sly things ready on the occasion. But a prurient jest has always been | found to give most pleasure to a few very old ' gentlemen, who, being in some measure dead to other sensations, feel the force of the allusion with double violence on the organs of risibility. An author who writes in this manner is ge- nerally sure therefore of having ibe very old and the impotent among his admirers ; for these lie may properly be said to write, and from these he ought to expect his reward ; his works being often a very proper succedaneum to can- tharides, or an assaloetida pill. His pen should be considered in the same light as the squirt of an apothecary, both being directed to the same generous end. But though this manner of writing be per- fectly adapted to the taste of gentlemen smd ladies of fashion here, yet still it deserves greater praise in being equally suited to the most vulgar apprehensions. The very ladies and gentlemen of Benin or Caifraria are in this respect tolerably polite, and might relish a pru- rient joke of this kind with critical propriety ; probably too with higher gust, as they wear neither breeches nor petticoats to intercept the application. It is certain I never could have thought the ladies here, biassed as they are by education, capable at once of bravely throwing off their prejudices, and not only applauding books in which this figure makes the only merit, but even adopting it in their own conversation. Yet so it is ; the pretty innocents now carry those books openly in their hands, which formerly were hid under the cushion ; they now lisp their double meanings with so much grace, and talk over the raptures they bestow with such little reserve, that I am sometimes reminded of a custom among the entertainers in China, who think it a piece of necessary breeding to whet the appetites of their guests, by letting them smell dinner in the kitchen, before it is served up to table. The veneration we have for many things, en- tirely proceeds from their being carefully con- cealed. Were the idolatrous Tartar permitted to lift the veil which, keeps his idol from view, it might be a certain method to cure his future superstition : with what a noble spirit of free- dom, therefore, must that writer be possessed, who bravely paints things as they are, who lifts the veil of modesty, who displays the most hid- den recesses of the temple, and shows the erring people that the object of their vows is either, perhaps, a mouse or a monkey ? However, though this figure be at present so much in fashion ; though the professors of it are so much caressed by the great, those per- fect judges of literary excellence ; yet it is con- fessed to be only a revival of what was once fashionable here before. There was a time, when by this very manner of writing, the gentle Tom Durfey, as I read in English authors, acquired his great reputation, and became the favourite of a king. The works of this original genius, though they never travelled abroad to China, and scarcely have reached posterity at home, were once found upon every fashionable toilet, and made the subject of polite, I mean very polite conversation. " Has your Grace seen Mr Dur ley's last new thing, the Oylet Hole ? A most facetious piece !" " Sure, my Lord, all the world must have seen it; Durfey is certainly the most comical creature alive. It is impos- sible to read his things and live. Was there ever any thing so natural and pretty, as when the 'Squire and Bridget meet in the cellar? And then the difficulties they both find inbrpach- ing the beer barrel, are so arch and so ingenious ! We have certainly nothing of this kind in the language." la this manner they spoke then, and in this manner they speak now; for though the successor of Durfey does not excel him in wit, the world must confess he outdoes him in obscenity. There are several very dull fellows, who, by a few mechanical helps, sometimes learn to be- come extremely brilliant and pleasing ; with a little dexterity in the management of the eye- brows, fingers, and nose. By imitating a cat, a sow, and pigs ? by aloud laugh, and a slap on the shoulder, the most ignorant are furnished out for conversation. But the writer finds it impossible to throw his winks, his shrugs, ot his attitudes upon paper ; he may borrow some assistance, indeed, by printing his face at the title- page ; but, without wit, to pass for a man of in- genuity, no other mechanical help but downright obscenity will suffice. By speaking of some peculiar sensations, we are always sure of ex- citing laughter, for the jest does not lie in the writer, but in the subject. But Bawdry is often helped on by another figure, called pertness ; and few indeed are found to excel in one, that are not possessed of the other. As in common conversation, the best way to make the audience laugh is by first laughing 242 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. yourself ; so, in writing, the properest manner is to show an attempt at humour, which will pass upon most for humour in reality. To effect this, readers must be treated with the most per- fect familiarity ; in one page the author is to make them a low bow, and in the next to pull them by the nose ; he must talk in riddles, and then send them to bed, in order to dream for the solution. He must speak of himself, and his chapters, and his manner, and what he would be at, and his own importance, and his moth- er's importance, with the most unpitying pro- lixity ; now and then testifying his contempt for all but himself, smiling without a jest, and without wit professing vivacity. Adieu. LETTER LIII. FROM THE SAME. THOUGH naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay company, and take every opportunity of thus dismissing the mind from duty. From this motive, I am often found in the centre of a crowd ; and wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a purchaser. In those places, with- out being remarked by any, I join in whatever goes forward ; work my passions into a simili- tude of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen to disap- prove. A mind thus sunk for a while below its natural standard, is qualified for stronger flights, as those first retire who would spring forward with greater vigour. Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went to gaze upon the com- pany in one of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty of such as were hand- some, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time, when, stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid somebody who follow- ed : we now turned to the right, then to the left, as we went forward he still went faster, but in vain ; the person whom he attempted to escape hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon us each moment : so that at last we fair- ly stood still, resolving to face what we could not avoid. Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. My dear Prybone, cries he, shaking my friend's hand, where have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I had fancied you were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country. During the reply, I had an op- portunity of surveying the appearance of our new companion : his hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness j his looks were pale, thin, and sharp ; round his ieck ne wore a brood black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass ; his coat was trimmed with tarnish-, ed twist ; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt ; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by long ser- vice. I was so much engaged with the peculi- arity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr Tibbs on the taste of his clothes, and the bloom in his countenance : Pshaw, pshaw, Will, cried the figure, no more of that, if you love me : you know I hate flat- tery, on my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the great will improve one's ap- pearance, and a course of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do : but there are a great many damn'd honest fellows among them ; and we must not quarrel with one half, because the other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's. My lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned, says he, I'll hold gold to silver, I can tell where you were poaching last night. Poaching, my lord, says I ; faith you have missed already ; for I staid at home, and let the girls poach for me. That's- my way I take a fine woman as some animals do their prey stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth. Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow, cried my companion, with looks of infinite pity j I hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding in such company? Improved, replied the other ; you shall know, but let it go no farther, a great secret five hundred a- year to begin with. My lord's word of honour for it his lordship took me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a tete-a-tete din- ner in the country, where we talked of nothing else. I fancy you forget, Sir, cried I, you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town. Did I say so ? replied he coolly ; to be sure if I said so, it was so dined in town : egad, now I do remember, I did dine in town but I dined in the country too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners. By the bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. I'll tell you a pleasant affair about that : We were a select party of us to dine at Lady Gro- gram's, an affected piece, but let it go no far- ther ; a secret : well, there happened to be no assafoetida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says I, I'll hold a thousand guineas, and say, done first, that but dear Drybone, you are an honest creature, lend me half-a- crown for a minute or two, or so, just till but hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to pay you. When he left us, our conversation naturally turned upon so extraordinary a character. His very dress, cries my friend, is not less extraor- dinary than his conduct. If you meet him this CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 243 all the fopperies of scholastic finery LETTER LVII. TO THE SAME. As the man in black takes every opportunity of introducing me to such company as may serve to indulge my speculative temper, or gratify my curiosity, I was by his influence lately invited to a visitation dinner. To un- derstand this term, you must know, that it was formerly the custom here for the principal priest to go about the country once a-year, and examine upon the spot, whether those of sub- ordinate orders did their duty, or were quali- fied for the task ; whether their temples were kept in proper repair, or the laity pleased with their administration. Though a visitation of this nature was ver> useful, yet it was found to be extremely trouble, some, and for many reasons utterly inconve- nient ; for as the principal priests were obliged to attend at court, in order to solicit prefer- ment, it was impossible they could at the same time attend in the country, which was quite out of the road to promotion : if we add to this the gout, which has been time immemori- al a clerical disorder here, together with the bad wine and ill-dressed provisions that musi infallibly be served up by the way, it was not strange that the custom has been long discon- tinued. At present, therefore, every head of the church, instead of going about to visit his priests, is satisfied if his priests come in a body once a year to visit him ; by this means the duty of half a-year is despatched in a day. When assembled, he asks each in turn how they have behaved, and are liked ; upon which, those who have neglected their duty, or are disagreeable to their congregation, no doubt accuse themselves, and tell him all their faults; for which he reprimands them most severely. The thoughts of being introduced into a company of philosophers and learned men, (for such I conceived them,) gave me no small pleasure. I expected our entertainment would resemble those sentimental banquets, so finelv described by Xenophon and Plato : I was hoping some Socrates would be brought in from the door, in order to harangue upon divine love ; but as for eating and drinking, I had prepared myself to be disappointed in that particular. I was apprised that fasting and tem- perance were tenets strongly recommended to the professors of Christianity, and I had seen the frugality and mortification of the priests of the East; so that I expected an entertainment where we should have much reasoning and little meat. Upon being introduced, I confess I found no great signs of mortification in the faces of persons of the company. However, I imput- CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 247 ed their florid looks to temperance, and their corpulency to a sedentary way of living. I saw several preparations indeed for dinner, but none for philosophy. The company seemed to gaze upon the table with silent expectation ; but this I easily excused. Men of wisdom, thought I, are ever slow of speech ; they deli- ver nothing unadvisedly. Silence, says Con- fucius, is a friend that will never betray. They are now probably inventing maxims or hard sayings for their mutual instruction, when some one shall think proper to begin. My curiosity was now wrought up to the highest pitch ; I impatiently looked round to see if any were going to interrupt the mighty pause ; when at last one of the company de- clared, that there was a sow in his neighbour- hood that farrowed fifteen pigs at a litter. This I thought a very preposterous beginning ; but just as another was going to second the remark, dinner was served, which interrupted the conversation for that time. The appearance of dinner, which consisted of a variety of dishes, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness upon every face ; so that I now expected the philosophical conversation to be- gin, as they improved in good humour. The principal priest, however, opened his mouth with only observing, that the venison had not been kept enough, though he gave strict orders for having it killed ten days before. " I fear," continued he, " it will be found to want the true heathy flavour ; you will find nothing of the original wildness in it." A priest, who sat next him, having smelt it, and wiped his nose, " Ah, my good lord," cries he," you are too modest, it is perfectly fine ; every body knows that nobody understands keeping ven- ison with your lordship.' " Ay, and partridges too," interrupted another ; " I never find them right any where else." His lordship was going to reply, when a third took off the atten- tion of the company, by recommending the pig as inimitable. " I fancy, my lord," continues he, " it has been smothered in its own blood. " " If it has been smothered in its blood," cried a facetious member, helping himself, "we'll now smother it in egg-sauce." This poignant piece of humour produced a long loud laugh, which the facetious brother ob- serving, and, now that he was in luck, willing to second his blow, assured the company he would tell them a good story about that : " As good a story," cries he, bursting into a violent fit of laughter himself, " as ever you heard in your lives. There was a farmer in my parish who used to sup upon wild ducks and flum- mery ; so this farmer" " Doctor Marrowfat," cries his lordship, interrupting him, " give me leave to drink your health ;" " so being fond of wild ducks and flummery," Docter," adds a gentleman who sat next him, " let me advise you to a wing of this turkey ;" " so this far- mer being fond"" Hob and nob, Doctor, which do you choose, white or red ?'' " So, being fond of wild ducks and flummery," " Take care of your band, Sir, it may dip in the gravy." The Docter, now looking round, found not a single ear disposed to listen ; wherefore, calling for a glass of wine, gulped down the dis- appointment and the tale in a bumper. The conversation now began to be little more than a rhapsody of exclamations : as each had pretty well satisfied his own appetite, he now found sufficient time to press others. " Excellent ! the very thing ! let me recom- mend the pig. Do but taste the bacon ! never ate a better thing in my life : exquisite \ delicious !" This edifying discourse continu- ed through three courses, which lasted as many hours, till every one of the company were un- able to swallow or utter any thing more. It is very natural forfmen who are abridged in one excess, to break into some other. The clergy here, particularly those who are advan- ced in years, think if they are abstemious with regard to women and wine, they may indulge their other appetites without censure. Thus some are found to rise in the morning only to a consultation with their cook about dinner, and when that lias been swallowed, make no other use of their faculties (if they have any) but to ruminate on the succeeding meal. A debauch in wine is even more pardonable than this, since one glass insensibly leads on to another, and instead of sating, whets the ap. petite. The progressive steps to it are cheer- ful and seducing : the grave are animated, the melancholy reliered, and there is even classic authority to countenance the excess. But in eating, after nature is once satisfied, every ad- ditional morsel brings stupidity and distempers with it, and, as one of their ovrn poets expres- ses it, The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines To seem but mortal, even in sound divines. Let me suppose, after such a meal as this I have been describing, while all the company are sitting in lethargic silence round the table, groaning under a load of soup, pig, pork, and bacon ; let me suppose, I say, some hungry beggar, with looks of want, peeping through one of the windows, and thus addressing the assembly : " Prithee, pluck those napkins from your chins ; after nature is satisfied, all that you eat extraordinary is my property, and I claim it as mine. It was giren you in order to relieve me, and not to oppress your- selves. How can they comfort orinstruct others, who can scarcely feel their own existence, ex- cept from the unsavoury returns of an ill-di- gested meal ? But though neither you nor the cushions you sit upon will hear me, yet the world regards the excesses of its teachers with a prying eye, and notes their conduct with double severity." I know no | other answer any one of the company could make to such an expostulation but this : " Friend, you talk of our losing a character, and being disliked by the world ; well, and supposing all this to be true, what then ! who cores for the world ! 248 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. We'll preach for the world, and the world shall pay us for preaching, whether we like each otheT or not." LETTER LVIJI. ' FHOM HINGPO TO T.IEN CHI AI.TANGI, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. You will probably be pleased to see my let- ter dated from Terki, a city which lies beyond the bounds of the Persian empire : here, bless- ed with security, with all that is dear, I double my raptures by communicating them to you : the mind sympathizing with the freedom of the body, my whole soul is dilated in gratitude, love, and praise. Yet were my own happiness all that inspir- ed my present joy, my raptures might justly merit the imputation of self-interest ; but when I think that the beautiful Zelis is also free, forgive my triumph when I boast of having rescued "from captivity the most de- serving object upon earth. You remember the reluctance she testified at being obliged to marry the tyrant she hated. Her compliance at last was only feigned, in order to gain time to try some future moans of escape. During the interval between her promise and the intended performance of it, she came undiscovered one evening to the place where I generally retired after the fa- tigues of the day: her appearance was like that of an aerial genius when it descends to minister comfort to undeserved distress ; the mild lustre of her eye served to banish my timidity ; her accents were sweeter than the echo of some distant symphony. " Unhappy stranger," said she, in the Persian language, " you here perceive one more wretched than thyself ! All this solemnity of preparation, this elegance of dress, and the number of my attendants, serve but to increase my miseries : if you have courage to rescue an unhappy wo- man from approaching ruin, and our detested tyrant, you may depend upon my future grati- tude." I bowed to the ground, and she left me, filled with -rapture and astonishment. Night brought me no rest, nor could the en- suing morning calm the anxieties of my mind. I projected a thousand methods for her deliv- ery ; but each, when strictly examined, appear- ed impracticable : in this uncertainty the even- ing again arrived, arid I placed myself on my former station in hopes of a repeated visit. After some short expectation, the bright per- fection again appeared : J bowed, as before, to the ground ; when raising me up, she ob- served, that the time was not to be spent in useless ceremony ; she observed that the day following was appointed for the celebration of ter nuptials, and that something was to be done that very night for our mutual deliver- ince. I offered with Ihe utmost humility to pursue whatever scheme she should direct; upon which she proposed that instant to scale the garden wall, adding, that she had prevail- ed upon a female slave, who was now waiting at the appointed place, to assist her with a ladder. Pursuant to this information, I led her trembling to the place appointed ; but instead of the slave we expected to see, Mostadad himself was there awaiting our arrival : the wretch in whom we had confided, it seems, had. betrayed our design to her master, and he now saw the most convincing proofs of her infer- mation. He was just going to draw his sabre,, when a principle of avarice repressed his fury ; and he resolved, after a severe chastisement, to dispose of me to another master; in the meantime ordered me to be confined in th strictest manner, and the next day to receive n hundred blows on the soles of my feet. When the morning came, 1 was led out in order to receive the punishment, which, from the severity with which it is generally inflicted upon slaves, is worse even than death. A trumpet was to be the signal for the so- lemnization of the nuptials of Zelis, and for the infliction of my punishment. Each cere- mony, to me equally dreadful, was just going to begin, when we were informed that a largo body of Circassian Tartars had invaded the town, and were laying all in ruin. Every per- son now thought only of saving himself: I in- stantly unloosed the cords with which I was bound, arid seizing a scimitar from one of the slaves who had not courage to resist me, flew to the women's apartment where Zelis was confined, dressed out for the intended nuptials. I bade her follow me without delay, and go- ing forward, cut my way through the eunuchs, who made but a faint resistance. The whole city was now a scene of conflagration and ter- ror ; every person was willing to save himself, unmindful of others. In this confusion, seiz- ing upon two of the fleetest coursers in the stables of Mostadad, we fled northward to- wards the kingdom of Circassia. As there were several others flying in the same manner, we passed without notice, and in three days arrived at Terki, a city that lies in a valley within the bosom of the frowning mountains of Caucasus. Here, free from every apprehension of danger, we enjoy all those satisfactions which'are con- sistent with virtue : though I find my heart an intervals give way to unusual passions, yet such is my admiration for my fair companion, that I lose even tenderness in distant respect. Though her person demands particular regard even among the beauties of Circassia, yet is her mind far more lovely. How very different is a woman who thus has cultivated her under- standing, and been refined into delicacy of sen- timent, from the daughters of the East, whose education is only formed to improve the per- son, and make them more tempting objects of prostitution. Adieu. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 249 LETTER LIX. FROM THE SAME. WHEN sufficiently refreshed after the faticriu . of our precipitate flight, my curiosity, which had been restrained by the appearance of im- mediate danger, now began to revive : I long- ed to know by what distressful accident my fair fugitive became a captive, and could not avoid testifying a surprise how so much beauty could be involved in the calamities from whence she had been so lately rescued. Talk not of personal charms, cried she, with emotion, since to them I owe every misfortune. Look round on the numberless beauties of the country where we are, and see how nature has poured its charms upon every face ; and yet by this profusion, Heaven would seem to show how little it regards such a blessing, since the gift is lavished upon a nation of prostitutes. I perceive you desire to know my story, and your curiosity is not so great as my impatience to gratify it : I find a pleasure in telling past misfortune to any, but when my deliverer is pleased with the relation, my pleasure is prompt- 1 ed by duty. " " I was born in a country far to the West, i where the men are braver, and the women more fair than those of Circassia ; where the valour of the hero is guided by wisdom, and I where delicacy of sentiment points the shafts of female beauty. I was the only daughter of an officer in the army, the child ot his age, and as he used fondly to express it, the only chain that bound him to the world, or made his life pleasing. His station procured him an ac- quaintance with men of greater rank and for- tune than himself, and his regard for me induc- I ed him to bring me into every family where he . was acquainted. Thus I was early taught all t the elegancies and fashionable foibles of such j as the world calls polite, and, though without i fortune myself, was taught to despise those I who lived as if they were poor. " 31 y intercourse with the great, and my af- , fectation of grandeur, procured me many ; iovers ; but want of fortune deterred them all I from any other views than those of passing the j present moment agreeably, or of meditating my i ^future ruin. In every company I found myself 'addressed in a warmer strain of passion, than other ladies who were superior in point of rank and beauty ; and this J imputed to an excess of respect, which in reality proceeded from very I different motives. " Among the number of such as paid me their addresses, was a gentleman, a friend of my father, rather in the decline of life, with nothing remarkable either in his person or ad- dress to commend him. His age, which was This story bears a striking similitude to the TCS! history of Miss S d, who accompanied Lady VV e In her retreat near Florence, and which the editor hud fron her own mouth. about forty, his fortune, which was moderate, and barely sufficient to support him, served to throw me off my guard, so that I considered him as the only sincere admirer I had. " Designing lovers in the decline of life, are ever most dangerous. Skilled in all the weaknesses of the sex, they seize each favour- able opportunity ; and by having less passion than youthful admirers, have less real respect, and therefore less timidity. This insidious wretch used a thousand arts to succeed in his base designs, all which I saw, but imputed to different views, because I thought it absurd to believe the real motives. " As be continued to frequent my father's, the friendship between them became every day greater ; and at last from the intimacy with which he was received, I was taught to look upon him as a guardian and a friend. Though I never loved, yet I esteemed him : and this was enough to make me wish for a union for which he seemed desirous, but to which he feigned several delays ; while in the meantime, from a false report of our being married, every other admirer forsook me. " I was at last however awakened from the delusion, by an account of bis being just mar- ried to another young lady with a considerable fortune. This was no great mortification to me, as I had always regarded him merely from prudential motives ; but it had a very different effect upon my father, who, rash and passionate by nature, and besides stimulated by a mistak- en notion of military honour, upbraided his friend in such terms that a challenge was soon given and accepted. " It \vas about midnight when I was awak- ened by a message from my father, who desir- ed to see me that moment. I rose with some surprise, and following the messenger attended only by another servant, came to a field not far from the house, where I found him the as- sertor of my honour, my only friend and sup- porter, the tutor and companion of my youth, lying on one side covered over with blood and just expiring ! No tears streamed down my cheeks, nor sigh escaped from my breast, at an object of such terror. I sat down, and support ing his aged head in my lap, gazed upon the ghastly visage with an agony more poignant even than despairing madness. The servants were gone for more assistance. In this gloomy stillness of the night no sounds were heard but his agonizing respirations ; no object was pre- sented but his wounds, which still continued to stream. With silent anguish, I hung over his dear face, and with my hands strove to stop the blood as it flowed from his wounds : he seem- ed at first insensible, but at last turning his dy- ing eyes upon me, ' My dear, dear child,' cried he; ' dear, though you have forgotten your own honour, and stained mine, I will yet forgive you : by abandoning virtue, you have undone me and yourself, yet take my forgiveness with the same compassion I wish heaven may pity mi.' He expired. All my succeeding hap- 250 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. piness fled with him, reflecting that I \vas the cause of his death, whom only I loved upon earth ; accused of betraying the honour of his family with his latest breath ; conscious of my own innocence, yet without even a possibility of vindicating it ; without fortune or friends to relieve or pity me ; abandoned to infamy and the wide censuring world, I called out upon the dead body that lay stretched before me, / and in the agony of my heart asked, \vhy he could have left me thus ? ' Why, ray dear, my only papa, why could you ruin me thus, and yourself, for ever? O pity and return, since there is none but you to comfort me !' " I soon found that I had real cause for sor- row ; that I was to expect no compassion from my own sex, nor assistance from the other; and that reputation was much more useful in our commerce with mankind, than really to de- serve it. Wherever I came, I perceived my- self received either with contempt or detesta- tion ; or whenever I was civilly treated, it was from the most base ami ungenerous motives. " Thus driven from the society of the vir- tuous, I was at last, in order to dispel the anxi- eties of insupportable solitude obliged to take up with the company of those whose characters were blasted like my own ; but who perhaps deserved their infamy. Among this number was a lady of the first distinction, whose char- acter the public thought proper to brand even with greater infamy than mine. A similitude of distress soon united us ; I knew that gene- ral reproach had made her miserable ; arid I had learned to regard misery as an excuse for guilt. Though this lady had not virtue enough to avoid reproach, yet she had too much delicate sensibility not to feel it. She therefore pro- posed our leaving the country where we were born, and going to live in Italy, where our characters and misfortunes would be unknown. With this I eagerly complied, and we soon found ourselves in one of the most charming retreats in the most beautiful province of that enchanting country. " Had my companion chosen this as a re- treat for injured virtue, a harbour where we might look with tranquillity on the distant an- gry world, I should have been happy ; but very different was her design ; she had pitched upon this situation only to enjoy those pleasures in private, which she had not sufficient effrontery to satisfy in a more open manner. A nearer acquaintance soon showed me the vicious part of her character ; her mind, as well as her body, seemed formed only for pleasure ; she was sen- timental only as it served to protract the im- mediate enjoyment. Formed for society alone, she spoke infinitely better than she wrote, and wrote infinitely better than she lived. A person devoted to pleasure often leads the most miserable life imaginable : such was her case ; she considered the natural moments of languor as insupportable, passed all her hours be- tween rapture and anxiety ; ever in an extreme of agony or of bliss. She felt a pain as severe for want of appetite as the starving wretch who wants a meal. In those intervals, she usually kept her bed, and rose only when in expectation of some new enjoyment. The luxuriant air of the country, the romantic situation ot her palace, and the genius of a people whose only happiness lies in sensual refinement, all contri- buted to banish the remembrance of her native country. " But though such a life gave her pleasure, it had a very different effect upon me ; I grew every day more pensive, and my melancholy was regarded as an insult upon her good hu- mour. I now perceived myself entirely unfit for all society ; discarded from the good, and detesting the infamous, I seemed in a state ot war with every rank of people ; that virtue, which should have been my protection in the world, was here my crime ; in short, detesting life, I was determined to become a recluse, to leave a world where I found no pleasure that could allure me to stay. Thus determined I embarked in order to go by sea to Rome, where I intended to take the veil ; but even in so short a passage my hard fortune still attended me ; our ship was taken by a JBarbary corsair ; the whole crew, and I among the number, being made slaves. It carries too much the air of romance to inform you of my distresses or obstinacy in this miserable state ; it is enough to observe, that I have been bought by several , masters, each of whom perceiving my reluc- I tance, rather than use violence, sold me to an- other, till it was my happiness to be at last rescued by you." Thus ended her relation, which I have abridged, but as soon as we are arrived at Mos. cow, for which we intend to set out shortly, you shall be informed of all more particularly. In the meantime, the greatest addition to my happiness will be to hear of your's. Adieu. LETTER LX. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO HINGPO. THE news of your freedom lifts the load ot former anxiety from my mind ; I can now think of my son without regret, applaud his resignation under calamities, and his conduct in extricating himself from them. " You are now free, just let loose from the i bondage of an hard master ;" this is the crisis of your fate ; and as you now manage fortune, succeeding life will be marked with happinesb or misery. A few years' perseverance in pru- dence, which at your age is but another name for virtue, will insure comfort, pleasure, tran- quillity, esteem ; too eager an enjoyment of every good that now offers, will reverse the medal, and present you with poverty, anxiety, remorse, contempt. As it has been observed, that none are bat- ! ter qualified to give others advice, than those i CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 251 who have taken the least of it themselves ; so in this respect I find myself perfectly autho- rised to offer mine, even though I should wave my paternal authority upon this occasion. The most usual way among young men who have no resolution of their own, is first to astv one friend's advice, and follow it for some time ; then to ask advice of another, and turn to that ; so of a third, still unsteady, always changing- However, he assured, that every change of this nature is for the worse : People may tell you of your being unfit for some pe- culiar occupations in life ; but heed them not ; whatever employment you follow with perse- verance and assiduity, will be found fit for you ; it will be your support in youth, and comfort in age. In learning the useful part of every profession, very moderate abilities will suffice ; even if the mind be a little balanced with stu- pidity, it may in this case be useful. Great abilities have always been less serviceable to the possessors than moderate ones. Life has been compared to a race, but the allusion still improves by observing, that the most swift are ever the least manageable. To know one profession only, is enough for one man to know ; and this (whatever the professors may tell you to the contrary) is soon teamed. Ee contented, therefore, with one good employment ; for if you understand two at a time, people will give you business in neither. A conjuror and a tailor once happened to converse together. " Alas," cries the tailor, ' what an unhappy poor creature am I ; if peo- ple should ever take it in their heads to live without clothes, I am undone ; I have no other trade to have recourse to." " Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely," replies the conjuror ; "but, thank Heaven, things are not quite so bad with me : for if one trick should fail, I have a hundred tricks more for them yet. However, if at any time you are reduced to beggary, apply to me and I will relieve you." A famine overspread the land ; the tailor made a shift to live, because his customers could not be without clothes : but the poor conjuror, with all his hundred tricks, could find none that had money to throw away : it was in vain that he promised to eat fire, or to vomit pins ; no single creature would relieve him, till he was at last obliged to beg from the very tailor whose calling he had formerly despised. There are no obstructions more fatal to for tune than pride and resentment If you must resent injuries at all, at least suppress your in- dignation until you become rich, and then show fuvay ; the resentment of a poor man is like the efforts of a harmless insect to sting; it may get him crushed, but cannot defend him. Who values that anger which is consumed only in empty menaces ? Once upon a time a goose fed its young by a pond-side ; and a goose in such circumstances is always extremely proud, and excessively punctilious. If any other animal, without the least design to offend, happened to pass that way, the goose was immediately at him. The pond, she said, was hers, and she would main- tain a right in it, and support her honour, while she had a bill to hiss, or a wing to flutter. In this manner she drove away ducks, pigs, and chickens : nay, even the insidious cat was seen to scamper. A lounging mastiff, however, happened to pass by, and thought it no harm if he should lap a little of the water, as he was thirsty. The guardian goose flew at him like a fury, pecked at him with her beak, and flap- ped him with her feathers. The dog grew angry, had twenty times a good mind to give her a sly snap ; but suppressing his indignation, because his master was nigh, " A pox take thee," cries he, " for a fool ! sure those who have neither strength nor weapons to fight, at least should be civil ; that fluttering and hissing of thine may one day get thine head snapt off, but it can neither injure thy enemies, nor even protect thee." So saying, he went forward to the pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of the goose, and followed his master. Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that while they are willing to take offence from none, they are also equally desirous of giving none offence. From hence they endeav- our to please all, comply with erery request, attempt to suit themselves to every company, have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch every contiguous impression. By thus at- tempting to give universal satisfaction, they at last find themselves miserably disappoint- ed ; to bring the generality of admirers on our side, it is sufficient to attempt pleasing a very few. A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a piece which should please the whole world. When, therefore, he had drawn a pic- ture, in which his utmost skill was exhausted, it was exposed in the public market-place, with directions at the bottom for every spectator to mark with a brush, which lay by, every limb and feature which seemed erroneous. The spectators came, and in general applauded ; but each, willing to show his talent at criticism, marked whatever he thought proper. At evening, when the painter came, he was mor- tified to find the whole picture one universal blot ; not a single stroke that was not stigma- tized with marks of disapprobation ; not satis- fied with this trial, the next day he was resolv- ed to try them in & different manner, and, ex- posing his picture as before, desired that every spectator would mark those beauties he approv- ed or admired. The people complied ; and the artist returning, found his picture replete with the marks of beauty ; every stroke that had been yesterday condemned, now received the character of approbation. " Well," cries the painter, " I now find that the best way to please one half of the world, is not to mind what the other half says ; since what are faults in the eyes of these, shall be by those regarded as beauties." Adieu. S 252 CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD. LETTER LXL I'KOM THE SAME. A CHARACTER, such, as you have represented that of your fair companion, which continues virtuous, though loaded with infamy, is truly great. Many regard virtue because it is attend- ed with applause ; your favourite only for the internal pleasure it confers, I have often wish- ed that ladies like her were proposed as models for female imitation, and not such as have ac- quired fame by qualities repugnant to the na- tural softness of the sex. Women famed for their valour, their skill in politics, or their learning, leave the duties of their own sex, in order to invade the privile- ges of ours. I can no more pardon a fair one for endeavouring to wield the club of Her- cules, than I could him for attempting to twirl her distaff. The modest virgin, the prudent wife, or the careful matron, are much more serviceable in life than petticoated philosophers, blustering heroines, or virago queens. She who makes her husband and her children happy, who re- claims the one from vice, and trains up the other to virtue, is a much greater character than ladies described in romance, whose whole occu- pation is to murder mankind with shafts from their quiver or their eyes. Women, it has been observed, are not natu- rally formed for great cares themselves, but to | soften ours. Their tenderness is the proper j re \vard for the dangers we undergo for their preservation : and the ease and cheerfulness of their conversation, our desirable retreat from the fatigues of intense application. They are confined within the narrow limits of domestic assiduity ; and when they stray beyond them, they move beyond their sphere, and consequently without grace. Fame therefore has been very unjustly dis- pensed among the female sex. Those who ', least deserved to be remembered, meet our admiration and applause : while many, who have been an honour to humanity, are passed over in silence. Perhaps no age has produced a stronger instance of misplaced fame than the present ; the Semiramis and the Thalestris of antiquity are talked of, while a modern charac- ter, infinitely greater than either, is unnoticed and unknown. Catherina Alexowna,* born near Derpat, a little city in Livonia, was heir to no other inheritance than the virtues and frugality of her parents. Her father being dead, she lived with her aged mother in their cottage covered with straw ; and both, though very poor, were very contented. Here, retired from the gaze of the world, by the labour of her hands she * This Recount seems taken from the manuscript me- moirs of H. Spilman, Esq. supported her parent, who was now incapable of supporting herself. While Catharina spun, the old woman would sit by and read some book of devotion ; thus, when the fatigues of the day were over, both would sit down con- tentedly by their fire-side, and enjoy the frugal meal with vacant festivity. Though her face and person were models of perfection, yet her whole attention seemed be- stowed upon her mind ; her mother taught her to read, and an old Lutheran minister in- structed her in the maxims and duties of reli- gion. Nature had furnished her not only with a ready but a solid turn of thought, not only with a strong but a right understanding. Such truly female accomplishments procured her several solicitations of marriage from the peasants of the country ; but their offers were refused : for she loved her mother too tenderly to think of a separation. Catharina was fifteen when her mother died ; she now therefore left her cottage, and went f<> live with the Lutheran minister, by who had been instructed from her childhood. Li his house she resided in quality of govern e:- - to his children, at once reconciling in her char- acter unerring prudence with surprising viva- city. The old man, who regarded her as one of his own children, had her instructed in dancing and music by the masters who attended the rest of his family ; thus she continued to im- prove till he died, by which accident she was once more reduced to pristine poverty. Tho country of Livonia was ;it this time wasted by war, and lay in a most miserable state of de- solation. Those calamities are ever most heavy upon the poor; wherefore Catharina, though possessed of so many accomplishments, experienced all the miseries of hopeless indi- gence. Provisions becoming every day more scarce, and her private stock being entirely ex- hausted, she resolved at last to travel to Mu- rienburgh, a city of greater plenty. With her scanty wardrobe packed up in a wallet, she set out on her journey on foot : she was to walk through a region miserable by nature, but rendered still more hideous by the Swedes and Russians, who, as each happened to become masters, plundered it at discretion : but hunger had taught her to despise the dan- gers and fatigues of the way. One evening upon her journey, as she en- tered a cottage by the way-side, to take up her lodging for the night, she was insulted by two Swedish soldiers, who insisted upon qualifying her, as they termed it, to follow the camp. They might probably have carried their insults into violence, had not a subaltern officer, ac- cidentally passing by, come in to her assistance : upon his appearing, the soldiers immediately desisted ; but her thankfulness was hardly greater than her surprise, when she instantly recoJlected in her deliverer, the son of the Lutheran minister, her former instructor, be- nefactor, and friend. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. This was a happy interview for Catharina : the little stock of money she had brought from home was by this time quite exhausted ; her clothes were gone, piece by piece, in order to satisfy those who had entertained her in their houses : her generous countryman, therefore, parted with what he could spare, to buy her clothes, furnished her with a horse, and gave her letters of recommendation to Mr Gluck, a faithful friend of his father's, and superin- tendent at Marienburgh. Our beautiful stranger had only to appear to be well received ; she was immediately admitted into the superintendent's family, as governess to his two daughters ; and though yet but seven- teen, showed herself capable of instructing her sex, not only in virtue, but politeness. Such was her good sense and beauty, that her mas, ter himself in a short time offered her his hand, which to his great surprise she thought proper to refuse. Actuated by a principle of grati- tude, she was resolved to marry her deliverer only, even though he had lost an arm, and was otherwise disfigured by wounds in the service. In order therefore to prevent farther solicita- tions from others, as soon as the officer came to town upon duty, she offered him her person, which he accepted with transport, and their nuptials were solemnized as usual. But all the lines of her fortune were to be striking ; the very day on which they were married, the Russians laid siege to Marienburgh. The un- happy soldier had now no time to enjoy the well earned pleasures of matrimony; he was called off, before consummation, to an attack, from which he was never after seen to return. In the meantime the siege went on with fury, aggravated on one side by obstinacy, on the other by revenge. This war between the two northern powers at that time was truly barbar- ous; the innocent peasant, and the harmless virgin, often shared the fate of the soldier in arms. Marienburgh was then taken by as- sault ; and such was the fury of the assailants, that not only the garrison, but almost all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, were put to the sword : at length, when the carnage was pretty well over, Catharina was found hid in an oven. She had been hitherto poor, but still was free ; she was now to conform to her hard fate, and learn what it was to be a slave : in this situation, however, she behaved with piety and humility ; and though misfortunes had abated her vivacity, yet she was cheerful. The fa*ne of her merit and resignation reached even Prince Menzikoff, the Russian general ; he desired to see her, was struck with her beauty, Dought her from the soldier her master, and placed her under the direction of his own sis- ter. Here she was treated with all the re- spect which her merit deserved, while her beauty every day improved with her good for- tune. She had not been long in this situation, when Peter the Great, paying the Prince a visit, Catharina happened to come in with some dry fruits, which she served round with peculiar modesty. The mighty monarch saw, and was struck with her beauty. He returned the next day, called for the beautiful slave, asked her se- veral questions, and found her understanding even more perfect than her person. He had been forced when young, to marry from motives of interest ; he was now resolved to marry pursuant to his own inclinations. He immediately inquired the history of the fair Livonian, who was not yet eighteen. He traced her through the vale of obscurity, through all the vicissitudes of her fortune, and found her truly great in them all. The mean- ness of her birth was no obstruction to his de- sign : their nuptials were solemnized in pri- vate ; the Prince assuring his courtiers, that virtue alone was the properest ladder to a throne. We now see Catharina, from the low mud- welled cottage, Empress of the greatest king- dom upon earth. The poor solitary wanderer is now surrounded by thousands, who find happi- ness in her smile. She, who formerly wanted a meal, is now capable of diffusing plenty upon whole nations. To her fortune she owed a part of this pre-eminence, but to her virtues more. She ever after retained those great qualities which first placed her on a throne ; and, while the extraordinary Prince, her husband, labour- ed for the reformation of his male subjects, she studied in her turn the improvement of her own sex. She altered their dresses, intro- duced mixed assemblies, instituted an order of female knighthood ;-and at length, when she had greatly filled all the stations of Empress, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died without regret, regretted by all. Adieu. LETTER LXII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. IN every letter I expect accounts of some new revolutions in China, some strange occur- rence in the state, or disaster among my pri- vate acquaintance. I open every packet with tremulous expectation, and am agreeably dis- appointed when I find my friends and my country continuing in felicity. I wander, but they are at rest ; they suffer few changes but what pass in my own restless imagination ; it is only the rapidity of my own motion gives an imaginary swiftness to objects which are in some measure immovable. Yet believe me, my friend, that even China itself is imperceptibly degenerating from he ancient greatness : her laws are now more ve- nal, and her merchants are more deceitful, than formerly ; the very arts and scien ces have 254 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. run to decay. Observe tho carvings on our ancient bridges, figures that add grace even to nature: there is not an artist now in all the empire that can imitate their beauty- Our manufacturers in porcelain, too, are inferior to what we once were famous for ; and Europe now begins to excel us. There was a time when China was the receptacle for strangers ; when all were welcome who either came to improve the state, or admire its greatness; now the empire is shut up from every foreign improvement, and the very inhabitants discour- age each other from prosecuting their own in- ternal advantages. Whence this degeneracy in a state so little subject to external revolutions ? how happens it that China, which is now more powerful than ever, which is less subject to foreign invasions, and even assisted in some discoveries by her connexions with Europe ; whence comes it, I say, that the empire is thus declining so fast into barbarity ? This decay is surely from nature, and not the result of voluntary degeneracy. In a period of two or three thousand years she seems at pro- per intervals to produce great minds, with an effort resembling that which introduces the vicissitudes of seasons. They rise up at once, continue for an age, enlighten the world, fall like ripened corn, and mankind again gradually relapse into pristine barbarity. We little ones look around, are amazed at the decline, seek after the causes of this invisible decay, attri- bute to want of encouragement what really proceeds from want of power, are astonished to find every art and every science in the de- cline, not considering that autumn is over, and fatigued nature again begins to repose for some succeeding effort. Some periods have been remarkable for the production of men of extraordinary stature ; others from producing some particular animals in great abundance ; some for excessive plenty ; and others again for seemingly causeless famine. Nature, which shows herself so very different in her visible productions, must surely differ also from herself in the production of minds ; and while she astonishes one age with the strength and stature of a Milo or a Maximin, may bless another with the wisdom of a Plato, or the goodness of an Antonine. Let us not then attribute to accident the falling off of every nation, but to the natural revolution of things. Often in the darkest ages there has appeared some one man of sur- prising abilities, who with all his understand- ing, failed to bring his barbarous age into re- finement : all mankind seemed to sleep, till nature gave the general call, and then the whole world seemed at once roused at the voice; science triumphed in every country, and the brightness of a single genius seemed lost in a galaxy of contiguous glory. Thus the enlightened periods in every age have been universal. At the time when Chi- na first began to emerge from barbarity, the Western world was equally rising into refine- ment ; when we had our Yau, they had their Sesostris. In succeeding ages, Confucius and Pythagoras seem born nearly together, and a train of philosophers then sprung up as well in Greece as in China. The period of renew- ed barbarity began to have a universal spread much about the same time, and continued for several centuries, till, in the year of the Chris- tian era 1400, the Emperor Yonglo arose to revive the learning of the East ; while about the same time, the Medicean family laboured in Italy to raise infant genius from the cradle. Thus we see politeness spreading over every part of the world in one age, and barbarity suc- ceeding in another; at one period a blaze of light diffusing itself over the whole world, and at another all mankind wrapped up in the pro- foundest ignorance. Such has been the situation of things in times past, arid such probably it will ever be. China, I have observed, has evidently begun to degenerate from its former politeness ; and were the learning of the Europeans at present candidly considered, the decline would perhaps appear to have already taken place. We should find among the natives of the West, the study of morality displaced for mathematical disquisi- tion, or metaphysical subtleties ; we should find learning begin to separate from the useful duties and concerns of life, while none ventured to aspire after that character, but they who know much more than is truly amusing or use, ful. We should find every great attempt sup- pressed by prudence, and the rapturous sublimi- ty in writing cooled by a cautious fear of offence. We should find few of those daring spirits, who bravely ventured to be wrong, and who are willing to hazard much for the sake of great acquisitions. Providence has indulged the world with a period of almost four hundred years' refinement ; does it not now by degrees sink us into our former ignorance, leaving us only the love of wisdom, while it deprives us of its advantages? Adieu. LETTER LXIII. TO THE SAME. THE princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding their subjects who have behaved well, by presenting them with about two yards of blue ribbon, which is worn about the shoulder. They who are honoured with this mark of distinction are called knights, and the king himself is always the head of the order. This is a very frugal method of recompensing the most important services ; and it is very fortunate for kings that their subjects are satis- fied with such trifling rewards. Should a no- bleman happen to lose his leg in a battle, the king presents him with two yards of ribbon, CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 255 and he is paid for the loss of his limb. Should an ambassador spend all his paternal fortune in supporting the honour of his country abroad, the king presents him with two yards of ribbon, which is to be considered as an equivalent f o his estate. In short, while an Kuropean king has a yard of blue or green ribbon left, he need be under no apprehensions of wanting states- men, generals, and soldiers. I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men, with large patrimonial estates, are willing thus to undergo real hardships for empty favours. A person, already possessed of a competent fortune, who undertakes to enter the career of ambition, feels many real inconveniences from his station, while it pro- cures him no real happiness that he was not possessed of before. He could eat, drink, and sleep, before he became a courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when invested with his authority. He could command flatterers in a private station, as Well as in his public capacity, and indulge at home every favourite inclination, uncensured and unseen by the people. What real good then does an addition to a fortune already sufficient procure? Not any. Could the great man, by having his fortune increased, increase also his appetites, then precedence might be attended with real amuse- ment. Was he, by having his one thousand made two, thus enabled to enjoy two wives, or eat two dinners ; then, indeed, he might be excused for undergoing some pain, in order to extend the sphere of his enjoyments. But, on the contrary, he finds his desire for pleasure often lessen, as he takes pains to be able to improve it; and his capacity of enjoyment diminishes us his fortune happens to increase. Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with envy, I generally consider them with some share of compassion. I look upon them as a set of good-natured, misguided people, who are in- debted to us, and not to themselves, for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and not their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for our pleasure the lackeyed train, the slow parading pageant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in review : a single coat, or a single footman, answers all the pur- poses of the most indolent refinement as well ; and those who have twenty, may be said to keep one for their own pleasure, and the other nineteen merely for ours. So true is the ob- servation of Confucius, ' that we take greater pains to persuade others that we are happy, than endeavouring to think so ourselves.' But though this desire of being seen, of be- ing made the subject of discourse, and of sup- porting the dignities of an exalted station, be troublesome enough to the ambitious, yet it is well for society that there are men thus willing to exchange ease and safety for danger and a ribbon. We lose nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavour to deprive a thild of its rattle. If a duke or a duchess are willing to carry a long train for our entertain- ment, so much the worse for themselves ; if they choose to exhibit in public, with a hundred lackeys and mamelukes in their equipage, for our entertainment, still so much the worse for themselves ; it is the spectators alone who give arid receive the pleasure ; they only are the sweating figures that swell the pageant A mandarine, who took much pride in ap- pearing with a number of jewels on every part of his robe, was once accosted by an old sly Bonze, who, following him through several streets and bowing often to the ground, thank- ed him for his jewels. " What does the man mean ? " cried the mandarine : " Friend, I never gave thee any of my jewels." " No," replied the other; " but you have let me look at them, and that is all the use you can make of them yourself; so there is no difference between us, except that you have the trouble of watching them, and that is an employment I don't much desire." Adieu. LETTER LXIV. FROM THE SAME. THOUGH not very fond of seeing a pagean myself, yet I am generally pleased with being in the crowd which sees it : it is amusing to observe the efTect which such a spectacle has upon the variety of faces ; the pleasure it ex- cites in some, the envy in others, and the wish- es it raises in all. With this design, I lately went to see the entry of a foreign ambassador, resolved to make one in the mob, to shout as they shouted, to fix with earnestness upon the same frivolous objects, and participate for a while the pleasures and the wishes of the vulgar. Struggling here for some time, in order to be first to see the cavalcade as it passed, some one of the crowd unluckily happened to tread upon my shoe, and tore it in such a mariner, that I was utterly unqualified to march forward with the main body, and obliged to fall back in the rear. Thus rendered incapable of being a spectator of the show myself, I was at least willing to observe the spectators, and limped behind like one uf the invalids which follow the march of an army. In this plight, as I was considering the eager, ness that appeared on every face, how some bustled to get foremost, and others contented themselves with taking a transient peep when they could ; how some praised the four black servants that were stuck behind one of the equi- pages, and some the ribbons that decorated the horses' necks in another, my attention was called off to an object more extraordinary than any I had yet seen ; a poor cobbler sat in his stall by the way-side, and continued to work, while the crowd passed by, without testifying the smallest share of curiosity. I o\vn his 256 CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. want of attention excited mine , and as I stood in need of his assistance, I thought it bpst to employ a philosophical cobbler on this occasion. Perceiving my business, therefore, he desired me to enter and sit down, took my shoe in his lap, and began to mend it with his usual in- difference and taciturnity. " Ho\v, my friend," said I to him, "can you continue to work, while all those fine things are passing by your door ?" " Very fine they are, master," returned the cobbler," for those that like them, to be sure ; but what are all those fine things to me ? You don't know what it is to be a cobbler, and so much the better for yourself. Your bread is baked, you may go and see sights the whole day, and eat a warm aupper when you come home at night ; but for me, if I should run hunting after all these fine folk, what should I get by my journey but an appetite, and, God help me ! I have too much of that at home already, without stirring out for it. Your people, who may eat four meals a-day, and a supper at night, are but a bad ex- ample to such a one as I. No, master, as God has called me into this world in order to mend old shoes, I have no business with fine folk, and they no business with me." I here interrupted him with a smile. " See this last, master," continues he, " and this hammer ; this last and hammer are the two best friends I nave in this world ; nobody else will be my friend, because I want a friend. The great tolks you saw pass by just now have five hun- dred friends, because they have no occasion for them : now, while I stick to my good friends here, I am very contented ; but when I ever so little run after sights and fine things, I be- gin to hate my work, I grow sad, and have no heart to mend shoes any longer." This discourse only served to raise my cu- riosity to know more of a man whom nature had thus formed into a philosopher. I there- fore insensibly led him into a histoiy of his adventures : " I have lived," said he, "a wan- dering sort of a life now five- and- fifty years, here to-day, and gone to-morrow ; for it was my misfortune, when I was young to be fond ot changing." " You have been a traveller, then, I presume," interrupted I. " I cannot boast much of travelling," continued he, " for I have never left the parish in which I was born but three times in my life, that I can re- member ; but then there is not a street in the whole neighbourhood that I have not lived in, at some time or another. When I began to settle and to take to my business in one street, some unforeseen misfortune, or a desire of trying my luck elsewhere, has removed me, perhaps a whole mile away from my former customers, while some more lucky cobbler would come into my place, and make a handsome fortune among friends of my making ; there was one who ac- tually died in a stall that I had left, worth seven pounds seven shillings, all in hard gold, which he had quilted into the waistband of' his breeches." I could not but smile at these migrations of a man by the fire-side, and continued to ask if he had ever been married. " Ay, that I have, master," replied he," for sixteen long years ; and a weary life I had of it, Heaven knows. My wife took it into her head, that the only way to thrive in this world was to save money, so, though our comings in was but about three shillings a-week, all that ever she could lay her hands upon she used to hide away from me, though we were obliged to starve the whole week after for it. " The first three years we used to quarrel about this every day, and I always got the bet- ter ; but she had a hard spirit, and still conti- nued to hide as usual ; so that I was at last tired of quarrelling and getting the better, and she scraped and scraped at pleasure, till I was almost starved to death. Her conduct drove me at last in despair to the ale-house ; here I used to sit with people who hated home like myself, drank while I had money left, and run in score when any body would trust me ; till at last the landlady coming one day with a long bill when I was from home, and putting it into my wife's hands, the length of it effectually broke her heart. I searched the whole stall after she was dead for money, but she had hid- den it so effectually, that with all my pains ] could never find a farthing." By this time my shoe was mended, and sa- tisfying the poor artist for his trouble, and re- warding him besides for his information, I took my leave, and returned home to lengthen out the amusement his conversation afforded, by communicating it to my friend. Adieu. LETTER LXV. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGT, TO HJXGPO, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. GENEROSITY, properly applied, will supply every other external advantage in life, but the love of those we converse with ; it will procure esteem, and a conduct rese'mbling real affec- tion ; but actual love is the spontaneous pro- duction of the mind; no generosity can pur- chase, no rewards increase, and no liberality continue it ; the very person who is obliged, has it not in his power to force his lingering affections upon the object he should love, and voluntarily mix passion with gratitude. Imparted fortune, and well placed liberality v may procure the benefactor good-will, may load the person obliged with the sense of the duty he lies under to retaliate ; this is gratitude ; and simple gratitude, untinctured with love, is all the return an ingenuous mind can bestow for former benefits. But gratitude and love are almost opposite affections ; love is often an involuntary passion, placed upon our companions without our con- sent, and. frequently conferred without ou; - CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 257 previous esteem. We love some men, \ve know not why; our tenderness is naturally excit- ed in all their concerns ; we excuse their faults with the same indulgence, and approve their virtues with the same applause with which \ve consider our own. While we entertain the passion, it pleases us, we cherish it with de- light, and give it up with reluctance ; and love for love is all the reward we expect or desire. Gratitude, on the contrary, is never confer- red, but where there have been previous endea- vours to excite it ; we consider it as a debt, and our spirits wear a load till we have dis- charged the obligation. Every acknowledg- ment of gratitude is a circumstance of humili- ation ; and some are found to submit to fre- quent mortifications of this kind, proclaiming what obligations they owe, merely because they think it in some measure cancels the debt. Thus love is the most easy arid agreeable, and gratitude the most humiliating affection of the rnind : we never reflect on the man we love, without exulting in our choice, while he who has bound us to him by benefits alone, rises to our idea as a person to whom we have in some measure forfeited our freedom. Love and gratitude are seldom, therefore, found in the same breast without impairing each other ; we may tender the one or the other singly to those we converse with, but cannot command both together. By attempting to in- crease, we diminish them ; the mind becomes bankrupt under too large obligations : all ad- ditional benefits lessen every hope of future return, and bar up every avenue that leads to ! tenderness. In all our connexions with society, therefore, it is not only generous but prudent, to appear insensible of the value of those favours we be- stow, and endeavour to make the obligation seem as light as possible. Love must be taken by stratagem, and not by open force : we should seem ignorant that we oblige, and leave the mind at full liberty to give or refuse its affections ; for constraint may indeed leave the receiver still grateful, but it will certainly produce disgust. If to procure gratitude be our only aim, there is no great art in making the acquisition ; a benefit conferred demands a just acknowledg- ment, and we have a right to insist upon our due. But it were much more prudent to forego or.r right on such an occasion, and exchange it, it we can, for love. We receive but little ad- vantage from repeated protestations of grati- tude, but they cost him very much from whom we exact them in return : Exacting a grateful acknowledgment, is demanding a debt by which the creditor is not advantaged, and the debtor pays with reluctance. As Mencius, the philosopher, was travelling in pursuit of wisdom, night overtook him at the foot of a gloomy mountain remote from the habitations of men. Here, as he was straying while rain and thunder conspired to make solitude still more hideous, he perceived a hermit's cell, and approaching, asked for shelter ; " Enter,' 1 cries the hermit, in a se- vere tone, " men deserve not to be obliged, but it would be imitating their ingratitude to treat them as they deserve. Come in . exam- ples of vice may sometimes strengthen us in the ways of virtue." ' After a frugal meal, which consisted of roots and tea, Mencius could not repress his curiosity to know why the hermit had retired from mankind, the actions of whom taught the truest lessons of wisdom. " Mention not tht name of man," cries the hermit with indigna- tion ; here let me live retired from a base un- grateful world ; here among the beasts of the forest I shall rind no flatterers : the lion is a generous enemy, and the dog a faithful friend ; but man, base man, can poison the bowl and smile while he presents it !" " You have been used ill by mankind," interrupted the philoso- pher shrewdly. " Yes," returned the hermit, " on mankind have I exhausted my whole for- tune, and this staff, and that cup, and those roots, are all that I have in return." " Did you bestow your fortune, or did you only lend it ?' returned Mencius. " I bestowed it un- doubtedly replied the other, for where were the merit of being a money-lender ?" " Did they own that they received it?" still adds the philo- sopher. " A thousand times," cries the her- mit ; " they every day loaded me with profes- sions of gratitude for obligations received, and solicitations for future favours." "If then,' says Mencius smiling, " you did not lend your fortune in order to have it returned, it is unjust to accuse them of ingratitude ; they owned themselves obliged, you expected no more, and they certainly earned each favour by frequently acknowledging the obligation." The hermit was struck with the reply, and surveying his guest with emotion, " I have heard of the great Mencius, and you certainly are the man : I am now fourscore years old, but still a child in wisdom : take me back to the school of man, and educate me as one of the most ignorant and the youngest of your disciples !" Indeed my son it is better to have friends in our passage through life, than grateful depen- dents, and as love is a mpre willing, so it is a more lasting tribute than extorted obligation. As we are uneasy when greatly obliged, grati- tude once refused can never after be recovered : the mind that is base enough to disallow the just return, instead of feeling any uneasiness upon recollection, triumphs in its new acquired freedom, and in some measure is pleased with conscious baseness. Very different is the situation of disagree- ing friends ; their separation produces mutual uneasiness : like that divided being in fabu- lous creation, their sympathetic souls once more desire their former union ; the joys cf both are imperfect; their gayest moments tinc- tured with uneasiness. e;ich seeks for the small- 25S CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. est concessions to clear the way to a wished-fbr explanation ; the most trifling acknowledg- ment, the slightest accident, serves to effect a mutual reconciliation. But instead of pursuing the thought, per- mit me to soften the severity of advice, by a European story, which will fully illustrate my meaning. A fiddler and his wife who had rubbed through life, as most couples usually do, sometimes good friends, at others not quite so well, one day happened to have a dispute, which was con- ducted with becoming spirit on both sides. The wife was sure she was right, and the hus- band was resolved to have his own way. What was to be done in such a case ? the quarrel grew worse by explanations, and at last the fury of both rose to such a pitch that they made a vow never to sleep together in the same bed for the future. This was the most rash vow that could be imagined, for they were still friends at bottom, and besides they had but one bed in the house : however, resolved they were to go through with it, and at night the fiddle-case was laid in- bed between them, in order to make a separation. In this man- ner they continued for three weeks; every night the fiddle-case being placed as a barrier to divide them. By this time, however, each heartily repent- ed of their vow, their resentment was at an end, and their love began to return ; they wish- ed the fiddle-case away, but both had too much spirit to begin. One night, however, as they were both lying awake with the detested fid- dle-case between them, the husband happened to sneeze, to which the wife, as is usual in such cases, bid God bless him : " Ay but," returns the husband, " woman, do you say that from your heart ?" " Indeed I do, my poor Nicholas," cries his wife : " I say it with all my heart.'' " If so, then," says the husband, " we had as good remove the fiddle-case.'' LETTER LXVI. FROM THE SAME. BOOKS, my son, while they teach us to re- spect the interest of others, often make us un- mindful of our own ; while they instruct the | youthful reader to grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in detail, and attentive to uni- versal harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part to sustain in the concert. I dislike therefore the philosopher who describes the in- conveniences of life in such pleasing colours that the pupil grows enamoured of distress, longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor fears its inconveniences tiH he severely feels them. A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new to the world, and unacquainted with man but by philosophic information, may be considered as a being whose mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly un- qualified for a journey through life, yet confi- dent of his own skill in the direction, he sets out with confidence blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last undone. He first has learned from books, and then lays it down as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in excess ; arid he has been long taught to detest vice, and love virtue : warm, therefore, in attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats every creature as a friend or foe ; expects from those he loves unerring integrity, and consigns his enemies to the re- proach of wanting every virtue. On this prin- ciple he proceeds ; and here begins his disap- pointments. Upon a closer inspection of hu- man nature he perceives, that he should have moderated his friendship, and softened his severity ; for he often finds the excellences of one part of mankind clouded with vice, and the faults of the other brightened with virtue ; he finds no character so sanctified that has not its failings, none so infamous but has somewhat to attract our esteem : he beholds impiety in lawn and fidelity in fetters. He now, therefore, but too late, perceives that his regards should have been more cool, and his hatred less violent ; that the truly wise seldom court romantic friendships with the good, and avoid, if possible, the resentment even of the wicked : every moment gives him fresh instances that the bonds of friendship are broken, if drawn too closely, and that those whom he has treated with disrespect more than retaliate the injury ; at length, therefore, he is obliged to confess, that, he has declared war upon the vicious half of mankind, without be- ing able to form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his quarrel. Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far advanced to recede ; and though poverty be the just consequence of the many enemies his conduct has created, yet he is re- solved to meet it without shrinking. Philo- sophers have described poverty in most charm ing colours, and even his vanity is touched in thinking, that he shall show the world, in him- self, one more example of patience, fortitude, and resignation. " Come, then, O Poverty ! for what is there in thee dreadful to the WISE ? Temperance, Health, and Frugality walk in thy train , Cheerfulness and Liberty are ever thy companions. Shall any be ashamed of thee, of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed ? The running brook, the herbs of the field, can am- ply satisfy nature ; man wants but little, nor that little long :* Come, then, O Poverty, while kings stand by, and gaze with admiration at the true philosopher's resignation. * Our author has repeated this thought, nearly in tte same words, in his HERMIT, Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cures forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong j Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long. CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. 259 The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at the call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the charming figure books and his warm imagination had painted. As when an Eastern bride, whom her friends and relations had long described as a model of perfection, pays her first visit, the longing bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he had never seen before ; but instead of a countenance blazing with beau- ty like the sun, he beholds deformity shoot- ing icicles to his heart ; such appears Pover- ty to her new entertainer ; all the fabric of enthusiasm is at once demolished, and a thou- sand miseries rise upon its ruins, while Con- tempt, with pointing finger, is foremost in the hideous procession. The poor man now finds, that he can get no kings to look at him while he is eating; he finds, that in proportion as he grows poor, the world turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to act the philosopher in all the majesty of solitude. It might be agreeable enough to play the philosopher while we are conscious that mankind are spectators ; but what signifies Wearing the mask of sturdy contentment, and mounting the stage of restraint, when not one creature will assist at the exhibition ! Thus is he forsaken of men, while his fortitude wants the satisfaction even of self-applause ; for he either does not feel his present calamities, and that is natural insensibility, or he disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation. Spleen now begins to take up the man : not distinguishing in his resentments, he regards all mankind with detestation, and commencing man-hater, seeks solitude to be at liberty to rail. It has been said, that he who retires to soli- tude is either a beast or an angel. The cen- sure is too severe, and the praise unmerited : the discontented being who retires from soci- ety, is generally some good-natured man who has begun life without experience, and knew not how to gain it in his intercourse with man- kind. Adieu. LETTER LXVII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. I FORMERLY acquainted thee, most grave Fum, with the excellence of the English in the art of healing. The Chinese boast their skill in pulses, the Siamese their botanical knowledge, but the English advertising physi- cians alone of being the great restorers of health, the dispensers of youth, and the insur- ers of longevity. I can never enough admire the sagacity of this country for the encourage- ment given to the professors of this art ; with what indulgence does she foster up those of her own growth, and kindly cherish those that come from abroad ! Like a skilful gardener, she invites them from every foreign climate to herself. Here every great exotic strikes root as soon as imported, and feels the genial beam of favour ; while the mighty metropolis, like one vast munificent dung-hill, receives them indis- criminatly to her breast, and supplies each with more than native nourishment. In other countries, the physician pretends to cure disorders in the lump ; the same doctor who combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend to prescribe for a pain in the head, and he who at one time cures a consumption, shall at another give drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and ridiculous ! this is being a mere jack-of-all trades. Is the animal machine less complicat- ed than a brass pin ? Not less than ten differ- ent hands are required to make a pin ; and shall the body be set right by one single operator ? The English are sensible of the force of this reasoning ; they have, therefore, one doc- tor for the eyes, another for the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors, and concluding doc- tors ; they have one doctor who is modestly content with securing them from bug- bites, and five hundred who prescribe for the bite of mad dogs. The learned are not here retired, with vici- ous modesty, from public view ; for every dead wall is covered with their names, their abilities, their amazing cures, and places of abode. Few patients can escape falling into their hands, un. less blasted by lightning, or struck dead with some sudden disorder. It may sometimes happen, that a stranger, who does not under- stand English, or a countryman who cannot read, dies, without ever hearing of the vivify- ing drops, or restorative electuary but, for my part, before I was a week in town, I had learn- ed to bid the whole catalogue of disorders de- fiance, and was perfectly acquainted with the names and the medicines of every great man. or great woman of them all. But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes of the great, however minute or trifling, I must present you, inadequate as my abilities are to the subject, with some account of those personages who lead in this honoura- ble profession. The first upon the list of glory is doctor Richard Rock, F. U. N. This great man, short of stature, is fat, arid waddles as he walks. He always wears a white three-tailed wig nice-, ly combed, and frizzed upon each cheek ; sometimes he carries a cane, but a hat never. It is indeed very remarkable, that this extraor- dinary personage should never wear a hat, but so it is, he never wears a hat. He is usually drawn at the top of his own bills, sitting in his arm-chair, holding a little bottle between his finger and thumb, and surrounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and gallipots. No man can promise fairer nor better than he ; for, as he observes, " Be your disorder never so far gone, be under no uneasiness, make your- self quite easy ; I can cure you. " 2GO CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal pretensions, is doctor Timothy Franks, F.O.G.H., living in a place called the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably squab, his great rival Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born in the year of the Christian era, 1692, and is, while I now write, exactly sixty-eight years, three months, and four days old. Age, however, has no way impaired his usual health and vivacity : I am told he generally walks with his breast open. This gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is particularly re- markable for becoming assurance, which carries him gently through life; for, except doctor Rock, none are more blest with the advantages of face than doctor Franks. And yet the great have their foibles as well as the little. I am almost ashamed to mention it : let the foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I must impart the whole to my friend. These two great men are actually now at vari- ance : yes, my dear P\im Hoam, by the head of our grandfather, they are now at variance J like mere men, mere common mortals. The 1 champion Rock advises the world to beware of bog-trotting quacks, while Franks retorts the wit and the sarcasm (for they have both a world of wit) by fixing on his rival the odious appellation of Dumplin Dick. He calls the serious doctor Rock, Dumplin Dick ! Head of Confucius, what profanation !. Dumplin Dick ! What a pity, ye powers, that the learn- ed, who were born mutually to assist in enlight- ening the world, should thus differ .among them- selves, and make even the profession ridiculous. Sure the world is wide enough, at least, for two great personages to figure in : men of science shouldleave controversy to the little world below them , and then we might see Rock and Franks walking together hand in hand, smiling onward to immortality. Next to these is doctor Walker, preparator of his own medicines. This gentleman is re- markable for an aversion to quacks ; frequently cautioning the public to be careful into what hands they commit their safety ; by which he would insinuate, that if they do not employ him alone, they must be undone. His public spirit is equal to his success. Not for himself, but his country, is the gallipot prepared, and the drops sealed up with proper directions, for any part of the town or country. All this is for his country's good ; so that he is now grown old in the practice of physic and virtue ; and, to use his own elegance of expression, " There is not such another medicine as his in the world again." This, my friend, is a formidable triumvirate ; and yet, formidable as they are, I am resolved to defend the honour of Chinese physic against them all. I have made a vow to summon doctor Rock to a solemn disputation in all the mysteries of the profession, before the face of every Philomath, student in astrology, and member of the learned societies. I adhere to, and venerate the doctrines of old-Wang-shu- ho. In the very teeth of opposition I will maintain, " That the heart is the son of the liver, which has the kidneys for its mother, and the stomach for its wife."* I have there- fore, drawn up a disputation challenge, which is to be sent speedily, to this effect : "I, Lien Chi Altangi, 3, 'X, 3>. 51), native of Honan in China, to Richard Rock, F. U. N. native of Garbage-alley, in Wap- ping, defiance. Though, Sir, I arn perfectly sensible of your importance, though no stranger to your studies in the path of nature, yet there be many things in the art of physic with which you are yet unacquainted. I know full well a doc- tor thou art great Rock, and so am I. Where- fore, I challenge, and do hereby invite you to a trial of learning upon hard problems, and knotty physical points. In this debate we will calmly investigate the whole theory and practice of medicine, botany, and chemistry : and I invite all the Philomaths, with many of the lecturers in medicine, to be present at the dispute ; which, I hope, will be carried on with due decorum, with proper gravity, and as befits men of erudition and science, among each other. But before we meet face to face, I would thus publicly, and in the face of the whole world, desire you to answer me one question ; I ask it with the same earnestness with which you have often solicited the public ; answer me, I say, at once, without having re- course to your physical dictionary, which of those three disorders, incident to the human body, is the most fatal, the syncope, parenthe. sis, or apoplexy ? I beg your reply may be as public as this my demand, t I > as hereaf- ter may be, your admirer, or your rival. Adieu. LETTER LXVIII. FROM THE SAKE. INDULGENT Nature seems to have exempted this island from many of those epidemic evils which are so fatal in other parts of the world. A want of rain but for a few days beyond the expected season in China, spreads famine, de- solation and terror, over the whole country ; the winds that blow from the brown bosom of the western desert are impregnated with death in every gale ; but, in this fortunate land of Britain, the inhabitant courts health in every breeze, and the husbandman ever sows in joy- ful expectation. But though the nation be exempt from real evils, think not, my friend, that it is more happy on this account than others. They are afflicted, it is true, with neither famine nor pes- tilence, but then there is a disorder peculiar to the country, which every season makes * See Du Halde, vol. ii. fol. p. 185. f The day after this \vas published the editor re- ceived an answer, in which the Doctor seems to l>e opinion that the apoplexy is most fatal CITIZEN OF THE WOULD. 2G1 strange ravages among them ; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost every rank of people ; what is still more strange, the natives have no name for this peculiar malady, though well known to foreign physicians by the appellation of the epidemic terror. A season is never known to pass in which the people are not visited by this cruel cala- mity in one shapeor another, seemingly different though ever the same : one year it issues from a baker's shop in the shape of a sixpenny loaf ; the next, it takes the appearance of a comet with a fiery tail ; a thin), it threatens like a flat-bottomed boat ; and a fourth, it carries consternation at the bite of a mad dog. The people when once infected, lose their relish for happiness, saunter about with looks of despondency, ask after the calamities of the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening each other's distress. It is insignificant how remote or near, how weak or powerful the objects of terror may be; when once they resolve to fright and be frighted, the merest trifles sow consternation and dismay : each proportions his fears, not to the object, but to the dread he discovers in the countenance of others ; for when once the fermentation is be- gun, it goes on of itself, though the original cause be discontinued which lust set it in mo- tion. A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic (error which now prevails ; and the whole nation is at present actually groaning under the malig- nity of its influence. The people sally from their houses with that circumspection which is prudent in such as expect a mad dog at every turning. The physician publishes his prescription, the beadle prepares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery arm themselves with boots and buff glove?, in order to face the enemy if he should offer to attack them. In short, the whole people stand bravely upon their defence, and seem, by their present spirit, to show a resolution of not being tamely bit by mad dogs any longer. Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad or not, somewhat resembles the an- cient European custom of trying witches. The old woman suspected was tied hand and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, then she was instantly carried off to be burnt for a witch ; if she sunk, then indeed she was acquitted of the charge, but drowned in the experiment. In the same manner a crowd gathers round a dog suspected of mad- sicss, and they begin by teasing the devoted animal on every side ; if he attempts to stand upon the defensive and bite, then he is una- nimously found guilty, for a mad dog always snaps at eve-ry thing ; if, on the contrary, he strives to escape by running away, then he can expect no compassion, for mad dogs al- ways run straight forward before them. It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who has no share in these ideal calamities, t-o mark the stages of this national disease. The terror at first feebly enters with a disre- garded story of a little dog, that had gone through a neighbouring village, that was thought to be mad by several that had seen him. The next account comes, that a mastiff ran through a certain town, and had bit five geese, which immediately ran mad, foamed at the bill, and died in great agony soon after. Then comes an affecting history a little boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be dipt in the salt water. When the people have sufficient- ly shuddered at that, they are next congealed with a frightful account of a man who was said lately to have died from a bite he had re- ceived some years before. This relation only prepares the way for another still more hideous, as how the master of a family, with seven small children, were all bit by a mad lapdog; and how the poor father first perceived the in- fection, by calling for a draught of water, where he saw the lapdog swimming in the cup. When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every morning comes loaded with some new disaster : as, in stories of ghosts, each loves to hear the account, though it only serves to make him uneasy, so here each listens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings new circum- stances of peculiar horror. A lady, for instance, in the country, of very weak nerves, has been frightened by the barking of a dog ; and this, alas ! too frequently happens. The story soon is improved and spreads, that a mad dog had frightened a lady of distinction. These cir- cumstances begin to grow terrible before they have reached the neighbouring village, and there the report is, that a lady of quality was bit by a mad mastiff. This account every mo- ment gathers new strength; and grows more dismal as it approaches the capital ; and by the time it has arrived in town, the lady is describ- ed, with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running mad upon all-fours, barking like a dog, biting her servants, and at last smothered between two beds by the advice of her doctors ; while the mad mastiff is in the meantime ranging the whole country over, slavering at the mouth, arid seeking whom he may devour. My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little credulous, waked me some mornings ago before her usual hour, with horror and aston- ishment in her looks ; she desired me, if I had any regard for my safety to keep within ; for a few days ago so dismal an accident had hap- pened, as to put all the world upon their guard. A mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had bit a farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard, and bit a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly became as mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising herself up, walked about on her hind legs, sometimes barking like a dog, arid sometimes attempting to talk like the farmer. Upon ex- amining the grounds of this story, I found my landlady had it from one neighbour, who had it from another neighbour, who heard it from very good authority. 262 CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. Were most stories of this nature thoroughly xamined, it would be found that numbers of such as have been said to suffer were no way injured ; and that of those who have been actually bitten, not one in a hundred was bit by a mad dog. Such accounts in general, therefore, only serve to make the people miser- able by false terrors, and sometimes fright the patient into actual phrenzy by creating those very symptoms they pretended to deplore. But even allowing three or four to die in a season of this terrible death (and four is pro- bably too large a concession), yet still it is not considered, how many are preserved in their health and in their property by this devoted animal's services. The midnight robber is kept at a distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; the healthful chase repairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor man finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to less- en his toils, and content with the smallest re- tribution. " A dog," says one of the English poets, " is an honest creature, arid I am a friend to dogs." Of all the beasts that graze the lawn or hunt the forest, a dog is the only animal that leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the friendship of man ; to man he looks in all his necessities with a speaking eye for assis- tance ; exerts for him all the little service in his power with cheerfulness and pleasure ; for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and re- signation ; no injuries can abate his fidelity; no distress induce him to forsake his benefac- tor ; studious to please, and fearing to offend, he is still a humble steadfast dependent ; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How unkind then to torture this faithful creature, who has left the forest to claim the protection of man ! how ungrateful a return to the trus- ty animal for all his services ! Adieu. LETTER LXIX. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO HINGPO, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. THE Europeans are themselves blind, who describe Fortune without sight. No first-rate beauty had ever finer eyes, or saw more clear- ly; they who have no other trade but seeking their fortune, need never hope to find her ; coquette like, she flies from her close pursuers, and at last fixes on the plodding mechanic, who stays at home, and minds his business. I am amazed how men call her blind, when, by tae company she keeps, she seems so very discerning. Wherever you see a gaming- table, be very sure Fortune is not there ; where- ever you see a house with the doors open, be very sure Fortune is not there ; when you see a man whose pocket-holes are laced with gold, be satisfied Fortune is not there : wherever vou see a beautiful woman good-natured and obliging, be convinced Fortune is never there. In short, she is ever seen accompanying in- dustry, arid as often trundling a wheelbarrow as lolling in a coach and six. If you would make Fortune your friend, or, to personize her no longer, if you desire, my son, to be rich, and have money, be more eager to save than acquire : when people say, Money is to be got here, and money is to be got there, take no notice ; mind your own business ; stay where you are, and secure all you can get with- out stirring. When you hear that your neigh- bour has picked up a purse of gold in the street, never run out into the same street, look- ing about you in order to pick up such another; or when you are informed that he has made a fortune in one branch of business, never change your own in order to be his rival. Do not desire to be rich all at once ; but patiently add farthing to farthing. Perhaps you despise the petty sum ; and yet they who want a farth- ing, and have no friend that will lend them it r think farthings very good things. Whang, the foolish miller, when he wanted a farthing in his distress, found that no friend would Jend because they knew he wanted. Did you ever read the story of Whang in our books of Chinese learning? he who, despising small sums, and grasping at all, lost even what he had. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious ; nobody loved money better than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would say, I know him very well ; he and J have been long acquainted ; he and I are in- timate ; he stood for a child of mine : but if ever a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man ; he might be very well for aught he knew ; but he was not fond of many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company. Whang, however, with all his eagerness foi riches was in reality poor ; he had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him ; but though these were small they were certain ; while his mill stood and went, he was sure of eating, and his frugality was such, that he every day laid some money by, which he would at intervals count and contemplate w'th much satisfaction. Yet still his acquisitions were not equal to his desires ; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence. One day as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed, that a neighbour of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three nights running before. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang. " Here am I," says he, " toiling and moiling from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbour Hunks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before morning. O that I could dream like him ; with what pleasure I would dig round the pan ; how slily would I carry it CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 263 home; not even my wife should see me; and then, O the pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap of gold up to the elbow !" Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy ; he discontinued his former assiduity, he was quite disgusted with small grains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time unkind, at last however seemed to smile upon his distresses, and indulged him with the wished-for vision. He dreamed, that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill, there -vas concealed a monstrous pan of gold and diamonds buried deep in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone. He rose up, thanked the stars that were at last pleased to take pity on his suffer- ings, and concealed his good luck from every person, as is usual in money dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he should be certain of its veracity. His wishes in this also were an- swered ; he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place. Now, therefore, it was past a doubt ; so getting up early the third morning, he repairs alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and began to undermine that part of the wall which the vision directed. The first omen of success that he met was a broken mug ; digging still deeper, he turns up a house tile, quite new and entire. At last, after much digging, he came to the broad flat stone, but then so large, that it was beyond one man's strength to re- move it. " Here," cried he, in raptures to himself, " here it is ! under this stone there is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed ! I must e'en go home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up." Away therefore he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their good fortune. Her raptures on this oc- casion may be easily imagined ; she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy ; but those transports, however, did not delay their eagerness to know the exact sum ; returning, therefore, speedily together to the place where Whang had been digging, there they found not indeed the expected treasure, but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen. Adieu. LETTER LXX. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. THE people of London are as fond of walking as our friends at Pekin of riding , one of the principal entertainments of the citizens here in summer, is to repair about nightfall to a garden not far from town, where they walk about, show their best clothes and best faces, and listen to a concert provided for the occa- sion. I accepted an invitation a few evenings ago from my old friend, the man in black, to be one of a party that was to sup there ; and at the appointed hour waited upon him at his lodgings. There I found the company assem- bled, and expecting my arrival. Our party consisted of my friend in superlative finery, his stockings rolled, a black velvet waistcoat, which was formerly new, and a grey wig combed down in imitation of hair. A pawnbroker's widow, of whom, by the bye, my friend was a professed admirer, dressed out in green da- mask, with three gold rings on every finger. Mr Tibbs, the second-rate beau I have form- erly described, together with his lady, in flimsy silk, dirty gauze instead of linen, and a hat as big as an umbrella. Our first difficulty was in settling how we should set out. Mrs Tibbs had a natural aversion to the water, and the widow being a little in flesh, as warmly protested against walking ; a coach was therefore agreed upon ; which being too small to carry five, Mr Tibbs consented to sit in his wife's lap. In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being entertained by the way with the bodings of Mr Tibbs, who assured us he did not ex- pect to see a single creature for the evening above the degree of a cheesemonger : that this was the last night of the gardens, and that consequently we should be pestered with the nobility and gentry from Thames-street and Crooked-lane, with several other prophetic ejaculations, probably inspired by the uneasi- ness of his situation. The illuminations began before we arrived, and I must confess, that upon entering the gardens I found every sense overpaid with more than expected pleasure ; the lights everywhere glimmering through the scarcely moving trees, the full-bodied concert bursting on the still- ness of the night, the natural concert of birds, in the more retired part of the grove, vicing with that which was formed by art ; the com- pany gaily dressed, looking satisfaction, and the tables spread with various delicacies, all con- spired to fill my imagination with the visionary happiness of the Arabian lawgiver, and lifted me into an ecstasy of admiration. " Head of Confucius," cried I to my friend, " this is fine ! this unites rural beauty with courtly magnifi. cence ! if we except the virgins of immortality, that hang on every tree, and may be plucked at every desire, I do not see how this falls short of Mahomet's Paradise !" " As for vir- gins," cries my friend, " it is true they are a fruit that do not much abound in our gardens here ; but if ladies, as plenty as apples in au- tumn, and as complying as any houri of them all, can content you, I fancy we have no need to go to heaven for paradise." I was going to second his remarks, wiien we were called to a consultation by Mr Tibbf 204 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. and the rest of the company, to know in what manner we were to lay out the evening to the greatest advantage. Mrs Tibbs was for keep- ing the genteel walk of the garden, where, she observed, there was always the very best com- j pany ; the widow, on the contrary, who came j but once a season, was for securing a good j standing place to see the water-works, which she assured us would begin in less than an hour at farthest; a dispute therefore began, and as it was managed between two of very opposite characters, it threatened to grow more bitter at every reply. Mrs Tibbs wondered how people could pretend to know the polite world, who had received all their rudiments of breeding behind a counter ; to which the other replied, that though some people sat behind counters, yet they could sit at the head of their own tables too, and carve three good dishes of hot meat whenever they thought proper ; which was more than some people could say for them- selves, that hardly knew a rabbit and onions from a green goose and gooseberries. It is hard to say where this might have end- ed, had not the husband, who probably knew the impetuosity of his wife's disposition, pro- posed to end the dispute, by adjourning to a box, and try if there was any thing to be had for supper that was supportable. To this we all consented ; but here a new distress arose : Mr and Mrs Tibbs would sit in none but a genteel box, a box where they might see and be seen, one, as they expressed it, in the very focus of public view ; but such a box was not easy to be obtained, for though we were perfectly convinced of our own gentility, and the gentility of our appearance, yet we found it a difficult matter to persuade the keepers of the boxes to be of our opinion ; they chose to reserve genteel boxes for what they judged more genteel com- pany. At last, however, we were fixed, though somewhat obscurely, and supplied with the usual entertainment of the place. The widow found the supper excellent, but Mrs Tibbs thought every thing detestable. " Come, come, my dear," cries the husband, by way of conso- lation, " to be sure we can't find such dressing here as we have at Lord Crump's or .Lady Crimp's ; but for Vauxhall dressing it is pretty good : it is not their victuals indeed I find fault with, but their wine ; their wine,'' cries he, drinking off a glass, " indeed, is most abominable." By this last contradiction, the widow was fairly conquered in point of politeness. She per- ceived now that she had no pretensions in the world to taste; her very senses were vulgar, since she had praised detestable custard, end smacked at wretchtu wine ; she was therefore content to yield the victory, and for the rest of the night to listen and improve. It is true, he would now arid then forget herself, and con- fess she was pleased, but they soon brought her !>ack again to miserable refinement. She once praised the painting of the box in which we were sitting, but was soon convinced that such paltry pieces ought rather to excite horror thari satisfaction ; she ventured again to commend one of the singers, but Mrs Tibbs soon let her know, in the style of a connoisseur, that the singer in question had neither ear, voice, nor judgment. Mr Tibbs, now willing to prove that his wife's pretensions to music were just, entreat- ed her to favour the company with a song ; but to this she gave a positive denial "for you know very well, my dear," says she, " that I am not in voice to-day, and when one's voice is not equal to one's judgment, what signifies singing ; besides, as there is no accompaniment it would be but spoiling music." All thee excuses, however, were overruled by the rest of the company, who, though one would think they already had music enough, joined in the entreaty. But particularly the widow, now willing to convince the company of her breed- ing, pressed so warmly, that she seemed deter- mined to take no refusal. At last then the lady complied, and after humming for some minutes, began with such a voice, and such af- fectation, as I could perceive, gave but little satisfaction to any except her husband. He sat with rapture in his eye, and beat time with his hand on the table. You must observe, my friend, that it is tht, custom of this country, when a lady or gentle- man happens to sing, for the company to sit as mute and motionless as statues. Every fea- ture, every limb, must seem to correspond in fixed attention ; arid while the song continues, they are to remain in a state of universal petre- faction. In this mortifying situation we had con- tinued for some time, listening, and looking with tranquillity, when the master of the box came to inform us, that the water-works were just going to begin. At this information I could instantly perceive the widow bounce from her seat; but correcting herself, she sat down again, repressed by motives of good-breeding. Mrs Tibbs, who had seen the water- works a hundred times, resolving not to be interrupted, continued her song without any share of mercy, nor had the smallest pity on our impatience. The widow's face, I own, gave me high entertain- ment ; in it I could plainly read the struggle she felt between good-breeding and curiosity : she talked of the water- works the whole even- ing before, and seemed to have come merely in order to see them ; but then she could not bounce out in the very middle of a song, for that would be forfeiting all pretensions to high life, or high-lived company, ever after. Mrs Tibbs therefore kept on singing, arid we con- tinued to listen, till at last, when the song was just concluded, the waiter came to inform us that the water-works were over. " The water-works over!" cried the widow; " the water-works over already ! that's impossi. ble ! they can't be over so soon !" "It is not my business,'' replied the fellow, " to contradict your ladyship $ I'll run again and see." He CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD. went, and soon returned with a confirmation of the dismal tidings. No ceremony could now bind my friend's disappointed mistress, she testified her displeasure in the openest manner ; in short, she now began to find fau u in turn, and at last insisted upon going home, just at the time that Mr and Mrs Tibbs as- sured the company, that the polite hours were going to begin, and that the ladies would instantaneously be entertained with the horns. Adieu. LETTER LXXL % FROM THE SAME. NOT far fom this city lives a t poor tinker, who has educated seven sons, all at this very time in arms, and fighting for their country ; and what reward do you think has the tinker from the state for such important services? None in the world : his sons, when the war is over, may probably be whipt from parish to parish as vagabonds, and the old man, when past labour, may die a prisoner in some house of correction. Such a worthy subject in China would be held in universal reverence ; his services would be rewarded, if not with dignities, at least with an exemption from labour ; he would tak^ the left hand at feasts, and mandarines themselves would be proud to show their submission. The English laws punish vice ; the Chinese laws do more, they reward virtue ! Considering the little encouragement given to matrimony here, I am not surprised at the discouragement given to propagation. Would you believe it, my dear Fum Iloam, there are laws made which even forbid the people's mar- 7 ing each other ? By the head of Confucius, jest not ; there are such laws in being here; and yet their lawgivers have neither been instructed among the Hottentots, nor imbibed their principles of equity from the natives of Anamaboo. There are laws which ordain, that no man shall marry a woman against her own consent. This, though contrary to what we are taught in Asia, and though in some measure a clog upon matrimony, I have no great objection to. There are laws which ordain, that no woman shall marry against her father arid mother's consent, unless arrived at an age of maturity ; by which is understood, those years when wo- men with us are generally past child-bearing. This must be a clog upon matrimony, as it is more difficult for the lover to please three than one, and much more difficult to please old peo- ple than young ones. The laws ordain, that the consenting couple shall take a long time to consider before they marry ; this is a very great clog, because people love to have all rash ac- tions done in a hurry. It is ordained, that all marriages shall be proclaimed before celebra tion : this is a severe clog, as many are asLam- ed to have their marriage made public, from motives of vicious modesty, and many afraid from views of temporal interest. It is ordain- ed, that there is nothing sacred in the ceremony, but that it may be dissolved, to all intents and purposes, by the authority of any civil magis- trate. And yet, opposite to this, it is ordained, tLat the pries-t shall be paid a large sum of money for granting his sacred permission. Thus you see, my friend, that matrimony here is hedged round with so many obstructions, that those who are willing to break through 01 surmount them, must be contented if at last they find it a bed of thorns. The laws are not to blame, for they have deterred the people from engaging as much as they could. It is, indeed, become a very serious affair in England, and none but serious people are generally found willing to engage. The young, the gay, and the beautiful, who have motives of passion only to induce them, are seldom found to embark, as those inducements are taken away ; and r.one but the old, the ugly, and the mercenary, j are seen to unite, who, if they have any pos- terity at all, will probably be an ill-favoured race like themselves. What gave rise to those laws might have been some such accidents as these : It some- times happened that a miser, who had spent all his youth in scraping up money to give his daughter such a fortune as might get her a mandarine husband, found his expectations disappointed at last, by her running away with his footman : this must have been a sad shock to the poor disconsolate parent, to see his poor daughter in a one horse chaise, when he had designed her for a coach and six. What a stroke from providence ! to see his dear money go to enrich a beggar ; all nature cried out at the profanation ! It sometimes happened, also, that a lady, who had inherited all the titles, and all the nervous complaints of nobility, thought fit to impair her dignity, and mend her constitution, by marry- ing a farmer : this must have been a sad shock to her inconsolable relations, to see so fine a flower snatched from a flourishing family, and planted in a dunghill ; this was an absolute in- version of the first principles of things. In order, therefore, to prevent the great from being thus contaminated by vulgar alii- ances, the obstacles to matrimony have been so contrived, that the rich only can marry amongst the rich ; and the poor, who would leave celi bacy, must be content to increase their poverty with a wife. Thus have their laws fairly in- verted the inducements to matrimony. Nature tells us, that beauty is the propc-, allurement of those who are rich, and money of those who are poor ; but things here are so contrived, that the rich are invited to marry by that for tune which they do not want, and the poox have no inducement but that beauty which they do not feel. An equal diffusion of riches through any 266 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. country ever constitutes its happiness, Great wealth in the possession of one stagna es, and extreme poverty with another keeps him in unambitious indigence ; but the moderately rich are generally active : not too far removed from poverty to fear its calamities, nor too near ex- treme wealth to slacken the nerve of labour, they remain still between both in a state of continual fluctuation. How impolitic, there- fore, are those laws which promote accumula- tion of wealth among the rich ; more impolitic still in attempting to increase the depression on poverty. Bacon, the English philosopher, compares money to manure " If gathered in heaps," says he, " it does no good ; on the contrary, it becomes offensive. But being spread, though never so thinly, over the surface of the earth, it enriches the whole country." Thus the wealth a nation possesses must expatiate, or it is of no benefit to the public ; it becomes rather a grievance, where matrimonial laws thus confine it to a few. But this restraint upon matrimonial com- munity, -even considered in a physical light, is injurious. As those who rear up animals, take all possible pains to cross the strain, in order to improve the breed; so, in those countries where marriage is most free, the inhabitants are found every age to improve in stature and in beauty ; on the contrary, where it is confined to a cast, a tribe, or a horde, as among the Gaurs, the Jews, or the Tartars, each division soon as- sumes a family likeness, and every tribe degen- erates into peculiar deformity. Hence it may be easily inferred, that if the mandarines here are resolved only to marry among each other, they will soon produce a posterity with man- darine faces ; and we shall see the heir of some honourable family scarcely equal to the abortion of a country farmer. There are a few of the obstacles to marriage here, and it is certain they have, in some mea- sure, answered the end, for celibacy is both frequent and fashionable. Old bachelors ap- pear abroad without a mask, and old maids, my dear Fum Hoam, have been absolutely known to ogle. To confess in friendship, if I were an Englishman, I fancy I should be an old bachelor myself ; I should never find cour- age to run through all the adventures prescrib- ed by law. I could submit to court my mis- tress herself upon reasonable terms ; but to court her father, her mother, and a long train of cousins, aunts, and relations, and then stand the butt of a whole country church, I would as soon turn tail and make love to her grandmother. I can conceive no other reason for thus load- ing matrimony with so many prohibitions, un- less it be that the country was thought already too populous, and this was found to be the most effectual means of thinning it. If this was the motive, I cannot but congratulate the wise projectors on the success of their scheme. " Hail, O ye dim-sighted politicians, ye weeders cf men ! 'Tis yours to clip the wing of industry, and convert Hymen to a broker ' Tis yours to behold small objects with a microscopic eye, but to be blind to those which require an ex- tent of vision. 'Tis yours, O ye discerners of mankind ! to lay the line between society, and weaken that force by dividing, which should bind with united vigour. 'Tis yours, to intro- duce national real distress, in order to avoid the imaginary distresses of a few. Your ac- tions can be justified by a hundred reasons like truth ; they can be opposed by but a few reasons, and those reasons are true." Farewell. LETTER LXXII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO HINGPO, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. AGE, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of living. Those dan. gers which, in the vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevail- ing passion of the mind ; and the small re-, mainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continual existence. Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable ! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me, by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness in long perspective still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardour to continue the game. Whence, my friend, this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years ? whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence, at a period when it becomes scarcely worth the keeping ? Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil ? Life would be in- supportable to an old man, who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than in the vi- gour of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ; but happily the contempt of death forsakes him, at a time when it could be only prejudicial; and life acquires an imaginary value, in proportion as its real value is no more. Our attachment to every object around us CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. 267 increases, in general, from the length of our ac- quaintance with it. " I would not choose," eays a French philosopher, " to see an old post pulled up with which I had been long acquaint- ed." A mind long habituated to a certain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance ; from hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of posses- sion. They love the world and all that it pro- duces ; they love life, and all its advantages ; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, commanded that all who were un- justly detained in prison, during the preceding reigns, should be set free. Among the num- ber who came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, who falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as follows : " Great father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger of crime, or without being even confronted by my accu- sers. I have now lived in solitude and dark- ness for more than fifty years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with the splendour of that sun to which you have restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find some friend that would assist, or relieve, or remember me ; but my friends, my family, and relations are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretched remains of life in my former pri- son ; the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace ; I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed in that prison from which you were pleased to release me.'' The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the prison, we look round with discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the pos- terity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth, and imbitter our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing , its company pleases ; yet, for all this, it is but little regarded. To us who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend ; its jests have been anticipated in former conversation ; it has no new story to make us smile ; no new improvement with which to surprise ; yet still we love it ; desti- tute of every enjoyment, still we love it ; hus- band the wasting treasure with increased fru- gality, and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, an Englishman. He had a com- plete fortune of his own, and the love of the king his master, which was equivalent to rich- es. Life opened all her treasure before him, and promised a long succession of future hap- piness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted even in the beginning. He professed an aversion to living ; was tired of walking round the same circle ; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. " If life be in youth so displeasing," cried he to himself, " what will it appear when age comes on ; if it be at present indifferent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought imbittered every re- flection ; till at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate with a pistol ; had this self-deluded man been appris- ed, that existence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would have then faced old age without shrinking, he would have bold- ly dared to live, and served that society by his future assiduity, which he basely injured by his desertion. Adieu. LETTER LXXIII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM IIOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. IN reading the newspapers here, I have reck- oned up not less than twenty-five great men, seventeen very great men, and nine very ex- traordinary men, in less than the compass of half a-year. " These," say the gazettes, "are the men that posterity are to gaze at with admira- tion ; these the names that fame will be em- ployed in holding up for the astonishment oi succeeding ages." Let me see forty-six great men in half a-year, amount just to ninety- two in a year. I wonder how posterity will be able to remember them all, or whether the people in future times, will have any other business to mind, but that of getting the cata- logue by heart. Does the mayor of a corporation make a speech he is instantly set down for a great man. Does a pedant digest his common-place book into a folio he quickly becomes great. Does a poet string up trite sentiments in rhyme he also becomes the great man of the hour. How diminutive soever the object of admira- tion, each is followed by a crowd of still more diminutive admirers. The shout begins in his train, onward he marches towards immortality, looks back at the pursuing crowd with self-sa- tisfaction ; catching all the oddities, the whim- sies, the absurdities, and the littleness of con- scious greatness by the way. I was yesterday invited by a gentleman to dinner, who promised that our entertainment should consist of a haunch of venison, a turtle, and a great man. I came according to ap. pointment. The venison was fine, the turtle good, but the great man insupportable. The T 2G8 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. moment I ventured to speak, I was at once contradicted with a snap. I attempted, by a second and a third assault, to retrieve my lost re- Sutation, But was still beat back with confusion, was resolved to attack him once more from intrenchment, and turned the conversation upon the government of China : but even here he asserted, snapped, and contradicted as before. " Heavens," thought I, " this man pretends to know China even better than myself!" J looked round to see who was on my side ; but every eye was fixed in admiration on the great man : I therefore at last thought proper to sit silent and act the pretty gentleman during the ensuing conversation. When a man has once secured a circle of admirers, he may be as ridiculous here as he thinks proper ; and it all passes for elevation of sentiment, or learned absence. If he trans- gresses the common forms of breeding, mis- takes even a tea-pot for a tobacco-box, it is said that his thoughts are fixed on more important objects ; to speak and to act like the rest of mankind, is to be no greater than they. There is something of oddity in the very idea of greatness ; for we are seldom astonished at a thing very much resembling ourselves. When the Tartars make a Lama, their first care is to place him in a dark corner of the temple ; here he is to sit half concealed from view, to regulate the motions of his hands, lips, and eyes : but, above all, he is enjoined gravity and silence. This, however, is but the prelude to his apotheosis : a set of emissaries are des- patched among the people, to cry up his piety, gravity, and love of raw flesh ; the people take them at their word, approach the Lama, now become an idol, with the most humble prostra- tion ; he receives their addresses without mo- tion, commences a god, and is ever after fed by his priests with a spoon of immortality. The same receipt in this country serves to make a great man. The idol only keeps close, sends out his little emissaries to be hearty in his praise ; and straight, whether statesman or author, he is set down in the list of fame, con- tinuing to be praised while it is fashionable to praise, or while he prudently keeps his minute- ness concealed from the public. I have visited many countries, and have been in cities without number, yet never did I enter a town which could not produce ten or twelve of those little great men; all fancying them- selves known to the rest of the world, and complimenting each other upon their extensive reputation. It is amusing enough when two of those domestic prodigies of learning mount the stage of ceremony, and give and take praise from each other. I have been present when a German doctor, for having pronounced a pane- gyric upon a certain monk, was thought the most ingenious man in the world ; till the monk soon after divided this reputation by re- turning the compliment , by which means they both marched off with universal applause. The same degree of undeserved adulation that attends our great man while living, often also follows him to the tomb. It frequently happens that one of his little admirers sits down big with the important subject, and is delivered of the history of his life and writings. This may properly be called the revolutions of a life, between the fire- side and the easy-chair. In this we learn, the year in which he was born, at what an early age he gave symptoms of un- common genius arid application, together with some of his smart sayings, collected by his aunt and mother while yet but a boy. The next book introduces him to the university, where we are informed of his amazing progress in learning, his excellent skill in darning stockings, and his new invention for papering books to saves the covers. He next makes his appear- ance in the republic of letters, and publishes his folio. Now the colossus is reared, his works are eagerly bought up by all the purcha- sers of scarce books. The learned societies, invite him to become a member ; he disputes against some foreigner with a long Latin name, conquers in the controversy, is complimented by several authors of gravity and importance, is excessively fond of egg-sauce with his pig, becomes president of a literary club, and dies in the meridian of his glory. Happy they who thus have some little faithful attendant, who never forsakes them, but prepares to wrangle and to praise against every oppressor ; at once ready to increase their pride while living, and their character when dead. For you and I, my friend, who have no humble admirer thus to at- tend us, we, who neither are nor never will be great men, and who do not much care whether we are great men or no, at least let us strive to be honest men, and to have common sense. Adieu. LETTER LXXIV FROM THE SAME. THERE are numbers in this city who live by writing new books ; and yet there are thousands of volumes in every large library unread and forgotten. This, upon my arrival, was one of those contradictions which I was unable to ac count for. " Is it possible," said I, " that there should be any demand for new books, before those already published are read ? Can there be so many employed in producing a com mo dity with which the market 59 already over-stock ed ; and with goods also better than any of modern manufacture ? " What at first view appeared an inconsistence, is a proof at once of this people's wisdom and refinement. Even allowing the works of theis ancestors better written than theirs, yet those of the moderns acquire a real value, by being marked with the impression of the times. Antiquity has been in the possession of others ; the present is our own : let us first therefore learn to know what belongs to ourselves, and CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. then, if we Lave leisure, cast our refaction* tack to the reign of Shonou, who governed twenty thousand years before the creation of he moon. The volumes of antiquity, like medals, rrry very well serve to amuse the curious ; but the works of the moderns, like the current coin of a kingdom, are much better for immediate use : the former are often prized above their intrinsic value, and kept with care ; the latter seldom pass for more than they are worth, and are of- ten subject to the merciless hands of sweating critics and clipping compilers : the works of antiquity were ever praised, those of the mo- derns read : the treasures of our ancestors have our esteem, and we boast the passion, those of contemporary genius engage our heart, although we blush to own it. The visits we pay the former resemble those we pay the great, the ceremony is troublesome, and yet such as we would not choose to forego ; our acquaintance with modern books is like sitting with a friend, our pride is not flattered in the interview, but it gives more internal satisfaction. In proportion as society refines, new books must ever become more necessary. Savage rusticity is reclaimed by oral admonition alone ; but the elegant excesses of refinement are best corrected by the still voice of studious inquiry. In a polite age, almost every person becomes a reader, and receives more instruction from the press than the pulpit. The preaching Bonze may instruct the illiterate peasant ; but nothing less than the insinuating address of a fine writer can win its way to a heart already relaxed in all the effeminacy of refinement. Books are necessary to correct the vices of tLe polite ; but those vices are ever changing, and the an- tidote should be changed accordingly should still be new. Instead, therefore, of thinking the number of i;ew publications here too great, I could wish it still greater, as they are the most useful instru- ments of reformation. Every country must be instructed either by writers or preachers; but as the number of readers increases, the number of hearers is proportionably diminished, the writer becomes more useful, and the preach- ing Bonze less necessary. Instead, therefore, of complaining that wri- ters are overpaid, when their works procure i them a bare subsistence, I should imagine it ' the du y of a state, not only to encourage their numbers, but their industry. A Bonze is re- warded with immense riches for instructing only a few, even of the most ignorant of the people ; and sure the poor scholar should not beg his bread, who is capable of instructing a million. Of all rewards, I grant, the most pleasing to a man of real merit, is fame ; but a polite age, of all times, is that in which scarcely any share of merit can acquire it. What numbers of fine writers in the latter empire of Rome, when refinement was carried to the highest pitch, have missed that fame and immortality which .1 they had fondly arrogated to themselves ! How many Greek authors, who wrote at that period when Constantinople was the refined mistress of the empire, now rest, either not printed, or not read, in the libraries of Europe ! Those who came first, while either state as yet was barbarous, carried all the reputation away. Authors, as the age refined, became more nu- merous, and their numbers destroyed their fame. It is but natural, therefore, for the writer, when conscious lhat his works will not procure him fame hereafter, to endeavour to make them turn out to his temporal interest here. Whatever be the motives which induce men to write, whether avarice or fame, the country becomes most wise and happy, in which they most serve for instructors. The countries where sacerdotal instruction alone is permitted, remain in ignorance, superstition, and hopeless slavery. In England, where there are as many new books published as in all the rest of Europe together, a spirit of freedom and reason reigns among the people : they have been often known to act like fools, they are generally found to think like men. The only danger that attends a multiplicity of publications is, that some of them may be calculated to injure rather than benefit society. But where writers are numerous, they also serve as a check upon each other ; and, perhaps, a literary inquisition is the most terrible pun- ishment that can be conceived to a literary transgressor. But to do the English justice, there are but few offenders of this kind ; their publications in general aim at mending either the heart, or improving the common weal. The dullest writer talks of virtue, and liberty, and benevo- lence, with esteem ; tells his true story, filled with good and wholesome advice ; warns against slavery, bribery, or the bite of a mad dog ; and dresses up his little useful magazine of knowledge and entertainment, at least with a good intention. The dunces of France, on the other hand, who have less encouragement, are more vicious. Tender hearts, 'anguishing eyes, Leonora in love at thirteen, ecstatic transports, stolen blisses, are the frivolous sub- jects of their frivolous memoirs. In England, if a bawdy blockhead thus breaks in on the community, he sets his whole fraternity in a roar ; nor can he escape, even though he should fly to nobility for shelter. Thus ever: dunces, my friend, may make themselves useful. But there are-others, whom nature has blest with talents above the rest of mankind ; men capable of thinking with pre- cision, and impressing their thought with rapi- dity ; beings who diffuse those regards upon mankind, which others contract and settle upon themselves. These deserve every honour from that community of which they are more peculi- arly the children ; to such I would give my heart, since to them I am indebted for its humanity ! Adieu. 270 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. LETTER LXXV. FROM HINGPO TO LIEN CHI ALTANGI, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. strangers, lately introduced like me, all regard- ing her form in ecstasy. Ah, what eyes ! what lips ! how clear her complexion ! how perfect her shape !" At these exclamations, Beauty, with downcast eyes, would ! endeavour to counterfeit modesty, but soon again > looking round as if to confirm every spectator I STILT, remain at Terki, where I have re- {in his favourable sentiments: sometimes she ceived that money which was remitted here in would attempt to allure us by smiles ; and at order to release me from captivity. My fair [intervals would bridle back, in order to in- companion still improves in my esteem ; the spire us with respect as well as tenderness, more I know her mind, her beauty becomes This ceremony lasted for some time, and had more poignant : she appears charming, even BO much employed our eyes, that we had forgot among the daughters of Circassia. all this while that the goddess was silent. We Yet were I to examine her beauty with the soon, however, began to perceive the defect, art of a statuary, I should find numbers here j" What," said we, among each other, "are we that far surpass her; nature has not granted i to have nothing but languishing airs, soft looks, her all the boasted Circassian regularity of j^nd inclinations of the head? will the goddess only feature, and yet she greatly exceeds the fairest; i deign to satisfy our eyes ?" Upon this one of of the country, in the art of seizing the affec- I the company stepped up to present her with tions. "Whence," have I often said to myself, "this resistless magic that attends even mod- erate charms ? though I regard the beauties of the country with admiration, every interview weakens the impression, but the form of Zelis grows upon my imagination; I never behold her without an increase of tenderness and res- pect. Whence this injustice of the mind, in preferring imperfect beauty to that which na- ture seems to have finished/with care? whence the infatuation that he whom a comet could riot amaze, should be astonished at a meteor ?" When reason was thus fatigued to find an answer, my imagination pursued the subject, and this was the result. I fancied myself placed between two land- scapes, this called the Region of Beauty, and that the Valley of the Graces ; the one adorned with all that luxuriant nature could bestow ; the fruits of various climates adorned the trees, the grove resounded with music, the gale breathed perfume, every charm that could arise from symmetry and exact distribution were here conspicuous, the whole offering a prospect some fruits he had gathered by the way. She received the present most sweetly smiling, and with one of the whitest hands in the world, but still not a word escaped her lips. I now found that mycompanions grew weary of their homage ; they went off one by one, and resolving not to be left behind, offered to go in my turn, when, just at the door of the temple, I was called back by a female whose name was Pride, and who seemed displeased at the behaviour of the company "Where are you hastening ?" said she to me, with an angry air ; "the goddess of Beauty is here." "I have been to visit her, madam,'' replied I, " and find her more beautiful even than report had made her." "Ana why then will you leave her?" added the female. "I have seen her long enough," returned I, " I have got all her fea- tures by heart. Her eyes are still the same. Her nose is a very fine one, but it is still just such a nose now as it was half an hour ago : could she throw a little more mind into her face, perhaps J should be for wishing to have more of her company." "What signifies," re- of pleasure without end. The Valley of the j plied my female,"" whether she has a mind or Graces, on the other hand, seemed by no means I not ; has she any occasion for a mind, so form- so inviting ; the streams and the groves appeared ; ed as she is by nature ? If she had a common just as they usually do in frequented countries : ' * ' - 1 "" "' no magnificent parterres, no concert in the grove, the rivulet was edged with weeds, and the rook ioined its voice to that of the nightingale. All was simplicity and nature. The most striking objects ever first allure the traveller. I entered the Region of beauty with increased curiosity, and promised myself endless satisfaction, in being introduced to the presiding goddess. I perceived several strangers who entered with the same design; arid what surprised me not a little, was to see several others hastening to leave this abode of seeming felicity. After some fatigue, I had at last the honour of being introduced to the goddess, who repre- sented Beauty in person. She was seated on a throne, at the foot of which stood several face, indeed, there might be some reason for thinking to improve it, but when features are already perfect, every alteration would but im. pair them. A fine face is already at the point of perfection, and a fine lady should endeavour to keep it so : the impression it would receive from thought, would but disturb its whole economy." To this speech I gave no reply, but made the best of my way to the Valley of the Graces. Here I found all those who before had been my companions in the region of Beauty, now upon the same errand. As we entered the valley, the prospect insen- sibly seemed to improve ; we found every thing so natural, so domestic, and pleasing, that our minds, which before were congealed in admira- tion, now relaxed into gaiety and good-humour, CITIZEN OF THE WOULD. 271 We had designed to pay our respects to the presiding goddess, but she was no where to be found. One of our companions asserted, that her temple lay to the right, another, to the left; a third insisted that it was straight before u. ; and a fourth, that we had left it behind. In short, we found every thing familiar and charm. ing, but could not determine where to seek for the Grace in person. In this agreeable incertitude we passed se- veral hours, and though very desirous of finding the goddess, by no means impatient of the de- lay. Every part of the valley presented some minute beauty, which, without offering itself, at once stole upon the soul, and captivated us with the charms of our retreat. Still, however, we continued to search, and might still have continued, had we not been interrupted by a voice, which, though we could not see from whence it came, addressed us in this manner : *' If you would find the goddess of Grace, seek her not under one form, for she assumes a thousand. Ever changing under the eye of inspection, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing. In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over every perfection with giddy de- Jight, and capable of fixing no where, is charm- ed with the whole.* She is now Contempla- tion with solemn look, again Compassion with humid eye ; she now sparkles with joy, soon every feature speaks distress ; her looks at times invite our approach, at others repress our presumption : the goddess cannot be pro- perly called beautiful under any one of these forms, but by combining them all, she becomes irresistibly pleasing." Adieu. LETTER LXXVI. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. THE shops of London are as well furnished as those of Pekin. Those of London have a picture hung at their door; informing the pas- sengers what they have to sell, as those at Pe- kin have a board to assure the buyer that they have no intention to cheat him. 1 was this morning to buy silk for a night- cap ; immediately upon entering the mercer's shop, the master and his two men, with wigs plastered with powder, appeared to ask my commands. They were certainly the civilest people alive ; if I but looked, they flew to the place where I cast my eye ; every motion of mine sent them running round the whole shop for my satisfaction. I informed them that I wanted what was good, and they showed me not less than forty pieces, and each was better than the former, the prettiest pattern in nature, tiiid the fitted in the world for nightcaps. Vultns nittium lubricus aspici He " My very good friend," said I to the mercer, " you must not pretend to instruct me in silks ; I know these in particular to be no better than your mere flimsy Bungees." " That may be," cried the mercer, who I afterwards found had never contradicted a man in his life ; " I can- not pretend to say but they may ; but I can assure you, my lady Trail has had a sack from this piece this very morning." " But friend," said I, " though my lady has chosen a sack from it, I see no necessity that I should wear it fora nightcap." " That may be," returned he again, " yet what becomes a pretty lady, will at any time look well on a handsome gentleman." This short compliment was thrown in so very seasonably upon my ugly face, that even though I disliked the silk, I desired him to cut me off the pattern of a nightcap. While this business was consigned to his journeymen, the master himself took down some pieces of silk still finer than any I had yet seen, and spreading them before me, " There," cries he, " there's beauty ; My Lord Snakeskin has bespoke the fellow to this for he birth-night this very morning ; it would look charmingly in waistcoats." " But I don't want a waistcoat," replied I. " Not want a waist- coat !" returned the mercer, " then I would ad- ise you to buy one ; when waistcoats are wanted, you may depend upon it they will come dear. Always buy before you want, and you are sure to be well used, as they say in Cheap- ide." There was so much justice in his ad- vice, that I could not refuse taking it ; besides, :he silk, which was a really good one, increas- ed the temptation ; so I gave orders for that too. As I was waiting to have my bargains mea- sured and cut, which, I know not how, they executed but slowly, during the interval the mercer entertained me with the modern mari- ner of some of the nobility receiving company n their morning-gowns ; " Perhaps, Sir," adds he, " you have a mind to see what kind of silk s universally worn." Without waiting for my reply, he spreads a piece before me, which might be reckoned beautiful even in China. If the nobility," continues he, " were to know I sold this to any under a Right Honourable, I should certainly lose their custom ; you see, my Lord, it is at once rich, tasty, and quite he thing." " I am no Lord," interrupted I. " I beg pardon," cried he ; " but be pleased :o remember, when you intend buying a morn- ng-gown, that you had an offer from me of something worth money. Conscience, Sir, conscience is my way of dealing ; you may )uy a morning-gown now, or you may stay till :hey become dearer and less fashionable ; but t is not my business to advise." In short, most Reverend Fum, he persuaded me to buy a norning-gown also, and would probably have persuaded me to have bought half the goods in lis shop, if I had stayed long enough, or \7aa furnished with sufficient money. 272 CITIZEN OF THE WOELD. Upon returning home, I could not help re- flecting with some astonishment, how this very man, with such a confined education and capa- city, was yet capahle of turning me as he thought proper, and moulding me to his in- clinations ! I knew he was only answering his own purposes, even while he attempted to ap- pear solicitous about mine ; yet, by a voluntary infatuation, a sort of passion, compounded of vanity and good-nature, I walked into the snare with my eyes open, and put myself to future pain in order to give him immediate pleasure. The wisdom of the ignorant somewhat re- sembles the instinct of animals ; it is diffused in but a very narrow sphere, but within that circle it acts with vigour, uniformity, arid success. Adieu. LETTER LXVIL FROM THE SAME. FROM rny former accounts, you may be apt to fancy the English the most ridiculous peo- ple under the sun. They are indeed ridiculous ; yet every other nation in Europe is equally so ; each laughs at each, and the Asiatic at all. I may, upon another occasion, point out what is most strikingly absurd in other coun- tries ; I shall at present confine myself only to France. The first national peculiarity a traveller meets upon entering that kingdom, is an odd sort of staring vivacity in every eye, not excepting even the children ; the people it seems have got it into their heads, that they have more wit than others, and so stare, in or- der to look smart. I know not how it happens, but there ap- pears a sickly rielicacy in the faces of their finest women. This may have introduced the use of paint, and paint produces wrinkles ; so that a fine lady shall look like a hag at twenty- three. But as, in some measure, they never appear young, so it may be equally asserted, that they actually think themselves never old ; a gentle miss shall prepare for new conquests at sixty, shall hobble a rigadoon when she can scarcely walk out without a crutch ; she shall affect the girl, play her fan and her eyes, and talk of sentiments, bleeding hearts, and expir- ing for love, when actually dying with age. .Like a departing philosopher, she attempts ^to make her last moments the most brilliant of her life. Their civility to strangers is what they are chiefly proud of; and to confess sincerely, their beggars are the very politest beggars I ever knew : in other places, a traveller is ad- dressed with a piteous whine, or a sturdy solemnity, but a French beggar shall ask your charity with a very genteel bow, and thank you for it with a smile and shrug. Another instance of this people's breeding I must not forget. An Englishman would not speak his native language in a company oi foreigners, where he was sure that none un- derstood him ; a travelling Hottentot himself would be silent if acquainted only with the language of his country $ but a Frenchman shall talk to you whether you understand his language or not : never troubling his head whe- ther you have learned French, still he keeps up the conversation, fixes his eye full in your face, and asks a thousand questions, which he answers himself, for want of a more satisfactory reply. But their civility to foreigners is not half so great as their admiration of themselves. Every thing that belongs to them and their nation is great, magnificent beyond expression, quite romantic ! every garden is a paradise, every hovel a palace, and every woman an an- gel. They shut their eyes close, throw their mouths wide open, and cry out in a rapture, " Sacre ! what beauty ! O Ciel I what taste ! mort de ma vie ! what grandeur, was ever any people like ourselves ? we are the nation of men, and all the rest no better than two-legged barbarians." I fancy the French would make the best cooks in the world if they had but meat ; as it is, they can dress you out five different dishes from a nettle-top, seven from a dock -leaf, and twice as many from a frog's haunches ; these eat prettily enough when one is a little used to them, are easy of digestion, arid seldom over- load the stomach with crudities. They seldom dine under seven hot dishes : it is true, indeed, with all this magnificence, they seldom spread a cloth before the guests ; but in that I cannot be angry with them, since those who have got no linen on their backs, may very well be ex- cused for wanting it upon their tables. Even religion itself loses its solemnity among them. Upon their roads, at about every five miles' distance, you see an image of the Virgin Mary, dressed up in grim head-clothes, painted cheeks, and an old red petticoat ; before her a lamp is often kept burning, at which with the saint's permission, I have frequently lighted my pipe. Instead of the Virgin, you are sometimes presented with a crucifix, at other times with a wooden Saviour, fitted out in com- plete garniture, with sponge, spear, nails, pin- cers, hammer, bees-wax, and vinegar-bottle. Some of those images, I have been told, came down from heaven ; if sc, in heaven they have but bungling workmen. In passing through their towns, you fre- quently see the men sitting at the doors knit- ting stockings, while the care of cultivating the ground and pruning the vines falls to the wo- men. This is, perhaps, the reason why the fair sex are granted some peculiar privileges in this country ; particularly, when they can get horses, of riding without a side-saddle. But I begin to think you may find this de- scription pert and dull enough ; perhaps it is so, yet, in general, it is the manner in which the French usually describe foreigners ; and it CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 273 is but just to force a part of that ridicule back upon thorn, which they attempt to lavish on others. Adieu. LETTER LXXVIII. FROM THE SAME. THE two theatres which serve to amuse the citizens here, are again opened for the winter. The mimetic troops, dirFi-rent from those of the state, begin their campaign when all the others quit the field ; and, at a time when the Europeans cease to destroy each other in reality, they are entertained with mock battles upon the stage. The dancing-master once more shakes his quivering feet ; the carpenter prepares his para- dise of pasteboard ; the hero resolves to cover his forehead with brass, and the heroine begins to scour up her copper tail, preparative to fu- ture operations ; in short, all are in motion, from the theatrical letter-carrier in yellow \ clothes, to Alexander the Great that stands on a stool. Both houses have already commenced hosti- lities. War, open war, and no quarter received or given ! Two singing women, like heralds, have begun the contest ; the whole town is di- vided on this solemn occasion ; one has the finest pipe, the other the finest manner; one courtesies to the ground, the other salutes the audience with a smile ; one comes on with modesty which asks, the other with boldness which extorts applause ; one wears powder, the other has none ; one has the longest waist, but the other appears most easy : all, all is im- portant and serious , the town as yet perse- veres in its neutrality ; a cause of such mo- ment demands the most mature deliberation; they continue to exhibit, and it is very possible this contest may continue to please to the end of the season. But the generals of either army have, as I am told, several reinforcements to lend occa- sional assistance. If they produce a pair of diamond buckles at one house, we have a pair of eyebrows that can match them at ^he other. If we outdo them in our attitude, they can overcome us by a shrug ; if we can bring more children on the stage, they can bring more guards in red clothes, who strut and shoulder their swords to the astonishment of every spectator. They tell me here, that people frequent the theatre in order to be instructed, as well as amused. I smile to hear the assertion. If I ever go to one of their playhouses, what with trumpets, hallooing behind the stage, and bawl- ing upon it, I am quite dizzy before the per- formance is over. If I enter the house with any sentiments in my head, I am sure to have none going a\vay, the whole mind being filled with a dead march, a funeral procession, a cat- call, a jig, or a tempest. There is, perhaps, nothing more easy than to write properly for the English theatre ; I am amazed that none are apprenticed to the trade. The author, when well acquainted with the value of thunder and lightning, when versed in all the mystery of scene -shifting and trap- doors ; when skilled in the proper periods to introduce a wire- walker or a waterfall ; when instructed in every actor's peculiar talent, and capable of adapting his speeches to the sup- posed excellence ; when thus instructed, he knows all that can give a modern audience pleasure. One player shines in an exclama- tion, another in a groan, a third in a horror, a fourth in a start, a fifth in a smile, a sixth faints, and a seventh fidgets round the stage with peculiar vivacity ; that piece, therefore, will succeed best, where each has a proper opportunity of shining ; the actor's business is not so much to adapt himself to the poet, as the poet's to adapt himself to the actor. The great secret, therefore, of tragedy- writ- ing, at present, is a perfect acquaintance with theatrical ahs and ohs ; a certain number of these, interspersed with gods! tortures I racks ! and damnation! shall distort every actor almost into convulsions, and draw tears from every spectator; a proper use of these will infallibly fill the whole house with applause. But, above all, a whining scene must strike more forcibly. I would advise, from my present knowledge of the audience, the two favourite players of the town to introduce a scene of this sort in every play. Towards the middle of the last act, I would have them enter with wild looks and outspread arms : there is no necessity for speaking, they are only to groan at each other ; they must vary the tones of exclamation and despair through the whole theatrical gamut, wring their figures into every shape of distress, and when their calamities have drawn a proper quantity of tears from the sympathetic specta- tors, they may go off in dumb solemnity at different doors, clasping their hands, or slap- ping their pocket-holes; this, which may be called a tragic pantomime, will answer every purpose of moving the passions as well as words could have done, and it must save those ex- penses which go to reward an author. All modern plays that would keep the au- dience alive, must be conceived in this man- ner ; and, indeed, many a modern play is made up on no other plan. This is the merit that lifts up the heart, like opium, into a rapture of insensibility, and can dismiss the mind from all the fatigue of thinking; this is the elo- quence that shines in many a long-forgotten scene, which has been reckoned excessively fine upon acting; this the lightning that flashes no less in the hyperbolical tyrant " who breakfasts on the wind," than in little Norval, "as harmless as the babe unborn." Adieu. 274 CITIZEN" OF THE WORLD. LETTER LXXIX. FROM THE SAME. I HAVE always regarded the spirit of mercy which appears in the Chinese laws with ad- miration. An order for the execution of a criminal is carried from court by slow journeys of six miles a- day, but a pardon is sent down with the most rapid despatch. If five sons of the same father be guilty of the same offence, one of them is forgiven in order to continue the family, and comfort his aged parents in their decline. Similar to this, there is a spirit of mercy breathes through the laws of England, which some erroneously endeavour to suppress ; the laws, however, seem unwilling to punish the offender, or to furnish the officers of justice with every means of acting with severity. Those who arrest debtors are denied the use of arms ; the nightly watch is permitted to repress the disorders of the drunken citizens only with clubs : Justice in such a case seems to hide her terrors, and permits some offenders to es- cape, rather than load any with a -punishment disproportioned to the crime. Thus it is the glory of an Englishman, that he is not only governed by laws, but that these are also tempered by mercy ; a country restrain- ed by severe laws, and those too executed with severity (as in Japan), is under the most terrible species of tyranny ; a royal tyrant is generally dreadful to the great, but numerous penal laws grind every rank of people, and chiefly those least able to resist oppression, the poor. It is very possible thus for a people to be- come slaves to laws of their own enacting, as the Athenians were to those of Draco. " It might first happen,'" says the historian, " that men with peculiar talents for villany attempted to evade the ordinances already established; their practices, therefore, soon brought on a new law levelled against them but the same degree of cunning which had taught the knave to evade the former statutes, taught him to evade the latter also ; he flew to new shifts, while Justice pursued with new ordinances ; still, however, he kept his proper distance, and whenever one crime was judged penal by the state, he left committing it, in order to prac- tise some unforbidden species of villany. Thus the criminal against whom the threatenings were denounced always escaped free, while the simple rogue alone felt the rigour of justice. In the mean time, penal laws became numer- ous ; almost every person in the state, un- knowingly, at different times offended, and was every moment subject to a malicious prosecu- tion. In fact, penal laws instead of preventing crimes, are generally enacted after the com- mission ; instead of repressing the growth of ingenious villany, only multiply deceit, by put- ing it upon new shifts and expedients of prac- tising with impunity. Such laws, therefore, resemble the guarda which are sometimes imposed upon tributary princes, apparently indeed to secure them from danger, but in reality to confirm their captivity. Penal laws, it must be allowed, secure pro- perty in a state, but they also diminish person- al security in the same proportion : there is no positive law, how equitable soever, that may not be sometimes capable of injustice. When a law, enacted to make theft punishable with death, happens to be equitably executed, it can at best only guard our possessions ; but when, by favour or ignorance, justice pro- nounces a wrong verdict, it then attacks our lives, since, in such a case, the whole community suffers with the innocent victim : if, therefore, in order to secure the effects of one man, I should make a law which may take away the life of another, in such a case, to attain a smal- ler good, I am guilty of a greater evil ; to secure society in the possession of a bawble, I ren- der a real and valuable possession precarious. And indeed the experience of every age may serve to vindicate the assertion : no law could be more just than that called lesce majestatis, when Rome was governed by emperors. It was but reasonable, that every conspiracy against the administration should be detected and punished ; yet what terrible slaughters suc- ceeded in consequence of its enactment, pro. scriptions, stranglings, poisonings, in almost every family of distinction ; yet all done in a legal way, every criminal had his trial, and lost his life by a majority of witnesses. And such will ever be the case, where pun- ishments are numerous, and where a weak, vi- cious, but above all, where a mercenary magis- trate is concerned in their execution : such a man desires to see penal laws increased, since he too frequently has it in his power to turn them into instruments of extortion ; in such hands the more laws, the wider means, not of satisfying justice, but of satiating avarice. A mercenary magistrate, who is rewarded in proportion not to his integrity, but to the number he convicts, must be a person of the most unblemished character, or he will lean on the side of cruelty ; and when once the work of injustice is begun, it is impossible to tell how far it will proceed. It is said of the hyae- na, that naturally it is no way ravenous, but when once it has tasted human flesh, it be- comes the most voracious animal of the forest, and continues to persecute mankind ever after. A corrupt magistrate may be considered as a human hyrena ; he begins, perhaps, by a pri- vate snap, he goes on to a morsel among friends, he proceeds to a meal in public, from a meal he advances to a surfeit, and at last sucks blood like a vampyre. Not in such hands should the administration of justice be intrusted, but to those who know- how to reward as well as to punish. It wa& a fine saying of Nangfu the emperor, who being CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. told that his enemies had raised an insurrection in one of the distant provinces, " Come then, ray friends," said he, " follow me, and I pro- mise you that we shall quickly destroy them." He marched forward, and the rebels submitted upon his approach. All now thought that he would take the most Signal revenge, but were surprised to see the captives treated with mild- ness and humanity. " How !' cries his first minister, " is this the manner in which you fulfil your promise ? your royal word was given that your enemies should be destroyed, and be- hold you have pardoned all, and even caressed some !'' " I promised," replied the emperor with a generous air, " to destroy my enemies ; I I have fulfilled my word, for see, they are ene- mies no longer, I have made friends of them." This, could it always succeed, were the true method of destroying the enemies of a state ; well it were, if rewards and mercy alone could regulate the commonwealth : but since punishments are sometimes necessary, let them at least be rendered terrible, by being executed but seldom ; and let Justice lift her sword ra- ther to terrify than revenge. Adieu. LETTER LXXX. FROM THE SAME. I HAVE as yet given you but a short and im- perfect description of the ladies of England. Woman, my friend, is a subject not easily un- derstood, even in China ; what therefore can be expected from my knowledge of the sex, in a country where they are universally allowed to be riddles, and I but a stranger ? To confess a truth, I was afraid to begin the description, lest the sex should undergo some new revolution before it was finished : and my picture should thus become old before it could well be said to have ever been new. To-day they are lifted upon stilts, to-morrow they lower their heels, and raise their heads ; their clothes at one time are bloated out with whale bone ; at present they have laid their hoops aside, and are become as slim as mermaids. All, all is in a state of continual fluctuation, from the mandarine's wife who rattles through the streets in her chariot, to the humble semps- tress who clatters over the pavement in iron- shod pattens. What chiefly distinguishes the sex at pre- sent is the train. Asa lady's quality or fashion was once determined here by the circumfer- ence of her hoop, both are now measured by the length of her tail. Women of moderate fortunes are contented with tails moderately long ; but ladies of true taste and distinction set no bounds to their ambition in this parti- cular. I arn told the lady mayoress on days of ceremony, carries one longer than a beU -we- ther of Bantam, whose tail, you know, is trun- dled along in a wheel-barrow. Sun of China, what contradictions do we find in this strange world ! not only the people of different countries think in opposition to each other, but the inhabitants of a single is- land are often found inconsistent with them- selves. Would you believe it ? this very people, my Fum, who are so fond of seeing their wo- men with long tails, at the same time dock their horses to the very rump ! But you may easily guess that I am no ways displeased with a fashion which tends to in- crease a demand for the commodities of the East, and is so very beneficial to the country in which I was born. Nothing can be better calculated to increase the price of silk than the present manner of dressing. A lady's train is not bought but at some expense, and after it has swept the public walks for a very few evenings, is fit to be worn no longer ; more silk must be bought in order to repair the breach, and some ladies of peculiar economy are thus found to patch up their tails eight or ten times in a season. This unnecessary con- sumption may introduce poverty here, but then we shall be the richer for it in China. The man in black, who is a professed enemy to this manner of ornamenting the tail, assures me, there are numberless inconveniences attend, ing it, and that a lady dressed up to the fash- ion is as much a cripple as any in Nankin. But his chief indignation is levelled at those who dress in this manner, without a proper fortune to support it. He assures me, that he has known some who would have a tail though they wanted a petticoat ; and others, who without any other pretensions, fancied they became ladies, merely from the addition of three superfluous yards of ragged silk : " I know a thrifty good woman," continues he, " who thinking herself obliged to carry a train | like her betters, never walks from home with- out the uneasy apprehensions of wearing it out too soon : every excursion she makes, gives her new anxiety ; and her train is every bit as importunate, and wounds her peace as much, as the bladder we sometimes see tied to the tail of a cat." Nay, he ventures to affirm, that a train may often bring a lady into the most critical cir- cumstances : " for should a rude fellow," says he, " offer to come up to ravish a kiss, and the lady attempt to avoid it, in retiring she must necessarily tread upon her train, and thus fall fairly upon her back ; by which means every one knows her clothes may be spoiled." The ladies here make no scruple to laugh at the smallness of a Chinese slipper, but I fancy our wives at China would have a more real cause of laughter, could they but see the im- moderate length of a European train. Head of Confucius ! to view a human being crip- pling herself with a great unwieldy tail for our diversion ! Backward she cannot go, forward she must move but slowly ; and if ever she at- 276 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. temps to turn round, it must be in a circle not smaller than that described by the wheeling crocodile, when it would face an assailant. And yet think that all this confers importance and majesty ! to think that a lady acquires ad- ditional respect from fifteen yards of trailing taffeta ! I cannot contain ! ha ! ha ! ha ! this is certainly a remnant of European barbarity; the female Tartar, dressed in sheep skins, is in far more convenient drapery. Their own writers have sometimes inveighed against the absurdity of this fashion, but perhaps it has never been ridiculed so well as upon the Itali- an theatre, where Pasquariello being engaged to attend on the Countess of Fernambroco, having one of his hands employed in carrying her muff, and the other her lapdog, he bears her train majestically along, by sticking it in the waistband of his breeches. Adieiu LETTER LXXXL FROM THE SAME. A DISPUTE has for some time divided the philosophers of Europe ; it is debated whe- ther arts and sciences are more serviceable or prejudicial to mankind ? They who maintain the cause of literature, endeavour to prove their usefulness, from the impossibility of a large number of men subsisting in a small tract of country without them ; from the pleasure which attends the acquisition ; and from the influence of knowledge in promoting practical morality. They who maintain the opposite opinion, display the happiness and innocence of those uncultivated nations who live without learn- ing ; urge the numerous vices which are to be found only in polished society ; enlarge upon the oppression, the cruelty, and the blood which must necessarily be shed, in order to cement civil society ; and insist upon the happy equality of conditions of a barbarous state, preferable to the unnatural subordina- tion of a more refined constitution. This dispute, which has already given so much employment to speculative indolence, has been managed with much ardour, and (not to suppress our sentiments) with but little sagacity. They who insist that the sciences are useful in refined society, are certainly right, and they who maintain that barbarous nations are more happy without them, are right also ; but when on one side, for this reason, attempts to prove them as universally useful to the so- litary barbarian as to the native of a crowded commonwealth ; or when the other endeavours to banish them as prejudicial to all society, even from populous states, as well as from the inhabitants of the wilderness, they are both wrong ; since that knowledge which makes the happiness of a refined European, would be a torment to the precarious tenant of an Asiati wild. Let me, to prove this, transport the imagina- tion for a moment to the midst of a forest in Siberia. There we behold the inhabitant, poor, indeed, but equally fond of happiness with the most refined philosopher of China. The earth lies uncultivated and uninhabited for miles around him ; his little family and he the sole and undisputed possessors. In such circum- stances, nature and reason will induce him to prefer a hunter's life to that of cultivating the earth. He will certainly adhere to that man- ner of living which is carried on at the smallest expense of labour, and that food which is most agreeable to the appetite ; he will prefer in- dolent though precarious luxury, to a labori- ous, though permanent competence ; and a know, ledge of his own happiness will determine him to persevere in native barbarity. In like manner, his happiness will incline him to bind himself by no law : laws are made in order to secure present property : but he is possessed of no property which he is a- fraid to lose, and desires no more than will be sufficient to sustain him ; to enter into compacts with others, would be undergoing a voluntary obligation without the expectance of any reward. He and his countrymen are tenants, not rivals, in the same inexhaustible forest j the increased possessions of one by no means diminishes the expectations arising from equal assiduity in another ; there is no need of laws, therefore to repress ambition, where there can be no mischief attending its most boundless gratification. Our solitary Siberian will, in like manner, find the sciences not only entirely useless in directing his practice, but disgusting even in speculation. In every contemplation, our curiosity must be first excited by the appear- ances of things, before our reason undergoes the fatigue of investigating the causes. Some of those appearances are produced by experi- ment, others by minute inquiry ; some arise from a knowledge of foreign climates, and others from an intimate study of our own. But there are few objects in comparison which present themselves to the inhabitant of a bar- barous country : the game he hunts, or the tran- sient cottage he builds, make up the chief objects of his concern ; his curiosity, therefore, must be proportionally less ; and if that is diminished, the reasoning faculty will be di- minished in proportion. Besides, sensual enjoyment adds wings to curiosity. We consider few objects with ardent attention, but those which have some connexion with our wishes, our pleasures, or our necessities. A desire of enjoyment first interests our passions in the pursuit, points out the object of investigation, and reason then comments where sense has led the way. An increase in the number of our enjoyments, therefore, necessarily produces an increase of CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. 277 scientific research: but iu countries where almost every enjoyment is wanting, reason there seems destitute of its great inspirer, and speculation is the business of fools when it becomes its own reward. The barbarous Siberian is too wise, there- fore, to exhaust his time in quest of know- ledge, which neither curiosity prompts nor pleasure impels him to pursue. When told of the exact admeasurement of a degree upon the equator at Quito, he feels no pleasure in the account; when informed that such a dis- covery tends to promote navigation and com- merce, he finds himself no way interested in either. A discovery which some have pur- sued at the hazard of their lives, affects him with neither astonishment nor pleasure, He is satisfied with thoroughly understanding the few objects which contribute to his own felicity ; he knows the properest places where to lay the snare for the sable, and discerns the value of furs with more than European sagacity. More extended knowledge would only serve to render him unhappy; it might lend a ray to show him the misery of his situa- tion, but could not guide him in his effort to avoid it. Ignorance is the happiness of the poor. The misery of being endowed with senti- ' ments above its capacity of fruition, is most admirably described in one of the fables of Loc- mari, the Indian moralist. " An elephant that had been peculiarly serviceable in fighting the buttles of Wistnow, was ordered by the god to wish for whatever he thought proper, and the desire should be attended with immediate gra- tification. The elephant thanked his benefactor on bended knees, and desired to be endowed with the reason and faculties of a man. Wist- now was sorry to hear the foolish request, and endeavoured to dissuade him from his mis- placed ambition ; but finding it to no purpose, gave him at last sr.ch a portion of wisdom, as could correct even the Zendavesta of Zoroaster. The reasoning elephant went away rejoicing in his new acquisition, and though his body still retained its ancient form, he found his appe- tites and passions entirely altered. He first considered, that it would not only be more comfortable, but also more becoming, to wear clothes ; but, unhappily he had no method of making them himself, nor had he the use of speech to demand them from others ; and this was the first time he felt real anxiety. He soon perceived how much more elegantly men were fed than he, therefore he began to loath his usual food, and longed for those delicacies which adorn the tables of Princes ; but here again he found it impossible to be satisfied, for though he could easily obtain flesh, yet he found it impossible to dress it in any degree of perfection. In short, every pleasure that con- tributed to the felicity of mankind, served on- ly to render him more miserable, as he found himself utterly deprived of the po\ver of enjoy- ment. In this manner he led a repining, dis- contented life, detesting himself, and displeased with his ill-judged ambition ; till at last his benefactor, Wistnow, taking compassion on his forlorn situation, restored him to the ignor- rance and the happiness which he was originally formed to enjoy." No, my friend, to attempt to introduce the sciences into a nation of wandering barbarians, is only to render them more miserable than even nature designed they should be. A life of simplicity is best fitted to a state of soli- tude. The great lawgiver of Russia attempted to improve the desolate inhabitants of Siberia, by sending among them some of the politest men of Europe. The consequence has shown, that the country was as yet unfit to receive them ; they languished for a time, with a sort of exo- tic malady ; every clay degenerated from them- selves, and at last, instead of rendering the country more polite, they conformed to the soil, and put on barbarity. No, my friend, in order to make the sciences useful in any country, it must first become po- pulous; the inhabitants must go through the different stages of hunter, shepherd, and hus- bandman ; then, when property becomes valu- able, and consequently gives cause for injus- tice ; then, when laws are appointed to repress injury, and secure possession ; when men, by the sanction of those laws, become possessed of superfluity ; when luxury is thus introduced, and demands its continual supply ; then it ia that the sciences become necessary and useful ; the state then cannot subsist without them they must then be introduced, at once to teach men to draw the greatest possible quantity of pleasure from circumscribed possession, and to restrain them within the bounds of moderate enjoyment. The sciences are riot the cause of luxury, but its consequence : and this destroyer thus brings with it an antidote which resists the vi- rulence of its own poison. By asserting that luxury introduces the sciences, we assert a truth ; but if, with those who reject the utility of learning, we assert that the sciences also introduce luxury, we shall be at once false, ab- surd, and ridiculous. Adieu. LETTER LXXXII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO HINGPO, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW. You are now arrived at an age, my son, when pleasure dissuades from application ; bui rob not, by present gratification, all the suc- ceeding period of life of its happiness. Sac- rifice a little pleasure at first to the expectance of greater. The study of a few years will make the rest of life completely easy. But instead of continuing the subject myself, take the following instructions, borrowed from 278 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. a modern philosopher ot China.* " He who has begun his fortune by study, will certainly confirm it by perseverance. The love of books damps the passion for pleasure ; and when his passion is once extinguished, life is then cheaply supported : thus a man being possessed of more than he wants, can never be subject to great disappointments, and avoids all those meannesses which indigence sometimes una- voidably produces. " There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student. The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before it resembles the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every incident in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the important. It is not one diamond alone which gives lustre to an- other : a common coarse stone is also employed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw ad- vantage from the insults arid contempt I meet with from a worthless fellow. His brutality ought to induce me to self-examination, arid correct every blemish that may have given rise to his calumny. " Yet with all the pleasures and profits which are generally produced by learning, parents often find it difficult to induce their children to study. They often seem dragged to what wears the appearance of application. Thus, being dilatory in the beginning, all future hopes of eminence are entirely cut off. If they find themselves obliged to write two lines more polite than ordinary, their pencil then seems as heavy as a mill-stone, and they spend ten days in turning two or three periods with propriety. " These persons are most at a loss when a banquet is almost over ; the plate and the dice go round, that the number of little verses, which each is obliged to repeat, may be deter- mined by chance. The booby, when it comes to his turn, appears quite stupid and insensible. The company divert themselves with his con- fusion; and sneers, winks, and whispers, are circulated at his expense. As for him, he opens a pair of large heavy eyes, stares at all about him, and even offers to join in the laugh, without ever considering himself as the burden of all their good-humour. " But it is of no importance to read much, except you be regular in your reading. If it be interrupted for any considerable time, it can never be attended with proper improvement. There are some who study for one day with intense application, and repose themselves for ten days after. But wisdom is a coquette, arid must be courted with unabating assiduity. " It was a saying of the ancients, that a man A translation of this passage may also lie seen in Du Halde, vol. ii. fol. p. 47 and 58. This extract will at least serve to show that fondness for humour which appears iu the writings of the Chinese. never opens a book without reaping some ad- vantage by it. I say with them, that, every/ book can serve to make us more expert, except vomances, and these are no better than instru- ments of debauchery. They are dangerou? fictions, where love is the ruling passion. " The most indecent strokes there pass for turns of wit ; intrigue and criminal liberties for gallantry and politeness. Assignations, and even villany, are put in such strong lights, as may inspire even grown men with the strongest passion ; how much more, therefore, ought the youth of either sex to dread them, whose reason is so weak, and whose hearts are so susceptible of passion ? " To slip in by a back-door, or leap a wall, are accomplishments that, when handsomely set off, enchant a young heart. It is true, the plot is commonly wound up by a marriage, concluded with the consent of the parents, and adjusted by every ceremony prescribed by law. But as in the body of the work there are many passages, that offend good morals, overthrow laudable customs, violate the laws, and destroy the duties most essential to society, virtue is thereby exposed to the most dangerous attacks " But, say some, the authors of these ro-. mances have nothing in view, but to represent vice punished, and virtue rewarded. Granted. But will the greater number of readers take notice of these punishments and rewards ? Are not their minds carried to something else ? Can it be imagined that the art with which the author inspires the love of virtue, can over- come that crowd of thoughts which sway them to licentiousness ! To be able to inculcate virtue by so leaky a vehicle, the author must be a philosopher of the first rank. But in our age, we can find but few first-rate philoso- phers. " Avoid such performances where vice as- sumes the face of virtue : seek wisdom and knowledge, without ever thinking you have found them. A man is wise, while he con- tiiHies in the pursuit of wisdom : but when he once fancies that he has found the object of his inquiry, he then becomes a fool. Learn to pursue virtue from the man that is blind, who never makes a step without first examining the ground with his staff. " The world is like a vast sea ; mankind like a vessel sailing on its tempestuous bosom. Our prudence is its sails, the sciences serve us for oars, good or bad fortune are the favour- able or contrary winds, and judgment "is the rudder : without this last the vessel is tossed by every billow, and will find shipwreck in every breeze. In a word, obscurity and indi- gence are the parents of vigilance and econo- my ; vigilance and economy, of riches and hon- our ; riches arid honour, of pride and luxury; pride and luxury, of impurity and idleness ; and impurity and idleness again produce indi- gence and obcurity. Such are the revolutions of life." Adieu/ CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 270 LETTER LXXXIII. FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI, TO FUM HO AM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN IN CHINA. I FANCY the character of a poet is in every country the same ; fond of enjoying the present, careless of the future, his conversation that of a man of sense, his actions those of a fool ; of fortitude able to stand unmoved at the burst- ing of an earthquake, yet of sensibility to be affected by the breaking of a tea-cup ; such is his character, which, considered in every light, is the very opposite of that which leads to riches. The poets of the West are as remarkable for their indigence as their genius, and yet, among the numerous hospitals designed to re- lieve the poor, I have heard of but one erected for the benefit of decayed authors. This was founded by Pope Urban VIIL, and called the retreat of incurables, intimating, that it was equally impossible to reclaim the patients, who cued for reception, from poverty or from poetry. To be sincere, were I to send you an account of the lives of the western poets, either ancient or modern, I fancy yon would think me em- ployed in collecting materials for a history of human wretchedness. Homer is the first poet and beggar of note among the ancients ; he was blind, and sung his ballads about the streets ; but it is observed, that his mouth was more frequently filled with verses than with bread, Plautus, the comic poet, was better off he had two trades ; he was a poet for his diversion, and helped to turn a mill in order to gain a livelihood. Terence was a slare ; and Boethius died in a jail. Amon the Italians, Paulo Borghese, almost as good a poet as Tasso, knew fourteen differ- ent trades, and yet died because he could get employment in none. Tasso himself, who IKK! the most amiable character of all the poets, has often been obliged to borrow a crown from some friend, in order to pay for a month's sub- sistence ; he has left us a pretty sonnet, ad- dressed to his cat, in which he begs the light of her eyes to write by, being too poor to af- ford himself a candle. Put Bentivoglio, poor Bentivoglio ! chiefly demands our pity. His comedies will last with the Italian language : he dissipated a noble fortune in acts of charity and benevolence ; but, falling into misery in his old age, was refused to be admitted into an hospital which he himself had erected. In Spain, it is said, the great Cervantes died of hunger ; and it is certain, that the famous Camoens ended his days in an hospital. If we turn to France, we shall there find even stronger instances of the ingratitude of the public. Vaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of the honestest men of his time, was untamed the Owl, from his being obliged to keep within all day, and venture out only by night, through fear of his creditors. His last will is very remarkable. After having be- queathed all his worldly substance to the dis- charging his debts, he goes on thus : " But, as there still may remain some creditors unpaid, even after all that I have shall be disposed of in such a case it is my last will, that my body should be sold to the surgeons to the best ad- vantage, and that the purchase should go to the discharging those debts which I owe to society ; so that if I could not, while living, at least, when dead, I maybe useful." Cassander was one of the greatest geniuses of his time, yet all his merit could not procure him a bare subsistence. Being by degrees driven into a hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he found amongst them, he even ventured at last ungratefully to impute his calamities to Providence. In his last agonies, when the priest entreated him to rely on the justice of Heaven, and ask mercy from him that made him " If God," replies he, " has shown me no justice here, what reason have I to expect any from him hereafter ?" But be- ing answered that a suspension of justice was no argument that should induce us to doubt of its reality " Let me entreat you," continued his confessor, " by all that is dear, to be recon- ciled to God, your father, your maker, and friend." " No," replied the exasperated wretch, " you know the manner in which he left me to live ; and (pointing to the straw on which he was stretched) you see the manner in which he leaves me to die !" But the sufferings of the poet in other countries is nothing, when compared to his distresses here ; the names of Spenser, and Ot- way, Butler and Dryden, are every day men- tioned as a national reproach : some of them lived in a state of precarious indigence, and others literally died of hunger. At present, the few poets of England n8 longer depend on the great for subsistence ; they have now no other patrons but the public, and the public, collectively considered, is a good and a generous master. It is, indeed, too frequently mistaken as to the merits of every candidate for favour; but, to make amends, it is never mistaken long. A perform- ance, indeed, may be forced for a time into re- putation, but, destitute of real merit, it soon sinks ; time, the touchstone of what is truly valuable, will soon discover the fraud, and an author should never arrogate to himself any share of success, till his works have been read at least ten years with satisfaction. A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is perfectly sensible of their value. Every polite member of the community, by buying what he writes, contributes to reward him. The ridicule, therefore, of living in a garret, might have been wit in the last age, but continues such no longer, because o longer true. A writer of real merit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set only on fortune ; and for those who have no merit, it is but fit 280 CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. that such should remain in merited obscurity. He may now refuse an invitation to dinner, without fearing to incur his patron's displea- sure, or to starve by remaining at home. He may now venture to appear in company with just such clothes as other men generally wear, and talk even to princes with all the conscious superiority of wisdom. Though he cannot boast of fortune here, yet he can bravely assert the dignity of independence. .Adieu. LETTER LXXXIV. FROM THE SAME. I HAVE interested myself so long in all the concerns of this people, that lam almost be- come an Englishman ; I now begin to read with pleasure of their taking towns or gaining battles, and secretly wish disappointment to all the enemies of Britain. Yet still my regard to mankind fills me with concern for their con- tentions. I could wish to see the disturbances of Europe once more amicably adjusted ; I am an enemy to nothing in this good world but war ; I hate fighting between rival states ; I hate it between man and man ; I hate fighting even between women J I already informed you, that while Europe was at variance, we were also threatened from the stage with an irreconcilable opposition, and that our singing women were resolved to sing at each other to the end of the season. O my friend, those fears were just ! They are not only determined to sing at each other to the end of the season, but what is worse, to sing the same song; and, what is still more insupportable, to make us pay for hearing. If they be for war, for my part, I should advise them to have a public congress, and there fairly squall at each other. What signi- fies sounding the trumpet of defiance at a dis- tance, and calling in the town to fight their battles ? I would have them come boldly in- to one of the most open and frequented streets, face to face, and there try their skill in qua- vering. However this may be, resolved I am that they shall not touch one single piece of silver more of mine. Though I have ears for music, thanks be to Heaven, they are not altogether ass's ears. What ? Polly and the Pickpocket to-night, Polly and the Pickpocket to- morrow night, and Polly and the Pickpocket again ! I want patience, I'll hear no more. My soul is out of tune ; all jarring discord and confusion. Rest, rest, ye dear three clinking shillings in my pocket's bottom : the music you make is more harmonious to my spirit, than catgut, rosin, or all the nightingales that ever chirruped in petticoats. But what raises my indignation to the great- est degree is, that this piping does not only pester me on the stage, but is my punishment in private conversation. What is it to me, whether the fine pipe of the one, or the greaS manner of the other be preferable ? what care I if one has a better top, or the other a nobler bottom ? how am I concerned if one sings from the stomach, or the other sings with a snap ? Yet paltry as these makers are, they make y subject of debate wherever I go ; and this musical dispute, especially among the fair sex, almost always ends in a very unmusical alter- cation. Sure the spirit of contention is mixed with the very constitution of the people! divisions among the inhabitants of other countries ari