SECTION I.

An apolo⯑gy for the married ſtate.§. 1. WHEN I conſider how happy I have been in the married ſtate, and in a ſucceſſion of ſeven wives, never had one uneaſy hour; that even a Paradiſe, without an Eve, would [2]have been a wilderneſs to me; that the woods, the groves, the walks, the pro⯑ſpects, the flowers, the fruits, the day, the night, all would have wanted a reliſh, without that dear, delightful companion, a wife; it amazes me to hear many ſen⯑ſible people ſpeak with abhorrence of ma⯑trimony, and inſiſt upon it, that wedlock produces ſo many troubles, even where the pair have affection, and ſorrows ſo very great, when they have no love for each other, or begin to fail in the kind and obliging offices, that it is contrary to reaſon to contract, if we have a juſt regard to peace and ſatisfaction of mind, and would avoid, as much as poſ⯑ſible, the woes and bewailings of this turbid period. If you have acquired the divine habits, marriage may unhinge them. It often forces even the pious into immoralities. True, unhappy are many a wedded pair: years of calamity this engagement has pro⯑duced to thouſands of mortals: it has made the moſt pious divines become very cruel, as I could relate: it has cauſed the moſt generous, ſenſible men, to murder the wo⯑men they adored before they were their wives.

The apolo⯑gy for the married ſtate conti⯑nued.§. 3. Thus fell Euſtace in the 29th year of his age, and by his hand his virtuous, beautiful, and ingenious wife: and what are we to learn from thence? is it, that on ſuch accounts, we ought to dread wedlock, and never be concerned with a wife; No, ſurely; but to be from thence convinced, that it is neceſſary, in order to a happy marriage, to bring the will to the obedience of reaſon, and acquire an equanimity in the general tenour of life. Of all things in this world, moral dominion, or the empire over ourſelves, is not only the moſt glorious, as reaſon is the ſu⯑perior nature of man, but the moſt valu⯑able, in reſpect of real human happineſs. A conformity to reaſon, or good ſenſe, and to the inclination of our neighbours, with very little money, may produce great and laſting felicity; but without this ſubſervience to our own reaſon, complaiſance to company, and ſoftneſs and benevolence to all around us, the greateſt miſery does frequently ſprout from the largeſt ſtock of fortunes.

[12] It was by ungoverned paſſions, that Eu⯑ſtace murdered his wife and died himſelf, the moſt miſerable and wretched of all hu⯑man beings. He might have been the hap⯑pieſt of mortals, if he had conformed to the dictates of reaſon, and ſoftened his paſ⯑ſions, as well for his own eaſe, as in compli⯑ance to a creature formed with a mind of a quite different make from his own. There is a ſort of ſex in ſouls; and, excluſive of that love and patience which our religion re⯑quires, every couple ſhould remember, that there are things which grow out of their very natures, that are pardonable, when con⯑ſidered as ſuch. Let them not, therefore, be ſpying out faults, nor find a ſatisfaction in reproaching; but let them examine to what conſequences their ideas tend, and reſolve to ceaſe from cheriſhing them, when they lead to contention and miſchief. Let them both endeavour to amend what is wrong in each other, and act as becomes their character, in practiſing the ſocial duties of married per⯑ſons, which are ſo frequently and ſtrongly inculcated by revelation and natural reaſon; and then, inſtead of matrimony's being a burthen, and hanging a weight upon our very beings, there will be no appearance of evil in it, but harmony and joy will ſhed un⯑mixed felicities on them: they will live in no low degree of beatitude in the ſuburbs of heaven.

[13] This was my caſe: wedlock to me be⯑came the greateſt bleſſing; a ſcene of the moſt refined friendſhip, and a condition to which nothing can be added to complete the ſum of human felicity. So I found the holy and ſublime relation, and in the wilds of Weſtmoreland, enjoyed a happineſs as great as human nature is capable of, on this planet. Senſible to all the ties of ſocial truth and ho⯑nour, my partner and I lived in perfect feli⯑city, on the products of our ſolitary farm. The amiable diſpoſitions of her mind, chear⯑fulneſs, good nature, diſcretion, and dili⯑gence, gave a perpetual dignity and luſtre to the grace and lovelineſs of her perſon; and as I did all that love and fidelity could do, by practiſing every rule of caution, prudence, and juſtice, to prevent variance, ſoften cares, and preſerve affection undiminiſhed, the har⯑mony of our ſtate was unmixed and divine. Since the primitive inſtitution of the relation, it never exiſted in a more delightful manner. Devoted to each other's heart, we deſired no other happineſs in this world, than to paſs life away together in the ſolitude we were in. We lived, hoped, and feared but for each other; and made it our daily ſtudy to be what revealed religion preſcribes, and the concurrent voice of nature requires, in the ſacred tie. Do ſo likewiſe, ye mortals, who intend to marry, and ye may, like us, be [14]happy. As the inſtincts and paſſions were wiſely and kindly given us, to ſubſerve many purpoſes of our preſent ſtate, let them have their proper, ſubaltern ſhare of action; but let reaſon ever have the ſovereignty, (the di⯑vine law of reaſon and truth) and be, as it were, ſail and wind to the veſſel of life.

Our man⯑ner of liv⯑ing at Or⯑ion-Lodge.§. 4. Two years, almoſt, this fine ſcene laſted, and during that period, the buſineſs and diverſions of our lone retreat appeared ſo various and pleaſing, that it was not poſſible to think a hundred years ſo ſpent, in the leaſt degree dull and tedious. Excluſive of books and gardening, and the improvement of the farm, we had, during the ſine ſea⯑ſon, a thouſand charming amuſements on the mountains, and in the glens and vallies of that ſweet ſilent place. Whole days we would ſpend in fiſhing, and dine in ſome cool grot by the water-ſide, or under an aged tree, on the margin of ſome beautiful ſtream. We generally uſed the fly and rod; but, if in haſte, had recourſe to one of the little water-falls, and, by fixing a net under one of them, would take a dozen or two of very large trouts, in a few minutes time.

By a little water-fall, I mean one of thoſe that are formed by ſome ſmall river, which tumbles there in various places, from rock to rock, about four feet each fall, and makes a [15]moſt beautiful view from top to bottom of a fall. There are many of theſe falling waters among the vaſt mountains of Weſtmoreland. I have ſeen them likewiſe in the Highlands of Scotland.

Glencrow water-falls.At Glencrow, half way between Dumbar⯑ton and Inverary, there are ſome very fine ones, and juſt by them one Campbell keeps a poor inn. There we were entertained with water and whiſky, oat-cakes, milk, butter, and trouts he took by the net, at one of the little falls of a river that deſcends a prodi⯑gious mountain near his lone houſe, and forms, like what we have at Orton-Lodge, a moſt beautiful ſcene. Several happy days I paſſed at this place, with a dear creature, who is now a ſaint in heaven.

The great age and ſize of carp and tench, in a fenny wa⯑ter near Orton-Lodge.At other times we had the diverſion of taking as much carp and tench as we pleaſed, in a large, ſtanding, fenny water, that lies about two miles from the lodge, in a glen, and always found the fiſh of this water of an enormous ſize, three feet long, though the general length of fiſh of this ſpecies is eleven inches in our ponds: this vaſt bigneſs muſt be owing to the great age of theſe fiſh; I may ſuppoſe, at leaſt, an hundred years; for it is certain, that in garden-ponds, which have, for experiment's ſake, been left undiſ⯑turbed for many years, the carp and tench [16]have been found alive, and grown to a ſur⯑prizing bigneſs.

The ſtate of carp and tench put into a pond by a gen⯑tleman of my ac⯑quaint⯑ance.A gentleman, my near relation, who lived to a very long age, put ſome fiſh of theſe ſpecies into a pond, the day that Colonel Ewer, at the head of ſeven other officers, preſented to the Commons that fatal remon⯑ſtrance, which in fact took off the head of Charles, that is, November 20, 1648; and in the year 1727, ſeventy-nine years after, on his return to that ſeat, he found them all alive, and near two feet and a half in length. This demonſtrates that fiſh may live to a very great age. It likewiſe proves that they continue to grow till they are an hundred years old, and then are the fineſt eating.

Another of our amuſements, during the ſummer's bright day, was the pointer and gun, for the black cock, the moor cock, and the cock of the wood, which are in great plenty on thoſe vaſt hills. Charlotte was fond of this ſport, and would walk with me for hours, to ſee me knock down the game; till, late in the evening, we would wan⯑der over the fells, and then return to our clean, peaceful, little houſe, to ſup as ele⯑gantly on our birds⁽¹⁾, as the great could [17]do, and with a harmony and unmixed joy they are for ever ſtrangers to. After ſupper, over ſome little nectared-bowl, we ſweetly chatted, till it was bed-time; or I played on my flute, and Charlotte divinely ſung. It was a happy life; all the riches and honours of the world cannot produce ſuch ſcenes of bliſs as we experienced in a cottage, in the [18]Wilds of Weſtmoreland. Even the winter, which is ever boiſterous and extreme cold in that part of the world, was no ſeverity to us. As we had moſt excellent proviſions of every kind in abundance, and plenty of firing from the ancient woods, which cover many of thoſe high hills; and two men ſervants, and two maids, to do whatever tended to be⯑ing and to well-being, to ſupply our wants, and to complete our happineſs. — This ſoften⯑ed the hard rough ſcene, and the roaring waters, and the howling winds, appeared pleaſing ſounds. In ſhort, every ſeaſon, and all our hours, were quite charming, and full of delight. Good Tom Fleming, our friend, did likewiſe enhance our felicity, by coming once or twice a week to ſee us, and ſtaying ſometimes two or three days. In the ſummer time, we alſo went now and then to viſit him; and, if one was inclined to melancholy, yet it was impoſſible to be dull while he was by. His humour, and his ſongs, over a bowl of punch, were enough to charm the moſt ſplenetic, and make even rancour throw its face into ſmiles.

The death of Char⯑lotte, my friend Tom Fleming, and others. 1727. aetat, 24.§. 5. Two years, as I have ſaid, this fine ſcene laſted; and during that ſoft, tranſ⯑porting period, I was the happieſt man on earth. But in came Death, when we leaſt expected him, ſnatched my charming part⯑ner [19]from me, and melted all my happineſs into air, into thin air. A fever, in a few days, ſnapt off the thread of her life, and made me the child of affliction, when I had not a thought of the mourner. Language cannot paint the diſtreſs this calamity reduced me to; nor give an idea of what I ſuffered, when I ſaw her eyes ſwimming in death, and the throws of her departing ſpirit. Bleſt as ſhe was, in the exerciſe of every virtue that adorns a woman, how inconſolable muſt her huſband be! and, to add to my diſtreſs, by the ſame fever fell my friend Tom Fle⯑ming, who came the day before my wife ſickened to ſee us. One of my lads likewiſe died, and the two ſervant maids. They all lay dead around me, and I ſat like one in⯑animate by the corps of Charlotte, till Fryer Fleming, (the brother of Tom,) brought cof⯑fins and buried them all. Thus did felicity vaniſh from my ſight, and I remained like a traveller in Greenland, who had loſt the ſun.

A reflexion on death.§. 6. O eloquent, juſt, and mighty death! (ſays Raleigh) It is thou alone puts wiſdom into the human heart, and ſuddenly makes man to know himſelf. It is death that makes the conquenor aſhamed of his fame, and wiſh he had rather ſtolen out of the world, than purchaſed the report of his ac⯑tions, [20]by rapine, oppreſſion, and cruelty; by giving in ſpoil the innocent and labouring ſoul to the idle and inſolent; by emptying the cities of the world of their ancient inha⯑bitants, and filling them again with ſo many; and ſo variable ſorts of ſorrows. It is death tells the proud and inſolent, that they are but objects, and humbles them at the inſtant; makes them cry, complain, and repent; yea, even to hate their former happineſs. It is death takes the account of the rich, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar, which hath intereſt in nothing but the gravel which fills his mouth. It is death holds a glaſs be⯑fore the eyes of the moſt beautiful, and makes them ſee therein their deformity and rotten⯑neſs; and they acknowledge it.

Whom none could adviſe, thou haſt per⯑ſuaded: what none have dared, thou haſt done: and whom all the world hath flatter⯑ed, thou only haſt caſt out of the world, and deſpiſed. Thou haſt drawn together all the far-ſtretched greatneſs, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition, of man; all the powerful charms of beauty; and covered it all over with theſe two narrow words, Hic jacet.

Nor is this all, mighty death! It is thou that leadeſt to the reſurrection of the dead; the diſſolution of the world; the judgment day; and the eternal ſtate of men. It is [21]thou that finiſhes the trial of men, and ſeals their characters, for happineſs or miſery for ever.

Be thou then, death, our morning and evening meditation: let us learn from thee the vanity of all human things; and that it is the moſt amazing folly, to melt away time, and miſ-apply talents, as the generality of reaſonable beings do: that we were not made men, thinking, rational beings, capa⯑ble of the nobleſt contemplations, to ſpend all our thoughts and time in ſenſe and plea⯑ſure, in dreſſing, feeding, and ſporting; or, in purchaſes, building and planting; but to prepare for a dying hour; that, when at the call of God, we go out of the body, not knowing whither we go, we may, like Abra⯑ham, travel by faith, and truſt to the con⯑duct of the Lord of all countries. Since we muſt die, and thy power, O death, we ſee, is uncontrolable: ſince to the duſt we muſt return, and take our trial at the bar of Almighty God, as intelligent and free agents; (for under moral government, and God is a perfectly wiſe and righteous governor, the wickedneſs of the wicked will be upon him, and the righteouſneſs of the righteous will be upon him;) — ſince we muſt be numbered with the dead, and our circumſtances and condition indicate a future judgment, ſurely we ought to remove our chief concern from this world [22]to the other, and transfer our principal regard to the immortal ſpirit; that in the hour of agony, a virtuous mind, purity of conſcience, and good actions, may procure us the favour of God, and the guidance of his good ſpirit to the manſions of the bleſſed, where new pleaſures are for ever ſpringing up, and the happineſs of the heavenly inhabitants is per⯑petually increaſing. This is the one thing needful. Death demonſtrates, that this world of darkneſs and error, changes and chances, is not worth fixing our heart on. To ſecure our paſſage into the regions of per⯑fect and eternal day, ſhould be the employ⯑ment of immortal mortals.

§. 7. Thus did I reflect as I ſat among the dead, with my eyes faſtened on the breath⯑leſs corps of Charlotte, and I wiſhed, if it was poſſible, to have leave to depart, and in the hoſpitable grave, lie down from toil and pain, to take my laſt repoſe; for I knew not what to do, nor where to go. I was not qualified for the world; nor had I a friend, or even an acquaintance in it, that I knew where to find. But in vain I prayed; it was otherwiſe decreed: I muſt go on, or continue a ſolitary in the wild I was in. The latter it was not poſſible for me to do, in the ſtate of mind I was in; overwhelmed with ſorrow, and without a companion of [23]any kind; and therefore, I muſt of neceſſity go to ſome other place. I ſold all the liv⯑ing things I had to Fryar Fleming, and lock⯑ed up my doors. My furniture, linen, clothes, books, liquors, and ſome ſalt pro⯑viſions, inſtruments of various kinds, and ſuch like things, I left in their ſeveral places. There was no one to take them, or proba⯑bility that any one would come there to diſ⯑turb them; and perhaps, ſome time or other, the fates might bring me back again to the lone place. Though it was then a deſolate, ſilent habitation, a ſtriking memento of the vanity and precarious exiſtence of all human good things; yet it was poſſible, that hearty friendſhip, feſtivity, and ſocial life, might once more be ſeen there. The force and operation of caſualties did wonders every day, and time might give me even a reliſh for the ſolitude in a few years more. Thus did I ſettle affairs in that remote place; and, taking leave of my friend, the fryar, with my lad O Finn, rode off.

SECTION II.

Auguſt 4. 1727. The au⯑thor's de⯑parture from Or⯑ton-Lodge, to try his fortune once more.§. 1. THE ſun was riſing, when we mounted our horſes, and I a⯑gain went out to try my fortune in the world; not like the Chevalier of La Mancha, in hopes of conquering a kingdom, or mar⯑rying ſome great Princeſs; but to ſee if I could find another good country girl for a wife, and get a little more money; as they were the only two things united, that could ſecure me from melancholy, and confer real happineſs. To this purpoſe, as the day was extremely fine, and Finn had ſomething cold, and a couple of bottles at the end of his va⯑life, I gave my horſe the rein, and let him take what way his fancy choſe. For ſome time, he gently trotted the path he had of⯑ten gone, and over many a mountain made [25]his road: but at laſt, he brought me to a place I was quite a ſtranger to, and made a full ſtop at a deep and rapid water, which ran by the bottom of a very high hill I had not been up before. Over this river I made him go, though it was far from being ſafe, and in an hour's ride from that flood, came to a fine rural ſcene.

A delight⯑ful ſpot of earth a⯑mong the fells of Weſtmore⯑land.§. 2. It was paſture-ground, of a large extent, and in many places covered with groves of trees, of various kinds; walnuts, cheſnuts, and oaks; the poplar, the plane⯑tree, the mulberry, and maple. There was likewiſe the Phoenician cedar, the larix, the large-leafed laurel, and the cytiſſus of Vir⯑gil. In the middle of this place were the ruins of an old ſeat, over-run with ſhrubby plants; the Virginia creeper, the box-thorn, the jeſſamine, the honey-ſuckle, the peri⯑winkle, the birdweed, the ivy, and the climber; and near the door was a flowing ſpring of water, which formed a beautiful ſtream, and babbled to the river we came from. Charming ſcene! ſo ſilent, ſweet, and pretty, that I was highly pleaſed with the diſcovery.

A deſcrip⯑tion of Ba⯑ſil Groves, the ſeat of Charles Henley, Eſq§. 3. On the margin of the brook, un⯑der a mulberry tree, I dined, on ſomething which Finn produced from his wallet, tongue [26]and ham, and potted black cock; and having drank a pint of cyder, ſet out again, to try what land lay right onwards. In an hour, we came to a large and dangerous watery moor, which we croſſed over with great difficulty, and then arrived at a range of mountains, through which there was a nar⯑row paſs, wet and ſtony, a long and tedi⯑ous ride, which ended on the border of a fine country: at four in the afternoon, we arrived on the confines of a plain, about a hundred acres, which was ſtrewed with va⯑rious flowers of the earth's natural produce, that rendered the glebe delightful to behold, and was ſurrounded with groves. The place had all the charms that verdure, fo⯑reſt, and vale, can give a country. In the centre of this ground was a handſome ſquare building, and behind it a large and beauti⯑ful garden, which had a low, thick, holly-hedge, that encompaſſed it. As the door of this houſe was not locked, but opened by a ſilver ſpring turner, I went in, and found it was one fine ſpacious room, filled on every ſide with books, bound in an extraordinary manner. Globes, teleſcopes, and other in⯑ſtruments of various kinds, were placed on ſtands, and there were two fine writing⯑tables, one at each end of the library, which had paper, ink, and pens. In the middle of the room there was a reading⯑deſk, [27]which had a ſhort inſcription, and on it leaned the ſkeleton of a man. The le⯑gend ſaid,—This ſkeleton was once Charles Henley, Eſq

Amazed I ſtood, looking on theſe things, and wondered much at the figure of the bones, tack'd together with wires; once, to be ſure, the maſter of this grand collection of books and manuſcripts, and this fine room, ſo ſweetly ſituated in the centre of diſtant groves: this ſkeleton had a ſtriking effect on my mind; and the more ſo, as it held a ſcroll of parchment, on which was beautifully written in the court-hand, (to ap⯑pear more remarkable, I ſuppoſe) the fol⯑lowing lines:

"Fellow-mortal, whoever thou art, whom the fates ſhall conduct into this chamber, remember, that before many years are paſſed, thou muſt be laid in the bed of corruption, in the dark caverns of death, among the lifeleſs duſt, and rotten bones of others, and from the grave proceed to the general reſur⯑rection of all. To new life and vigour thou wilt moſt certainly be raiſed, to be brought to a great account. Naked and defenceleſs thou muſt ſtand before the awful tribunal of the great God, and from him receive a final ſentence, which ſhall determine and fix thee in an eternal ſtate of happineſs or miſery.

[28] What an alarm ſhould this be! Ponder, my fellow-mortal; and remember, God now commandeth men every where to repent, becauſe he hath appointed a day, in which he will judge the world in righteouſneſs, by that man, whom he hath ordained; where⯑of he hath given aſſurance unto all men, in that he hath raiſed him from the dead.— Judge the world! — judgment! — the very found is ſolemn. Should it not deaden ſome part, at leaſt, of your concern for things temporal, and quicken your care and induſ⯑try for the future life; — ought it not to make us condemn, before the dying hour, our vanity, and devotedneſs to bodily things, and make us employ the greateſt part of our time in the acquiſition of wiſdom, and an improvement in virtue, that when we appear at the ſeſſions of righteouſneſs, a ſacred knowledge, a heavenly piety, and an ange⯑lic goodneſs, may ſecure us from eternal pu⯑niſhment, and entitle us to a glorious eterni⯑ty? Since a future judgment is moſt certainly the caſe, and the conſequence eternal dam⯑nation or ſalvation, how contemptible a thing is a long buſy life, ſpent in raking through the mire of trade and buſineſs, in purſuit of riches and a large eſtate; or in ſweating up the ſteep hill of ambition, after fame and ambition; or in living and dreſ⯑ſing as if we were all body, and ſent into [29]time for no other purpoſe, than to adorn like idols, gratify like brutes, and waſte life in ſenſuality and vanity:—how contemp⯑tible and unreaſonable is this kind of exiſt⯑ence for beings, who were created to no other end, than to be partakers of a divine life with God, and ſing hallelujahs to all e⯑ternity; to ſeparate the creature from error, fiction, impurity, and corruption, and ac⯑quire that purity and holineſs, which alone can ſee God. Away then with a worldly heart: away with all thoſe follies, which en⯑gage us like fools and madmen; and let the principal thing be, to follow the ſteps of our great maſter, by patience and reſignation, by a charity and contempt of the world; and by keeping a conſcience void of offence, a⯑midſt the changes and chances of this mor⯑tal life; that at his ſecond coming, to judge the world, we may be found acceptable in his ſight.

What a ſcene muſt this ſecond coming be! I ſaw, (ſays an apoſtle) a great white throne, and him that ſat on it; from whoſe face the earth and the heavens fled away, and there was no place found for them; and I ſaw the dead ſmall and great ſtand before God; and the books were opened, and the dead were judged out of thoſe things which were written in the books: and the ſea gave up her dead, and death and hell delivered [30]up their dead which were in them, and they were judged every man, according to their works. The ſecret wickedneſs of men will be brought to light; and concealed piety and per⯑ſecuted virtue be acknowledged and honour⯑ed. While innocence and piety are ſet at the right hand of the judge, and the righte⯑ous ſhall ſhine forth as the ſun in the king⯑dom of their father for ever and ever, ſhame and confuſion muſt ſit upon the faces of the ſinner and the ungodly. Damnation will ſtand before the brethren in iniquity, and when the intolerable ſentence is executed, what inexpreſſible agonies will they fall into? what amazement and exceſſes of horror muſt ſeize upon them?

Ponder then, in time, fellow-mortal, and chuſe to be good, rather than to be great: prefer your baptiſmal vows to the pomps and vanities of this world; and value the ſe⯑cret whiſpers of a good conſcience more than the noiſe of popular applauſe.

Since you muſt appear before the judg⯑ment-ſeat of Chriſt; that every one may re⯑ceive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad, let it be your work from morning till night, to keep Jeſus in your hearts; and long for nothing, deſire nothing, hope for no⯑thing, but to have all that is within you changed into the ſpirit and temper of the holy [31]Jeſus. Wherever you go, whatever you do, do all in imitation of his temper and in⯑clination; and look upon all as nothing, but that which exerciſes and increaſes the ſpirit and life of Chriſt in your ſouls.—Let this be your Chriſtianity, your church, and your religion, and the judgment-day will be a charming ſcene. If in this world, the will of the creature, as an offspring of the divine will, wills and works with the will of God, and labours, without ceaſing, to come as near as mortals can, to the purity and per⯑fection of the divine nature; then will the day of the Lord be a day of great joy, and with unutterable pleaſure, you ſhall hear that tremendous voice: Awake, ye dead, and come to judgment. In tranſports, and full of honour and glory, the wiſe and righteous, will hear the happy ſentence, Come, ye bleſſed of my father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world."

This, and the ſkeleton, aſtoniſhed me not a little; and my wonder at the whole in⯑creaſed, as I could find no human creature living, nor diſcover any houſe or cottage for an inhabitant. This I though exceeded all the ſtrange things I had ſeen in this wonder⯑ful country. But perhaps, (it occured at laſt,) there might be a manſion in the woods before me, or ſomewhere in the groves on either ſide; and therefore, leaving the library, [32]after I had ſpent an hour in it, I walked on⯑wards, and came to a wood, which had private walks cut through it, and ſtrewed with ſand. They ſhewed only light enough to diſtinguiſh the blaze of day from evening ſhade, and had feats diſperſed, to ſit and liſten to the chorus of the birds, which ad⯑ded to the pleaſures of the ſoft ſilent place. For about three hundred yards the walk I was in extended, and then terminated in meadows, which formed an oval of twenty acres, ſur⯑rounded by groves, like the large plain I came from. Exactly in the middle of theſe fields, part of which were turned into gar⯑dens, there ſtood a very handſome ſtone houſe, and not far from the door of it, a fountain played. On either ſide of the wa⯑ter was a garden-chair, of a very extraor⯑dinary make, curious and beautiful; and each of them ſtood under an ever-green oak, the broad leaved Ilex, a charming ſhade.

A deſcrip⯑tion of John Hen⯑ley, Eſq§. 4. In one of theſe chairs ſat an an⯑cient gentleman, a venerable man, whoſe hair was white as ſilver, and his countenance had dignity and goodneſs. His dreſs and manner ſhewed him to be a perſon of for⯑tune and diſtinction, and by a ſervant in waiting, it appeared, he was Lord of the ſeigneurie I was arrived at. He was tall and graceful, and had not the leaſt ſtoop, tho' [33]he wanted but a year of an hundred. I could not but admire the fine old gentle⯑man.

Deſcrip⯑tion of Sta⯑tia Henley, the grand⯑daughter of John Henley, Eſq§. 5. On the ſame chair, next to him, ſat a young Lady, who was at this time juſt turned of twenty, and had ſuch diffuſive charms as ſoon new fired my heart, and gave my ſoul a ſoftneſs even beyond what it had felt before. She was a little taller than the middle ſize, and had a face that was per⯑fectly beautiful. Her eyes were extremely fine; full, black, ſparkling; and her con⯑verſation was as charming as her perſon; both eaſy, unconſtrained, and ſprightly.

A conver⯑ſation be⯑tween John Henley, Eſq and the author.§. 6. When I came near two ſuch per⯑ſonages, I bowed low to the ground, and aſked pardon for intruding into their fine re⯑tirement. But the ſtars had led me, a wan⯑derer, to this delightful ſolitude, without the leaſt idea of there being ſuch a place in our iſland, and as their malignant rays had forced me to offend, without intending it, I hoped they would pardon my breaking in upon them.

To this the old Gentleman replied. You have not offended, Sir, I aſſure you, but are welcome to the Groves of Baſil. It gives me pleaſure to ſee you here; for it is very ſeldom we are favoured with any one's com⯑pany, [34]It is hard to diſcover or make out a road to this place, as we are ſurrounded al⯑moſt by impaſſable mountains, and a very dangerous moraſs: Nor can I conceive how you found the way here without a guide, or ventured to travel this country, as there are no towns in this part of the county. There muſt be ſomething very extraordinary in your caſe, and as you mentioned your being a wan⯑derer, I ſhould be glad to hear the cauſe of your journeying in this uninhabited region. But firſt (Mr. Henley ſaid) as it is now near eight at night, and you muſt want refreſh⯑ment, having met with no inn the whole day, we will go in to ſupper. He then aroſe, and brought me to an elegant parlour, where a table was ſoon covered with the beſt cold things, and we immediately ſat down. Every eatable was excellent, and the wine and other liquors in perfection. Miſs Henley ſat at the head of the table, her grandfather over-againſt her, and placed me at her right hand between them both. The young lady behaved in a very eaſy genteel manner; and the old gentleman, with freedom, chearful⯑neſs, and good manners. 'Till nine this ſcene laſted, and then Mr. Henley again re⯑queſted I would oblige him with an account of my travels in that part of the world. This I ſaid I would do in the beſt manner I could, and while he leaned back in his eaſy chair, [35]and the beautiful Statia faſtened her glorious eyes upon me, I went on in the following words.

A ſumma⯑ry of the author's hiſtory, from the beginning of his 17th year till his arrival at the groves of Baſil in 1727, in the 25th year of his age.§. 7. I am an Engliſhman, Sir, but have paſſed the greateſt part of my life in Ireland, and from the weſtern extremity of it I came. My father is one of the rich men in that kingdom, and was, for many years, the ten⯑dereſt and moſt generous parent that ever ſon was bleſſed with. He ſpared no coſt on my education, and gave me leave to draw upon him, while I reſided in the univerſity of Dublin five years, for what I pleaſed. Ex⯑travagant as I was in ſeveral articles, he ne⯑ver ſet any bounds to my demands, nor aſked me what I did with the large ſums I had yearly from him. My happineſs was his fe⯑licity, and the glory of his life to have me appear to the greateſt advantage, and in the moſt reſpected character, that money can gain a man.

But at laſt, he married his ſervant maid, an artful cruel woman, who obtained by her wit and charms ſo great an aſcendant over him, that he abandoned me, to raiſe a young nephew this ſtepmother had, to what ſplen⯑dor and power ſhe pleaſed. He had every thing he could name that money could pro⯑cure, and was abſolute maſter of the houſe and land. Not a ſhilling at this time could [36]I get, nor obtain the leaſt thing I aſked for, and becauſe I refuſed to become preceptor to this young man, and had made ſome altera⯑tion in my religion, (having renounced that creed, which was compoſed, nobody knows by whom, and introduced into the church in the darkeſt ages of popiſh ignorance; a ſymbol, which ſtrongly participates of the true nature and ſpirit of popery, in thoſe ſe⯑vere denunciations of God's wrath, which it pours ſo plentifully forth againſt all thoſe whoſe heads are not turned to believe it), my father was ſo enraged that he would not even admit me to his table any longer, but bid me be gone. My mother-in-law likewiſe for ever abuſed me, and her nephew, the lad, inſulted me when I came in his way.

Being thus compelled to withdraw, I ſet ſail for England as ſoon as it was in my pow⯑er, and arrived in Cumberland by the force of a ſtorm. I proceeded from thence to the mountains of Stanemore, to look for a gen⯑tleman, my friend, who lived among thoſe hills; and as I journeyed over them, and miſſed him, I chanced to meet with a fine northern girl, and a habitation to my pur⯑poſe. I married her, and for almoſt two years paſt was the happieſt of the human race, till the ſable curtain fell between us, and the angel of death tranſlated her glorious ſoul to the fields of paradiſe. Not able to bear the place of our reſidence, after I had [37]loſt my heart's fond idol, I left the charming ſpot and manſion, where unmixed felicity had been for ſome time my portion, and I was travelling on towards London, to ſee what is ordained there in reſerve for me; when by accident I loſt my way, and the fates conducted me to the Groves of Baſil. Curioſity led me into the library I found in the plain, without this wood, from whence, in ſearch for ſome human creatures, I pro⯑ceeded to the fountain, where I had the pleaſure of ſeeing you, Sir, and this young lady. This is a ſummary of my paſt life; what is before me heaven only knows. My fortune I truſt with the Preſerver of men, and the Father of ſpirits. One thing I am certain of by obſervation, few as the days of the years of my pilgrimage have been, that the emptineſs, and unſatisfying nature of this world's enjoyments, are enough to pre⯑vent my having any fondneſs to ſtay in this region of darkneſs and ſorrow. I ſhall never leap over the bars of life, let what will hap⯑pen: but the ſooner I have leave to depart, I ſhall think it the better for me.

The old gentle⯑man's re⯑ply to the ſtory.§. 8. The old gentleman ſeemed ſur⯑prized at my ſtory, and after ſome moments ſilence, when I had done, he ſaid, Your meaſure, Sir, is hard, and as it was, in part, for declaring againſt a falſe religion at your years, you pleaſe me ſo much, that if [38]you will give me leave, I will be your friend, and as a ſubaltern providence, recompence your loſs as to fortune in this world. In what manner you ſhall know to-morrow, when we breakfaſt at eight. It is now time to finiſh our bottle, that we may, according to our cuſtom, betimes retire.

The hiſto⯑ry of Ch. Henley, Eſq and his beauti⯑ful daugh⯑ter Statia.At the time appointed I met the old gen⯑tleman in the parlour, and juſt as we had done ſaluting each other, Statia entered, bright and charming as Aurora. She was in a rich dreſs, and her bright victorious eyes flaſhed a celeſtial fire. She made our tea, and gave me ſome of her coffee. She aſked me a few civil queſtions, and ſaid two or three good things on the beauties of the morning, and the charms of the country. She left us the moment we had done break⯑faſt, and then the old gentleman addreſſed himſelf to me in the following words.

I do not forget the promiſe I made you, but muſt firſt relate the hiſtory of my family. I do it with the more pleaſure, as I find you are of our religion, and I cannot help hav⯑ing a regard for you, on your daring to throw up a fortune for truth; for brave⯑ly daring to renounce thoſe ſyſtems, which have an outward orthodox roundneſs given to them by their eloquent defenders, and within are mere corruption and apoſtacy.

[39] The ſkeleton you ſaw in the library was once my ſon, Charles Henley, a moſt extra⯑ordinary man. He had great abilities, and underſtood every thing a mortal is capable of knowing, of things human and divine.— When he was in his nineteenth year, I took him to France and other countries, to ſee the world, and, on our return to England, married him into a noble family, to a very valuable young woman, of a large fortune, and by her he had the young lady you ſaw ſitting on the chair near the table by me. This ſon I loſt, three years after his marriage, and with him all reliſh for the world: and being naturally inclined to retirement and a ſpeculative life, never ſtirred ſince from this country-houſe. Here my ſon devoted him⯑ſelf entirely to ſtudy, and amuſed himſelf with inſtructing his beloved Statia, the young lady you have ſeen. At his death he con⯑ſigned her to my care; and as her under⯑ſtanding is very great, and her diſpoſition ſweet and charming, I have not only taken great pains in educating her, but have been delighted with my employment. Young as ſhe is,Aug. 14, 1727. but in the ſecond month of her one and twentieth year, ſhe not only knows more than women of diſtinction generally do, but would be the admiration of learned men, if her knowledge in languages, ma⯑thematics, and philoſophy, were known to them: and as her father taught her muſic [40]and painting, perhaps there is not a young woman of finer accompliſhments in the kingdom.

Her father died towards the end of the year 1723, in the 39th year of his age, when ſhe was not quite ſixteen, and, by his will, left her ten thouſand pounds, and Ba⯑ſil-Houſe and eſtate; but ſhe is not to inhe⯑rit it, or marry, 'till ſhe is two and twenty. This was her father's will. As to the ſke⯑leton in the library, it was my ſon's expreſs order it ſhould be ſo, and that the figure ſhould not be removed from the place it ſtands in, while the library remained in that room; but continue a ſolemn memorial in his family, to perpetuate his memory, and be a memento mori to the living.

Old Mr. Henley of⯑fers me his grand⯑daughter in marriage.§. 10. This is the hiſtory of Baſil Groves, and the late owner of this ſeat, and his daughter Statia. We live a happy, reli⯑gious life here, and enjoy every bleſſing that can be deſired in this lower hemiſphere. But as I am not very far from a hundred years, having paſſed that ninety-two which Sir William Temple ſays, he never knew any one he was acquainted with arrive at, I muſt be on the brink of the grave, and expect every day to drop into it. What may be⯑come of Statia, then, gives me ſome trou⯑ble to think; as all her relations, except myſelf, are in the other world. To ſpend [41]her life here in this ſolitude, as ſeems to be her inclination, is not proper; and to go into the world by herſelf, when I am dead, without knowing any mortal in it, may in⯑volve her in troubles and diſtreſſes. Hear then, my ſon, what I propoſe to you. You are a young man, but ſerious. You have got ſome wiſdom in the ſchool of affliction, and you have no averſion to matrimony, as you have juſt buried, you ſay, a glorious woman, your wife. If you will ſtay with us here, till Statia is two and twenty, and in that time render yourſelf agreeable to her, I promiſe you, ſhe ſhall be yours the day ſhe enters the three and twentieth year of her age, and you ſhall have with her fortune all that I am owner of, which is no ſmall ſum. What do you ſay to this propoſal?

My reply.§. 11. Sir, I replied, you do me vaſt honour, much more I am ſure than my me⯑rits can pretend to. I am infinitely obliged to you, and muſt be blind and inſenſible, if I refuſed ſuch a woman as Miſs Henley, were ſhe far from being the fortune ſhe is: But I have not vanity enough to imagine, I can gain her affections; eſpecially in my circum⯑ſtances; and to get her by your authority, or power of diſpoſing of her, is what I can⯑not think of. I will ſtay however, a few months here, ſince you ſo generouſly invite [42]me, and let Miſs Henley know, I will be her humble ſervant, if ſhe will allow me the honour of bearing that title. This made the old gentleman laugh, and he took me by the hand, ſaying, This is right. Come, let us go and take a walk before dinner.

My reſi⯑dence at Baſil Groves for ſeven months, and man⯑ner of liv⯑ing.§. 12. There I paſſed the winter, and part of the ſpring, and lived in a delightful manner. The mornings I generally ſpent in the library, reading, or writing extracts from ſome curious MSS. or ſcarce books; and in the afternoons Miſs Henley and I walked in the lawns and woods, or ſat down to cards. She was a fine creature indeed in body and ſoul, had a beautiful underſtand⯑ing, and charmed me to a high degree. Her converſation was rational and eaſy, with⯑out the leaſt affectation from the books ſhe had read; and ſhe would enliven it ſome⯑times by ſinging, in which kind of muſic ſhe was as great a miſtreſs as I have heard. As to her heart, I found it was to be gained; but an accident happened that put a ſtop to the amour.

The death. of old Mr. Henley, and Statia's behaviour thereupon.§. 13. In the beginning of March, the old gentleman, the excellent Mr. Henley, Statia's grandfather and guardian, and my great friend, died, and by his death a great alteration enſued in my affair. I thought [43]to have had Miſs Henley immediately, as there was no one to plead her father's will againſt the marriage, and intended to ſend O Finn for Fryar Fleming; but when Statia ſaw herſelf her own miſtreſs, without any ſuperior, or controul, and in poſſeſſion of large fortunes, money, and an eſtate, that ſhe might do as ſhe pleaſed; this had an effect on her mind, and made a change. She told me, when I addreſſed myſelf to her, after her grandfather was interred, that what ſhe intended to do, in obedience to him, had he lived, ſhe thought required very ſerious conſideration now ſhe was left to herſelf: That, excluſive of this, her in⯑clination really was for a ſingle life; and had it been otherwiſe, yet it was not proper, ſince her guardian was dead, that I ſhould live with her till the time limited by her fa⯑ther's will for her to marry was come; but that, as ſhe had too good an opinion of me, to imagine her fortune was what chiefly urged my application, and muſt own ſhe had a regard for me, ſhe would be glad to hear from me ſometimes, if I could think her worth remembring, after I had left the Groves of Baſil. This ſhe ſaid with great ſeriouſneſs, and ſeemed by her manner to forbid my urging the thing any further.

[44] My reply to Miſs Henley: being an a⯑pology for matrimo⯑ny, as it is by the goſ⯑pel made a memorial of the co⯑venant of grace.§. 14. I aſſured her, however, that time only could wear out her charming image from my mind, and that I had reaſon to fear, ſhe would long remain the torment of my heart. She had a right to be ſure to diſ⯑miſs me from her ſervice; but in reſpect of her inclination to live a ſingle life, I begged leave to obſerve, that it was certainly quite wrong, and what ſhe could not anſwer to the wiſe and bountiful Father of the Uni⯑verſe, as ſhe was a Chriſtian, and by being ſo, muſt believe, that baptiſm was a memo⯑rial of the covenant of grace.

The Catholics, and the Viſion-mongers of the proteſtant ſide, (the Rev. Mr. Wm. Law, and others of his row) may magnify the excel⯑lence of celibacy as high as they pleaſe, and work it into chriſtian perfection, by ſound⯑ing words and eloquent pens; but moſt ſurely, revelation was directly againſt them, and required the faithful to produce in a re⯑gular way.

Conſider, illuſtrious Statia, that when the Moſt High gave the Abrahamic covenant in theſe words, I will be a God unto thee, and to thy ſeed after thee, and in thy ſeed ſhall all the families, or nations of the earth be bleſſed; which includes an intereſt in God, as a God, father and friend for ever, and a ſhare in all the bleſſings wherewith the Meſſiah, in the goſpel, hath inriched the world; theſe ineſ⯑timable [45]bleſſings and promiſes of life and favour, were deſigned by the divine muni⯑ficence for riſing generations of mankind; and it was moſt certainly intended, not only that they ſhould be received with the higheſt gratitude and duty, but that they ſhould be ſtrongly inculcated upon the thoughts of ſucceeding generations, by an inſtituted ſign or memorial, to the end of the world.

Circumciſion was the firſt appointed token or memorial, and at the ſame time, an in⯑ſtruction in that moral rectitude to which the grace of God obliges: and when the New Teſtament ſucceeded the Law, then was the covenant intereſt of infants, or their right to the covenant of grace, to be confirmed by the token or ſign called baptiſm; that action being appointed to give the expected riſing generation an intereſt in the love of God, the grace of Chriſt, and the fellowſhip of the Holy Spirit, that is, in all covenant bleſ⯑ſings. But what becomes of this great char⯑ter of heaven, if chriſtian women, out of an idle notion of perfection, will reſolve to lead ſingle lives, and thereby hinder riſing generations from ſharing in the honours and privileges of the church of Jeſus Chriſt. Millions of the faithful muſt thereby be de⯑prived of the token inſtituted by God to con⯑vey to them thoſe covenant bleſſings, which his love and goodneſs deſigned for the riſing generations of his people. Have a care then [46]what you do, illuſtrious Statia, in this par⯑ticular. It muſt be a great crime to hinder the regular propagation of a ſpecies, which God hath declared to be under his particular inſpection and bleſſing, and by circumciſion and baptiſm, hath made the ſpecial object of divine attention and care. Away then with all thoughts of a virgin life, whatever be⯑comes of me. As God hath appointed ma⯑trimony and baptiſm, let it be your pious endeavour to bare ſons and daughters, that may be related to God, their Father; to Jeſus, their Redeemer, and firſt born in the family; and to all the excellent, who are to enjoy, through him, the bleſſings of the glorious world above. Marry, then, illuſtri⯑ous Statia, marry, and let the bleſſing of Abraham come upon us gentiles. Oppoſe not the goſpel covenant; that covenant which was made with that patriarch; but mind the comfortable promiſes; I will circumciſe thy heart, and the heart of thy ſeed. I will pour out my ſpirit upon thy ſeed, and my bleſſing upon thine offspring. The ſeed of the righteous is bleſſed. They are the ſeed of the bleſſed of the Lord, and their offspring with them. Such is the magna charta of our exiſtence and fu⯑ture happineſs; and as infants deſcending from Abraham, in the line of election, to the end of the world, have as good a right and claim as we to the bleſſings of this co⯑venant, [47]and immenſe promiſe, I will be a God unto thee, and to thy ſeed after thee, in their generations; it muſt be a great crime, to deprive children of this intailed, heavenly inheritance, by our reſolving to live in a ſtate of virginity. In my opinion, it is a ſin greater than murder. What is murder, but forcing one from his poſt againſt the will of providence; and if the virgin hinders a being or beings from coming on the poſt, againſt the will of providence, muſt ſhe not be culpable; and muſt ſhe not be doubly criminal, if the being or beings ſhe hinders from coming on the ſtage, or into this firſt ſtate, were to be a part of the perpetual ge⯑nerations, who have a right to the inheri⯑tance, the bleſſing, and were to be heirs ac⯑cording to the promiſe made to Abraham? Ponder, illuſtrious Statia, on the important point. Conſider what it is to die a maid, when you may, in a regular way, pruduce heirs to that ineſtimable bleſſing of life and favour, which the munificence of the Moſt High was pleaſed freely to beſtow, and which the great Chriſtian mediator, agent, and negociator, republiſhed, confirmed, and ſealed with his blood. Marry then in regard to the goſpel, and let it be the fine employ⯑ment of your life, to open gradually the treaſures of revelation to the underſtandings of the little chriſtians you produce.

[48] This I am ſure your holy religion re⯑quires from you: and if from the ſacred oracles we turn to the book of nature, is it not in this volume written, that there muſt be a malignity in the hearts of thoſe mor⯑tals, who can remain unconcerned at the deſtruction and extirpation of the reſt of mankind; and who want even ſo much good will as is requiſite to propagate a crea⯑ture, (in a regular and hallowed way) tho' they received their own being from the meer benevolence of their divine Maſter? What do you ſay, illuſtrious Statia? Shall it be a ſucceſſion, as you are an upright Chriſtian? And may I hope to have the high honour of ſharing in the mutual ſatisfaction that muſt attend the diſcharge of ſo momentous a duty?⁽²⁾

[49] Miſs Hen⯑ley's an⯑ſwer.§. 15. All the ſmiles ſat on the face of Statia, while I was haranguing in this de⯑vout manner, and her countenance became [50]a conſtellation of wonders. When I had done, this beauty ſaid, I thank you, Sir, for the information you have given me. I am [51]a Chriſtian. There is no malignity in my heart. You have altered my way of think⯑ing, and I now declare for a ſucceſſion. — Let Father Flemming be ſent for, and without waiting for my being two and twenty, or minding my father's will, as there's no one to oblige me to it, I will give you my hand. Charming news! I diſ⯑patched my lad for the Fryar. The prieſt arrived the next day, and at night we were married. Three days after, we ſet out for [52] Orton Lodge, at my wife's requeſt, as ſhe longed to ſee the place. For two years more I reſided there; it being more agreeable to Statia than the improved Groves of Baſil. We lived there in as much happineſs as it is poſſible to have in this lower hemiſphere, and much in the ſame manner as I did with Charlotte my firſt wife. Statia had all the good qualities and perfections which render⯑ed Charlotte ſo dear and valuable to me; like her ſhe ſtudied to increaſe the delights of every day, and by art, good humour, and love, rendered the married ſtate ſuch a ſyſtem of joys as might incline one to wiſh it could laſt a thouſand years: But it was too ſublime and deſirable to have a long exiſ⯑tence here. Statia was taken ill, of the ſmall-pox, the morning we intended to re⯑turn to Baſil-Groves; ſhe died the 7th day, and I laid her by Charlotte's ſide. Thus did I become again a mourner. I ſat with my eyes ſhut for three days: But at laſt, called for my horſe, to try what air, exerciſe, and a variety of objects, could do.

SECTION III.

April 1, 1729, we leave Or⯑ton Lodge again, and ſet out for Harrigate Spaw. A deſcription of the country we rid over. Aetat. 27.§. 1. VERY early, as ſoon as I could ſee day, the firſt of April, 1729, I left Orton-Lodge, and went to Baſil-Groves, to order matters there. From thence I ſet out for Harrigate, to amuſe myſelf in that agreeable place; but I did not go the way I came to Mr. Henley's houſe. To avoid the dangerous moraſs I had paſſed, at the hazard of my life, we went over a wilder and more romantic country than I had before ſeen. We had higher mountains to aſcend than I had ever paſſed before; and ſome vallies ſo very deep to ride through, that they ſeemed as it were deſcents to hell. The patriarch Bermudez, in journeying over Abyſſinia, ne⯑ver travelled in more frightful GlinsRelation de l'Am⯑baſſade, dedica a Don Sebaſ⯑tien, roy de Portugal. And yet, we often came to plains and vales which had all the charms a paradiſe could have. Such is the nature of this country.

[54] Through theſe ſcenes, an amazing mix⯑ture of the terrible and the beautiful, we proceeded from five in the morning till one in the afternoon, when we arrived at a vaſt water-fall, which deſcended from a preci⯑pice near two hundred yards high, into a deep lake, that emptied itſelf into a ſwallow fifty yards from the catadure or fall, and went I ſuppoſe to the abyſs. The land from this head-long river, for half a mile in length and breadth, till it ended at vaſt mountains again, was a fine piece of ground, beauti⯑fully flowered with various perennials, the acanthus, the aconus, the adonis or phea⯑ſant's eye, the purple biſtorta, the blue bo⯑rago, the yellow bupthalmum, the white cacalia, the blue campanula, and the ſweet-ſmelling caſſia, the pretty double daiſy, the crimſon dianthus, the white dictamnus, the red fruximella, and many other wild flowers. They make the green valley look charming; and as here and there ſtood two or three ever-green trees, the cypreſs, the larix, the balm of Gilead, and the Swediſh juniper, the whole ſpot has a fine and delightful ef⯑fect. On my arrival here, I was at a loſs which way to turn.

The inha⯑bitants of this fine valley, a ſociety of married friars.§. 2. I could not however be long in ſuſpenſe how to proceed, as I ſaw near the water-fall a pretty thatched manſion, and [...] [55]inhabitants in it. I found they were a reli⯑gious ſociety of married people, ten friars and their ten wives, who had agreed to retire to this ſtill retreat, and form a holy houſe on the plan of the famous Ivon, the diſciple of Labadie, ſo celebrated on account of his connection with Mrs. Schurman, and his many fanatical writings.See my 1ſt volume, p. 347. where you will find a particular account of Labadie and Ivon. A book called the Marriage Chretien, written by this Ivon, was their directory, and from it they formed a proteſtant La Trappe; with this difference from the Catholic religious men, that the friars of the reformed monaſtery were to have wives in their convent; the better to enable them to obtain Chriſtian perfection in the religious life. Theſe Regulars, men and women, were a moſt induſtrious peo⯑ple, never idle; but between their hours of prayer always at work: the men were employed in a garden of ten acres, to pro⯑vide vegetables and fruit, on which they chiefly lived; or in cutting down old trees, and fitting them for their fire: and the wo⯑men were knitting, ſpinning, or twiſting what they had ſpun into thread, which they ſold for three ſhillings a pound: they were all together in a large, handſome room: they ſat quite ſilent, kept their eyes on their work, and ſeemed more attentive to ſome inward meditations, than to any thing that appeared, or paſſed by them. They looked [56]as if they were contented and happy. They were all extremely handſome, and quite clean: their linen fine and white: their gowns a black ſtuff. The women dined at one table: the men at another; but all ſat in the ſame room. The whole houſe was in bed by ten, and up by four in the morn⯑ing, winter and ſummer. What they ſaid at their table I could not hear, as they ſpoke low and little, and were at a diſtance from me, in a large apartment: but the conver⯑ſation of the men, at table, was very agree⯑able, rational and improving. I obſerved they had a great many children, and kept four women-ſervants to attend them, and do the work of the houſe. The whole pleaſed me very greatly. I thought it a happy inſtitution.

Some thoughts on the in⯑ſtitution of married regulars.§. 3. As to the marriage of the friars in this cloyſtral houſe, their founder, Ivon, in my opinion, was quite right in this no⯑tion. Chaſte junction cannot have the leaſt imperfection in it, as it is the appointment of God, and the inclination to a coit is ſo ſtrongly impreſſed on the machine by the author of it; and ſince it is quite pure and perfect; ſince it was wiſely intended as the only beſt expedient to keep man for ever in⯑nocent, it muſt certainly be much better for a regular or retreating prieſt, to have a law⯑ful, [57]female companion with him; and ſo the woman, who chuſes a convent, and diſlikes the faſhions of the world, to have her good and lawful monk every night in her arms; to love and procreate legally, when they have performed all the holy offices of the day; and then, from love and holy generation, return again to prayer, and all the heavenly duties of the cloyſtered life; than to live, againſt the inſtitution of nature and provi⯑dence, a burning, tortured nun, and a burn⯑ing, tortured friar; locked up in walls they can never paſs, and under the government of ſome old, croſs, impotent ſuperior. There is ſome ſenſe in ſuch a marriage chretien in a convent. Ivon's convent is well enough. A cloyſter may do upon his plan, with the dear creature by ones ſide, after the daily labours of the monk are over. It had been better, if that infallible man, the Pope, had come into this ſcheme. How comfortable has Ivon made it to the human race, who renounce the dreſs and pageantry, and all the vanities of time. Their days are ſpent in piety and uſefulneſs; and at night, after the completo⯑rium, they lie down together in the moſt heavenly charity, and according to the firſt great hail, endeavour to increaſe and multi⯑ply. This is a divine life. I am for a cloy⯑ſter on theſe terms. It pleaſed me ſo much [58]to ſee theſe monks march off with their ſmi⯑ling partners, after the laſt pſalm, that I could not help wiſhing for a charmer there, that I might commence the Married Regular, and add to the ſtock of children in this holy houſe. It is really a fine thing to monk it on this plan. It is a divine inſtitution: gentle and generous, uſeful and pious.

On the contrary, how cruel is the Roman church, to make perfection conſiſt in celibacy, and cauſe ſo many millions of men and wo⯑men to live at an eternal diſtance from each other, without the leaſt regard to the given points of contact! How unfriendly to ſociety! This is abuſing chriſtianity, and perverting it to the moſt pernicious purpoſes; under a pretence of raiſing piety, by giving more time and leiſure for devotion. For it never can be pious either in deſign or practice, to can⯑cel any moral obligation, or to make void any command of God: and as to prayer, it may go along with every other duty, and be performed in every ſtate. All ſtates have their intermiſſions; and if it ſhould be other⯑wiſe ſometimes, I can then, while diſcharg⯑ing any duty, or performing any office, pray as well in my heart, O God be merciful to me a ſinner, and bleſs me with the bleſſing of thy grace and providence, as if I was proſtrate before an altar. What Martha was reproved [59]for, was on account of her being too Yoli⯑citous about the things of this life. Where this is not the caſe, buſineſs and the world are far from being a hindrance to piety. God is as really glorified in the diſcharge of rela⯑tive duties, as in the diſcharge of thoſe which more immediately relate to himſelf. He is in truth more actively glorified by our diſ⯑charging well the relative duties, and we thereby may become more extenſively uſeful in the church and in the world, may be more public bleſſings, than it is poſſible to be in a ſingle pious ſtate. In ſhort, this one thing, celibacy, (were there nothing elſe) the making the unmarried ſtate a more holy ſtate than marriage, ſhews the prodigious nonſenſe and impiety of the Church of Rome, and is rea⯑ſon enough to flee that communion, if we had no other reaſons for proteſting againſt it. The tenet is ſo ſuperſtitious and dangerous, that it may well be eſteemed a doctrine of thoſe devils, who are the ſeducers and de⯑ſtroyers of mankind: but it is (ſays Wal⯑lace Diſſerta⯑tion on the numbers of man⯑kind.) ſuitable to the views and deſigns of a church, which has diſcovered ſuch an enormous ambition, and made ſuch havock of the human race, in order to raiſe, eſta⯑bliſh, and preſerve an uſurped and tyrannical power.

[60] A further account of the Marri⯑ed Regu⯑lars I met with a⯑mong the fells of Weſtmore⯑land.§. 4. But as to the Married Regulars I have mentioned; they were very glad to ſee me, and entertained me with great civility and goodneſs. I lived a week with them, and was not only well fed with vegetables and puddings on their lean days, Wedneſ⯑days and Fridays, and with plain meat, and good malt drink, on the other days; but was greatly delighted with their manner and piety, their ſenſe and knowledge. I will give my pious readers a ſample of their pray⯑ers, as I imagine it may be to edification. Theſe friars officiate in their turns, changing every day; and the morning and evening prayers of one of them were in the words following. I took them off in my ſhort⯑hand.

In this manner, did theſe pious Ivonites begin their every day; and when the ſun was ſet, and they had finiſhed their ſupper, they worſhipped God again in theſe words.

[67] An obſer⯑vation on the prayers of the Ivon recluſes.§. 5. By the way, I cannot help ob⯑ſerving, that theſe diſciples of Ivon are much reformed in reſpect of what his cloyſtered fol⯑lowers were in his time. It appears from Ivon's books, that he was as great a viſionary and tritheiſt as his maſter Labadie, or any of our modern myſtics now are. But theſe Regulars I found among the Fells, tho' on Ivon's plan, are as rational Chriſtians as ever adorned the religion of our Maſter by a pu⯑rity of faith. You ſee by their prayers, that their devotions are quite reaſonable and calm. There is no rant, nor words without mean⯑ing: no feeling inſtead of ſeeing the truth; nor expectation of covenant mercy on the belief of a point repugnant not only to the reaſon and nature of things, but to the plain repeated declarations of God in the Chriſtian religion. Their prayer is a calm addreſs to the great Maker, Governor, and Benefactor of the univerſe; and honour and obedience to Chriſt as Mediator, according to the will and appointment of God the Father.

An anſwer to a queſ⯑tion I aſk⯑ed one of theſe Ivon⯑ites.§. 6. Upon my aſking one of theſe gen⯑tlemen, how they came to differ ſo much from Ivon, their founder, and ceaſe to be the patrons of viſion, and an implicit incompre⯑henſible faith? He told me, they had read all the books on both ſides of the queſtion, that had been written of late years, and [68]could not reſiſt the force of the evidence in favour of reaſon and the divine unity. They ſaw it go againſt mechanical impulſe, and ſtrong perſuaſion without grounds, and there⯑fore, they diſmiſſed Ivon's notions of believ⯑ing without ideas, as they became ſenſible it was the ſame thing as ſeeing without light or objects. Without dealing any longer in a miſt of words, or ſhewing themſelves ortho⯑dox, by empty, inſignificant ſounds, they reſolved, that the object of their worſhip, for the time to come, ſhould be, that one ſupreme ſelf-exiſtent being, of abſolute, in⯑finite perfection, who is the firſt cauſe of all things, and whoſe numerical identity and in⯑finite perfections are demonſtrable from cer⯑tain principles of reaſon, antecedent to any peculiar revelation;—and confeſſed that the bleſſing, with which Jeſus Chriſt was ſent by God to bleſs the world, conſiſts in turning men from their iniquities. They now per⯑ceived what the creed-makers, and Ivon, their founder, could not ſee, to wit, that it is againſt the ſacred texts, to aſcribe to Each Perſon of Three the nature and all eſſential attributes and properties of the One only true God, and yet make the Three the One true God only, when conſidered conjunctly; for if Each has all poſſible perfections and at⯑tributes, then Each muſt be the ſame true God as if and when conjoined; and of conſe⯑quence, [69]there muſt then be Three One true Gods, or One Three true Gods; Three One Su⯑preme Beings, or One Three Supreme Beings, ſince to each of the three muſt be aſcribed (as the orthodox ſay) any thing and every thing, that is moſt peculiar and appropriated to the divine nature, without any difference. In ſhort, by conjobbling matters of faith in this manner, they ſaw, we had three diſtinct ſelfs, or intelligent agents, equal in power and all poſſible perfections, agreeing in one common eſſence, one ſort of ſpecies, (like a ſupreme magiſtracy of diſtinct perſons, act⯑ing by a joint exerciſe of the ſame power) and ſo the three are one, not by a numerical but ſpecific identity; three Omnipotents and one Almighty, in a collective ſenſe. This, (continued this gentleman) on ſearching the ſcriptures, we found was far from being the truth of the caſe. We diſcovered, upon a fair examination, and laying aſide our old prejudices, that there was nothing like this in the New Teſtament. It appeared to us to be the confuſed talk of weak heads. In the Bible we got a juſt idea of One Eternal Cauſe, God the Father, almighty, all-wiſe, unchangeable, infinite; and are there taught how to worſhip and ſerve him. The greateſt care is there taken to guard againſt the ill effects of imagination and ſuperſtition; and in [70]the plaineſt language, we are ordered to pray to this bleſſed and only potentate, the King of kings, and Lord of lords, who only, (or alone) hath immortality; and this in imita⯑tion of Jeſus, who in the morning very early went out into a ſolitary place, and there pray⯑ed Mark i. 35.. Who diſmiſſing his diſciples departed into a mountain to pray Mark vi. 46.. And he continued all night in prayer to GOD Luke vi. 12.: We are or⯑dered to glorify and bleſs this only wiſe God for ever Rom. xvi. 27.. Bleſſed be the God and Father of our Lord Jeſus Chriſt 2 Cor. i. 3.. To God and our Father be glory for ever Phil. iv. 20..—And to love him truly by keeping the commandments. Cui Jeſus ſic reſpon⯑dit: primum omnium praeceptorum eſt:Mark xii. 29, 30, 31. audi Iſraelita. Dominus Deus veſter dominus unus eſt. Itaque dominum Deum tuum toto corde, toto animo, tota mente, totiſque vi⯑ribus amato. Hoc primum eſt praeceptum. Hear, O Iſrael, the Lord our God is one Lord. And thou ſhalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy ſoul, and with all thy ſtrength. This is the firſt Commandment.

Et voicy le ſecond. Vous aimerez voſtre prochain comme vous même. And the ſe⯑cond is like the firſt. Hunc ſimile eſt alte⯑rum, alterum ut teipſum amato. His majus aliud praeceptum nullum eſt. Thou ſhalt love thy neighbour as thyſelf. There is none other commandment greater than theſe.

[71] To ſay it;—we became fully ſatisfied, that the ſupreme God and Governor of the world, who exiſts by a prior neceſſity, and therefore muſt be one, a perfect moral agent, and poſſeſſed of all moral perfections, is the ſole object of religious worſhip: that Jeſus Chriſt was a temporary miniſter, with a lega⯑tarian power, to publiſh and declare the ſpiritual laws of this Great God: and that it is incumbent on mankind to yield a perfect obedience to theſe ſpiritual laws of this Su⯑preme Being: that is, the duty of all, to make the object propoſed by Chriſt, his God and our God, his Father and our Father, the ſole object of faith; and to expect hap⯑pineſs or ſalvation, on the term of being turned from all our inquities. This ſeemed a matter worthy of the Son of God's appear⯑ing in the world. Every thing elſe muſt be enthuſiaſm and uſurpation.

A reflec⯑tion on true and falſe reli⯑gion.§. 7. Here the Ivoniſt had done, and I was greatly pleaſed with his ſenſe and piety. What a heavenly Chriſtianity ſhould we pro⯑feſs (I ſaid) if the notions of our modern enthuſiaſts were as conſiſtent with Chriſt's great deſign and profeſſion! We ſhould then ſet up the Kingdom of God among men, and be diligent and active in promoting the laws of that kingdom. We ſhould then be⯑lieve, like Jeſus Chriſt and his apoſtles, that [72]there is but One God, the Father Almighty. There is no one good (ſo commonly called) but one, that is God; or only the one God Mark x. 18.. Nullus eſt bonus niſi unus Deus. Caſtalio. (And Cant. MS. Clem. Alex. adds, — My Father who is in Heaven.) This is life eternal, to acknowledge thee, O Father, to be the only true GOD John xvii. through⯑out.. It is one God who will juſtify Rom. iii. 30.. We know that there is none other Gods but one. For to us there is one GOD the Father 1 Cor. viii. 4.6.. There is one GOD and Father of all, who is over all, and through all, and in you all Eph. iv. 6.. And we ſhould con⯑feſs one Mediator,—the man Chriſt Jeſus. 2 Tim. ii. 5. We ſhould be conſiſtent, and not throw off thoſe principles upon which chriſtianity was founded, and alone could be firſt built. We ſhould invite men into our religion, by repre⯑ſenting to them the perfection of that primary law of God, reaſon or natural religion; by declaring the plainneſs and clearneſs of it to all attentive and well-diſpoſed minds; and then ſhew them how worthy it was of the Supreme Governor to give ſuch creatures as he has made us the goſpel: that by the re⯑ligion of favour, he has, with glory to him⯑ſelf, diſplayed his paternal regard for us, by doing much more than what is ſtrictly neceſſary for our eternal good. God, on a principle of love, ſends his Chriſt, to adviſe us and awaken us to a ſenſe of our danger in paſſing through this world, in caſe (which [73]he ſaw would be the thing) we ſhould not conſtantly attend to the light we might ſtrike out ourſelves with ſome trouble. He calls us in an extraordinary manner to forſake vice and idolatry, and practiſe the whole ſyſtem of morality. We might expect, that a good God, would once at leaſt, interpoſe by ſuch an extraordinary method as revelation, to turn and incline his reaſonable creatures, to the ſtudy and practice of the religion of nature. This was acting like the Father of the Univerſe, conſidering the negligence and cor⯑ruption of the bulk of mankind. The rea⯑ſon he gave us, the law of nature, was giv⯑ing us all that was abſolutely neceſſary. The goſpel was an addition of what is excellently uſeful. What, my beloved, (might a ratio⯑nal divine ſay) can be more paternal, and worthy of the almighty Creator, than to re⯑veal plainly the motive of a judgment to come, in order to ſecure all obedience to the religion of nature? Reaſon may, to be ſure, be ſuffi⯑cient to ſhew men their duty, and to encou⯑rage their performance of it with the aſſu⯑rance of obtaining a reward, if they would duly attend to its dictates, and ſuffer them to have their due effect upon them: it may guide mankind to virtue, and happineſs con⯑ſequent to it, as God muſt be a rewarder of all thoſe who diligently ſeek him, and was enough to bring them to the knowledge, and [74]engage them in the practice of true religion and righteouſneſs, if they had not ſhut their eyes to its light, and wilfully rejected the rule written in their hearts. But as this was what mankind really did, and now do; as errors and impieties, owing to an undue uſe or neg⯑lect of reaſon, became univerſal; (juſt as the caſe of Chriſtians is, by diſregarding the New Teſtament); and reaſon, through men's faults, was rendered ineffectual, though ſtill ſufficient, (which juſtifies both the wiſdom and goodneſs of God, in leaving man for ſo many ages to his natural will, and ſo great a part of the globe to this day with no other light than the law of nature); and reaſon, I ſay, was rendered ineffectual, tho' ſtill ſufficient to teach men to worſhip God with pious hearts and ſincere affections, and to do his will by the practice of moral duties; to expect his favour for their good deeds, and his condemnation of their evil works; then was revelation a more powerful means of pro⯑moting true religion and godlineſs. The goſ⯑pel is a more effectual light. It is a clearer and more powerful guide: a brighter motive and ſtronger obligation to univerſal obedience than reaſon can with certainty propoſe. And therefore, though there was not a neceſſity for God to give a new rule in vindication of his providence, and in order to render men accountable to him for their actions; yet the [75]divine goodneſs was pleaſed to enforce the principles of reaſon and morality more pow⯑erfully by an expreſs ſanction of future re⯑wards and puniſhments, and by the goſpel reſtore religious worſhip to the original un⯑corrupted rational ſervice of the Deity. This diſplays his paternal regard to his children, with glory to himſelf. Love was the mov⯑ing principle of his ſending Chriſt into the world, to reform the corruptions of reaſon, to reſtore it to its purity, and moſt effectually to promote the practice of the rules of it. The goſpel-revelation conſidered in this man⯑ner appears to be the pure effect of the divine goodneſs. It is a conduct accompanied with the greateſt propriety and glory.

If this repreſentation of Chriſtianity was as much the doctrine of the church as it is of the Ivonites I have mentioned, we might then, with hopes of ſucceſs, call upon the rational infidels to come in. They could hardly refuſe the invitation, when we told them, our religion was the eternal law of reaſon and of God reſtored, with a few ex⯑cellently uſeful additions: that the goſpel makes the very religion of nature, a main part of what it requires, and ſubmits all that it reveals to the teſt of the law of reaſon: that the ſplendor of God's original light, the light of nature, and the revelation of Jeſus, are the ſame; both made to deliver mankind [76]from evils and madneſs of ſuperſtition, and make their religion worthy of God, and worthy of men; to enable them, by the voice of reaſon in conjunction with the words of the goſpel, to know and worſhip One God, the Maker, the Governor, the Judge, of the world; and to practiſe all that is good and praiſe-worthy: that we may be bleſſed as we turn from iniquity to virtue; and by en⯑tring cordially into the ſpirit of the merito⯑rious example or exemplary merits of Chriſt, be determined dead to ſin, and alive to righteouſneſs: in ſhort, my brethren, in the ſuffering and death of Jeſus, his patient, pi⯑ous and meek, his benevolent and compaſ⯑ſionate behaviour, under the moſt ſhocking inſult, indignity, and torture, we have what we could not learn from the religion of na⯑ture, a deportment that well deſerves both our admiration and imitation. We learn from the perfect example of Jeſus, recom⯑mended in his goſpel, to bear patiently ill⯑uſage, and to deſire the welfare of our moſt unreaſonable and malicious enemies. This is improving by religion to the beſt pur⯑poſe; and as we reſemble the Son of God, the man Chriſt Jeſus, in patience, piety, and benevolence, we become the approved chil⯑dren of the Moſt High, who is kind and good to the unthankful and to the evil. In this view of the goſpel, all is fine, reaſon⯑able, [77]and heavenly. The gentile can have nothing to object. We have the religion of nature in its original perfection, in the doc⯑trine of the New Teſtament, enforced by pains and pleaſures everlaſting; and we learn from the death of the Mediator, not only an unprecedented patience, in bearing our ſins in his own body on the tree; but the divine compaſſion and piety with which he bore them. We have in this the nobleſt example to follow, whenever called to ſuffer for well⯑doing, or for righteouſneſs-ſake; and by the imitation, we manifeſt ſuch a command of temper and ſpirit, as can only be the reſult of the greateſt piety and virtue. This added to keeping the commandments muſt render men the bleſſed of the Father, and entitle them to the kingdom prepared for the wife, the ho⯑neſt, and the excellent.

But, alas! inſtead of giving ſuch an ac⯑count of chriſtianity, the cry of the doctors is, for the moſt part, Diſcard reaſon, and pro⯑ſtrate your underſtanding before the adorable myſteries. Inſtead of a Supreme Independent Firſt Cauſe of all things to believe in and worſhip, they give Three true Gods in num⯑ber, Three infinite independent Beings, to be called One, as agreeing in one common ab⯑ſtract eſſence, or ſpecies; as all mankind are one, in one common rational nature, or ab⯑ſtract idea of humanity. Amazing account! [78]A triune no infidel or gentile of ſenſe will ever worſhip.

Inſtead of fixing ſalvation or moral recti⯑tude, and our preferring the will of God, as delineated in the words of the goſpel, be⯑fore all other conſiderations, we are told of an innocent, meritorious, propitiating blood, ſpilt by wicked hands, and ſo made an ac⯑ceptable ſacrifice, to a Being who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. This, we are aſſured, ſatisfies all the demands of the law. Here is infinite ſatisfaction:—and moſt cer⯑tainly, I add, a cool indifference as to per⯑ſonal rectitude. When ſuch a faith or cre⯑dulity becomes the principal pillar of truſt and dependance, then mere reliance on ſuch ſatisfaction to divine juſtice, may be a ſtupify⯑ing opiate, and make many remiſs in the la⯑bours of a penitential piety, and that exact rectitude of mind and life, which even reaſon requires, to render us acceptable to the Deity. Many an appetite and paſſion are indulged under this ſubterfuge; and with little fervency or zeal for good works, men expect to partake of the heavenly joys, by truſting to the merits of their Saviour, in their laſt will and teſtament. Deplorable caſe! Alas! how has Chriſtianity ſuffered by its doctors! The infidel laughs at it as thus preached. It be⯑comes a by-word, and a hiſſing to them that paſs by.

[79] Some re⯑marks on a paſſage in Binius; and a few thoughts in relation to the in⯑vocation of ſaints.§. 8. As to the library of my friends, the Ivonites, it was far from being a grand one, but I ſaw many curious books in it which had not come in my way before. From them I made ſeveral extracts, and to gratify my reader's curioſity a little, I will here favour him with one of them.

The firſt book I chanced to open in this library, was the ſecond volume of Severin Bini's edition of the Councils,⁽³⁾ [79](edit. Pa⯑ris, 1630) and over-againſt a very remarka⯑ble paſſage from Cyril, (p. 548) I found ſe⯑veral written leaves, bound up in the vo⯑lume, and theſe leaves referred to by an aſ⯑teriſk. The paſſage I call remarkable, is part [80]of a homily pronounced by the Alexandrian Patriarch before the council of Epheſus on St. John's day, in a church dedicated to his [81]names. In rehearſing his diſcourſe to the Holy Fathers, the Saint cites Heb. i. 6. and then addreſſes himſelfe to the apoſtle.

[82] [...]. — "When he [83]bringeth in the firſt-begotten into the world, he ſaith, Let all the angels of God worſhip him." — [...], &c.—O bleſſed [84] John the Evangeliſt, explain this myſtery: Who is this firſt-begotten—how came he in⯑to the world? Myſterium hoc aperi, effare [85]etiam nunc, qui voces habes immortales. Reſera nobis puteum vitae. Da, ut nunc quo⯑que de ſalutis fontibus hauriamus.

[86] This paſſage of Cyril I have heard ſeveral learned Roman Catholic gentlemen call a prayer, and affirm it was a proof of the Fa⯑ther's [87]Invocation of ſaints, in the beginning of the 5th century; for St. Cyril ſucceeded his uncle Theophilus in the ſee of Alexandria, [88]October 16, 412. But to this it may be anſwered,—

1. That Binius, though a zealous plea⯑der for the catholic cauſe, (as the monks of Rome miſcall it) was of another opinion, for he takes no notice of this paſſage in his notes (in calce part. 3, Concil, Epheſini, tom. 2. p. 665, &c.) and moſt certainly, he would not have failed to urge it, if he had conſider⯑ed it as a prayer, and believed it did prove the invocation of ſaints.

[89] 2. Nor does Bellarmine, in his treatiſe de ſanctorum beatitudine, Henricus Vicus, de ſanctorum invocatione, Gabriel Vaſquez, de adoratione, or Gregorius de Valentia, de ora⯑tione, make uſe of this paſſage of Cyril, tho' they do, ex profeſſo, and datâ, dili⯑gently quote all the councils and fathers they can, to prove invocation of ſaints.

3. As rhetorical apoſtrophes, or proſopo⯑paeias, are uſual in all authors, ſacred or civil, this may be one in Cyril, and it ſeems very plain from the paſſage, that it was intended for no more. It appears to be a rhetorical figure, and not a prayer; ſuch a figure as the Greek fathers were wont very frequently to uſe in their orations and poems.

Cyril intending, as appears by the ſequel, to anſwer his own queſtion with a paſſage in St. John's goſpel, makes a long rhetorical apoſtrophe to the apoſtle, as if he were there preſent, then adds, Annon dicentem audimus, [...]? But do we not hear him ſaying? Or, as Binius has the reading, [...], let us hear what St. John ſaith, audiamus itaque dicentem, as if they had heard John giving his anſwer, and then concludes with the firſt verſe of the firſt chapter of his goſpel, [...], &c. In the beginning was the word, &c.

It is therefore very plain, that this paſſage of Cyril is only a part of his homily or ſer⯑mon, [90]and that in a rhetorical manner, he quotes a text from a goſpel written by John about 330 years before, in anſwer to his own queſtion, who the word was? For Cyril to pray to John to tell them what he had told them long before, were ſenſeleſs and ridicu⯑lous; but to deſire the apoſtle to do it in a rhetorical apoſtrophe, was allowable. It a⯑mounts to no more than the figurative ex⯑preſſion in our liturgy, Hear what comfort⯑able words our Saviour ſaith. Hear what St. Paul ſaith.

But if Cyril did in this paſſage truly pray to St. John, that could be no argument for popiſh invocation of ſaints; for, if an hundred fathers in the beginning of the fourth century, had preached up, and practiſed invocation of ſaints, yet that could not make it lawful and right, ſince we are taught by the ſcriptures to direct our prayers neither to ſaint no an⯑gel, but to God only, and in the name and mediation of Jeſus Chriſt only. We are not only poſitively ordered by the apoſtles to make all our addreſſes and prayers ot God only, and by the mediation and interceſſion of Jeſus Chriſt; but are told, that God is omniſcient, and ſo able to hear all our prayers; — all-ſufficient, and therefore able to ſupply all our neceſſities; —and that his mercies in Jeſus Chriſt are in⯑finite. This makes our way ſure in this particular.

[91] On the contrary, the papiſts have no pre⯑cept to pray to ſaints; nor any promiſe that they ſhall be heard; nor any practice of the primitive church, for 300 years after Chriſt, to encourage them; and therefore, ſuch po⯑piſh invocation is a novel, groundleſs, and im⯑pious error.

Some re⯑marks on the doc⯑trine of in⯑vocation of ſaints.We are told by St. Peter, (Acts v. 31.) that God had exalted the Lord Jeſus Chriſt to be a Prince and Saviour, that is, an inter⯑ceſſor.— By St. Paul, (Heb. vii. 25.) that Chriſt is able to ſave to the uttermoſt all that come to God by him, ſeeing he ever liveth to make interceſſion for them; (chap. ix. 24.) that he is gone to haven (for this very end) to appear in the preſence of God for us: (1 Tim. ii.5.) that there is not other mediator betwixt God and men but the man Chriſt Jeſus, that is, whoſe prerogative it is to intercede for ſinners to the Divine Majeſty; being an honour and dignity God hath exalted him unto, after his ſufferings, and as a reward thereof:—Thus are we informed by the divine oracles, and yet, notwithſtanding this, to make prayers and ſupplications to the Virgin Mary, and a thouſand other ſaints, for aid or help; and to have by their merit and interceſſion, the giſts and graces they pray for conferred upon them;—this is a doctrine of ſuch dangerous conſequence, as it is a depriving of Chriſt Jeſus of that grand dignity and prerogative [92]he is now in heaven exalted to, as much as in men lies, that I ſhould have admired how it ever came to be embraced by ſuch as pro⯑feſs chriſtianity, had not the ſpirit of God foretold (1 Tim. iv. 4.) that ſome ſhould de⯑part from the faith, giving heed to ſeducing ſpirits, (that is, ſeducing men) and doctrines of devils, that is to ſay, doctrines concerning demons, or ſouls of famous men departed this life; which the heathens called demons; and to whom they gave the worſhip of prayer or invocation, as interceſſors or inferior divini⯑ties. This prophecy hinders my wondering at the thing: but then I muſt call ſuch mo⯑dern invocation gentiliſm chriſtianized; a de⯑plorable corruption.

Ponder then, ye Catholics, in time, and think not to excuſe yourſelves by arguing from the command Chriſtians have here on earth to require each others prayers to God for them:—For, we have no command to ſup⯑plicate any in heaven but only God. (Matt. vi. 8.) We have no reaſonable aſſurance that the ſaints in heaven do hear our prayers, and of conſequence have not the ſame rea⯑ſons to requeſt their prayers to God for us that we have to requeſt the prayers of ſaints on earth: nor is this all: our prayers to each other in this life are only chriſtian requeſts to recommend our conditions to God: offices only of kindneſs: no acts of religious worſhip.

[93] When St. Paul was on earth, had any one on bended knees, with hands and eyes lifted up to heaven, in time of public prayer, and amidſt the ſolemn prayers to God, beſeeched him for aid and help, and for the conference of gifts and graces, he would have rent his cloathes, and ſaid, Why do ye theſe things? and can we ſuppoſe, that now in heaven, the apoſtle is leſs careful to preſerve entire God's prerogative.

Beſide, there is a great deal of difference betwixt St. Paul's ſaying, Brethren, pray for us, or our requeſting the prayers of the faith⯑ful here on earth for us, and praying to ſaints in heaven, as practiſed in the Roman church. Our's, are only wiſhes and requeſts; their's, ſo⯑lemn prayers on bended knees, made in the places and proper ſeaſons of divine worſhip, and joined with the prayers they make to God. They uſe the ſame poſtures and expreſſions of devotions they uſe to God himſelf. They pray to them for help and aid, and make them joint-petitioners with Chriſt; relying on their merits as the merits of Chriſt.

In ſum, in the tabernacle of this world, we are to requeſt the prayers of every good chriſ⯑tian for us: but in the tabernacle of heaven, we are to call on none but Him in whom we believe. As in the outward court of the Jew⯑iſh tabernacle, every prieſt was permitted to officiate, to receive and preſent the devotions [94]of the people to the divine majeſty; but in the holy place, within the vail, none but the high-prieſt was to do any office or ſervice: even ſo in the tabernacle of this world, every chriſ⯑tian being a prieſt to God, has this honour conferred upon him; but in the holy of holies, in heaven, none but Chriſt, our high-prieſt, is to officiate. He only is there to appear in the preſence of God for us. It is his preroga⯑tive alone to receive our prayers, and preſent them to the divine majeſty. As none but the high-prieſt was to offer incenſe in the holy of holies, ſo none in heaven but Chriſt our high-prieſt is to offer our prayers to God his father. He alone is that angel to whom much incenſe was given, that he ſhould offer it with the prayers of all ſaints, upon the golden altar that was before the throne. (Rev. viii. 3.) Which alludes to the altar that was before the mercy-ſeat, on which the high-prieſt only was to offer incenſe.

But the catholic may ſay perhaps, that as on earth, men do not preſently run to kings to preſent their requeſts, but obtain his fa⯑vours by the mediation of courtiers and favou⯑rites; even ſo, it is fitting we have recourſe to ſaints, who are favourites in heaven, that we may obtain acceſs to God, and have our ſuits accepted of him. Thus have I heard ſome learned men of the church of Rome argue. They ſhould conſider, however, in the firſt [95]place, that if an earthly prince had declared he would have no ſollicitor but his ſon, and that all favours and royal graces ſhould come to his ſubjects through his hands, and by means of his mediation; ſuch ſubjects could deſerve no favour, if they make their application to other favourites, contrary to their prince's command.—In the next place, if the ſol⯑licitor, the ſon, was out of the queſtion, and no ſuch one had been declared by the king, yet as we petition earthly princes by ſuch as enjoy their preſence, becauſe they cannot give audience to all their ſubjects, nor do they know the worthy; but God is omnipreſent, his ears always open, and his head bowed down to the prayers of his people; is no reſpecter of perſons, but gives a like acceſs to the beggar as to the prince, and promiſes to caſt out none that make their application to him; it fol⯑lows of conſequence, that we ought to ad⯑dreſs ourſelves immediately to God, and aſk from him. If an earthly prince ſhould thus invite his ſubjects to petition him for the ſup⯑ply of their wants, I ſhould account the man no better than a fool or a madman, who would apply himſelf to any of the king's favourites.

The concluſion is; O thou that heareſt prayer, unto thee ſhall all fleſh come. (Pſ. lxv. 2.) Since God, who is infinite in mercy, omnipreſent, and omnipotent in wiſdom and action, admits every man to the throne of [96]grace, bids him aſk in the name of Jeſus Chriſt, and promiſes, whatever we aſk in his Son's name, he will do it.—Since the practice of praying to ſaints is injurious to Chriſt, and doth manifeſtly rob him of his royal prerogative, which is to be the one, and only mediator betwixt God and man; for in this office, he hath no ſharers or partners, according to the ſcripture account: As God is but one, and there is no other; ſo the me⯑diator (by the appointment of God) is but one, and there is, there can be no other ⁽⁴⁾— And ſince, excluſive of theſe unalterable things, the Roman doctors cannot be certain, that ſaints in heaven hear the requeſts of ſup⯑pliants on earth, or know whether our prayers are fit to be accepted of God ⁽⁵⁾; let us reject that unlawful practice, the invocation of ſaints, [97]and pray for pardon and grace (as the goſpel directs) to God the judge of all, through Je⯑ſus Chriſt the mediator of the new covenant.

This do, and thou ſhalt live.

N. B. Who was the author of theſe good remarks, theſe friars could not tell me; as they were in the book when they bought it. If I miſtake not, they are an abſtract from a letter of Biſhop Barlow to Mr. Evelyn, with ſeveral additions. I have not Biſhop Barlow's works by me; but I think I have ſeen ſome⯑thing to this purpoſe, written by this prelate about one hundred years ago.

SECTION III.

April 8, 1729, we leave the religious, and pro⯑ceed in the journey.§. 1. THE eighth of April, 1729, I bid the Ivonites adieu, and by their directions walked up a very ſteep and ſtony mountain, which took me two hours, and then arrived at what I had often ſeen before in this part of the world, a great lake, the [99]water of which was black as ink to look at as it ſtood, though very bright in a cup, and muſt be owing, as I ſuppoſe, to its deſcend⯑ing to the abyſs: by the ſide of this water, under the ſhade of oak-trees, many hundred years old, we rid for an hour, on even ground, and then came to a deſcent ſo very dangerous and dark, through a wood on the mountain's ſide, that we could hardly creep it down on our feet, nor our horſes keep their legs as we led them to the bottom. This declivity was more than a mile, and ended in a narrow lane between a range of precipices that almoſt met at top. This paſs was knee-deep in water, from a ſpring in the bottom of the mountain we had come down, which ran through it, and ſo very ſtony, that it took us three hours to walk the horſes to the end of it, though it was not more than two miles: but at laſt we came to a fine plain, over which we rid for an hour and a half, and arrived at a wood, which ſeemed very large, and ſtood between two very high unpaſſable hills. In this foreſt was our way, and the road ſo dark, and obſtructed by the branches of trees, that it was diſmal and un⯑eaſy to go. On however we went for a long time, and about the middle of it came to a circular opening of about four acres, in which four very narrow roads met; that we had travelled, another before us, and one on [100]each hand. The way ſtrait on we were cautioned by my friends not to go, as it was a terrible ride; but whether to turn to the right or left, we had forgot. I thought to the right; but my lad was poſitive, he re⯑membered the directions was to take the left⯑hand road. This cauſed a ſtop for ſome time, and as I was a little fatigued, I thought it beſt while we pauſed to dine. Finn brought immediately ſome meat, bread, and a bottle of cyder, from his valiſe, and under a great oak I ſat down, while our horſes fed on the green. One hour we reſted, and then went on again, to the left, as O Finn adviſed. For ſeveral hours we rid, or rather, our horſes walked, till we got out of the wood, and then arrived at the bottom of a ſteep moun⯑tain; one ſide of which is in the northern extremity of Weſtmoreland, and the other in the north end of Stanemore-Richmondſhire. This vaſt hill we aſcended, and came down the other ſide of the fell into a plain, which extends ſouth-eaſt for near half a mile to the river Teeſe, that divides the north end of Stanemore from Biſhoprick, or the county of Durham. Yorkſhire here ends in an ob⯑tuſe angle, between two mountains, and the angle, for a quarter of a mile, is filled with that beautiful tall ever-green tree, the broad⯑leaved alaternus, intermixed here and there in a charming manner, with the fir tree, [101]the Norway ſpruce, and the balm of Gilead. It is as fine a grove as can in any part of the world be ſeen.

A deſcrip⯑tion of a little coun⯑try ſeat, in the north⯑ern extre⯑mity of Stanemore.§. 2. Juſt at the entrance of it, by the ſide of a plentiful ſpring, which runs into the Teeſe, there ſtood the prettieſt little houſe I had ever beheld, and over it crept the pretty rock-roſe, the caſſine, the ſea-green coro⯑milla, and other ever-green ſhrubs. Before the houſe, was a large garden, ſeven or eight acres of land, under fruit-trees, and vegeta⯑bles of every kind; very beautifully laid out; and watered in a charming manner by the ſtream that murmured a thouſand ways from the ſpring by the houſe-door. I have not ſeen a ſweeter thing. It appeared ſo beauti⯑ful and uſeful, ſo ſtill and delightful a place, ſo judiciouſly cultivated, and happily diſ⯑poſed, that I could not help wiſhing to be acquainted with the owner of ſuch a lodge.

A deſcrip⯑tion of a ſleeping parlour in a grove.§. 3. As there was no other fence to this fine ſpot of ground but a ditch like a ha to keep cattle out, I leaped into the gardens, and roamed about for ſome time, to look at the curious things. I then went up to the houſe, in hopes of ſeeing a human creature either high or low. I knocked at the door, but no one could I find, though the manſion did not look like an uninhabited place. I [102]then ſauntered into the grove behind, and in a winding way of three hundred yards, that had been cut through the perennial wood, and was made between banks of ſpringing flowers, beautiful exotics, and various aro⯑matic ſhrubs, crept on till I arrived at a ſleep⯑ing parlour, which ſtood in the middle of a circular acre of ground, and was ſurrounded and ſhaded with a beautiful grove; the larix, the phoenician cedar, and the upright ſavin. There was a little falling water near the door, that was pleaſing to look at, and charmed the ear. Entring this room, I found the walls painted by ſome maſterly hand, in baſ⯑kets of flowers, and the fineſt rural ſcenes. Two handſome couches were on either ſide the chamber, and between theſe lits de repos was as curious a table for wood and work⯑manſhip as could be ſeen. Pretty ſtools ſtood near it, and one arm-chair. It was a ſweet filent place, and in every reſpect, far beyond the ſleeping parlour in the gardens at Stow. ⁽⁶⁾

Paſs'd the night in the ſleeping parlour in the wood.§. 4. On one of the couches, as it was then evening, and I knew not what to do, I threw myſelf down, and very ſoon fell faſt aſleep. I lay the whole night without wak⯑ing, and as ſoon as I could perceive any day, went to ſee what was become of Finn and [103]the horſes. The beaſts I found feeding on very good graſs in the green; and my lad ſtill ſnoaring under a great tree: but he was ſoon on his legs, and gave me the following account.

Finn's ſtory.§. 5. About an hour after my departure from him, he ſaw a poor man paſs over the plain, who had come down the mountain we deſcended, and was going to croſs the Teeſe in a ſmall ſkiff of his own, in order to go to his cottage on the other ſide in Biſh⯑oprick: that he lived by fiſhing and fowling, and ſold what he got by land and water to the quality and gentlefolk, twenty miles round him. And on aſking who lived in the houſe before us, on the ſkirts of the grove, he ſaid, it belonged to a young lady of great fortune, Miſs Antonia Cranmer, whoſe father had been dead about a year, (died in the houſe I ſaw): that ſhe was the greateſt beauty in the world, and only nine⯑teen, and for one ſo young, wiſe to an aſto⯑niſhing degree: that ſhe lived moſtly at this ſeat, with her couſin, Agnes Vane, who was almoſt as handſome as ſhe: that Miſs Cran⯑mer had no reliſh for the world, being uſed to ſtill life, and ſeldom ſtirred from home, but to viſit an old lady, her aunt, who lived in Cumberland: that ſhe was at preſent there, [104]about twenty miles off, and would ſoon re⯑turn: that ſhe kept four young gentlewomen (who had no fortunes) to attend her and Miſs Vane; two old men ſervants, a gardner, and a cook; and two boys: that whenever ſhe went from her houſe, ſhe took her whole family with her, and left every place locked up as I faw. Finn's account ſurpriſed me. It ſet me a thinking if it was poſſible to get this charming girl. I pauſed with my finger in my mouth for a few minutes, and then bid him ſaddle the horſes.

The au⯑thor's manner of living for ſeveral days, in the cottage of a poor fiſherman in Biſh⯑eprick.§. 6. As ſoon as it was poſſible, I went over the river to the fiſherman's houſe, de⯑termining there to wait, till I could ſee the beautiful Antonia, and her fair kinſwoman, another Agnes de Caſtro, to be ſure. My curioſity could not paſs two ſuch glorious ob⯑jects without any acquaintance with them.

The poor fiſherman gave me a bed very readily for money, as he had one to ſpare for a traveller, and he provided for me every thing I could deſire. He brought bread and ale from a village a few miles diſ⯑tant, and I had plenty of fiſh and wild-fowl for my table. Every afternoon I croſſed the water, went to the ſleeping parlour, and there waited for the charming Antonia.— Twenty days I went backwards and forwards, [105]but the beauties in that time did not return. Still however I reſolved to wait; and, to amuſe myſelf till they came, went a little way off to ſee an extraordinary man.

A deſcrip⯑tion of a charming little coun⯑try ſeat, where a ſo⯑litary gen⯑tleman lived.§. 7. While I reſided in this cot⯑tage, Chriſtopher informed me, that about three miles from his habitation, there liv⯑ed, in a wild and beautiful glin, a gen⯑tleman well worth my knowing, not on⯑ly on account of his pretty lodge, and lone manner of ſpending his time, but as he was a very extraordinary man. This was enough to excite my curioſity, and as ſoon as it was light, the firſt of May, I went to look for this ſolitary. I found him in a vale, romantic indeed, among vaſt rocks, ill-ſhaped and rude, and ſurrounded with trees, as ve⯑nerable as the foreſt of Fontainbleau. His little houſe ſtood on the margin of a fountain, and was encompaſſed with copſes of different trees and greens. The pine, the oak, the aſh, the cheſnut tree, cypreſſes, and the acaſia, diverſified the ground, and the neg⯑ligent rural air of the whole ſpot, had charms that could always pleaſe. Variety and agree⯑ableneſs were every where to be ſeen. Here was an harbour of ſhrubs, with odoriferous flowers: and there, a copſe of trees was crowned with the enamel of a meadow. [106]There was a collection of the moſt beautiful vegetables in one part; and in another, an aſſembly of ever-greens, to form a perpetual ſpring. Pan had an altar of green turf, under the ſhade of elms and limes: and a water-nymph ſtood by the ſpring of a mur⯑muring ſtream. The whole was a fine imitation of nature; ſimple and rural to a charming degree.

The hiſ⯑tory of Dorict Watſon, the hermit.§. 8. Here lived Dorick Watſon, an Eng⯑liſh gentleman, who had been bred a catholic in France, and there married a ſiſter of the famous Abbé le Blanc. But on returning to his own country, being inclined by good ſenſe and curioſity, to ſee what the proteſ⯑tants had to ſay in defence of their reforma⯑tion, he read the beſt books he could get on the ſubject, and ſoon perceived, that Luther, Melancthon, Calvin, Zuinglius, Bucer, and other miniſters of Chriſt, had ſaid more againſt the Romiſh religion than the pretended catho⯑lics had been able to give a ſolid anſwer to. He ſaw, that barbarity, policy, and ſophiſtry, were the main props of popery; and that, in doctrine and practice, it was one of the grea⯑teſt viſible enemies that Chriſt has in the world. He found that even Bellarmine's notes of his church were ſo far from being a clear and neceſſary proof that the church of Rome is [107]the body of Chriſt, or true church, that they proved it to be the Great Babylon, or that great enemy of God's church, which the apoſ⯑tles deſcribe.

The her⯑mit's ob⯑ſervations on Bellar⯑mine's notes of the church.He ſaw, in the firſt place, that there has not been, ſince the writing of the New Teſta⯑ment, any empire, but that of the church of Rome, ſo univerſal for 1260 years toge⯑ther, as to have all that dwell upon earth, peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues, to worſhip it; which is St. John's deſcription of the new power that prevailed on the inhabitants of the earth to receive his idolatrous conſtitutions, and yield obedience to his tyrannical authority. And all that dwell on the earth ſhall worſhip him, except thoſe who are enrolled in the regiſters, as heirs of eter⯑nal life, according to the promiſes of the me⯑diator of acceptance and bleſſing. (Rev. xiii. 8.) The waters which thou ſaweſt, where the whore ſitteth, are peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues. (Rev. xvii. 15.) Bel⯑larmine's Univerſality then is directly againſt him.

The Cardinal's ſecond note, (continued Dorick) is antiquity, and his third a per⯑petual and uninterrupted duration. But on examination, I could find no ruling power, except Rome papal, ſo ancient, as to have the blood of prophets, and ſaints, and of all that [108]were ſlain upon earth, of that kind for that ſpace of time, to be found in it. (Rev. xviii. 24.) And what Rule but papal Rome had ever ſo long a duration upon ſeven hills, ſo as to anſwer the whole length of the time of the Saracen and Turkiſh empires.

The Cardinal's fourth note is amplitude, and it is moſt certain, that never had any other church ſuch a multitude and variety of be⯑lievers, as to have all nations drink of the wine of her fornication, and to gain a blaſ⯑phemous power over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.

The fifth note is the Succeſſion of its biſhops; and the ſixth, Agreement with the doctrine of the antient church: Now it is moſt true, that none but Rome was ever ſo eminently conſpicuous for ſo long a time for the ſucceſſion of its biſhops under one ſupreme patriarch, as to be the living image of all the civil dig⯑nities of the empire, where it was under one ſupreme church-head exerciſing all the power of the civil head: nor did ever any enemy of God's church act for ſo long a time like the red dragon in its bloody laws againſt the fol⯑lowers of the lamb: and yet ſo far agree with the primitive church in fundamental doctrines, as to anſwer the character of a falſe prophet with the horns of the lamb, that is, Chriſt, but ſpeaking like the red [109]dragon to his followers, as the church of Rome has done.⁽⁷⁾

[109] The ſeventh note of Bellarmine's holy Roman catholic church, is the Union of the members [110]among themſelves, and with the head: And ſure it is, that no where elſe but in Rome papal, has there been ſuch an union of [111]head and members for that length of time, as to apply the one mind of the ten kings for their agreement together, to give their power, and ſtrength, and their whole kingdoms to the beaſt.

[112] The eighth note produced by Cardinal Bel⯑larmine, is Sanctity; and Watſon ſaw it fair⯑ly proved by the proteſtant writers, that no church but Rome did ever appear ſo long to⯑gether with ſuch a medley of ſanctity, in ſome doctrines, and outward appearances of a ſtrict holineſs of life, joined with the moſt abomi⯑nable doctrines, and practices, to qualify it for the horns of the lamb, and the ſpeech of the dragon for the idolatrous and cruel com⯑mands of the image; or, for having the form of godlineſs in the latter times, and yet de⯑nying the power thereof.

In ſhort, Dorick not only found, on a careful enquiry, that the ſyſtem of the church of Rome was error and turpitude, abomination, gain, and cruelty,—and her great deſign the very reverſe of the goſpel revelation, which came down from heaven to prepare men, by the practice of univerſal holineſs and virtue, for eternal life; but likewiſe, that even her Cardinal's notes prove, this church cannot be, in any ſenſe, the true church of Chriſt; and Bellarmine was perfectly infatuated to make choice of ſuch things for the marks of his church, as make it the very picture of Babylon the Great. He reſolved then to come out of Rome. He determined to forſake a church, which had altered the inſtitutions of Chriſt, and is therefore guilty of hereſy as well as ſchiſm.

[113] This change in religion gave Dorick the higheſt ſatisfaction, (as he told me) and it was doubled by his being able to convert his beloved Adelaide from popery to the church of Chriſt. But this joy had ſoon after ſome mitigation, by loſing one of the moſt agree⯑able women in the world. Death robbed him of his heart's fond idol, and by that ſtroke he was ſo wounded, that he could not heal himſelf for a long time. He became the real mourner. He kept the reaſons of his anguiſh continually before him, and was more intent upon ſpending his ſpirits, than his ſorrows. He grew fond of ſolitude and ſilence, that he might indulge his paſſion, and provoke the emotion of that grief that was ready to devour him. In ſhort, he re⯑treated to the ſilent place I found him in, which was a part of his own eſtate, and turned hermit. He built the little villa I ſaw by the water-ſide, and formed the ground into the natural garden I beheld. Le Blanc mentions it in his letters, as an extraordinary thing, and very juſtly prefers it to the labour⯑ed and expenſive Gardens at Chiſwick, the work of the late Lord Burlington, Here Watſon laid in every thing he had a mind for, and filled his cloſet with books. He amuſed and kept himſelf healthy by working in his garden, and when he had done abroad, went in to read. His principal ſtudy was the con⯑templation [114]of the beſt learning, which is the true chriſtian; and from that he went to know what the Greeks and Romans have reſolved and taught. In ſome things, I found he was a learned agreeable man, and won⯑dered greatly at his whim in turning hermit. I ſaid a great deal againſt it, as we ſat over a bottle of claret; told him he might employ his time and talents more uſefully in the world, by mixing and converſing with his fellow creatures, and by a mutual participa⯑tion and conveyance of the common bleſſings of nature and providence; and as he was not forty yet, adviſed him to go over the Teeſe, and make his addreſſes to Miſs Cranmer or Miſs Vane, both of them being moſt glorious girls, as I was told, and capable of adding greatly to the delights of philoſophy. You have not ſeen two finer creatures, ſoul and body, than they are, if I have been rightly informed; and I think, it would be a no⯑bler and more religious act to get one of them with child, in the ſtate of holy wedlock, than to write the beſt book that was ever printed. For my own part, I had rather marry, and double-rib one of theſe dear creatures, than die with the character of a father of the deſarts. But in vain did I re⯑monſtrate to this anchoret. Contemplation was become his Venus, from the hour he loſt [115]his Adelaide; and he had lived ſo very happy in his lone ſtate for ſeven years paſt, that he could not think of hazarding felicity by a change of life. He had all he deſired. If at any time, and thing was wanting, Chriſto⯑pher the fiſherman, who came to ſee him once or twice a week, very quickly got him what⯑ever he required. This was Watſon's anſwer to my advice, and ſeeing it was to no pur⯑poſe to ſay any more, I wiſhed my hermit health, and bid him adieu.

A few re⯑marks re⯑lating to the Abbé Le Blanc, and his letters.§. 9. Having, in the preceding article, mentioned the famous Abbé le Blanc, I think I ought to ſay ſomething of him in this place, by adding a few remarks in relation to this extraordinary man. He was in England in the year 1735, and writ two volumes of letters in octavo, which were tranſlated into Engliſh, and printed for Brindley in 1747. In this account of England, the French monk pretends to deſcribe the natural and political conſtitution of our country, and the temper and manners of the nation; but, as is evident from his epiſtles, knew nothing at all of any of them.

Voltaire, however, (that wonderful com⯑pound of a man, half infidel, half papiſt; who ſeems to have no regard for chriſtianity, and yet compliments popery, at the expence [116]of his underſtandingVoltaire's words are,—And notwithſtanding all the troubles and infamy which the church of Rome has had to encounter, ſhe has always preſerved a grea⯑ter decency and gravity in her worſhip than any of the other churches; and has given proofs, that when in a ſtate of freedom, and under due regulations, ſhe was formed to give leſſons to all others.—Is not this facing the world, and contradicting truth with a bold front? Decency and gravity in the church of Rome! The licen⯑tious whore. And formed to give leſſons! Leſſons, Voltaire!—Is not her wiſdom, in every article of it, earthly, ſenſual, deviliſh;—and her zeal, that bitter, fierce, and cruel thing, which for ever produces confuſion and every evil work? With a juſt abhorrence, and a manly indig⯑nation, we muſt look upon this myſtery of iniquity, and never let that horror decay, which is neceſſary to guard us againſt the groſs corruptions of the Roman church; the idolatry of her worſhip,—the abſurdity and impiety of her doctrines,—the tyranny and cruelty of her princi⯑ples and practices. Theſe are her leſſons, Voltaire; and you ought to aſk the world pardon for daring to re⯑commend a church, whoſe ſchemes and pieties bid defiance to reaſon, and are inconſiſtent with the whole tenor of re⯑velation. This is the more incumbent on you, as you ſay you are a philoſopher, and let us know in more places than one in your writings, that by that word, you mean a man who believes nothing at all of any revelation.; who writes the hiſtory of England with a partiality and ma⯑levolence almoſt as great as Smollet's, and pre⯑tends to deſcribe the Britannic conſtitution, though it is plain from what he ſays, that he has not one true idea of the primary inſtitu⯑tions of it, but taking this nation to be juſt ſuch another kingdom of ſlaves as his own [117]country, rails at the Revolution, and like all the Jacobite dunces, prates againſt the placing the Prince of Orange on the throne, and the eſtabliſhment of the ſucceſſion in the preſent pro⯑teſtant heirs; though moſt certain it be, that theſe things were the natural fruit and effect of our incomparable conſtitution, and are de jure:—In ſhort, that Zoilus and plagiary,—that carping ſuperficial critic, (as a good judge calls him); who abuſes the Engliſh nation in his letters, and denies Shakeſpear almoſt every dramatic excellence; though in his Mahomet, he pilfers from Macbeth almoſt every capital ſcene: (Shakeſpear, who furniſhes out more elegant, pleaſing, and intereſting entertain⯑ment, in his plays, than all the other dra⯑matic writers, antient and modern, have been able to do; and, without obſerving any one unity but that of character, for ever diverts and inſtructs, by the variety of his incidents, the propriety of his ſentiments, the luxuri⯑ancy of his fancy, and the purity and ſtrength of his dialogue): Voltaire, I ſay, ſpeaking of this Abbé le Blanc, wiſhes he had tra⯑velled through all the world, and wrote on all nations, for it becomes only a wiſe man to travel and write. Had I always ſuch cordials, I would not complain any more of my ills. I ſupport life, when I ſuffer. I enjoy it, when I read you. This [118]is Voltaire's account of the Abbé. How true and juſt it is, we ſhall ſee in a few obſerva⯑tions on what this reverend man ſays of our religion and clergy.

Some ob⯑ſervations on the Abbé Le Blanc's fifty-eighth letter to the Preſident Bouhier, in which he miſrepre⯑ſents and blackens the refor⯑mation of England, and abuſes the Engliſh clergy.The ſubſtance of what this French monk reports, vol. II. from p. 64 to p. 75, in his letter to the Preſident Bouhier, ⁽⁹⁾ [118] is this:

1. That Cranmer, and the other doctors, who introduced the reformation into England, were downright enthuſiaſts, and compaſſed their deſigns by being ſeconded by thoſe, who were animated by a ſpirit of irreligion, and by a greedy deſire of ſeizing the poſſeſſions of the monks. It was the deſire of a change eſtabliſhed the reformation. The new doctors [119]ſeduced the people, and the people having miſtaken darkneſs for light, quitted the road of truth, to walk in the ways of error.

2. As to morals, that this boaſted reforma⯑tion produced no change in that reſpect; for the people are not purer than they were in former times, and the eccleſiaſtics are deſpiſed and hated for the badneſs of their lives. The biſhops ſacrifice every thing to their ambition; and the clergy of the ſecond rank have no reſpect for their office. They ſpend the whole day in public places in ſmoaking and drinking, and are remarkable for drunken⯑neſs, ſo diſhonourable to eccleſiaſtics. Their [120]talk is the moſt diſſolute, and the vice that degrades theſe profeſſors, ſets a bad example to ſober people, and makes them the jeſt of libertines.

3. The only remarkable change produced by the reformation was the marriage of prieſts; and, excluſive of this being againſt the deci⯑ſions of the catholic church, it is contrary to ſound policy and experience. The marriage of prieſts diminiſhes the reſpect we ſhould have for them. The miſconduct of a wo⯑man makes the clergyman fall into contempt. The lewdneſs of the daughter makes the prieſt, her father, the object of the moſt in⯑decent jeſts; and for the moſt part, the daugh⯑ters of the clergy turn whores after the death of their father; who, while living, ſpent more of his income in maintaining himſelf and children in pleaſure and luxury, than in works of charity. He lived profuſely, and dies poor.

Beſide, if the Engliſh clergy were the greateſt and moſt excellent men, yet a great man in the eyes of the world, loſes of the reſpect which is due to him, in proportion as he has any thing in common with the reſt of mankind. A Madam Newton, and a Madam Fontenelle, would injure the illuſtrious men whoſe name they bore. Nor is this all. Thoſe who by their diſpoſition cannot fix that ſecret [121]inclination, which induces us to love, on one perſon, are more humane and charitable than others. The unmarried eccleſiaſtics are more animated with that charitable ſpirit their function requires, as they have no worldly affections to divert it. People very rarely (as Lord Bacon ſays) employ themſelves in watering plants, when they want water them⯑ſelves. —In ſhort, the Engliſh divines are the worſt of men, and there is hardly any reli⯑gion in England.—Thus does this French Abbé revile the Engliſh reformation and di⯑vines. He miſrepreſents the whole nation, and with a falſhood and outrage peculiar to popery and maſs-prieſts, that is, to devils and the moſt execrable religion, ſcreams againſt the pure religion of the goſpel, and diſhoneſtly blackens ſome of the fineſt characters that ever adorned human nature. So very vi⯑rulent is this reverend French papiſt againſt the clergy of England, that he is even poſi⯑tive there is not a divine in the nation knows how to behave like a gentleman.

In anſwer to the firſt article of impeach⯑ment, I obſerve, that it is ſo far from being true, that Cranmer, and the other Engliſh divines, our reformers, were enthuſiaſts, and compaſſed their deſigns by the aſſiſtance of thoſe who were animated by a ſpirit of irreligion, and by a greedy deſire of ſeizing the poſſeſſion of [122]the monks, (as this maſs-prieſt aſſerts); that it is moſt certain, on the contrary, Cranmer, and the other reformers, were wiſe and up⯑right chriſtians, who, from a good under⯑ſtanding of religion, oppoſed the falſe preten⯑ſions of the church of Rome. They ſaw that popery was contrary to the true genius of chriſtianity; its ſpirit inſolent and cruel; and its worſhip, not only a jumble of the moſt ridiculous fopperies and extravagancies, bor⯑rowed from heathen cuſtoms and ſuperſti⯑tions; but the impureſt that ever appeared in the world: that the deſigns of popiſh Rome were contrary to all the principles of humani⯑ty; its doctrines abominable and ſinful; and its offices curſed and diabolical: it was evident, I ſay, to the conception of theſe great men, (I mean Cranmer, and the other Engliſh re⯑formers) that the Romiſh church was treache⯑rous and inhuman, blood-thirſty and antichriſ⯑tian; that her devotions were horrible and impious; her miniſters falſe prophets and liars, covered and decked with the livery of Chriſt, but in every thing acting contrary to the ſal⯑vation wrought by Jeſus; and therefore theſe wiſe and excellent reformers renounced popery, and bravely declared for that religion, which promotes the good of all mankind, and in⯑ſpires men to worſhip the Father only in ſpirit and in truth. They threw off the cloak and garments of antichriſt: they gloriouſly ſepa⯑rated [123]from him, and joined together in pu⯑rity and ſimplicity, to pleaſe the Lord Jehovah. There was no enthuſiaſm in the caſe, (as Le Blanc, the maſs-prieſt, has the front to ſay) but, when the light of the goſpel was ob⯑ſcured, and darkneſs had overſpread the earth; when ignorance and ſuperſtition uni⯑verſally prevailed, and the immoralities of the Church of Rome were made to paſs for chriſ⯑tianity in the world; then did theſe reformers call the people out of Rome, and preach to them the eſſential truths of the faith. They called them from an idolatrous religion, and all its train of direful effects; from that ſin of the firſt rank, which ſtrikes at the being of a God, and raviſhes from him the greateſt honour that is due to him from his creature, man; they called them from the horrible ſervice of the maſs, from their addreſſes to angels and ſaints, and their worſhip of ima⯑ges; to the inward knowledge of one true God, and the worſhip due to him only; to the ſanctification and honour, which is due to him above all things, and above every name; to the living hope in God through Chriſt; to regeneration, and inward renova⯑tion by faith, hope, and charity; to a holy converſation, and a faithful performance of all the commandments; to true repentance, perſeverance to the end, and life eternal. To theſe truths, (not to be found in the re⯑ligion [124]of our travelling maſs-prieſt) did the great, the glorious Engliſh reformers call mankind. They laboured to eſtabliſh them in every thing tending to a pure faith, and good life. In this, there is not, there can⯑not be any enthuſiaſm.

And as to their being aſſiſted by thoſe who were animated by a ſpirit of irreligion, and by a greedy deſire of ſeizing the poſſeſſions of the monks, it does not appear to be the truth of the caſe. Suppoſing there were ſuch irreligious men, the aſſiſtance the re⯑formers had from any great men in Henry the eighth's time, when the abbeys were de⯑ſtroyed, was ſo very little, that malice only could mention it as an objection to the refor⯑mation. Popery, in that monarch's reign, was ſtill the eſtabliſhed religion of England, and both ſides blame this king's perſecutions. If papiſts were put to death for denying the ſupremacy of Harry, proteſtants were no leſs ſufferers, for oppoſing the adoration of the hoſt, and other religious impieties. And af⯑ter the ſhort reign of his ſon, Edward the ſixth, what aſſiſtance had the reformers un⯑der bloody Mary? Did ſhe not do all that in⯑fernal popery could ſuggeſt, to deſtroy Cran⯑mer, his brethren, and their reformation? And did not they, without any other aſſiſt⯑ance than what they received from the ſpirit of God, continue to vindicate the truth as it is in [125]Jeſus, and teach the pure doctrines of the goſpel, in oppoſition to the frauds and vile inventions of papal Rome. Without mind⯑ing the indignities, the torments, and the cruel death prepared for them, the brave ho⯑neſt men went on with their heavenly work, and till, the flames made them ſilent, endea⯑voured to deſtroy the Romiſh artifices and im⯑moralities, and to ſpread the pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father. They were zealous, with the truth of religion on their ſide, and laboured to convert, out of a pure and friendly regard to the eternal wel⯑fare of mankind. They did the work, by the bleſſing of God, and therefore the malicious Le Blanc, the maſs-prieſt, reviles and black⯑ens them.

What he ſays of uſurpation, in reſpect of church lands, does not deſerve any notice. The reforming clergy were not the actors in that ſcene. It was the king and his council. And as the Pope had ſhewed them the way, by granting bulls for the diſſolution of the leſſer monaſteries, they thought, ſince the Pope's power was taken away by a general conſent of the nation, the king, the church, and the people concurring, they might, with as little ſacrilege, diſſolve the reſt. The king and parliament (ſays Biſhop Burnet) could not diſcern the difference between greater and leſſer as to the point of ſacrilege. And al⯑though [126]ſome uſes might ceaſe by the doctrines of the reformation, as maſſes for ſouls de⯑parted, and monks to pray the dead out of purgatory; yet there were others to employ the church lands about, as ſome of them were in founding new biſhopricks. And if in this caſe, the reformers had been guilty of ſome wilful errors, that could be no crime of the reformation. The culpable muſt an⯑ſwer it. For the ſatisfaction of conſcience about the reformation, there can be but three queſtions fairly propoſed. Was there ſuffi⯑cient cauſe for it? Was there ſufficient au⯑thority? And whether the proceedings of our reformation were juſtifiable by the rule of ſcripture, and the ancient church? Upon theſe points we ought to join iſſue, and I am ſure the concluſion muſt be in the affirma⯑tive.

As to Le Blanc's ſecond obſervation in re⯑lation to the marriage of prieſts, which our reformation he ſays produced, it may be an⯑ſwered, that the doctrine of a prieſt's mar⯑riage being unlawful, was borrowed by the church of Rome from the antient heretics; eſpecially from the Manichees, who allowed marriage to their hearers, as the church of Rome doth to laymen; but forbad it to their elect, as that church doth to her prieſts. St. Auguſtin charges the Manichees wth this error. Hic non dubito vos eſſe clamaturos invidiam⯑que [127]factures, caſtitatem perfectam vos vehe⯑menter commendare atque laudare, non ta⯑men nuptias prohibere; quandoquidem au⯑ditores veſtri quorum apud vos ſecundus eſt gradus ducere atque habere non prohibentur uxores. De moribus manichaeorum, Lib. 2. c. 18.

The firſt pope we read of that condemned the marriage of prieſts, was Syricius, the Ro⯑man, A. D. 384—398. And upon this ac⯑count, I wonder Baronius had not a regard to his memory: but it has been the misfor⯑tune of his holineſs ſince his death to fall un⯑der the diſpleaſure of the Cardinal to that de⯑gree, that he has ſtruck him out of his cata⯑logue of his Romiſh ſaints. He does not tell us for what reaſon. Perhaps it was becauſe this pope rather diſſuaded prieſts from mar⯑riage than peremptorily forbad it, as appears by his letters. (Syr. epiſt. 1. & 4. apud Bi⯑nium.)

The next pope, who diſtinguiſhed himſelf againſt the marriage of prieſts, was the ſon of Bald-head, count of Burgundy, (whoſe grand⯑daughter was conſort to Lewis the 6th, king of France); I mean the celebrated Guy, arch⯑biſhop of Vienne, who ſucceeded Gelaſius, A. D. 1119, and had for ſucceſſor in the year 1124, Lambert of Bononia, commonly call⯑ed Honorius the ſecond. Calixtus the ſecond, pope and prince of Burgundy, was the firſt [128]who abſolutely forbad prieſts marriage, and in caſe they were married, commanded them to be ſeparated. (Grat. diſt. 27. c. 8.) This was in the beginning of the twelfth century. And towards the end of it, A. D. 1198, the renowned ſon of Count Traſimund, I mean Innocent the third, the ever memorable Car⯑dinal Lotharius, pronounced all the marriages of prieſts null. And afterwards came on the council of Trent, A. D. 1545—1563, which anathematizes thoſe who ſay ſuch marriages are valid. (Seſſ. 24. can. 9.)

But one would think, that God ſufficiently declared his approbation of ſuch marriages, in that the whole world hath by his appointment been twice peopled by two married prieſts; firſt by Adam, ſecondly by Noah. And we are ſure, the holy ſcripture tells us, That mar⯑riage is honourable in all; (Heb. xiii. 4) and places it among the qualifications of a biſhop, That he be the huſband of one wife, having faithful children. (Tit. i. 6.) This, ſaith St. Chryſoſtom, the apoſtle preſcribed to this end, that he might ſtop the mouths of hereticks, who reproached marriage; declaring thereby that marriage is no unclean thing, but ſo honourable, that a married man may be exalted to the ſacred throne of a biſhop. (Chryſoſt. hom. 2. in c. 1. ad tit.) What do you ſay to this, Le Blanc? I fancy you never read this homily [129]of Chryſoſtome. — And well might this ſaint think it not unbecoming a biſhop to marry, when our Lord thought it not un⯑becoming an apoſtle, no not the prince of the apoſtles (as the Romaniſts will have him), for it is without doubt, that St. Peter was married; in that the ſcripture makes mention of his wife's mother. (Matt. viii. 14.) And Clemens of Alexandria tells us, that it was certainly reported, that when he ſaw his wiſe led to death, he rejoiced; and having exhorted her and comforted her, he called her by her name, and bid her remember the Lord. (Clemens Alex. Stromat. l. 7. p. 736. lut. 1629.) And that he was not only mar⯑ried, but begat children, the ſame Clemens in another place affirms, (Stromat. l. 3. p. 448.) Yea that St. Philip and St. Jude were alſo married, and had children, Euſebius is wit⯑neſs. (Euſeb. eccleſ. hiſt. l. 3. c. 20—31.) And in like manner we find, that many of the primitive biſhops were married. Chare⯑mon biſhop of Nilus, St. Spiridion, St. Gre⯑gory Nazianzen, St. Gregory Nyſſen, St. Hi⯑lary, and many more, were married men.

Nor can it be ſaid, that they took wives while they were laymen, and after they took upon them the ſacred miniſtry, were ſepa⯑rated from them; ſince the canons, commonly called the apoſtles, did prohibit either biſhop, prieſt, or deacon, to put away his wife upon [130]pretence of religion. (See canon 5.) And if any ſuch ſhall abſtain from marriage, as in itſelf abominable, command that he be corrected, or depoſed, and caſt out of the church. (Canon 50.)

Now ſuppoſing theſe canons notwithſtand⯑ing all that Whiſton has ſaid) were not made by them whoſe name they bear, yet they are allowed by all to be of much greater anti⯑quity than the firſt Nicene council. And when in that council it was moved, that bi⯑ſhops and prieſts, deacons and ſub-deacons, might not cohabit with their wives, which they had taken before ordination, the motion was pre⯑ſently daſhed by the famous Paphnutius, who was himſelf a ſingle perſon. (Socrat. eccles. hiſt. l. 1. c. 11.) Yea a long time after this council, we meet with many popes, who were ſons of biſhops and prieſts.

Pope Theodorus, Silverius, and Gelaſius I. were the ſons of biſhops: pope Boniface I. Felix II. and Agapetus II. were the ſons of prieſts. (Gratian. diſt. 56. c. 2.) and that we may not think this ſtrange, Gratian him⯑ſelf informs us, that the marriage of prieſts was in thoſe days lawful in the Latin church. (Diſt. 56. c. 12.)

Nor is this doctrine to be rejected only as contrary to ſcripture, and to primitive and apoſtolical practice, but becauſe of the abo⯑minable fruits produced in the church of [131] Rome by it. For when the clergy might not have wives, (which God allowed), inſtead of them they took whores; and that wicked⯑neſs ſo far prevailed in the church, that the Cardinal of Cambray informs us, (De reform. eccleſ.) many clergymen were not aſhamed publickly, in the face of the world, to keep concubines. And the gloſs upon Gratian ſays, A prieſt may not be depoſed for ſimple fornication, becauſe there are few prieſts to be found without that fault. This made Pius the ſecond ſay, that though prieſts were by the weſtern church forbid to marry for good reaſon, yet there was ſtronger reaſon to reſtore marriage to them again. (Hiſt. Coun⯑cil Trent. l. 7. p. 680.) And many in that council, were ſo ſenſible of this, that they alledged the great ſcandal given by inconti⯑nent prieſts, and that there was want of con⯑tinent perſons fit to exerciſe the miniſtry. (Paoli, p. 679. &c.) The Emperor and the Duke of Bavaria did therefore require, that the marriage of prieſts might be granted. (Paoli, p. 680. &c.) And many biſhops deſired that married perſons might be pro⯑moted to holy orders; but this requeſt was not granted, becauſe, as the fathers obſerved, if the clergy once come to be married, they will no longer depend on the Pope, but on their prince.

[132] To conclude this article, (and I ſhall do it in the words of a great man, a prelate of the church of England, now living); To make war againſt the very Being of their ſpecies, they, (the Romiſh prieſts) devote themſelves to a ſingle life, in blaſphemous oppoſition to that firſt great command and bleſſing, increaſe and multiply.

As to Le Blanc's third obſervation, relat⯑ing to the immoralities and bad behaviour of the Engliſh clergy; I anſwer, if there are ſe⯑veral bad men among ſo large a body as the proteſtant divines are, which is not ſtrange, as it is the common caſe of all ſocieties, yet the majority of them, orthodox and other dox, are as worthy men as can be found among the human race. I am very ſure my acquaintance among them has been much larger than Le Blanc's could poſſibly be; and I can affirm from my own knowledge, that there are very many of this order of men, not only as fine gentlemen as I have ever converſed with; but, a clergy holy in heart; ſuperior to pride, to anger, to fooliſh deſires; who walk as Chriſt alſo walked, and by their example and doctrine, labour to make the people what the goſpel requires they ſhould be; that is, pious and uſeful, pure and ho⯑neſt, meek and charitable; to walk by faith, and not by ſight; and ſo paſs through things temporal, that they may be ſure of obtaining [133]the things eternal. This I can ſay of many Engliſh divines of my acquaintance: and I may add, that this teſtimony from me, who am not over-fond of the clergy, (as the main of the chriſtianity of too many of them lies in their opinion; decked with a few outward obſervances, ſays Mr. Weſley very truly, in his letter to Biſhop Warburton) and only upon occaſion, endeavour now to do them juſtice, is certainly of more weight in their favour, than the calumny and abuſe of a furious bi⯑got and maſs-prieſt, can be to make the world have as bad an opinion of them, as popery, and its wretched emiſſaries, would have the public entertain. Conſider this then when you read Le Blanc's letters.

On the other hand, I have had a very large and intimate acquaintance with maſs-prieſts in my time, in many parts of the world; and, a few excellent ones excepted, I can affirm, that more wicked and more worth⯑leſs men than theſe Romiſh monks, I have never ſeen. If adultery, fornication, drunk⯑enneſs, and ſwearing, are crimes, then the greateſt criminals I could name in theſe re⯑ſpects, are Roman-catholic prieſts. Let this aſſertion of mine be ſet over-againſt the character the Ahbé Le Blanc gives the Eng⯑liſh proteſtant miniſters. Conſider all I have ſaid, when you read this maſs-prieſt's fifty-eighth letter, and then judge of our refor⯑mation [134]and clergy.⁽¹⁰⁾ [134]—But it is time to return to the cottage of Chriſtopher the fiſherman, and ſee what happened to Antonia and Agneſs.

The be⯑ginning of my ac⯑quaintance with Miſs Cranmer, and how it ended in a marriage.§. 10. When I came back to the poor man's cottage, he told me the ladies were come home, and as he had given Miſs Cran⯑mer ſome account of me, as a traveller who had journeyed into that remote corner of the world, in ſearch of antiquities and curioſities, he did not think this lady would be averſe to ſeeing me and hearing me too, if I con⯑trived any plauſible pretence to throw my⯑ſelf in her way.

[135] Immediately then I croſſed the water, went up to the houſe, and as I ſaw her and the fair Agneſs, her couſin, walking in the garden, near the ha, leaped it over immedi⯑ately, broad as it was, and with my hat in my hand, made her a low bow, be⯑gan an apology for preſuming to introduce myſelf to her preſence in ſuch a manner, and concluded with my being in love with her charming character, before I had the honour and happineſs of ſeeing her. What a con⯑dition then muſt I be in, when a heaven-born maid, like her, appeared! Strange pleaſures filled my ſoul, unlooſed my tongue, [136]and my firſt talk could not be any thing but love. A deal I ſaid on the ſubject, not worth repeating to the reader; and the iſſue of the matter was, that I became ſo well ac⯑quainted with this innocent beauty, that, on tak⯑ing my leave, I had an invitation to breakfaſt with her the next morning. I was there by eight, and really and truly quite charmed with her. She was pretty as it was poſſible for fleſh and blood to be, had a beautiful un⯑derſtanding; and as ſhe had very little notion of men, having ſeen very few, except the two old ſervants who lived with her, ſhe had not a notion of any danger that could come from converſing freely with a man ſhe knew nothing of, and who might be an ene⯑my in diſguiſe.

After breakfaſt, I offered to go, but ſhe aſked me to ſtay and dine; and to ſum up the matter, I did dine, ſup, and break⯑faſt with her every day, for a month, till my good prieſt, Friar Fleming, arrived, on a letter I had ſent him, and we were married before the end of ſix weeks. We loved to exceſs, and did enhance human happineſs to a high degree. She was good as an an⯑gel; and for two years we lived in unſpeak⯑able felicity. For the greateſt part of that time, we were at Orton-Lodge, as ſhe liked the wild place. There ſhe likewiſe died of the ſmall-pox, in the firſt month of the [137]third year, and left me the moſt diſconſolate of men. Four days I ſat with my eyes ſhut, on account of this loſs, and then left the Lodge once more, to live if I could, ſince my religion ordered me ſo to do, and ſee what I was next to meet with in the world. As grief ſat powerfully on my ſpirits, and if not diſlodged, would have drank them all up very ſoon, I reſolved to haſten to Harrogate, and in the feſtivities of that place forget my departed partner as ſoon as I could. I laid my Antonia by my Charlotte and my Statia, and then rode off. What happened at the Wells, and all the obſervations I made there, and thereabout, the reader will find in my fifth ſection.

N. B. As I mention nothing of any chil⯑dren by ſo many wives, ſome readers may perhaps wonder at this, and therefore, to give a general anſwer, once for all, I think it ſufficient to obſerve, that I had a great many, to carry on the ſucceſſion; but as they never were concerned in any extraordinary affairs, nor ever did any remarkable things, that I heard of; — only riſe and breakfaſt, read and ſaunter, drink and eat, it would not be fair, in my opinion, to make any one pay for their hiſtory.

SECTION V.

The au⯑thor goes to Harro⯑gate.§. 1. IN the year 1731, I arrived at Har⯑rogate, in the Weſt-riding of York⯑ſhire, in order to amuſe my mind with the [139]diverſions and company of the place.An ac⯑count of the place, the wells, and com⯑pany. It is a ſmall ſtraggling village on a heath, two miles from Knareſborough, which is thirteen miles from York, and 175 from London. The ſulphur wells are three, on the north ſide of the town, about 500 yards eaſt of the bog. They riſe out of a little dry hill. The ſecond is a yard from the firſt, and the third is five yards and a half from the ſecond. The wa⯑ter riſes into ſtone-baſons, which are each in⯑cloſed in a ſmall neat building of ſtone and lime a yard ſquare on the inſides, and two yards high, covered over with thick flag⯑ſtones laid ſhelving.

The ſoil out of which theſe ſprings riſe is, firſt, corn-mould, then a marle lime-ſtone, and a ſtratum of plaiſter: the lime-ſtone is ſo abraded by the ſalt in the water, that when dried, it ſwims: and where the water ſtag⯑nates between the baſons and the brook, the earth is ink black, and has a dry white ſcum, which ſmells like ſulphur, and burns with a blue flame. The water does likewiſe throw up much candied ſea ſalts, that is, ſalts to which ſulphur adheres, and the pigeons re⯑ſort from all parts to pick them up. In moiſt or rainy weather, theſe waters ſend forth a ſtrong ſmell at a diſtance, and before rain, they bubble up with an impetuous force; yet neither rain nor drought increaſes or de⯑creaſes the ſprings.

[140] From the large quantities of fine flower of brimſtone which theſe waters throw off, it is plain, that ſulphur is the principal thing in them; but experiment likewiſe proves, that beſides ſulphur, the ſtinking well has vitriol, nitre, copper, and ſalt: Theſe lie in ſolutis principiis in earth from which the water comes, and may be ſeparated by operation: ſome, I know, deny there is any copper in theſe waters; but they do not conſider that the glittering glebes of a gold colour found here, can be nothing elſe than glebes gilt with copper.

As to the diſeaſes wherein this ſtrong ſul⯑phur-water is proper, it is good for every thing, except a conſumption. For this I recom⯑mend the Scarborough purging-chalybeate a⯑bove all waters. But if, reader, you have obſtructions in your liver and other viſcera, and are tormented with vicious humours in your inteſtines; if your bowels are full of worms, the aſcarides, or the broad round worm, or the worms called the dog and the wolf, from their likeneſs to theſe animals; or if, from a venereal cauſe, (the malady of many a prieſt and layman) you have an ulcer in the anus, or in the neck of your bladder, go to Har⯑rogate; drink the ſtinking-water, live tem⯑perate, and you will be cured. For the ſcurvy, that univerſal diſeaſe, it is better than all other medicines. It is excellent in the [141]jaundice, though of many years ſtanding. It cures the aſthma, the ſcotomia, and pal⯑ſy, and in many other deplorable caſes gives wonderful relief. Whatever ails you, (the conſumption excepted) fly to Harrogate, and the water will do you good, if your hour be not come: and if you are well, the waters will promote long life, and make you the more able to dance with the ladies.

Four pints of water are enough for a pa⯑tient, to be taken from half an hour to two hours after ſun -riſing, upon an empty ſto⯑mach. You ſhould take ſome preparatory medicine; and walk drinking the waters to warm the body a little, and make the paſ⯑ſage the eaſier. Some people I have known drink their doſe in bed, and it does well enough: but exerciſe and the thin open air do better, and contribute not a little to the patient's recovery: and there is no finer freſher air in England than at this place.

In ſhort, theſe wells are the ſtrongeſt ſul⯑phur-water in Great-Britain, and, from the ſuperior ſtrength of the impregnating ſulphur, it does not loſe but retain the ſulphureous ſmell, even when expoſed to a ſcalding, and almoſt a violent heat; and, in diſtilling it, when three pints had been taken off from a gallon of it, the laſt was as ſtrong as the firſt, and ſtunk intolerably.

[142] Make haſte then to Harrogate, if you are ſick, and have money, and in all probabi⯑lity you will find the waters efficacious, un⯑leſs thy diſtemper be a conſumption, or in its nature incurable, which is the caſe of many, as death is the common fate of mankind.

Some ad⯑vice to the drinkers of Harrogate waters.§. 2. But when you are there, let me adviſe you to exerciſe as much as you can bear, without fatiguing yourſelf,—and in the next place, to be regular in meats and drinks, and as temperate as poſſible. Without theſe things, you will loſe the benefit of the wa⯑ters. No good can be expected, if men will indulge during a courſe of drinking the ſpaw, and be not only exceſſive in quantity, but in⯑diſcreet as to the quality, of meats and li⯑quors.

Some ob⯑ſervations on ſpaw-waters, and advice to the drink⯑ers in a mineral courſe.I have known ſome worn-out hard drink⯑ers come to the Wells for relief, and at the ſame time increaſe by intemperance what they had contracted by the ſame meaſure. I have likewiſe ſeen ſome in a diabetes drink white wine; in a cachexy, ale; in the ſtone and gravel, claret. I have known a man in a dropſy, eat nothing but cooling, inſipid, mucilaginous foods, and drink malt-drink plentifully:—a man in a jaundice, eat no⯑thing but fleſh meat and claret:—in a ſcurvy, prefer the pungent, ſaline diet:—in obſtinate obſtructions, and a chronic hyppo, feed on [143]thickning, hardning, and drying meats:— and in a hectic, vomiting, and ſpitting of blood, chuſe only ſuch things as increaſe the blood's momentum and velocity. I have known ſome gentlemen, who ſat up late, never exerciſed, could not eat a dinner, and therefore would indulge in a fleſh ſupper. — All theſe, and many other irregularities, have I known expect ſurpriſing effects from the waters, and when they received no benefit, ſay, there were no ſanative principles in them. Unreaſonable, unhappy men! Be temperate: regular: exerciſe: keep the paſſions within bounds: and you may expect very aſtoniſhing cures; provided your bodies are not become irreparable, and no longer tenantable: that your juices are not to the laſt degree glutinous and acrimonious: that the corroſiveneſs of your blood is not bringing on mortifications; —nor inflammations, filling, dilating, and breaking your veſſels into ſuppuration and putrefactions. Then, live how you will, the waters can be of no uſe. You muſt pay the debt of nature by an incurable diſeaſe. Neither mineral waters, nor phyſic, can cre⯑ate and enliven new bodies, or make and adapt particular members to the old. But if you are only hurt a little, and the diſeaſe is curable, the waters will certainly be effi⯑cacious, and recover you, if you uſe mode⯑rate [144]exerciſe (riding eſpecially) and diverſion, a ſtrict regularity, and great temperance.

Concluſion of the au⯑thor's ad⯑vice.O temperance! Divine temperance! Thou art the ſupport of the other virtues, the pre⯑ſerver and reſtorer of health, and the pro⯑tracter of life! Thou art the maintainer of the dignity and liberty of rational beings, from the wretched inhuman ſlavery of ſen⯑ſuality, taſte, cuſtom, and examples; and the brightner of the underſtanding and me⯑mory! Thou art the ſweetner of life and all its comforts, the companion of reaſon, and guard of the paſſions! Thou art the boun⯑tiful rewarder of thy admirers and followers: thine enemies praiſe thee: and thy friends with rapturous pleaſure raiſe up a panegyric in thy praiſe.

O hunger, hunger, immortal hunger! Thou art the bleſſing of the poor, the regale of the temperate rich, and the delicious guſt of the plaineſt morſel. Curſed is the man that has turned thee out of doors, and at whoſe table thou art a ſtranger! Yea, thrice curſed is he, who always thirſts, and hun⯑gers no more!

The com⯑pany and manner of living at Harrogate.§. 3. As to the company at theſe wells, I found it very good, and was pleaſed with the manner of living there. In the day-time we drank the waters, walked or rid about, and lived in ſeparate parties; lodging in one [145]or other of the three inns that are on the edge of the common: but at night, the com⯑pany meet at one of the public-houſes, (the inns having the benefit of the meeting in their turn), and ſup together between eight and nine o'clock on the beſt ſubſtantial things, ſuch as hot ſhoulders of mutton, rump-ſtakes, hot pigeon pies, veal-cutlets, and the like. For this ſupper, ladies and gentlemen pay eight-pence each, and after ſitting an hour, and drinking what wine, punch, and ale, every one chuſes, all who pleaſe get up to country-dances, which generally laſt till one in the morning; thoſe that dance, and thoſe who do not, drinking as they will. The la⯑dies pay nothing for what liquor is brought in, either at ſupper or after, and it coſts the gentlemen five or ſix ſhillings a man. At one the ladies withdraw, ſome to their houſes in the neighbourhood, and ſome to their beds in the inns. The men who are temperate, do then likewiſe go to reſt.

In ſhort, of all the wells I know, Har⯑rogate is in my opinion the moſt charming. The waters are incomparable, no air can be better: and with the greateſt civility, chear⯑fulneſs, and good humour, there is a certain rural plainneſs and freedom mixed, which are vaſtly pleaſing. The lady of pleaſure, the well-dreſt taylor, and the gameſter, are not to be found there. Gentlemen of the [146]country, and women of birth and fortune, their wives, ſiſters, and daughters, are for the moſt part the company. There were at leaſt fourſcore ladies in the country-dances every night, while I was there, and among them many fine women.

The au⯑thor meets at Harro⯑gate ſix gentlemen of his ac⯑quaintance from Dub⯑lin.§. 4. Among the company I found at this agreeable place, were ſix Iriſh gentle⯑men, who had been my contemporaries in Trinity-College, Dublin, and were right glad to ſee me, as we had been Sociorums, (a word of Swift's) at the conniving-houſe at Rings⯑end, for many a ſummer's evening, and their regard for me was great. They thought I had been long numbered with the dead, as they could not get any account of me for ſo many years; and when they ſaw me, at their entring the public room, ſitting by a beauty, in deep diſcourſe, God-zounds, (ſays one of them,) there he is, making love to the fineſt woman in the world. Theſe gentlemen were Mr. Gollogher, Mr. Gallaſpy, Mr. Dunkley, Mr. Makins, Mr. Monaghan, and Mr. O'Keefe, deſcended from the Iriſh kings, and firſt couſin to the great O'Keefe, who was buried not long ago in Weſtminſter Abby. They were all men of large fortunes, and, Mr. Makins excepted, were as handſome, fine fellows as could be picked out in all the world. Ma⯑kins was a very low, thin man, not four feet [147]high, and had but one eye, with which he ſquinted moſt ſhockingly. He wore his own hair, which was ſhort and bad, and only dreſt by his combing it himſelf in the morn⯑ing, without oyl or powder. But as he was matchleſs on the fiddle, ſung well, and chat⯑ed agreeably, he was a favourite with the ladies. They preferred ugly Makins (as he was called) to many very handſome men. I will here give the public the character of theſe Iriſh gentlemen, for the honour of Ireland, and as they were curioſities of the human kind.

The cha⯑racters of ſix Iriſh gentlemen. O'Keefe's character.§. 5. O'Keefe was as diſtinguiſhed a cha⯑racter as I have ever known. He had read and thought, travelled and converſed, was a man of ſenſe, and a ſcholar. He had a great⯑neſs of ſoul, which ſhewed a pre-eminence of dignity, and by conduct and behaviour, the faithful interpreters of the heart, always atteſted the nobleſt and moſt generous ſenti⯑ments. He had an extreme abhorrence of meanneſs of all kinds, treachery, revenge, envy, littleneſs of mind, and ſhewed in all his actions the qualities that adorn a man.— His learning was of the genteel and uſeful kind; a ſort of agreeable knowledge, which he acquired rather from a ſound taſte and good judgment than from the books he had read. He had a right eſtimation of things, and had gathered up almoſt every thing that is amuſing or inſtructive. This rendered [148]him a maſter in the art of pleaſing: and as he had added to theſe improvements the faſhionable ornaments of life, languages and bodily exerciſes, he was the delight of all that knew him.

Character of Mr. Makins. Makins was poſſeſſed of all the excellent qua⯑lities and perfections that are within the reach of human abilities. He had received from na⯑ture the happieſt talents, and he made ſingu⯑lar improvements of them by a ſucceſsful ap⯑plication to the moſt uſeful and moſt orna⯑mental ſtudies. Muſic, as before obſerved, he excelled in. His intellectual faculties were fine, and, to his honour I can affirm, that he moſtly employed them, as he did his great eſtate, to the good of mankind, the advancement of morality, and the ſpread of pure theiſm, the worſhip of God our Saviour, who raiſed and ſent Chriſt to be a Redeemer. This gentleman was a zealous Unitarian, and, though but five and twenty, (when we met at Harrogate) a religious man: but his reli⯑gion was without any melancholy; nor had it any thing of that ſeverity of temper, which diffuſes too often into the hearts of the reli⯑gious a moroſe contempt of the world, and an antipathy to the pleaſures of it. He a⯑voided the aſſemblies of fools, knaves, and blockheads, but was fond of good company, and condemned that doctrine which taught men to retire from human ſociety to ſeek [149]God in the horrors of ſolitude. He thought the Almighty may be beſt found among men, where his goodneſs is moſt active, and his providence moſt employed.

Character of Mr. Gallaſpy. Gallaſpy was the talleſt and ſtrongeſt man I have ever ſeen, well made, and very hand⯑ſome. He had wit and abilities, ſung well, and talked with great ſweetneſs and fluency, but was ſo extremely wicked, that it were better for him, if he had been a natural fool. By his vaſt ſtrength and activity, his riches and eloquence, few things could withſtand him. He was the moſt prophane ſwearer I have known: fought every thing, whored every thing, and drank ſeven in a hand; that is, ſeven glaſſes ſo placed between the fingers of his right hand, that in drinking, the liquor fell into the next glaſſes, and thereby he drank out of the firſt glaſs ſeven glaſſes at once. This was a common thing, I find from a book in my poſſeſſion, in the reign of Charles the Second, in the madneſs that followed the reſtoration of that profligate and worthleſs prince. But this gentleman was the only man I ever ſaw who could or would attempt to do it; and he made but one gulp of whatever he drank; he did not ſwallow a fluid like other people, but if it was a quart, poured it in as from pitcher to pitcher. When he ſmoaked tobacco, he always blew two pipes at once, one at each corner of his [150]mouth, and threw the ſmoak of both out of his noſtrils. He had killed two men in duels before I left Ireland, and would have been hanged, but that it was his good fortune to be tried before a Judge, who never let any man ſuffer for killing another in this manner. (This was the late Sir John St. Leger.) He de⯑bauched all the women he could, and many whom he could not corrupt, he raviſhed. I went with him once in the ſtage-coach to Kilkenny, and ſeeing two pretty ladies paſs by in their own chariot, he ſwore in his horrible way, having drank very hard after dinner, that he would immediately ſtop them, and raviſh them: nor was it without great diffi⯑culty that I hindered him from attempting the thing; by aſſuring him I would be their protector, and he muſt paſs through my heart before he could proceed to offer them the leaſt rudeneſs. In ſum, I never ſaw his equal in impiety, eſpecially when inflamed with liquor, as he was every day of his life, though it was not in the power of wine to make him drunk, weak, or ſenſeleſs. He ſet no bounds or re⯑ſtrictions to mirth and revels. He only ſlept every third night, and that often in his cloaths in a chair, where he would ſweat ſo prodigiouſly as to be wet quite through; as wet as if come from a pond, or a pail of wa⯑ter had been thrown on him. While all the [151]world was at reſt, he was either drinking or dancing, ſcouring the bawdy-houſes, or riding as hard as he could drive his horſe on ſome iniquitous project. And yet, he never was ſick, nor did he ever receive any hurt or miſ⯑chief. In health, joy, and plenty, he paſſed life away, and died about a year ago at his houſe in the county of Galway, without a pang or any kind of pain. This was Jack Gallaſpy. There are however ſome things to be ſaid in his favour, and as he had more regard for me than any of his acquaintance, I ſhould be un⯑grateful if I did not do him all the juſtice in my power.

He was in the firſt place far from being quarrelſome, and if he fought a gentleman at the ſmall-ſword, or boxed with a porter or coachman, it was becauſe he had in ſome degree been ill uſed, or fancied that the laws of honour required him to call an equal to an account, for a tranſaction. His temper was naturally ſweet.

In the next place, he was the moſt gene⯑rous of mankind. His purſe of gold was ever at his friend's ſervice: he was kind and good to his tenants: to the poor a very great benefactor. He would give more money away to the ſick and diſtreſſed in one year, than I believe many rich pious people do in ſeven. He had the bleſſings of thouſands, [152]for his charities, and, perhaps, this procured him the protection of heaven.

As to ſwearing, he thought it was only criminal, when it was falſe, or men lyed in their affirmations: and for whoring, he hoped there would be mercy, ſince men will be men while there are women. Raviſhing he did not pretend to juſtify, as the laws of his country were againſt it; but he could not think the woman was a ſufferer by it, as ſhe enjoyed without ſinning the higheſt felicity. He intended her happineſs; and her ſaying No, kept her an innocent.

How far all this can excuſe Mr. Gallaſpy, I pretend not to determine: but as I thought it proper to give the world the picture of ſo extraordinary a man, it was incumbent on me, as his friend, to ſay all I could, with truth, in his vindication.

Character of Mr. Dunkley. Dunkley had an extenſive capacity, an ex⯑quiſite taſte, and a fine genius. Beſides an erudition which denominates what we call a man of learning, he happily poſſeſſed a ſo⯑cial knowledge, which rendered him agree⯑able to every body. He was one of the men that are capable of touching every note. To all the variety of topics for converſation, the diverſity of occurrences and incidents, the ſeveral diſtinctions of perſons, he could adapt himſelf. He would laugh like Demo⯑critus: [153]weep like Heraclitus. He had the ſhort, pert trip of the affected; the haughty, tragic ſtalk of the ſolemn; and the free, gen⯑teel gait of the fine gentleman. He was qualified to pleaſe all taſtes, and capable of acting every part. He was grave, gay, a philoſopher, and a trifler. He had a time for all things, relative to ſociety, and his own true happineſs, but none for any thing repug⯑nant to honour and conſcience. He was a ſurpriſing and admirable man.

Character of Mr. Monaghan. Monaghan had genius and knowledge, had read many books, but knew more of man⯑kind. He laughed at the men who loſt a⯑mong their books the elegancy of mind ſo ne⯑ceſſary in civil ſociety. He had no reliſh but for nice ſtudies and fine literature, and de⯑ſpiſed too ſerious and abſtruſe ſciences. This was reckoned a fault in him by ſeveral judges: but with me it is a quere, if he was much to blame. Politeneſs is certainly preferable to dry knowledge and thorny enquiries. This gentleman's was ſuch as rendered him for ever agreeable and engaging. He was con⯑tinually an improving friend, and a gay com⯑panion. In the qualities of his ſoul, he was generous without prodigality, humane with⯑out weakneſs, juſt without ſeverity, and fond without folly. He was an honeſt and charm⯑ing fellow. This gentleman and Mr. Dunk⯑ley married ladies they fell in love with at [154] Harrogate Wells: Dunkley had the fair Alc⯑mena, Miſs Cox of Northumberland; and Monaghan, Antiope with haughty charms, Miſs Pearſon of Cumberland: They lived ve⯑ry happy many years, and their children I hear are ſettled in Ireland.

Character of Mr. Gollogher. Gollogher was a man of learning and ex⯑traordinary abilities. He had read very hard for ſeveral years, and during that time, had collected and extracted from the beſt books more than any man I ever was acquainted with. He had four vaſt volumes of common⯑place, royal paper, bound in rough calf, and had filled them with what is moſt curious and beautiful in works of literature, moſt re⯑fined in eloquent diſcourſes, moſt poignant in books of criticiſm, moſt inſtructive in hiſ⯑tory, moſt touching and affecting in news, cataſtrophes, and ſtories; and with apho⯑riſms, ſayings, and epigrams. A prodigious memory made all this his own, and a great judgment enabled him to reduce every thing to the moſt exact point of truth and accura⯑cy. A rare man! Till he was five and twenty, he continued this ſtudious life, and but ſeldom went into the mixed and faſhion⯑able circles of the world. Then, all at once, he ſold every book he had, and determined to read no more. He ſpent his every day in the beſt company of every kind; and as he had the happy talent of manner, and poſſeſ⯑ſed [155]that great power which ſtrikes and awa⯑kens fancy, by giving every ſubject the new dreſs and decoration it requires; — could make the moſt common thing no longer tri⯑vial, when in his hand, and render a good thing moſt exquiſitely pleaſing; — as he told a ſtory beyond moſt men, and had, in ſhort, a univerſal means towards a univerſal ſucceſs, it was but natural that he ſhould be every where liked and wiſhed for. He charmed wherever he came. The ſpecific I have men⯑tioned made every one fond of him. With the ladies eſpecially he was a great favourite, and more fortunate in his amours than any man I knew. Had he wanted the fine ta⯑lents he was bleſt with, yet his being an ex⯑tremely handſome man, and a maſter on the fiddle, could not but recommend him to the ſex. He might, if he had pleaſed, have married any one of the moſt illuſtrious and richeſt women in the kingdom. But he had an averſion to matrimony, and could not bear the thought of a wife. Love and a bottle were his taſte. He was however the moſt honourable of men in his amours, and ne⯑ver abandoned any woman to diſtreſs, as too many men of fortune do, when they have gratified deſire. All the diſtreſſed were ever ſharers in Mr. Gollogher's fine eſtate, and eſpecially the girls he had taken to his breaſt. He provided happily for them all, and left [156]nineteen daughters he had by ſeveral women a thouſand pounds each. This was acting with a temper worthy of a man; and to the memory of the benevolent Tom Gollogher I de⯑vote this memorandum.

Having ſaid above, that too many men of fortune abandon the girls they have ruined, I will here relate a very remarkable ſtory, in hopes it may make an impreſſion on ſome rake of fortune, if ſuch a man ſhould ever take this book in his hand.

The hiſto⯑ry of the unfortu⯑nate Miſs Hunt.§. 6. As I travelled once in the county of Kildare in Ireland, in the ſummer-time, I came into a land of flowers and bloſſoms, hills, woods, and ſhades: I ſaw upon an eminence a houſe, ſurrounded with the moſt agreeable images of rural beauties, and which appeared to be on purpoſe placed in that deco⯑rated ſpot for retirement and contemplation. It is in ſuch ſilent receſſes of life, that we can beſt enjoy the noble and felicitous ideas, which more immediately concern the attention of man, and in the cool hours of reflection, ſe⯑creted from the fancies and follies, the buſi⯑neſs, the faction, and the pleaſures of an engaged world, thoroughly conſider the wiſ⯑dom and harmony of the works of nature, the important purpoſes of providence, and the various reaſons we have to adore that ever glorious Being, who formed us for rational [157]happineſs here, and after we have paſſed a few years on this ſphere, in a life of virtue and charity, to tranſlate us to the realms of endleſs bliſs. Happy they who have a taſte for theſe ſilent retreats, and when they pleaſe, can withdraw for a time from the world.

The pic⯑ture of Miſs Hunt.The owner of this ſweet place was Mr. Charles Hunt, a gentleman of a ſmall eſtate and good ſenſe, whom I knew many years before fortune led me to his houſe. His wife was then dead, and he had but one child left, his daughter Elizabeth. The beauties of this young lady were very extraordinary. She had the fineſt eyes in the world, and ſhe looked, ſhe ſmiled, ſhe talked with ſuch dif⯑fuſive charms, as were ſufficient to fire the heart of the moroſeſt woman-hater that ever lived, and give his ſoul a ſoftneſs it never felt before. Her father took all poſſible pains to educate her mind, and had the ſucceſs to render her underſtanding a wonder, when ſhe was but twenty years old. She ſung likewiſe beyond moſt women, danced to per⯑fection, and had every accompliſhment of ſoul and body that a man of the beſt taſte could wiſh for in a wife or a miſtreſs. She was all beauty, life, and ſoftneſs.

Mr. Hunt thought to have had great hap⯑pineſs in this daughter, though it was not in his power to give her more than five hundred pounds for a fortune, and ſhe would have [158]been married to a country-gentleman in his neighbourhood of a good eſtate, had not death carried off both her father and lover in a few days, juſt as the match was agreed on. This was a ſad misfortune, and opened a door to a long train of ſorrows. For two years however after the deceaſe of her father, ſhe lived very happily with an old lady, her near relation, and was univerſally admired and reſpected. I ſaw her many times du⯑ring that term, at the old lady's villa within a few miles of Dublin, and took great delight in her company. If I had not been then en⯑gaged to another, I would moſt certainly have married her.

In this way I left Eliza in Ireland, and for ſeveral years could not hear what was become of her. No one could give me any information: but, about a twelvemonth ago, as I was walking in Fleet-ſtreet, I ſaw a wo⯑man who cleaned ſhoes, and ſeemed to be an object of great diſtreſs. She was in rags and dirt beyond all I had ever ſeen of the profeſſion, and was truly ſkin and bone. Her face was almoſt a ſcull, and the only remaining expreſſion to be ſeen was deſpair and anguiſh. The object engaged my at⯑tention, not only on account of the uncom⯑mon miſery that was viſible; but, as her eyes, though ſunk, were ſtill extraordinary, and there were ſome remains of beauty to be [159]traced. I thought I had ſomewhere ſeen that face in better condition. This kept me look⯑ing at her, unnoticed, for near a quarter of an hour; and as I found ſhe turned her head from me, when ſhe ſaw me, with a kind of conſciouſneſs, as if ſhe knew me, I then aſk⯑ed her name, and if ſhe had any where ſeen me before? — The tears immediately ran plentifully from her eyes, and when ſhe could ſpeak, ſhe ſaid, I am Elizabeth Hunt. —What, Mr. Hunt's daughter of Rafar⯑lin! I replied with amazement, and a concern that brought the tears into my eyes. I called a coach immediately, and took her to the houſe of a good woman, who lodges and at⯑tends ſick people: ordered her clean cloaths, and gave the woman a charge to take the greateſt care of her, and let her want for no⯑thing proper, till I called next day.

When I ſaw her again, ſhe was clean and whole, and ſeemed to have recovered a little, though very little, of what ſhe once was: but a more miſerable ſpectacle my eyes have not often ſeen. She told me, that ſoon after I went to England, Mr. R. a gentleman of my acquaintance of great fortune, got acquainted with her, courted her, and ſwore in the moſt ſolemn manner, by the ſupreme power, and the everlaſting goſpel, that he would be her huſband, and marry her as ſoon as a rich dy⯑ing uncle had breathed his laſt, if ſhe would [160]conſent, in the mean while, to their living in ſecret as man and wife; for his uncle hated matrimony, and would not leave him his vaſt fortune, if he heard he had a wife; and he was ſure, if he was married by any of the church, ſome whiſperer would find it out, and bring it to his ear. But notwithſtanding this plauſible ſtory, and that he acted the part of the fondeſt and tendereſt man that ever lived, yet, for ſeveral months, ſhe would not comply with his propoſal. She refuſed to ſee him any more, and for ſeveral weeks he did not come in her ſight.

The fatal night however at laſt arrived, and from the Lord Mayor's ball, he prevail⯑ed on her, by repeated vows of ſincerity and truth, to come with him to his lodgings. She was undone, with child, and at the end of two months, ſhe never ſaw him more. When her relations ſaw her big belly, they turned her out of doors; her friends and ac⯑quaintance would not look at her, and ſhe was ſo deſpiſed, and aſhamed to be ſeen, that ſhe went to England with her little one. It fortunately died on the road to London, and as her five hundred pounds were going faſt by the time ſhe had been a year in the capi⯑tal, ſhe accepted an offer made her by a great man to go into keeping. Three years ſhe lived with him in ſplendor, and when he died, ſhe was with ſeveral in high life, 'till [161]ſhe got a cancer in her breaſt; and after it was cut off, an incurable abſceſs appeared. This ſtruck her out of ſociety, and as ſhe grew worſe and worſe every day, what mo⯑ney ſhe had, and cloaths, were all gone in four years time, in the relief ſhe wanted and in ſupport. She came the fifth year to a garret and rags, and at laſt, to clean ſhoes, or periſh for want. She then uncovered the upper part of her body, which was half eaten away, ſo as to ſee into the trunk, and ren⯑dered her, in the emaciated condition ſhe was in, an object ſhocking to behold. She lived in torment, and had no kind of eaſe or peace, but in reflecting, that her miſery and diſtreſs might procure her the mercy of heaven here⯑after, and in conjunction with her true re⯑pentance bring her to reſt, when ſhe had paſ⯑ſed through the grave and gate of death.

Such was the caſe of that Venus of her ſex, Miſs Hunt.—When firſt I ſaw her, it was rapture to be in her company: her perſon matchleſs, and her converſation as charming as her perſon: both eaſy, unconſtrained, and beautiful to perfection.—When laſt I ſaw her, ſhe was grim as the ſkeleton, horrid, loath⯑ſome, and ſinking faſt into the grave by the laws of corruption. What a change was there! She lived but three months from the time I put her into a lodging, and died as happy a peni⯑tent as ſhe had lived an unhappy woman. I [162]gave her a decent private funeral; a hearſe, and one mourning-coach, in which I alone at⯑tended her remains to the earth; the great charnel-houſe, where all the human race muſt be depoſited. Here ends the ſtory of Miſs Hunt.

A word or two to Mr. R. who de⯑bauched Miſs Hunt.And now a word or two to the man who ruined her. Bob R. is ſtill living, the maſter of thouſands, and has thought no more of the wretched Eliza, than if her ruin and mi⯑ſery were a trifle. He fancies his riches and and power will ſcreen him from the hand of juſtice, and afford him laſting ſatisfaction: but, cruel man, after this ſhort day, the pre⯑ſent life, the night of death cometh, and your unrelenting ſoul muſt then appear before a judge, infinitely knowing and righteous; who is not to be impoſed upon, and cannot be biaſſed. The ſighs and groans of Eliza will then be remembred, and confound and abaſh you for your falſhood and inhumanity to this unhappy woman. In your laſt agony, her ghoſt will haunt you, and at the ſeſſions of righteouſneſs appear againſt you, exe⯑crable R. R.

The au⯑thor falls in love with Miſs Spence.§. 7. But to return to Harrogate. While I was there, it was my fortune to dance with a lady, who had the head of Ariſtotle, the heart of a primitive chriſtian, and the form of Venus de medicis. This was Miſs Spence, [163]of Weſtmoreland. I was not many hours in her company, before I became moſt paſſio⯑nately in love with her. I did all I could to win her heart, and at laſt aſked her the queſ⯑tion. But before I inform my readers what the conſequence of this was, I muſt take ſome notice of what I expect from the criti⯑cal reviewers. Theſe gentlemen will attempt to raiſe the laugh. Our Moraliſt, (they will ſay) has buried three wives running, and they are hardly cold in their graves, before he is dancing like a buck at the Wells, and plighting vows to a fourth girl, the beau⯑ty, Miſs Spence. An honeſt fellow, this Suarez, as Paſcal ſays of that Jeſuit, in his provin⯑cial letters.

An apolo⯑gy for the author's marrying ſo often.To this I reply, that I think it unreaſon⯑able and impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and proper tribute of tears and ſorrow, humanity requires; but when that duty has been payed, we muſt remember, that to lament a dead woman is not to lament a wife. A wife muſt be a living woman. The wife we loſe by death is no more than a ſad and empty object, formed by the imagination, and to be ſtill devoted to her, is to be in love with an idea. It is a mere chimerical paſſion, as the de⯑ceaſed has no more to do with this world, than if ſhe had exiſted before the flood. As [164]we cannot reſtore what nature has deſtroyed, it is fooliſh to be faithful to affliction.—Nor is this all. If the woman we marry has the ſeven qualifications which every man would wiſh to find in a wife, beauty, diſ⯑cretion, ſweetneſs of temper, a ſprightly wit, fertility, wealth, and noble extraction, yet death's ſnatching ſo amiable a wife from our arms can be no reaſon for accuſing fate of cruelty, that is, providence of injuſtice; nor can it authoriſe us to ſink into inſenſibility, and neglect the duty and buſineſs of life. This wife was born to die, and we receive her un⯑der the condition of mortality. She is lent but for a term, the limits of which we are not made acquainted with; and when this term is expired, there can be no injuſtice in taking her back: nor are we to indulge the tranſports of grief to diſtraction, but ſhould look out for another with the ſeven qualifi⯑cations, as it is not good for man to be alone, and as he is by the Abrahamic covenant bound to carry on the ſucceſſion, in a regular way, if it be in his power.—Nor is this all; if the woman adorned with every natural and ac⯑quired excellence is tranſlated from this gloo⯑my planet to ſome better world, to be a ſharer of the divine favour, in that peaceful and happy ſtate which God hath prepared for the virtuous and faithful, muſt it not be ſenſeleſs [165-166]for me to indulge melancholy and continue a mourner on her account, while ſhe is breathing the balmy air of paradiſe, enjoying pure and radiant viſion, and beyond deſcrip⯑tion happy?

In the next place, as I had forfeited my father's favour and eſtate, for the ſake of chriſtian-deiſm, and had nothing but my own honeſt induſtry to ſecure me daily bread, it was neceſſary for me to lay hold of every op⯑portunity to improve my fortune, and of conſequence do my beſt to gain the heart of the firſt rich young woman who came in my way, after I had buried a wife. It was not fit for me to ſit ſnivelling for months, be⯑cauſe my wife died before me, which was, at leaſt, as probable, as that ſhe ſhould be the ſurvivor; but inſtead of ſolemn affliction, and the inconſolable part, for an event I fore⯑ſaw, it was incumbent on me, after a little decent mourning, to conſecrate myſelf to vir⯑tue and good fortune united in the form of a woman. Whenever ſhe appeared, it was my buſineſs to get her if I could. This made me ſometimes a dancer at the Wells, in the days of my youth.

Miſs Spence's reply to my addreſſes.§. 8. As to Miſs Spence, ſhe was not cruel, but told me at laſt, after I had tired her with my addreſſes and petitions, that ſhe would conſider my caſe, and give me [167-168]an anſwer, when I called at her houſe in Weſtmoreland, to which ſhe was then going: at preſent however, to tell me the truth, ſhe had very little inclination to change her con⯑dition: ſhe was as happy as ſhe could wiſh to be, and ſhe had obſerved, that many la⯑dies of her acquaintance had been made un⯑happy by becoming wives. The huſband generally proves a very different man from the courtier, and it is luck indeed, if a young woman, by marrying, is not undone—Du⯑ring the mollia tempora fandi, as the poet calls it, the man may charm, when, like the god of eloquence, he pleads, and every word is ſoft as flakes of falling ſnow; but when the man is pleaſed to take off the maſk, and play the domeſtic hero; Gods! What miſe⯑ries have I ſeen in families enſue! If this were my caſe, I ſhould run ſtark mad.

Miſs Spence's mentioning the memorable line from Virgil, ſurpriſed me not a little, as ſhe never gave the leaſt hint before, (though we had converſed then a fortnight) of her having any notion of the Latin tongue, and I looked at her with a raiſed admiration, be⯑fore I replied in the following manner.— What you ſay, Miſs Spence, is true. But this is far from being the caſe of all gentle⯑men. If there be ſomething ſtronger than virtue in too many of them, ſomething that maſters and ſubdues it; a paſſion, or paſ⯑ſions, rebellious and lawleſs, which makes [169]them neglect ſome, high relations, and take the throne from God and reaſon; gaming, drinking, keeping; yet there are very many exceptions, I am ſure. I know ſeveral, who have an equal affection to goodneſs, and were my acquaintance in the world larger than it is, I believe I could name a large number, who would not prefer indulgence to virtue, or reſign her for any conſideration. There are men, madam, and young men, who allow a partial regard to rectitude is incon⯑ſiſtent and abſurd, and are ſenſible, it is not certain, that there is abſolutely nothing at all in the evidences of religion: that if there was but even a chance for obtaining bleſſings of ineſtimable worth, yet a chance for eternal bliſs is worth ſecuring, by acting as the ſpot⯑leſs holineſs of the Deity requires from us, and the reaſon and fitneſs of things makes neceſſary, in reſpect of every kind of relation and neighbour. This is the caſe of many men. They are not ſo generally bad as you ſeem to think.

On the other hand, I would aſk, if there are no unhappy marriages by the faults of women? Are all the married ladies conſiſtently and thoroughly good, that is, effectually ſo? Do they all yield themſelves intirely and uni⯑verſally to the government of conſcience, ſub⯑due every thing to it, and conquer every ad⯑verſe paſſion and inclination? Has reaſon al⯑ways [170]ways the ſovereignty, and nothing wrong to be ſeen? Are truth, piety, and goodneſs, the ſettled prevailing regard in the hearts and lives of all the married ladies you know? Have you heard of no unhappy marriages by the paſſions and vices of women, as well as by the faults of men? I am afraid there are too many wives as ſubject to ill habits as the men can be. It is poſſible to name not a few la⯑dies who find their virtuous exerciſes, the duties of piety, and the various offices of love and goodneſs, as diſtaſteful and irkſome to them as they can be to a libertine or a cruel man. I could tell ſome ſad ſtories to this purpoſe: but all I ſhall ſay more is, that there are faults on both ſides, and that it is not only the ladies run a hazard of being ruined by marrying. I am ſure, there are as many men of fortune miſerable by the manners and conduct of their wives, as you can name la⯑dies who are ſufferers by the temper and prac⯑tice of their huſbands. This is the truth of the caſe, and the buſineſs is, in order to avoid the miſeries we both have ſeen among mar⯑ried people, to reſolve to act well and wiſely. This is the thing to be ſure, Miſs Spence re⯑plied. This will prevent faults on either ſide. Such a courſe as virtue and piety require muſt have a continued tendency to render life a ſcene of the greateſt happineſs; and it may gain infinitely hereafter.—Call upon me [171]then at Cleator as ſoon as you can, (Miſs Spence concluded, with her face in ſmiles) and we will talk over this affair again. Thus we chatted as we dined together in private, and early the next morning Miſs Spence left the Wells.

May 12, a remove to Oldfield-Spaw, for a week, on account of an indiſpo⯑ſition.§. 9. Miſs Spence being gone from Har⯑rogate, and finding myfelf very ill from hav⯑ing drank too hard the preceding night, I mounted my horſe, and rid to Oldfield-Spaw, a few miles off, as I had heard an extraordinary ac⯑count of its uſefulneſs after a debauch. There is not ſo much as a little ale-houſe there to reſt at, and for ſix days I lodged at the cottage of a poor labouring man, to which my informer directed me. I lived on ſuch plain fare as he had for himſelf. Bread and roots, and milk and water, were my chief ſupport; and for the time, I was as happy as I could wiſh.

A reflec⯑tion at ſo⯑litary Old⯑field-Spaw, after a night's hard drinking.O nature! nature! would man be ſatis⯑fied with thee, and follow thy wife dictates, he would conſtantly enjoy that true pleaſure, which advances his real happineſs, and very rarely be tormented with thoſe evils, which obſtruct and deſtroy it: but, alas! inſtead of liſtening to the voice of reaſon, keeping the mind free of paſſions, and living as tempe⯑rance and diſcretion direct, the man of plea⯑ſure will have all the gratifications of ſenſe to as high a pitch, as an imagination and fortune [172]devoted to them can raiſe them, and diſeaſes and calamities are the conſequence. Fears and anxieties and diſappointments are often the attendants; and too frequently the ruin of health and eſtate, of reputation and ho⯑nour, and the laſting wound of remorſe in reflexion, follow. This is generally the caſe of the voluptuary. Dreadful Caſe! He runs the courſe of pleaſure firſt, and then the courſe of produced evils ſucceed. He paſſes from pleaſure to a ſtate of pain, and the plea⯑ſure paſt gives a double ſenſe of that pain. We ought then ſurely, as reaſonable beings, to confine our pleaſure within the bounds of juſt and right.

A deſcrip⯑tion of Oldfield-Spaw.§. 10. As to the place called Oldfield-Spaw, it is ſeven miles from Harrogate, and four from Rippon, lies on a riſing ground, between two high hills, near an old abbey, about five yards from a running ſtream, and in a moſt romantic delightful ſituation, which reſembles Matlock in Derbyſhire, (ten miles beyond Derby in the Peak) ſo very much, that one might almoſt take it for the ſame place, if conveyed there in a long deep ſleep. The ſame kind of charms and various beau⯑ties are every where to be ſeen; rocks and mountains, groves and vallies, tender ſhrubs and purling currents, at once ſurprize and pleaſe the wandering eye.

[173] An ac⯑count of Oldfield-Spaw-water.As to the mineral water at Oldfield-Spaw, it is an impetuous ſpring, that throws out a vaſt quantity of water, and is always of the ſame height, neither affected by rain or drought. It is bright and ſparkling, and when poured into a glaſs, riſes up in rows like ſtrings of little beads. It has an uncom⯑mon taſte, quite different from all other mi⯑neral waters that ever came in my way; but it is not diſagreeable. What impregnates it I know not. Dr. Rutty I ſuppoſe never heard of this water, for it is not in his valuable quar⯑to lately publiſhed; and Dr. Short, in his ex⯑cellent hiſtory of mineral waters, (2 volumes 4 to. London, 1734) ſays little more than that there is a medicinal ſpring there. What I found upon trial is, that two quarts of it, ſwallowed as faſt as I could drink it in a morning, vomits to great advantage; and that four quarts of it, drank by degrees, at intervals, works off by ſiêge or ſtool, and urine, in a very beneficial manner. I was apprehenſive of a high fever from my night's hard drink⯑ing at Harrogate, (which I could not avoid) and the Oldfield-water, operating as related, carried off the bad ſymptoms, and reſtored me to ſanity in two day's time. This is all I can ſay of this fine water. It is very little in reſpect of what it deſerves to have ſaid of it.

[174] An obſer⯑vation on our peo⯑ple of fortune go⯑ing to o⯑ther coun⯑tries to drink mi⯑neral wa⯑ters.§. 11. By the way, it is to me a matter of great admiration, that ſo many of our rich and noble not only endure the fatigues and hazards of ſailing and travelling to remote countries, but waſte their money, to drink ſpaw-waters abroad, when they can have as good of every kind in England, by fiding a few miles to the moſt delightful places in the world, in ſummer time. Our own country has healing waters equal to the beſt in France, Italy, and Weſtphalia. Harrogate-water, in particular, has all the virtues of the famous baths of Aponus, within a mile of Padua in Italy, and is in every reſpect exactly alike. See the analyſis of Aponus-water by Fallopius and Baccius, and the analyſis of the Engliſh ſulphur-ſpaw by Dr. Rutty. It is injuſtice then to our country to viſit foreign nations upon this account.—Moffat-waters likewiſe are as good as any in all the world.

Of Moffat-Wells.N. B. Moffat is a village in Annandale, 35 miles S.W. of Edinburgh. The mineral waters called Moffat-waters, lie at the diſtance of a long mile northward from the village, and are 36 miles from Edinburgh. The ſprings are ſituated on the declivity of a hill, and on the brow of a precipice, with high mountains at a diſtance, and almoſt on every ſide of them. The hill is the ſecond from Hart⯑field, adjoining the higheſt hill in Scotland.

[175] A vein of ſpar runs for ſeveral miles on this range of hills, and forms the bottom and lower ſides of the wells. It is a greyiſh ſpar, having poliſhed and ſhining ſurfaces of regu⯑lar figures, interſperſed with glittering parti⯑cles of a golden colour, which are very co⯑pious and large.

There are two medicinal ſprings or wells, which are ſeparated from one another by a ſmall rock: the higher well lies with its mouth ſouth eaſt. 'Tis of an irregular ſquare figure, and is about a foot and a half deep. The lower well is ſurrounded with naked rocks: it forms a ſmall arch of a circle. Its depth is four foot and a half, and by a moderate com⯑putation, the two ſprings yield 40 loads of wa⯑ter in 24 hours, each load containing 64 or 68 Scotch pints; a Scotch pint is two Engliſh quarts.—The higher ſhallow well is uſed for bathing, as it is not capable of being kept ſo clean as the lower well, on account of the ſhallowneſs and the looſeneſs of its parts.

Theſe waters are ſtrongly ſulphureous, and reſemble the ſcourings of a foul gun, or rot⯑ten eggs, or a weak ſolution of ſal polychreſtum, or hepar ſulphuris. The colour of the water ſomewhat milky or bluiſh.

N. B. The ſoil on every ſide of the wells is thin, and the hills rocky, only juſt below the wells there is a ſmall moſs, cauſed by the falling of water from the hill above it.

[176] Virtues of theſe wa⯑ters.Great is the medicinal virtue of theſe waters, in relieving, inwardly, cholics, pains in the ſto⯑mach, griping of the guts, bilious and nephritic colics; nervous and hyſteric colics; the gravel, by carrying off the quantities of ſand, (but does not diſſolve the ſlimy gravel) clearing the uri⯑nary paſſages in a wonderful manner; in cur⯑ing iſchuries, and ulcerated kidneys; the gout, the palſy, obſtructions of the menſes, old gleets, and barrenneſs: it is a ſovereign re⯑medy in rheumatic and ſcorbutic pains, even when the limbs are monſtrouſly ſwelled, uſe⯑leſs, and covered with ſcales.—Outwardly, ulcers, tumors, itch, St. Anthony's fire, and king's evil.

The waters are uſed by bathing and drink⯑ing: to drink in the morning three chopins, ſix pints or a Scotch quart, four Engliſh quarts, at moſt: between the hours of ſix and ele⯑ven. After dinner to drink gradually.

Medicines commonly uſed during the drink⯑ing of the waters are, an emetic or two at firſt, and a few cathartic doſes. The doſes ſal Glauberi and polychreſtum: ſyrup of buck⯑thorn, and ſulphur, is uſed along with the water.

But the cathartic preſcription moſt in uſe, which was given by an eminent phyſician, for a general recipe, to be taken by all who ſhould at any time uſe the water, is, pills that are a compoſition of gambozia, reſin of [177]jalop, aloes, and ſcammony: theſe to all intents are a ſtrong hydragogue.

The large vein of ſpar three feet thick, runs in one direction for ſix miles to the wells, and croſſes obliquely the rivulet at the bottom of the precipice, and aſcends the hill on the oppoſite ſide. Small veins of the ſame ſpar which appears on the precipices, are on the ſide of the rivulet, and ſix ſmall guſhes of water of the mineral kind proceed from them. The rocks and ſtones about the tops of the wells, and in other parts of the hill and precipices, differ not from common ſtones, no more than the water of the ſmall ſprings in the neighbourhood with the common water.

The virtue of this water was diſcovered by Miſs Whiteford, daughter of Biſhop White⯑ford, in 1632. She was married in 1633. She had been abroad, and all over England, drinking mineral waters for the recovery of her health, but found little benefit, till by accident ſhe taſted theſe waters in her neigh⯑bourhood, and finding they reſembled thoſe ſhe had uſed elſewhere, made a trial of them, and was cured of all her diſorders.

Upon this ſhe recommended the uſe of them to others, and employed workmen to clear the ground about the ſprings, (their overflowing having made a ſmall moraſs) that the poor and the rich might come, [178]and make uſe of a medicine, which nature had ſo bounteouſly offered to them.

The au⯑thor leaves Oldfield-Spaw, and ſets out for Knareſbo⯑rough, but arrives at another place, May 19, 1731.§. 12. The 19th of May, at that hour, when a fine day-break offers the moſt magni⯑ficent ſight to the eyes of men, (though few who have eyes will deign to view it,) I mounted my horſe again, and intended to breakfaſt at Knareſhorough, in order to my being at Harrogate by dinner time, with my friends again; but the land I went over was ſo inchantingly romantic, and the morning ſo extremely beautiful, that I had a mind to ſee more of the country, and let my horſe trot on where he pleaſed. For a couple of hours, he went ſlowly over the hills as his inclination directed him, and I was delight⯑fully entertained with the various fine ſcenes, till I arrived at a ſweet pretty country ſeat.

A morning thought on the ri⯑ſing ſun.The riſing ſun, which I had directly be⯑fore me, ſtruck me very ſtrongly, in the fine ſituation I was in for obſerving it, with the power and wiſdom of the author of nature, and gave me ſuch a charming degree of evi⯑dence for the deity, that I could not but of⯑fer up, in ſilence, on the altar of my heart, praiſe and adoration to that ſovereign and uni⯑verſal mind, who produced this glorious crea⯑ture, as the bright image of his benignity, and makes it travel unweariedly round; not only to illuſtrate ſucceſſively the oppoſite ſides [179]of this globe, and thereby enliven the animal world, ſupport the vegetable, and ripen and prepare matter for all the purpoſes of life and vegetation; but, to enlighten and cheer ſur⯑rounding worlds, by a perpetual diffuſion of bounties, to diſpel darkneſs and ſorrow, and like the preſence of the deity, infuſe ſe⯑cret raviſhment into the heart. This cannot be the production of chance. It muſt be the work of an infinitely wiſe and good Being. The nature, ſituation, and motion of this ſun, bring the Deity even within the reach of the methods of ſenſe aſſiſted by reaſon, and ſhews ſuch conſtant operations of his power and goodneſs, that it is impoſſible to conſider the preſent diſpoſition of the ſyſtem, without being full of a ſenſe of love and grati⯑tude to the almighty creator; — the Parent of Being and of Beauty! By this returning mini⯑ſter of his beneficence, all things are recalled in⯑to life, from corruption and decay; and by its, and all the other heavenly motions, the whole frame of nature is ſtill kept in repair. His name then alone is excellent, and his glory above the earth and heaven. It becomes the whole ſyſtem of rationals to ſay, Hal⯑lelujah.

SECTION VI.

May 19, 1731. A deſcrip⯑tion of a beautiful ſpot of ground, and a ſweet pretty country ſeat in the weſt-rid⯑ing of Yorkſhire.§. 1. WHILE I was thinking in this manner of the ſun, and the author of it, I came into a ſilent unfrequent⯑ed glade, that was finely adorned with ſtreams and trees. Nature there ſeemed to be lulled into a kind of pleaſing repoſe, and conſpired as it were to ſoften a ſpeculative genius into ſolid and awful contemplations. The woods, the meadows, and the water, formed the moſt delightful ſcenes, and the charms of diſtant proſpects multiplied as I travelled on: but at laſt I came to a ſeat which had all the [181]beauties that proportion, regularity, and con⯑venience, can give a thing. The pretty man⯑ſion was ſituated in the midſt of meadows, and ſurrounded with gardens, trees, and va⯑rious ſhades. A fountain played to a great height before the door, and fell into a circu⯑lar reſervoir of water, that had foreign wild⯑fowl ſwimming on its ſurface. The whole was very fine.

Here I walked for ſome time, and after roaming about, went up to the houſe, to ad⯑mire the beauties of the thing. I found the windows open, and could ſee ſeveral ladies in one of the apartments. How to gain ad⯑mittance was the queſtion, and I began to con⯑trive many ways; but while I was buſied in this kind of ſpeculation, a genteel footman came up to me, and let me know, his lady ſent him to inform me I might walk in and look at the houſe, if I pleaſed. So in I went, and paſſed through ſeveral grand rooms all finely fur⯑niſhed, and filled with paintings of great price. In one of thoſe chambers the ſervant left me, and told me, he would wait upon me again in a little time. This ſurprized me, and my aſtoniſhment was doubled, when I had re⯑mained alone for almoſt an hour.An ac⯑count of two won⯑derful fi⯑gures, which played on the German flute. No foot⯑man returned: nor culd I hear the ſound of any feet. But I was charmingly enter⯑tained all the while. In the apartment I was left in, were two figures, dreſſed like a [182]ſhepherd and ſhepherdeſs, which amazed me very much. They ſat on a rich couch, in a gay alcove, and both played on the German flute. They moved their heads, their arms, their eyes, their fingers, and ſeemed to look with a conſciouſneſs at each other, while they breathed, at my entring the room, that fine piece of muſic, the maſquerade minuet; and afterwards, ſeveral excellent pieces. I thought at firſt, they were living creatures; but on examination, finding they were only wood, my admiration increaſed, and be⯑came exceeding great, when I ſaw, by ſhut⯑ting their mouths, and ſtopping their fingers, that the muſic did not proceed from an organ within the figures. It was an extraordi⯑nary piece of clock-work, invented and made by one John Nixon, a poor man.

The hiſ⯑tory of Miſs Wolf.§. 2. At length however, a door was opened, and a lady entred, who was vaſtly pretty, and richly dreſt beyond what I had ever ſeen. She had diamonds enough for a queen. I was amazed at the ſight of her, and wondered ſtill more, when, after being honoured with a low courteſy, on my bowing to her, ſhe aſked me in Iriſh, how I did, and how long I had been in England. My ſurprize was ſo great I could not ſpeak, and upon this, ſhe ſaid, in the ſame language, I ſee, Sir, you have no remembrance of me. [183]You cannot recollect the leaſt idea of me. You have quite forgot young Imoinda, of the county of Gallway in Ireland; who was your partner in country dances, when you paſſed the Chriſtmas of the year 1715, at her fa⯑ther's houſe. What (I ſaid) Miſs Wolf of Balineſkay? O my Imoinda! And ſnatching her to my arms, I almoſt ſtifled her with kiſſes. I was ſo glad to ſee her again, and in the ſituation ſhe appeared in, that I could not help expreſſing my joys in that tumultu⯑ous manner, and hoped ſhe would excuſe her Valentine, as I then remembred I had had that honour when we were both very young.

This lady, who was good humour itſelf in fleſh and blood, was ſo far from being an⯑gry at this ſtrange flight of mine, that ſhe only laughed exceſſively at the oddneſs of the thing; but ſome ladies who came into the apartment with her ſeemed frightened, and at a loſs what to think, 'till ſhe cleared up the affair to them, by letting them know who I was, and how near her father and mine lived to each other in the country of Ireland. She was indeed extremely glad to ſee me, and from her heart bid me welcome to Clankford. Our meeting was a vaſt ſurprize to both of us. She thought I had been in the Elyſian fields, as ſhe had heard nothing of me for ſeveral years: and I little imagined, I ſhould ever find her in [184] England, in the rich condition ſhe was in. She aſked me by what deſtiny I was brought to Yorkſhire; and in return for my ſhort ſtory, gave me an account of herſelf at large. Till the bell rung for dinner, we ſat talking toge⯑ther, and then went down to as elegant a one as I had ever ſeen. There were twelve at table, ſix young ladies, all very handſome, and ſix gentlemen. Good humour preſided, and in a rational delightful chearfulneſs, we paſſed ſome hours away. After coffee, we went to cards, and from them to country dances, as two of the footmen played well on the fiddle. The charming Imoinda was my partner, and as they all did the dances extremely well, we were as happy a little ſet as ever footed it to country meaſure. Two weeks I paſſed in this fine felicity. Then we all ſeparated, and went different ways. What became of Miſs Wolf after this — the extraordinary events of her life — and the ſtories of the five ladies with her, — I ſhall relate in the ſecond volume of my Memoirs of ſeveral Ladies of Great Britain. Four of them were Mrs. Cheſlin, Mrs. Fanſhaw, Mrs. Chadley, and Mrs. Biſſel; the fifth was Miſs Farmor; all mentioned in the Preface to the firſt volume of my Memoirs aforeſaid.May 25, 1731. An ac⯑count of Oliver Wincup, Eſq

§. 3. A fortnight, as ſaid, I ſtayed with Miſs Wolf, that was; but, at the time I am [185]ſpeaking of, the relict of Sir Loghlin Fitz⯑gibbons, an old Iriſh knight, who was im⯑menſely rich, and married her when he was creeping upon all-fours, with ſnow on his head, and froſt in his bones, that he might lie by a naked beauty, and gaze at that awful ſpot he had no power to enjoy. I did intend, on leaving this lady, to be at Knareſborough at night; but the fates, for a while, took me another way. At the inn where I dined, I became acquainted with a gen⯑tleman much of my own age, who was an ingenious agreeable man. This was Oli⯑ver Wincup, Eſq who had lately married Miſs Horner of Northumberland, a fine young creature, and a great fortune. This gentle⯑man, by his good humour, and ſeveral good ſongs, pleaſed me ſo much, that I drank more than I intended, and was eaſily pre⯑vailed on to go with him, in the evening, to Woodceſter, the name of his ſeat; which was but ten miles from the houſe we had dined at. We came in juſt as they were going to tea. There was a great deal of company, at leaſt a dozen ladies, beſides half a ſcore gen⯑tlemen, and all of them as gay and engaging as the beſt-bred young mortals could be.

A deſcrip⯑tion of Woodceſter Houſe.§. 4. The vill here was very odd, but a charming pretty thing. The houſe conſiſted [186]of ſeveral ground rooms, (ten I think) de⯑tached from one another, and ſeparated by trees and banks of flowers. They were in⯑tirely of wood, but finely put together, and all diſpoſed with the greateſt ſymmetry and beauty. They were very handſome without ſide, and the inſide furniſhed and adorned with the fineſt things the owner could get for money. Eaſy hills, little vallies, and pretty groves, ſurrounded the ſweet retreat, and the vallies were watered with clear ſtreams. The whole had a fine appearance. The varied ſcenes for ever pleaſed.

The man⯑ner of liv⯑ing at Woodceſter.§. 5. At this delightful place I ſtayed ten days, and was very happy indeed. We drank, we laughed, we danced, we ſung, and chatted; and when that was done, 'twas night. But country dances were the chief diverſion; and I had a partner, who was not only a wonder in face and per⯑ſon, (divinely pretty) but did wonders in every motion. This was Miſs Veyſſiere of Cumberland: the dear creature! Reader, when I was a young fellow, there were few could equal me in dancing. The famous Paddy Murphy, an Iriſh member of the houſe of commons, commonly called the Little Beau, well known at Lucas's coffee-houſe, Dublin: (He danced one night, in 1734, that I was at the caſtle, before the late Duke of Dorſet [187]and his Ducheſs, at their grace's requeſt:) this gentleman, and Langham, the miller, who danced every night at the renowned Stretch's puppet-ſhew, before the curtain was drawn up, were both deſervedly admired for their performance in the hornpipe; yet were nothing to me in this particular: but Miſs Veyſſiere out-did me far: her ſteps were in⯑finite, and ſhe did them with that amazing agility, that ſhe ſeemed like a dancing angel in the air. Eight nights we footed it together, and all the company ſaid, we were born for each other. She did charm me, and I ſhould have aſked her the queſtion, to try her tem⯑per, if Wincup had not told me, her father intended to ſacrifice her to a man old enough to be her grandfather, for the ſake of a great jointure; and in a week or two ſhe was to dance the reel of Bogee with an old monk.— Poor Miſs Veyſſiere! I ſaid; What con⯑nexion can there be between the hoary churl and you,

I do not wiſh you may feather him, but may you bury him very quickly, and be happy.

An ac⯑count of a company of ſtroling players at Woodceſter.§. 6. Another of our diverſions at Wood⯑ceſter, was a little company of ſingers and dancers Mr. Wincup had hired, to perform [188]in a ſylvan theatre he had in his gardens. Theſe people did the mime, the dance, the ſong, extremely well. There was among them one Miſs Hinxworth, a charming young creature, who excelled in every thing; but in ſinging eſpecially, had no equal I believe in the world. She was a gentleman's daugh⯑ter, and had been carried off by one O Regan, an Iriſhman, and dancing-maſter, the head of this company. He was the moſt active fellow upon earth, and the beſt harlequin I have ever ſeen. Every evening we had ſome⯑thing or other extraordinary from theſe per⯑formers. He gave us two pieces which ſo nearly reſembled the two favourite entertain⯑ments called Harlequin Sorcerer, and the Genii, (tho' in ſeveral particulars better) that I cannot help thinking Mr. Rich owed his Har⯑lequin Sorcerer to O Regan: and that the Ge⯑nii of Drury-Lane was the invention of this Iriſhman.

You know, reader, that in the firſt ſcene of Harlequin Sorcerer, there is a group of witches at their orgies in a wilderneſs by moon-light, and that harlequin comes riding in the air between two witches, upon a long pole: Here O Regan did what was never at⯑tempted at Covent-Garden houſe, and what no other man in the world I believe did ever do. As the witches danced round and round, hand in hand, as ſwift as they could move, [189] O Regan leaped upon the ſhoulder of one of them, and for near a quarter of an hour, jumped the contrary way as faſt as they went, round all their ſhoulders. This was a fine piece of activity. I think it much more wonderful, than to keep at the top of the outwheel of a water-mill, by jumping there, as it goes with the greateſt rapidity round. This Mun. Hawley, An ac⯑count of Mr. Haw⯑ley of Loch-Gur. of Loch-Gur in the county of Tipperary, could do. He was a charming fellow in body and mind, and fell unfortu⯑nately in the 22d year of his age. In a plain field, by a trip of his horſe, he came down, and fractured his ſkull. He did not think he was hurt: but at night as ſoon as he be⯑gan to eat, it came up. A ſurgeon was ſent for to look at his head. It was cracked in ſeveral places, and he died the next day. He and I were near friends.

June 1, 1731. The au⯑thor leaves Woodceſter, and rides to a lone ſilent place called Laſco.§. 7. The firſt of June, 1731, at five in the morning, I took my leave of honeſt Wincup, as chearful and worthy a fellow as ever lived, and ſet out for Knareſborough; but loſt my way, went quite wrong, and in three hours time, came to a little blind ale⯑houſe, the ſign of the Cat and Bagpipe, in a lone ſilent place. The maſter of this ſmall inn was one Tom Clancy, brother to the well-known Martin Clancy in Dublin. He [190]came to England to try his fortune, as he told me, and married an old woman, who kept this public-houſe, the ſign of the Cat, to which Tom added the Bagpipe. As he had been a waiter at his brother's houſe, he re⯑membred to have ſeen me often there, and was rejoiced at my arrival at the Cat and Bagpipe. He got me a good ſupper of trouts, fine ale, and a ſquib of punch, and after he had done talking of all the gallant fellows that uſed to reſort to his brother Martin's, ſuch as the heroes of Trinity-college, Dublin, Captain Maccan of the county of Kerry, and many more, he let me go to ſleep.

The hiſto⯑ry of the two beau⯑ties in the wood.§. 8. The next morning, betimes, I was up, and walked into a wood adjoining to Clancy's houſe. I ſauntered on for about an hour eaſily enough, but at laſt came to a part of the foreſt that was almoſt impenetra⯑ble. Curioſity incited me to ſtruggle on⯑wards, if poſſible, that I might ſee what country was before me, or if any houſe was to be found in this gloomy place: this coſt me a couple of hours, much toil, and many ſcratches; but at length, I arrived at the edge of a barren moor, and beyond it, about a quarter of a mile off, ſaw another wood. Proud to be daring, on I went, and ſoon came to the wood in view, which I found [191]cut into walks, and arrived at a circular ſpace ſurrounded with a foreſt, that was above a hun⯑dred yards every way. In the center of this was a houſe, encloſed within a very broad deep mote, full of water, and the banks on the inſide, all round, were ſo thick planted with trees, that there was no ſeeing any thing of the manſion but the roof and the chim⯑nies. Over the water was one narrow draw⯑bridge, lifted up, and a ſtrong door on the garden ſide of the mote. Round I walked ſeveral times, but no ſoul could I ſee: not the leaſt noiſe could I hear; nor was there a cottage any where in view. I wondered much at the whole; and if I had had my lad O Finn with me, and my pole, I would moſt certainly have attempted to leap the foſs, broad as it was, and if it was poſſible, have known who were the occupants of this ſtrange place. But as nothing could be done, nor any information be had, I returned again to the Cat and Bagpipe.

Character of Mr. Jeremiah Cock, an old lawyer.It was ten by the time I got back, and at breakfaſt I told Clancy, my landlord, where I had been, and aſked him if he knew who lived in that wonderful place. His name (he replied) is Cock, an old lawyer and limb of the devil, and the moſt hideous man to behold that is upon the face of the earth. Every thing that is bad and ſhocking is in his [192]compound: he is to outward appearance a monſter: and within, the miſer, the oppreſ⯑ſor, the villain. He is deſpiſed and abhorred, but ſo immenſely rich, that he can do any thing, and no one is able to contend with him. I could relate, ſays Tom, a thouſand inſtances of his injuſtice and cruelty; but one alone is ſufficient to render his memory for ever curſed. Two gentlemen of fortune, who had employed him ſeveral years in their af⯑fairs, and had a good opinion of him, on account of a canted uprightneſs and ſeeming piety, left him ſole guardian of a daughter each of them had, and the management of fifty thouſand pounds a-piece, the fortune of theſe girls, with power to do as he pleaſed, without being ſubject to any controul, 'till they are of age. Theſe ladies, as fine crea⯑tures as ever the eye of man beheld, he has had now a year in confinement in that priſon you ſaw in the wood; and while he lives, will keep them there to be ſure, on account of the hundred thouſand pounds, or till he diſpoſe of them to his own advantage, ſome way or other. He intends them, it is ſaid, for two ugly nephews he has, who are now at ſchool, about fourteen years old, and for this purpoſe, or ſome other as bad, never ſuf⯑fers them to ſtir out of the garden ſurrounded by the mote, nor lets any human creature vi⯑ſit [193]them. They are greatly to be pitied, but bear the ſevere uſage wonderfully well. One of them, Miſs Martha Tilſton, is in her twen⯑tieth year; and the other, Miſs Alithea Llan⯑ſoy, in her nineteenth. They are girls of great ſenſe, and would, if any kind of oppor⯑tunity offered, make a brave attempt to eſcape: but that ſeems impoſſible. They are not only ſo ſtrictly confined, and he for ever at home with them, except he rides a few miles; but are attended continually in the garden, when they walk, by a ſervant who is well paid, and devoted to the old man her maſter. This makes them think their ſtate is fixed for life, and to get rid of melancholy, they read, and practice muſic. They both play on the fiddle, and do it ex⯑tremely fine.

Here Clancy had done, and I was much more ſurprized at his relation than at the place of their reſidence which I had ſeen. I became very thoughtful, and continued for ſome time with my eyes fixed on the table, while I revolved the caſe of theſe unfor⯑tunate young ladies. But is all this true? (at laſt I ſaid): Or only report? How did you get ſuch particular information?—I will tell you, Tom anſwered. Old Cock is my land⯑lord, and buſineſs often brings me to his houſe in the wood, to pay my rent, or aſk [194]for ſomething I want. Beſides, I ſometimes bring a fat pig there, and other things to fell. My daughter likewiſe has ſometimes a piece of work in hand for the ladies, and ſhe and I take a walk with it there by a better and ſhorter way than you went. You cannot think how glad they are to ſee us, and they let me into all their perplexities and diſtreſs.

On hearing this, a ſudden thought of be⯑ing ſerviceable to theſe ladies came into my head, and I was going to aſk a queſtion in rela⯑tion to it, when two horſemen rode up to the door, and one of them called Houſe! This, ſays my landlord, is old Cock and his man; and immediately went out to him, to know his will. He told him, he came for the ride-ſake him⯑ſelf, to ſee if any letters were left for him by that day's poſt at his houſe, and would dine with him if he had any thing to eat. That I have, (the man replied), as fine a fowl, bacon and greens, as ever was ſerved up to any table, and only one gentleman, a ſtranger and tra⯑veller, to ſit down to it. Cock upon this came into the room I was ſitting in, and after look⯑ing very earneſtly at me, ſaid, Your ſervant, Sir. I told him I was his moſt humble, and right glad to meet with a gentleman for ſociety in that lone place. I immediately began a ſtory of a cock and a bull, and made the old fellow grin now and then. I in⯑formed [195]him among other things, that I was travelling to Weſtmoreland, to look after ſome eſtates I had there, but muſt hurry back to London very ſoon, for my wife was within a few weeks of her time. You are a mar⯑ried man then, Sir, he replied. Yes, in⯑deed, and ſo ſupremely bleſt with the charms and perfections, the fondneſs and obedience of a wife, that I would not be unmarried for all the world: few men living ſo happy as I am in the nuptial ſtate.—Here dinner was brought in, and to ſave the old gentle⯑man trouble, I would cut up the fowl. I helped him plentifully to a ſlice of the breaſt, and the tips of the wings, and picked out for him the tendereſt greens. I was as com⯑plaiſant as it was poſſible, and drank his health many times. The bottle after dinner I put about pretty quick, and told my old gentleman, if affairs ever brought him up to London, I ſhould be glad to ſee him at my houſe in Golden-Square, the very next door to Sir John Heir's; or, if I could be of any ſervice to him there, he would oblige me very much by letting me know in what way. In ſhort, I ſo buttered him with words, and filled him with fowl and wine, that he ſeem⯑ed well pleaſed, eſpecially when he found there was nothing to pay, as I informed him it was my own dinner I had beſpoke, and [196]dined with double pleaſure in having the ſa⯑tisfaction of his moſt agreeable company. He was a fine politician, I ſaid, and talked extremely well of the government and the times: that I had received more true know⯑ledge from his juſt notions, than from all I had read of men and things, or from con⯑verſing with any one. The glaſs during this time was not long ſtill, but in ſuch toaſts as I found were grateful to his Jacobite heart, drank brimmers as faſt as opportunity ſerved, and he pledged me and cottoned in a very diverting way. He grew very fond of me at laſt, and hoped I would ſpare ſo much time, as to come and dine with him the next day. This honour I aſſured him I would do myſelf, and punctually be with him at his hour. He then rid off, brim full, and I walked out to conſider of this affair. But before I proceed any farther in my ſtory, I muſt give a deſcription of this man.

A deſcrip⯑tion of old Cock the lawyer. Cock, the old lawyer and guardian, was a low man, about four feet eight inches, very broad, and near ſeventy years old. He was humped behind to an enormous degree, and his belly as a vaſt flaſket of garbage projected monſtrouſly before. He had the moſt hang⯑ing look I have ever ſeen. His brows were prodigious, and frowning in a ſhocking man⯑ner; his eyes very little, and above an inch [197]within his head; his noſe hooked like a buz⯑zard, wide noſtrils like a horſe, and his mouth ſparrow. In this caſe, was a mind quite cunning, in the worſt ſenſe of the word, a⯑cute, artful, deſigning and baſe. There was not a ſpark of honour or generoſity in his ſoul.

How to circumvent this able one, and de⯑liver the two beauties from his oppreſſive power, was the queſtion: it ſeemed almoſt impoſſible; but I reſolved to do my beſt. This I told Clancy, and requeſted, as I was to dine with Cock the next day, that he would be there in the morning, on ſome pretence or other, and let the ladies know, I offered them my ſervice, without any other view than to do them good; and if they accepted it, to inform me by a note, ſlipt into my hand when they ſaw me, that if they could direct me what to do, I would execute it at any hazard, or let them hint the leaſt par⯑ticular that might have any tendency to their freedom in ſome time to come, though it were three months off, and I would wait for the moment, and ſtudy to improve the ſcheme. This my landlord very carefully acquainted them with, at the time I men⯑tioned; and by two o'clock I was at Cock's houſe, to ſee theſe beauties, and know what they thought of the ſervice offered them. [198]The old man received me much civiler than I thought he would do when he was ſober, and had, what my landlord told me was a very rare thing in his houſe, to wit, a good dinner that day. Juſt as it was brought in, the ladies entred, (two charming creatures indeed), and made me very low courteſies, while their eyes declared the ſenſe they had of the good I intended them. Cock ſaid, theſe are my nieces, Sir, and as ſoon as I had ſa⯑luted them, we ſat down to table. The eldeſt carved, and helped me to the beſt the board afforded, and young as they were, they both ſhewed by their manner, and the little they ſaid, that they were women of ſenſe and breeding. They retired, a few minutes after dinner, and the youngeſt con⯑trived, in going off, to give me a billet in an inviſible manner. I then turned to Cock intirely, heard him abuſe the government in nonſenſe and falſhoods, as all Jacobites do; and after we had drank and talked for better than an hour, took my leave of him very willingly, to read the following note.

What to do then I could not tell; but as I rid back I conſulted with my lad O Fin, who was a very extraordinary young man, and aſked him what obſervations he had made on the ſervants and place. He ſaid, he had tried the depth of the water in the mote all round, and found it fordable at one angle, waiſt high, and about two feet broad the rock he trod on. He had ſtripped, and walked it over to be ſure of the thing. As to the people, he fancied there was one young man, a labourer by the year under the gar⯑dener, who would, for a reaſonable reward for loſing his place, be aiding in the eſcape of the ladies; for he talked with pity of them, and with great ſeverity of his maſter: that [200]if I pleaſed, he would ſound this man, and let me know more in relation to him: that if he would be concerned, he could very ea⯑ſily carry the ladies on his back acroſs the water, as he was a tall man, and then we might take them behind us to what place we pleaſed: or, if it was not ſafe truſting this man, for fear of his telling his maſter, in hopes of more money on that ſide, then, he would himſelf engage to bring the ladies and their cloaths over, on his own back, with wetting only their legs, if they could be at the water-ſide ſome hour in the night. This was not bad to be ſure; but I was afraid to truſt the man; for, if he ſhould inform old Cock of the thing, they would be confined to their chambers, and made cloſe priſoners for the time to come. It was better therefore to rely entirely upon O Fin, if they could get into the garden in the night.

In anſwer then to another letter I had from the ladies by my landlord's daughter the next morning, in which they lamented the ap⯑pearing impoſſibility of an eſcape, I let them know immediately the ſtate of the water, and deſired to be informed what they thought of the gardener's man; or, if he would not do, could they at any particular hour, get to that angle of the mote I named, to be brought over on my man's back, and then immedi⯑ately ride off behind us on pillions, which [201]ſhould be prepared.mdash;Their anſwer was, that they dared not truſt any of Mr. Cock's men, but thought my own ſervant would do, and the ſcheme reaſonable and ſeemingly ſafe, if they could get out. They gave me a million of thanks for my amazing care of them, and called the immortal powers to witneſs the high ſenſe they had of their unutterable obli⯑gation to me.

Waiting then for them, I ſtaid at the little inn three days longer, and at laſt received a billet to let me know, that at twelve o'clock that night, which was the ſixth of June, they could, by an accident that had happened, be at the appointed place, and ready to go where⯑ever I pleaſed. To a minute my man and I were there, and in a few moments, O Fin brought them and their cloaths over ſafe. In an inſtant after they were behind us, and we rid away as faſt as we could. Six hours we travelled without ſtopping, and in that time, had gone about thirty miles. We breakfaſted very gaily at our inn, and when the horſes had reſted a couple of hours, we ſet out again, and rid till three in the after⯑noon, when we baited at a lone houſe in a valley, called Straveret Vale, which had every rural charm that can be found in the fineſt part of Juan Fernandes. A young couple, vaſtly civil, kept here a ſmall clean public houſe, the ſign of the pilgrim, on the very [202]margin of a pretty river, and the plain things they had were as good as we could deſire. Their bread, their drink, their fowl, their eggs, their butter, cheeſe, vegetables, and bacon, were excellent, and as they had good beds, I thought we could not do better than lie by for two or three days in this ſweet place, 'till it was determined, where the la⯑dies ſhould fix. We were at leaſt fixty miles from old Cock's houſe, and in an obſcurity that would conceal us from any purſuers; for we had kept the croſs roads and by-ways, and were on the confines of Weſtmoreland. Here then we agreed to reſt for a little time. In reality, it was juſt as I pleaſed. The la⯑dies were all acknowledgment for what I did to deliver them, and all ſubmiſſion to my di⯑rection. They had each of them thirty gui⯑neas in their purſes, as they ſhewed me, but what to do after that was gone, or where to go while it laſted, to be in ſafety, they could not tell.

The affair perplexed me very much, and I turned it a thouſand ways, without being able to ſettle it as I would. I had two young heireſſes on my hands, who wanted more than a year of being at age, and I muſt ſup⯑port them, and place them in ſome ſpot of decency, ſecurity, and peace, ſince I had gone thus far, or I had injured them greatly, inſtead of ſerving them, in bringing them [203]from their guardian's houſe. This took up all my thoughts for three days. I concealed however my uneaſineſs from them, and en⯑deavoured to make the houſe and place quite pleaſing to them. I kept up a chearfulneſs and gaiety, and we ſat down with joy and pleaſure to breakfaſt, dinner, and ſupper. Within doors, we played at cards, we ſung, and I entertained them with my German-flute. Abroad, we walked, fiſhed, and ſome⯑times I rowed them up the river in a boat the man of the houſe had. The whole ſcheme was really delightful, and as the girls had great quickneſs and vivacity, and were far from being ignorant, conſidering their few years, I could have wiſhed it was poſſible to ſtay there much longer: but it was no place for them, and I was obliged to call at Clay⯑tor, in a little time. I could not forget my promiſe to the lovely Miſs Spence. My ho⯑nour was engaged, and there was no time to loſe. It is true, if I had not been en⯑gaged, I might immediately have married either the beautiful Miſs Tilſton, or the more beautiful Miſs Llandſoy, then become my wards; but as they were minors, if ſuch a wife died under age, I could be no gainer, and might have children to maintain with⯑out any fortune. All theſe things ſat pow⯑erfully on my ſpirits, and I was obliged at [204]laſt to make the following declaration to the ladies, which I did the third day after dinner.

Miſs Tilſton, Miſs Llandſoy, I am ſenſible you have too high an opinion of what I have done to ſerve you, and think there is more merit in it than there really is; for a man of any generoſity and ability would, I imagine, do all that was poſſible to deliver two young ladies of your charms and perfections, from the ſlavery and miſery your guardian kept you in: I am likewiſe ſure you believe I would do every thing in my power, to ſecure your happineſs, and give you the poſſeſſion of every bleſſing of time. I honour, I admire, I regard you both, to a high degree; and if I were ſome powerful genie, I would crown your lives with ſtable felicity and glory. But nature, ladies, has irrevocably fixed limits, beyond which we cannot paſs, and my ſphere of action is far from being large. My for⯑tune is not very great, and thereby prevents my being ſo uſeful a friend to you as I would willingly be. However, though it is not in my power to do according to my inclination, in regard to your caſe, and with ſecurity place you in ſome ſtation fit for your rank and worth, yet I can bring you to a ſpot of tran⯑quillity, and in ſtill life enable you to live without perplexity or care of any kind. You ſhall have peace and little, and may perhaps hereafter ſay, you have enjoyed more real [205]happineſs, for the time you had occaſion to reſide there, than you could find in the tu⯑mult, pomp, and grandeur of the world.

Here I gave the ladies an account of Orton-Lodge, in the northern extremity of Weſt⯑moreland, where I had lived a conſiderable time told them the condition it was in, the goods, the books, the liquors, and other ne⯑ceſſaries and conveniencies that were there, and if, in that charming romantic ſpot, where no mortal could come to hurt them, they could bear to live for a while, I would ſettle them there, and get a man ſervant to work in the garden, and a couple of maids. I would likewiſe procure for them two cows, a few lambs, ſome poultry, and corn, and ſeeds for the ground: in ſhort, that they ſhould have every thing requiſite in ſuch a place; I would return to them as ſoon as poſſible; I would write to them often, directing my let⯑ters to the neareſt town, to be called for by their man. What do you ſay, ladies, to this propoſal? In London it is not poſſible for you to be: at a farm-houſe you might have no ſatisfaction: and any where that was known and frequented, you may be liable to diſcovery, as Cock, your guardian, will en⯑quire every where; and if he hears of you, you will be carried home moſt certainly to his diſmal habitation, and be uſed ten times [206]worſe than before. What do you think then of this ſcheme?

Sir, (they both replied) you are to us a ſubaltern power, by heaven ſent to deliver us from miſery, and ſecure our happineſs in this world. We have not words to expreſs the gratitude of our ſouls for this further inſtance of your goodneſs in the offer you make us, nor can it ever be in our power to make you the return it deſerves. You will be pleaſed to accept our grateful thanks, and all we have to add at preſent, our prayers for your preſer⯑vation and health. Conduct us, we beſeech you, immediately to that ſweet ſpot of peace you have deſcribed.

This being agreed on, the next thing to be done was to get two horſes for the ladies, for mine were not able to carry double any further, if there had been a turnpike road before us; then up the mountains we were to go, where no double horſe could travel; and when they were at the Lodge, they would want horſes to ride ſometimes, or to remove, if the neceſſity of their caſe ſhould happen to require it: to my landlord there⯑fore I applied upon the occaſion, and he very quickly got for me not only two pretty beaſts, but a young labouring man, and two country girls to wait upon the ladies. I then ſent to the next town for a couple of ſide-ſaddles, gave the ſervants directions to go to the Rev. [207]Mr. Fleming's houſe, to wait there till they heard from me, and then we ſet out for Or⯑ton-Ladge. Two days we ſpent in travelling there, feeding on cold proviſions we had with us, and lying a night on the fern of the mountains. The ſecond evening we arrived at the Lodge. There I found every thing ſafe, and the place as I had left it. I opened my various ſtore-houſes, to the ſurprize of the young ladies, and brought them many good things; biſcuits, potted char, potted black-cocks, ſweetmeats, and liquors of va⯑rious kinds: O Fin likewiſe got us a diſh of trouts for ſupper, and the two beauties and I ſat down with chearfulneſs to our table.— Vaſtly amazed they were at all they ſaw. Every thing was ſo good, and the wild charms of the place ſo pleaſing, that they could not but expreſs the tranſports they were in at their preſent ſituation. The whole they ſaid, was charming as inchantment, and in language there was not a force ſufficient to expreſs their grateful ſentiments upon the occaſion. This gave me much pleaſure, and till the end of June, I lived a very happy life with theſe fine young creatures. They did all that was poſſible to ſhew their eſteem and gratitude. Excluſive of their amaz⯑ing fine faces, and perſons, they were ingenious, gay, and engaging, and made [208]every minute of time delightful. If I had not been engaged to Miſs Spence, I ſhould certainly have ſat down in peace with theſe two young ladies, and with them connected, have looked upon Orton-Lodge as the Garden of Eden. They were both moſt charming women. Miſs Llandſoy was a mere divi⯑nity!

SECTION VII.

July 1, 1731. My depar⯑ture from Orton-Lodge a ſe⯑cond time: miſſed my road: the country deſcribed.§. 1. THE firſt of July, juſt as the day was breaking, I mounted my horſe, and went again from Orton-Lodge. The morning being extremely fine, and every thing appearing as in the above lines, I rid ſoftly on for three or four hours, and was ſo delighted with the beauties, and an infinite variety of lovely objects my eyes were feaſted with, that I did not mind the way; and inſtead of coming to the turning that was my road, I got into a bending valley, which ended at a range of rocky mountains. For half an hour I travelled by the bottom of theſe frightful hills, and came at length to a paſs through them, but ſo narrow, that the beaſts had not above an inch or two to ſpare on each ſide. It was dark as the blackeſt night in this opening, and a ſtream came from it, by the waters falling in ſeveral places from the top of the high incloſing precipices. It was as ſhocking a foot-way as I had ever ſeen.

[211] Finn, (I ſaid to my young man) as the bottom is hard, and you can only be wet a little, will you try where this paſs ends, and let me know what kind of country and in⯑habitants are beyond it? That I will, ſaid O Finn, and immediately entred the cleft or crevice between the mountains. A couple of hours I allowed my adventurer to explore this dark way; but if in that time he could make nothing of it, then his orders were to return: but there was no ſign of him at the end of ſix hours, and I began to fear he had got into ſome pound. After him then I went, about one o'clock, and for near half a mile, the narrow way was directly forward, a rough bottom, and ancle deep in water; but it ended in a fine flowery green of about twenty acres, ſurrounded with ſteep rocky hills it was impoſſible to aſcend. Walking up to the precipice before me, I found many ca⯑verns in it, which extended on either hand, and onwards, into a vaſt variety of caves; ſome of them having high arched openings for entrance, and others only holes to creep in at; but all of them ſpacious within, and high enough for the talleſt man to walk in.

In theſe diſmal chambers I apprehended my fellow had loſt himſelf, and therefore went into them as far as I could venture, that is, without loſing ſight of the day, and cried out Finn! Finn! but could hear no [212]ſound in return. This was a great trouble to me, and I knew not what to do. Back however I muſt go to my horſes, and after I had ſpent two hours in ſearching, ſhouting, and expecting my lad's return, by ſome means or other, I was juſt going to walk to⯑wards the crevice, or dark narrow paſs I had come through to this place, when caſting my eyes once more towards the caverns in the mountains, I ſaw my boy come out, leaping and ſinging for joy. He told me, he never expected to ſee the day-light more: for after he had fooliſhly gone too far into the caves, till he was quite in the dark, in hopes of finding a paſſage through the mountain to ſome open country, he was obliged to wan⯑der from chamber to chamber he knew not where for many hours, without one ray of light, and with very little expectation of de⯑liverance; that he did nothing but cry and roar, and was hardly able to ſtand on his legs any longer, when by a chance turn into a cave, he ſaw ſome light again, and then ſoon found his way out. Poor fellow! he was in a ſad condition, and very wonderful was his eſcape.

After this, we made what haſte we could to our horſes, which we had left feeding in the vale, and Finn brought me ſome cold proviſions from his wallet for my dinner. I dined with great pleaſure, on account of the [213]recovery of my lad, and when we had both recruited and reſted ſufficiently, on we went again. We found the valley winded about the mountains for three miles, and then end⯑ed at the higheſt hill I had ever ſeen, but which it was poſſible to aſcend. With great difficulty we and our horſes got to the top of it, and down on the other ſide. Six mountains of the ſame height, whoſe tops were above the clouds, we had to croſs, and then arrived at a bottom, which formed a moſt delightful ſcene.

Mrs. Thur⯑loe's ſeat in Weſtmore⯑land.§. 2. The Vale of Keſwick, and Lake of Derwentwater, in Cumberland, are thought by thoſe who have been there, to be the fineſt point of view in England, and extremely beautiful they are, far more ſo than the Rev. Dr. Dalton has been able to make them ap⯑pear in his Deſcriptive Poem; (addreſſed to two ladies, at their return from viewing the coal-mines, near Whitehaven, that is, the late excellent Lord Lonſdale's charming daugh⯑ters;) or than the Doctor's brother, Mr. Dalton, has painted them in his fine drawings; and yet they are inferior in charms to the vale, the lake, the brooks, the ſhaded ſides of the ſurrounding mountains, and the tuneful falls of water, to which we came in Weſtmore⯑land. In all the world, I believe, there is not a [214]more glorious rural ſcene to be ſeen, in the fine time of the year.

In this fine vale, I found one pretty little houſe, which had gardens very beautifully laid out, and uſefully filled with the fineſt dwarf fruit trees and ever-greens, vegetables, herbs, and ſhrubs. The manſion, and the improved ſpot of ground, were at the end of the beautiful lake, ſo as to have the whole charming piece of water before the door. The projecting ſhaded fells ſeemed to nod or hang over the habitation, and on either hand, a few yards from the front of the houſe, caſcades much higher than that of dread Lo⯑dore, in Cumberland, fell into the lake. There is not any thing ſo beautiful and ſtriking as the whole in any part of the globe that I have ſeen: and I have been in higher latitudes, north and ſouth, than moſt men living. I have converſed with nations who live many degrees beyond the poor frozen Laplander. I have travelled among the barbarians who ſcorch beneath the burning zone.

An acc⯑count of the [...] Miſs Thur⯑lie's.§. 3. Who lived in this delightful val⯑ley, was, in the next place, my enquiry, after I had admired for an hour the amaz⯑ing beauties of the place. I walked up to the houſe, and in one of the parlour windows, that had a view up the loch, I ſaw a young beauty ſitting with a muſic-book [215]in her hand, and heard her ſing in a maſterly manner. She could not ſee me, but I had a full view of her fine face, and as I remem⯑bred to have ſeen her ſomewhere, I ſtood gazing at her with wonder and delight, and was ſtriving to recollect where I had been in her company, when another young one came into the room, whom I had reaſon to re⯑member very well, on account of an acci⯑dent, and then I knew they were the two young ladies I had ſeen at Mr. Harcourt's. (ſee p. 374. of Memoirs of ſeveral Ladies of Great Britain,) and admired very greatly for the charms of their perſons, and the beauties of their minds. Upon this I walked up to the window, and after a little aſtoniſhment at ſeeing me, they behaved with the greateſt civility, and ſeemed to be highly pleaſed with the accidental meeting. While we were talking, their mamma came into the apart⯑ment, and on their letting her know who I was, and where they had been acquainted with me, the old lady was pleaſed to aſk me to ſtay at her houſe that night, and to aſſure me ſhe was glad to ſee me, as ſhe had often heard her daughters ſpeak of me. Three days I paſſed with great pleaſure in this ſweet place, and then with regret took my leave. Theſe two fine young creatures were the Miſs Thurloe's, and are Mrs. Lowman and Mrs. Munkley, in the Memoirs of ſeveral La⯑dies [216]of Great Britain. In the 2d volume of that work, the reader will find their lives.

Account of a Car⯑thuſian monaſtery in Rich⯑mondſhire.§. 4. The 5th of July I left Mrs. Thurloe's, and by the aſſiſtance of a guide, had a fine ride to the houſe of Friar Fleming, in Rich⯑mondſhire, where I arrived by noon. I dined with this good Franciſcan, and ſhould have lain there that night, but that I could not help being melancholy, on miſſing my dear friend Tom, the Monk's brother, who died of a fever, as before related. From him then I parted in the evening, and rid to a Carthuſian monaſtry, which conſiſted of ſeven monks, men of ſome eſtate, who had agreed to live together in this remote place, and paſs their lives in piety, ſtudy, and gardening. I had a letter from Fleming to one of theſe gentlemen, the ſuperior, letting him know I was his near friend, and deſiring he would receive me as himſelf; that, although a pro⯑teſtant, I was of no party, but in charity with all mankind. This letter procured me all the kindneſs and honours theſe gentlemen could ſhew me. They behaved with great civility and tenderneſs, and gave me the beſt they had, good fiſh, good bread, good wine, excellent fruit, and fine vegetables; for as to fleſh, they never eat any, by their rule.

They were all learned and devout men, very grave and ſilent for the moſt part, ex⯑cept [217]when viſited, but without any thing ſtiff or moroſe in their manner. They had a large collection of books, and ſeemed to underſtand them well. What time they had to ſpare from the hours of divine ſervice, and working in their gardens, according to the rule of St. Benet, which they follow, they give to ſtudy, and had many volumes of their own writing; being moſtly old MSS. they had tranſcribed, Greek, Latin, and French. Making ſuch copies was their prin⯑cipal work in the cloſet.

Reaſons for reading the works of the Rab⯑bies, ficti⯑tious and extrava⯑gant as they are.§. 5. I ſtayed two days with theſe gen⯑tlemen, and had a good deal of uſeful con⯑verſation with them, on various ſubjects. On looking into the writings of the Rabbies, which I ſaw in their library, I told one of theſe Chartreux, that it was a wonder to me, that any one read ſuch extravagant fabulous rela⯑tions and deſpicable fictions as theſe books contained, and ſhould be glad to know, what good could be extracted from them.

The Friar replied, that notwithſtanding their being fictitious and extravagant to a high degree, yet great uſe may be made of the works of the Rabbies, and eſpecially of the Talmud of Babylon ⁽¹¹⁾ [217]We obtain from [218]thence a knowledge of the cuſtoms and opini⯑ons of the Jews, which afford ſome benefit. In the next place, they ſerve to the confirmation [219]of the hiſtory of Jeſus Chriſt; for it appears by the Babyloniſh Talmud, that there was one Jeſus, who had diſciples, lived in ſuch and ſuch a place, and did and ſaid divers things; and in the Bible many texts relating to the Meſſias are confirmed and explained by theſe books of the Rabbies, though not by them intended. This I have ſince found to be the truth of the caſe. I have read the works of the Rabbins ſince, and find it to be as the Car⯑thuſian ſaid. For example;

It is ſaid in Gen. iii. 15. I will put enmity between thy ſeed and her ſeed. It ſhall bruiſe thy head, and thou ſhalt bruiſe his heel. Now the Targum of Onkelos gives the ſenſe thus: The man ſhall be mindful of, or remember, what thou (ſatan) haſt done to him in times paſt, and thou ſhalt obſerve, watch or haunt him till the end of days; that is, the ſer⯑pent or devil ſhould purſue and have domi⯑nion over the world till the laſt days, and then the prince of this world ſhould be caſt out, [220]and the works of the devil deſtroyed. Beacha⯑rith Heyamim, the end of days, or laſt days, is, by a general rule, given by the moſt learned Rabbins, meant of the Meſſias. So Kimchi on Iſa. ii. 2.—and Abarbriel and R. Moſes Nachm on Gen. xlix. 1. inform us.

It is likewiſe very remarkable, that the Targum of Jeruſalem, and that of Jonathan Ben Uziel, apply this place to the coming of the Meſſias. They give the words the fol⯑lowing ſenſe. — I will put enmity between thy ſeed and her ſeed: when the ſons of the woman keeping my law, they ſhall bruiſe thy head, and when they break my law, thou ſhalt bruiſe their heel; but the wound given to the ſeed of the woman, ſhall be healed, but thine ſhall be incurable; they ſhall be healed in the laſt days, in the days of the Meſſias.—Such is the opinion of the moſt learned Jews:—and from thence it fol⯑lows, that the Chriſtians have not put their ſenſe upon the text I have cited to ſerve their own turn; the Rabbins, we ſee, give the very ſame meaning to the place.

Again in Numb. xxiv. 17. we have the famous prophecy of Balaam: There ſhall come a ſtar out of Jacob, and a ſceptre ſhall riſe out of Iſrael. — In Iſaiah xi. 1. it is writ⯑ten; And there ſhall come forth a rod out of the ſtem of Jeſſe, and a branch ſhall grow out of his roots, and the ſpirit of the Lord ſhall reſt [221]upon him. And in Jeremiah xxiii. 5.6. Behold the days ſhall come, ſaith the Lord, that I will raiſe unto David a righteous branch,—and this is his name whereby he ſhall be called, The Lord our Righteouſneſs. That the Chriſtians apply theſe texts to the Meſſias, I need not inform the reader: but it muſt be grateful to obſerve, that the paraphraſes of On⯑kelos, Jonathan, and Jeruſalem, all of them expreſsly attribute the prophecy of Balaam to the Meſſias. And Rabbi Moſes Hadarſan and Maimon, ſay, he is here called a Star, (which ſignifies what Malachi expreſſes by the Sun of Righteouſneſs. Mal. iv. 2. and Ze⯑chariah by the Eaſt. I will bring forth my ſer⯑vant the Eaſt. Zach. iii. 8. as it is tranſlated in the Vulgar, Septuagint, Arabic, and Sy⯑riac) is here, ſay theſe Rabbins, called a Star, becauſe he ſhould come and deſtroy idolatry, among the heathen nations, by becoming a light to the gentiles, and the glory of Iſrael.

As to the other two texts, the Jews do likewiſe attribute them to the Meſſias. Rab⯑bi Joſeph Albo, ſpeaking of the words, The Lord our Righteouſneſs, in particular, ſays ex⯑preſsly, that this is one name given to the Meſſias. Albo, Sep. ikker. lib. 2. c. 28. Thus do the Jews concur with us in the applica⯑tion of texts to the Meſſias. But what is be⯑come of this Meſſias, they cannot tell. They [222]are amazed, perplexed, and confounded a⯑bout him. They diſpute on the article, and have the wildeſt fancies in relation to it. Whereas the Chriſtians give a clear and con⯑ſiſtent account of the Meſſias, and by every argument that can be deſired by a rational, prove the truth of chriſtianity.

Again: in Iſa. ix. 6. we have theſe words: Unto us a child is born, unto us a ſon is given, and the government ſhall be upon his ſhoulders: and his name ſhall be called Wonderful, Counſel⯑lor, the Mighty God, the Everlaſting Father, the Prince of Peace. Or as the Alexandrian MS. hath it, He ſhall call his name the Angel, Won⯑derful, Counſellor, Mighty, the Governor, the Prince of Peace, the Father of the age to come. This is thought by all Chriſtians to be a plain declaration of the Meſſias; for to apply it to any mere mortal, as to Hezekiah, or Iſaiah's ſon, cannot be done without the greateſt ab⯑ſurdity: and therefore Ben Maimon (epiſt. ad Afric.) fairly yields that theſe words belong to the Meſſias, and ſo doth Jonathan Ben Uziel in his Chaldee paraphraſe. The Talmud itſelf allows it. Tract. Sanhedrim. that it re⯑lates to a perſon not come in the time of the prophets, but to the man, whoſe name is the Branch, which was to come forth out of the ſtem of Jeſſe, and to grow out of his roots. My ſervant the Branch. Behold the man whoſe name is the Branch. Zech. iii. 8. and ch. xii. [223]and Iſa. iv. 1. Even the perſon that ſhall be ſent; Shilo, that remarkable perſon God had promiſed to his people. So ſays the Talmud.

But further; as to the birth of the Meſſias, in reſpect of the manner and the place, it is thus ſet down by the prophet Micah, v. 2. And thou Bethlehem Ephrata, though thou be little among the thouſands of Judah, yet out of thee ſhall come forth unto me, that is to be ruler in Iſrael; whoſe goings forth have been of old, even from everlaſting.—And in Iſa. vii. 14. are theſe words, Behold a virgin ſhall conceive, and bring forth a ſon, and call his name Im⯑manuel. In theſe two texts, (the Chriſtians ſay) the place of the birth of the Meſſias, and the manner of it, are as plainly deſcribed as words can do; and if they cannot, without abſurdity, be explained as relating to any other perſon, then it muſt be perverting the meaning of the records, to oppoſe this expli⯑cation: but this the Jews are far from doing. The place is acknowledged in the Talmud, in the Chaldee paraphraſe of Jonathan, and all their moſt famous maſters declare with one voice, that Bethlehem indiſputably belongs to the Meſſias. Exte Bethlehem coram me prodibit Meſſias, ut ſit dominium exercens in Iſrael, cu⯑jus nomen dictum eſt ab aeternitate, a Diebus ſeculi. (Talmud. lib. Sanhedrim, et Midraſch. The hillinic Rabbi Selemoh. paraph. Jonath. in Loc. Rabbi David Kimchi.)—And as to [224]the manner, tho' it be true that ſome Jews ſay, the Hebrew word Gnalma ſignifies a young woman as well as a virgin; yet Kimell, Jarchi, and Selemoh, three of their greateſt Rabbins, confeſs that here is ſomething won⯑derful preſaged in the birth and generation of this perſon, and that he was not to be born as other men and women are born. What can we deſire more, in the caſe, from an ene⯑my? And in truth, the behold, or wonder, with which the text begins, would be no⯑thing, if it was only that a young woman ſhould have a child: — and as to the Hebrew word Gnalmah, if it ever does ſignify a young women, which I very much doubt, yet in the tranſlation of the Seventy, who well un⯑derſtood the original ſurely, they render the word by parthenos, [...]in Graec; which always ſignifies a virgin in the ſtrict propriety of the phraſe. And in the Punic language, which is much the ſame as the Hebrew, the word Alma ſignifies a virgin, virgo intacta, and never means a young woman.

Such are the advantages we may gain by reading the books of the Rabbins; and to me it is pleaſing to ſee theſe great Hebrew maſters granting ſo much to us for our Meſſias, while they hate our holy religion beyond every thing. Even the gay among the Jews, (if I have been truly informed by one who danced a night with them) have, in contempt and ab⯑horrence [225]of our faith, a country-dance, called The Little Jeſus.

An ac⯑count of Knareſho⯑rough and its waters.§. 6. The eighth of July, I left the little Chartreuſe, and went from thence to Knareſ⯑borough, where I arrived that night, and re⯑ſided three days. It is a fine old town, and borough by preſcription, in the Weſt-riding of Yorkſhire, and wapentake of Claro. The vaſt hills of Craven look beautifully wild in its neighbourhood, and the rapid river Nid, which iſſues from the bottom of thoſe mountains, almoſt encompaſſes the town. It is 175 meaſured miles from London, and the beſt way to it is from Ferrybridge to Wetherby, the left hand road, where there is an excel⯑lent inn, and from that to Knareſborough.

When this very antient town paſſed from the poſterity of Surlo de Burgh, the founder of it, we know not, but we find that Henry III. Reg. 13. granted the honour, caſtle, and manor, to the Earl of Kent, Margaret. his wife, and their iſſue and heirs, and that on failure of iſſue and right heirs, it returned again to the crown: for Edward the Second, among other lands, gave this lordſhip of Knareſborough to his favourite Pierſe de Ga⯑veſton, Earl of Cornwall, and his heirs. Ga⯑veſton was taken not long after by the Barons, in Scarborough caſtle, after a ſhort ſiege, and on Gaverſly-heath, near Warwick, was be⯑headed [226]by order of the Earl of Warwick, June 20, 1312.

By the fall of the inſolent Gaveſton, who had been baniſhed by the great Edward the Firſt, but recalled and received into fa⯑vour by Edward the Second, before his fa⯑ther's funeral was performed; by the death of this favourite, who had involved his maſ⯑ter's intereſt with his own, and rendered any diſpleaſure againſt himſelf, the want of duty to the prince (juſt as Lord B * * *, and the now Outs did the other day) which ruined the miſerable King; Knareſborough came a⯑gain to the crown, and ſo continued till the 44th of Edward the Third, when this king made a grant of the honour, caſtle, and ma⯑nor of this town, and the cell of St. Roberts; to John of Gaunt, the king's fourth ſon, who was Earl of Richmond, and created Duke of Lancaſter, on his having married one of the coheireſſes of Henry Duke of Lancaſter. O⯑ther great eſtates were likewiſe given at the ſame time to this fourth ſon of Edward, that he might maintain his grandeur: and ever ſince, this town has belonged to the dutchy of Lancaſter. It is an appendage to the crown.

Not far from this town, are two wells, as ſtrong of ſulphur as Harrogate-water, and as valuable, though no one takes any notice of them. One lies in the way to Harrogate, in [227]a low ground by a brook-ſide. The other is Bitton-ſpaw, in a park by Mr. Staughton's houſe.

Deſcrip⯑tion of a dropping well.As to the famous dropping-well or petrifying water, it lies on the weſt ſide of the town and river, about 26 yards from the bank of the Nid. It riſes 15 yards below the top of a mountain of marle ſtone, and in four falls, of about two yards each fall, comes to an eaſy aſcent, where it ſpreads upon the top of an iſthmus of a petrified rock, generated out of the water, which falls down round it. This iſthmus or rock is ten yards high, and hangs over its baſe or bottom about 5 yards. It is near 16 yards long and 13 broad, and as it ſtarted from the bank about fifty years ago, leaves a chaſm between them, that is about three yards wide. In this chaſm, you will find petrified twigs of trees, ſhrubs, and graſs-roots, hang⯑ing in moſt beautiful pillars, all interwoven, and forming many charming figures; and on the common ſide are whole banks like Stalac⯑tilites, hard and inſeparable from the rock, where the water trickles down. Theſe pe⯑trefactions, the falling water, and the little iſthmus or iſland being beautifully cloathed with aſh, oſier, elm, ſambucus, ſervicana major, geraniums, wood-mercury, hart's-tongue, ſage, ladies mantle, cowſlips, wild angelica, &c. form all together a delightful ſcene. — The firſt ſpring of this water is out of a ſmall hole on the little mountain, in the [228]middle of a thick-ſet of ſhrubs. It ſends out 20 gallons in a minute of the ſweeteſt water in the world, and it is 24 grains in a pint heavier than common water.

Obſerva⯑tions on petrifying waters.Moſt people are of opinion, that petrifying water is dangerous drink, and may produce abundance of miſchief, in cauſing the ſtone and gravel in the body: the original particles or principles of the ſtony ſubſtance called ſpar, which are in abundance ſuſpended in this kind of water, muſt get into the flood-gates of the kidneys and ureters, (as they opine) and create great miſery in a little time.

But this fear of petrefactions in living ani⯑mal bodies is grounded upon neither reaſon nor experience; for the ſpar in theſe waters forms no petrefactions, whilſt in a briſk mo⯑tion, or in a temperate ſeaſon, or on vege⯑tables while they preſerve their vegetating life. While there is warmth and circulation of juices, there can be no incruſtation or pe⯑trefaction from the ſuſpended ſtony particles. Beſides, if the minims of ſpar are not within the ſpheres of ſenſible attraction, whilſt in motion; much leſs are they ſo when mingled with the fluids of the human body: you may therefore very ſafely drink theſe limpid petri⯑fying waters at all times, as a common fluid, if they come in your way, as the beſt, and moſt grateful or pleaſant water in the world, on account of the infiniteſimals, or original [229]leaſts, of ſpar that are in them, in vaſt quan⯑tities, but infinitely ſmall particles: and if you are ſick, in many caſes ſure I am, they are the beſt of medicines. Human invention has nothing equal to them for fluxes of any part of the body, or colliquations from an acid ſalt. So far are they from being in the leaſt dangerous, that in all unnatural diſ⯑charges, by ſpitting, ſtool, or urine; by ex⯑ceſſive menſtrual or haemorrhoidal fluxes, in the fluor albus, diabetes, profuſe ſweatings; in the diarrhoea, dyfentry, or lienteria (where the ſprings are not quite worn out:) in ulcers of the viſcera, hectic fevers, atrophy, and colliquations or night ſweats, there is not any thing in phyſic more profitable or pleaſant, to recover a patient. Let your doſe, in ſuch caſes, be three half-pints of Knareſborough dropping-well in the forenoon; and before you begin to drink this water, remember to take two doſes of rhubarb, to cleanſe off the ex⯑crements of the firſt viſcera. You muſt not drink ale, drams, or punch, during a courſe of theſe waters: and take but very little red port. You muſt likewiſe have a ſtrict regard to diet. Let it be milk, eggs, jellies, bar⯑ley-broth, chickens, kid, lamb, and the like. You muſt avoid all ſalt, ſharp, ſtimulating things, day-ſleep, and night-air: but agree⯑able converſation, and diverſions that require very little exerciſe, conduce to the ſucceſs of [230]this kind of water, in the diſtempers I have mentioned. If ſuch diſeaſes are curable, you may expect a reſtoration of health.

But, in the dropſy, jaundice, diminiſhed or irregular menſes; in hyppo, melancholy, ſtuffings of the lungs, obſtructions of the viſcera, ſtoppages of the lacteals and miſen⯑tery, glandular ſwellings, king's-evil, or any caſe, where thinning, relaxing, opening, de⯑terging, attenuation or ſtimulation are want⯑ing, ſuch water is death.

Note; reader, there is another excellent petrifying-water at Newton-Dale in Yorkſhire, N. R. thirteen miles from Scarborough. — Another near Caſtle-Howard, the fine ſeat of the Earl of Carliſle, ten miles from York.— Another, near Skipton, in that rough, ro⯑mantic, wild and ſilent country, called Cra⯑ven, in the Weſt-riding of Yorkſhire.—And one, called Bandwell, at Stonefield in Lincoln⯑ſhire, weſt of Horncaſtle, which is 122 miles from London. Theſe ſprings, and many that are not to be come at among the vaſt fells of Weſtmoreland, and the high mountains of Stanemore, have all the virtues of Knareſbo⯑rough dropping-well; though Knareſborough-water is the only one reſorted to by company: and as to this ſpring, I can affirm from my own knowledge, that it is as excellent, and truly medicinal, as the famous petrifying-wa⯑ter at Clermont. There is no manner of need [231]for Britons going to the mountain Gregoire in Baſſe-Auvergne.

SECTION VIII.

The au⯑thor re⯑turns to Harrogate, and from thence goes to Cleator in Weſt⯑moreland, to wait upon Miſs Spence.FROM Knareſborough, I went to Harro⯑gate again, and there found the fol⯑lowing letter, of an old date, left for me.

This letter ſurprized me. Yes, dear crea⯑ture, I ſaid, I will make Weſtmoreland my way to London. At four in the morning I mounted my horſe, and rid to Cleator. I arrived there at ſix in the evening, and had travelled that day 75 miles; to wit, from [260] Harrogate to Boroughbridge, 8; from thence to Catarric, 22; to Gretabridge, 15; to Bows, 6; to Brugh in Weſtmoreland, 12; to Kirkby-Steven, near Wharton-Hall, 6; to Cleator, 6: — 75 miles. I dined at Catarric on a hot pigeon-pye juſt drawn, and ale of one ear, that is, admirable, (as Rabelais means by the phraſe, "We had wine of one ear," alluding to the one ſhake of the head to the right ſhoulder, when a thing is excellent); and I gave the horſes another feed of corn at Bows, the George, kept by Railton the Qua⯑ker (an excellent inn, and the maſter of it an inſtructive and entertaining orator). I mention theſe things for your benefit, reader, that you may know where to ſtop to advan⯑tage, if you ſhould ever ride over the ſame ground I went that day.While I waited at the inn, till the horſes had eaten their corn, the landlord brought me a paper, dropt, by a lady he knew not, ſome days before at his houſe. He added, it was a curioſity, and worth my ſerious conſideration. A MORNING and EVENING PRAYER.Almighty and ever-living God, have mercy on me. Forgive me all my ſin, and make my heart one, to fear thy glorious fearful Name, Jehovah. Guide me with thy counſel, I beſeech thee, and be the ſtrength of my life and my portion for ever.O Lord Jehovah, defend me from the power and malice, the aſſaults and attempts, of all my ad⯑verſaries, [261]and keep me in health and ſafety, in peace and innocence. Theſe things I aſk in the name of Jeſus Chriſt, thy Son, our Lord; and in his words I call upon thee as, Our Father, who art in heaven, &c. Obſervations relative to Miſs Dudgeon's Prayer.This prayer pleaſed me very much. In the moſt beautiful manner, as well as in a few words, it ex⯑preſſes all we need aſk from heaven; and if Miſs Dudgeon of Richmondſhire was the compoſer of it, as I have been aſſured ſince, upon enquiry, I here place it to her honour, as a monument of her piety and ſenſe; and in hopes the illuſtrious of her ſex will uſe ſo ſhort and excellent a form of devotion in their cloſets morning and night.[262] There is an expreſſion in this prayer, which for ſome time I could not well comprehend the meaning of; that is, Make my heart one: but on conſidering it, I found it ſupported by the greateſt authorities.Among the ſayings of Pythagoras, one is, be ſimply thyſelf. Reduce thy conduct to one ſingle aim, by bring⯑ing every paſſion into ſubjection, and acquiring that general habit of ſelf-denial, which comprehends tem⯑perance, moderation, patience, government, and is the main principle of wiſdom. Be ſimply thyſelf, and ſo curb deſire, and reſtrain the inclinations, and controul the affections, that you may be always able to move the paſſions as reaſon ſhall direct. Let not every foremoſt fancy, or every forward appearance, have the leaſt maſtery over you; but view them on every ſide by the clear light of reaſon, and be no fur⯑ther influenced by the imaginations of pleaſure, and apprehenſions of evil, than as the obvious relations and nature of things allow. Let the reſult of a perception which every rational mind may have of the eſſential difference between good and evil, the be cauſe or ground of obligation. This will add greatly to quiet, and be productive of much real felicity. It will render every preſent condition ſupportable, brighten every proſpect, and always incline us more to hope than to fear. This is the doctrine of Pythagoras.I likewiſe find that David expreſſes the ſame thought in the 86th Pſalm, ver. 11. which is rendered in the Bible tranſlation, Unite my heart to fear thy name;—in the Common-Prayer Book, O knit my heart unto thee, [263]that I may fear thy name: but the Hebrew is, "Make my heart one, to fear thy name;" meaning, Let the fear of thee be the one ruling diſpoſition of my ſoul, in oppoſi⯑tion to the double-minded man, which the Hebrew ele⯑gantly expreſſes by a heart and a heart; one that draws to the riches, pleaſures, and honours of this world; and another to the practice of all virtue.As to the other part of the prayer, which has the words—glorious—fearful—Jehovah;—whereas in the 86th Pſalm it is only ſaid—"to fear thy name;" the author certainly took them from the 28th chapter of Deuteronomy, ver. 58. The deſign of the dreadful threatnings in this chapter ſet before the people, is there thus expreſſed,—that thou mayeſt fear this glorious and fearful name, JEHOVAH THY GOD; (in our tranſ⯑lation, the Lord thy God). And therefore I think theſe words are very finely uſed in this prayer."It is amazing to me (ſays the Rector of St. Mabyn), that throughout the Bible, the tranſlators have every where changed the word Jehovah for the word Lord, when God himſelf gave the word Jehovah as his name to be uttered; and as in this word the whole myſtery of the Jewiſh and Chriſtian diſpenſations ſeem to have been wrapped up.Say to the people, Ami Jehovah. I am Jehovah. Ye ſhall know that I Jehovah am your God, which bringeth you out from under the burdens of the Egygtians. Exod. vi. 6, 7. And Deut. vi. 4. Hear, O Iſrael, Jehovah our God is one Jehovah.Then as to this word's comprehending the two diſ⯑penſations, a good writer obſerves that, though God was known to his true worſhippers by many other [264]names, as God Almighty, the High God, the Everlaſting God, &c. yet Jehovah was his one peculiar name; a name which he had appointed to himſelf, in preference to all others, and by which he declared by Moſes he would be diſtinguiſhed for the time to come.And as of all the names of God, this ſeems to be the moſt expreſſive of his eſſence, as it can only be derived from the root which ſignifies to be, and denotes the one eternal ſelf-exiſtent Being, from whom all other things derive their being, and on whom they muſt depend; —As the word does likewiſe ſignify makes to be what was promiſed or foretold, and by ſuch meaning declares, as often as the word is repeated, that Jehovah our God is not only ſelf-exiſtent, and the Creator of the world, but Him in whom all divine prophecies and predictions centre; it follows, in my opinion, that we ſhould utter this awful name in our addreſſes to God, and not, like the Jews, through a ſuperſtition omit it, and uſe another inſtead of it."N. B. The Rector of St. Mabyn is the Rev. Mr. Peters; and the paſſage is to be found in an excellent Preface to the octavo edition of his admirable Diſſer⯑tation on the Book of Job, in reply to that part of the Divine Legation of Moſes demonſtrated, in which the au⯑thor, my Lord of Glouceſier, ſets himſelf to prove, that this book is a work of imagination, or dramatic compoſition, no older than Ezra the prieſt, whom he ſuppofes to be the writer of it, in the year before Chriſt 467, or the year 455, in the 20th year of the reign of Artaxerxes, king of Perſia, when Daniel's ſeventy weeks begins; that is, the period of 490 years, that were to be ful⯑filled before the paſſion of our Saviour. And further, [265](according to the author of the Legation), that this allegorical drama or poem was written to ſquiet the minds of the Jewiſh people under the difficulties of their captivity, and to aſſure them, as repreſented by the perſon of Job, of thoſe great temporal bleſſings which three prophets had predicted.Now in the Preface to the book aforementioned, in anſwer to all this (and fully and beautifully anſwered it is), you will find, I ſay, the paſſage relating to the word Jehovah, and more than I have quoted from it.As to Pythagoras the Samean, mentioned in this note, on account of his ſaying—Be ſimply thyſelf;—he was famous in the 60th olympiad, as Jamblicus informs us; that is, his Elikia, or Reign of-Fame, began in the firſt year of this olympiad, which was the year before Chriſt 540; for 60 × 4 gives 250 − 777 leaves 537 + 3, the plus years of the olympiad; i. e. 2, 3, 4 = 540.—And he died in the 4th year of the 70th olympiad, that is, the year before Chriſt 497: for 70 × 4 = 280 − 777 remains 497: there are no plus years to be added here, as it happened in the 4th or laſt year of the olympiad. This philoſopher was con⯑temporary with, and a near friend to, the renowned Phalaris, who was murdered in the year before Chriſt 556, when the Belſhazzar of Daniel aſcended the throne of Babylon. And as Pythagoras lived to the age of 90, according to Diogenes, he muſt have been born in the beginning of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar; the year this conqueror took Jeruſalem, and its king Zedekiah, which was olymp. 47.3. and of conſequence before Chriſt 590: for 47 × 4 = 188 − 777, remains 580 + 1=590. This was 54 years before Theſpis in⯑vented [266] tragedy ^* and 11 years before the birth of Aeſchylus, the reformer of tragedy. Cyrus was then in the 10th year of his age.It is likewiſe evident from hence, that Pythagoras muſt have lived through the reigns of Cyrus, Cambyſes, and the greateſt part of the reign of Darius Hiſtaſpes, who ſlew Smerdis the Magi, and is called in ſcripture Abaſuerus; the king of Perſia, who married Eſther, and ordered Haman the Amalekite to be hanged on the gal⯑laws he had erected for Mordecai the Jew, in the year before Chriſt 510.Note, David was before Pythagoras 519 years.Reader, As to the word Elikia, which I have uſed to expreſs the reign or time of flouriſhing of Pythagoras; I have an obſervation or two to make in relation to it, which I think worth your attending to.Clemens Alexandrinus ſays (Stromata, p. 40), [...]: that is, The years from Moſes to Solomon's Elikia are 610; to wit, Moſes's life —120From his death to David's acceſſion —450David's reign —40 610From this paſſage it is plain, that the Elikia of Solo⯑mon is not meant of his nativity, but of the beginning of his reign, when he was 33 years of age.It is then very ſurpriſing that Dodwell ſhould inſiſt upon it, that Elikia always ſignifies nativity. It is the more wonderful, as Dodwell quotes this paſſage from Clement; and as it is impoſſible to make out 610, [267]without coming to the 33d of Solomon, as I have rec⯑koned it.Nay, in another place of the Stromata, Clement ſays, Iſaiah, Hoſea, and Micah lived after the Elikia of Ly⯑curgus; where he can only mean the time when that lawgiver flouriſhed; for, from the Deſtruction of Troy to the Akmé of Lycurgus, was 290 years: and from So⯑lomon, in whoſe time Troy was taken, to the time of the prophets, was 360 years.Thus does learning accommodate things. Dod⯑well wanted to fit a paſſage in Antilochus to his own calculation, and ſo 312 years from the Elikia of Py⯑thagoras, that is, ſays Dodwell, from the nativity of the philoſopher (he meant taking the word in that ſenſe) to the death of Epicurus, brings us exactly to the time. Who can forbear ſmiling? A favourite notion is to many learned men a ſacred thing. Dod⯑well ſettles his paſſage in Antilochus to his mind, by perverting the word Elikia.This, to be ſure, in prophane things, can do no great harm: but when the practice is brought into things ſacred, it is a detriment to mankind. Some divines, for example, to ſupport a notion as unreaſon⯑able as it is dear to them, tell us that the word Iſos ſignifies ſtrict equality, not like: and that when St. Paul ſays [...], we muſt conſtrue it, Jeſus Chriſt was ſtrictly equal to the moſt high God. This is ſad con⯑ſtruction, when Homer, Euripides, Aeſchylus, make the word Iſos to import no more than like. Iſanemos, ſwift as the wind; Iſatheos phos, like a God; Iſanerios, like a dream.And when a divine is poſitive that os and kathos, as, and even as, words occurring in the New Teſtament, [268]ſignify a ſtrict equality, and not ſome ſort of likeneſs; this is miſerable perverſion, and hurts the chriſtian religion very greatly; as they endeavour, by ſuch a given ſenſe, to prove that the man Chriſt Jeſus is to be honoured with the ſame divine honours we offer to God the Father Almighty, by the command and example of Jeſus, who was ſent from God, and was a worſhipper of God; who lived obedient to the laws of God, preached thoſe laws, and died for them in the cauſe of God; who was raiſed from the dead by God, and now fits on God's right hand; intercedes with God, and in his Goſpel owns his Father to be his and our only true God. This is ſad accommodation. Tho' the words never ſignify more than a degree of likeneſs in the Greek claſſics, yet our headſtrong orthodox monks will have them to mean ſtrict equality; and Alexander the Great and Alexander the Copperſmith are the ſame Being. Amazing! Gentlemen; here is but One Ball, and out of itſelf you ſhall ſee this one ball ſend forth two other balls, big as it, and yet not loſe one atom of its weight and grandeur. Hocus pocus, Reverendiſſimi ſpectatores, the One is Three.And now, Gentlemen, be pleaſed to obſerve the miracle reverſed. Pilluli pilluli, congregate, Preſto preſio, unite: obſervate, Signori Dottiſſimi, the Three are One.— Such is the becus pocus the monks have made of their Trinity.* Olymp. 61.1. Selden's Comment on the Arundel Marble.

[261] When I came to Miſs Spence's door, I ſent in my name by a ſervant, and immediately Maria came out herſelf to welcome me to Cleator. She told me ſhe was glad to ſee me, and extremely obliged to me, for rid⯑ing ſo many miles out of my way, to travel up with her to London; but as ſhe had never been further from home than Harro⯑gate, and was afraid of going ſuch a journey by herſelf, ſhe writ to me, in hopes curioſity and my great complaiſance to the ladies, might induce me to take Cleator in my way to town, tho' ſo much about: but as ſo many weeks had paſſed ſince ſhe came away from the Wells, and ſhe heard nothing of me, ſhe had laid aſide all expectation of my coming. This made the viſit the more pleaſing.

[262] In anſwer to this, I replied, that if I had got her letter ſooner, I would have been with her long before: but that was not poſ⯑ſible, as I had been at a little lodge and farm of mine in the northern extremity of Weſt⯑moreland, to ſettle things there, and returned [263]to Harrogate but yeſterday, when I had the honour of receiving your letter, and upon reading it, ſet out at day-break this morning to kiſs your hand, and execute any com⯑mands.

[264] The man⯑ner of paſ⯑ſing the evening at Cleator, the firſt night I was there.§. 2. Here an excellent hot ſupper was brought in, and after it, Miſs Spence ſaid, ſhe was ſurprized to hear I was an inhabitant of Weſtmoreland, as ſhe had never heard of [265]me in the north, nor ſeen me at Harrogate before the other day.

I told her I was a ſtranger in the county, and by a wonderful accident, as I travelled a [266]few years ago out of curioſity, and in ſearch of a friend, up Stanemore-hills, I became poſ⯑ſeſſed of a lodge I had on the northern edge [267]of Weſtmoreland, where I lived a conſidera⯑ble time, and once imagined I ſhould never leave it, as it is the moſt romantic and the moſt beautiful ſolitude in the world.

[268] While I was giving this ſhort relation, Miſs Spence ſeemed greatly amazed, and her uncle, an old clergyman, who had looked with great attention at me, hoped it would be no offence to aſk me how old I was.

None at all, Sir, I replied. I want ſome months of twenty-ſix; and though I dance and rattle at the wells, and am now going up to London, where all is tumult and noiſe, [269]yet my paſſion for ſtill life is ſo great, that I prefer the moſt ſilent retreat to the pleaſures and ſplendors of the greateſt town. If it was in my power to live as I pleaſe, I would paſs my days unheard of and unknown, at Orton-Lodge, ſo my little ſilent farm is called, near the ſouthern confines of Cumberland, with ſome bright partner of my ſoul. I am ſure I ſhould think it a compleat paradiſe to live in that diſtant ſolitude with a woman of Miſs Spence's form and mind.

But tell me, I requeſt, Maria ſaid, how did you get to the confines of Weſtmoreland over Stanemore hills, and what was that ac⯑cident that put you in poſſeſſion of Orton-Lodge? It muſt be a curious account, I am ſure.

This, I replied, you ſhall hear to-morrow morning after breakfaſt; there is not time for it now. All I can ſay at preſent is, that it was love kept me among the mountains for ſome years, and if the heaven-born maid (vaſtly like you, Miſs Spence, ſhe was) had not, by the order of heaven, been removed to the regions of immortality and day, I ſhould not have left the ſolitude, nor would you ever have left the ſolitude, nor would you ever have ſeen me at Harrogate: but de⯑ſtiny is the dirigent: mutable is the condition of mortals, and we are blind to futurity and the approaches of fate. This led me over the vaſt mountains of Stanemore, enabled me [270]to croſs the amazing fells of Weſtmoreland, and brought me to that ſpot, where I had the honour and happineſs of becoming ac⯑quainted with Miſs Spence. Thus did we chat till eleven, and retired to our chambers.

But the old gentleman, the doctor, when he came with me into my apartment, told me we muſt have one bottle more, for it was his nightcap, without which he could not ſleep: he then bid the ſervant make haſte with it, and when that was out, we had another. He was a ſenſible agreeable man, and pleaſed me very much, as he appeared a zealous friend to the illuſtrious houſe of Hanover; whereas almoſt all the clergymen I had been in company with ſince I came to England, were Jacobites, and very violent ones.

A conver⯑ſation re⯑lating to the Revo⯑lution, and excluſion of James II.§. 3. I remember, among other things, I aſked this Divine, over our wine, — If popery is ever ſo corrupt, could men be de⯑barred of their rights for an attachment to it? — Are not crowns hereditary? — And is not treaſon in our country ſtamped with ſo peculiar an infamy, as involving the delinquent's innocent children in the forfei⯑tures, or penal conſequences that await it, on purpoſe to check the rebellion of Britons by ſuch an accumulated puniſhment of evil doers?

[271] To this the doctor replied, that the exclu⯑ſion of a popiſh prince muſt be lawful, if we ought to ſecure our property and religion, and, as in duty bound, oppoſe his trampling upon the laws, and his own ſolemn declarations. If the people have privileges and intereſts, they may defend them, and as juſtifiably op⯑poſe notorious domeſtic oppreſſions, as foreign invaſions. The head of the community, has no more a licence to deſtroy the moſt mo⯑mentous intereſts of it, than any of the infe⯑rior members, or than any foreign invader. If a king has no paſſion to indulge, incom⯑patible with the welfare of his people, then, as protection and obedience are reciprocal, and cannot ſubſiſt, the one without the other, it muſt be a crime in the people not to ho⯑nour, and obey, and aſſiſt the royal autho⯑rity. It is not only the intereſt but the duty of the ſubject to obey the prince, who is true to the important truſt repoſed in him, and has the welfare of the people at heart. But ſuch a king cannot be a papiſt. The Romiſh prince will not only ſtretch a limited preroga⯑tive into lawleſs power, and graſp at abſolute monarchy; but will break through the moſt ſacred ties, and ſubvert the rights he was ſworn to guard, to re-eſtabliſh popery in this kingdom. Could James the Second have kept the ſeat of government, and baffled all oppoſition, we may conclude from what he [272]did, from his trampling upon the laws, and his own ſolemn declarations; from his new court of inquiſition (the high commiſſion court) to ſubvert the conſtitution of the church of England, and to lay waſte all its fences againſt popery; from that furious act of his power, which fell on Magdalen-college, and his two cruel acts of parliament in Ireland, (repeal of the act of ſettlement, by which the proteſtant gentlemen were deprived of their eſtates; and the act of attainder, by which they were to be hanged, for going to beg their bread in another country, after they had been robbed of all in their own by their king, who had ſworn to protect them); from hence, I ſay, it is plain, that if James could have ſat firm upon the throne, his miſguided con⯑ſcience would have induced him to the moſt inhuman acts of violence. He would have proceeded to the barbarities; and rekindled the flames of Mary. Had he continued to reign over theſe kingdoms, it is moſt certain, that inſtruction and perſuaſion only would not have been the thing, but where inſtruc⯑tion and perſuaſion failed, impriſonments, tortures, death, would have been uſed, to compel us to believe all the groſs abſurdities of Rome, their impieties go God, and contra⯑dictions to common ſenſe. We muſt throw away our reaſon and our bibles, the nobleſt gifts of heaven, and neither think nor ſpeak, [273]but as we are bid by men no wiſer than our⯑ſelves; or, we muſt expire under torments as great as the devil and the monks could de⯑viſe. It was therefore neceſſary, for the pre⯑ſervation of our church and ſtate, to exclude James and his popiſh heirs. The common welfare required this ſalutary precaution. The collected intereſt of the community is the pri⯑mary end of every law.

All this, I ſaid, ſeems quite right. To be ſure, during that ſhort twilight of power, which dawned upon popery in England in the years 1689 and 90, its rage was imprudent. It did diſcover its fury and reſentment. In one of the Iriſh acts you have mentioned, more than 2000 people were attainted, and ſome of them the moſt noble and venerable cha⯑racters in Ireland. Yet had ſucceſs attended the arms of James, this would have been but the beginning of ſorrows. And probably a ſon of chriſtian Rome would have proſcribed more in theſe two iſlands, than in heathen Rome, out of the whole vaſt Roman empire, were given up to deſtruction for their virtue, by the cruel triumvirate, Auguſtus, Antony, and Lepidus: And of conſequence, ſince dear experience convinced, it was equally abſurd and vain, to imagine that a popiſh head would govern a proteſtant church by any councils, but thoſe of popiſh prieſts, as it was to imagine that a popiſh king [274]would govern a proteſtant ſtate by any councils, but thoſe of popiſh counſellors; it muſt therefore be owned, that the Lords, and others, aſſembled at Nottingham, were juſt in declaring, that King James's admini⯑ſtrations were uſurpations on the conſtitution; and that they owned it rebellion to reſiſt a king that governed by law; but to reſiſt a tyrant, who made his will his law, was nothing but a neceſſary defence. This, to be ſure, is juſt. But ſtill, if crowns are hereditary, and one ſevere puniſhment of treaſon was intended to check all rebellion, were we not a little too haſty in the affair of the Revolution? And might we not have expected ſomething better from the good ſenſe and good nature of James, if we had waited a while, till he could ſee the folly of his proceedings?

To this the Doctor replied, that as to James's good ſenſe, it never appeared he had any: and in reſpect of his many real good qualities, they were extinguiſhed by his bi⯑gotry, and could never be of ſervice to a proteſtant ſpirit, the ſpirit of freemen: it was therefore incumbent on them, who knew and loved the invaluable bleſſings they en⯑joyed, to act as they did; that is, as the wiſdom of our conſtitution requires in ſuch caſes.

As to the crown's being hereditary,—and the ſevere puniſhment of treaſons; — in re⯑ſpect [275]of the firſt particular, there is no na⯑tural or divine law declares crowns heredi⯑tary. If a certain rule of ſucceſſion has been eſtabliſhed in moſt kingdoms, the ſingle point of view in it was public good, or a prevention of thoſe inteſtine commotions, which might attend an election: But as every rule is diſpenſible, and muſt give way when it defeats the end for which it was ap⯑pointed; ſhould the cuſtomary ſucceſſion in a kingdom prove at any time productive of much greater evils than thoſe it was intended to obviate, it may queſtionleſs be ſuperſeded occaſionally. This point is evident from rea⯑ſon. Though the crown in our own country is generally hereditary, yet that right is to be ſet aſide, if the ſecurity of our civil and religious liberty requires it. If the pretence of James was a right to dominion, in oppoſi⯑tion not only to the ſenſe of the legiſlature, but to that of the nation, then the popiſh prince was juſtly excluded, for denying the public good to be the ſupreme law. Had the right he claimed been eſtabliſhed, then our religion, our liberties, and the ſafety of our fortunes, had been no longer our own. In caſe of ſuch eſtabliſhment, the glory of our conſtitution was no more. The ſum of the matter is, the royal family of the Steuarts being Roman Catholics, makes their caſe ſimi⯑lar to an extinction of it.

[276] And as to the accumulated puniſhment of treaſon in Great Britain, that can only be deſigned as a powerful check to rebellion, againſt a king whoſe darling view is the welfare of the people. No infamy, for⯑feitures, or death, can be too ſevere for the man, who rebels againſt a prince that go⯑verns for the good of the people, and en⯑deavours to tranſmit our ſtate ſafe to poſte⯑rity. To plot againſt ſuch a ſovereign is a great crime indeed. To conſpire againſt a prince, whoſe life is of the utmoſt conſe⯑quence to the community, is an enormity that ought to be ſtamped with a peculiar in⯑famy, and puniſhed in the ſevereſt manner. But it can be no treaſon to act againſt a papiſt, who violates every maxim of our conſtitution, and by every maxim of popery labours to deſtroy our religion and liberties. Every man may repel unlawful attempts upon his perſon and property, and is armed by God with authority for ſelf-defence.

To this it was replied, that I thought the Doctor quite right, and for my own part was determined to oppoſe a popiſh prince, whenever he comes on with his unalienable and indefeaſible claim, to introduce his abſurd and cruel religion, to deprive us of our rational chriſtianity, and make us ſlaves, inſtead of free-born ſubjects. No popiſh James, to write our themes, but (filling a bumper) may this [277]nation be ever happy in a king whoſe right is founded upon law, and who has made it the rule of his government. May Britons ever remember the mercileſs rage of popery, and the envious malice of France; each ready to lay waſte the whole fabric of our excel⯑lent conſtitution, and cry aloud, with all the embittered ſons of Edom, Down with it, down with it, even to the ground. — Here the clock ſtruck one, and we parted.

A Deſcrip⯑tion of Cleator.§. 4. Early the next morning I was up, according to my wont, and walked out, to look at the place. Cleator is one of the fineſt ſpots that can be ſeen; in a wild romantic country. The natural views are wonderful, and afford the eye vaſt pleaſure. The charm⯑ing proſpects of different kinds, from the edges of the mountains, are very fine:—The wind⯑ing hills, pretty plains, vaſt precipices, hang⯑ing woods, deep vales, the eaſy falls of wa⯑ter in ſome places, and in others cataracts tumbling over rocks, — form all together the moſt beautiful and delightful ſcenes. All the decorations of art are but foils and ſha⯑dows to ſuch natural charms.

In the midſt of theſe ſcenes, and in a theatrical ſpace of about two hundred acres, which the hand of nature cut, or hollowed out, on the ſide of a mountain, ſtands Cleator-Lodge, a neat and pretty manſion. [278]Near it were groves of various trees, and the water of a ſtrong ſpring murmured from the front down to a lake at the bottom of the hill.

Character of Maria Spence.§. 5. This was Miſs Spence's country-houſe. Here the wiſe and excellent Maria paſs'd the beſt part of her time, and never went to any public place but Harrogate once a year. In reading, riding, fiſhing, and ſome viſits to and from three or four neighbours now and then, her hours were happily and uſefully employed. Hiſtory and Mathema⯑tics ſhe took great delight in, and had a very ſurpriſing knowledge in the laſt. She was another of thoſe ladies I met with in my travels, who underſtood that method of cal⯑culation, beyond which nothing further is to be hoped or expected; I mean the arithmetic of fluxions.

Very few men among the learned can conſider magnitudes as generated by motion, or determine their proportions one to another from the celerities of the motion by which they are generated. I queſtion if the Criti⯑cal Reviewers can do it (I am ſure they cannot), though they have made ſo licen⯑tiouſly free with me. They may however pretend to know ſomething of the matter, and ſo did Berkley, late Biſhop of Cloyne in Ireland: yet that prelate, in reality, under⯑ſtood [279]no more of the method than a porter does, though he preſumed to write againſt it, and the divine Newton, the inventor of it: I ſay it. But Maria Spence, in the 24th year of her age (at this time), was a maſter in the fluxionary way. She had not only a clear and adequate notion of fluxions, but was able to penetrate into the depths of this ſcience, and had made ſublime diſcoveries in this incom⯑parable method of reaſoning. She aſtoniſhed me. I thought Mrs. Burcott and Mrs. Flet⯑cher (mentioned in my firſt volume, p. 275.) were very extraordinary women, on account of their knowledge in algebra, and the ſine anſwers they gave to the moſt difficult pro⯑blems in univerſal arithmetic: but this ſort of reaſoning is far inferior to the fluxionary method of calculation; as the latter opens and diſcovers to us the ſecrets and receſſes of nature, which have always before been locked up in obſcurity and darkneſs. By fluxions, ſuch difficulties are reſolved, as raiſe the won⯑der and ſurpriſe of all mankind, and which would in vain be attempted by any other method whatſoever. What then muſt we think of a young woman well ſkilled in ſuch work; — not only able to find the fluxions of flowing or determinate quantities, that is, the velocities with which they ariſe or begin to be generated in the firſt moments of formation (called the velocities of the in⯑cremental [280]parts), and the velocities in the laſt ratio's, as vaniſhing or ceaſing to be; but from given fluxions to find the fluents; — and be ready in drawing tangents to curves; in the ſolution of problems de maximis & mi⯑nimis, that is, the greateſt or leaſt poſſible quantity attainable in any caſe; in the in⯑vention of points of inflection and retro⯑greſſion; in finding the evoluta of a given curve; in finding the cauſtic curves, by re⯑flection and refraction, &c. &c. — this was amazing beyond any thing I had ſeen; or did ever ſee ſince, except Mrs. Benlow of Richmondſhire, with whom I became ac⯑quainted in 1739. (See Memoirs of ſeveral Ladies of Great Britain, Vol. I.) With aſtoniſhment I beheld her. I was but a young beginner, or learner, in reſpect of her, though I had applied ſo cloſe to fluxions (af⯑ter I had learned algebra), that my head was often ready to ſplit with pain; nor had I the capacity, at that time, to comprehend thoroughly the proceſs of ſeveral operations ſhe performed with beauty, ſimplicity, and charming elegance. Admirable Maria! No one have I ever ſeen that was her ſuperior in this ſcience: one equal only have I known, the lady a little before mentioned. And does not this demonſtrate, that the faculties and imagination of women's minds, properly cul⯑tivated, may equal thoſe of the greateſt [281]men?A reflec⯑tion on the education of the women. And ſince women have the ſame im⯑provable minds as the male part of the ſpe⯑cies, why ſhould they not be cultivated by the ſame method? Why ſhould reaſon be left to itſelf in one of the ſexes, and be diſ⯑ciplined with ſo much care in the other. Learning and knowledge are perfections in us not as we are men, but as we are rational creatures, in which order of beings the female world is upon the ſame level with the male. We ought to conſider in this particular, not what is the ſex, but what is the ſpecies they belong to. And if women of fortune were ſo conſidered, and educated accordingly, I am ſure the world would ſoon be the better for it. It would be ſo far from making them thoſe ridiculous mortals Moliere has deſcribed under the character of learned ladies; that it would render them more agreeable and uſe⯑ful, and enable them by the acquiſition of true ſenſe and knowledge, to be ſuperior to gayety and ſpectacle, dreſs and diſſipation. They would ſee that the ſovereign good can be placed in nothing elſe but in rectitude of conduct; as that is agreeable to our nature; conducive to well-being; accommodate to all places and times; durable, ſelf-derived, indeprivable; and of conſequence, that on rational and maſculine religion only they can reſt the ſoal of the foot, and the ſooner they turn to it, the happier here and hereafter they ſhall be. [282]Long before the power of ſenſe, like the ſet⯑ting ſun, is gradually forſaking them, (that power on which the pleaſures of the world depend) they would, by their acquired un⯑derſtanding and knowledge, ſee the folly of pleaſure, and that they were born not only to virtue, friendſhip, honeſty, and faith, but to religion, piety, adoration, and a generous ſur⯑render of their minds to the ſupreme cauſe. They would be glorious creatures then. Every family would be happy.

But as to Miſs Spence, this knowledge, with a faultleſs perſon, and a modeſty mor graceful than her exquiſite beauty, were not the things that principally charmed me: nor was it her converſation, than which nothing could be more lively and delightful: nor her fine fortune. It was her manners. She was a Chriſtian Deiſt, and conſidered Benevolence and Integrity as the eſſentials of her religion. She imitated the piety and devotion of Jeſus Chriſt, and worſhipped his God and our God, his Fa⯑ther and our Father, as St. John expreſsly ſtiles the God of Chriſtians, xx. 17. She was extremely charitable to others, and con⯑ſidered conſcious virtue as the greateſt orna⯑ment and moſt valuable treaſure of human nature. Excellent Maria!

The au⯑thor's de⯑parture§. 6. With this young lady, and her two ſervants (her footman and her woman,) I [283]went up to London. from Clea⯑tor for London, July 31. 1731. We ſet out from Cleator the 31ſt day of July, and without meeting with any miſchief in all that long way, came fafe to London. We were nine days on the road; and as the weather was fine, and our horſes excellent, we had a charming journey. My companion was ſo agreeable, that had it been two thouſand miles from Cleator to London, inſtead of 272, I ſhould ſtill have thought it too ſhort. Her converſation was ſo various and fine, that no way could ſeem tireſome and tedious to him that travelled with her. Her notions and remarks were ever lively and inſtructive. It was vaſt plea⯑ſure to hear her, even on the drieſt and moſt abſtruſe ſubjects, on account of the admira⯑tion her diſcourſe raiſed, and the fine know⯑ledge it communicated, to one who under⯑ſtood her. I will give an inſtance.

§. 7. In riding over the mountains the firſt day, we miſſed the road in the evening, and inſtead of getting to a very good inn, where we intended to reſt, we were forced to ſtop at a poor little public houſe, and right glad to get in there, as the evening was tem⯑peſtuous and wet, dark and cold. Here we got ſome bacon and freſh egges for ſupper, and the ale was good, which amuſed us well enough till nine o'clock. We then propoſed to play at cribbage for an hour, and called for a pack [284]of cards; but they had none in the houſe, and we were obliged to divert ourſelves with converſation, till it was time to retire. Miſs Spence began in the following manner.

A diſ⯑courſe on fluxions.Was Newton, Sir, or Leibnitz, the author of that method of calculation, which lends its aid and aſſiſtance to all the other mathe⯑matical ſciences, and that in their greateſt wants and diſtreſſes? I have heard a foreigner affirm, that the German was the inventor of fluxions.

That cannot be (I replied). In the year 1696, Dr. Barrow received from Mr. New⯑ton a demonſtration of the rule of the qua⯑drature of curves, which the Doctor com⯑municated to Mr. Collins; and as this is the foundation of fluxions, and the differential calculus, it is evident Mr. Newton had in⯑vented the method before that time.

In the beginning of the year 1673, Leibnitz was in England, again in October 1676; and the interval of this time he ſpent in France, during which he kept a correſpondence with Oldenburgh, and by his means with J. Col⯑lins; and ſometimes alſo with Newton, from the laſt of whom he received a letter, dated June 18, 1676, wherein is taught the me⯑thod of reducing quantities into infinite ſe⯑ries, that is, of exhibiting the increments of flowing quantities. This method was utterly [285]unknown to Leibnitz, before he received the aboveſaid letter of Newton's, as he himſelf acknowledges in a letter to Oldenburgh, dated Auguſt 27, 1676; for before that time, he ſays in his letter, he was obliged to trans⯑form an irrational quantity into a rational fraction, and then by diviſion, after the me⯑thod of Mercator, to reduce the fraction into a ſeries.

It is likewiſe certain, that Leibnitz did not then underſtand theſe ſeries, becauſe, in the ſame letter, he deſires Newton would ex⯑plain to him the manner how he got theſe ſeries. And again in a ſecond letter from Newton to Leibnitz, dated October 24, 1676, he gives yet clearer hints of his method, and illuſtrates it by examples, and lays down a rule, by which, from the ordinates of certain curves, their areas may be obtained in finite terms, when it is poſſible.

By theſe lights, and aſſiſted by ſuch ex⯑amples, the acute Leibnitz might have learn⯑ed the Newtonian method.

It is plain he did ſo; for in 1684, he firſt publiſhed, in the Leipſic Acts, his Elements of the Differential Calculus, without pretend⯑ing to have had the method before the year 1677, the year he received the two letters from Newton: and yet, when Sir Iſaac pub⯑liſhed his books of the number of curves of the firſt kind, and of the quadrature of fi⯑gures, [296]the editors of the Acts ſaid Leibnitz was the firſt inventor of the differential cal⯑culus, and Newton had ſubſtituted fluxions for differences, juſt as Honoratus Faber, in his Synopſis Geometrica, had ſubſtituted a pro⯑greſſion of motion for Cavallerius's method of indiviſibles; that is, Leibnitz was the firſt inventor of the method, Newton had received it from him (from his Elements of the Diffe⯑rential Calculus), and had ſubſtituted fluxions for differences; but the way of inveſtigation in each is the ſame, and both center in the ſame concluſions.

This excited Mr. Keil to reply; and he made it appear very plain from Sir Iſaac's letters, publiſhed by Dr. Wallis, that he (Newton) was the firſt inventor of the al⯑gorith, or practical rules of fluxions; and Leibnitz did no more than publiſh the ſame, with an alteration of the name, and manner of notation. This however did not ſilence Leibnitz, nor ſatisfy the foreigners who ad⯑mired him. He abuſed Dr. Keil, and ap⯑pealed to the Royal Society againſt him; that they would be pleaſed to reſtrain the Doc⯑tor's vain babblings and unjuſt calumniations, and report their judgment as he thought they ought to do, that is, in his favour. But this was not in the power of the Society, if they did juſtice; for it appeared quite clear to a committee of the members, appointed [287]to examine the original letters, and other papers, relating to the matter, which were left by Mr. Oldenburgh and Mr. J. Collins, that Sir Iſaac Newton was the firſt inventor of fluxions; and accordingly they publiſhed their opinion. This determines the affair. When this is the caſe, it is ſenſeleſs for any foreigner to ſay Leibnitz was the author of fluxions. To the divine Newton belongs this greateſt work of genius, and the nobleſt thought that ever entered the human mind.

It muſt be ſo (Maria replied): As the caſe is ſtated, Sir Iſaac Newton was moſt certainly the inventor of the method of fluxions: And ſuppoſing Leibnitz had been able to diſcover and work the differential cal⯑culus, without the lights he received from Newton, it would not from thence follow, that he underſtood the true method of fluxions: for, though a differential has been, and to this day is, by many, called a fluxion, and a fluxion a differential, yet it is an abuſe of terms. A fluxion has no relation to a diffe⯑rential, nor a differential to a fluxion, The principles upon which the methods are founded ſhew them to be very different; notwithſtanding the way of inveſtigation in each be the ſame, and that both center in the ſame concluſions: nor can the differen⯑tial method perform what the fluxionary [288]method can. The excellency of the fluxion⯑ary method is far above the differential.

This remark on the two methods ſur⯑prized me very much, and eſpecially as it was made by a young lady. I had not then a notion of the difference, and had been taught by my maſter to proceed on the prin⯑ciples of the Differential Calculus. This made me requeſt an explication of the mat⯑ter, and Maria went on in the following manner.

Magnitudes, as made up of an infinite number of very ſmall conſtituent parts put together, are the work of the Differential Calculus; but by the fluxionary method, we are taught to conſider magnitudes as generated by motion. A deſcribed line in this way, is not generated by an appoſition of points, or differ⯑entials, but by the motion or flux of a point; and the velocity of the generating point in the firſt moment of its formation, or ge⯑neration, is called its fluxion. In forming magnitudes after the differential way, we conceive them as made up of an infinite num⯑ber of ſmall conſtituent parts, ſo diſpoſed as to produce a magnitude of a given form; that theſe parts are to each other as the mag⯑nitudes of which they are differentials; and that one infinitely ſmall part, or differential, muſt be infinitely great, with reſpect to an⯑other [289]other differential, or infinitely ſmall part: but by fluxion, or the law of flowing, we deter⯑mine the proportion of magnitudes one to another, from the celerities of the motions by which they are generated. This moſt certainly is the pureſt abſtracted way of rea⯑ſoning. Our conſidering the different de⯑grees of magnitude, as ariſing from an in⯑creaſing ſeries of mutations of velocity, is much more ſimple, and leſs perplexed than the other way; and the operations founded on fluxions, muſt be much more clear, accu⯑rate, and convincing, than thoſe that are founded on the Differential Calculus. There is a great difference in operations, when quan⯑tities are rejected, becauſe they really vaniſh; —and when they are rejected, becauſe they are infinitely ſmall: the latter method, which is the differential, muſt leave the mind in ambiguity and confuſion, and cannot in many caſes come up to the truth. It is a very great error then to call differentials, flux⯑ions, and quite wrong to begin with the dif⯑ferential method, in order to learn the law or manner of flowing.

With amazement I heard his diſcourſe, and requeſted to know by what maſter, and what method, ſhe obtained theſe notions; for they were far beyond every thing on the ſub⯑ject that I had ever met with. What ſhe ſaid concerning the nature and idea of flux⯑ions, [290]I though juſt and beautiful, and I be⯑lieve it was in her power, to ſhew the baſes on which they are erected.

An ac⯑count of Martin Murdoch.My maſter, Sir, (Maria anſwered) was a poor traveller, a Scotchman, one Martin Murdoch, who came by accident to my father's houſe, to aſk relief, when I was about fifteen years old. He told us, he was the ſon of one▪ of the miniſters of Scotland, and came from the re⯑moteſt part of the Highlands: that his father taught him mathematics, and left him, at his death, a little ſtock on a ſmall farm; but misfortunes and accidents obliged him in a ſhort time to break up houſe, and he was go⯑ing to London, to try if he could get any thing there, by teaching arithmetic of every kind. My father, who was a hoſpita⯑ble man, invited him to ſtay with us a few days, and the parſon of our pariſh ſoon found, that he had not only a very extraordinary un⯑derſtanding, but was particularly excellent at figures, and the other branches of the ma⯑thematics. My father upon this agreed with him to be my preceptor for five years, and during four years and nine months of that time, he took the greateſt pains to make me as perfect as he could in arithmetic, tri⯑gonometry, geometry, algebra, and fluxions. As I delighted in the ſtudy above all things, I was a great proficient for ſo few years, and had Murdoch been longer with me, I ſhould [291]have been well acquainted with the whole glorious ſtructure: but towards the end of the fifth year, this poor Archimedes was un⯑fortunately drowned, in croſſing one of our rivers, in the winter time, and went in that uncomfortable way, in the thirty-ſixth year of his age, to the enjoyment of that felicity and glory, which God has prepared for a virtuous life and honeſt heart. Why ſuch men, as the poor and admirable Murdoch, have often ſuch hard meaſure in this world, is not in my power to account for; nor do I believe any one can: but what I tell you is one of thoſe ſurprizing things, and I la⯑mented not a little the loſs of ſuch a maſter. Still however I continued to ſtudy by many written rules he had given me, and to this day, mathematics are the greateſt pleaſure of my life.

As to our method, my maſter, in the firſt place, made me perfectly underſtand arith⯑metic, and then geometry and algebra, in all their parts and improvements, the methods of ſeries, doctrine of proportions, nature of loga⯑rithms, mechanics, and laws of motion: from thence we proceeded to the pure doctrine of fluxions, and at laſt looked into the Differential Calculus. In this true way my excellent maſter led me, and in the ſame difficult path every one muſt go, who intends to learn Fluxions. I would be but loſt labour for any perſon to [292]attempt them, who was unacquainted with theſe Precognita.

When we turned to fluxions, the firſt thing my maſter did, was to inſtruct me in the arithmetic of exponents, the nature of powers, and the manner of their generation. We went next to the doctrine of infinite ſeries; and then, to the manner of generating ma⯑thematical quantities. This generation of quantities was my firſt ſtep into fluxions, and my maſter ſo amply explained the nature of them, in this operation, that I was able to form a juſt idea of a firſt fluxion, though thought by many to be incomprehenſible. We proceeded from thence to the notation and algorithm of firſt fluxions; to the finding ſecond, third, &c. fluxions; the finding flux⯑ions of exponential quantities; and the fluents from given fluxions; to their uſes in drawing tangents to curves; in finding the areas of ſpaces; the valves of ſurfaces; and the contents of ſolids; their percuſſion, oſcillation, and centers of gravity. All theſe things my maſter ſo happily explained to my underſtanding, that I was able to work with eaſe, and found no more difficulty in conceiving an adequate notion of a naſcent or evaneſcent quantity, than in forming a true idea of a mathematical point. In ſhort, by the time I had ſtudied fluxions two years, I not only underſtood their fun⯑damental principles and operations, and could inveſtigate, and give the ſolution of the moſt [293]general and uſeful problems in the mathe⯑matics; but likewiſe, ſolve ſeveral problems that occur in the phaenomena of nature.

Here Maria ſtopped, and as ſoon as aſto⯑niſhment would permit me to ſpeak, I pro⯑poſed to her ſeveral difficult queſtions, I had heard, but was not then able to anſwer. I requeſted her, in the firſt place, to inform me, how the time of a body's deſcending through any arch of a cycloid was found: and if ten hundred weight avoirdupoiſe, hang⯑ing on a bar of ſteel perfectly elaſtic, and ſupported at both ends, will juſt break the bar, what muſt be the weight of a globe, falling perpendicular 185 feet on the mid⯑dle of the bar, to have the ſame effect? — My next queſtions were, how long, and how far, ought a given globe to deſcend by its comparative weight in a medium of a gi⯑ven denſity, but without reſiſtance, to acquire the greateſt velocity it is capable of in de⯑ſcending with the ſame weight, and in the ſame medium, with reſiſtance? — And how are we to find the value of a ſolid formed by the rotation of this curvilinear ſpace, A C D about the axis A D, the general equation, expreſſing the nature of the curve, being [...]— How is the center of gravity to be found of the ſpace encloſed [294]by an hyperbola, and its aſymptete? And how are we to find the center of oſcillation of a ſphere revolving about the line P A M, a tangent, to the generating circle F A H, in the point A, as an axis?—Theſe queſtions Maria anſwered with a celerity and elegance that again amazed me, and convinced me that, notwithſtanding the Right Rev. meta⯑phyſical diſputant, Dr. Berkley, late Biſhop of Cloyne in Ireland, could not underſtand the doctrine of fluxions, and therefore did all he could to diſgrace them, and the few ma⯑thematicians who have ſtudied magnitudes as generated by motion; yet, the doctrine, as delivered by the divine Newton, may be clearly conceived, and diſtinctly comprehended; that the principles upon which it is founded, are true, and the demonſtrations of its rules con⯑cluſive. No oppoſition can hurt it.

When I obſerved, that ſome learned men will not allow that a velocity which conti⯑nues for no time at all, can poſſibly deſcribe any ſpace at all: its effect, they ſay, is abſo⯑lutely nothing, and inſtead of ſatisfying rea⯑ſon with truth and preciſion, the human faculties are quite confounded, loſt, and be⯑wildered in fluxions. A velocity or fluxion is at beſt we do not know what;—whether ſomething or nothing: and how can the mind lay hold on, or form any accurate abſtract idea of ſuch a ſubtile, fleeting thing?

[295] Diſputants (Maria anſwered) may perplex with deep ſpeculations, and confound with myſterious diſquiſitions, but the method of fluxions has no dependance on ſuch things. The operation is not what any ſingle abſtract velocity can generate or deſcribe of itſelf, but what a continual and ſucceſſively variable velocity can produce in the whole: And certainly, a variable cauſe may produce a variable effect, as well as a permanent cauſe a permanent and conſtant effect. The dif⯑ference can only be, that the continual vari⯑ation of the effect muſt be proportional to the continual variation of the cauſe. The method of fluxions therefore is true, whether we can or cannot conceive the nature and manner of ſeveral things relating to them, though we had no ideas of perpetually ariſing increments, and magnitudes in naſcent or eva⯑neſcent ſtates. The knowledge of ſuch things is not eſſential to fluxions. All they propoſe is, to determine the velocity or flowing where⯑with a generated quantity increaſes, and to ſum up all that has been generated or deſcribed by the continually variable fluxion. On theſe two baſes fluxions ſtand.

This was clear and juſt, and ſhewed that the nature and idea of fluxions is agreeable to the nature and conſtitution of things. They can have no dependance upon any metaphy⯑ſical ſpeculations, (ſuch ſpeculations as that [296] anti-mathematician, my Lord of Cloyne, brought in, to cavil and diſpute againſt principles he underſtood nothing of, and maliciouſly run the account of them into the dark;) but are the genuine offspring of nature and truth. An inſtance or two may illuſtrate the matter.

• 1. A heavy body deſcends perpendicularly 16 1/12 feet in a ſecond, and at the end of this time, has acquired a velocity of 32⅙ feet in a ſecond, which is accurately known. At any given diſtance then from the place the body fell, take the point A in the right line, and the velocity of the falling body in the point may be truly computed: but the velo⯑city in any point above A, at ever ſo ſmall a diſtance, will be leſs than in A; and the ve⯑locity at any point below A, at the leaſt poſ⯑ſible diſtance, will be greater than in A. It is therefore plain, that in the point A, the body has a certain determined velocity, which belongs to no other point in the whole line. Now this velocity is the fluxion of that right line in the point A; and with it the body would proceed, if gravity acted no longer on the body's arrival at A.
• 2. Take a glaſs tube open at both ends, whoſe concavity is of different diameters in different places, and immerſe it in a ſtream, till the water fills the tube, and flows through it. Then, in different parts of the tube, the velocity of the water will be as the ſquares [297]of the diameters, and of conſequence dif⯑ferent. Suppoſe then, in any marked place, a plane to paſs through the tube perpendicular to the axis, or to the motion of the water, and of conſequence, the water will paſs through this ſection with a certain determi⯑nate velocity: But if another ſection be drawn ever ſo near the former, the water, by reaſon of the different diameters, will flow through this with a velocity different from what it did at the former, and therefore to one ſection of the tube, or ſingle point only, the deter⯑minate velocity belongs. It is the fluxion of the ſpace which the fluid deſcribes at that ſec⯑tion; and with that uniform velocity the fluid would continue to move, if the diameter was the ſame to the end of the tube.
• 3. If a hollow cylinder be filled with wa⯑ter, to flow freely out through a hole at the bottom, the velocity of the effluent will be as the height of the water, and ſince the ſur⯑face of the incubent fluid deſcends without ſtop, the velocity of the ſtream will decreaſe, till the effluent be all out. There can then be no two moments of time, ſucceeding each other ever ſo nearly, wherein the velocity of the water is the ſame; and of conſequence, the velocity, at any given point, belongs only to that particular indiviſible moment of time. Now this is accurately the fluxion of the fluid then flowing; and if, at that inſtant, more [298]water was poured into the cylinder, to make the ſurface keep its place, the effluent would retain its velocity, and ſtill be the fluxion of the fluid. Such are the operations of na⯑ture, and they viſibly confirm the nature of Fluxion. It is from hence quite clear, that the fluxion of a generated quantity, cannot re⯑tain any one determined value for the leaſt ſpace of time whatever, but the moment it arrives at that value, the ſame moment it loſes it again. The fluxion of ſuch quantity can only paſs gradually and ſucceſſively thro' the indefinite degrees contained between the two extreme values, which are the limits thereof, during the generation of the fluent, in caſe the fluxion be variable: But then, though a determinate degree of fluxion does not continue at all, yet, at every determinate indiviſible moment of time, every fluent has ſome determinate degree of fluxion; that is, every generated quantity has every where a cer⯑tain rate of increaſing, a fluxion whoſe abſtract value is determinate in itſelf, though the fluxion has no determined value for the leaſt ſpace of time whatever. To find its value then, that is, the ratio one fluxion has to an⯑other, is a problem ſtrictly geometrical; not⯑withſtanding the Right Rev. anti-mathema⯑tician has declared the contrary, in his hatred to mathematicians, and his ignorance of the true principles of mathematics.

[299] If my Lord of Cloyne had been qualified to examine and conſider the caſe of fluxions, and could have laid aſide that unaccountable obſtinacy, and invincible prejudice, which made him reſolve to yield to no reaſon on the ſubject;—not to regard even the great Maclaurin's anſwer to his Analyſt; — he would have diſcovered, that it was very poſ⯑ſible to find the abſtract value of a generated quantity, or the contemporary increment of any compound quantity. By the binomial theorem, the ratio of the fluxion of a ſimple quantity to the fluxion of that compound quantity, may be had in general, in the loweſt terms, and as near the truth as we pleaſe, whilſt we ſuppoſe ſome very ſmall increment actu⯑ally deſcribed: And whereas the ratio of theſe fluxions is required for ſome one indi⯑viſible point of the fluid, in the very begin⯑ning of the increment, and before it is gene⯑rated, we make, in the particular caſe, the values of the ſimple increments nothing, which before was expreſſed in general: then all the terms wherein they are found vaniſh, and what is left accurately ſhews the rela⯑tion of the fluxions for the point where the increment is ſuppoſed to commence. As the abſtract value of the fluxion belongs only to one point of the fluent, the moments are made to vaniſh, after we have ſeen by their continual diminution, whither the ratio tends, [300]and what it continually verges to; and this becomes as viſible as the very character it is written in.

But Dr. Berkley was unacquainted with mathematical principles, and out of his aver⯑ſion to theſe ſciences, and zeal for orthodoxy, cavilled and diſputed with all his might, and endeavoured to bring the matter to a ſtate unintelligible to himſelf, and every body elſe. —Here Maria had done, and for near a quar⯑ter of an hour after, I ſat ſilently looking at her, in the greateſt aſtoniſhment.

But as to our travels, the 10th of Auguſt we got ſafe to London, and the conſequence of the journey was, that the laſt day of the ſame month, I had the honour and happi⯑neſs of being married to this young lady.

SECTION IX.

[301] The death of the au⯑thor's 4th wife, and his behavi⯑our there⯑upon.§. 1. WISE is the man, who prepares both for his own death and the death of his friends; who makes uſe of the [302]foreſight of troubles, ſo, as to abate the uneaſi⯑neſs of them, and puts in practice this reſo⯑lution of the philoſopher. I thought of this the morning I married the beautiful and ingenious Miſs Spence, (as related in the latter end of my eighth ſection), and deter⯑mined if I loſt her, to make the great af⯑fliction produce the peaceable fruits of righ⯑teouſneſs. The man muſt feel, in ſuch a caſe; the chriſtian will ſubmit. Before the end of ſix months, ſhe died, and I mourned the loſs with a degree of ſorrow due to ſo much excellence, endearment and delight. My complaint was bitter, in proportion to the deſires of nature. But as nature ſays, let this cup paſs: grace ſays, let thy will be done. If the flower of all my comfort was gone — the glory departed! yet thy glory is, O man, to do the will of God, and bear the burthen [303]he lays upon thee. Let nature, grace, and time, do their part, to cloſe the wound, and let not ignorance impeach the wiſdom of the moſt high. The cup which my father hath given me: ſhall I not drink? I will. I will not quarrel with providence. In ſhort, I reſigned, and not long after I had buried this admirable woman, (who died at her ſeat in Weſtmoreland,) I went into the world again, to relieve my mind, and try my fortune once more. What happened there, I will report, when I have related the extraordinary caſe of my wife, Miſs Spence, and the four phy⯑ſicians I had to attend her. It is a very cu⯑rious thing.

The caſe of a lady in a fever, and an account of four phyſicians who at⯑tended her.§. 2. This young lady was ſeized with that fatal diſtemper, called a malignant fever: Something foreign to nature got into her blood, by a cold, and other accidents, it may be, and the luctus or ſtrife to get clear thereof became very great. The efferveſcence or per⯑turbation was very ſoon ſo violent as to ſhew, that it not only endangered, but would quickly ſubvert the animal fabrick, unleſs the blood was ſpeedily diſperſed, and nature got the victory by an excluſion of the noxious ſhut⯑in particles. The thirſt, the dry tongue, the coming cauſus, were terrible, and gave me too much reaſon to apprehend this charming [304]woman would ſink under the conflict. To ſave her, if poſſible, I ſent immediately for a great phyſician, Dr. Sharp, a man who talked with great fluency of medicine and diſeaſes.

This gentleman told me, the Alkaline was the root of fevers, as well as of other diſtem⯑pers, and therefore, to take off the efferveſ⯑cence of the blood in the ebullitions of it, to incide the viſcous humour, to drain the tartarous ſalts from the kidnies, to allay the preternatural ferment, and to brace up the relaxed tones, he ordered orange and vinegar in whey, and preſcribed ſpirit of ſulphur, and vitriol, the cream, chryſtals, and vitriolate tartar in other vehicles. If any thing can relieve, it muſt be plenty of acid. In acidis poſita eſt omni curatio. But theſe things gave no relief to the ſufferer.

I ſent then in all haſte for Dr. Hough, a man of great reputation, and he differed ſo much in opinion from Sharp, that he called an acid the chief enemy. It keeps up the luctus or ſtruggle, and if not expelled very quickly, will certainly prove fatal. Our ſheet anchor then muſt be the teſtacea, in vehicles of mineral water, and accordingly he ordered the abſorbent powders to conflict with this acidity, the principal cauſe of all diſeaſes. Pearl and coral, crab's eyes, and crab's claws, he preſcribed in diverſe forms; [305]but they were of no uſe to the ſick woman. She became worſe every hour.

Dr. Pym was next called in, a great practiti⯑oner, and learned man. His notion of a fever was quite different from the opinions of Sharp and Hough. He maintained that a fever was a poi⯑ſonous ferment or venom, which ſeized on the animal ſpirits: it breaks and ſmites them; and unleſs by alexipharmics the ſpirits can be ena⯑bled to gain a victory in a day or two, this ferment will bring on what the Greeks call a ſynochus, that is, a continual fever. In that ſtate, the venom holds faſt the animal ſpirits, will not let them expand, or diſengage them⯑ſelves, and then they grow enraged, and tu⯑multuating, are hurried into a ſtate of explo⯑ſion, and blow up the fabric. Hence the inflammatory fever, according to the diverſe indoles of the venom; and when the contagious miaſms arrive at their higheſt degree, the ma⯑lignant fever ariſeth. The ſpirits are then knocked down, and the marks of the enemies weapons, the ſpots, &c. appear. This (the Doctor continued) is the caſe of your lady, and therefore the thing to be done is, to make the malignant tack about to the mild, and produce an extinction of the ferment, and relief of the ſymptoms. This I endeavour to do by alexipharmics and veſicatories, and by ſubduing the poiſon by the bark and the warmer antidotes. Thus did my Doctor mar⯑ſhal [306]ſhal his animal ſpirits, fight them againſt the enemy venom, to great diſadvantage. If his talk was not romance, it was plain his ſpirits were routed, and venom was getting the day. His alexipharmics and warm antidotes, were good for nothing. The malady encreaſed.

This being the caſe, I ſent again in haſte for a fourth doctor, a man of greater learn⯑ing than the other three, and therefore, in opinion, oppoſite, and againſt their manage⯑ment of the fever. This great man was Dr. Froſt. He was a mechanician, and af⯑firmed that, the ſolid parts of the human body are ſubjected to the rules of geometry, and the fluids to the hydroſtatics; and there⯑fore, to keep the machine in right order, that is, in a ſtate of health, an aequilibrium muſt be maintained, or reſtored, if deſtroyed. The balance muſt not turn to one ſide or the other. To reſtore ſanity in acute caſes, and in chronic too, our buſineſs is to prevent the veſſels being elevated or depreſt beyond the ſtandard of nature: when either happens, the diviſion of the blood is increaſed, the motion is augmented, and ſo beget a fever. There cannot be an inordinate elevation of the oily or fiery parts of the blood, till the veſſels vibrate above the ſtandard of nature.

In a ſlight fever, the blood increaſes but little above the balance; but if more than one day; turns to a ſynochus, which is but the ſame [307]fever augmented beyond the balance of nature. This turns to a putrid ſynochus, and this to a cauſus. This is the caſe of your lady. From an elevated contraction (the Doctor conti⯑tinued, to my amazement,) her blood obtains a greater force and motion; hence greater diviſion, hence an increaſe of quantity and fluidity: and thus from greater diviſion, mo⯑tion and quantity increaſed, ariſes that heat and thirſt, with the other concomitant ſymp⯑toms of her fever; for the blood dividing faſter than it can be detached through the perſpirastory emunctories of the ſkin, is the immediate cauſe of the heart's preternatural beating: And this preternatural diviſion of the blood ariſes from the additional quantity of obſtructed perſpirable matter, added to the natural quantity of the blood.

Things being ſo, (the Doctor went on) and the fever riſing by the blood's dividing faſter than can be detached by the ſeveral emunc⯑tories; and this from an elevation of the ſolids bove the balance, we muſt then ſtrive to take off the tenſion of the ſolids, and ſubtract the cauſe. This makes me begin in a manner quite contrary to the other phy⯑ſicians, and I doubt not but I ſhall ſoon get the better of the fury and orgaſm, make an al⯑teration in the black ſcabrous tongue, and by according with the modus of nature, throw forth the matter of the diſeaſe. I will ena⯑ble [308]nature to extricate herſelf. I hope to diſentangle her from the weight.

Thus did this very learned man enlarge; and while he talked of doing wonders, the dry and parched ſkin, the black and bruſhy tongue, the cruſty fur upon the teeth, and all the ſignals of an incendium within, de⯑clared her diſſolution very near. As the ſerum diminiſhed faſt, and the inteſtine motion of the craſſamentum increaſed, nature was brought to her laſt ſtruggles. All the diſmal harbin⯑gers of a general wreck appeared, to give the by-ſtanders notice of approaching death. She died the ninth day, by the ignorance of four learned Phyſicians. — Had theſe Gentlemen confidered the fever no otherwiſe than as a diſ⯑eaſe ariſing from ſome unuſual ferment, ſtirred up among the humours of the blood, diſturb⯑ing both thoſe natural motions and functions of the body, hindering perſpiration, and there⯑by giving quick and large acceſſion to ſuch parts of the aliment or liquors taken down, as are diſpoſed to ferment; and there is al⯑ways a ſtrong diſpoſition that way; for the blood has a three-fold motion,—fluidity, com⯑mon to all liquors,—protruſive, from the im⯑pulſe of the heart and arteries,—and fermen⯑tative, that is, a motion throughout of all its parts, which quality is owing to the diſſimi⯑lar parts of the blood; — for being a com⯑pound of various particles, there muſt be a [309]colluctation when they occur, and of conſe⯑quence, a continual fermentation: As this is juſt and moderate, it is for the good of the animal, and purifies the blood: if it is too much, it tends to a fever; — if it ſtill increa⯑ſes, it produces the burning cauſus: Hard is the ſtruggle then, and if nature cannot diſ⯑pume, even helped by art, the patient has no hazard for life: Hence it is, that we are ſo ſubject to fevers, — and that it carries away more people than all the reſt of the diſeaſes: Out of every forty-two that have it; twenty-five generally die. It was ſo in the time of Hippocrates, 430 years before Chriſt: And ſo Dr. Sydenham and Dr. Friend found it, in their practice:

But (I ſay) had my four Doctors conſi⯑dered the fever as I have plainly ſtated it, without vainly pretending to be ſo wiſe as to know the eſſential cauſes of it; and in the beginning of it, before the terrible appear⯑ances, the vigil, delirium, ſubſultus, the dry black tongue, the furred teeth, and the pale, unconcocted urine, had cauſed a depletion by large bleeding, had opened the pores by a mild ſudorific, had then given a vomit, Rad. Ipecacuanha in ſmall ſack-whey or chicken-water, and let the ſufferer indulge in that thin diluting liquor, an emulſion of the ſeeds and almonds in barley water, and if the patient required it, a draught of table-beer with a [310]toaſt, between whiles; had this been done very ſoon, there might be relief as quickly; or if the fever ſtill run high, to bleed again, and waſh down ſome proper alexipharmic powder with a proper cordial julap, it is poſ⯑ſible nature would have been able to accom⯑pliſh the work, and health had been again reſtored. I uſe the word proper alexiphar⯑mic, and proper cordial julap, becauſe the Theriaca and Mithridatium of the ſhops, which are commonly, almoſt always ordered as an alexipharmic bole, are rather poiſons than uſe⯑ful in a fever; and becauſe the tincture and ſyrup of ſaffron, the treacle-water, or any other diſtilled compound, are not fit cordials in the caſe; but it ſhould be the conſerva lujulae in an emulſion ex ſem. fr. cum amygd. in aq. hor⯑dei. This is the true alexipharmic,—and the only cordial, to be given in a fever. — But it was the deſtructive alexipharmics and cordials of the ſhops they forced down Maria's throat, and this, with the other bad preſcriptions and management, killed one of the fineſt and moſt excellent women that ever lived.

And now to give the world a better idea of this admirable woman than any deſcrip⯑tion of mine can exhibit, I ſhall here place a few religious little Pieces, which ſhe writ, while Miſs Spence, and which I found among her papers.

SECTION X.

An ac⯑count of Richmond the beau, and old Ribble the chemiſt.§. I. HAVING loſt Maria, as related in the ninth ſection, I went up to London, and on my way to the metropo⯑polis, dined at a pleaſant village, not far from Nottingham, where I ſaw two gentle⯑men well worth mentioning. They were ſitting in a room the waiter ſhewed me into, and had each of them a porringer of mutton broth. One of them ſeemed a little conſumptive creature, about four feet ſix inches high, uncommonly thin, or rather exſiccated to a cuticle. His broth and bread however he ſupped up with ſome reliſh. He ſeemed to be paſt threeſcore. His name was Ribble.

The other was a young man, once very handſome, tall and ſtrong, but ſo conſumed [335]and weak, that he could hardly ſpeak or ſtir. His name was Richmond. He attempted to get down his broth, but not above a ſpoonful or two could he ſwallow. He appeared to me to be a dying man.

While I beheld things with aſtoniſhment, the ſervant brought in dinner, a pound of rump ſtakes, and a quart of green peas; two cuts of bread, a tankard of ſtrong beer, and a pint of port wine: with a fine appetite, I ſoon diſpatched my meſs, and over my wine, to help digeſtion, began to ſing the following lines:—

While I was ſinging theſe lines, and all the while I was at dinner, the gentlemen looked with wonder at me, and at laſt, as ſoon as I was ſilent, old Ribble expreſſed himſelf in the following words.— You are the moſt fortunate of mortals to be ſure, Sir. A happy man indeed. You ſeem to have health and peace, contentment and tranquil⯑lity, in perfection. You are the more ſtrik⯑ing, when ſuch ſpectacles as my couſin Richmond (pointing to the dying gentleman in the room) and I are in contraſt before you. I will tell you our ſtories, Sir, in re⯑turn [337]for your charming ſong, and hope what I am going to ſay may be of ſervice to you, as you are coming on, and we going off from this world.

The pic⯑ture of beau Rich⯑mond.My kinſman there, the dying Richmond, in that chair, was once a Sampſon, and the handſomeſt man of his time, though the remains of beauty or ſtrength cannot now be traced. By drinking and whoring he brought himſelf to what you ſee; to a ſtate that eludes all the arts of medicine. He has an aggravated cough, which produces a fil⯑thy pus of an aſh-colour, ſtreaked with blood, and mixed with filaments torn from his lungs and membranes, and with the utmoſt dif⯑ficulty he reſpires. He has a perpetual vio⯑lent pain in his breaſt, a pricking ſoreneſs in his paps when he coughs, and defects in in all his functions. He has that flux of the belly, which is called a lientery, and the fluids of his body are waſted in colli⯑quative ſweats. A ſtretching pain racks him if he lies on either ſide, by reaſon of ſome adheſion of the lungs to the pleura. His hair is fallen off, and his nails you ſee are dead-coloured, and hooked. His counte⯑nance, you obſerve, is Hippocratical, the very image of death: his face a dead pale, his eyes ſunk, his noſe ſharp, his cheeks hollow, his temples fallen, and his whole body thin like a ſkeleton. What a figure now is this [338]once curled darling of the ladies: It was done, good Sir, by the hand of Intemperance.

The pic⯑ture of a temperate man, born with a con⯑ſumption.§. 3. As to myſelf, (Ribble continued,) I brought a confumption into the world with me, and by art have ſupported under it. I was born with the ſharp ſhoulders you ſee, which are called pterogoides, or wing-like, and had a contracted thorax, and long cheſt, a thin and long neck, a flaccid tone of all the parts about the breaſt, and a very flabby contexture of the muſcles all over my body: but nevertheleſs, by a ſtrict temperance all my life, and by following the directions of Dr. Bennet in his Theatrum tabidorum, I have not only made life tolerable, but ſo removed the burden of ſtagnant phlegm from the tho⯑rax, by throwing it down by ſtool, and up by expectoration, — exhaling it ſometimes through the ſkin, and at other times digeſt⯑ing it with faſting, that I contrive more uſe⯑ful hours to myſelf than the ſtrong and young can enjoy in their continued ſcenes of diſſipation and riot. In me is ſeen the won⯑derful effect of rule and ſobriety. I am now paſt fifty ſeveral years, notwithſtanding my very weak and miſerable conſtitution, and by attending to nature, and never indulging in gratification or exceſs, am not only able to live without pain, but to divert life by expe⯑rimental philoſophy. (Ribble went on) I [339]came down to this pleaſant place, chiefly for the benefit of poor Richmond, my kinſman, (whom you ſee with his eyes ſhut before you, the very picture of death,) and alſo, with a view to do ſome good to myſelf, as it is the fineſt air in the world. I took a houſe in the village to live the more eaſily, as the lodging-houſes are all crowded here, and reſolved to amuſe the days I have left in cultivating the ſcience of chemiſtry; not in order to finiſh what nature has begun, do you ſee me, (as the alchymiſts talk,) and procure to the imperfect metals the much deſired coction; but, to examine ſubſtances, and by the examination, obtain ideas of the bodies capable of the three degrees of fer⯑mentation, ſpiritous, acetous, and putrid; and of the products of thoſe fermentations, to wit, ardent ſpirits, acids analogous to thoſe of vegetables and animals, and volatile alkalis.

To this purpoſe, I made for myſelf a laboratory, and about a year ago, began to employ my veſſels and furnaces in various proceſſes. A vaſt variety of entertaining things have ſince occurred, and my life is thereby made agreeable and pleaſing; though to look at my poor frame, one would think me incapable of any ſatisfactions. I will give you an inſtance or two of my amuſements, and do you judge, if they may not afford a mind more delight, than the tumultuous [340]joys of love and wine, horſe-racing, cock-fighting, hunting, and other violent pleaſures can yield.

A hiſtory of metals.§. 4. You know, good Sir, I ſuppoſe, that there are ſix metals, two perfect, and four imperfect. Gold and ſilver, perfect: the others, copper, tin, lead, and iron. Quick⯑ſilver is by ſome called a ſeventh metal: but that I think cannot be, as it is not malle⯑able. Yet it is not to be confounded with the ſemi-metals, as it differs from the me⯑tals no otherwiſe than by being conſtantly in fuſion; which is occaſioned by its aptneſs to flow with ſuch a ſmall degree of heat, that be there ever ſo little warmth on earth, there is ſtill more than enough to keep mer⯑cury in fuſion. It muſt be called then, in my opinion, a metallic body of a particular kind: And the more ſo, let me add, as art has not yet found out a way of depriving it wholly of its Phlogiſton.

What phlogiſton is.I muſt obſerve to you, good Sir, in order to be intelligible in what I am ſaying, that the Phlogiſton in metals is the matter of fire as a conſtituent principle in bodies. It is the element of fire combined with ſome other ſubſtance, which ſerves it as a baſis for con⯑ſtituting a kind of ſecondary principle; and it differs from pure fixed fire in theſe parti⯑culars, that it communicates neither heat nor [341]light,—it cauſes no change, but only renders body apt to fuſe by the force of a culinary fire,—and it can be conveyed from body to body, with this circumſtance, that the body deprived of the phlogiſton is greatly altered, as is the body that receives it.

What ſe⯑mi-metals are.And as to the ſemi-metals, (which I men⯑tioned) you will be pleaſed to obſerve, that they are regulus of antimony, biſmuth, zinc, and regulus of arſenic. They are not malle⯑able, and eaſily part with their phlogiſton. Zinc and biſmuth are free from the poiſonous quality: but arſenic is the moſt violent poiſon; eſpecially the ſhining cryſtalline calx of it, or flowers raiſed by the fire, and named white arſenic: and regulus of antimony is likewiſe a poiſon; not in its nature, but becauſe it always contains a portion of arſenic in its compoſition.

The nature and com⯑poſition of Antimony. Antimony is of a pretty white bright colour, and has the ſplendor, opacity, and gravity of a metal, but under the hammer crumbles to duſt. A moderate heat makes it flow, and a violent fire diſſipates it into ſmoke and white vapors. They adhere to cold bodies, and when the farina is collected, we call theſe vapors flowers of antimony.

What but⯑ter of anti⯑mony is. Butter of antimony, good Sir, that wonder⯑ful corroſive, is a compound made by diſtil⯑ling pulverized regulus of antimony, and corroſive ſublimate. The production, on ope⯑ration, is a white matter, thick and ſcarce [342]fluid, which is the regulus of antimony uni⯑ted with the acid of ſea-ſalt. Here the cor⯑roſive ſublimate is decompounded, the mer⯑cury revivified, and the acid combined with it, quits it to join the regulus of antimony, becauſe its affinity with it is greater.

(Little Ribble, the Chemiſt, went on, and with difficulty I could refrain from laughing; not on account of the man's talking nonſenſe, for his diſcourſe was the very reverſe of that; but by reaſon of the gripe he had of my arm, the pulls he gave me, if I happened to look another way, and the ſurpriſing eagerneſs with which he ſpoke; which ſhewed, that he was chemically ſtruck to an amazing degree.)

Liver of antimony.But liver of antimony, good Sir, is made of equal parts of nitre and antimony. On the mixture's being expoſed to the action of fire, a violent detonation enſues, and the de⯑flagrating nitre conſumes the ſulphur of the antimony, and even a part of its phlogiſton. A greyiſh matter remains after the deto⯑nation, and this is what we call liver of anti⯑mony. It contains a fixed nitre, a vitriolated tartar, and the reguline part of antimony vitrified.

How anti⯑mony sepa⯑rates gold from other metals.The principal uſe the Chemiſts make of antimony is to ſeparate gold from the other metals. All metals, gold excepted, have a greater affinity with ſulphur than the reguline [343]part of antimony. As to gold, it is incapa⯑ble of contracting any union with ſulphur. If therefore I have a maſs compounded of various metals, and want to get the gold out, I melt it with antimony, and as ſoon as it flows, every thing in the maſs which is not gold, unites with the ſulphur, in or of the antimony, and cauſes two ſeparations, that of the ſulphur of antimony from its reguline part, and that of the gold from the metals with which it was mixed: This produces two new combinations. The metals and the ſul⯑phur, in fuſion, being lighter, riſe to the ſur⯑face; and the gold and the reguline part of antimony being heavieſt, the combination of them ſinks to the bottom. Now the buſineſs is to part theſe two, and to this purpoſe, I expoſe the combination to a degree of fire, capable of diſſipating into vapors all the ſemi-metal the maſs contains. The reguline be⯑ing volatile, goes off by the great heat, and my gold remains pure and fixed in my crucible.

The excel⯑lence of antimonial wine.As to the antimonial wine, made by the eſſence of antimony, that is, by impregnating the moſt generous white wine, with the mi⯑nims or leſts of antimony, which the phyſi⯑cians have found out, it is not the part of a chemiſt to ſpeak of that; and therefore, I ſhall only obſerve to you, that it is the beſt vomit, the beſt purge, and the beſt thing for [344]a ſweat, in the world. I will tell you, good Sir, what I heard an eminent Doctor ſay of it. — Affirmo ſanctiſſime, nihil inde melius, nihil tutius, nihil efficacius, deprehendi un⯑quam, quam tritum illum, ac ſimplicem vini automonialis infuſum ex vino albo gene⯑roſo, aromate aliquo ſtomachico adjecto. E⯑potus largiter maximas movit vomitiones, in minuta tantùm quantitate, ad guttas puta viginta, aut triginta, adhibitus ſudores elicit benignos; paulo tamen majorae aleum ſolvit leniter. Medicamentum, paratu quidem fa⯑cillimum, at viribus maximum.—And there⯑fore, good Sir, when any thing ails you, let me recommend the antimonial wine to you. Thirty drops will ſweat you effectually. About forty or fifty purges in a happy man⯑ner.

The na⯑ture of Biſmuth.But as to the ſecond ſemi-metal, biſmuth, it has almoſt the ſame appearance as regulus of antimony, but of a more duſky caſt, inclin⯑ing ſomewhat to red. It requires leſs heat than antimony to flow, and like it, and the other ſemi-metals, is volatile, by the action of a violent fire, and under the hammer is duſt. In fuſion, it mixes well with all metals, and whitens them by union, but deſtroys their malleability. In flowing, it loſes its phlogi⯑ſton with its metallic form. And it has a ſingular property, which the other ſemi-metals have not, of attenuating lead ſo as to make [345]it amalgamatic with mercury, ſo perfectly as to make it paſs with it through ſhamoy lea⯑ther. As ſoon as the amalgama is made, the biſmuth goes off or ſeparates; but the lead for ever remains united with the mercury.

An extra⯑ordinary sympathe⯑tic Ink.It is of a ſolution of the ore of biſmuth, we make that very curious and uſeful thing, called ſympathetic ink, which is a liquor of a beautiful colour, like that of the lilach or pipe-tree bloſſom. The proceſs in preparing this liquor is tedious and difficult by aqua fortis, aqua re⯑gis, and fire, and therefore the ink is rarely to be met with. It is not to be had, unleſs ſome gentleman who makes chemiſtry his employ⯑ment, gives one a preſent of a bottle of it; as I do now to you, in hopes it may ſome time or other be of ſingular ſervice to you; for I have conceived a great regard for you, tho' I never ſaw you before, as you ſeem not only more teachable than any I have met with, but to delight in the information I give you relating to chemical things.

Here I returned my Chemiſt many thanks, and profeſſed my eternal obligation to him; that I could liſten for years to him; and wiſhed it was poſſible to become his diſciple, that I might ſee him by experiment facilitate the ſtudy of a ſcience, more entertaining, inſtructive, and extenſively uſeful than any other. But how, dear Sir, am I to uſe this ink, you are ſo vaſtly good as to give me, [346]to make it more uſeful than any other ink could be?

I will tell you (Ribble replied): you muſt write with this lilach-coloured liquor, on good well gummed paper, that does not ſink; and the ſingularity of the ink, conſiſts in its property of diſappearing entirely, and becoming invi⯑ſible, though it be not touched with any thing whatever: And this diſtinguiſhes it from all others. The writing muſt dry in a warm air, and while it is cold no colour can be perceived: but gently warming it before the fire, the writing gradually acquires a greeniſh blue colour, which is viſible as long as the paper continues a little warm, and diſappears entirely when it cools. When other ſympa⯑thetic inks are made to appear by proper application, they do not diſappear again; but this liquor from the ore of biſmuth muſt have the fire or heat kept to it, to render it legi⯑ble. If a man writes to his miſtreſs, ſuppoſe, or to a miniſter of ſtate, with lemon juice, once the writing has been warmed by the fire, and the letters by that means appear, the epiſtle may be afterwards read at any time and place; but if the lady's father ſhould by accident get your letter, written in lilach-coloured liquor, it muſt ſtill remain a ſecret to him: For if on getting it, and opening the ſeal, he could ſee no writing, and therefore imagining it was writ with lemon juice, or [347]ſome other ſympathetic ink, he ſhould hold it himſelf to the fire, or bid his ſervant hold it to the heat, that the letters might be pro⯑duced, and made viſible, yet the moment biſmuth-ink is taken away from the fire, and begins to cool, it is as inviſible again, as a ſheet of white paper. How ſerviceable this may be on various occaſions, may be eaſily conceived.

Of Zinc.But as to our third ſemi-metal, called Zinc, this is ſo like biſmuth to appearance, that ſome have confounded it with Zinc; though it differs from it eſſentially in its properties, and will unite with all metalline ſubſtances, ex⯑cept biſmuth. It is volatile by fire above all things, and makes a ſublimate of the metal⯑lic ſubſtances with which it is fuſed. Zinc mixed with copper in the quantity of a fourth part, produces braſs. If the Zinc is not very pure, the compoſition proves tombac, or Prince's metal.

The na⯑ture of re⯑gulus of arſenic. Regulus of arſenic, the fourth ſemi-metal, has a colour reſembling lead, unites readily with metallic ſubſtances, and renders them brittle, unmalleable, and volatile. The calx of it produced by fire, may be made volatile by more fire, and in this differs from the calx of all metalline ſubſtances; for all other calx's are fixed, and cannot be moved. It has like⯑wiſe a ſaline character, in which its corroſive quality or poiſon conſiſts: a quality from [348]which the other metallic ſubſtances are free, when they are not combined with a ſaline matter. Theſe things being noticed, in rela⯑tion to metals, and ſemi-metals in general, I will now proceed to relate a few curious caſes, in reſpect of the metals.

The cha⯑racters of gold. Gold, our firſt metal, has ten ſenſible cri⯑terions. It is the heavieſt and denſeſt of all bodies: the moſt ſimple of all bodies: the moſt fixed of all bodies: the only body that cannot be turned into ſcoriae, by antimony and lead; the moſt ductile of all bodies: ſo ſoft as to be ſcarcely elaſtic or ſonorous: muſt be red hot to melt: is diſſolvable by ſea-ſalt and its preparations, but remains untouched by any other ſpecies of ſalts; and of conſequence not liable to ruſt; as aqua regia and ſpirit of ſea-ſalt do not float in the air, unleſs in labo⯑ratories; or chemiſts ſhops, where we find them ſometimes: It unites ſpontaneouſly with pure quick-ſilver: It never waſtes by emitting effluvia, or exhalations. Theſe are the ten ſenſible properties or characteriſtics of this metal. It is certainly pure gold, if it has theſe criterions, and they are of great uſe in life; eſpecially to perſons who have to do with that ſubtil tribe, the alchemiſts.

As to the weight of gold, it is more than nineteen times heavier than water, bulk for bulk, and this property is inſeparable from it; it being impoſſible to render gold more [349]or leſs heavy; and for this reaſon, the ſpecific gravity of gold, if it had no other criterion, might demonſtrate real gold. To make gold, other metals muſt be rendered equiponderant to it: And therefore, if an alchemiſt ſhould offer to obtrude a metal on you for gold, hang an equal weight of pure, and of ſuſpected gold by two threads to a nice ballance, and on immerging them in water, if the alchemiſt's gold be pure, the water will retain both pieces in oequilibrio; otherwiſe, the adulterate metal will riſe, and the pure deſcend.

The reaſon is, all bodies loſe ſome of their weight in a fluid, and the weight which a body loſes in a fluid, is to its whole weight, as the ſpecific gravity of the fluid is to that of the body. The ſpecific gravity of a body is the weight of it, when the bulk is given; 38 grains of gold weighed in the air, is not the true weight of it: for there it loſes the weight of an equal bulk of air: It weighs only 36 grains in the water, and there it loſes the weight of as much water, as is equal in bulk to itſelf, that is, 2 grains, and as the gold weighs 38 grains, it follows, that the weight of water is to that of gold, bulk for bulk, as 2 to 38, that is, as the weight loſt in the fluid is to the whole weight.

And ſo, if a piece of gold, and a piece of copper, are equiponderant in air, yet in water the gold will outweigh the copper; becauſe [350]their bulks, tho' of equal weight, are inverſely as their ſpecific gravities, that is, the gold muſt be as much leſs than the copper, as the ſpecific gravity of gold is greater than that of copper: And as they muſt both loſe weight in proportion to bulk in water, therefore the gold, the leſſer of the two, loſes leſs of its weight than the copper does, and conſe⯑quently, out-weighs the copper in water. I hope this is clear. The caſe is the ſame, in proportion, in pure gold, and gold mixed with other metals. The bulk of the pure gold muſt be leſs than that of allayed gold, and its weight greater in water; tho' both equiponderate (a pound ſuppoſe) in air.

It is very plain, Sir, and I requeſt you will proceed. You give me valuable information, and oblige me very much. This pleaſed the Chemiſt, and the ingenious little Ribble went on.

As to the ſimplicity of gold, we mean, by a ſimple body, that whoſe minuteſt part has all the phyſical properties of the whole maſs. Now diſſolve a grain of gold in aqua regia, and from a ſingle drop of the ſolution, a par⯑ticle of gold may be ſeparated, and have all the characters of gold, (except thoſe of mag⯑nitude,) though the ſeparated particle of gold ſhall only be the millionth part of the grain. —Or, fuſe a ſingle grain of gold with a maſs of ſilver, and mix the whole together, ſo that [351]the gold ſhall be equally diſtributed: then take a particle thereof, and you will have a par⯑ticle of perfect gold; for diſſolve the leaſt part of the mixture in aqua fortis, and a quantity of gold will precipitate to the bottom. It will bear the ſame proportion to the grain, that the part diſſolved did to the whole maſs.

Having mentioned aqua regia and aqua fortis, I muſt, to be intelligible, ſay two or three words in relation to them. Aqua regia is an extract by fire from ſea-ſalt and ſpirit of nitre. The acid liquor that comes over from them into the receiver, is aqua regis.—Aqua fortis, or ſpirit of nitre, is a nitrous acid ſeparated from its baſis, nitre, by the vitriolic acid. Aqua regis only will diſſolve gold. Silver is not ſoluble by aqua regis; its proper ſolvent is the acid of nitre or aqua fortis. — But if you want to ſeparate a maſs of gold and ſilver, either will do. You may diſſolve the gold by aqua regia, and let the ſilver remain pure: or, diſſolve the ſilver by aqua fortis, and let the gold remain pure. Only note in this caſe of a mixed lump of gold and ſilver, the operation by aqua fortis is preferable, for this reaſon; that aqua regis in diſſolving the gold, takes up likewiſe a little ſilver; but aqua fortis hath not the leaſt effect on gold:—And note further, that if there be equal parts of gold and ſilver in the mixture, they cannot be [352]parted by aqua fortis. It has not then the leaſt effect on the ſilver, which is very ſtrange. To make aqua fortis act duly on ſilver mixed with gold, the ſilver muſt be at leaſt in a triple proportion to that of the gold. The reaſon of the ſingular effect is, that when the gold exceeds, or the parts of both are equal in quantity, then, as both are intimate, united in the maſs, the parts or minims of the gold coat over the parts of the ſilver, and defend them from the action of the aqua fortis. In this caſe, aqua regia muſt be uſed to diſſolve the gold, and leave the ſilver pure: or, as aqua regia takes up a little of the ſilver, when it diſſolves the gold, melt the metalline maſs, and add as much ſilver, as will make it a triple proportion to the gold. Then you may by aqua fortis take up all your ſilver in the diſſolution, and leave all the gold pure.

But as to the third criterion of gold, its being the moſt fixed of all bodies, this is evident from the violence of fire having no effect on it. An ounce of it expoſed for the ſpace of two months, in the eye of a glaſs furnace, does not loſe half a grain. It may from thence be ſaid to be incorruptible.

As to gold's reſiſting antimony, and not turn⯑ing into ſcoriae by its force, it is moſt certain from hence, that if you take a maſs conſiſting of gold, ſilver, copper, the other metals, with ſtones, &c. and fuſe it with antimony, the [353]bodies will flow on the ſurface, and be eaſily blown off by the bellows: the antimony all evaporates, and leaves the gold alone. This is called the laſt teſt of gold, to try the purity of it. If the remaining gold have loſt nothing of its weight, it is allowed perfectly pure, and called gold of twenty-four carats; or if it be found 1/24 lighter, it is ſaid to be twenty-three carats fine.

The won⯑derful ductility of gold.But as to the ductility of gold, this is the moſt extraordinary property of it. The arts of gold-beating and wire-drawing, ſhew us things quite amazing. In leaf-gold, a grain and a quarter of the metal, may be made to cover an area of fifty ſquare inches; and if the leaf be divided by parallel lines 1/100 part of an inch, a grain of gold will be divided into five hundred thouſand minute ſquares, all diſcernible by the eye: yet this is not the moſt can be done by the hammer. A ſingle grain of gold may be ſtretched into a leaf that will cover a houſe, and yet the leaf remain ſo compact, as not to tranſmit the rays of light, nor ever admit ſpirit of wine to tran⯑ſude. This however is nothing to the effects of wire-drawing.

A gold wire is only a ſilver one gilt, and if you coat a ſilver cylinder of forty-eight ounces weight, with one ounce of gold, which is ſufficient, this cylinder may be drawn out into a wire ſo very fine, that two yards thereof [354]ſhall weigh only one grain, and 98 yards only 49 grains, ſo that one grain of gold gilds 98 yards; and of courſe the ten thouſandth part of a grain, is above one third part of an inch long. And ſince the third part of an inch is yet capable of being divided into ten leſſer parts viſible to the eye, it is evident that the hundred thouſandth part of a grain of gold, may be ſeen without the help of a micro⯑ſcope: And yet ſo intimately do its parts co⯑here, that though the gold wherewith the wire is coated, be ſtretched to ſuch a degree, there is not any appearance of the colour of ſilver underneath. Nor is this all.

In ſupergildings, that is, to make the richeſt lace, they employ but 6 ounces of gold, to cover or gild 45 marks of ſilver, that is, twenty-two pounds and a half avordupoiſe weight, rounded into the form of a cylinder or roller, which hath fifteen lines in diameter, and twenty-two inches in length; and here the ſtratum of gold which invelopes the ingot that is to be drawn into wire, hath no more thick⯑neſs than the fifteenth part of a line, which is extremely thin; as a line is the twelfth part of an inch.

But to make the common gold-thread, they do not uſe more than two ounces of gold, and ſometimes not more than one, to gild or cover ingot I have mentioned, and then the inve⯑loping ſtratum is not more in thickneſs, if [355]two ounces be employed, than the 45th part of a line; and if one ounce be uſed, but the 90th part of a line. Two ounces of gold is generally uſed, in gilding or covering the ingot I have mentioned, and vaſtly thinner muſt the ſtratum be, when the ingot is drawn till it ſurpaſſes the fineneſs of a hair, and the dia⯑meter is nine thouſand times ſmaller than what it had in the maſs: By weighing out half a dram of this thread or wire, it is found by meaſuring the length of the half dram, that the ingot of 22 ½ pounds, and 22 inches long, is changed into a length of 1163520 feet, that is, ninety-ſix leagues and 196 fa⯑thom; for the half dram of wire or thread meaſures 202 feet; by conſequence, an ounce of it, 3232 feet; a mark of it, or eight oun⯑ces, 25856 feet. And yet, aſtoniſhing as this length is, for two ounces of bold to be drawn to, the gold which covers the ſilver never ceaſes to gild it. The gold ſtill keeps pace with the wire, ſtretch it to what length the drawers can, through the wire-drawing irons, and holes much ſmaller one than an⯑other. The ſilver never appears.

It does not however reſt there. Before the thread or wire is wound on ſilk, and before they ſpin it, it muſt be flatted by paſſing it between ſteel wheels extremely well poliſhed, and this flatting increaſes its length to more than a ſeventh part. One ingot, therefore, [356]of 8 marks or 22 ½ pounds, and 22 inches long, by this increaſe of a 7th part, is brought to the length of 111 leagues, that is, about 300 Engliſh miles.

But amazing as this extent is, it is not the utmoſt bounds to which the ductility of gold may be carried. One ounce only of gold is ſometimes uſed to cover one ingot, and drawn to the length I have mentioned, and by the time it has paſſed the flatting wheels, the gold that covers the ſilver laminae, muſt have its thickneſs reduced to leſs than the millionth part of a line; that is, a twelve millionth of an inch. This is beyond the reach of our conception. Imagination cannot plumb her line ſo low.

But, Sir, (I ſaid) May not the gold be divided into ſmall grains ſeparate one from another, but yet near enough to give their co⯑lour to the ſilver? Though we may not be able to ſee the thing, yet I think it may be imagined; the gold on the laminae doth not form a continued leaf.

Experience, good Sir, demonſtrates the contrary,—that every point of ſilver hath its cover of gold. Put a piece of this gilt wire in aqua fortis, the ſilver will be diſſolved, and the gold left a perfect, continuous tube. It is an amazing thing! And ſhews the aſtoniſh⯑ing power of the firſt cauſe! As to the rea⯑ſon of this ductility, and why gold in ſuch a [357]manner adheres to ſilver, ſo as never to part from it, if the 22 ½ pounds of ſilver gilded with one ounce of gold could be extended by art for ever, this is paſt our finding out. It is a ſecret of nature we cannot form any idea of.

Calignoſa nocte premit Deus.

Ribble went on. Theſe are the things moſt remarkable in relation to gold; and I have only to add, that as to the manner of getting it, it is found ſometimes in glebes or clods, conſiſting of gold alone; ſometimes in a powdry form, and then called gold- duſt, or ſand-gold, in the ſands and mud of rivers and brooks; but moſt commonly in whitiſh clods, dug out of mines of vaſt depth, and intermixed with ſilver and various foſſils. This they reduce by fire to a maſs of metal, and by aqua regia or aqua fortis, the gold is eaſily taken out of the ore.

And as to gold's being ſo yielding and duc⯑tile by human art, it is to be obſerved, that in return it exerts a greater power on the human mind. Paſſive it is in its ductility, but more active in its influence on man. It is a greater tyrant than a ſlave. It drives re⯑peated millions of the human race to death and hell. King of metals as it is, bright and glorious to behold, and what procures innumerable bleſſings to mankind; yet, with⯑out the grace of God, to moderate the paſſion [358]for it, and to direct the mind in a true uſe of it, it is more dangerous to beings on a trial in a firſt ſtate, than even poverty can be in this lower hemiſphere. What villainies are daily com⯑mitted to get it! What iniquities daily perpe⯑trated by thoſe who have plenty of it! Lead us not into temptation, ſhould relate as well to too much of it, as to a total want of it; and it is well prayed,—In all time of our wealth, good Lord deliver us.

Mr. Ribble's con⯑cluſion, containing his reli⯑gious thoughts and advice.In my opinion, neither poverty nor riches, but a middle ſtate, is the thing we ſhould deſire. It is in this condition, we can beſt live ſoberly, or with a ſound mind, and con⯑duct ourſelves as thoſe who have an intelligent ſpirit to preſide in body. Too much gold moſt commonly inverts this order, and pro⯑duces an apoſtaſy that ſets the inferior powers in the throne, and enſlaves the mind to the body: It gives the paſſions the commanding in⯑fluence, and makes reaſon receive law from appetite.

If we look into the world, we find too often, in this caſe, that wealth is big with innumerable ſins. The rich are filled with wine, wherein is exceſs, and ſhew an un⯑bridled diſſoluteneſs of manners. Their eyes behold ſtrange women, and their hearts utter perverſe things. Inſtead of regarding the common good, they commit the moſt extra⯑vagant [359]injuries. Of ſuch a hardning nature is too much gold, that it tends to make con⯑ſcience inſenſible and ſtupid, and renders it for ever unapt for impreſſion. Then whore⯑dom and wine, and new wine, take away the heart, and men are made to forget the law of God.

But having neither poverty nor riches, in the calm middle ſtate, having all reaſonable conveniencies, we can fairly come by; a vaſt variety of creatures for our food, and wine in its ſeaſon, to make glad the heart; we may then partake of the bounties of providence, with a ſober freedom, and at the ſame time, can beſt lay up for ourſelves a good foun⯑dation, or ſecuity for the time to come, that we may lay hold of eternal life.

Tho' it is with a proſpect of difficulties, that all muſt enter upon religion, and with labour and difficulty, maintain our ground, and acquit ourſelves like chriſtians, that is, reſiſt the devil in all his aſſaults, overcome the world in its enſnaring influence, and mor⯑tify the irregular inclinations of nature; yet in the happy middle ſtate, where there is no poverty nor riches, that is, great wealth, we can make everlaſting glory and felicity our governing aim, and bound our ambition and deſires by nothing ſhort of the reſurrection of the dead. We may live in a full and ready ſubmiſſion of the ſoul to the authority of [360]God's word. Things eternal may have the aſcendant in our practical judgment, and then with pleaſure we become followers of them, who through faith and patience inhe⯑rit the promiſes.

Good Sir, this is all our ſowing time, and whatſoever a man ſoweth, that ſhall he alſo reap. He that ſoweth to his fleſh, ſhall of his fleſh reap corruption; but he that ſoweth to the ſpirit, ſhall of the ſpirit reap everlaſt⯑ing life. And therefore, whether your lot be caſt in the happy middling ſtate, or you were born to thouſands a year, let wiſdom be your rule, and prefer that happineſs which has everlaſting duration, in the realms of light above, to any preſent good that can come in competition with it. Do not ſpend money for that which is not bread— and your la⯑bour for that which ſatisfieth not. Do not employ your pains for that which hath vanity written upon it, by the word of God, by the teſtimony of the wiſeſt men, and by frequent experience: but let your princi⯑pal regard be for your immortal ſoul, when nothing can be given in exchange for the ſoul. Implore the light and grace of the good ſpi⯑rit, and by the quickening influences of the Father of the univerſe, and the exertion of your whole ſtrength, let it be the principal labour of your every day, to make advances in the divine life, and be a bleſſing to ſociety [361]wherever you come. In virtue and charity may you excel.

You will pardon old Ribble, I hope, good Sir, and excuſe his addreſſing himſelf to you in this manner. It is an odd concluſion, I own, to a diſcourſe on metals and ſemi-metals; but it is from an extreme regard I have con⯑ceived for you, that I talk as I do, and pre⯑ſume to call upon you, (as you are a young man of fortune, I ſuppoſe) to conſider ſeri⯑ouſly of that decree, which is the reſult of unerring wiſdom, and the will of the Rector of the univerſe, to wit, that we are all under the law of death, and through that gate muſt paſs, perhaps at a day's, an hour's warning, to the reſurrection of the dead, to be adjudged to happineſs or miſery, as time has been em⯑ployed, and life ſpent here. This is the de⯑cree of the Moſt High God, and of conſe⯑quence, it is incumbent on us, to prepare for the awful hereafter, and endeavour by good actions, and a virtuous mind, by purity of conſcience, and an exalted piety, to come off well in judgment. Happy—thrice happy they that do ſo.

Here little Ribble the Chemiſt had done, and I had reaſon to return him my very hearty thanks for the favour of his whole diſcourſe. I was vaſtly obliged to him for the knowledge he had given me, in relation to the philoſo⯑phy of metals, and taking him by the hand, [362]promiſed him, that I would ever gratefully remember his moral concluſion. This pleaſed the old gentleman, and at four in the after⯑noon we parted.

A charm⯑ing vale, and coun⯑try houſe, in Notting⯑hamſhire, the feat of Mr. Monck⯑tes.§ 3. Reflecting on the wonders of the metals, which I had heard old Ribble ſo well diſcourſe of, and being more intent on what had been told me of theſe things, that I might never forget ſuch uſeful learning, I trotted on for ſeveral hours without minding the road, and arrived as the ſun was ſetting in a deep and melancholy vale, through which a pleaſant river run, that by the mur⯑mur of its ſtreams, ſeemed to be marked out for the rendezvous of the thoughtful, who love the deep receſſes, and embowring woods, with the ſoft thrillings of gliding ſtreams, as much as the ſprightly court the gayeſt ſcenes. In this ſweet ſpot, I found a pretty country houſe, and not knowing where I was, rid up to the door, to enquire my way. A gen⯑tleman, who ſeemed to be about forty, im⯑mediately appeared, let me know I was at a conſiderable diſtance from any town, and as it was near ten, told me I had beſt reſt with him that night, and I was moſt heartily welcome. This was humane and civil. I accepted the kind invitation, and immediately went in with him. He brought me into a decent room, and gave me a handſome meal. We [363]had a couple of bottles after ſupper, talked of a thouſand things, and then withdrew to wind up the machines. He would not let me ſtir the next morning, and after dinner we became well acquainted. Six days this gentleman prevailed with me to ſtay at his houſe, and then I left him with regret. He was ſo generous, ſo civil, and in every thing ſo agreeable, that I could not avoid admiring him, and regarding him to an ex⯑treme degree. His name was Monckton.

Character of Mr. Monckton.§ 4. Avery Monckton had ſeen the world, when he was a young man, and by reading much, and thinking a great deal, had ac⯑quired an extenſive knowledge, and a deep penetration. In him the gentleman and the ſcholar were viſible. He ſeemed ſu⯑perior to folly, and his philoſophy appeared to be an aſſiduous examination of his ideas, fancies, and opinions, in order to render them true and juſt. His religion conſiſted in a chearful ſubmiſſion to the divine pleaſure, with reſpect to all things independent of us, or abſolutely external to us; and in a conti⯑nued exertion of benevolence, in doing all the good he could. What the theology of ſects was, and the notions of divines, he never minded. It was his opinion, that an active charity is the only thing that can liken and approve us to the original benevolent mind: [364]and that it is reaſonable to ſubmit to all his diſpenſations, ſince the providence of an in⯑finitely perfect Being, muſt do all for the beſt in the whole. This was Avery Monckton, Eſq In his perſon he was tall, and very thin.

This gentleman told me the following re⯑markable ſtory relating to himſelf, on my aſking him, if he had ever been married?— Yes, Sir, he replied: When I was about five and twenty, a young lady came in my way, who had all the external charms that ever adorned a woman, and I thought her mind as perfect in goodneſs of every kind, as minds can be on this earth. I made my addreſſes to her, and with ſome difficulty perſuaded her to accept of a good jointure, and be a wife; for ſhe had got it into her head, that chriſtian perfection conſiſted in a virgin-life. I loved her to an extreme de⯑gree, and fancied myſelf beyond mortals happy, as her fondneſs ſeemed equal to my paſſion, and ſhe expreſſed it in a moſt tranſ⯑porting way. Three months paſſed on in this delightful manner, and I ſhould have thought an age but minutes, if the ſcene was to have no change. But every thing muſt have an end in this poor ſtate. Buſineſs called me one morning early into the city, and till it was late at night, I thought not to return: Back however I was compelled to [365]go for ſome papers, I had forgot, and de⯑ſigning to ſurprize agreeably my wife, came in by a key I had, at the waſh-houſe door, and unſeen went ſoftly up to my chamber, where I expected to find my beloved in a ſweet ſleep. Gently I touched the lock, and intended, as my charmer ſlumbered, to give this idol of my heart a kiſs: But, as I opened the door without being heard, I ſaw a man by my bed-ſide, and my fond faithful wife, buttoning up his breeches. Amazement ſeized me, but I was not in a rage. I only ſaid, is that Louiſa I ſee, and ſhut the door. Down ſtairs I went immediately, and out again the ſame way I came in. I was done with love for ever, and from that time never ſaw my wife more. A ſhip being to ſail the next day for Conſtantinople, I went a paſſen⯑ger in it, and reſolved to live abroad ſome years.

Six years I reſided in Greece, and viſited every curious place: Four I ſpent in Aſia minor, and two in Italy and France. I di⯑verted myſelf with noting down the extra⯑ordinary things I ſaw, and I purchaſed ſeveral fine antiquities by the way. When done, I came back to my country again, and this little ſeat I now live at, being to be ſold, I bought it immediately, and have reſided here ever ſince. My ſtudy, my garden, and my horſe, divert me fully and finely every day. [366]I have all I deſire in this world, and reign more happily over my few ſubjects, in this airy, ſilent, ſecret ſpot, than the greateſt mo⯑narch can do on a throne. My people are only one young man, who is my gardener, my footman, and my groom, and two old women, my maids. Theſe are ever attentive to my will, and by their good behaviour and management, make my lodge as agreeable, and life as pleaſing, as can be expected in this ſyſtem of things.

Monckton's ſtory pleaſed me much, and I wondered greatly at his happy temper, when he ſaw his beloved wife buttoning up the breeches of the man. But did you ever hear what became of her after?—And faulty as ſhe was, may there not be found an ho⯑neſt charming woman, to render your hours more delightful than ſtudy and contrivance can make them, without a ſoft partner thro' life? Come into the world with me, Sir, and I will engage to find out for you a mere primitive chriſtian of a woman, with all the beauties of body that Lucian gives his images.

You are very good, Sir, (Monckton replied) in offering to look out for another wife for me, and I thank you very heartily, for your well-meant kindneſs; but as I never enquired what became of my firſt wife, from the morning I left her, and know only that ſhe is dead, [367]as her jointure has not been demanded for ſeveral years paſt; ſo ſhall I never be con⯑cerned with a ſecond. Perhaps there are ſome honeſt women in the world. I hope ſo: but I have had enough of marriage. Beſide, I think it time now to turn my thoughts a better way. In the forty-fifth year of my age, it cannot be weak, to begin to conſider the great change before me, and fix my hopes on a good remove into ſome better and happier region. If I was unfortunate with a wife when a young man, I have little reaſon to expect better days with one, as age comes on. I might find myſelf again moſt ſadly miſ⯑taken. But there can be no diſappointment in making it the principal work of life, to prepare, in ſuch a retirement as this, for that approaching hour, when we muſt ſubmit to the power and tyranny of death and corrup⯑tion. By this means, the greateſt happineſs may be ſecured. In every thing elſe, there is uncertainty and vanity. I ſpeak princi⯑pally in reſpect of my time of life, who am haſtning faſt to fifty: but at every time, it is my opinion, that men, as rationals, and beings who take on themſelves the honourable profeſ⯑ſion of the chriſtian religion, ſhould not comply with the criminal liberties allowed in the world, and give into the illicit uſages and cuſtoms of place and company, for fear of ridicule, or to avoid giving offence; but keep [368]ſtrictly to the will and laws of their higher country, and in all things have a ſpecial re⯑gard to holineſs, and truth, and purity.

I do not ſay this by way of preaching, but that you may thereby have a truer idea of the man you chanced to find in a lone houſe on this vaſt common. Seven years have I now lived here, and in all that time, have not been once in London: but ſome⯑times I ride to a neighbouring village, and if on the road, or at an inn, I can pick up a ſen⯑ſible agreeable man, I love to dine with him, and drink a pint of wine. Such a man I fre⯑quently ride in queſt of, and if he be intirely to my mind, (which is very rarely the caſe,) I invite him home with me, to paſs at my lodge two or three days. Far then am I from being unſocial, though I live in ſoli⯑tude; but I left the world, becauſe I was ill-uſed in it, and happen to think very differently from the generality of men. Here Monckton ended his ſtory, and a little after we parted.

A bait at a lone inn, and the ar⯑rival of Miſs Tur⯑ner of Skelſmore vale.§. 5. I rid for ſix hours without meeting with any thing remarkable; but as I baited about three o'clock at a lone inn, the ſituation of which was ſo fine in foreſt and water, that I determined to go no further that day, there arrived a little after, a young lady, her maid, and two men ſervants. They were all well-mounted, and the lady's beaſt in par⯑ticular, [369]as great a beauty of its kind, as its miſtreſs was among women. I thought I had ſeen the face before, and had been ſome where or other in her company; but as it muſt be ſeveral years ago, and her face and perſon were a little altered, I could not im⯑mediately recollect her: but Finn, my lad, coming up to me, aſked me, if I did not re⯑member Miſs Turner of Skelſmore-vale ^*? Miſs Turner, I ſaid;—to be ſure, now I think, it is ſhe; but this lady juſt arrived here is much fatter, and, if it be poſſible, ſomething handſomer. It is her, believe me, quoth Finn, and you ought to wait upon her inſtantly. I went. It was Miſs Turner, one of the beauties that adorns a gallery of pictures in the North, and who is with great truth in the following lines deſcribed, in a Poem writ⯑ten on this collection of paintings.

This lady knew me at once, on my en⯑tring the room where ſhe was, and we dined together. She told me, her brother, my friend, died in Italy, on his return home; and Miſs Jaquelot, her couſin and companion, was happily married; and that being thus left alone, by theſe two accidents, ſhe was going up to London, to reſide in the world.

My addreſs to Miſs Turner.§. 6. Miſs Turner, (I ſaid then) as you are now your own miſtreſs, I may with juſtice make my addreſſes, and tell you, that from the firſt hour I ſaw you, I was in love with you, and am ſo ſtill: that if you will do me the ho⯑nour to be my wife, I will make the beſt of huſbands. I have now ſome fortune, and if you will allow, that an honeſt man is the beſt companion for an honeſt woman, let us marry in the country, and inſtead of going up to that noiſy tumultuous place called Lon⯑don, retire to ſome ſtill delightful retreat, and there live, content with each other, as happy as it is poſſible for two young mortals to be in this lower hemiſphere. What do you ſay, Miſs Turner?

[371] Miſs Tur⯑ner's an⯑ſwer: and our mar⯑riage.§. 7. You ſhall have my anſwer, Sir, in a few days: But as to going up to London, I think I had beſt ſee it, ſince I am come ſo far. It may give me a new reliſh for ſtill life, and make the country ſeem more charming than I thought it before. On the other hand, it may perhaps make me in love with the town, and put me out of conceit with the country. In ſhort, on ſecond thoughts; I will not go up to the Capital. I will return to Skelſmore-vale. I think ſo now: But how I may think in the morning, at preſent I do not know. In the mean time, (Caeſia conti⯑nued,) ring, if you pleaſe, for a pack of cards, and let us paſs the evening in play. The cards were brought in, the game began, and before we had played, many hours, I ſaw this dear charming creature was all my own. She ſat before me, like bluſhing beauty in the picture, (in the gallery of Venus,) enriched with thought, warm with deſire, and with delicate ſenſations covered over: I could not help wiſhing for father Fleming, my friend, to qualify us for the implanted impulſe, and ſanctify the call. Early the next morning I ſent Finn for him, and he was with me in a few days. The evening he arrived we were mar⯑ried. Man and wife we ſat down to ſupper.

The Au⯑thor's apo⯑logy for marrying again ſo ſoon.§. 8. Here the moroſe, the viſionary, and the dunce, will again fall upon me, for mar⯑rying [372]a fifth wife, ſo quickly after the deceaſe of the fourth; who had not been three months in her grave: But my anſwer is, that a dead woman is no wife, and marriage is ever glo⯑rious. It is the inſtitution of heaven, a bleſ⯑ſing to ſociety, and therefore hated by the devil and maſs-prieſts. Satan by oppoſing it, promotes fornication and perdition. The prieſts by preaching againſt it, drive the human race into cloyſters; deſtroy every thing gentle, generous, and ſocial; and rob the people of their property. Celibacy is popery and hell in perfection. It is the doctrine of devils, and a war with the Almighty. It is againſt the inſtitutions of nature and providence; and therefore, for ever execrable be the memory of the maſs-prieſts, who dare to call it per⯑fection.

My dear Reader, if you are unmarried, and healthy, get a wife as ſoon as poſſible, ſome charming girl, or pretty widow, adorned with modeſty, robed with meekneſs, and who has the grace to attract the ſoul, and heighten every joy continually;—take her to thy breaſt, and bravely, in holy wedlock, propagate. Deſpiſe and hiſs the maſs-prieſts, and every viſionary, who preaches the con⯑trary doctrine. They are foes to heaven and mankind, and ought to be drummed out of ſociety.

SECTION XI.

The un⯑fortunate death of Miſs Tur⯑ner, the author's fifth wife.§. 1. FOR ſix weeks after our marriage, we reſided at the inn, on account of the charms of the ground, and ſeemed to be in poſſeſſion of a laſting happineſs it is [376]impoſſible for words to deſcribe. Every thing was ſo ſmooth and ſo round, that we thought proſperity muſt be our own for many years to come, and were quite ſecure from the flames of deſtruction; but calamity laid hold of us, when we had not the leaſt reaſon to expert it, and from a fulneſs of peace and felicity, we ſunk at once into an abyſs of af⯑flictions. Inſtead of going back to Skelſmore⯑vale, as we had reſolved, my wife would go up to London, and paſs a few weeks there, and [377]thereabout, before ſhe retired to the moun⯑tains. I was againſt it, but her will was my law. We ſet out for the Capital, and the firſt day's journey was delightful: But her fine beaſt having met with an accident in the night, by a rope in the ſtable, which got about it's foot, cut it deep, and rendered it unable to travel; we took a chariot and four to finiſh our way; but on driving by the ſide of a ſteep hill, the horſes took fright, ran it down, over came the carriage, and my charmer was killed. This was a diſmal ſcene. She lived about an hour, and repeated the following fine lines from Boiſſard, when ſhe ſaw me weeping as I kneeled on the ground by her;—

[377] Juſt as ſhe expired, ſhe took me by the hand, and with the ſpirit of an old Roman, bid me adieu.

[378] Can you form an idea, Reader, of the diſtreſs I was then in? If is not poſſible I think, [379]unleſs you have been exactly in the ſame ſitu⯑ation; unleſs you loved like me, and have [380]been as miſerably ſeparated from as charming a woman. But it was in vain for me to con⯑tinue lamenting. She was gone for ever, [381]and lay as the clod of the valley before me. Her body I depoſited in the next church⯑yard, and immediately after, rid as faſt as I could to London, to loſe thought in diſſipa⯑tion, and reſign the better to the decree. For ſome days I lived at the inn I ſet up at, but as ſoon as I could, went into a lodging, and it happened to be at the houſe of the famous Curl the bookſeller; a man well known in the Dunciad, and Pope's letters to his friends, on account of Curl's frauds in purchaſing and printing ſtolen copies of Mr. Pope's works. It is in relation to theſe tricks, that Pope mentions Curl in his Dunciad and Letters. A ſuccinct hiſtory of him I ſhall here give: but had I complied with his requeſts, it would have been a long relation, to the ad⯑vantage and glory of this extraordinary man: For he came one morning into my cloſet, with an apron full of papers; being letters, memorandums, parodies, and notes, written by or concerning himſelf; and requeſted I would, on a good conſideration, write his life, to his profit and honour, and make it a five ſhilling book. That I ſaid was not then in my power to do: but I would, one time or other, give the public a true account of him, [382]and make it conclude I hoped to the glory of his character. Here it is.

The pic⯑ture and character of Curl the Bookſeller.§. 2. CURL was in perſon very tall and thin, an ungainly, aukward, white-faced man. His eyes were a light-grey, large, projecting, gog⯑le and pur-blind. He was ſplay-footed, and baker-kneed.

He had a good natural underſtanding, and was well acquainted with more than the title pages of books. He talked well on ſome ſubjects. He was not an infidel as Mrs. Rowe miſrepreſents him in one of her letters to lady Hartford, (afterwards Dutcheſs of Somerſet). He told me, it was quite evident to him, that the ſcriptures of the Old and New Teſtament contained a real revelation. There is for it a rational, a natural, a tradi⯑tionary, and a ſupernatural teſtimony; which rendered it quite certain to him. He ſaid, he no more doubted the truth of the chri⯑ſtian religion, than he did the exiſtence of an independent ſupreme Creator; but he did not believe the expoſitions given by the di⯑vines. So far Curl was right enough. His fault was, that with ſuch a belief, he took no pains with his heart. Truſting intirely to the merits the Saviour, like too many other miſtaken chriſtians, he had no notion of religion as an inviſible thing within us, called the kingdom of God: He did not even conſider it as a good outſide thing, that [383]recommends a man to his fellow-creatures. He was a debauchee to the laſt degree, and ſo injurious to ſociety, that by filling his tran⯑ſlations with wretched notes, forged letters, and bad pictures, he raiſed the price of a four ſhilling book to ten. Thus, in particular, he managed Burnet's Archiology: And when I told him he was very culpable in this, and other articles he ſold, his anſwer was, What would I have him do? He was a bookſeller. His tranſlators in pay, lay three in a bed, at the Pewter-Platter Inn in Holborn, and he and they were for ever at work, to de⯑ceive the Public. He likewiſe printed the lewdeſt things. He loſt his ears for the Nun in her Smock, and another thing. As to drink, he was too fond of money, to ſpend any in making himſelf happy that way; but at another's expence, he would drink every day till he was quite blind, and as incapable of ſelf-motion as a block. This was Edmund Curl: But he died at laſt as great a penitent, (I think in the year 1748) as ever expired. I mention this to his glory.

As Curl knew the world well, and was acquainted with ſeveral extraordinary charac⯑ters, he was of great uſe to me at my firſt coming to town, as I knew nobody, nor any place. He gave me the true characters of many I ſaw, told me whom I ſhould avoid, and with whom I might be free. He brought me to the play-houſes, and gave me a judi⯑cious [384]account of every actor. He under⯑ſtood thoſe things well. No man could talk better on theatrical ſubjects. He brought me likewiſe to Sadler's Wells, to the night-cellars, and to Tom King's, the famous night-houſe at Covent Garden. As he was very knowing, and well-known at ſuch places, he ſoon made me as wiſe as himſelf in theſe branches of learning; and, in ſhort, in the ſpace of a month, I was as well acquainted in London, as if I had been there for years. My kind preceptor ſpared no pains in lecturing.

But what of all things I thought moſt wonderful was the company I ſaw at the Sieur Curl's. As he was intimate with all the high whores in town, many of them frequented his ſhop, to buy his dialogues, and other lively books. Some of theſe girls he often aſked to dine with him, and then I was ſure to be a gueſt. Many very fine women I thereby ſaw, but none worth men⯑tioning, till Carola Bennet arrived. She did ſurprize me. Her mind and body were very wonderful, and I imagine a deſcription of her, and her ſtory afterward will not be un⯑grateful to my readers.

The pic⯑ture of Ca⯑rola Bennet.§. 3. Carola Bennet was at this time in the two and twentieth year of her age, a dazzling beauty in the height of life and vigour. Her eyes were black and amazingly fine: Her mouth charming: Her neck and breaſt very [385]beautiful: Her ſtature was juſt what it ought to be. She had a glow of health, a luſcious air, and a bewitching vivacity: Her manners were wonderfully winning, and the tone of her voice ſo ſweet and inſinuating, that her words and looks went directly to the heart. She had read many books of gaiety, wit, and humour; eſpecially the French; and talked delightfully on ſuch ſubjects. She ſang to perfection: but her converſation was too free, and ſhe ſeemed to have no ſenſe of any re⯑ligion. It was a fine entertainment to be in her company, as I often was, yet I could not help ſighing, to ſee ſo many any perfections on the brink of everlaſting deſtruction.—This young lady all of a ſudden diſappeared. Curl knew not what was become of her: but as I rid ten years after through Devonſhire, in the fineſt part of that romantic county, I ſaw her one morning, (as I ſtopped to water my horſe in a brook that ran from a park,) ſitting on a ſeat, under a vaſt beautiful cedar tree, with a book in her hand. I thought I was no ſtranger to the fine face, and as I was pretty near to her, I called out, and aſked, if ſhe was not Miſs Bennet? She knew me at once, and pointing to a gate that was only latched, deſired I would come to her. I went and found ſhe was the miſtreſs of the fine ſeat at a ſmall diſtance off. She brought me into the houſe, would not ſuffer me to [386]ſtir that day, and told me the ſtory of her life. I think it worth placing here.

Hiſtory of Miſs Ben⯑net.§. 4. Carola Bennet was the daughter of John Bennet, Eſq a Yorkſhire gentleman, who died when ſhe was in her 19th year, and left her in the care of her aunt, an old lady who was outwardly all ſaint, and within a devil. This Carola knew well, and re⯑queſted her father to get another guardian for her, or leave her to manage herſelf; for Mrs. Hunfleet, her aunt, was far from being that primitive chriſtian he took her for, and ſo great a miſer, that excluſive of all her other vices, her avarice alone was enough to ruin her niece. She would ſacrifice the whole human race for half a thouſand pounds. But all his daughter ſaid was in vain. He believed his ſiſter was godlineſs itſelf, in its utmoſt latitude and extent; that ſhe lived a con⯑tinued oppoſition to our mortal enemies, the world, ſin, and the devil; and that her heart was a mere magazine of univerſal honeſty, probity of manners, and goodneſs of life and converſation. Integrity and rectitude, and benevolence, as he thought, were the bright criterions of her ſoul. She will teach you, Carola, to faſt and pray, and make you like herſelf, a mere ſaint.

It was to no purpoſe then for the daughter to remonſtrate: She could only weep, as her [387]father was poſitive, and after his death was obliged to go home with Mrs. Hunfleet. There, as ſhe expected, ſhe had too much of the outward bodily exerciſe of religion, every thing that can be named within the circle of external worſhip; ſuch as public and private ſervices, faſtings, macerations, bowings, expanded hands and lifted eyes, which Lord Halifax (in his advice to a daugh⯑ter,) calls the holy goggle: but that all this accompanied the internal acts of the old wo⯑man's mind, and went along with her heart and ſoul, Carola had reaſon to doubt. She ſaw it was but outward profeſſion, — all hy⯑pocriſy, — that her life belied her creed, and her practice was a renunciation of the chriſtian religion. This appeared to be the caſe very quickly. The aunt ſold her to one Canta⯑lupe for five hundred pounds. Under pretence of taking her to viſit a friend, ſhe brought her to a private bagnio, or one of thoſe houſes called convents.

A deſcrip⯑tion of a London convent: and an adventure there.§. 5. Such houſes ſtand in back courts, narrow lanes, or the moſt private places, and ſeem to be uninhabited, as the front windows are ſeldom opened, or like ſome little friary, where a company of viſionaries reſide; but within are elegantly furniſhed, and remark⯑able for the beſt wines. The woman who keeps the houſe is the only perſon to be [388]ſeen in them, unleſs it be ſometimes, that a high-priced whore, who paſſes for the gen⯑tlewoman's daughter, by accident appears.

In theſe brothels the Sieur Curl was well known, and as the wine in them is always excellent, (but a ſhilling a bottle dearer than at the tavern,) and one ſits without hearing the leaſt noiſe, or being ſeen by any one, I have often gone with this ingenious man to ſuch places, on account of the purity of the wine, and the ſtillneſs of the houſe; as there are no waiters there, nor any well-dreſt huſſies to come in the way. You are as ſilent as in a cave; nor does a woman appear, except as before excepted, unleſs it be by appoint⯑ment at this kind of meeting-houſe, as ſuch places may well be called: for there not ſel⯑dom does many a married woman meet her gallant. One evening that I was there with Curl, there came in the wife of a very emi⯑nent merchant, a lady of as excellent a cha⯑racter as any in the world; who was never ſo much as ſuſpected by any of her acquaint⯑ance, but allowed by every body to be a wo⯑man of pure morals and unſpotted cha⯑ſtity. She came in firſt with a black maſk on her face, from her chair, and was by the woman of the houſe ſhewn into a chamber up ſtairs: Half an hour after, there was an⯑other ſoft tap at the door, and a gentleman was let in, who was ſhewed up to the cham⯑ber [389]the lady was in: As the door of the room Curl and I were ſitting in, happened to be open as this adventurer paſſed by, I knew the man. He was an Iriſh gentleman of large fortune, with whom I was well ac⯑quainted. He was ever engaged in amours, and was ſome years after this hanged at Cork, for raviſhing Sally Squib, the quaker. His name then can be no ſecret: But as to the the lady's name, I ſhall never tell it, as ſhe left ſeveral children, who are now living in reputation; but only obſerve, that there are, to my knowledge, many women of ſuch ſtrict virtue in the world. If you aſk me reader, how I came to know who ſhe was? I will tell you. As ſhe came down ſtairs in a maſk at ten at night, in the manner ſhe went up, I concluded ſhe was a married wo⯑man of diſtinction, and followed her chair, when it went off. She changed at Temple Bar, and then took a hackney coach, which drove beyond the Royal Exchange; I followed till it ſtopped at a grand houſe, into which ſhe went without a maſk, and had a full view of her fine face. I enquired next day who lived in the houſe I ſaw her go into, and was told it was Mr. *****, a merchant of the greateſt repute. Often did I ſee this lady after this, was ſeveral times in her company, and if I had not known what I did, ſhould have thought her a woman of as great vir⯑tue as ever lived. There was not the leaſt [390]appearance of levity or indecency in her. To all outward appearance, ſhe was chaſtity and diſcretion in fleſh and blood. — But as to Carola Bennet.

The hiſtory of Miſs Bennet continued.§. 6. Soon after her aunt and ſhe arrived at Mrs. Bedewell's, in came Cantalupe as a viſiter, and after tea, they went to cards. Then follow⯑ed a ſupper, and when that was over, they gave the innocent Miſs Bennet a doſe, which deprived her of her ſenſes, put her to bed, and in the morning ſhe found herſelf ruined in the arms of that villain Cantalupe. Diſ⯑traction almoſt ſeized her, but he would not let her ſtir. She called, but no one came near to her relief. He ſwore a million of oaths, that it was pure love made him buy her of her aunt, as he heard ſhe was going to marry another man, and if ſhe would but ſhare with him in his great fortune, ſince the thing was done, he would, (by every ſacred power he vowed) marry her that evening or the next, the firſt time they went out, and be the trueſt and moſt tender huſband that ever yet appeared in the world. This, and the ſituation ſhe was in, naked and claſped in his ſtrong arms, without a friend to aid her, within doors or without, made her ſen⯑ſible her reſentments were in vain, and that ſhe had better acquieſce, and make the man her huſband, if ſhe could, ſince it was her [391]hard fate, and that in all probability ſhe might conceive from the tranſactions of the night. This made her have done. She lay as he requeſted till noon, and hoped he would prove as faithful as he had ſolemnly ſwore to be.

But when the night came, an indiſpoſition he feigned, made him unable to ſtir out that evening, and he requeſted the idol of his heart, whom he loved more than life, to give him leave to defer it till the next. For ſix days he put it off in the ſame manner, dur⯑ing which time, they never ſtirred out of the bagnio, and the ſeventh day he left her faſt aſleep in bed. A billet-doux on the dreſſing-table informed her, that he was obliged to ſet out that morning for France, and as he intended to be back in a few months, he hoped ſhe would not think him faithleſs at once. He left her a hundred pound bank note, which was all he had then to ſpare, as he had paid to her aunt 500 l. a few days before.

Thus fell the beautiful Miſs Bennet by the treachery of her ever-curſed aunt, and was made a whore very much againſt her will. The aunt, in the mean time, had ſhut up her houſe, and was gone no one knew where. She took ſeveral jewels with her, and a large ſum of money, both the property of her niece. She left her but little of her fortune, and re⯑ported [392]every where, that Carola was gone into keeping with a great man, and had before been debauched by her footman. In ſhort, all that could be done this woman did, to impoveriſh and defame her niece, and as ſhe had paſſed upon the world for a praying vir⯑tuous old piece, her reports were thought ſo true, that all the female acquaintance Miſs Bennet had, laughed at the ſtory ſhe told, and ſhunned her as a foul fiend. She was baniſhed from all modeſt company. They conſidered her as the moſt deteſtable proſtitute, for ex⯑cuſing herſelf (they ſaid) by blackning the character of ſo pious and upright a woman as Mrs. Hunfleet, her aunt, was.

A reflexion on hypo⯑crites.§. 7. Thus did iniquity ruin and triumph over innocence in the maſk of religion, and a thouſand times, to my own knowledge, it has done the ſame thing. I have often known wretches pretend to ſeek the kingdom of God, and his righteouſneſs, in the firſt place, and by believing all the monks have invented, by conſtantly attending public worſhip, and an unnatural kind of ſobriety, paſs for people that were ready and willing to ſuffer every thing the cauſe of God and truth can require from rationals: yet theſe holy mortals could make the ſervice of God not only ſtand with unwilling infirmities, (the common caſe of the beſt humanity,) but conſiſt with wilful [393]and preſumptuous ſinning, and a malevo⯑lence as great as the devil had againſt our firſt parents. A miniſter of the goſpel, who paſſed for an admirable man, did his beſt to ruin my character for ever with my father. One of the holieſt men in the world, cheated me of a thouſand pounds, left in his hands for my uſe, for fear I ſhould ſpend it myſelf. And a rich man, commonly called piety and goodneſs, from the ſeeming ſimplicity of his manners, the ſoftneſs of his temper, and the holy goggle of his eyes in his pub⯑lic devotion, arreſted me on a note of hand, one third of which was intereſt thrown into the principal, and made me pay intereſt upon intereſt, without mercy, or waiting as I in-treated, till it was more convenient. Many more ſuch praying, ſanctified villains I could mention, in reſpect of whom Edmund Curl was a cherubim, fond as he was of a girl and a flaſk. Curl owned he was a ſinner, and that he was led by thirſt and repletion to indulge: but the hypocrites with profeſſions of eſteem for the pearl of great price, and that they have parted with their Herodias, for the ſake of eternal life; yet wilfully diſobey from a paſſion for ſubſtance; and the ſhrine of bright Mammon in this world, has a greater influence on their ſouls than all the joys of an everlaſting heaven to come. What they do is a farce. Upon what they have, they reſt their all.

[394] But as to Miſs Bennet: In this ſad condi⯑tion, ſhe ſecreted herſelf for ſome months from the world, and notwithſtanding her conſtitution and taſte, intended to retire among the mountains of Wales, and live upon the little ſhe had left: but unfortunately for ſo good a deſign, the matchleſs Sir Fre⯑deric Dancer came in her way, and by mo⯑ney, and the force of love, perſuaded her to be his companion while he lived, which was but for a ſhort time. A young nobleman pre⯑vailed on her next, by high rewards, to be the delight of his life for a time; and at his death, ſhe went to the arms of an Iriſh peer. She had what money ſhe pleaſed from theſe great men, and being now very rich, ſhe de⯑termined, on the marriage of her laſt Lord, to go into keeping no more, but to live a gay life among the agreeable and grand. She had loſt all her notions of a weeping and gnaſhing of teeth to come, in the converſation of theſe atheiſtical men, and on account of her living as happily as ſhe could in this world. What religion ſhe had remaining, was placed in giving money to the ſick and poor, which ſhe did with a liberal hand: And her cha⯑rity, in all its charms, ſhe often ſhewed to the moſt deſerving men. Thoſe who had much of this world's goods paid dear: but ſhe had compaſſion on the worthy, though they could not drive in a chariot to her door. [395]This was the caſe of Miſs Bennet, when I ſaw her at Curl's.

But all of a ſudden ſhe diſappeared, and no one could tell what was become of her: that I learned from herſelf, when I chanced to ſee her under the cedar tree, (as before re⯑lated) in the park.

A young clergyman, Mr. Tench, an Iriſhman of the county of Galway, who was very rich, and had a fine ſeat in Devonſhire, ſaw her at the opera, and fell in love with her. He ſoon found out who ſhe was, waited upon her, and offered to marry her, if ſhe would reform. At firſt, ſhe ſhewed very little inclination to a virtuous courſe, and, as her manner was, ridiculed the intereſt of another life. The bleſſedneſs of heaven ſhe laughed at, and made a jeſt of riches, honours, and pleaſures to be found on the other ſide the grave. This did not however diſhearten Tench. He was a ſcholar and a man of ſenſe, and as he loved moſt paſſionately, and ſaw ſhe had a fine capacity, he was reſolved, if poſſible, to reclaim her, by applying to her bright underſtanding.

Mr. Tench's converſa⯑tion with Miſs Ben⯑net, in re⯑lation to religion.§. 8. He obſerved to her, in the firſt place, (as ſhe informed me) that, excluſive of fu⯑ture happineſs, godlineſs was profitable in all things, that is, even in this life, in pro⯑ſperity and adverſity, in plenty and in want, in peace and in war, in confuſion and ſecurity, [396]in health, in honour and diſgrace, in life and in death, and in what condition ſoever we may be. This he proved to her ſatisfaction, and made it plain to her conception, that by it only we can acquire a right judgment of perſons and things, and have a juſt and due eſtimate of ourſelves: that unleſs held in by reaſon and religion, pleaſure, though innocent of itſelf, becomes a thing of deadly conſe⯑quence to mortals; and if we do not uſe it in due time, place, circumſtance, meaſure and limits, it neceſſarily involves us in diffi⯑culties and troubles, pain and infamy: if we ſtifle the grand leading principles, reaſon and religion, by ſin and vice, and let deſire and inclination range beyond bounds, we muſt not only plunge into various woes in this world, but as creatures degenerated below the beaſt, become the contempt and abhorrence of the wiſe and honeſt. To this ſad condi⯑tion muſt be annexed a reflective miſery, as we have conſcience or reaſon, that will exa⯑mine, now and then, the whole procedure of life, do all we can to prevent it, and the remorſe that muſt enſue, on account of our wretched and ridiculous conduct, is too bitter a thing for a reaſonable creature to acquire, for the ſake of illicit gratification only; and this becomes the more grievous in reflexion, as pleaſures are not forbidden by religion, but allowed to the moſt upright, and ordained [397]for the holy ſervice of God; to recruit na⯑ture, and enliven the ſpirits; to propagate the human ſpecies, and preſerve the flame of love in the married ſtate. If there was then no other life but this, it is moſt certainly our in⯑tereſt in regard to fame and advantage, to be governed by reaſon and religion.

And if we are not to be annihilated with the beaſt, but are to anſwer hereafter for what we have done, whether it be good or bad, ſurely the main buſineſs of life ſhould be to govern ourſelves by godlineſs, that is, to be chriſtians in our principles, holy in our converſation, and upright in our behaviour. If the goſpel be true, (as has been proved a thouſand and a thouſand times, by the wiſeſt men in the world, to the confuſion and ſilence of infidelity,) and the Son of God came into the world, not to make Judea the ſeat of ab⯑ſolute and univerſal empire, and eſtabliſh a temporal dominion in all poſſible pomp and magnificence, (as the Jews moſt erroneouſly and ridiculouſly fancied, and to this day be⯑lieve,) but to prepare greater things for us; to relieve us from the power of ſin, and the endleſs and unſpeakable miſeries of the life which is to come; to propoſe a prize far more worthy of our expectations than the glories of civil power, and to ſecure to us the hap⯑pineſs both of ſoul and body to all eternity, in the kingdom of God; then certainly, in [398]regard to ourſelves, we ought to attend to his heavenly leſſons, and turn from the un⯑lawful enjoyments of this life, to the end⯑leſs and ſolid happineſs of a future ſtate. As this is the caſe, we ſhould cheriſh and im⯑prove a faith of inviſible things, by ſerious and impartial conſideration. We ſhould at⯑tend to the evidence which God has given us for the truth of chriſtianity, evidence very cogent and ſufficient; and then ſhew our faith by works ſuited to the doctrine of Chriſt; that is, by recommending the practice of virtue, and the worſhip of one God, the Creator of the univerſe.

Conſider then, Miſs Bennet, that you ſtand on the brink of death, reſurrection, and judg⯑ment; and it is time to begin by ſerious and humble enquiry to arrive at a faith of ſtrength and activity; that by your eminence in all vir⯑tue and holineſs, you may make the glorious attempt to be greateſt in the kingdom of hea⯑ven. This will be a work worthy of an im⯑mortal Soul: Nor will it hinder you from enjoying as much happineſs in this lower he⯑miſphere, as reaſon can deſire. For godli⯑neſs is profitable unto all things, having pro⯑miſe of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.

Thus (Miſs Bennet that was, continued) did this excellent young clergyman talk to me, and by argument and reaſoning in the [399]gentleſt manner, by good ſenſe and good manners; made me a convert to chriſtianity and goodneſs, He ſnatched me from the gulph of eternal perdition, and, from the realms of darkneſs, and the ſociety of devils, brought me into the kingdom of the Meſſiah. To make me as happy as it was poſſible even in this world, he married me, and landed me in this charming ſpot you found me in. For ſeven years, we lived in great happineſs, without ever ſtirring from this fine ſolitude, and ſince his death, I have had no inclination to return to the world: I have one lady for my companion, an agreeable ſenſible woman, a near relation of Mr. Tench's, and with her, and ſome good books, and three or four agreeable neighbours, have all the felicity I care for in this world. When you ſaw me at Curl's, I had no taſte for any thing but the comedy, the opera, and a tale of La Fontaine; but you found me with a volume of Tillotſon in my hand, under that aged and beautiful cedar, near the road; and in thoſe ſermons I now find more delight, in the ſolemn ſhade of one of thoſe fine trees, than ever I enjoyed in the gayeſt ſcenes of the world. In theſe ſweet ſilent walks I am really happy. Riches and honour are with me, yea durable riches and righteouſneſs. To the bleſſings of time, I can here add the riches of expectation and comfort, the riches of future glory and hap⯑pineſs. [400]This makes me fond of this fine retreat. In contentment, peace, and com⯑fort of mind, I now live. By hearkning to the commandments, my peace is a river.

Here Mrs. Tench had done, and I was a⯑mazed beyond expreſſion. This charming libertine was quite changed. It was for⯑merly her wont (when I have ſat an evening with her at Curl's,) to make a jeſt of the chriſtian ſcheme, — to laugh at the devil and his flames; her life was all pleaſure, and her ſoul all whim: but when I ſaw her laſt, ſhe was ſerious, and ſeemed to enjoy as happy a ſerenity and compoſure of mind, as ever mortal was bleſſed with. Even her eyes had acquired a more ſober light, and in the place of a wild and luſcious air, a beautiful mo⯑deſty appeared.

A reflexion on the con⯑verſion of Miſs Ben⯑net.§. 9. And now to what ſhall I aſcribe this aſtoniſhing alteration? Shall I ſay with our methodiſts and other viſionaries, that it muſt be owing to immediate impulſe, and proceeded from inward impreſſion of the Spirit? No: this will not do. It was owing to be ſure, to the word (not in-ſpoken) but taught by Chriſt in his goſpel. When her friend Tench opened the New Teſtament to her, her good under⯑ſtanding inclined her to hearken. She began to conſider: She pondered, and had a regard to the goſpel, now laid before her, by that ſenſible and excellent young clergyman. She [401]became a believer. And as the Apoſtle ſays, We can do all things through Chriſt who ſtrengthens us; that is, ſays Dr. Hunt, in one of his fine ſermons, through the direc⯑tions of Chriſt, and through the arguments and motives of the chriſtian doctrine. Well ſaid, Hunt. It muſt be our own choice, to be ſure, to be good and virtuous. So far as men are paſſive, and are acted upon, they are not agents. Without power to do good or evil, men cannot be moral or accountable beings, and be brought into judgment, or receive ac⯑cording to their works.

Dr. Lardner, in his excellent ſermon on the power and efficacy of Chriſt's doctrine, has a fine obſervation; — Would any ſay, that the ne⯑ceſſity of immediate and particular influences from Chriſt himſelf, is implied in this context, where he ſays, that he is a vine, and his diſ⯑ciples branches, and that their bearing fruit depends as much upon influences from him, as the life and vigour of branches do upon the ſap derived from the root of the tree? It would be eaſy to anſwer, that the argu⯑ment in the text is a ſimilitude, not literal truth. Neither is Chriſt literally a vine, nor are his diſciples, ſtrictly ſpeaking, branches. Men have a reaſonable, intellectual nature, above animals and vegetables. They are not governed by irreſiſtible, and neceſſary, or mechanical powers. But it is ſound doctrine, [402]and right principles, particularly the words of Chriſt, which are the words of God, that are their life, and may, and will, if attended to, powerfully enable them to promote good works, and to excell, and perſevere therein.

Two Iriſh gentlemen call upon me, and bring me to a gam⯑ing table, kept by a company of ſharpers, where I loſe all my fortune.§. 10. But it is time to my own ſtory. —While I lodged at Curl's, two Iriſh gentlemen came to ſee me, Jemmy King an attorney, and that famous maſter in chancery, who debauched Nelly Hayden, the beauty, and kept her ſeveral years. I knew theſe men were as great rakes as ever lived, and had no notion of religion; that they were devoted to pleaſure, and chaſed away every ſober thought and apprehenſion by company, by empty, vicious, and unmanly pleaſures: The voice of the monitor was loſt, in the confuſed noiſe and tumult of the paſſions: but I thought they had honour at the bottom, according to the common notion of it. I never imagined they were ſharpers, nor knew, that being ruined in Ireland, they came over to live by a gaming table. The Doctor eſpecially, I thought was above ever becoming that kind of man, as he had a large eſtate, and the beſt education; always kept good company; and to appearance, was as fine a gentleman as ever was ſeen in the world. With theſe two I dined, and after dinner, they brought me, as it were, out of curioſity, to a gaming table, they had [403]by accident diſcovered, where there was a bank kept by men of the greateſt honour, who played quite fair, and by hazarding a few guineas, I might perhaps, as they did, come off with ſome hundreds.

At entring the room, I ſaw about twenty well-dreſt men ſitting round a table, on which lay a vaſt heap of gold. We all began to play, and for two or three hours, I did win ſome hundreds of pounds: the Doctor and the other cheat, his friend, ſeemed to loſe a large ſum; but before morning they won it all back from me, with a great deal more; and I not only loſt what I had got then, but, excepting a few pounds, what I was worth in the world; the thouſands I had gained by my ſeveral wives. I had ſold their eſtates, and lodged the money in my banker's hands. The villains round this table got it all, and my two Iriſhmen were not to be ſeen. They diſappeared, and left me madly playing away my all. I heard no more of them, till I was told ſeveral years after, that they were in the Iſle of Man, among other outlawed, aban⯑doned, wicked men; where they drank night and day, according to the cuſtom of the place, and lived in defiance of God and man. There theſe two advocates of impiety dwelt for ſome time, and died as they had lived; enemies to all good principles, and friends to a general corruption.

[404] As to the well-dreſt company round the table, they went off one by one, and left me all alone to the bitter thought, which led me to what I was ſome hours before, by what I then found myſelf to be. I was almoſt diſtracted. What had I to do with play, (I ſaid)? I wanted nothing. And now by vil⯑lains, with a ſett of dice that would deceive the devil, I am undone. By ſharpers and falſe dice I have ſat to be ruined. The re⯑flexion numb'd my ſenſes for ſome time: and then I ſtarted, was wild, and raved.

Curl's ſcheme to carry off an heireſs, which I did in a ſucceſsful manner.§. 11. This tranſaction made me very thoughtful, and I ſat within for ſeveral days, thinking which way to turn. Curl ſaw I was perplexed, and on his aſking me if I had met with any misfortune, I told him the whole caſe; that I had but one hundred pounds left, and requeſted he would adviſe me what I had beſt do. To do juſtice to every one, Curl ſeemed deeply concerned, and after ſome ſilence, as we ſat over a bottle at a Coffee-houſe, he bid me take notice of an old gentleman, who was not far from us. That is Dunk the miſer, who lives in a wood about 20 miles off. He has one daughter, the fineſt creature in the univerſe, and who is to ſucceed to his great eſtate, whether he will or not; it being ſo ſettled at his marri⯑age; [405]but he confines her ſo much in the coun⯑try, and uſes her ſo cruelly every way, that I believe ſhe would run away with any honeſt young fellow, who could find means to ad⯑dreſs her. Know then (continued Curl) that I ſerve Mr. Dunk with paper, pens, ink, wax, pamphlets, and every thing he wants in my way. Once a quarter of a year, I generally go to his country-houſe with ſuch things, as he is glad to ſee me ſometimes; or if I can⯑not go myſelf, I ſend them by ſome other hand. Next week I am to forward ſome things to him, and if you will take them, I will write a line by you to Miſs his daughter, recommend you to her for a huſband, as one ſhe may depend on for honour and truth. She knows I am her friend, and who can tell, but ſhe may go off with you. She will have a thouſand a year, when the wretch her fa⯑ther dies, if he ſhould leave his perſonal eſtate another way.

This thought pleaſed me much, and at the appointed time, away I went to Mr. Dunk's country-houſe with a wallet full of things, and delivered Curl's letter to Miſs. As ſoon as ſhe had read it, I began my addreſs, and in the beſt manner I could, made her an offer of my ſervice, to deliver her from the tyrant her father. I gave her an account of a little farm I had on the borders of Cumberland, a purchaſe I had made, on ac⯑count [406]of the charms of the ground, and a ſmall pretty lodge which ſtood in the middle of it, by a clump of old trees, near a mur⯑muring ſtream; that if ſhe pleaſed, I would take her to that ſweet, ſilent ſpot, and enable her to live in peace; with contentment and tran⯑quility of mind; tho' far away from the ſplen⯑dors and honours of the world: and conſidering, that a chriſtian is not to conform to the world, or to the pomps and vanities of it; its grand cuſtoms and uſages; its dreſs and entries; its ſtage repreſentations and maſquerades, as they miniſter to vice, and tend to debauch the manners; but are to look upon ourſelves as beings of another world, and to form our minds with theſe ſpiritual principles; it fol⯑lows then, I think, that a pleaſing country ſituation for a happy pair muſt be grateful enough. There peace and love and modeſty may be beſt preſerved; the truth and gravity of our religion be ſtrictly maintained; and every lawful and innocent enjoyment be for ever the delights of life. Away from the idle modes of the world; perpetual love and un⯑mixed joys may be our portion, through the whole of our exiſtence here; and the in⯑ward principles of the heart be ever laudable and pure. So will our happineſs as mortals be ſtable,—ſubject to no mixture or change; and when called away from this lower hemi⯑ſphere, have nothing to fear, as we uſed this [407]world, as tho' we uſed it not; as we knew no gratifications and liberties but what our reli⯑gion allows us: as our enjoyments will be but the neceſſary convenience and accommo⯑dation, for paſſing from this world to the realms of eternal happineſs: Follow me then, Miſs Dunk; I will convey you to a ſcene of ſtill life and felicity, great and laſt⯑ing as the heart of woman can wiſh for.

The charming Agnes ſeemed not a little ſurprized at what I had ſaid, and after look⯑ing at me very earneſtly for a minute or two, told me, ſhe would give me an anſwer to Mr. Curl's letter in leſs than half an hour, which was all ſhe could ſay at preſent, and with it I returned to give him an account of the reception I had. It will do, he ſaid, after he had read the letter I brought him from Miſs Dunk, but you muſt be my young man for a week or two more, and take ſome more things to the ſame place. He then ſhewed me the letter, and I read the following lines.

To this Curl replied in a circumſtantial manner, and vouched very largely for me. I delivered his letter the next morning, when I went with ſome acts of parliament to old Dunk, and I found the beauty, his daughter, in a roſy bower;—Simplex munditiis, neat and clean as poſſible in the moſt genteel undreſs; and her perſon ſo vaſtly fine, her face ſo vaſtly charming; that I could not but repeat the lines of Otway,—

A deal I ſaid upon the occaſion: we became well acquainted that day, as her father had [409]got a diſorder that obliged him to keep his bed, and by the time I had viſited her a month longer, under various pretences of buſineſs invented by the ingenious Curl, Agnes agreed to go off with me, and commit herſelf intirely to my care and protection: But before I relate this tranſaction, I think it proper to give my readers the picture of this lady; and then an apology for her flying away with me, with whom ſhe was but a month acquainted.

The pic⯑ture of Miſs Dunk. Agnes in her perſon was neither tall nor thin, but almoſt both, young and lovely, graceful and commanding: She inſpired a reſpect, and compelled the beholder to ad⯑mire and love and reverence her. Her voice was melodious; her words quite charming; and every look and motion to her advantage. Taſte was the characteriſtic of her under⯑ſtanding: Her ſentiments were refined: And a ſenſibility appeared in every feature of her face. She could talk on various ſubjects, and comprehended them, which is what few ſpeakers do: but with the fineſt diſcernment, ſhe was timid, and ſo diffident of her opi⯑nion, that ſhe often concealed the fineſt thoughts under a ſeeming ſimplicity of ſoul. This was viſible to a hearer, and the decency of ignorance added a new beauty to her cha⯑racter. In ſhort, poſſeſſed of excellence, ſhe [410]appeared unconſcious of it, and never diſco⯑vered the leaſt pride or precipitancy in her converſation.—Her manner was perfectly po⯑lite, and mixed with a gaiety that charmed, becauſe it was as free from reſtraint as from boldneſs.

In ſum, excluſive of her fine underſtand⯑ing, in her dreſs, and in her behaviour, ſhe was ſo extremely pleaſing, ſo vaſtly agree⯑able and delightful, that ſhe ever brought to my remembrance, when I beheld her, the Corinna deſcribed in the beautiful lines of Tibullus:

[411] Such was the beautiful Agnes, who went off with me, and in ſo doing acted well and wiſely, I affirm, on her taking me only for an honeſt man; for there is no more obedi⯑ence due from a daughter to her father, when he becomes an unrelenting oppreſſor, than there is from a ſubject to an Engliſh king, when the monarch acts contrary to the con⯑ſtitution. Paſſive obedience is as much non⯑ſenſe in a private family, as in the govern⯑ment of the prince. The parent, like the king, muſt be a nurſing father, a rational humane ſovereign, and ſo long all ſervice and obedi⯑ence are due. But if, like the prince, he be⯑comes a tyrant, deprives his daughter of her natural rights and liberties; will not allow her the bleſſings of life, but keep her in chains and miſery; ſelf-preſervation, and her juſt claim to the comforts of exiſtence and a rational freedom, give her a right to change her ſitu⯑ation, and better her condition. If ſhe can have bread, ſerenity, and freedom, peace and little, with an honeſt man, ſhe is juſt to herſ⯑elf in going off with ſuch a deliverer. Reaſon and revelation will acquit her.

Thus juſtly thought Miſs Dunk, and there⯑fore with me ſhe fled at midnight. We met within half a mile of her father's houſe, by the ſide of an antient wood, and a running ſtream, which had a pleaſing effect, as it hap⯑pened to be a bright moonſhine. With her [412]foot in my hand, I lifted her into her ſaddle, and as our horſes were excellent, we rid many miles in a few hours. By eight in the morning, we were out of the reach of old Dunk, and at the ſign of the Pilgrim, a lone houſe in Eſur-vale, in Hertfordſhire, we break⯑faſted very joyfully. The charming Agnes ſeemed well pleaſed with the expedition, and ſaid a thouſand things that rendered the jour⯑ney delightful. Twelve days we travelled in a fulneſs of delights, happy beyond deſcrip⯑tion, and the thirteenth arrived at a village not far from my little habitation. Here we deſigned to be married two days after, when we had reſted, as there was a church and a parſon in the town, and then ride on to Foley farm in Cumberland, as my ſmall ſpot was called, and there ſit down in peace and hap⯑pineſs.

But the ſecond day, inſtead of riſing to the nuptial ceremony, to crown my life with unutterable bliſs, and make me beyond all mankind happy, the lovely Agnes fell ill of a fever. A ſenſe of weight and oppreſſion diſcovered the inflammation within, and was attended with ſharp and pungent pains. The blood could not paſs off as it ought in the courſe of circulation, and the whole maſs was in a violent fluctuation and motion. In a word, ſhe died in a few days, and as ſhe had requeſted, if it came to that, I laid her [413]out, and put her into the coffin myſelf. I kept her ſeven days, according to the cuſtom of the old Romans, and then in the dreſs of ſorrow, followed her to the grave.—Thus was my plan of happineſs broken to pieces. I had given a roundneſs to a ſyſtem of feli⯑city, and in the place of it, ſaw death and hor⯑ror, and diſappointment before me.

What to do next I could not tell. One queſtion was, ſhould I return to Orton-lodge, to my two young heireſſes? No: they want⯑ed two years of being at age.—Then, ſhall I ſtay at Foley-farm where I was, and turn hermit? No: I had no inclination yet to be⯑come a father of the deſarts.—Will you re⯑turn to London then, and ſee if fortune has any thing more in reſerve for you? This I liked beſt; and after ſix months deliberation on the thing, I left my farm in the care of an old woman, and ſet out in the beginning of January.

A winter night-ſcene on the mountains of Weſt⯑moreland.§. 13. It was as fine a winter's morning as I had ſeen, which encouraged me to ven⯑ture among the Fells of Weſtmoreland; but at noon the weather changed, and an even⯑ing very terrible came on. A little after three, it began to blow, rain, and ſnow very hard, and it was not long before it was very dark. We loſt the way quite, and for three hours wandered about in as diſmal a night as ever [414]poor travellers had. The ſtorm rattled: The tempeſt howled: We could not ſee the horſe's heads, and were almoſt dead with cold. We had nothing to expect but death, as we knew not which way to turn to any houſe, and it was impoſſible to remain alive till the day appeared. It was a diſmal ſcene. But my time was not yet come, and when we had no ground to expect deliverance, the beaſts of a ſudden ſtopt, and Soto found we were at the gate of a walled yard. There he immediately made all the noiſe he could, and it was not long before a ſervant with a lantern came. He related our caſe within, and had orders to admit us. He brought me into a common parlour, where there was a good fire, and I got dry things. The man brought me half a pint of hot alicant, and in about half an hour, I was alive and well again. On enquiring where I was, the foot⯑man told me, it was Doctor Stanvil's houſe; that his maſter and lady were above in the dining-room, with ſome company, and he had directions to light me up, when I had changed my cloaths, and was recovered. Upon this I told him I was ready, and fol⯑lowed him.

My arrival at Dr. Stan⯑vil's houſe, and intro⯑duced to the Doctor, and com⯑pany.On the ſervant's opening a door, I entred a handſome apartment, well lighted with wax, and which had a glorious fire blazing in it. The doctor received me with great politeneſs, [415]and ſaid many civil things upon fortune's con⯑ducting me to his houſe. The converſation naturally fell upon the horrors of the night, as it ſtill continued to rain, hail, and blow, beyond what any of the company had ever heard; and one of the ladies ſaid, ſhe be⯑lieved the winter was always far more, boi⯑ſterous and cold among the Fells of Weſtmore⯑land, than in any other part of England, for which ſhe gave ſeveral good reaſons: The ſolemn mountains, the beautiful vallies, the falling ſtreams, form one of the moſt charm⯑ing countries in the world in ſummer-time; but in winter, it is the moſt dreadful ſpot of earth, to be ſure.

The ſur⯑priſing ſtory of Mrs. Stan⯑vil.The voice of the lady who talked in this manner, I thought I was well acquainted with, but by the poſition of the candles, and the angle of a ſcreen in which ſhe ſat, I could not very well ſee her face: Amazement how⯑ever began to ſeize me, and as an elegant ſupper was ſoon after brought in, I had an oppor⯑tunity of ſeeing that Miſs Dunk whom I had buried, was now before my eyes, in the cha⯑racter of Dr. Stanvil's wife; or, at leaſt, it was one ſo like her, it was not poſſible for me to diſtinguiſh the figures:—there was the ſame bright victorious eyes, and cheſnut hair; the complexion like a bluſh, and a mouth where all the little loves for ever dwelt; there was the fugitive dimple, the inchant⯑ing [416]laugh, the roſy fingers, the fine height, and the mein more ſtriking than Calypſo's. O heavens! I ſaid to myſelf, on ſitting down to ſupper, What is this I ſee! But as ſhe did not ſeem to to be at all affected, or ſhewed the leaſt ſign of her having ever ſeen me be⯑fore that time, I remained ſilent, and only continued to look with admiration at her, un⯑mindful of the many excellent things before me.—In a minute or two, however, I recovered myſelf. I ate my ſupper, and joined in the feſtivity of the night. We had muſic, and ſeveral ſongs. We were eaſy, free, and hap⯑py as well-bred people could be.

Finn's ob⯑ſerration, and diſ⯑courſe in my bed⯑chamber, on the company's retiring to their apart⯑ments.At midnight we parted, and finding an eaſy-chair by the ſide of my bed, I threw myſelf into it, and began to reflect on what I had ſeen; Finn ſtanding before me with his arms folded, and looking very ſeriouſly at me. This laſted for about a quarter of an hour, and then the honeſt fellow ſpoke in the following manner.—I beg leave, Sir, to imagine you are perplexing yourſelf about the lady of this houſe, whom I ſuppoſe you take for Miſs Dunk, we brought from the other ſide of England, half a year ago, and buried in the next church-yard to Blenkern. This, if I may be ſo free, is likewiſe my opinion. I would take my oath of it in a court of juſtice, if there was occaſion for that. However ſhe got out of the grave, and by [417]whatever caſualty ſhe came to be Mrs. Stan⯑vil, and miſtreſs of this fine houſe; yet I could ſwear to her being the lady who tra⯑velled with us from the weſt to Cumberland. But then, it ſeems very wonderful and ſtrange, that ſhe ſhould forget you ſo ſoon, or be able to act a part ſo amazing, as to ſeem not to have ever ſeen you before this night. This has aſtoniſhed me, as I ſtood behind your chair at ſupper, looking full at her; and I obſerved ſhe looked at me once or twice. What to ſay to all this, I know not; but I will make all the enquiry I can among the ſervants, as to the time and manner of her coming here, and let you know to-morrow, what I have been able to collect in relation to her. In the mean time, be advis'd by me, Sir, tho' I am but a poor fellow, and think no more of the matter to the loſs of your night's reſt. We have had a wonderful deliverance from death by getting into this houſe, I am ſure, and we ought to lie down with thankfulneſs and joy, without fretting ourſelves awake for a woman, or any trifling incident that could befall. Be⯑ſide, ſhe is now another man's property, however it came to paſs, and it would be inconſiſtent with your character to think any more of her. This may be too free; but I hope, Sir, you will excuſe it in a ſervant who has your in⯑tereſt and welfare at heart. — Here the ſage Finn had done. He withdrew, and I went to ſleep.

[418] Finn's ac⯑count of Mrs. Stan⯑vil, which he had from the ſervants.Betimes the next morning, Finn was with me, and on my aſking what news, he ſaid, he had heard ſomething from all the ſervants, and more particularly had got the following account from the doctor's own man:—that Dr. Stanvil had a ſmall lodge within three miles of the houſe we were in, and retired there ſometimes to be more alone, than he could be in the reſidence we were at; that this lodge was a mere repoſitory of curioſities, in the middle of a garden full of all the herbs and plants that grew in every country of the world, and in one chamber of this houſe was a great number of ſkeletons, which the doctor had made himſelf; for it was his wont to procure bodies from the ſurrounding church-yards, by men he kept in pay for the purpoſe, and cut them up himſelf at this lodge: that ſome of theſe dead were brought to him in hampers, and ſome in their cof⯑fins on light railed cars, as the caſe required: that near ſix months ago, the laſt time the doctor was at this lodge, there was brought to him by his men the body of a young woman in her coffin, in order to a diſſection as uſual, and the bones being wired; but as it lay on the back, on the great table he cuts up on, and the point of his knife at the pit of the ſto⯑mach, to open the breaſt, he perceived a kind of motion in the ſubject, heard a ſigh [419]ſoon after, and looking up to the head ſaw the eyes open and ſhut again: that upon this, he laid down his knife, which had but juſt ſcratch'd the body, at the beginning of the linea alba, (as my informer called it) and helped himſelf to put it into a warm bed: that he took all poſſible pains, by admini⯑ſtering every thing he could think uſeful, to reſtore life, and was ſo fortunate as to ſet one of the fineſt women in the world on her feet again. As ſhe had no raiment but the ſhroud which had been on her in the coffin, he got every thing belonging to dreſs that a woman of diſtinction could have occaſion for, and in a few days time, ſhe ſparkled before her pre⯑ſerver in the brightneſs of an Eaſtern princeſs: He was quite charmed with the beauties of her perſon, and could not enough admire her uncommon underſtanding: He offered to marry her, to ſettle largely on her, and as ſhe was a ſingle woman, ſhe could not in gratitude refuſe the requeſt of ſo generous a benefactor: My informer further related, that they have both lived in the greateſt happineſs ever ſince; and the doctor, who is one of the beſt of men, is continually ſtudying how to add to the felicities of her every day: that he offered to take her up to London to paſs the winters there, but this ſhe refuſed, and deſired ſhe might remain where ſhe was in the country, as it was really moſt agree⯑able [420]to her, and as he preferred it to the town.

A reflexion on Miſs Dunk's marrying Dr. Stan⯑vil.This account made the thing quite plain to me. And to judge impartially, conſider⯑ing the whole caſe, I could neither blame the lovely Agnes for marrying the doctor, nor condemn her for pretending to be a ſtranger to me. She was fairly dead and buried, and all connexion between us was at an end of courſe, as there had been no marriage, nor contract of marriage. And as to reviving the affair, and renewing the tenderneſs which had exiſted, it could anſwer no other end than producing unhappineſs, as ſhe was then Mrs. Stanvil, in a decent and happy ſituation. And further, in reſpect of her marrying the doctor ſo ſoon after her ſeparation from me, it was certainly the wiſeſt thing ſhe could do, as ſhe had been ſo intirely at his diſpoſal, was without a ſtitch to cover her, and I in all probability, after burying her, being gone up to London, or in ſome place, where ſhe could never hear of me more; I might likewiſe have been married, if any thing advantageous had offered after laying her in the church-yard. And beſide, ſhe neither knew the place ſhe fell ſick in, nor the country the doctor removed her to, as ſoon as ever he could get any cloaths to put on her. So that, naked and friendleſs as ſhe was, without any money, and ignorant of [421]what became of me; without a poſſibility of informing herſelf; I could not but acquit her. I even admired her conduct, and re⯑ſolved ſo far to imitate her, in regard to the general happineſs, that nothing ſhould appear in my behaviour, which could incline any one to think, I had ever ſeen her before the night the tempeſt drove me to her houſe. I was vexed, I own, to loſe her. But that could be no reaſon for making a ſenſeleſs uproar, that could do nothing but miſchief.

As compoſed then as I could be, I went down to breakfaſt, on a ſervant's letting me know they waited for me, and found the ſame company, who had ſo lately parted to ſlumber, all quite alive and chearful, eaſy and happy as mortals could be. At the requeſt of Dr. Stanvil, who was extremely civil, I ſtaid with them two months, and paſſed the time in a delightful converſation, inter⯑mixed with muſic, cards, and feaſting.My depar⯑ture from Dr. Stan⯑vil's houſe. With ſadneſs I left them all, but eſpecially on ac⯑count of parting for ever with the late Miſs Dunk. It was indeed for the pleaſure of looking at her, that I ſtaid ſo long as I did at Dr. Stanvil's; and when it came to an eter⯑nal ſeparation, I felt that morning of my departure, an inward diſtreſs it is impoſſible to give an idea of to another. It had ſome reſemblance (I imagine) of what the viſio⯑naries call a dereliction; when they ſink from [422]extaſy to the black void of horror, by the ſtrength of fancy, and the unnacountable operation of the animal ſpirits.

Some ob⯑ſervations on Mrs. Stanvil's coming to life again, after being taken out of the grave.Here, before I proceed, I think I ought to remove ſome objections that may be made againſt my relation of Mrs. Stanvil's coming to life again, and her being brought from the couch of laſting night to a bridal bed. It is not eaſy to believe, that after I ſeemed certain ſhe was dead, and kept her the pro⯑per number of days before interment; ſaw her lie the cold wan ſubject for a conſider⯑able time, and then let down into the grave; yet from thence ſhe ſhould come forth, and now be the deſire of a huſband's eyes. This is a hard account ſure. But nevertheleſs, it is a fact. As to my being miſtaken, no leſs a man than Dr. Cheyne thought Colonel Town⯑ſend dead: (See his Nervous Caſes:) And that ſeveral have lived for many years, after they had been laid in the tomb, is a thing too certain, and well-known, to be denied. In Bayle's dictionary, there is the hiſtory of a lady of quality, belonging to the court of Catharine de Medicis, who was brought from the church vault, where ſhe had been forty-eight hours, and afterwards became the mo⯑ther of ſeveral children, on her marriage with the Marquis D'Auvergne.—The learned Dr. Connor, in his hiſtory of Poland, gives us a very wonderful relation of a gentleman's re⯑viving [423]in that country, after he had been ſeem⯑ingly dead for near a fortnight; and adds a very curious diſſertation on the nature of ſuch reco⯑veries. The caſe of Dun Scotus, who was found out of his coffin, on the ſteps going down to the vault he was depoſited in, and leaning on his elbow, is full to my purpoſe. And I can affirm from my own knowledge, that a gentleman of my acquaintance, a worthy excellent man, was buried alive, and found not only much bruiſed and torn, on opening his coffin, but turned on one ſide. This many ſtill living can atteſt as well as I. The reaſon of opening the grave again, was his dying of a high fever in the abſence of his lady, who was in a diſtant county from him; and on her return, three days after he was buried, would have a ſight of him, as ſhe had been extremely fond of him. His face was ſadly broke, and his hands hurt in ſtriving to force up the lid of the coffin. The lady was ſo affected with the diſ⯑mal ſight, that ſhe never held up her head af⯑ter, and died in a few weeks. I could likewiſe add another extraordinary caſe of a man who was hang'd, and to all appearance was quite dead, yet three days after his execution reco⯑vered as they were going to cut him up. —How theſe things happen, is not eaſy to account for; but happen they do ſometimes. And this caſe of Mrs. Stanvil, may be de⯑pended on as a fact.

[424] N. B. The following is the thing promiſed the Engliſh reader at page 381.

SECTION XII.

A reflexion as I rid from Dr. Stanvil's houſe.§. 1. WITH this advice of the genius in my head, (which by chance I had read the morning I took my leave of Dr. Stanvil,) I ſet out, as I had reſolved, for York, and deſign'd to go from thence to London; hoping to meet with ſomething good, and purpoſing, if it was poſſible, to be no longer the Rover, but turn to ſomething uſeful, and fix. I had loſt almoſt all at the gam⯑ing-table, (as related) and had not thirty pounds of my laſt hundred remaining: This, with a few ſheep, cows and horſes at Orton-lodge, and a very ſmall ſtock at my little farm, on the [429]borders of Cumberland, was all I had left. It made me very ſerious, and brought ſome diſmal apprehenſions in view: But I did not deſpair. As my heart was honeſt, I ſtill truſted in the providence of God, and his ad⯑miniſtration of things is this world. As the infinite power and wiſdom of the Creator was evident, from a ſurvey of this magnificent and glorious ſcene; — as his care and pro⯑vidence over each particular, in the admini⯑ſtration of the great ſcheme was conſpicuous; can man, the favourite of heaven, have rea⯑ſon to lift up his voice to complain, if he calls off his affections from folly, and by natural and ſupernatural force, by reaſon and reve⯑lation, overbears the prejudices of fleſh and blood;—if he ponders the hopes and fears of religion,—and gives a juſt allowance to a future intereſt? Hearken to the commandments, (ſaith the Lord,) and your peace ſhall be as a river.

A tempeſt.§. 2. On then I trotted, brave as the man of wood, we read of in an excellent French writer,⁽¹⁸⁾ [429]and hoped at the end of every [430]mile to meet with ſomething fortunate; but nothing extraordinary occurred till the ſecond evening, when I arrived at a little lone pub⯑lic-houſe, on the ſide of a great heath, by the entrance of a wood. For an hour before I came to this reſting-place, I had rid in a tempeſt of wind, rain, lightning and thun⯑der, ſo very violent, that it brought to my remembrance old Heſiod's deſcription of a ſtorm.