LETTER I. TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. B.

WHEN I mentioned to a learned and elegant friend my deſign to paſs ſome years on the Continent, he cordially took my hand, and thus addreſſed me:

‘You are going to travel: travelling, like love, makes authors; authors make books: men, women, and children, publiſh at home, what they have ſeen or heard abroad;—Ergo, were not you already an author, it would be expected of you to write a book.’

To travel then, and to publiſh; are become things of courſe, ſaid I? ‘As much ſo, re⯑joined my friend, as cauſe and effect.’ It would be difficult, however, I preſume, to prove that though they may be equally in order, they are equal in value; for, to multiply copies of copies of copies, is ſurely, adding to the bulk of [2]an evil that ‘has increaſed, is ſtill increaſing, and ought to be diminiſhed:’ I admit your obſervation, proceeded I, that every body pub⯑liſhes travels, but am in doubt about the uſe of the inference; for, if people who leave their own country predetermined to make a book out of what they meet with, what they ſee, or ſeem to ſee, in others, it either is an argument againſt the farther overſtock of the literary market, or a proof poſitive that the innumerable travelling bookmakers, who have "beat the beaten road" theſe thouſand years, have told us nothing we did not know better before; and, hereupon, a pretty curious queſtion ariſes: How far thoſe who have undertaken to conduct our perſons and purſes through countries, remote or near, have proved themſelves true or falſe guides? how far readers who have taken abroad with them ſuch publications as the Vade Mecums of their reſpective tours, have found themſelves more or leſs perplexed and miſled, than if they had been left to their own ignorance, and to the experience which, however dearly, perhaps more truly, corrects it?

‘You think then, reſumed my friend, that an anſwer to theſe interrogations would de⯑termine the propriety of giving, or refuſing to give, another book of travels to thoſe al⯑ready [3]publiſhed: You imagine that a new edition every ten years of the firſt and only original work, marking the freſh modes by way of addenda, would preclude, and render uſeleſs, all the labours of imitative tra⯑vellers?’

I told him, this would be, perhaps, going too far, but that were the replies to be made by thoſe admirable critics the eye and the pocket, we ſhould "ſee feelingly" that our knowledge by no means increaſes in proportion to the num⯑ber of our books on the ſame ſubject.

Pleaſed and encouraged by this mode of rea⯑ſoning; I exclaimed, Be it ſo then: another Book of Travels ſhall be written, and, to ſhew my gratitude for the preſent converſation, the work ſhall owe its title to an idea that is this moment ſuggeſted by the agricultural images you have ſo agreeably played with. I will call my book [5]that is to be, GLEANINGS, &c. gathering up whatever may be left to humble induſtry, or excurſive curioſity, in the path of my wander⯑ings,—now and then deviating into the fields of fancy, mixing thus my wheat with ſuch flowers as grow in its neighbourhood, whether in hedge rows or gardens, whether the pro⯑ductions of art or nature. ‘Good! cried my friend, rubbing his hands together, and at length you ſhall bind your collected glean⯑ings into ſheaves—that is, volumes—and preſent them, neat as imported from the foreign markets, to your friends and enemies. To both of whom, added he ſmilingly, and with a briſker friction of his hands, they will ſupply food of a different kind, the one ban⯑quetting on whatever you ſet before them with hearty good-will, the other ſatiating on the beſt you can offer, with as hearty malice. Beſides, continued he, you will thus furniſh a feaſt to yourſelf, and be entertained while you entertain. I will have it ſo—Farewell: Be ſure you write a book, and do not return to me till you can come volume in hand.’

He departed, without ſuffering me to ſay more, aſſerting that the beſt proof of my regard for him would be given in my adoption of his councils.

[6]The councils were wholeſome, and I ſhall fol⯑low them: Before my leaving London it was ſettled, at another converſation, with the ſame friend, that my Gleanings were to be diſpenſed by parcels to him, that he was to put them into the granary—that is his library—till their bulk increaſed ſufficiently to be of public uſe, and not a month was to paſs without a ſmall ſheaf being ſent to him. Alas! it was decreed that ere the firſt month was expired this amiable counſellor and friend ſhould go

To theſe ends, I now addreſs to you, from the moſt beautiful part of the Britiſh Empire (—for [7]ſuch I think we may fairly call the principality of the ancient Britons—) the firſt offerings of my Gleanings. An humble employment, per⯑haps!—to collect ear by ear, as it were, the re⯑fuſe of what others have either overlooked or ne⯑glected: but if, out of this lowly occupation, you and I, my excellent friend, in the firſt inſtance, and my readers, in the ſecond, when the corn is gathered into ſheaves, and bound up, ſhould be able to make that bread which ſtrengtheneth the heart, or preſs from the ſcanty vintage that wine of life, which exhilarates, and gives a cheerful countenance in the drooping moment: —if it affords the tranſient ſweets of a foreign ſhore, when the flowers at home are withered or deſpoiled, I ſhall not have ſtooped in vain.

Adieu, my friend! Our convention is ſettled, and you ſhall ſoon hear from me again.

LETTER II. TO THE SAME.

AS it behoves a Gleaner to be diligent, deliberate, and not hurry over his ground like thoſe who come to a full crop, and whom abundance makes careleſs, I have reſolved, not only for your ſake, but my own, to ſtay always ſome days, frequently ſome weeks, and not ſel⯑dom ſome months in every town, city, or village, from whence I ſhall write. A rule which in⯑verts the general one. Inſtead of adding to the long liſt of poſt-haſte travellers, I am deter⯑mined to perform my journies at a foot-pace rather than a full gallop, convinced, from a deal of experience, that, although ‘he who runs may read,’ he who rides, as it were ex⯑preſs, through a country, cannot write any thing worth the attention even of a running reader—At leaſt, it becomes a queſtion worth anſwering, whether the deliberate mode is not more likely to diſcover and deſcribe what merits communication, than the helter-ſkelter faſhion of writing on the ſpur, whip, and wheel, our accounts of people and places? I am of opinion it is; and I have the ſupport of good old peo⯑ple, [9]and good old proverbs in Latin and Eng⯑liſh. "Feſtine lente," ſays the one— ‘He ſtumbles who goes faſt,’ echoes the other. To believe, therefore, that He who "moves ſlow, moves ſure," is a reaſonable concluſion. In⯑deed, I have wondered, that ſo very few of my emigrating countrymen have been of this way of thinking. On the contrary, they hurry through the deſtined courſe as if they were run⯑ning a race againſt time, and were to perform ſuch a given portion of it, within the hour by a ſtop watch.

The moſt pleaſantly fanciful at leaſt, of all modern travellers, in his inimitable "journey," has given us, in his own ſportive manner, a catalogue of travellers, with the epithets proper to, and characteriſtic of, each, ſuch as the ſenti⯑mental, political, idle, diligent, et caetera; but he has not, to my recollection, ſaid any thing about the deliberate, or more correctly ſpeak⯑ing, the reſidentiary traveller, who ſets out on a plan of ſojourning in the parts of the world he deſcribes, and mixes in the ſocieties of each long enough to obſerve accurately manners, cuſtoms, and events. The infinitely diverſified modes of theſe, muſt be overlooked, ſeen very partially, or not ſeen at all, by the modern Mercuries who go at full ſpeed to the grand [10]point of their deſtination—ſome of the capitals —and ſcarce give time for the horſes to be changed at the intermediate ſtages: or, if they are under the neceſſity to ſtay a night at any of theſe, the moſt inquiſitive of them ſtroll thro' the ſtreets, or ſaunter round the ramparts, while the ſupper is preparing; the reſt throw them⯑ſelves on chairs and ſophas till arous'd by the return of their companions, who generally come back diſſatisfied with their ramble, and, if they write at all, ſit down betwixt ſleeping and waking, and inſert, in the meagre journal of the day, a drowſy, yet ſplenetic, account of what they met with in their walk; depending on the ſexton as the hiſtorian of the buildings, and on ſome chance paſſenger as the intelligencer of the inhabitants, environs, police, &c. &c. At day break the next morning they are off, ſcarce al⯑lowing time for ſwallowing a comfortleſs diſh of coffee, ſquabbling with their hoſt for extor⯑tion, curſing the country they are under the im⯑mediate protection of, and diſgracing the man⯑ners of their own. This done, they continue their expedition as upon life and death, and often, —alas, how much too often! finiſh their folly, their fortune, and their tour, at the ſame time: for it is not till after their return to their native country that theſe daſhing travellers diſcover, that their moſt precious things—time, money, [11]and talents—have been waſted to receive only contempt, fatigue, and vexation in return—a ſad barter.

But not to circumſcribe the inutility of rapid travelling to theſe cyphers of ſociety, who in all countries are inſignificant, the remark, I fear, and the cenſure, involves, in ſome degree, per⯑ſons of a different deſcription; in as far as the cuſtomary method of writing poſt, on the policy, and practice of nations, muſt be injuri⯑ous to the moſt reſpectable abilities, which can⯑not intuitively know occurrences, characters, and uſages, that ariſe out of time, place, and cir⯑cumſtance; and cannot (except to a lucky tra⯑veller indeed, and to him very occaſionally) happen, while arrangements are making for the accommodation of man and horſe between ſtage and ſtage; and when all one can expect to ſee are the moſt ſlight and ordinary objects that float, like weeds and offal on the ſtream, on the ſurface of the places through which we paſs. Neither is the human mind, whatever be its powers, well diſpoſed to paint ſcenes and inci⯑dents when the body is worn down by the day's travel, and the ſpirits jaded by the fatigue of motion: yet, if we look at the dating of our modern travels, the avowed objects of which are cuſtoms and manners, we ſhall find that moſt of [12]the obſervations are the productions of the mo⯑ment, written amidſt the duſt and hurry of go⯑ing from the ſpot deſcribed to another, which is, in due time, to be diſpatched in the ſame way. Is it therefore to be wondered at, if we fre⯑quently find the common effects of an over haſty judgment—miſtated facts, and falſe in⯑ferences.

All theſe convictions have ſtrengthened me in the reſolution of being a reſidentiary traveller, making a reſt in every country which I deſign to glean. This, you will ſay, my dear friend, is in character, but I ſcruple not to aſſert, on an experience which I hope to make you partaker of, that tour-makers of the firſt diſtinction, and reſpectability, have left many things unnoticed highly worthy their and the public obſervation, and which could not have eſcaped, had they ſuffered their patience to keep pace with their penetration.

The illuſtration of this I truſt you will ga⯑ther as we go along.

The ſcenery of Nature, in a ſummer dreſs, is a volume open to every eye, and a copious page may be read at a glance: The moſt nimble traveller might luxuriate as he runs by them, and his landſcape, though but the etch⯑ing [13]of an inſtant of time, muſt, if he has ſkill to "catch the objects as they riſe," and rich⯑neſs of genius to tint them, be various and delightful. Here, the border of Breck⯑nockſhire, which begins, juſt where what is now called England owns its boundary, I was enchanted with the firſt view, but diſco⯑vered at a ſecond, third, fourth, onward to a fortieth, in various excurſions to and fro, during a ſix months' reſidence, a thouſand and ten thouſand particular charms which a firſt ge⯑neral ſurvey could never afford. I devoted an equal proportion of time to the northern as to the ſouthern diviſion, of this paradiſaical prin⯑cipality, going to the extreme verge both ways, and traverſing backwards and forwards to look at their beauties in different ſeaſons of the year; and it is the reſult of theſe repeated viſits, which, at the preſent moment, I give you: I give it you, in the grateful warmth of my heart, for pleaſure received, not without an earneſt hope, at the ſame time, that you, and others who have taſte and affections to reliſh the blooms of na⯑ture, and patriotiſm enough to admire them not the worſe for appertaining to their natal iſland, may be tempted to enjoy the ſame ſcenery.

That Wales hath a claim to pre-eminence on the ſcore of romantic beauty, can only be [14]doubted by thoſe who never have traverſed it, or who, traverſing, rather run a race than make a regular tour. It is certain, that ſeveral detached ſpots, in ſeveral different Engliſh counties, ex⯑hibit to the eye of the traveller as much of ſim⯑plicity, here and there, as much of the ſublime, and frequently more of cultivation; but then thoſe are to be conſidered as pickt and choſen places, and are, therefore, particular: whereas, the natural graces of Wales, the ſpontaneous fragrance of the wild herbs and flowers, the un⯑reſtrained redundance of the foliage, and the unlaboured fertility of the ſouthern ſoil, are general. They often expand from one ſhire to another with ſucceſſions both of the beauti⯑ful and ſublime, ſometimes to the ſtretch of thirty or forty miles, in the progreſs of which the fancy and the heart, the underſtanding, and all the higher emotions of the ſoul are, by turns, regaled and delighted. Hence it is impoſſible for a traveller of a juſt taſte not to catch pleaſure and inſtruction from that endleſs va⯑riety of land and water, hill and valley, dizzy aſcent, and apparently fathomleſs precipice, which, in Merioneth and Carnarvonſhire, would ſtrike his eye at almoſt every hour's journey⯑ing. The traveller of imagination would feel an unwonted glow of head and heart, perhaps, in a warmer degree, and of a more faſcinating [15]kind, than the traveller of merely a juſt taſte. The poetic and pictorial traveller, endued with the enthuſiaſm proper to thoſe characters, would have a more animated pleaſure from a ſurvey of ſuch ſort of beauties, than a perſon who has been in the habit of deriving his ſatisfactions rather from the refined labours of art, than the eaſy operations of nature: but all de⯑grees of underſtanding and feeling, nay the ſoul itſelf would be gratified in a tour through Wales, allowing time to do juſtice to nature and themſelves: and, indeed, none but the moſt worthleſs or diſſipated of human kind could obſerve, within the limit of a morning's ride or walk, ſuch an aſſemblage of natural wonders, viewed at any period of the year, without taſting a pleaſure of that moral kind, which, in looking above or below, muſt pro⯑nounce the objects of divine origin. I have ſtood gazing on ſome—Snowden and Plin⯑limmon, the vales of — and of Cluyn, for inſtance, till they ſeemed of themſelves to ſay—Traveller! well mayeſt thou gaze: we merit your pious admiration—for we are of God.

But my enthuſiaſm is running my letter into too much length. Invoking, therefore, the bleſſing of that God on you, I bid you for the preſent—adieu.

LETTER III. TO THE SAME.

A YOUNG painter of genius in a ſummer tour, from Abergavenny to Milford Haven, South, and from Aberconway to Holyhead, in⯑cluding the Iſle of Angleſey, North, taking into his route the intermediate landſcapes and ſea-pieces right and left, and making thoſe pauſes which are neceſſary to exact obſervation, and thoſe deviations from the beaten to the unfrequented tract, where, indeed, the chaſter beauties of nature are to be found, as if they modeſtly withdrew from the gaze of every common paſſenger, could not fail returning home richly ſtored with materials for the win⯑ter exerciſe of his finiſhing pencil. Or more properly adviſed, and duly ambitious of be⯑ing juſt to nature as his original, and to himſelf as her imitator, were he to employ the winter only in giving to his firſt ſketches a more correct form, then to make the ſame tour the ſucceeding ſummer to meliorate and improve, to catch new graces which new ver⯑dure may poſſibly have given them, to beſtow that mellowing, which the moſt vigorous mind and brighteſt fancy derives from preciſion, without which, indeed, every compoſition of [17]human art can hope but tranſitory fame; were he then to occupy his ſecond winter to the laſt poliſhes, then ſend them to Somerſet Houſe, I will venture to ſay he would exhibit, to his country, one of the moſt beautiful, one of the moſt valuable collections that had, till then, been ſeen in the moſt ſelect of her cabinets; accompanied by this peculiar honour and novelty—namely, that it was taken from an original properly her own: a truth which nineteen out of twenty that had never ſeen that original would be far from ſuſpecting: nay, I am furthermore convinced that even the beſt judges, the moſt celebrated artiſts, under the like predicament, would diſtribute the differ⯑ent landſcapes to as many different countries— appropriating the ſcenery of one to Savoy, a ſecond to Lauſanne, a third to the beautiful Pays de Vaud, and ſo on: for all that charac⯑teriſe theſe lovely countries, aſſemble in the prin⯑cipality of Wales. The Cambrian excurſion I have here recommended to the young and ingenious artiſts of my country in particular, would, were they to travel pencil in hand, unite the merits of the patriot to the talents of the painter, and be productive of objects no leſs worthy the lovers of their art, than the lovers of their country. It is hence, that I would incite thoſe who are bleſt with abilities, [18]and who incline to devote them to the muſe of painting, to a journey of deliberation through Wales, before they go farther from home, con⯑vinced, that if the ſtudy and imitation of nature, only, were, as it obviouſly is, the perfection of their art, a great deal of that time and money, which is expended in getting to the uſual ſeminaries, and ſcenery, might be ſaved; for I repeat, that this little appendage to the crown of England, contains, within itſelf, the richeſt ſtores for the pencil, which can be contented with nature or with nature's God.

Does the painter look for the broad and beautiful expanſe of the ſea, with all its attend⯑ant rocks, terminating towers, romantic ſhell⯑work, and ſurrounding ſhores? They await him on the coaſt of Wales at innumerable openings. They ſalute him at the new and old paſſage, even as he firſt ſets his foot on the Cambrian ſoil: He meets them again gathering beauties as he goes, in various parts of Caer⯑marthenſhire: they ſmile on him as he viſits the mouldering caſtle, and romantic ſcenery of the ſweet village Laugharne, in that county. —At Kidwelly and Llanelthy, they again re⯑gale. Swanſea offers them to him in all the pride of charms, that have drawn the admira⯑tion of the faſhionable world. They accom⯑pany, [19]refreſh, and delight him, even to Milford⯑Haven, where they loſe themſelves in un⯑bounded ocean. Nor are the marine objects leſs beautiful in the northern diſtricts. At Towyn, Abereſtwith, Caernarvon, Harleigh, Penmorva, Bangor, Angleſey, Barmouth, &c. they in⯑creaſe in every grace of the grand and minute.

Does the youthful enthuſiaſt pant after the ſublime beauties peculiar to the land? Here are they in the moſt profuſe abundance. The mountains are here, whoſe immenſe height illuſtrates and juſtifies that bold imagery of the Poet, whoſe deſcriptions would appear the work of fancy, and of fancy run riot, to all thoſe who have never yet look'd at the aſpiring ſub⯑limities of nature as they preſent themſelves in Merionethſhire, and other northern parts of this iſland. The truth and the deſcription of it, are thus exactly given in the poetry of Goldſmith,

The clouds, indeed, ſeem ſometimes to iſſue from the feet, and ſometimes from the bowels of theſe mountains, in paſſing the ſteaming ſides of [20]which the traveller is, on the brighteſt day, in⯑volved in the thickeſt miſt, while the ſummit of the mountain, above, and of the valley, be⯑low are gilded by ſunbeams, which the vapours have not fullied.

Or, languiſhes our child of genius for the mountain Cataract, whoſe white foam is pre⯑cipitated, by the torrent, down its romantic, but rugged, ſides, till it reaches the diſtant vale, where it rolls over the dark rocks, made yet darker by the thick oaks that overhang them; the deepeſt green moſs growing on the parts of rock not waſhed by the turbulent, but laved only by the gentle waves that occaſionally overflow them? Would he wiſh to hear a beauty that he could not paint, the deſcription of which he muſt reſign to the poet, viz. The ſtunning ſound of the ſame Cataract, ſoftening by de⯑grees into the ſtill, ſmall, and ſweet, voice of the rill, which ſteals gradually out of hearing, along the woody dingle, where it dies away? If his genius leads to theſe, they are to be met with in Wales. I have clambered up the mountains, where they were paſſable to human aſcent; I have followed the ſound of the tor⯑rents, from the firſt deafening impetuoſity, to the laſt of its meanders through the valley; and have been paid for my excurſion by innumer⯑able [21]beauties, which nature hides, as it were, in her nooks and corners, and denies the ſight or ſcent of to every one who does not deem them worth ſearching for. It is almoſt a par⯑tiality unwarranted to point at any place in particular, where theſe charms, for the true lovers of nature, may be diſcovered, they are ſo generally diſtributed throughout the princi⯑pality; but if I am juſtified in giving the preference to any ſpots, I ſhould mention Merionethſhire, and the country about Ponti⯑pool as moſt replete with theſe beauties— theſe and a thouſand more.

It is impoſſible for me, indeed, to give ade⯑quate ſketches of the countleſs charms a tra⯑veller of genius will diſcover in this route. The moſt vivid deſcriptions of Gilpin, joined to the ſolid narratives of Pennant, ſhould rather animate, than diſcourage, to the journey. The living eye of ſuch a traveller ſhould not be contented with any thing ſhort of the living volume; in every page and paſſage of which, nature will here preſent him with ſomething to admire and imitate—ſomething, which; though admired and deſcribed before, will ſupply new deſcription, new imitation. In truth, the proper objects of genius can here never be exhauſted, nor genius itſelf fatigued with re⯑preſenting [22]them. So redundant are the ſports of nature in this happy ſoil, that with a ſlight change of your point of view and the ſame ſpot of ground will afford a ſet of landſcapes: Taken from the top of the mountain you may ſketch the valley apart, and it is ſufficiently enriched to fill your canvaſs, and call your imitative powers into the warmeſt exertion; taken from the valley you have another ſeparate picture —the firſt intereſting, ſoft, and delicate; the ſecond noble, animated, and ſublime: join their ſeveral beauties by taking them in a middle direction between both, and, reverencing nature and yourſelf, you will prove the truth of my before repeated aſſertion, that it is un⯑neceſſary to quit your native empire, to gain the wreathe of immortality as a painter.

Excuſe me, I beg of you, for thus enlarging on theſe beauties, with a view to bringing them upon canvaſs, but beſides that, I know you both love and cultivate the art in private; many of our mutual friends, amongſt which is the enchanting De Loutherberg, and the brother of the ingenious Barſett, worthy the relation⯑ſhip, are public ornaments of it. I am per⯑ſuaded that if the former of theſe artiſts were to viſit the ſcenes I have here alluded to, his moſt glowing and juſtly celebrated landſcapes [23]from Switzerland, which we have ſo often ad⯑mired in his deſcriptions, as well as on his canvaſs, would have companions of Welſh extraction highly deſerving that honour. And I wiſh in your next converſation you would ſuggeſt theſe hints.

But it is time to commit my long letter upon paintings—which you may, perhaps, call an epiſtle to painters—to the poſt. Farewell then for the preſent.

LETTER IV. TO THE SAME.

WHAT I have already ſaid, and what I ſtill wiſh to communicate, in regard to this finely romantic country, is, as I before noted, rather the reſult of the remarks I made ſome months ago, than what occurs at the preſent time. My health, as you remember, compell⯑ing my immediate abſence from London, and my affairs, nevertheleſs, requiring ſome ar⯑rangement before I could quit the Engliſh ter⯑ritories, for any length of time likely to do eſſential good to my conſtitution, or to the circumſtances that tended to impair it, I ac⯑cepted, in the mean while, of an occaſion that offered, to make a circuitous tour of Wales. You may be ſure that the ſentimental pictures of Gilpin, and the hiſtorical accounts of Pen⯑nant were in my portmanteau.

Both of the above named authors being deli⯑berate, and even reſidentiary travellers, nothing was left behind but a few general obſervations, ſuch, as I have offered you in the two preceding letters, and ſome local particulars of which I [25]have ſtill to beg your acceptance: but, after ſo copious an harveſt, as has been preſented by ſuch labourers, the Gleanings muſt needs be ſcanty, though, I hope, well worth ſtooping for.

The ſcenery of Mahuntleth is in the true ſtile of awful grandeur, ſtupenduous rocks riſing above one another in barren ſublimity, and forming a natural rampart round the town; in the neighbourhood of which, you ride through one of the moſt lovely vales even your imagina⯑tion can conceive; the more delightful for coming unexpectedly; as, on your firſt leaving the town, you are prepared only for rocks; inſtead of which, you enter a lane, about half a mile from the village, which ſhuts you from the farther view of both rocks and village; and conducts you along a green receſs, which con⯑tinues for many miles, every ſtep, almoſt, of which introduces a freſh beauty. Wood, water, hill and vale, can ſcarce take a form; the ſound of ſtreams, the carol of birds, the diverſity of foliage, can hardly be fancied, by the moſt en⯑thuſiaſtic lover of nature, which blends not in this ſhort excurſion. Every thing blooms around you; the mountains vegetate to the top; all the tints and ſhades of verdure are in your view; neat white cottages, and pretty farm⯑houſes, [26]with here and there a modern villa, or ancient manſion, introduce themſelves to your eye, as you move on, at ſuch acceptable diſtances, and in ſuch happy ſituations, that even a mat⯑ter of fact traveller, muſt forget all common⯑place circumſtances, and wiſh to be reſidentiary. What then muſt be the effect of ſuch ſcenery on the children of fancy? The poetical traveller for inſtance? For my own part, I was ſo rapt and entranced, that, giving my ſelf up unreſerv⯑edly to the enchantments that ſurrounded me, I felt a ſort of attachment to every object that contributed its beauty to the ſcene, and was abſolutely in friendſhip, in alliance, with the woods, as if I had vegetated with them. A ſober citizen, who had ſeen me at this time, would have pronounced me mad; but while he pitied me, I ſhould have compaſſionated him; ſince. in this kind of delirium, ariſing from an heart and imagination delighted, and, as it were, carried beyond themſelves, by the charms of nature, there is a pleaſure, which, what is pro⯑perly underſtood by the words, ſober citizen never knew. I have often told you,—with ſelf⯑gratification, and grateful thanks to the bounteous beſtower,—of this my exceſſive ſenſibility of vegetable beauty: It began from the firſt hour that I could diſtinguiſh betwixt ſterility and bloom. A garden, a wood, a rill, an immenſe [27]mountain, an almoſt untrodden path in a valley, the interminable ocean, the contracted ſtream, and all that nature inherits, were my delight, when my love of them was rather inſtinct than obſervation. The paſſion ‘grew with my growth, and ſtrengthened with my ſtrength.’—It ſtrewed roſes over the years of my youth, and made me often forget the numberleſs thorns which environed them.— The years of manhood that have ſtrengthened my reaſon, have in no degree abated my ſincere—I had almoſt written—my tender delight in theſe charms of the creation.— And why ſhould I not feel a tender affec⯑tion towards them: Do they not lead from things temporal to things eternal? from earth to heaven? from creation to the Crea⯑tor? Is not, therefore, the adoration I pay to them a virtue? A part of religious worſhip? At the time I was enveloped—emparadiſed let me call it rather, in this bliſsful ſolitude, I felt that it was a time more detached from the droſs of the world, and more pure, than probably the beſt ſociety could have made it. Will the man of cold ſenſe pronounce all this viſionary? No. It is ſubſtantial—to me at leaſt it has been the ſource, and, I hope, will continue to be, of the higheſt ſentiments and contemplation. [28]May I live only while I am ſenſibly alive to the beauties of nature! For, in the hour this affection quits me, the ſacred ſenſe of the great Author of theſe beauties, which my exquiſite ſenſibility of them kindles in my ſoul—which even the lowlieſt ſhrub, or ſimpleſt blade of graſs; now inſpires, could no more aſcend to the power from whom I received this ſenſibi⯑lity, than the autumnal leaf, that has withered on the ground, can again mount and flouriſh on the tree from which it has fallen.

The pleaſure, therefore, of which I have been ſpeaking, is amongſt the few that belong to the poetical mind, in balance of the numberleſs evils which are ſaid to be inſeparable from the votaries of the muſe.

But you have been muſe-led too long, and I have to beg your pardon for a digreſſion, which offers you rather a deſcription of my own ſen⯑ſations than of the place which excited them. Let us return then to the ſweet ſhades, out of which my ſelfiſh fancy flew away with you. I really abhor egotiſm, but in letters that mix the hiſtory of ones feelings, with that of our wanderings, it is the moſt difficult thing in the world not to be an egotiſt. All that can be fairly expected, indeed, in travelling epiſtles, [29]is, to make, as it were, our abſent correſpondent enjoy what we have enjoyed, profit by his plea⯑ſures, by making them our own, if ever we take the ſame route, and eſcape the inconveniences, which he warns us to avoid. In this character of a friendly direction-poſt I may be uſeful: Take courage, therefore, and accompany me once more into the woods of Mahuntleth, and let me inſtruct you, by the way, that this is a little market town, in northern Cambria, in the road to Abereſtwith, a town in ſome reputation, as a bathing place you know. If you, who, I know, pay an annual viſit to the ſea nymphs, ſhould direct your watery courſe hitherward, I charge you in the name of nature, to make a day's pauſe at Mahuntleth, where you will find good accommodation, and dedicate it to wood nymphs, in the ſilvan ſcenes I have been deſcribing: re⯑membering, only, to take the horſe road to Dolgelthy; another place abounding in vege⯑table beauty. The diſtance from Mahuntleth to the laſt named town, this bridle way, is ſcarcely ſeven miles, not to be complained of with a ſteed you have faith in, and even if the horſe had forfeited your confidence fifty times, while your eyes eſcaped you would forgive him for ſhewing you ſo many delicious ſcenes: what is better, he would annihilate the ſenſe [30]of danger, by making you forget both his errors, and thoſe of every body elſe. Do you not perceive that my fancy is again kindling? An hazardous time to re-enter the woods. Is it not to be feared, I ſhall loſe myſelf in them? Suppoſe then I allow myſelf time to cool be⯑fore I venture again into this wilderneſs of ſweets? It may be as well perhaps for us both. Adieu then.

LETTER V. TO THE SAME.

AFTER about two hours riding, in this charming country, you come to a ſpot ſo ex⯑quiſitely delightful, that it ſeems impoſſible for a poet, or a lover, whether his miſtreſs is na⯑ture, or a pretty woman, or indeed for any tra⯑veller, who has enough of romance to keep in motion thoſe paſſions, which, like wholeſome breezes, ſhould always ventilate to prevent the maſs from ſtagnating.—It is in ſhort, impoſſible for any but the ſordid worldling, not to pauſe in this place, and wiſh to paſs the evening of his days in its vicinity: ‘"Ducere ſolicita jucunda oblivia vitae."’

[31]It is a part of the valley defended by an im⯑menſe ſcreen of many coloured rocks behind, out of which ſprings, here and there, a few hardy ſhrubs and flowers; ſtupendous crags, which the hurricanes have thrown from a ridge of mountains, whoſe mutilated heads are ſtill in the clouds: Some of theſe crags have been ſtopped midway, where, though they menace a farther deſcent, when aſſailed by the next ſtorm, they have ſtood the fiege of the elements, unmoved, for ages: Other vaſt and miſhapen maſſes have found their way to the bottom, and lie at the ſide of the road—to the left of which is a broad ſtream of water, here foaming into natural caſcades, and there diſplaying a baſon ſo untroubled and limpid, that you lan⯑guiſh to bathe in it; which you might very ſe⯑curely do, for it is, in many places, ſo ſhaded, and, if you follow the labyrinths, will guide you to retreats, where, loſing the foot path, you reach a receſs where the Graces might bathe without alarm. Had Thomſon's Muſidora choſen this ſpot ſhe might have

without the leaſt hazard of being ſurprized by a Damon—unleſs his reſidence, in the neigh⯑bourhood, gave him knowledge of the ſecret [32]haunt—or, as in Damon's Caſe, he was remark⯑ably fortunate. For Damons there are, even here, I can aſſure you, and Muſidoras too, amongſt the peaſantry in particular, the ſwains being as hale, happy a ſet of round faced, roſy cheeked youths, and the damſels as well featured a race of white toothed, black-eyed, red lipped laſſes, as in any part of the world.

I ſhould not omit to tell you, that the natural caſcades, and tranſparent baths, before deſcrib⯑ed, are ſo tinted by the refractions of the light and ſhade, and the variegated rocks, ſpars, ſhells, &c. at the bottom, that the water itſelf, as well as the flooring, if you will give me leave ſo to call it, exhibit all the colours of the rainbow, in no leſs inimitable dies. This is a natural beauty, I never ſaw imitated by the painters; perhaps, the imitation of it is im⯑practicable: indeed, I do not remember ever to have ſeen it, in nature, equally perfect as in this valley. Nor is it leſs worthy note, that the foliage of the fine woody mountains that riſe above theſe water-works of nature, in nobly ſublime contraſt of the no leſs natural rock-work, on the oppoſite ſide, is not leſs di⯑verſified than the ſtream. The vegetation is of every hue of which green is capable; [33]and an adequate idea of its effect muſt be as difficult for the pen as the pencil. Let it be added, that your eye, beſide the already men⯑tioned beauties, takes in the celebrated Caer⯑Idris, one of the loftieſt of the Welch moun⯑tains, the ſummit of which, like its famous rivals Snowden and Plinlimmon, is covered with eternal ſnow: while numberleſs flocks of ſheep, whoſe fleeces, bleached by the wind blowing freſh from the heavens, are ſcarcely leſs white than that ſnow—feed, frolick, and repoſe; on its ample ſides: The eye aches to view the top of this mountain giant, and the brain turns dizzy as it ſurveys, by a ſudden tranſition, the depth of the valley below. Habit, how⯑ever, familiariſes both theſe natural wonders; and yet, they ſeem for ever new.

My imagination was at work, to build juſt ſuch a comfortable reſidence on this ſpot, as might hold all thoſe whom I loved, and who had taſte to ſhare with me its beauties: amongſt theſe, you, my dear friend, were not forgotten. The above ingenious artiſt had already conſe⯑crated an apartment to you, ſuch as muſt needs have given you content. I had allotted ano⯑ther, adjoining to yours, to our charming friend, Mrs. L. S. whoſe ſpirit ſo accords with yours; and permit me the flattery of thinking [34]with my own. This pleaſant caſtle in the air went briſkly, though inſenſibly, forwards, as I rode on, and the edifice was begun and finiſhed, in the moſt commodious manner poſſible, with all appurtenances thereto belonging, ſuch as good fare, good furniture, good wine, and good friends, in about a quarter of an hour: The herds and flocks that grazed on Caer-Idris, I had appropriated; ſome fine oxen at feed in the paſtures below, were, with the paſtures themſelves, mine alſo: in ſhort, I had fitted up my place fit for the reception of company, and began to exult in the work of my own fancy, when, caſting my eyes, to the left, from that fixed ground-loving reverie in which they had been involved during theſe operations, I diſcovered exactly ſuch a manſion ready made to my hands. Conſider the ſtate, the heat of mind, in which I made this diſcovery, and wonder not if, in the firſt moment, I fancied I ſaw only my own edifice.—It ſtarted to my view preciſely, when I had given it the laſt aerial finiſhes; it was emboſomed in trees, juſt as I would have it: in a word, it was, to all intents and purpoſes, ſuch as I had been erect⯑ing, adorning, &c. I need not tell you, who know my ſoliloquizing way, that I was ſaunter⯑ing onward all this while,—"Sometimes faſt and ſometimes ſlow," as the poet ſays.— [35]Truly, it was a very odd ſenſation I felt, on being obliged, at laſt, to confeſs, that it was actually a houſe of more ſolid materials than imagination commonly works with. How ſhall I deſcribe this to you? I was pleaſed to ſee ſo pretty a villa, in ſo happy a ſituation, as well as to find that others had taſte as well as myſelf; but I was a little mortified—forgive me—to perceive any one had, as it were, built upon my ground, and ſuperceded me. Ye rigid people of the world, I pray your pardon. Which of you has not erected his airy caſtle? been delighted while it was in progreſs, triumphed in its completion, and mourned its fall?

My chagrin, however, was but of a moment. I had been ſufficiently amuſed with the ſhadow, and was ſoon in friendſhip with the ſubſtance. I had ſoon reaſon to be ſo. The proprietor of this manſion, with a child in each hand, was ſtanding at his gate. He had one of the moſt inviting countenances I ever ſaw: it en⯑couraged a ſtranger to begin converſation, and to aſk any queſtions, with an aſſurance of their being graciouſly anſwered. On my firſt greet⯑ing, he came down to the road ſide, and, with an urbanity that would have graced a court, entered with me into diſcourſe. On hearing my [36]eulogy on the beauty of the place, and receiv⯑ing my felicitations on the enviable ſituation of his villa, he begged I would conſider my⯑ſelf as the maſter of it, as long as might be agreeable or convenient to me, aſſuring me of the moſt unfeigned welcome if I could put up with cottagers' fare. To ſtrengthen his invita⯑tion, he obſerved that the ſurrounding ob⯑jects could not, poſſibly, be duly ſeen at one view;—that the colouring of the water, its re⯑poſe, its rapidity, the contraſt of the barren and fertile mountains, and of the rocks, had different beauties at different times of the day, and that after a night's refreſhment, I ſhould find them far more intereſting; adding that there were many others, which lay out of the common tract, in the like ſtyle of ſoftneſs and ſublimity, and to which he would be himſelf my conductor in the morning, on the condi⯑tion of my being his gueſt that night. This was offered with ſo frank an air, with ſo much unqueſtioned diſintereſtedneſs, that I intreat of you and your party, if you ever take this tour, to make your beſt bows and curtſeys to this hoſpitable cottager. His villa is about the midway between Mahuntleth, and Dolgelthy; but it is impoſſible it ſhould eſcape your no⯑tice; for without theſe memento's, I am ſure [37]here would your foot be fixed, and here your heart would warm.

Nor is this hoſpitality rare in this country. It anciently, you know, formed its charac⯑teriſtic. Modern manners have not altogether refined it away. I witneſſed its exiſtence, during my tour, in a great many inſtances. In taking the exerciſes of the field for example, every farm, every cottage, is yours, as places of repoſe and refreſhment, and the bounty ex⯑tends to your dumb companions as well as to yourſelf—milk, butter, cheeſe, and barakerk, oat-bread, a clean cloth, a platter of hung⯑beef, a jugg of beer, and a cann of cyder, are placed before you, as matters of courſe, with⯑out aſking for, and your being a ſtranger is a ſufficient recommendation: nay, you would be thought cruel to ſuffer from fatigue, hunger, or bad weather, while ſuch ſhelter and enter⯑tainment was in your reach. As this is amongſt the facts which a reſidentiary traveller only could know, and as it is really a truth, that runs through the country, eſpecially the northern parts, I feel myſelf the more bound to mention it. Nor is it confined to the low and middle ranks only. People of family are every where under a preſcriptive neceſſity of keeping up certain forms, but with reſpect to [38]Wales, a very ſlight acquaintance with you, would ſecure a moſt cordial reception in the houſes of the gentry and nobility: and many of theſe live in the ſolid faſhions, and keep up the good old cuſtoms of ancient days—ſtill re⯑taining their hawker, their harper, their do⯑meſtic bard, &c.

A venerable man ^*, member for the very county which ſupplies the ſcenes I have been deſcribing, may be quoted as an inſtance. His ſtate of health has, for ſome time, "check'd the genial current of his ſoul;" but his houſe has been long the temple of good humour, hoſpitality, and cheerfulneſs, in a ſtile that might put to the bluſh, the proud reſerves, and ſelfiſh pomps of upſtart greatneſs, and muſh⯑room pretenſions to ſtate and diſtinctions.

Such, in very general expreſſions, are the farmers, peaſants, and gentry, of the country, which gives a title to the Heir Apparent, of one of the moſt valuable crowns, and to one of the moſt accompliſhed Princes in the Chriſtian world. It were devoutly to be wiſhed, that, with equal truth, I could pay an [39]equal tribute to the peaſantry, farmers, and gentry, in England; but I fear the unbought, diſintereſted urbanity of theſe to ſtrangers, whether of their own country or of any other, muſt be looked upon rather as exceptions than general rules. When I reflect upon the ſub⯑ſtantial charities, and benevolence of the peo⯑ple of England, on all great occaſions, I triumph in being, myſelf, an Engliſhman, but I ſhall ceaſe to regret, my friend, that in the ſponta⯑neous courteſies, the little impromptu's of civility, that grow out of the wants and wiſhes of the moment, and are to be gratified by diſ⯑penſing with all formal reſerves, tedious in⯑troductions, and ſuſpicious balancings, the Welch, the Scotch, the Iriſh, the French, and many other people are their ſuperiors.

Whence can this take its riſe? Is it pride, diſtruſt, an apprehenſion of being deluded? Is it an inſular kind of reſervation? A ſhutting up of the heart till it is woo'd and won? Or is it a mixture of all theſe? Whatever be the cauſe, the effect is to be deplored: for much pleaſure is loſt to him who has too much etiquette, fear, or dignity, to ſtoop to imme⯑diate occurrences: the opportunity of doing a kindneſs is loſt in a moment, and if our doors are to be opened only to receive a friend, [40]and a ſtranger muſt bring credentials of his be⯑ing entitled to the en paſſant benevolence, by being known to ſome of our friends or neigh⯑bours, though unknown to ourſelves, a thouſand urbanities, which might have been ſhewn muſt be omitted. A temper betwixt the extremes of French officiouſneſs, and Engliſh phlegm, would form a good middle character. From many obſervations, daring my late intercourſe amongſt all ranks in this country, I am diſpoſed to think that Welch courteſy is the happy me⯑dium, ſo far as goes to the reception of, and good offices ſhewn to ſtrangers. The fire of the French, at firſt fight, is too hot to laſt; the froſt of the Engliſh takes too much time in thawing, and though their bounty is but the more ſolid and effectual, when the ice of their conſtitutional—perhaps only atmoſpherical— reſerve is diſſolved, like certain fruits of the earth, after the ſnow that long covered them is melted, the occaſion is paſt away, and the object that ſtood in need of our temporary exertions, may have gone even be⯑yond the reach of our beſt ſervices, while the fires of benevolence are kindling. Not but I know many happy exceptions; amongſt which I ſhould not ſcruple, were I called upon, by way of challenge, to produce a na⯑tive [41]of the gloomy iſland, as foreigners ſome⯑times call it, who to peculiar tenderneſs of the affections, for particular and private friends, unites a large, and indeed univerſal philan⯑thropy, the effect of which extends courteſy, gentleneſs, and generous actions to people of all nations, diſpenſing kind words and good deeds, wherever they are implored, I ſhould name yourſelf—and not without exultation, that I have the honour to be your friend.— Adieu.

P. S. I ſhall leave the northern and return to the ſouthern part of Wales to-morrow, with intent to take a little ſea-bathing, before I en⯑tirely quit the country. I will give you the reſt of my Gleanings from the court of Neptune.

LETTER VI. TO THE SAME.

I HAVE, as the date will ſhew you, altered my route; to which I have been in⯑duced by a wiſh to pay my parting tribute to the place from which I now addreſs you. The road from Mahuntleth to Dolgelthy, I truſt, my laſt has made you acquainted with: that from Dolgelthy to Barmouth, a ſpace only of ten miles, can, like the other, be done full juſtice to only by your own eyes, for its beauties are ſo manifold and extraordinary, that they literally "beggar deſcription." Suppoſe your⯑ſelf mounted on your horſe, or ſeated in your carriage on a clear genial day, as able from health, as diſpoſed from taſte and temper, to enjoy the beauties that offer themſelves to your view. Under theſe happy circumſtances theſe ten miles would be the ſhorteſt, and the moſt pleaſant you have paſt in your whole life. New paſtures of the moſt exuberant ſertility, new woods riſing in the majeſty of foliage, the road itſelf curving in numberleſs unexpected directions, at one moment ſhut into a verdant receſs, ſo contracted that there ſeems neither [43]carriage or bridle way out of it; at another the azure expanſe of the main ocean filling your eye—on one ſide of you, rocks glittering in all the colours of that beauty, which conſti⯑tutes the ſublime, and of an height that dimi⯑niſhes the wild herds that browſe, or look down upon you from the ſummits, where the largeſt animal appears inſignificantly minute—on the other hand plains, villas, cottages, venerable halls, or copſes, with whatever tends to form that milder grace, that belongs to the beautiful. —Such are ſome of the objects you will meet with in your excurſion to Barmouth: on your arrival at which place, ſo far from your proſpects terminating with your journey, they open upon you freſh attractions, which are as ſingular as unexpected.

This little ſeaport, conſiſts of one irregular ſtreet only, one ſide of which is built upon the ſolid, rocky mountain, that is of ſo ſtupendous an height, that the firſt view of it, upon the traveller's entrance into the village, or taken from the ſea-ſide, makes him not only tremble for himſelf, but for the aerial inhabitants; out of that mountain rock are their habitations formed, and though the conſiſtence is rather weak than ſtrong, as, after much drought or rain, it will crumble under your feet as you [44]tread on it, the houſes are in excellent repair, and ſeem, like thoſe that reſide in them, to ſet winds and waves at defiance. The villagers are, probably, more hardy than their native mountains—much more ſo, I ſhould judge, than their crumbling rocks, if their weather beaten complexions, and hard hands, which, in my familiar, character-exploring way, I have ſometimes ſhaken—may be conſidered as ſamples. You ſeem to be careſſing a man of iron, and that iron appears to be covered with a leather, that has undergone the proceſs, and taken the tan, of the material, with which our Engliſh waggon whips are commonly made. The chief food of the peaſantry is fiſh, which is had in the greateſt abundance; and it may be reckoned amongſt the pleaſant objects of the place, to ſee the natives in their little fiſhing boats, on a fine morning, when the ſea is calm. If you look at them from the rocky ſide of the village, the boats ſeem like buoys, and the people that guide them are ſcarcely percepti⯑ble. The village itſelf, viewed on the con⯑trary, from the ocean, is the moſt pictureſque you can imagine. On account of the excel⯑lence of the beach, it is an admirable watering place, and a good bath may be had almoſt every day. In tempeſtuous weather, the aſſemblage of objects, are, taken together, the [45]moſt ſublime of any in the principality. The dark ſhading, and ſtupendous height of theſe rocks, which overhang the ocean, the mountain billows, that, aſcending midway, daſh againſt them, as if diſappointed in their ambition to reach the ſummit.—The veſſels that ſeem crouding into the harbour, and almoſt taking ſhelter in the houſes upon the beach. The buildings on the rocks, meanwhile, ſeeming to demand no protection, but to mock the ſtorm—the in⯑numerable quantity of ſea-birds that enjoy it— all theſe go towards the ſcenery—and if thunder and lightning are added to it, which are very frequent accompaniments, the rever⯑beration of the ſound amongſt the rocks, the terrific charms of the flaſhes on the objects, both on ſea and ſhore, with the intermingled roar of the waves, finiſh the climax, if I may ſo call it, of the true ſublime. You may, per⯑haps, aſk, if this ſcenery is not in every mountainous country, near the ſea, pretty much the ſame? I anſwer, certainly in a de⯑gree: but it is the ſuperlative degree of awful grandeur, you find in this place, and all I have hitherto ſeen of the magnificence of nature, in the time of her trouble, has been compara⯑tively feeble, to her exhibitions in and about Barmouth.

[46]But it is time, that I bring both you and myſelf, ſafe down from theſe Alps of Cambria, where you may, perhaps, think I have ſtaid, with you, too long, particularly when the black mountains were wrapt in ſtorm, and the nature of the ſurrounding objects made me in danger of becoming poetical, which, is a rock worſe to the ſober minded reader, than any I have mentioned; yet on which, too many travellers ſplit. Nevertheleſs, I have only cropp'd a few of the flowers, which others failed to gather. In traverſing a ſpacious garden, even with avowed intent of forming a bouquet, it is im⯑poſſible, amidſt a profuſion of ſweets, beſtowed in "the prodigality of nature," not to leave or overlook many flowerets, and particular ſpots of exquiſite beauty and fragrance. To pluck and to examine theſe, and occaſionally to borrow from others, what may be honourable to them in the repetition, as authors, and agree⯑able to you, as a reader, is the "head and front" of my office as a Gleaner.

From the labours of the late Mr. Groſſe, you, and every reader of taſte, are ſo well acquainted with the abbeys, caſtles, and other reliques of that time, and of the time of more deſtructive men, in the ſhapes of Kings, Protectors, &c. who, like death, "put all things under their feet," [47]that I ſhall not attempt to re-conduct you to theſe remains of power, prieſt-craft, and ſu⯑perſtition: Indeed, were I inclined to ſearch diligently, it is doubtful, whether I ſhould be able to pick up a ſingle ruin; that accurate antiquarian having left nothing for my glean⯑ing. Neither ſhall I ſay any thing of Snowden, —nor aſk you to accompany me to the coun⯑try, where ‘"Huge Plinlimmon rears his cloud topp'd head."’ both of which have been introduced to you in the beſt manner, by Maſon and Gray, the latter of whom poſſeſſed a genius loftier, and more ſublime, than the mountains he deſcribed.

A few objects, however, nearer the ground, remain for me; and if you will condeſcend to accept ſuch humble offerings, after the giddy heights, and fearful precipices, from which I have juſt let you down, they are at your ſervice. A quiet walk in the valley, after clambering hills, and buffeting with ſtorms, may relieve you.

Suppoſe, therefore, by way of ſhewing you a ſpecimen of the hardy manner in which the poor natural inhabitants of theſe craggy abodes live, you ſtep with me into a hut belonging to one of the Barmouth peaſants. In point of [48]ſituation it might vie with any hermitage, cot, or palace, that prieſt, peaſant, or prince ever fixed on for reſidence. A noble beach of the fineſt ſand ſpreads itſelf at the bottom; the ocean yet nobler extends in front, with all the ſcenery that moves on the face of the wa⯑ters: the cliffs of Cardiganſhire bounds the proſpect to the right, to the left are ſeen thoſe of Caernarvonſhire. Cloſe at its foot a rill, which is for ever heard but never ſeen, the ſhrub wood and weeds of a little half-cultivated piece of garden ground bidding defiance to the moſt narrow inſpection; and cloſe at its back is part of that immenſe and continuous rock on which one half of the village is erect⯑ed: but as thoſe are on the ſummit, this is at the bottom. The ſides, and far the greater part of this hovel (for it is little better) are ſo thick with ivy, that, at a ſmall diſtance, nothing but that romantic evergreen is to be diſcovered. A novel writer, or a lover, or a miſanthrope, could imagine nothing half ſo congenial to their penſive diſpoſitions: it belongs to nei⯑ther of theſe perſonages. Enter it, and ſurvey the inhabitants. Perhaps there never was con⯑tained, in ſo ſmall a ſpace, ſuch a variety of occupations going on at the ſame time: nor, probably, ſuch a number of living beings crouded into one cottage, conſiſting not only [49]of one floor, but one very contracted room. That room was built barn faſhion; had more light from the large gaps in the roof, which was of thatch, than from the window. Its walls are of avowed mud, for not ſo much as a com⯑mon white waſh, ever attempted to conceal their real compoſition. The family conſiſted of fourteen perſons, of which, three were too young to relieve their poverty, though juſt old enough to ſmile at, and diſregard it—the reſt were, as I ſaid, buſily employed. The father of the family was making nets, the mo⯑ther of it was ſhaving one of the innkeepers of the place—of her more anon—the eldeſt ſon was weaving ribbons—the eldeſt daughter weaving cloth—the ſecond ſon was mending a petticoat, that for variety of patch-work, might triumph over Otway's Hag—the ſe⯑cond daughter was attempting to repair, what I gueſs, might have been intended for her father's breeches, in his younger days, and was now to be converted into a pair for his heir apparent—the third daughter (he had but three ſons) was combing the head of the fourth, who was, with no leſs induſtry, knitting a pair of ſtockings—the ſixth girl was making bread— the ſeventh was making broth, that is, a col⯑lection of potatoes, carrots, and other vege⯑tables—and the eighth, and laſt, was rocking [50]the cradle of the youngeſt child with her foot, and dandling another in her arms—while the fifth was making firſt experiments at the ſpinning wheel.

The tatters, which were thrown over theſe poor artizans, were even more bare and ragged than the furniture, which conſiſted of only three miſerable beds, of which one only had curtains, and thoſe of yellow ſtuff, in ſo ruin⯑ous a ſtate, that (as the Copper Captain ſays of the rats)—the moths, and other vermin, "had inſtinctively quitted it."—There was a fourth bed, of a little dirty looking ſtraw, in a corner of the room, with a covering of old ſacks. Never, did I ſee ſo much indigence, and ſo much induſtry united; for though the latter was un⯑remitted, the low price of labour, and the number to be ſupplied from it, and the tender years of moſt of the labourers, made the ſource inadequate to the demand upon it; but neither the induſtry, nor the indigence, had baniſhed the virtues, or the felicities: They were, in⯑deed, within this lowly reſidence, in a more flouriſhing ſtate, than is generally to be found in prouder dwellings. All the varieties, which characteriſe happineſs, in different minds, and ages, were preſented before me. The father, while he conſtructed his net, taught the alpha⯑bet [51]to one of his ſmaller children, who was armed with an hornbook.—The matron ſtrong⯑ly recommended the laſt piece of cloth of her eldeſt girl's making, to the innkeeper, whoſe chin ſhe was reaping; thus contriving to carry on two bargains at the ſame time; and it is not eaſy to deſcribe to you, the ſatisfaction with which the good man of the houſe kiſſed the dirty face of the child, on her getting through her letters without miſcalling, or for⯑getting, more than ſixteen out of the twenty⯑four; or how the good woman chuckled, when her encomia of the linen, conquered the re⯑luctance of mine hoſt, who not only promiſed to become a purchaſer of the cloth, then under hand, but to ſpeak favourably of her daughter's handy-works, to the gentry at his houſe. The joke, however, which was, meanwhile, carry⯑ing on between the ſecond ſon and daughter, about the inverſion of their uſual occupations, which was a thing agreed on, out of pure ſport, ſupplied a mirth, yet more ardent. The con⯑vention was, "Siſter, if you will repair my breeches, I will mend your petticoat.—One good turn deſerves another." Accordingly, both went to work, during which, a thouſand ruſtic repartees, and ſallies of uncultivated wit, which made up in harmleſſneſs, what they wanted in brilliancy, paſſed in rebound;—but [52]the jet of the joke, lay in a ſtruggle, that hap⯑pened between them, in the progreſs of their buſineſs; the brother declaring, his ſiſter was a bungler; whereupon, there aroſe a pleaſant contention, which was of ſerious conſequence to the breeches; for they were torn in twain, and, furthermore, ſo rent as to be unfit for either father or ſon: this, though no trifling loſs to a family under ſuch circumſtances, made the jeſt ſo much the better, that the fa⯑ther forgave the misfortune, for the ſake of the pleaſant manner, with which it was brought about, aſſuring me, that there was more wit in that girl, who had torn the breeches, and more ſlyneſs in the young dog, that was laughing at it, than I could believe. The mother ſhook her head, ſaying, they were always at ſome miſchief, and would be the ruin of the family; but patted the girl on the cheek, and clapped the boy on the back, while ſhe paſſed the cen⯑ſure on them. Thus does the tenderneſs of nature adminiſter equivalents, for the poverty of her meaneſt offspring. The reſt of the fa⯑mily were no leſs ſucceſsful, in mixing amuſe⯑ment with buſineſs: The little ſtocking-knitter, was telling to the bread maker, a ſtory of the lights being ſeen, and the groans heard, when there was no perſon to carry the one, or to make the other.—A ſuperſtition, by the bye, [53]that is intereſting to children of a larger growth, than thoſe who were then liſtening to it; of which in its place. The little cradle-rocker, was ſinging a lullaby to the ſuckling, which was hugging an half ſtarved kitten in its arms. Find me a family, at once ſo happy and numer⯑ous, my friend. When the innkeeper was gone, I ſat down in the ſhaving chair, and from that day, have never ceaſed to wiſh, there was at leaſt, one female barber in every town I paſſed through. This, however, with another at Mahuntleth, were the only ones, I ever met with, in my life, and both of them beat the men at a beard, all to nothing.

I truſt, that you, who, I know, are delighted with the ſight of "happy human faces," wherever they can be ſeen, will not be diſ⯑pleaſed at my having taken you into this humble abode. It may ſerve to ſhew you, as a ſpecimen, the chearful and inceſſant labours of the induſtrious poor; for, there are very many of this deſcription in Wales; and they are the more meritorious, as, though there is infinite poverty, there is ſcarcely any appearance of it, in the whole principality; it being a general, almoſt an univerſal, principle of the rich, to take care of the poor—a principle, which like every other good, is often abuſed. For the [54]number of common beggars, throughout every part of Wales, is aſtoniſhing: they come in tattered tribes to your doors, from which they never go away, if they have no worſe faults than idleneſs and indigence, without being relieved. It would even be thought impious to refuſe them. Profiting hereby, there are whole fa⯑milies, who ſubſiſt ſolely on the charity of their better ſupplied neighbours. The begging brotherhood of Saint Francis, are not more vagrant, nor more ſucceſsful in their mendi⯑catory pilgrimages: and it is not uncommon for the parents, who happen to have ſome compunction, on the ſcore of aſking alms, while they are able to procure the means of life by their labour, to ſend out their children to ſhift as they can, while they themſelves are at work: preferring this caſual, and diſgraceful, mode of ſubſiſtence for their children, to the honeſt in⯑duſtry, by which they procure their own main⯑tenance. There is, however, as you may ſup⯑poſe, a material difference, even in the poverty of the induſtrious, and that of the idle; the former, as in the example of the barber of Bar⯑mouth, covering the ſhoulders of his family, with remnants, which, although

[55]certainly ſpeak "variety of induſtry;" while the latter, though they are neither aſhamed to beg, nor ſteal, and of courſe get their cloaths, with much leſs trouble, ſuffer them to get into tatters, merely becauſe they are too lazy to mend them, before they are irreparable. My friend, the barber, indeed, valued himſelf on his true Britiſh blood, very ſeriouſly aſſerting, that notwithſtanding his preſent condition, he was the firſt of his family, that had ever gained his bread, by the ſweat of the brow, and that his father ſacrificed the eſtate, which ought to have deſcended to his poſterity, to an act of generoſity to the unfortunate Prince, meaning the Pretender, who, he added, point⯑ing to an almoſt worn out print of him, that hung on the wall, was more obliged to his father, and better deſerved it, than he dared tell me. Not, continued he, but I am a true friend, and loyal ſubject, to his Majeſty King George; but that poor Prince—again pointing to the print—was a diſappointed out-caſt man, wandering up and down this country, and I am proud that my father opened his door to him, though he let out, at the ſame time, what pluckt up the hopes of his family by the roots. Hereby, hangs a ſorrowful tale, maſter, ſaid he, ſighing, but it is of no uſe to trouble you with it: and as for me, it is but doing ſome⯑thing, [56]inſtead of nothing, for my living, which is all the difference you know, Sir, betwixt a poor man and a gentleman; ſo work away, my lads and laſſes, work away old Dame Partlet— for, as the ſong ſays,—

ſung the mother of the family, continuing the tune,— ‘"We all fare as well as we are able."’ carolled the eldeſt daughter, who had really a fine voice. ‘"And ſcramble for what we can get."’ chorus, boys and girls, chorus.—Here the reſt of the labourers took up the burthen, and the "long loud laugh" ſucceeded, which not only "ſpoke the vacant," but the happy ſoul. I joined in it, with all my heart, and reſolved to recommend as many cuſtomers, as I could, to the independent cottagers. And, I hereby beg they may be had in remembrance, when⯑ever either you, or your friends emigrate to this part of the world, and ſhould want either nets; ſhaving, in the eaſieſt manner; home⯑ſpun ribbons; home-knit ſtockings; petti⯑coats repaired; or breeches deſtroyed. Adieu.

LETTER VII. TO THE SAME.

I HAVE now reſumed my ſouthern route, and write to you from Abereſtwith, in my way to which I met with another little cot⯑tage enterpriſe that is ſo deſcriptive of that happineſs, in the moſt lowly ſtations of life, of which people in the affluent or even the middle ranks of this variegated world have no manner of idea, that I cannot but imagine a relation of it will be welcome to you, whom I know to delight in viewing all ſides of the human pic⯑ture, particularly ſuch as repreſent any part of the happineſs of human beings.

You are yet to learn that I performed, and am ſtill performing, this Cambrian expedition upon the back of my old faithful ſteed, now in the twenty-fourth year of his age: a creature the beſt calculated of all others for the purpoſes of a deliberate and reſidentiary traveller, hav⯑ing every diſpoſition in the world to allow his maſter time for obſervation and reflection. His character is very truly given in the words of the good old axiom—"ſlow and ſure." His own hiſtory is ſufficiently intereſting and event⯑ful to find a place in a heart like your's; and, [58]in abridgement, I will here give it you. The whole life of this poor ſlave, till within the two laſt years, has been a continued trial of ſtrength, labour, and patience. He was broken to the bit by a Yorkſhire jockey, to be rode, the moment he was fit for ſervice, by an Oxo⯑nian ſcholar, who, whatever might have been his learning in the abſtruſer ſciences, was little converſant in the rudiments of humanity, though they are level with the loweſt under⯑ſtanding, and founded on the tender code of that great Lawgiver, who has told us "a juſt man is merciful to his beaſt." During the very firſt vacation, this ſprightly youth ſo com⯑pletely outrode the ſtrength of his ſteed, that he ſold him, on the ſame day that he regained his college, at the recommencement of the term, for two guineas, to one of thoſe perſons who keep livery ſtables, and at the ſame time have horſes to let. It was not eaſily poſſible for a poor wretch, ſo badly ſituated before, to change ſo much for the worſe: and of all the fates that attend a hackney horſe, that which belongs to the drudge of a public univerſity is the moſt ſervere: it is even harder than that of the ſervitors of the college. He remained in this ſervitude, however, ſixteen years, during which he was a thouſand times not only prieſt⯑ridden, but pariſh ridden, and yet was rarely [59]known to ſtumble, and never to fall. Is it not queſtionable whether half the pariſhioners, or even the prieſts (with reverence be it ſpoken) could ſay as much for their own travels in the rugged journey of life? His maſter, rather from policy than compaſſion, thought it moſt for his ſuture intereſt to allow his four-footed ſervant a ſhort reſpite, and he was accordingly favoured with a month's run in what is called a ſalt marſh; but, before his furlow was expired, he was borrowed by ſome ſmugglers, who then infeſted the coaſt, and who made him the receiver of contraband commodities, as well as aider and abetter in practices, which, like many other underhand actions, are beſt carried on in the night time. I ſay borrowed, becauſe after a winter's hard work in the company of theſe land-pirates, the horſe was thrown up by his temporary employers in the very marſh out of which he had been preſſed into their ſervice, and a leathern label, on which was marked this facetious intelligence, faſtened to his fet⯑lock—Owner, I have been ſmuggled. By theſe means he unexpectedly came again into his quondam maſter's poſſeſſion, out of which, however, he departed, the ſummer after in the ſociety of an old fellow commoner, who, after many years cloſe confinement in the cloiſters, was diſpoſed to relinquiſh them in favour of a [60]piece of church preferment in Norfolk, which happened to be in the gift of a lady about his own ſtanding in life, and who in the days of her youth avowed ſo ſtrong a partiality for this gentleman, that her father, diſapproving her alliance with a perſon who had only the hopes of a curacy before his eyes, thought fit to clog her inheritance, over which he had complete authority, with a formidable condition of for⯑feiting the whole eſtates, ſhould ſhe marry a ſon of the church: ſhutting out, hereby, the whole body of divinity to exclude the aforeſaid individual member. Faithful, however, to the merits of the man who had won her heart, ſhe was glad to find that the parental tyranny which had tied her hand, had left free her for⯑tune; ſhe, therefore, took the firſt opportunity to preſent the object of her early choice with the only piece of ſervice in her power—a pre⯑ſentation to the living of which ſhe was become the patroneſs, thinking this a better evidence of her ſtill exiſting partiality, than if ſhe had ſet fortune at defiance, and ſacrificed not only her own advantages but her lover's, to gratify⯑ing a paſſion which would have impoveriſhed both. An example of tenderneſs, this, well worthy the imitation of more romantic minds. It was to be inducted to this living our learned clerk now journeyed on the ancient ſteed [61]whoſe memoirs I am now writing, and as he did not intend to reviſit the banks of Iſis, and had often been ſecurely carried to a neighbour⯑ing chapel, where he officiated, on the back of this identical horſe, he purchaſed him to the intent that he ſhould get into a good living alſo. But the turbulent part of this poor brute's adventures was not yet performed. His patron died without himſelf deriving what might have been expected from his benefice; and ſoon after the deceaſe of the maſter, the ſervant fell into the hands of a man in the ſame pariſh, who, to a variety of other endea⯑vours to ſubſiſt a large and needy family, added that of letting out occaſionally a horſe. Our hero, ſtill unbroken in either knees or conſti⯑tution, was deemed fit for his purpoſe, and being thought of little value, was obtained at an eaſy price. His new maſter removed ſoon after to Loweſtoft, which you know is a conſiderable ſea-bathing town, in the county of Suffolk, where the toils impoſed by his Oxford tyrant were more than accumulated; for, beſides dragging a cart all the morning with loads of bread (a baker being amongſt the buſineſſes of his maſter,) he was, on ac⯑count of his gentle diſpoſition, the horſe fixed upon to take a couple of gouty invalids in the bathing machine, after the more vigorous divers [62]and dippers had finiſhed their ablutions. In the afternoon he was harneſſed to the London poſt-coach, which daily paſt from Loweſtoft to Yarmouth. The next morning by day-break he came with the return of the ſaid coach, and was then ready for the diurnal rotation at home, unleſs a more profitable offer happened to take him another way. Four years of his life were paſſed in this miſerable round of labours, and it was at this period of his hiſtory he and I be⯑came acquainted. I was then on a viſit to one of the ^* beſt ſcholars and men in the world; and being in want of a little horſe exerciſe, my friend mentioned to me this poor but ho⯑neſt ſlave, recounting to me, at the ſame time, what I have now dilated of his ſtory: adding, that he did not exactly know in what condition he might be, at that time, but that he could anſwer for what was left of him to be good; which is much more than can fairly be ſaid of a third of thoſe who are nearly worn out in the buſineſs of the world.

My affections were engaged, and I was pre⯑determined to make a preſent to them of this horſe, for a ſight of which I immediately ſent my ſervant; but when he was led to the door of my friend's houſe, and though my reſolution [63]to mark him for my own grew firmer as I gazed upon his pity-moving carcaſe, I totally gave up all ideas of his utility. The owner himſelf, confeſſed he was almoſt done up, at which thought a long ſigh enſued, and a con⯑feſſion that he had been the chief ſupport of the family, obſerving, while he patted his neck, that the poor fellow might be ſaid not only to carry his children's bread to be ſold, but to make it.—But it's all over with you now, my old boy—continued the baker—you may get me through the autumn, mayhap, and then— What then, ſaid I? He muſt hobble away to the kennel—To the kennel? Even ſo, maſ⯑ter—What muſt be, muſt be: I can't afford to let him die by inches; and if I could, I don't ſee the humanity of that: better give him to the dogs while they can make a meal of him, and pay me a ſmall matter for their enter⯑tainment.—He will, however, carry your ho⯑nour this month to come creditably.

Predetermined as I ſaid to ſpare the remains of this poor wretch, I bought him on the ſpot, convinced that it would be difficult to find any other perſon who would receive him on any terms. His appearance was ſuch as would have juſtified Roſinante in refuſing his ac⯑quaintance on the etiquette of comparative poverty. The aſſociation would have diſgraced [64]that celebrated ſpectre; nor did Quixote himſelf exhibit ſo woeful a countenance. If ever, therefore, I could boaſt of an action purely diſ⯑intereſted, and which had unalloyed compaſ⯑ſion for its baſis, it was the giving five times more than he was worth, that is to ſay, five guineas, for this old horſe; intending only, at the time, that he ſhould paſs the reſidue of his days in peaceful indolence, broke in upon by the infirmities of life, and die a natural death. To this end I obtained him the run of a friend's park, where I conſidered him as a reſpectable veteran retired on a penſion. In this verdant hoſpital he remained, unſought, unſeen, a whole year; at the end of which, being invited to paſs the Chriſtmas with the noble and ge⯑nerous owners of the park aforeſaid, I paid a viſit alſo to my penſioner, who had grown ſo much beyond himſelf on their unmea⯑ſured bounty, that he ſeemed to be reno⯑vated. Do not wonder that I ſcarce knew him in his improvements, for he appeared not to know himſelf. The poor fellow's very cha⯑racter was inverted; the alteration reached from head to heel: he neighed, ſnorted, kick⯑ed, and frolicked, about the paſture, on my firſt attempt to ſtop him, with the airs of a filly-foal. I reminded him that he ought to deport more humbly, conſidering the melan⯑choly [65]ſituation, from which he was but re⯑cently delivered; yet ſo far from paying any attention, he turned from my morality with another ſnort of diſdain, toſſed up his ſaucy head, and threw up his heels, wholly forget⯑ting, like other ingrates, his former condition. Like them too he appeared to conſider the world now made for him; and, therefore, be⯑twixt jeſt and earneſt, I was reſolved once more to ſhew him he was made for the world.

The very next day I cauſed him to be taken from his green receſs, and performed the tour of the environs on his back. More airily, more pleaſantly, I could not have been carried, nor, towards the end of the ride, more ſoberly. The ſpirit which he ſhewed in the paſtures was but as the levities of a hearty and happy old age in the plenitude of uncurbed leiſure; like the gaiety of a veteran, who, finding him⯑ſelf in health, might take it into his head to finiſh in a country dance; but theſe are ſallies for a moment. Ah! my friend, how many poor ſtarving wretches, worn down by their cruel taſk-maſters, goaded like this horſe by the "whips and ſpurs of the time," and driven out of one hard ſervice to another, might, like him, be reſcued, in the extremity, at ſmall ex⯑pence, and by the hand of bounty be pro⯑tected [66]from farther rigours! even till they were renewed for a ſerviceable, inſtead of a diſeaſed, old age! How many half-famiſhed, hard-rid⯑den creatures of the human race, I ſay, might, in like manner, be repleniſhed. Reject not this long ſtory—this epiſode—this heroi-comi⯑epic if you pleaſe—but I cannot allow you to call it a digreſſion. You will admit it to be in point when you are given to underſtand, that on this very horſe, thus reſtored by a little indulgence, I have meaſured a thouſand miles, and find my aſſociate in ſufficient heart to meaſure a thouſand more. On the four-and⯑twentieth year of his age we ſallied forth; and if the maſter had in courſe of his travels made as few trips, as few falſe ſteps, as the ſervant, he might be a match for the ſafeſt goer on the road of life.

Should this correſpondence reach the pro⯑feſſional critics, think you that I ſhould "ſcape calumny" for taking up ſo much of their time about an old horſe? And why ſhould I not pay an old, faithful, companion, to whom I owe much health, much happineſs, this grateful ef⯑fuſion. If the Roſinante of Cervantes had more wit, the cat of Montaigne more wiſdom, and the afs of Yorick more ſentiment, none of them could be better qualified, as I before told [67]you, for a deliberate traveller. He was in ſhort; may he is, being at this very minute at feed before me—the horſe in the world for a Gleaner. A month's cloſe connexion and con⯑verſe, with each other, before I ſet out on this tour, in little experimental excurſions, gave him ſuch an inſight into my habits, that we perfectly underſtood one another by the time we ſet out on our northern expedition. He follows me when I wiſh to be a foot, waits for me, at a gate or hedge, (without tying) when I imagine there is any thing Glean-worthy, out of the main road; and when, as is my cuſtom, I ſit down to make minutes of my obſervations, or luxuriate on the ſcenery around me, al⯑though he has never diſcovered any remarkable reliſh for theſe ſort of banquets, he contents himſelf with picking a dinner from the graſs on the road ſide, or, if this agrément is want⯑ing, he takes a comfortable nap as he ſtands, and leaves me to my reflections: after which, though often rouſed ſuddenly, he wakes in the ſweeteſt temper in the world, and is per⯑haps the only companion a traveller of my diſpoſition could go a long journey with, and not be extremely complained of: I have ſome⯑times ſet out at early dawn with the intention of travelling, even in my ſauntering way, at leaſt twenty miles, but the beauty of the day, [68]the abundance of the objects, and a frame of mind to enjoy them, has with diffiendty per⯑mitted me to reach the firſt village, town, or cottage—for I ſtop any where, and am at home every where. Where is the man or woman who would find this ſupportable? Where is even the beaſt who would not think it a little troubleſome? I never, however, ſaw my poor old fellow even look as if he had leſs patience or philoſophy than myſelf. And ſhall not ſuch a horſe, for once in my life, be made the chief ſubject of a letter? How many worſe topics have filled folios? Forgive me, my friend. I would not build a palace for him were I as rich as Caligula, but I would, under your auſpices, dedicate to him this part of my preſent epiſtle, aſſuring you, if in my correſ⯑pondence, you find any ſpirit, novelty, ſport, or information, as you flatter me you do, the meek pliability of this aged thing had his ſhare in producing it. As to the critics, ſhould I come under their laſh for the treſpaſs, I ſhall only beg them, as they value their own hobby⯑horſes, and love to praiſe them, to boaſt how well they carry, and how much ſafer and bet⯑ter they go through this dirty world than their neighbours, to bear, this once, with the hiſtory of mine. But I promiſed you another cottage [69]adventure, which this hiſtory has thus long poſtponed. You ſhall have it now.

In effect, it was a reflection on the groteſque ſituation, to which both man and horſe were reduced, that brought upon you this curious morſel of equeſtrian biography. I ſet off from a lone houſe, on a ſandy heath, very properly called the barren iſland, about a mile on the Abereſtd with ſide of Aberavon, where I had paſſed a ſtormy night, rendered yet more troublous by there being every hour brought to the Ferry-Houſe, the dead bodies of ſiſher⯑men, who had periſhed in a tempeſt, which a few nights before had wrecked a number of veſſels on the coaſt of Wales. It was the ſea⯑ſon of the herring fiſhery, in progreſs of which there are many misfortunes of this ſort, and of other kinds; for a bad ſeaſon, or which is tantamount, bad luck, will ruin a whole family, ſometimes a whole village, the ſole dependence of which are the herrings, the ſtaple commodity of the inhabitants. At the time of my quitting the barren iſland the clouds made the faireſt promiſes, and a beautiful rainbow ſtretched its arch acroſs the heavens to confirm them, but I had not gone a league, before all theſe fair promiſes were broken, and I was drenched to [70]the ſkin, notwithſtanding my horſe did the beſt in his power, for both our ſakes, to pre⯑vent it.

We took ſhelter at a moſt miſerable looking hut, at the ſide of the heath, and accepted the protection it offered, with as entire good will, as if it had been an eaſtern palace. My horſe was obliged to crawl into a kind of out⯑houſe, where a ſwine driver and his pigs had the inſtant before taken refuge, and, while I was reconciling my ſteed to this ſociety, a Jew pedlar and his pack, and another traveller with his dog, crouded in. Neceſſity, as Shakſpeare ſays, brings one acquainted with ſtrange company: not that theſe are the words of that immortal Bard, and of courſe my memory has injured even the ſentiment: but you, who have literally his works by heart, can do him juſtice.

A being, ſcarcely human in appearance, invited me to enter the hut. I enter'd.— Its inhabitants—How ſhall I deſcribe them? Fancy ſomething, which aſſembles the ex⯑tremes of filth, penury, health and felicity— perſonify theſe amongſt men, women, and children—give to each of them forms and features, which confer a ſort of grace and [71]beauty, on the houſehold of the barber of Bar⯑mouth by compariſon. Put all this filth, pe⯑nury, health, and felicity into motion; and having formed your groupe, imagine that you ſee it unſhod, unſtockinged, uncapped, and nearly unpetticoated and unbreeched. Young and old were buſied in counting the fineſt and freſheſt herrings I ever ſaw, that inſtant brought in from the fiſhing-boat. The father of the family, to whom the boat belonged, de⯑clared he had never had ſo proſperous a voy⯑age; and, though he was almoſt blown away, he would hazard twice as much danger for ſuch another drag: look what a ſize they are of, and how they ſhine, my boys and girls— i'faith, they ſeem'd plaguily afraid of the hur⯑ricane, and came in ſhoals to the nets as if they took ſhelter in them—little thinking, poor fools, that this was a jump from the water to the fire; and now I talk of that, here put half a dozen of them into the pan, for I am deuced hungry, and mayhap this gentleman may be ſo too; and if ſo be that he is, he ſhall be as welcome to a freſh herring and a brown biſcuit as myſelf.—What ſay you, my heart of oak, continued he, clapping me as familiarly on the ſhoulder as if I had been his meſſmate, and indeed treating me as hoſpitably as if I had been ſo, and we had both eſcaped from a [72]wreck to his cabin. Perceiving my dripping ſituation, he ſaid, "Come ſhipmate, doff your jacket, put on this rug, come to an anchor in that corner, warm your ſhivering timbers with a drop of this dear creature, which will make a dead fiſh ſpeak like an orator—there—another ſwig—don't be afraid of it—one more—and now you will do while your rigging and can⯑vaſs are drying.

All this time, mine hoſt of the hovel ſtood in his ſea-drench'd apparel, on my reminding him of which, he cried out ſmilingly, Ah! you are a freſh-water farlor, I perceive, and would take a deal of ſeaſoning, before you were good for any thing; but for me, all winds and weathers are alike to old Jack, while I can get good fiſh abroad, and good fleſh at home; ſo fry away Molly, for the wet has made me as hungry as a ſnark, and though I have drank like a whale, I ſhall now eat like a lion—and I hope, you will do the ſame, meſſ-mate. By this time, mine hoſteſs ſet before us our diſh of herrings, which, with oatmeal cakes, potatoes, and but⯑termilk, furniſhed one of the heartieſt dinners I ever ate; after which, the ſailor made me partaker of a can of flip—ſung a ſong, about the dangers, and hardſhips of the ſea-faring life; and made me take notice, that he was [73]the happy father of a cabin full of children, that I might ſee another was upon the ſtocks; and that if it pleaſed God, to ſend him a dozen ſuch pieces of good fortune every year, for a dozen ſeaſons, he ſhould be as able, as he was willing, to procure a ſnug birth for every one; and meantime, maſter, we will have another ſip of grog, to drink ſucceſs to the herring fiſhery.

Our regale was interrupted by the ſudden exclamations from without doors, of—‘She's loſt, ſhe's loſt—ſhe can't weather it—ſhe muſt go to the bottom—there is not water enough for her to come in, and the wind blows like the devil in her teeth—ſhe's ſinking—the next ſea will finiſh her.’ All the cottagers ran to the beach, which was within a few paces. I followed inſtinctively. The hurricane was again renewed, the ſeas ran mountain high, and a ſmall coaſting veſſel was ſtruggling with them. In a few minutes the ſtrand was covered with ſpectators, but not idle ones. The whole of the villagers hurried to give aſſiſtance. Amongſt the croud, I diſ⯑covered both the pig driver, and the pedlar, whoſe ſituation, I had begun to relate to my kind hearted hoſt: but the moſt aſſiduous, of the whole multitude, was a young woman, who [74]while the tears ran down her cheeks, was amidſt the firſt to leap into a ſmall boat, which had been anchored on the beach, and in which, the maſter of our cottage and three others, re⯑ſolved to truſt themſelves, to offer ſuch aſſiſt⯑ance as was in their power. The wind did not abate of its fury, but ſhifted a few points more in-ſhore; this, perhaps, in a veſſel of greater burthen, might have been fatal; but was, in ſome ſort, favourable to the little bark in diſtreſs. She had, by tacking, gained a ſta⯑tion parallel to a part of the harbour, where ſhe might run aſhore, which ſhe did, at length, without much damage: and the only thing now to be apprehended, was the loſs of the boat, that had gone out to her ſuccour. The people on board the veſſel, were almoſt in⯑ſtantly on land, and one of them being ſhewn the boat, and told, at the ſame time, that ſhe went out to the relief of the crew, was amongſt the boat, and told, at the ſame time, that ſhe went out to the relief of the crew, was amongſt the moſt active to throw out a rope, and try to return the favour intended him in kind. The ſame circumſtance, however, which brought in the veſſel, preſently befriended the boat, who venturing to ſet her ſail, was, after a few deſperate rolls, impelled over the billows, and driven, as it were, headlong on ſhore: but not before the ſailor, who had been handing out the rope, perceived the female in the boat, [75]on which he threw himſelf to the ground, in the eagerneſs of catching her in his arms. You already feel they were lovers: they were more. The bands of matrimony had united them the week before. The very fiſhing boat, which was now driven on ſhore, was the mutual pro⯑perty of the two fathers, who had agreed to give up each his ſhare, to their ſon and daughter, as the wedding portion: two of the men in the little ſkiff were the fathers: the profits of the herring ſeaſon, were to be the childrens fortune. How thin are the bounds that ſeparate the extremes of happineſs, from the exceſſes of miſery. The former, however, were now realized: the veſſel brought in a good freight, the fathers were ſaved, and the children were happy. They all reſided, and were, indeed, natives of the village, but mine hoſt, whoſe houſe was neareſt to the place of landing, and had a heart ſufficiently expanded to fill a palace with people that ſtood in need of hoſpitality, inſiſted, that as ſoon as the Little Sally and Jack, which, it ſeems, was the name of the fiſhing-boat, could be left for half an hour, they ſhould paſs it with him: this being agreed to, all hands went to work upon the Little Sally and Jack, and if I had not been apprehenſive that my ignorance in what was to be done, would rather have confuſed [76]than aſſiſted, my poor [...]id ſhould not have been with-hold. Matters being put to rights, and leſs miſchief done than might have been ex⯑pected, the company ſet off for the hut of my generous hoſt, who took a hand of each of the married lovers, walking between them, and told them, he hoped, that as they had ſo well eſcaped Davy's Locker this time, they would tumble in a hammock together theſe fifty years. A freſh ſupply of fiſh, was immediately ordered into the pan, my landlord, ſwearing a terrible oath that on this occaſion, (for there was a ſtrict friendſhip between him and the parties preſerved) the old ſaying ſhould be verified, as to their ſwimming thrice: accord⯑ingly, for their ſecond ocean, it was deter⯑mined that the bowl, which, ſome years before, had commemorated an eſcape from a ſhip⯑wreck in his own fortunes, ſhould now be filled to the brim, to celebrate the ſucceſs of the Little Sally and Jack. I was preſſed to ſtay and take my ſhare, on pain of being deemed too proud to be happy, amongſt poor people, and on obſerving, that my ſteed all this time was in a ſtate, which reproached me for faring ſo ſumptuouſly, he ſtarted up, declaring, that though he could not ride, he loved a horſe next to a man, and that if mine would put up with a meſs of bran, inſtead [77]of hay, of which he had none, and a draught of ale, inſtead of water, he ſhould be as wel⯑come as his own ſoul. I took him at his word, and ſtaid to witneſs and join in the feſtivities, till there was juſt enough of the evening left to reach Abereſtdwith. I would have offered a ſmall token of acknowledgment, for what I had received, but that I ſaw a tre⯑mendous frown gathering on the brow of my hoſt, and an oath quivering on his lip, which frightened me from my deſign, and made me only take his hand, with an aſſurance, that I would never paſs his houſe without ſtopping, to ſee if all was well on board, and how the her⯑ring fiſhery ſucceeded. This ſo pleaſed him, that he made the bowl go around to my health, and wiſhing another gale of wind would blow me into his hovel, as often as I ſhould come along ſide of it; then led out my horſe, held my ſtirrup while I mounted, and huzza'd me in three hearty cheers, till I was out of ſight.

My dear friend, how fallacious, how con⯑tracted, are our judgments on that part of human nature, which we have not had oppor⯑tunities of ſeeing, and which, therefore, we too often ſuppoſe does not exiſt. We lay much of what are called, the courteſies, civilities, and [78]intereſting humanities, to the account of edu⯑cation: we conceive, that to enlarge the human heart, we ſhould refine it: in ſhort, we are ex⯑tremely apt to circumſcribe elevated action, to elevated life; or at beſt, to conſider the nobler effuſions, when they proceed from low born, and uncultured men, as exceptions to a ge⯑neral ſordidneſs, and vulgar way of feeling, as well as thinking. You will not ſuſpect me of an overfondneſs, for what is termed low com⯑pany: the error of my life, perhaps, is to have paſt too much of it in the ſociety of what is called high company; for what, commonly ſpeaking, does it ſhew us, but the ſmooth ſhil⯑lings, that Sterne has ſo finely deſcribed, as rubbing out all character and impreſſion, in the act of poliſhing? I love, however, to mix with, and as it were, blend myſelf, in all ranks and orders of men—to ſee, converſe with, and weave myſelf into their moſt familiar habi⯑tudes; and as I never yet could bring any other perſon exactly into the ſame way of thinking, I have purſued this inclination for the moſt part alone, till, by long uſage, ſolitary travelling, though I truſt you will allow me to be of a ſocial diſpoſition, is become agree⯑able to me. And ſuffer me to ſay, that I think I have derived from this very ſingularity, a more thorough inſight into nature, the hearts [79]and manners of human kind, than if I had gone the grand tour, in what is denominated the beſt company. By means of my humbler, but leſs encumbered, mode of travelling, I am as free to obſerve what is paſſing, as the birds that fly over my head: like them, I ſtop to amuſe myſelf with a ſong, regale myſelf with gleaning what I feel to be ſolid food, but which grew up in places, where another tra⯑veller would not go to look for it: like them, I enjoy the blazing hearth, and partake the crumbs of the peaſant, or pauſe to obſerve upon the magnificence, and luxuries of the prince. I paſs in rapid tranſitions, from one to the other. In a circuitous way, reviſit the places I have left, renew my acquaintance with particular perſons and places, glean the charac⯑ters, and hearts, of the poor and the rich, break in upon them unawares, open the path, by no former notices, which gives folks time, to put on the maſk of the world, and receive me in diſguiſe.—I love to take them by ſurprize, and ſo diſcover my welcome. It delights me, to lift the latch of a cottage, (ſuch, for inſtance, as I have been deſcribing) towards night-fall, and to ſee the hearts of the inhabitants fly out ſuddenly to greet me. And to treat my friends in higher life, in like manner—to ſteal into their familiar, family rooms, unexpectedly, [80]and almoſt unſeen; at hours they are moſt likely to be gathered together. When a year's abſence is expected, it delights me to cut it ſhort; ſometimes to cut it in half—ſometimes, even in quarters.—Can there be any thing more pleaſant to the traveller, who has, luckily— ‘"The world before him where to chooſe,"’ than to ſee the countenances of a whole fa⯑mily, of whatever condition, and of whatever country; for what points or boundaries of earth or water can ſet limits to a temper that cultivates the kind, the good, and the ingeni⯑ous, wherever it meets them?—to ſee, I ſay, the countenances of ſuch lighten up at your ſudden appearance, and each perſon contri⯑buting to your welcome—one offering "the ready chair," another refreſhment, &c. &c. and thus, as I ſaid, feeling yourſelf at home with the worthy, and hoſpitable, in all countries. I proteſt to you that I bear a good-will, bor⯑dering on friendſhip, for even the trees, or hedge-rows, that have formerly afforded me ſhade in ſummer, or ſhelter, ſuch as they had to beſtow, in winter, and I do not paſs them bye, in my returns, without a ſmile, and ſome⯑times a nod of acknowledgment.

Am I exhibiting traits of an humouriſt in all this? Be it ſo: if they ſerve to keep me, [81]in ſpite of many vexations from the world, in humour with it; if they open my eyes to the beauties of nature, and my heart to the author of them: if, in the cultivation of new friend⯑ſhips, they help me to forget, or forgive, at leaſt, old enmities; if, in a word, they enable me to draw both from ſolitude and ſociety thoſe ſatisfactions which, though unfelt or un⯑known to others, are extremely appreciated by me, would you wiſh me to forego them, in complaiſance to thoſe who think they are right on travellers, and I a mere idler by the way, becauſe we perform our journey—the ſame ſhort journey, alas! with reſpect to human life— in a different manner, and with different de⯑grees of expedition, as well as by different roads? No. You have too much philoſophy, too much toleration, too much affection, about you, not to let every man amuſe himſelf, in his travels through life, in his own way; and with reſpect to myſelf, you would be in friend⯑ſhip with the moſt inanimate objects—with a clown that opened the door of his hut to me (but for an hour) amidſt the Appenines, to lighten the toils of aſcending them, or with the ſimpleſt ſhrubs that ſaved me, but a minute, from the "pitileſs ſtorm" in the deſerts of Arabia.

[82]In return, every thing that contributes to your eaſe, comfort, or happineſs, is intereſting to your friend; and were you to tell me, that a poor ſparrow that ſat on your houſe-top gave you pleaſure to have him amongſt your domeſ⯑tics, I muſt mourn the fate which ſhould bring that ſparrow to the ground.

How have I been ſeduced into theſe delinea⯑tions of myſelf? I know not. But, I remember, that they grew out of an apology I was mak⯑ing for ſtopping ſo frequently on the road, going backwards and forwards ſo irregu⯑larly, and vindicating the humble companions amongſt whom I every now and then throw myſelf.

In the courſe of our correſpondence you have had reaſon, I truſt, to approve of the pauſes I have made in the moſt lowly dwel⯑lings. At the laſt reſting place, for example, did I not bring you acquainted with a ſet of as humane, open-hearted, ſincere, induſtrious, and innocent creatures, as ever ſtruggled, with the winds and waves, for a ſubſiſtence? Ex⯑poſed to the moſt furious elements, do you not feel that the gentleſt and the beſt are mixed up in their compoſitions, even while their lives are paſſed in the rudeſt occupations? Do you [83]not ſee that the hardeſt hands, and the ſofteſt hearts belong, frequently, to the ſame perſons? Is not hoſpitality, good faith, good neighbour⯑hood, and every ſocial virtue, that would em⯑blazon a court, ſhut into that clay-built hut, I have ſo lately left? Are you not in alliance with the whole party? Does not your heart warm to every individual member of it, though you will probably never know them, but by my report? Does not your attaching ſentiment extend, in a manner, to the very veſſel that brought the happy pair again together, and to the adventurous ſkift, that braved the tempeſt for her relief?

Had I not been a deliberate, if you will have it ſo, a ſauntering traveller, and of the tem⯑perament I have pourtrayed, you would have paſt your whole life, perhaps, without know⯑ing there was ſuch a groupe in exiſtence, hid, as they are, from high minded obſervers.

There is a beautiful ſentiment, ſomewhere in Shenſtone's proſe volume, which purports, that he never caſts his eye over a ſpacious map, but he fancies in ſuch and ſuch countries are numberleſs amiable perſons he would like to know, and concludes, with a ſigh of regret, [84]that it is impoſſible he ever ſhould. The traveller of my caſt, certainly, ſtands a better chance of hitting upon ſome of theſe, than he that is in and out of the country, as faſt as horſes, or wheels, can carry him, and, of courſe, though he paſſes by as many amiable people, as even a generous heart could expect to find, knows as little about them, as thoſe wheels, or horſes. Whatever, therefore, you were before, I ſet you down from this moment, as a convert to reſidentiary travelling: and, moreover, whenever you next examine your map, to trace the wanderings of your correſpondent, you will be pleaſed to know, what you certainly did not know before, that upon the ſide of a barren heath, at the edge of a roaring iſea, be⯑tween Aberavon and Aberedſtwith, there ſtands a ſolitary hut, which would open to diſtreſs, as readily as to proſperity, and afford its im⯑partial bounty, to whoſoever is in want of it. Ah, that truth would warrant our ſaying ſo much in praiſe of half the houſes, that have the moſt room to ſpare, and the beſt accom⯑modation to beſtow, in the great city of Lon⯑don, or any other great city! but, as Cooper ſays, very ſweetly, though, perhaps, a little quaintly,— ‘"God made the country, and man made the town."’ [85]After all, there are good people every where, if we take the trouble to look for them; and to expect them without trouble, or reſearch, in a world like this, is prepoſterous. As cities have their virtuous characters, cottages have their villains, and wherever cenſure is general, it is in life, as in literature, perhaps,— ‘"Ten cenſure wrong for one who acts amiſs."’ At leaſt, the practiſe of condemning in the lump, and erecting our panegyric on cottages, on the ruins of old threadbare ſatire on courts, is my abhorrence. In either ſtation, one of your principles would be a juſt object of the love I bear you. Is this a letter, or a volume? Leſt in looking back, you ſhould aſk what it is about? I will abruptly end it, by bidding you Adieu.

LETTER VIII.
TO THE SAME.

TRUE, my friend, I plead guilty to your accuſation of ſilence: it has been a whole month ſince I laſt addreſſed you; but I under⯑ſtood by yours, which came to hand ſoon after mine was diſpatched, that you were in your bed of ſickneſs, and that heavy grief, for the loſs of one of the earlieſt adopted, and moſt dearly loved, of your friends occaſioned it. I have the moſt rooted diſlike to interrupt, or to be interrupted, in the awful duties and inclin⯑ings of diſtreſs on theſe occaſions. It is uſual, I know, to write a very long epiſtle of condo⯑lence, and conſolation on ſuch caſes: but did not the intention ſanctify the practice, I ſhould pronounce it impertinent, if not impious. It is obtruding upon our ſorrow in its ſabbath. One whom we have long valued, long converſed with, will be ſeen by us in this world no more; the day that bereaves us, and the days of mourning that ſucceed it, ſhould be kept holy. It ſhould be hallowed with our tears. Such tears often "do us good," or, at worſt, they do us leſs harm, than an unreaſonable attempt to wipe them away. And ſuch efforts, are al⯑ways [87]more or leſs ineffectual: the eloquence of Cicero, cloathing the morality of Seneca, would neither reach our hearts, nor convince our un⯑derſtandings, under the recent impreſſions of grief, for the death of a long tried, and long loved friend. The ordinary applications are packs of proverbs, and ſtrings of maxims, which tell us what we know to be true, and impracticable. Had I inſulted you with any of theſe, I ſhould have diſhonoured both the liv⯑ing and the dead. I am not to learn, that you have "the virtue to be moved," and, that her you mourn, had a double claim on your ten⯑der regret—her own admirable qualities, and her veneration for yours.

As there is a point, however, beyond which ſorrow ſhould not paſs, ſo is there one that ſhould bound the ſalutary ſilence of a friend. That point is, methinks, arrived to you, and to myſelf. Your favour, by the poſt of yeſter⯑day, convinces me—

Your obſervation, that there was a reſemblance betwixt me and the deceaſed, in the conſtruction of our minds, or, at leaſt, in the formation of our taſte, is extremely flattering; particularly, in [88]an hour like this, when you have been, as it were, embalming the qualities, that moſt pleaſed you in the latter, with your tears. I remem⯑ber, you was formerly of this opinion. The difference of our ages made nothing againſt the ſimilitude of our ſpirits. The few days I paſſed in the company of this ſecond De l'Enclos, at your houſe, in the winter of — were amongſt the few that hurried away from life, without feeling one moment too long. Shall we ever forget the enthuſiaſm of ſympa⯑thy, that by an involuntary impulſe threw us into each other's embraces, on our diſcovery, that we both held long converſations with our⯑ſelves, and as regularly went on with queſtion and anſwer, as if we had been in the heat of debate, in a room full of company? You re⯑member, likewiſe, I truſt, our ſatisfaction on finding, that we had been both ſet down, for people out of their wits, by the— ‘"Sly, flow things, with circumſpective eyes."’ and that we ſhould both deſcend to the grave, with the reputation of having been diſtracted: that is to ſay, having had the power of extract⯑ing ſweets, from thoſe flowery trifles, which others, who are as pleaſed with trifles, not a whit better themſelves, reckon amongſt the weeds of life.

[89]Her journey to the tomb of her grand⯑mother, from whoſe bounty ſhe had received many valuable things, and from whoſe pious conduct in life, the rich legacy of a virtuous example, is never to quit either your memory, or mine, my dear friend. The diſtance be⯑twixt the ſpot where ſhe herſelf liv'd, and that where her venerable anceſtor was buried, the difficulties ſhe encountered on the way, and the pleaſure of accompliſhing her purpoſe, were all circumſtances to intereſt her excellent heart: but, how was this pleaſure augmented, by the little adventures ſhe met with in the village, where the bones of this amiable rela⯑tive were depoſited. Her own eloquent man⯑ner of relating is neceſſary, to give the portrait of both the cauſe and effect, on that occaſion. The face and figure, over which, Beauty's great deſtroyer, Time, could gain but a partial and imperfect victory, ſhould be before you, to feel the fulneſs of her happineſs, on her hearing from the whole neighbourhood, who had her in remembrance, a long detail of the worthieſt, kindeſt actions. She made the tour of the vil⯑lage, and in almoſt every houſe, ſaw or heard of ſomething, to make her proud that ſhe ſprung—

[90]What, indeed, muſt have been the tranſport of a mind like her's, on gathering from one poor family, that to the deceaſed, they owed their preſervation from a priſon; from another, the portion of a daughter; from a third, a timely reſcue from the jaws of poverty, and ſo on in benevolent ſucceſſions? This village, too, was the abode of her early days. How vivid were the pictures ſhe drew of her reviſitation, to the ſcenes, which had made upon a ſuſceptible heart, the firſt impreſſions, and which half a century's abſence had not power to impair. Like a lover, faithful to his firſt affections, ſhe told us, you know, how ſhe ſaluted many of the green lanes, allies, and old inhabitants as friends, for whom, though long parted, ſhe re⯑tained a kind remembrance: ſhe paid parti⯑cular reſpect to the yews that ſhaded her rela⯑tion's grave, and had a long interview with ſome elms, now grown into ſtately trees, which were of her own planting: ſhe called them her children, and told them, ſhe rejoiced to ſee them do well in the world, and proſper.

But that, which had more magic for me on this occaſion, was, I confeſs, the very points, which your very ſober, ſenſical people, who are vain of their rationality, would be the leaſt ſatisfied with—the romantic means ſhe [91]uſed to bring this journey of her heart to bear. Nothing could favour it more—even a writer of romances could not, than the character and diſpoſition of the reſident clergyman of the village, who, in anſwer to her letter of enquiry, reſpecting the poſſibility of a few days accommodation, and deſcribing the motives, ſent her a preſſing, and, indeed, irreſiſtible invitation to his own houſe, aſſuring her at the ſame time, that himſelf, and every part of his family, entered ſo cordially into the virtu⯑ous ſpirit of her intended adventure, that they were deſirous to give it every encouragement and aſſiſtance, begging her, withal, to remember, that the moment ſhe entered the Parſonage of —, ſhe was at home, becauſe, wherever there is ſympathy, there is natural affection, and, of courſe, (though perſonal ſtrangers before,) they meet on the terms of near relations, whom a wiſer and better Director, than Chance, has at laſt brought together.

Her firſt grand point being thus carried, and ſo much in her own way, the reſt was of no difficult attainment, for though, Mr. L. S. her huſband, is a man of the world, and well knows how to traffic with it, the ſpirit of trade had not ſo far abſorbed the ſpirit of con⯑jugal love, as to obſtruct any innocent diſpoſi⯑tional [92]impulſe his wife wiſhed to follow. The Quixotiſm before mentioned, indeed, ap⯑peared to him carrying the joke too far, and it was no eaſy matter, to make him believe the fair Quixote ſerious. His reaſoning upon it was ſo characteriſtic of the man of buſineſs, that it formed the fineſt contraſt to the ideas, and expectations, of the woman of genius.

What! my dear, take a journey of an hun⯑dred miles, to viſit the grave of your grand⯑mother!—Write a long rig-me-role epiſtle, (which, I dare ſay, is very fine, and all that,) to a man you never ſaw! Why, what ſort of anſwer can you expect? Depend on it, the gentleman will ſet you down as a mad-wo⯑man and ſo write you no anſwer at all.

And when the anſwer did come, all I can ſay is, added Mr. L. S. he is as mad as you. Go by all means, continued he, heartily laugh⯑ing in a good humoured manner; pray go, wiſe, for 'tis pity two houſes ſhould part you. Have your frolic out, I beg; only if, when you get together, you ſhould make one another worſe, and ſhould wiſh for apartments nearer Moorfields, drop me a line, and I will do the needful.

[93]Our heroine, you know, was too much in earneſt to be laughed out either of her feelings, or her object, and ſet out, at "peep of dawn," on her expedition. The worthy family more than juſtified their promiſes; and the conge⯑nial ſpirits, which were thus made known to each, enjoyed a higher "feaſt of reaſon," or at leaſt "flow of ſoul," than they had ever before experienced. On her return, Mr. L. S. received her with the ſame good-nature he had ſuffered her to depart, and contented him⯑ſelf with pleaſantly obſerving, that as ſhe had overſtayed her intended time of coming back many days, he hoped ſhe was as happy as ſhe had expected to be; on which, my dear, cried he, embracing her—I have only to ſay, that your fine ſentimental people of genius, about love, friendſhip, ſympathy, congeniality of ſouls, and all that, are the moſt forward, thoughtleſs, and impudent folks in the world; for I could no more go to a ſtranger's houſe, and feel myſelf at home in it, without having any manner of buſineſs with the family, than I could fly in the air.—I hope, however, you have had the grace to invite them here by way of per contra, for we are deviliſhly in ar⯑rears to the gentleman at preſent; and as, I truſt, I am a tolerably honeſt man, though, thank God, no genius, I ſhall be glad to aſſiſt [94]you in paying the debts you have contracted with all my heart. But now tell me fairly, as 'tis all over—added he—did you find it anſwer? Was you not plaguy ſick of each other, of yourſelves, and of your old Granny, into the bargain, before you had been there three days, only you were aſhamed to own it for fear of being laughed at.

Sick, tired! reiterated Mrs. L. S. why I was in Paradiſe! and we could have paſſed our whole lives together, without knowing a weary moment! Tired! there was not a dry eye in the whole family when I got into the carriage to come back; and for my part I thought I ſhould have broke my heart.

I thank you for the compliment, however, with all my heart—replied the huſband— taking off his hat, and making her a bow.— In Paradiſe was you: well, that is amazing! for I know I ſhould have been the moſt miſer⯑able fellow in the world—nevertheleſs invite the ſtrange gentleman, and his ſtrange family, here, that we may ſettle accounts and ſtrike the balance—I have no more to ſay upon it.

How wonderful, my dear friend, is it to conſider the variety of human minds! We are [95]told, there are more different forts than of moſs.—Ought we not rather to ſay the forts are as numerous as there are ſands on the ſhore? In every ſingle family there are, uſually, as many different taſtes and tempers as there are perſons; and if in ſome there happens to be a family likenèſs in feelings, as in features, though the reſemblance may be ſtriking in ſome things, there is almoſt always a marked difference in others; and with reſpect to pains and pleaſures, the means of avoiding the one, and of promoting the other, are as diverſified as the objects which produce them: nay, the fond prepoſſeſſion we have for our own amuſe⯑ments and purſuits, gives us ſo ſtrong a preju⯑judice againſt thoſe of other people, of other diſpoſitions and habits, that we too often want candour and toleration enough to ſuffer our neighbours to be happy in their own way. Per⯑ſons of a vigorous fancy and a warm heart accuſe thoſe who are leſs ardent of being in⯑ſenſible; while theſe, on the other hand, cen⯑ſure their cenſurers, as excentric and viſionary, on both ſides, with as little reaſon as we ſhould condemn the greyhound for wanting the ſa⯑gacity of the pointer, or of the pointer for being leſs ſwift than the greyhound: each be⯑ing gifted by nature with the talent and qua⯑lity beſt accommodated to its eaſe and felicity.

[96]An ingenious friend of mine, who, by the bye, takes many curious ways of making up his own happineſs, is uſed to ſay, whenever he meets with or hears of any thing that does not accord with his plans of acting or thinking, "there muſt be people of all ſorts." Now as there is, certainly, room enough in the world for all ſorts of people, it ſeems rather ſelfiſh that we ſhould joſtle againſt each other in the journey we are all taking, and "fall out by the way," becauſe ſome are able or willing to go faſter than others; becauſe one takes de⯑light in the objects which another paſſes un⯑noticed. All that can fairly be ſaid on that is, ſhould any one be diſpoſed to find fault, theſe are my objects, friend, though they are not your's: I was born to reliſh them, you were not; when we come to your's, I promiſe you, you ſhall ſtop to enjoy them as long as you pleaſe; and though poſſibly I ſhall find as little ſatisfaction in them as you do in mine, conſidered in themſelves, yet the thought of their giving you pleaſure ſhall make me en⯑dure them: meantime I truſt you will bear with mine.

Can any thing be more equitable? Can any thing be more eaſy? yet half the bickerings of the human race, in civil affairs, proceeds [97]from a ſcorn of this fair dealing betwixt man and man, each inſiſting not only in taking the road he himſelf likes beſt, but that others of tempers and buſineſs; utterly different, and whoſe objects, perhaps, lie in a quite contrary route, muſt take it too; and, if he refuſes, be ſet down as an obſtinate mortal that is re⯑ſolved to go his own way.

I do really think this is a very unreaſonable mode of proceeding, eſpecially, as I before ſaid, there are objects ſufficient for us all, and, certainly, I may with as much propriety quar⯑rel with a perſon for having a different com⯑plexion, as a different taſte, and juſt as ration⯑ally expect he ſhould, to humour my caprice, take my ſkin, and throw away his own, as to caſt off thoſe feelings, which naturally belong to him, and put on mine: yet the beſt and kindeſt-hearted people often diſpute the point. Were the worthleſs only engaged in and hurt by the ſtrife, and were the matter in debate only a choice of vicious purſuits, one might be content to let them battle it out; but I have ſeen, indeed every body ſees, many inſtances where perſons of good minds, and underſtand⯑ings, yet differing in the mode of exerciſing them, have ſo little reſpect for what pleaſes others, and ſo great a veneration for what [98]pleaſes themſelves, that unleſs they are all pleaſed with the ſame thing, they effectually take care that there ſhall be no pleaſure at all. Ah! my friend, how many elopements, ſepa⯑rate maintenances, diviſions in friendſhip, diſ⯑orders in the church, and diſturbances in the ſtate, has this ſelf-willed tenaciouſneſs occa⯑ſioned? Unqueſtionably, "the aim and end of "our being" is happineſs; but it is to be found, aſſociated too with equal innocence, in ten thouſand times, ten thouſand paths,

All this is the very perfection of poetry, and it has a conſiderable degree of truth, but though each is thus "happy in his own," there is not one of the characters here deſcribed, who is not, at times, out of humour even with himſelf, becauſe his neighbour is, or wiſhes to be, as happy as he, but begs leave to borrow [99]it from another ſource. Surely this is not aſk⯑ing too much, and yet it is "hardly granted."

Poſſibly, my highly endowed and, highly-re⯑ſpected friend, I may, all this time, have been forcing you out of the path of your contem⯑plations into mine; but I had a better motive for it than moſt intruders can give; and, I truſt, my deſign is in ſome meaſure anſwered. Our deſires and averſions, you know, are for the moſt part the ſame. I exult in the reſem⯑blance; and wherever we are of oppoſite ideas, I am ſo ſatisfied you have the beſt reaſons for your oppoſition, that I immediately ſet about examining my own ideas, and have been more than once the better for the ſcrutiny. In life, and at death, I will thank you! Farewell.

P. S. I have a month's Gleanings to preſent you with, and ſhall lay the whole ſheaf at your feet in my next. It would be doing a violence to my feelings, were I to mix any matter with this letter, not in keeping with the object to which it is ſacred. You can account for this. Adieu.

LETTER IX. TO THE SAME.

THIS town is neither good nor bad. The ſtreets are beyond compariſon the dirtieſt I ever ſaw, a proof of which is their being at this moment indicted by the inhabitants. No wonder, therefore, if ſtrangers complain. In⯑deed, they muſt be rugged and unpleaſant at all times, for the country here is flat, ſtoney, and rugged. The environs are neither barren nor fertile, and the only walks, or in truth walkable places, are thoſe at the end of the town, round the ruined caſtle, another, round the church-yard, and another, very ſhort one, by the ſide of the harbour. The beach is im⯑paſſable, and the bathing places difficult and unchearful. In fine, it is in almoſt all reſpects the reverſe of Barmouth, except that it has the advantage in the number of houſes, and of courſe in the company. I ſhould not have thought any thing here worth mentioning, had it not been to give you a few hints by way of directory, not to let the greater popula⯑rity of this place draw you from the other (Barmouth) where your bath will be more [101]comfortable, and your agrémens, from the ſur⯑rounding objects, out of all compariſon what⯑ever.

For want of other allurements, I choſe this place, to throw together the obſervations that were ſcattered about my note-book, reſpecting certain cuſtoms, uſages, and a variety of other things, it may be proper for a traveller to be apprized of, particularly the articles of expen⯑diture.

In the firſt place it is a ſettled uſage, and cuſtom, throughout the principality, for the trading part of the people to over-reach you in your little marketings, or bargains, with them; that is to ſay, they will aſk all ſtrangers, of genteel appearance, about a third more than they would aſk a native or countryman; but even allowing this, you will have almoſt all the neceſſaries, and moſt of the luxuries of life, at leaſt, by a third cheaper than (with very few exceptions) the cheapeſt parts of England: at firſt you may put up with a little extortion, which will diminiſh, as you become reſidentiary. All places, as they get into reputation for any beauty or convenience, and are, therefore, the reſorts of people that, ſince they can afford to travel, are ſuppoſed to [102]be wealthy, grow dear, at firſt imperceptibly, till, in a few years, that commodity, which you could procure for ſixpence, is not to be ob⯑tained for a ſhilling, and ſo on in proportion. This is remarkably verified in Wales; ground, houſe-rent, and the neceſſaries of life, are ſo much raiſed in price, ſince my firſt tour of this country about twelve years ago, that were not the fact univerſally admitted, I ſhould be afraid you would ſuſpect me of profiting by the licence expected to be taken by travellers, were I to mention the comparative difference betwixt that time, and the preſent, in both North and South Wales.

Nevertheleſs, a good oeconomiſt might, in the family way, even at the preſent day, make one hundred pounds tell in this country to three hundred in any other belonging, pro⯑perly, to England: I here ſpeak, however, of comparative prices in the ſmaller towns, and villages; in the cities, the eſtimate muſt be about two to one in favour of Wales. In Caer⯑marthen and Caernarvon, for example, the one a principal town to the ſouthward, the other northward, you get fiſh, fowl, butcher's meat, eggs, bacon, and firing, (certainly the grand articles in domeſtic eſtabliſhment) on an average, at the following rates: [103]

In little villages higher up the country, both ways, the cheapneſs, for want of a market, is ſtill more extraordinary; if we except the re⯑mote places of England, near the ſea-coaſt, and certain parts of Cornwall and Yorkſhire, this ſtatement, which you may depend on it, is the correct reſult of reſidentiary remark, will convince you that this principality is not more abundantly ſupplied with the ornamental than the uſeful: and that, as thoſe who have taſte, fortune, and talents could not be more gratified in viſiting it on the ſcore of romantic beauty, they, who found it expedient to re⯑trench, to narrow their eſtabliſhment, and yet to diminiſh none of the comforts to which they [104]have been accuſtomed, could not, any where, find a more peaceful, plentiful, and healthy re⯑treat: With this additional agrément, that al⯑moſt all places are ſo ſurrounded by good neighbours, and there is really a diſpoſitional, as well as hereditary hoſpitality, amongſt the native gentry, that a new ſettler never need to be in want of agreeable ſociety.

I inſiſt upon this, the rather, as it is not more the chimera of perſons of genius, going into foreign countries for fine ſcenery, than it is for people of ſmall or broken fortunes, to gather the wrecks of their property, and carry them abroad, on the falſe ſuperſtition that they may there ſooner repair their ruins, and, as it were, rebuild themſelves and families, than in any parts of the Britiſh dominion. I muſt own that, although I have travelled too much, not to have rubbed off all the little, or great, national prejudices, that cling to my honeſt friend John Bull, and although, I have had abundant reaſon to prove, that Providence has been far more equal in its indulgences to all the inhabi⯑tants of the globe, than ſtay-at-home people can ever be made to believe, I am Engliſhman enough to adopt that ſentiment of a brother wanderer, which adviſes us not to ſpend more money out of our own country, than is neceſ⯑ſary. [105]Methinks, indeed, it is but fair to give our own country the preference, where advan⯑tages are, at leaſt, equal. If, for example, a fa⯑mily finds an arrangement in London, or any of the provincial towns, no longer ſupportable, and can accompliſh all the objects of a change of place, as well at the end of two hundred, as two thouſand miles, I humbly conceive, that the ſhorteſt cut to the land of oeconomy is the beſt; in which, the good old maxim of chooſing the leaſt of two evils, is confirmed by common ſenſe. Should any of your friends, therefore, henceforward, find ſuch retirements worth looking after, they may be found in almoſt any part of the principality, north or ſouth, two hundred miles from the Britiſh capital, and if the other hundred is added, the expence of making it, would, in the end, be well repaid by the beauty of the country, and the reaſonable⯑neſs of proviſions. Houſe rent is, likewiſe, a very important article. A friend of mine oc⯑cupied an exceeding large, well furniſhed houſe, ſufficient for his numerous family, and had more than enough of garden and orchard ground, to ſupply it with vegetables and fruits, and paſturage for a couple of horſes and a cow, at the yearly rent of 25l. a year, free of taxes. I ſaw many others on a ſmaller ſcale at 15l. and 20l. unfurniſhed houſes, with [106]land enough to pay a conſiderable part of the rent, and reſerves for your own uſe, may be had in the moſt beautiful ſituations at a pro⯑portionate rate. You will pleaſe to note, that this is not meant as a character of partial places, but as general information, with reſpect to the whole country.

The exceptions to the rule are made not ſo much by the people of Wales, as thoſe of Eng⯑land and Ireland; the imprudence of whom I ſhall enlarge on in its place. At preſent, I ſhall content myſelf by obſerving, that when they have loſt their eſtates, it would be well for them, if they could contrive to loſe the folly by which their inſolvency was produced. But, unfortunately, that prodigal ſpirit which at⯑tended them in affluent, accompanies them in ſlender circumſtances; and wherever they go for refuge, they carry their expenſive ideas, and habits, along with them, abſurdly ſuppoſing, they can reconcile their former notions with their preſent ſyſtem of oeconomy, as if, like a per⯑ſon in a fever, they imagined a cure could be performed by merely changing their poſture. A great deal more is neceſſary in a family re⯑form, than quitting the haunt of its former fol⯑lies or misfortunes. They come into a new country, find it reaſonable, take the firſt op⯑portunity [107]to play off their pride againſt their poverty, ſhew the people they mix with, that they ſtill wiſh to be looked on as perſonages of diſtinction; boaſt of what fortunes they have already ſquandered, and what they can ſtill afford to laviſh; put the natives firſt upon ex⯑tortion, furniſhing them with the hint to cheat, and then, but too late, quarrel with them for taking it. Thus, deep play, late hours, and every exceſs of London and Dublin, are, at the time I am now writing, together with clubs, and other town-bred luxuries, in the high ton of folly in many places, where the in⯑habitants grow rich and roguiſh by ſupplying them. I extremely diſlike perſonality, or could give you no inconſiderable catalogue of ruſtic gaming houſes, White's, Brookes's, &c. in the very heart of Cambria. In as much, there⯑fore, as they have degenerated from the ſim⯑plicity of ancient manners, and from the ho⯑neſty of ancient maxims, into the refinements of the world, on which we ſo much pique our⯑ſelves, the fault is originally our own, and we muſt take the conſequences. Luxury is a wide ſpreading evil, my friend, and ſoon paſſes from one country to another, making proſelytes as it goes. Aſſure yourſelf it has travelled into this country, and has its votaries in the moun⯑tains. They contain more than one farmer, [108]who, in imitation of his Engliſh brothers of the plough, keeps his pair of geldings for the chace, and a ſide-ſaddle pad for the lady of the dairy, who feathers her cap with the fineſt of the farmers wives and daughters, whom we have ſeen at the rural aſſemblies — and —, acting the characters of ducheſſes, for that night only. Although ſome twenty years back, when the town had not quite journeyed ſo far into the north country Welch-ward, at leaſt theſe new⯑made gentry were contented to trudge on foot ten or a dozen miles, after the duties of the morning were over, to a ruſtic hop, at the ſummons of a blind harper, and the dames and damſels thought themſelves well off if they could get into one of the carts, or mount by pairs on the back of one of the cart-horſes, to give the Corydons of the hills the meet⯑ing. The corruption ſtops not at amuſement: it extends to buſineſs; the firſt muſt be ſup⯑plied by the laſt; but, as this cannot be done in the way of ordinary, it muſt be effected by extraordinary means. Supernumerary horſes, dreſſes, &c. are not to be maintained at the old market profits: theſe, though equivalent to the neceſſaries, are inadequate to the luxu⯑ries of life; and luxuries once indulged, ſoon become neceſſaries; for where is the male ſwain that having, as it were, flown over the [109]mountains on a hunter, will ſtoop again to creep over them on "Dobbin, or the foundered mare?" or the female, who will, for the ſake of oeconomy, diſmount her feathers, and ex⯑change again the glaring folly of her ſhewy at⯑tire, for her wheel of cottage induſtry, ‘"and robes of country brown?"’ It is out of the nature of pleaſingly pernicious effects to expect it: ergo, the price of their commodities muſt be raiſed: and it is but rea⯑ſonable, that as we occaſioned the folly, we ſhould contribute to its ſupport.

As we advance, however, into the interior parts of the country, and the farther from the route of modiſh travellers, always the better— as we get more into thoſe unfrequented places, from whence "the ſober wiſhes" of the inhabi⯑tants have "not learned to ſtray," and where none but literary and gleaning travellers delight to explore, we find this hardy and happy race of people rejoicing, like their country, in the ſimpleſt charms of nature; and Mr. Gray, who made a philoſophical tour of Wales, you know, muſt have had numberleſs living reaſons, in the courſe of it, to exclaim—

[110]and to ſee the ſentiment brought to the teſt, truth indeed warrants our carrying the ſentiment much farther; for in this caſe the wiſdom of the world is worſe than fooliſhneſs: it is knavery, and we may rather cry out with Ad⯑diſon—

I have ſeen groupes of poor people in the ſe⯑queſtered ſpots of both North and South Wales, ſporting amongſt the precipices, or in the glens, with a "content ſo abſolute," as to look on any objects leſs in a ſtate of nature than themſelves as unwelcome: at the ſight of an unexpected man of the world, they will run from him into a rocky cavity, like a rabbit into its hole, or plunge into the thickeſt ſhade of the valley, as if they were eſcaping from a beaſt of prey. Were they to know what a ſnaky train of paſ⯑ſions are probably folded up in the boſom of that well-dreſſed worldling, which never crept into their breaſts, they would often have reaſon to believe he was the moſt dangerous monſter they could encounter, and double their dili⯑gence to avoid him.

And here, amongſt the uſages and cuſtoms, I muſt not omit to inform you, that what you have, perhaps, often heard without believing— [111]reſpecting the mode of courtſhip, amongſt the Welch peaſants, is true. The lower order of people, do actually carry on their love affairs in bed, and what would extremely aſtoniſh more poliſhed lovers, they are carried on ho⯑nourably, it being, at leaſt, as uſual, for the paſtora's of the mountains to go from the bed of courtſhip to the bed of marriage, as unpol⯑luted and maidenly as the Chloes of faſhion; and yet, you are not to conclude this proceeds from their being leſs ſuſceptible of the belle paſſion than their betters: or, that the cold air, which they breathe has "froze the genial cur⯑rent of their ſouls." By no means; if they cannot boaſt the voluptuous languors of an Italian ſky, they glow with the bracing ſpirit of a more invigorating atmoſphere. I really took ſome pains to inveſtigate this curious cuſtom, and after being aſſured by many, of its veracity, had an opportunity of atteſting its ex⯑iſtence with my own eyes. The ſervant maid of the family I viſited in Caernarvonſhire, hap⯑pened to be the object of a young peaſant, who walked eleven long miles every ſunday morn⯑ing, to favour his ſuit, and regularly returned the ſame night through all weathers, to be ready for monday's employment in the fields, being ſimply a day labourer. He uſually ar⯑rived in time for morning ſervice, which he [112]conſtantly attended, after which he eſcorted his Dulcinea home to the houſe of her maſter, by whoſe permiſſion they as conſtantly paſt the ſucceeding hour in bed, according to the cuſtom of the country. Theſe tender ſabba⯑tical preliminaries continued without any in⯑terruption near two years, when the treaty of alliance was ſolemnized; and ſo far from any breach of articles happening in the intermediate time, it is moſt likely that it was conſidered by both parties as a matter of courſe, without exciting any other idea. On ſpeaking to my friend on the ſubject, he obſerved that, though it certainly appeared a dangerous mode of mak⯑ing love, he had ſeen ſo few living abuſes of it, during ſix and thirty years reſidence in that county, where it, nevertheleſs, had always, more or leſs, prevailed, he muſt con⯑clude it was as innocent as any other.— One proof of its being thought ſo by the par⯑ties, is the perfect eaſe and freedom with which it is done, no aukwardneſs or confuſion appear⯑ing on either ſide; the moſt well-behaved and decent young women giving into it without a bluſh, and they are by no means deficient in modeſty. What is pure in idea is always ſo in conduct, ſince bad actions are the common conſequence of ill thoughts; and though the better ſort of people treat this ceremony as a [113]barbariſm, it is very much to be doubted whe⯑ther more faux pas have been committed by the Cambrian boors in this free acceſs to the bed chambers of their miſtreſſes, than by more faſhionable Strephons and their nymphs, near ‘"Dimpled brook and fountain brim."’ in groves and ſhady bowers. The power of habit is, perhaps, ſtronger than the power of paſſion, or even than of the charms which inſpire it; and it is ſufficient, almoſt, to ſay a thing is the cuſtom of a country to clear it from any re⯑proach that would attach to an innovation. Were it the practice of a few only, and to be gratified by ſtealth, there would, from the ſtrange conſtruction of human nature, be more cauſe of ſuſpicion; but being ancient, general, and carried on without difficulty, it is, probably as little dangerous as a tete-a-tete in a drawing⯑room, or in any other full-dreſs place, where young people meet to ſay ſoft things to each other. A moon-light walk in Papa's garden, where Miſs ſteals out to meet her lover againſt the conſent of her parents, and, of courſe, ex⯑tremely agreeable to the young people, has ten times the peril.

Amongſt the cuſtoms that had peculiar at⯑tractions for me, was the tender veneration paid, externally at leaſt, to the dead; the [114]church-yards being kept with an attentive decen⯑cy, we, in vain, look for in many other countries. There is ſomething extremely ſimple and plea⯑ſing in the idea, as well as in the practice, of ſtrewing flowers and evergreens over the graves of departed friends and relations. Every Sa⯑turday, ſome of the ſurvivors, perform the eſta⯑bliſhed duty at the family grave. This con⯑fiſts in clearing it of all weeds, repairing the mould, dreſſing the verdure, mending the little fences of white tiles or ſhells that ſurround it, and, in ſhort, putting it in order againſt the Sabbath; then the whole pariſh are to be eye witneſſes of the pious cares of each other: I have ſeen graves ſo diligently cultured, that it has every week been planted with the choiceſt flowers of the ſeaſon; others have been orna⯑mented with the more permanent ſhrubs, and the little hillocks, ſacred to infants have, lite⯑rally, beſtowed on them ‘"All the incenſe of the breathing Spring."’

Several good purpoſes are anſwered hereby, I will recount ſome of them to you in the words of a Pembrokeſhire widow, whom I lately ſaw decorating the graves of her huſ⯑band and a child, their firſt born, who died in the ſame year. The following is a faithful copy of our converſation.

Your employment muſt be very intereſting to you.

[115]It is our way in theſe parts, Sir. Some think it a trouble: I have no pleaſure now that equals it, yet I am ſure to have wet eyes all the time it is doing.

The relations then, at whoſe graves you are performing this ſadly pleaſing duty, muſt needs have been very near and dear to you.

They could not be more ſo. This was the beſt huſband, and the moſt honeſt man in Wales, and the roſes and violets, which I have juſt been ſetting at the head and feet of this grave, are not ſweeter or prettier, than the poor little girl who lies under them. But they are in a better place, and I ought to be happy, and ſo I am.

Here ſhe wept very bitterly.

I ſee yonder, an old man entering the church-yard, with a large bundle of young plants, which he can ſcarce carry.

That man is in his ninety third year, and has buried all his family: the laſt was a grandſon, to whoſe grave he is now going, and which he will make like a garden before he leaves it. Almoſt all that end of the church yard are his dead, and he is very neat and nice about the graves of all, but the grandſon's the moſt.

[116]Then he was the favourite of the family: as the laſt and youngeſt, perhaps, he was the poor old man's Benjamin.

On the contrary, he lov'd him the leaſt, and ſome think, that an unlucky blow given by the old man was the cauſe of the young one's death, but it cannot be proved, ſo he eſcapes, but by his care about the poor young fellow's grave, our townfolk imagine his conſcience ſmites him: though, for that matter, we all dreſs our dead here, whether we love or hate them, it is quite a ſcandal to let a Sa⯑turday paſs, without making every grave as clean as ourſelves for the Sabbath.

It is a very commendable cuſtom, and I wiſh with all my heart, it were adopted in England, where, too generally ſpeaking, the repoſi⯑taries of the dead are ſhockingly violated. Horſes, cows, ſheep, are often ſuffered to feed upon the grave; nay, the parſon himſelf frequently turns his pad to fatten on his de⯑ceaſed pariſhioners. This you will ſay, is be⯑ing prieſt-ridden with a vengeance: ſtill worſe, the hogs of half the pariſh are allowed to rootle up the earth and bones.

Bleſſed be God, the bones of my dear dear babe and huſband, do not lie in England!

[117]And as to cleanlineſs, in other reſpects, that article ſo properly an object of your care, is very rarely attended to with us. The weeds and nettles are permitted to choak up half the graves in a church-yard, and every other ſpecies of negligence and filth is thrown there, as if, inſtead of being the decent receptacle of the forefathers of the village or town to which it belongs, it were the common ſewer of the pariſh. Some few indeed are kept a little more orderly, becauſe they are either public walks, and have therefore a degree of faſhion, or the biſhop of the dioceſe is reſidentiary there; but even theſe exceptions are for the moſt part confined to the path-ways, and the green avenues that ſhade them, the reſt of the ſpot being left in a condition both ſhame⯑leſs and indecent. In the northern diſtrict of —ſhire, two church-yards were indicted as nuiſances by the pariſh, and a third, much nearer the ſeat of magiſtracy ſupreme, was in ſo abominable a ſtate, that the clergyman and overſeers, after many fruitleſs complaints on the part of the inhabitants, were cited to an⯑ſwer accuſations in the Spiritual Court.

Good heaven! we want no overſeers, bi⯑ſhops, or ſpiritual courts, to make us keep our dead (which ſurely, Sir, are a part of ourſelves, [118]whether above the earth, or under it) as free from ſuch as we can. If the grave we clean holds a good relation we ſhew our gratitude in our diligence: if a bad one, our conſtant at⯑tention is a mark, that whatever treſpaſſes he or ſhe, may have committed againſt us, it is forgiven. If a nettle or a weed was to be ſeen to-morrow in this church-yard, the living party to whom it belongs, would be hooted after divine ſervice, by the whole congregation. I would part with my laſt farthing, rather than ſee theſe two little heaps go to ruin: nay, ex⯑cept a few feet of earth I cultivate for uſe, I decorate my garden with flowers and ſhrubs only for my dead, and look upon it to be as much theirs, as if they were both alive.

The good woman here finiſhed her diſcourſe, during the greater part of which, ſhe was up⯑on her knees, plucking up every thing which was unſeemly, freſhning the mould, faſtning the looſe tilework, and forming with a mixture, of maternal and conjugal tenderneſs, the roſe⯑ſlips and violet roots, into forms expreſſive of her affection.

I cannot tell you how much I was moved. Nor is it neceſſary. You have an heart, that has a beating ſacred to ſuch incidents.

[119]This cuſtom is, I believe, peculiar in Eu⯑ropean countries, to Wales, and the Swiſs Catholic Cantons; but in the latter, to an iron croſs is ſuſpended a bowl, containing holy wa⯑ter, with which the relatives ſprinkle the graves of the deceaſed as often as they come to church.

Shakſpeare ſays, and with his accuſtom⯑ed ſweetneſs—

I truſt, my friend, you will long continue your good wiſhes to the Pembrokeſhire widow. It is in this part of Wales that the women dreſs their heads in a peculiar manner; they wear a cumbrous gown of dark blue cloth, even in the midſt of ſummer; inſtead of a cap, a large handkerchief is wrapt over their heads; and tied under the chin: in other places, the women as well as the men, wear large hats with broadbrims, often flapping over their ſhoulders.

Theſe Gleanings, however, in the church⯑yard, are a little out of place, for when I was [120]on the ſubject of Welch courtſhips, I ought to have immediately gone to Welch weddings; this being, you know, the natural order; unleſs you are of the opinion of not a few, who aſſert that marriage and death are pretty much the ſame thing, and that the former is, only buy⯑ing the living inſtead of the dead. Many of my fair country women, I fear, think the latter would be a reſource to them.

The ceremonies of the Cambrian peaſants, in the unpoliſhed parts of the country, are no leſs ſingular than thoſe at their wooing. The friends and relations of both parties, not only teſtify the uſual demonſtrations of joy during the day-time, but keep it up the whole night, the men viſitors putting to bed the bride⯑groom, and the females the bride, after which the whole company remain in the chamber, drinking jocund healths to the new married couple, and their poſterity, ſinging ſongs, dancing, and giving into every other feſtivity, ſometimes for two or three days together.

Prepoſterous enough you will ſay! but as this, generally ſpeaking, happens to a man and wo⯑man but once in a life, and gives now and then an holiday, that is, a few hours or days labour to a race of harmleſs, hard-toiling creatures, [121]it may be diſpenſed with. Their relaxations are few, and our own many. There is, un⯑doubtedly, leſs refinement, perhaps, leſs de⯑licacy in theirs, but are they not as innocent, as reaſonable as ours: ‘"A little ſofter but as ſenſeleſs quite."’

To you, who are always—

I need not aſk you to allow for the ſtrange, but unoffending uſages of theſe humble children of nature. Pride looks down upon them, but is not pride more truly an object of pity? But for theſe clods of moving earth, as they are arrogantly called, feeling themſelves con⯑tented in their "happy, lowly," ſituations, what would become of that helpleſs part of the ſpecies, who neither "toil nor ſpin?" How frequently does it happen, that an honeſt hind, who ſeems ſcarcely diſtinguiſhable from the ſoil which he works into bread, is of more uſe in the great community of mankind, and of courſe, a better member of it, than a whole generation of thoſe conceited beings, who ſpurn his cottage, and ſquander the noble inheritance of their anceſtors, amidſt the vices of refine⯑ment! How preferable the virtues of ruſti⯑city!

LETTER X. TO THE SAME.

I Aſſerted that the lower order of people in this country are ſuperſtitious. They were ſo at all times. Anciently its contagion tinctured the more enlightened. One of the old hiſto⯑rians very gravely recounts numberleſs pre⯑ter-natural inſtances of caſualties, which he conſtrued into divine judgments. Amongſt others, he tells us, that in the reign of Ivor, the third prince of Wales, there happened a remarkable earthquake in the Iſle of Man, which much diſturbed and annoyed the inha⯑bitants, and in the year following that it rained blood both in Britain and Ireland; inſomuch that the butter and milk reſembled the colour of blood. What ſanguinary torrents, my friend, muſt have fallen to have thus changed the na⯑ture of the graſs, and literally to make "the green, one red!" He adds, theſe accidents of nature might probably preſage ſome rumults and diſ⯑turbances in the kingdom. The ſame author, I remember, aſſerts that as a prognoſtic of the death of Elbodius, archbiſhop of North Wales, there happened a very ſevere eclipſe of the ſun, [123]and the year following there was an eclipſe of the moon, and upon Chriſtmas day! and theſe he confiders as portents that boded no good to the Welch affairs. By way of making out the prediction of the effect of theſe fatalities, we are ſolemnly informed they were followed by a very grievous and general murrain of cattle, which impoveriſhed the whole country, and the year preceding, A. D. 808, was mark⯑ed by the Weſt Saxons laying the city of St. David's in aſhes. Thus it is, my friend, that ſootheſayers of every age firſt frame their pro⯑phecies, and then inveterately fulfil them; for the very next good or evil event that takes place, is brought in evidence of what was foretold, and however abſurd in the nature of things, or contradictory to the point in queſtion, at the time is tortured and twiſted, to anſwer the purpoſe of illuſtrating. Hence the moſt im⯑probable, phyſically ſpeaking, the moſt im⯑poſſble and heterogeneous circumſtances, are forced into contact, and effects are traced to cauſes with which they have no ſort of con⯑nection.

The preſent deſcendants of Cadwallader are true to the faith of their forefathers on this ar⯑ticle. I ſaw it operating during my reſidence amongſt them in a thouſand ways, but in none [124]more than in the inſtance which follows. In a little village, betwixt Caermarthen and Ha⯑verfordweſt, beautifully waſhed by the ocean, I walked by the ſide of the ſea, where a mixed multitude were gathered on the beach. I en⯑quired the occaſion, and was told, that the peculiar roaring of the waves to the weſtward indicated that ſome fatal accident would ſoon befal certain poor creatures out at ſea; for that, in the memory of the oldeſt man living, the billows were never known to make that hide⯑ous noiſe from that quarter, without being ſucceeded by either the wreck of a veſſel, or the deſtruction of ſome of the crew, or both; that this being the firſt day of the roaring, the diſaſter would probably happen in the courſe of two days more, three being the uſual term of theſe grumbling notices; and therefore they were now come down to the beach, as well to ſee whether any veſſel had hoiſted ſignals of diſtreſs, or, if too late for aſſiſtance, to receive dead, ſhould any of the bodies be thrown on ſhore. The time at which this happened was that of the herring ſeaſon, when, proſiting by the previous calm weather, a great many fiſhing-boats were out; and it is by no power that I have over language, nor indeed in lan⯑guage itſelf, to give you a juſt idea of the con⯑ſternation of many perſons of both ſexes now [125]gathered together, moſt of them being wives, children, maſters, or relations of thoſe whoſe deſtiny was thus denounced by the troubled ſpirit of the waters. The fiſhing-boats, how⯑ever, in the courſe of the next day and even⯑ing, all arrived ſafe, with their crew, and with ſingularly good cargoes: ſome other veſſels, which had ſtood farther out to ſea on coaſting voyages, took ſhelter in the ſame harbour, till the ſtorm ſhould ceaſe, or rather till the fair weather ſhould be more confirmed, for it had conſiderably cleared and calmed before they pointed their canvaſs to the ſhore. All they wanted was a ſlight repairing, which could not be conveniently given at ſea. The little fiſh⯑ing-ſmacks performed ſeveral lucky excurſions after this, the other barks proceeded on their reſpective voyages, and, though in the mean time, there was not heard any more prophe⯑tical growlings, the people were not in the leaſt ſtaggered in their belief of ſome calamity having happened, roundly aſſerting that the voice of the ocean was always oracular; that its mouth was opened by God; and that it could not therefore utter the thing that was not. Another evidence was, that more than one inſtance was within the recollection of every man, woman, and child, in the pariſh. About a month after, happening to paſs through [126]this village in my way back from Milford Haven, I underſtood, from the landlord of the inn where I ſtopped, that, notwithſtanding my incredulity about the roarings, the ſea did not roar without reaſon, for the bodies of two ſailors were floated into the harbour the very day after I went away. This your are to know was above three weeks after the tempeſt; but on my venturing to doubt the connection be⯑twixt the effect and the cauſe, on account of the diſtance of time, mine hoſt grew ſeriouſly angry, and aſked me whether I was a believer or an heathen? I did not think proper to re⯑ply to this angry queſtion, convinced that a man, predetermined either to believe, or diſbe⯑lieve,—whether in politics, religion, or any other matter, hardens his heart againſt every thing that does not feed his faith, and is pre⯑pared againſt all arguments, human or di⯑vine; and, like a cat pent up in a corner, is only more ſpiteful and reſolute, as it ap⯑pears difficult to break away. Juſt as the Oſtler was leading my horſe to the door, a couple of ſailors came to the inn, and, in pre⯑ſence of my landlord, informed me, that they were brother and uncle to the aforeſaid dead mariners, who had deſerted after mutiny, were brought back once, and pardoned: then threw themſelves overboard, thinking to ſwim aſhore, [127]and would have been hanged if they had not been drowned, as 'twas on board a king's ſhip. Thus you ſee the poor ſea was made to ſympathiſe with theſe offenders; unleſs you can borrow a little of my landlord's faith, and be⯑lieve that it drowned them in a judgment, and then ſent forth its roarings, to ſhew its ſenſe of ſuch wickedneſs, as a warning to others. There, exclaimed mine hoſt, with much exul⯑tation, is not the thing plain enough now? Was the ſea in the right or not? But ſome folks will never believe till a judgment falls on themſelves! Perceiving a tempeſt gather⯑ing in the countenance of this friend of the roaring ſea, I thought it the wiſeſt way to leave him in full poſſeſſion of a faith which had certainly the merit of being impregnable to all attacks from within or without.

A ſecond ſuperſtition, univerſally prevalent in South Wales, is of a nature no leſs extraor⯑dinary. You will ſcarce meet with a peaſant, or even a manufacturer, who does not pretend to have heard the groan, or ſigh, of a voice ruſh like a ſudden wind from out of the earth; and ſometimes, entering into a very long and ſo⯑lemn harangue on the topic, either of this world or the next. Sometimes it aſſumes the tone of a friend, ſometimes of a foe; ſome⯑times [128]it is the well-known ſound of a perſon living; but more uſually one that has been in the grave long enough, one ſhould have thought, to have done with converſation.

A third object of Cambrian credulity is that of a lighted candle ſpringing up before you, without a moment's warning, and going the way of your intended walk or ride for a num⯑ber of miles together, for it perfectly knows the road you are to take; and what is no leſs ſingular, the candle is carried by ſome inviſible agent, who was never known to make his ap⯑pearance, though ſome ſay it moves by a power of its own. With reſpect to the moral agency of theſe, it is generally allowed by the be⯑lievers, that both the voice, and the light, are ſent on "errands full of love." The firſt is thought to be literally a warning voice, and the laſt, with a little more difficulty, though no⯑thing is, in the end, too arduous for ſuperſti⯑tion, is made to be no leſs ſubſervient to the purpoſes of a faith which even in its exceſſes leans to virtue.

For this reaſon I have ſeldom attempted to argue down, or treat lightly, theſe and other little traditionary credulities, in conſtant circu⯑lation amongſt the uneducated part of man⯑kind; [129]ſince I am perſuaded, what they want in philoſophy, they make up by a much better thing; for there is almoſt always a ſenſe of religion accompanying theſe village legends: a perſon who ſees, or ſeems to ſee, theſe ſights, or hear theſe ſounds, is too ſenſibly affected by his imaginations to mix immediately in worſe weakneſſes; the inviſible voice will never ar⯑gue in favour of a guilty deed, nor the vi⯑ſionary candle conduct the man it attends to ſcenes of debauchery. On the contrary, the former will more ſurely ſuggeſt repentance to the erring ſwain, and the other light him on his way to at leaſt harmleſs thoughts and ac⯑tions. Could we, therefore, ſay to ſuperſtition, "thus far ſhalt thou go, and no farther," the ſimple of life and of heart might enjoy thoſe little wanderings uncontrouled.

But Superſtition like Power is amongſt the encroachers we dare not truſt. Indulgence makes her bold and unſeaſonable, till in the end ſhe becomes the parent of the worſt diſorders to which the human ſoul is incident. You will hardly ſuppoſe that the moſt foaming ſectaries infeſt the innermoſt receſſes of this country; that methodiſts of all denominations make the mountains reverberate with their fulminations, louder than the anathemas of Rome, and that [130]there is ſcarce a village, or a dozen ſcattered hamlets, which receive not twice or thrice a week the effuſions of a ſtrolling preacher.

Something more affecting than curioſity, has made me ſeveral times an auditor of theſe flaming diſcourſes, which are held in barns, ſtables, or the open fields. It ſeems incre⯑dible that half the congregation ſhould be contained in the villages; but the fact is, that on the preaching days, the people come pour⯑ing in from all quarters, within the diſtrict, and vales and mountains give up their inha⯑bitants. I ſhall not ſpeak to you of the doc⯑trine, which is pretty much the ſame every where; and England is ſufficiently over-run by theſe itinerants, to make its jargon familiar to every one, except that both the doctrine, and the way of delivering it, is more vehement and vociferous in Wales than I ever remember to have witneſſed elſewhere. In ſpeaking of the Lamb of God, the preacher aſſured his hearers, that if they were ſincere believers, they would feel it move, and hear it bleat within their hearts; that, if lifted up by the Holy Spirit, they might ſee it; that if they folded up their hands they might reach it, touch it, and embrace it, as he did, under divine aſſiſtance, at that mo⯑ment.

[131]Previous to this laſt round in the ladder of fanaticiſm being gained, like the Delphic God "his voice enlarged, and his form was more than ruffled;" but, on mounting the climax, his bellowings could be equalled in horror only by his contortions. No bull, driven into madneſs by the annoying dogs, and more diſtracting men, ſo flounced or ſo ſhifted his attitudes, or roared with ſo much mingled rage and agony: but if the phrenzy of the preacher could have been ſurpaſſed, it would have yield⯑ed to that of the congregation; the tears, ſighs, and yellings of which, accompanied by the extravaganza's of action, really threw at ſober diſtance all that I ever ſaw, all that I ever heard of human or of beaſtial violence.

I do not know whether this intemperate zeal obſtructs or promotes the induſtry of theſe poor creatures; whether they return to their ſeveral occupations with more or leſs aſ⯑ſiduity, after theſe ebullitions; but as the preachings begin about noon, and continue ſome hours, it muſt abſorb a great deal of that time, which might be paſt in more uſeful, though leſs violent labour; for I dare venture to ſay, the hardeſt work they were ever put to for a day together, never ſo waſted their ani⯑mal ſpirits, ſtrained their muſcles, or wearied [132]limbs, as two hours paſt in this religious fury.

But even this is better than the oppoſite ex⯑treme of fitting arrogantly looſe to all reli⯑gions; or, what is worſe, ſcoffing at the faith of others, and affecting to have none oneſelf. This is amongſt the errors into which the ſons and daughters of ſimplicity rarely fall. It is reſerved for the children of refinement, to ſpurn at all things holy, with them religion is a mighty convenient, well-contrived bugbear, to keep the ſlaves of the world in order, juſt as birds are ſcared by a maukin; but that more enlightened fouls cannot be expected to give into the illuſion: ſo that the rich, the proſpe⯑rous, and all thoſe who have received the greateſt bounties and indulgencies at the hands of Providence, are the only perſons who think themſelves exempt from the duty or neceſſity of acknowledging it.

My friend, I have lived in the world, and travelled over it, long enough to be convinced, that what ſuperficial pretenders call philo⯑ſophy, has done more miſchief a thouſand times a thouſand than either ignorance or ſu⯑perſtition. Every conceited ſpark that has courage enough to avow himſelf an Atheiſt, [133]and juſt wit enough to ſport the old thread⯑bare arguments in ſupport of it, is now a philoſopher; that is, he can laugh at the jeſt he breaks on religion, and repeat, with vi⯑vacity, the blaſphemous bon-mots that others have made againſt the author of it, not reflect⯑ing, that indecency in wit, like immodeſty in beauty, is a baſe proſtitution of thoſe ſacred gifts which are truly delightful only in the pro⯑portion that they are innocently exerciſed.

But this irreverence of things holy, is by no means the effect, either of true philoſophy, or true courage: for both theſe are friends to piety; and there is as much difference betwixt a common-place Atheiſt, and a Chriſtian phi⯑loſopher, as betwixt an hero and a coward. Pretenders to infidelity are, indeed, always cow⯑ards: they are afraid of their own conſciences, the "compunctious viſitings" of which they at⯑tempt to eſcape by a loud laugh, as children and common country people endeavour to diſ⯑guiſe their terrors in paſſing through a church⯑yard in the dark, by making a noiſe, or whiſt⯑ling as they run. No, my friend, philoſophy is what our poet of nature, the Virgilian Thomſon, has deſcribed it:

Look at the modern affecter of philoſophy, that is of infidelity, in his hours of ſickneſs, or in the moments of death! Did thoſe friends or relatives, who are then behind the curtain, ever report ſatisfactory or conſiſtent accounts of the philoſophy of the expiring guilty? The inſtances are rare, even where the moſt illuſtri⯑ous philoſopher-atheiſts have died, without ei⯑ther formally diſavowing, or by implication believing their miſerable ſyſtem! As the exceſs of wickedneſs is certainly the extreme of folly, we may fairly adopt the maxim of our truly Chriſtian poet,— ‘"Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die."’

Will you not then come into my apology for a village ſuperſtition under certain reſtrictions? Sacred be the viſionary candle, and the fancied voice! They may lead perhaps to the para⯑diſe of ſimplicity, but will not ſeduce the eaſy of faith into the paradiſe of fools.

May faith, philoſophy, and the virtues, which are their offspring, be their guide. Farewell.

LETTER XI. TO THE SAME.

I Rejoice to hear, by your's, that you are well amuſed with the ſubject of my laſt, for I have not yet done with it. I have, in re⯑ſerve, another Welch ſuperſtition, by way of Bonne-Bouche; for, if I can give it to you with any of the impreſſions it made on me, you will find it more entertaining than any I have yet recounted.

Contrive to be ſerious, I beg of you, while, in ſoberneſs, I acquaint you, that queen Mab, and all her Elſin train, however baniſhed out of England, have at all times had both houſe and land in Wales. There is not a more ge⯑neral received opinion throughout the princi⯑pality, than that of the exiſtence of fairies. Amongſt the commonalty it is, indeed, univer⯑ſal, and by no means unfrequently credited by the ſecond ranks: my inſatiable curioſity, in tracing this fact, has enabled me to diſcover it in more than one inſtance amongſt the firſt. During my reſidence in Glamorganſhire, I was told of a clergyman, who had not only a be⯑lief in theſe little creatures, but who had [136]written a book, containing a great many of their exploits. The gentleman, who gave me this information, was acquainted with the au⯑thor, to whom I was introduced, but was ap⯑prized by my conductor, as we walked along, that he was generally thought to be "a little cracked." As I well know that all ſorts of people, who follow up any purſuit or paſſion out of the common track of action, or ſenti⯑ment, with the enthuſiaſm neceſſary to excel in it, are accounted more or leſs out of their minds, and as I have, myſelf, been long in the enjoyment of this reputation—for ſurely it is a kind of fame to ſuffer in the opinion of the cold and unfeeling for one's warmth of heart— I laid little ſtreſs upon this part of my guide's information. The ſubject which the author had choſen, and the ſolemn manner in which he treated it, went much more in my mind to impeach his judgment than his intellect; but as every man has his hobby-horſe, a fairy tale, is, perhaps, as pleaſant to carry one to fairy land, as any other; ſo I made my how to him without prejudice; for, juſt as his friend, my companion, had finiſhed this very friendly ac⯑count of him, we came within view of his parſonage, at the door of which he was re⯑galing himſelf with a pipe. We entered into familiar converſation almoſt immediately that [137]we had changed the civilites of meeting, for he had been appriſed of our coming, and was ſo full charged with his favourite topic, that he went off like a rocket. The firſt ſhot being his, I had no opportunity to return it, till he had moſt ſolemnly atteſted every ſtory of his book to be apoſtolical; he related to me as much ſupplementary matter, intended to enrich a ſecond edition, as would have made an eighteen-penny pamphlet of itſelf. But our Parſon rode his fairy pad ſo furiouſly, that it not only run away with him, but with our din⯑ner; and though I have all poſſible diſpoſition to indulge people in theſe fallies, hoping for, and inſiſting upon, the like complaiſance, when I am galloping away on my own poney, I felt ſuch an incorrigible deſire on this occaſion to weigh "ſolid pudding againſt the empty praiſe," of theſe little imaginary beings in El⯑fin Land, that I left the good prieſt to his "lenten entertainment," and made the beſt of my way back, to a more eleemoſinary banquet.

Did I not tell you, quoth my introducer, as we went home, that the poor man was mad? though, I think, he was more compos to day than I have ever known him. Indeed! replied I, if this is his lucid interval, what muſt be his perfect diſtraction? O, this is nothing, [138]anſwered his friend, I have known him run on about the fairies, till he has foamed at the mouth like a mad dog, and ſworn that there were then a thouſand in the room with him, viſible only to himſelf, on account of his great reſpect for them, and I remember once, one our townsfolk laughing at him, in one of theſe ſairy-fits, he fell into a paſſion, and ſaid, he would make theſe little miſchiefs pinch and baunt them by day and night, for their taunt⯑ings: and, as ſure as you are alive, continued my guide, upon two of the company ſnapping their fingers, and ſaying, they neither cared for him, nor the fairies, he made them both re⯑pent it: for that very night, and all the next day, the poor men were ſo tormented by theſe little devils, God forgive me, that they were obliged to make intereſt with Parſon —, the gentleman we have juſt left, to get them off the premiſes.

Then, you believe in their exiſtence your⯑ſelf?

Heaven forbid! that I ſhould not. I have been ſufferer enough by them, I know, to have my creed well ſettled in that reſpect. But to tell you the truth, they always had a ſpite againſt me, and my whole family; and, for a [139]trifle, which would not have put a fly out of temper.

What did you do to vex them?

Only barred up a window, next to the room where you ſlept laſt night.

What objection had they to that?

Why, they uſed to throw up the faſh every night, and ſteal every thing they could lay their hands on.

Are they ſuch diſhoneſt brats! The little rouges! Who could have thought it?

The greateſt thieves in the world, Sir, little as they are.

Are you ſerious? Do you really believe in them?

Believe! I wiſh you would, to night, ſleep in the barred room, that's all.

With all my heart.

I would not adviſe you. You had better not. I wiſh I could throw it out of my houſe, without pulling the whole building to pieces.

I'll venture, however.

[140]No you ſhan't. I won't have your life, nor your limbs to anſwer for; beſides, the little toads begin to be tired of hankering about, and if I keep it cloſed another year, I expect they will find another haunt. For they don't fancy any apartment but that.

If there is a ſimilarity in the faith of you, and your friend on this article, why laugh at him, or conſider him as out of his ſenſes?

Let us call a better ſubject, Sir, for, you ſee, we have got ſafe home, and if you are half as hungry as I am, you will think a good ſpare⯑rib of pork, which, I expect to find on the table, though betwixt hot and cold, is worth all fairy-land.

Thus it is, my friend, we are accurate cri⯑ticks, in diſcovering and expoſing the weak⯑neſſes of others, but are quite blind to our own, tho' of the ſame ſize and kind. How true it was from the beginning! How true it will be to the end! that "we ſee the more in the eye of our brother, but diſcover not the beam in our own."

Believing that I had fallen, partially, amongſt the votaries of the fairy legions, by meeting with two men, who, though of different man⯑ners [141]and characters, had nearly the ſame degree of credulity, the one a worſhipper from fear, the other from reverence, I reſolved to ſee far⯑ther into the ſubject, before I concluded the opinion, about theſe airy ſprites to be general: for to tell you the truth, I came with a mind little favourable to admit the impreſſions, which Camden, and other Cambrian biogra⯑phers had attempted to make upon it; ſhall I confeſs, that I not only conteſted the fact itſelf, as to the agency of theſe beings, as ſincerely as I did thoſe gentry of Liliput, about their own ſuppoſed ſize and dimenſions, but I thought the report of theſe hiſtorians, likewiſe a fiction allowed to travellers as an indul⯑gence, in the way that we grant a poetical licence to the votaries of the muſes. Having, therefore, an equal degree of leiſure and curi⯑oſity, I was fixed to make farther enquiries; accordingly, the day following, I accepted the offer of an agreeable, and intelligent compa⯑nion, who propoſed an excurſion to the hills in the neighbourhood of Pontipool, which had been immemorially celebrated, for the ancient and modern haunts of this tiny people. In this little tour, the beauty of the day, and of the country, rich in whatever could gratify a traveller, I collected abundant living evidence, that the belief in theſe ſmall perſonages was [142]ſolemn and general. Thoſe, ſaid my aſſociate, pointing to a chain of ſtupendous, and even Al⯑pine hills to the left, thoſe, though, I believe it not, are thought to be every night traverſed by thouſands of fairies; the centre part of the mid⯑dle mountain, is called their table, and on num⯑berleſs green circles, which grow greener under their ſtootſteps, they are ſaid to revel. We en⯑tered, with freedom, ſeveral little pictureſque cottages, ſcattered round theſe delicious hills and vales, and I perceived that on the ſubject of fairies, the creed of every peaſant was the ſame; in every hut, I found ſuperſtition had a ſeat: but I found that better, at leaſt, more hoſpi⯑table gueſts were alſo, the inmates: health, hap⯑pineſs, ſimplicity, induſtry, innocence, and pa⯑ternal love. The heart-echoing kiſs, which a labourer gave to his twelfth child, the nurſe⯑ling, while ſix others were gathering round him, after a ſeparation only of a few hours, and while bread is all his utmoſt toil could work out of the mountains, was a ſight that might have taught wiſdom to a philoſopher, envy to avarice, and humility to a monarch. It reached my very heart. It will not be remote from yours; but to move, to melt it, in the ſame degree, you muſt make a viſit to the fairy mountains, and on ſuch a day, amidſt ſuch [143]ſcenery, have your mind poſſeſſed with ſuch objects, upon the ſpot where they grow.

It is ſingular, that there are particular places all over this country, where the malign in⯑fluence of the fairy tribe, has made the people look upon them as under a ſort of ſpell. Thus, if we put the collective accounts together, we ſhall perceive, that the fairy race are, rather bad than good neighbours: for, you will hardly meet with a Welch peaſant, who is not pro⯑vided with ſome inſtances to their diſcredit, within his own knowledge. It is incredible to what lengths the malice of theſe ſprites will go, if we are to believe the aſſeverations of the ſwains they live amongſt: inſtead of being in good-fellowſhip as might be expected of well⯑diſpoſed fairies, they take delight only in cheating and annoying them. There are ſe⯑veral houſes, particularly ſome antique halls, which have ſo ill fame for being haunted by the fairies, that the pooreſt perſons in the country, would rather ſleep unſheltered, and ‘"Bide the pelting of the pitileſs ſtorm,"’ than have the fineſt apartments therein: I am certain, they would not paſs a ſingle night in any of theſe proſcribed places, for the ſee-ſimple of the eſtates thereunto belonging.

[144]The outrages ſaid to be committed nightly, by the fairy generations, exceed the pranks, of that order of young fellows, or old fellows with young follies, known by the ſpirited names of bucks and bloods; and their thefts and depredations, about the country, ſurpaſs thoſe of the gypſey tribes: with this aggravation too, that there is no conſtable to take them up, nor any juſtice able to make them keep the peace, or commit them to the houſe of correction, or even bind them over to better behaviour. They are above all law, and of courſe, beyond the reach of an act of parlia⯑ment; which, is certainly, a great hardſhip on the Welch peaſants, who, though overrun with them, and put nightly into bodily fear, can neither ſue for treſpaſs, nor recover damages, nor make them pay for an aſſault!

Their malicious deviſes, would fill as many folios, as Sir John Hill's Vegetable Syſtem, and their petty larcenies, are as numerous. And theſe are not confined to the neighbour⯑hood of Pontipool, but extend northward to the boundaries of the Principality. I heard of their naughty doings again, in Merioneth⯑ſhire, Carnarvon, and Angleſey; not only the firm belief in their exiſtence, extending to theſe places, but as thorough a conviction, [145]that they are, with very few exceptions, as er⯑rant a pack of Little Pickles, as any in the world, and a kitten with a cracker at its tail, or a bird with a ſtring to its leg, is more likely to reſt in the hands of a parcel of ſchoolboys, than a poor ſwain, or damſel in the clutches of an offended fairy.

It was impoſſible in theſe enquiries, not to have often in mind, the many beautiful de⯑ſcriptions of Shakſpeare: and my old friends, Puck, Peaſebloſſom, and Robin Goodfellow, were frequently playing their waggeries in my fancy: but little did I ſuppoſe, when I have been delighted with theſe perſonages, that there was a part of the world, appertaining to my own country, where a countleſs number of really ſhrewd people, believed as firmly in the exiſtence, and potency of theſe creations of ſuperſtition, as in that of their God.

I have forborn the relation of a thouſand ſad, and merry, fairy tales, the reſult of my reſearches into this curious ſubject, becauſe one is as good as a thouſand; and that one you ſhall have here, as a ſpecimen of the reſt.

In my way to England, I ſlept a night in the village of Feſtiniog, and being the only tra⯑veller, [146]then in the houſe, had the choice of the bed chambers. I fixed upon that which I thought the moſt commodious, and after I had taken my ſolitary repaſt, was preparing to re⯑tire, when my landlady made her appearance, and ſaid, that ſhe could not anſwer it to her conſcience, to let me go to reſt, without tell⯑ing me, that the apartment I had choſen, though the beſt in her houſe, had the misfor⯑tune to be troubled by the fairies; that had I been an ordinary ſtranger, ſhe ſhould not have mentioned it, but being recommended to her houſe, by one of her beſt friends and cuſtomers, ſhe felt it her duty to appriſe me of the cir⯑cumſtance; after which, I might do as I pleaſed. She concluded this aweful intel⯑ligence, by informing me, ſhe had ſoundly rated the chambermaid, for her careleſſneſs, in ſhewing that apartment, the door of which was never opened, but when the inn was full of company, and not another bed to be had.

Whether it proceeded from that queer pro⯑penſity in human nature, to do what you are warned not to do, or from a ſpirit of reſiſt⯑ance, to theſe ſimplicities of faith, I do not know. I can only tell you, that my landlady's caution, determined me not to profit by it. I thanked her, however, for the hint, and de⯑ſired [147]to be ſhewn to the haunted chamber, de⯑claring to her, at the ſame time, that I had been ſo great an admirer of fairies, ever ſince I read one of our great poet's account of them, that I was perfectly ſatisfied they would rather look on me, as an old acquaintance, than a ſtranger, and treat me as ſuch: and furthermore, as it was exceſſive cold weather, if fifty, or an hun⯑dred of the little gentlefolks were diſpoſed to paſs the night with me, they would be extremely welcome to part of my bed, and I did not doubt butthat, ſhould this be the caſe, I ſhould be able in the morning, to give a very good account of my bedfellows.

For that matter, Sir, ſaid mine hoſteſs, one of your great poet-men, and, who was a lord, into the bargain, took a fancy, likewiſe, to that very room, where he ſlept three nights, and paſt his days where you are now ſitting, after clambering up and down the mountains for hours together.

Well, and did he make any complaints of the common diſturbers of that chamber?

He was too mild and ſweet-tempered a gen⯑tleman, to make complaints about any thing; but on my aſking, if he ſaw or heard more [148]than he wiſhed, or found his window thrown open, or any of his things toſs'd about the room, or any pattering of little feet, or, in ſhort, any fairy work going forward? He ſhook his head, and ſaid, it was almoſt im⯑poſſible for a man, he ſaw plainly, to be in the moſt retired parts of the world, but he would be annoyed with buſy bodies, and im⯑pertinents that would be aſking queſtions, and forcing themſelves, uncalled, into company.— This was pretty plain, I think, Sir.

I think ſo too, and will, therefore, go to bed, landlady, for you have mentioned a rea⯑ſon, for my preference of that chamber, that out-weighs all the fairies of Merionethſhire, were they every one, at this moment, making merry in my bed: the great poet you allude to was Lord Lyttleton. I know he was at Feſtiniog, and am glad to find that accident has conducted me to the ſame inn, and even into the ſame apartment. I have read what he wrote here.

Aye, he was always ſcribbling, poor dear gen⯑tleman, when he was within doors, and when he was without, he ran up and down hills and dales, in ſuch a manner, though neither young nor ſtrong, that folks, hereabouts, thought him [149]a madman; but his valet de ſham, told us, he was only a poet; and was making a book about us Welch people, and our country: tho' what he could find here worth putting in a printed book, I cannot think; yet, he was quite beſide himſelf with joy, and often told my huſband, that we ought to think ourſelves very happy, as we lived in Paradiſe: for that matter, we do not live amiſs, conſidering a poor, lone place; we get fiſh and game of all ſorts in plenty, and now and then, can ſhew a joint of meat, with any body, as your honour ſhall ſee, if you ſhould like to ſtay with us as long as the Poet Lord.

Finding that the good woman had no other idea of Paradiſe than that we ſhould there be ſure of the beſt proviſions, and choiceſt rarities for the palate, (which idea is, by the bye, to the full as refined, as that of numberleſs in⯑habitants in polite cities,) I again bade her good night, and withdrew to the haunted chamber.

I declare to you, that the honeſt people who are terrified about theſe little fellows, y'clept fairies, never more earneſtly wiſhed they might be free from their viſitations, than I did for their appearance; at the ſame time, that I de⯑ſpaired [150]of being honoured by this fairy-favour. Nevertheleſs, I was kept ſome hours from the leaſt deſire to ſleep; the night was piercingly cold, but it was about the third quarter of the moon, whoſe froſty clearneſs, threw into the apartment, preciſely that ſort of elfin-light, which theſe little perſonages are ſaid to love; and, certainly, if they have any human ſenſa⯑tions about them, or are at all ſenſible to the change of ſeaſons, on their tiny frames, which, by being ſo often ſeen in propria perſona, muſt be occaſionally corporeal, a ſnug birth in a warm bed-chamber, would be preſerable to any thing they could meet with on the ſnowy mountains, or in icy vallies. I had talked my⯑ſelf, and thought myſelf neither into expecta⯑tion or hope; yet whoſoever follows up an en⯑quiry of any kind, with undiminiſhing ardour of curioſity, will be leſs diſpoſed to ſlumber, than he whoſe inveſtigations have attained their propoſed end.

As I lay in this wakeful ſtate, I ran over all the pretty things that have been ſaid by our Poets on the fairy ſubject.

I repeated, aloud, ſeveral of the favourite paſſages, from the beautiful poems of Parnel, in his "Fairy Tale," and in the "Ode to In⯑difference." [151]I invoked the ſprites even by the Spirit of Shakſpeare, which, I cannot but believe, has a potency far ſuperior to their own; in this muſing mood I remained till the peep of dawn, when it is admitted, that theſe children of darkneſs, like all others of that caſt and character, ſteal off. I, therefore, com⯑poſed myſelf to a ſhort ſleep, after which, I roſe with an intention to proſecute my journey.

The very moment I got down ſtairs, my landlady took notice that I looked very poorly, and no wonder, ſaid ſhe; I was ſure your honour could not ſleep, for all your braggadoſia: I heard you, Sir, talk to the fairies for half an hour together; our rooms are parted only by a thin boarded partition. I warrant, you had your room full of them: don't deny it, Sir, becauſe I heard you ſpeak to them as plain, and indeed, louder than I now hear myſelf: nay, if it had not been for fear, I would have come and knocked at your door, for they can⯑not bear to be ſurpriſed at any of their tricks.

It ſeems I had been taken in the fact of re⯑citing the verſes, which my landlady interpreted into addreſſes to the fairies; for as to repeat⯑ing at ſuch a time of night, and in ſuch a chamber, for my own diverſion, it could neither [152]enter voluntarily, nor be driven coercively, in⯑to her head, without admitting at the ſame moment the moſt thorough conviction of my inſanity. Beſides this, there is ſomething ſo unwelcome in combating any notion a perſon has taken up and is pleaſed with, that I con⯑tented myſelf with leaving the matter open to the good woman's interpretation, by ſaying, in the words of Beatrice: "I confeſs nothing, and I deny nothing." It was therefore taken for granted, that I had not only ſeen, but diſ⯑courſed with the fairies all night; that I had intre ted them to be civil; that I had begged pardon for not before having faith in them; and that, if they would ſpare me only that once, I promiſed to build a temple for them, to kiſs their "tiny footſteps, and to worſhip them for ever." To this effect did mine hoſteſs conſtrue the different recitations; many of which, you, who are verſant in all that our great bard, and the minor poets, have ſung or ſaid on the ſubject, will recollect to be appli⯑cable to the occaſion, particularly the follow⯑ing paſſages:

This, my landlady ſaid, was begging what they never granted, for they always broke [153]people's reſt when they got into their bed⯑chambers.

After I had laid about an hour, without any viſitant, I invoked Queen Mab herſelf, and in language which, had ſhe been within hearing, ſhe muſt have anſwered in perſon, or been looked on as a fairy of no taſte or genius:

Yes, yes, quoth mine hoſteſs, I heard you beg⯑ging and praying them to fetch you fruit and honey, but the deuce a grape, or a morſel even of bees-wax, you get from them. You ſoon was of that opinion too, your honour, I fancy, for you gave them their true character ſoon after. I judge ſhe interpreted the malign pro⯑perties attributed to them by our great bard in the ſubſequent lines, which, I remember, I re⯑peated with a ſort of malicious energy, as if, [154]filled with their ſubject, I felt myſelf piqued at their refuſing to pay me a viſit. We know a thing is very little likely to happen, and yet we work up our wiſhes to a warmth ſo fairy⯑like, as to be frequently diſpleaſed and diſap⯑pointed, that it does not. Who has not found this unreaſonable ſally in himſelf?

What! will none of you appear ye little tormentors, cried I, in my ſoliloquiſing way?

I have heard of your pranks, my little maſ⯑ters, continued I, and preſume you are upon ſome now. Each miſchievouſly employed, I warrant you:

And as for you, Maſter Puck,

Nay, I have heard you boaſt you could

My landlady told me, they were capable of taking all ſhapes, but ſhe gave into the com⯑mon notion of their tripping off at day-break. On her aſking my opinion of this very gravely, I with no leſs ſolemnity pretended to believe it in the general, but that a very great poet in my country, greater than her friend, Lord Lyttelton, and who had a mighty veneration for all theſe little perſons, declared that, al⯑though many of them

Your fine poetmen ſeldom ſpeak ſo as a poor body can underſtand them, ſaid the good wo⯑man all I know is, our Welſh fairies are ſeen only at night; but I am glad you believe in them, or they would do you an ill turn before [156]you get home. Now, though I had as much belief in the wall and moonſhine of Pyramus and Thiſbe, I pretended my faith was fixed: I was a convert.

By way of preſent comfort and future ſecu⯑rity, however, mine hoſteſs promiſed me, on my expreſſing a deſign to paſs another night under her roof, to put me into the yellow room, to which, ſhe aſſured me, the little tormentors had a particular objection. Determined to humour the jeſt, I affected to be highly ſatisfied with this, and ſhe then told me the ſtory of a neighbour who had loſt a cheſt of drawers, and ſeveral other pieces of furniture, which were found, after many days, above a league off, upon one of the enormous druidical ſtones, as at the top of an high mountain; where, added ſhe, not an hundred men could drag it, and that, there⯑fore, it muſt be ſprighted away by fairies. Upon my ſhewing tokens of ſurpriſe, that theſe mi⯑ſerable Lilliputians ſhould be more powerful than an hundred men, my landlady informed me that it was all done by magic, and that they had been known to move trees, and carry away men and horſes out of their warm beds and ſet them faſt in the middle of a quagmire, or drop them on a bare heath merely by charming▪ As I wiſh'd to ſee a little more of [157]this fairy land than was to be diſcovered through the windows of my inn, I ended the con⯑verſation, by obſerving to my hoſteſs, that this was carrying the ſlight of hand to a wonder⯑ful perfection indeed; and it would be highly worth while for Meſſrs. Jonas, Breſlaw, and the other preſto paſs gentlemen, who live by enchanting, to come and make a few improve⯑ments in the art of magic, or "delicate decep⯑tions," as they have been called, by the profeſ⯑ſors in conjuration.

Such a fall of ſnow had happened in the night, in addition to what was on the ground before, that, though the ſun did the beſt that it could for me at that ſeaſon of the year, neither my old horſe, nor his maſter, were diſ⯑poſed to proceed that day any farther, at leaſt together; ſo I made a tour of the mountains and vallies on foot; vehemently refuſing all of⯑fers of a guide, whom in a ramble of this kind I have all my life conſidered as an inſup⯑portable interruption; for it is amongſt my ſupreme pleaſures to find out the wonders and beauties of nature with my own eyes, to rea⯑ſon about them with my own underſtanding, and to extract all the knowledge they are able to give me out of themſelves, before I aſk other people; who officiouſly tell you every thing [158]before you come to it, and then it is ten to one but their account of the fact, and the fact itſelf, is at leaſt as wide from each other, as would have been my own unaſſiſted conjec⯑tures; beſides that it deprives me of the plea⯑ſures of conjecture, which are (to an inquiſitive mind—that is to a mind, that likes to anſwer its own queſtions)—always ſomething. More⯑over, I have found theſe common-place hiſto⯑rians of the village, or country, to be not a whit more uſeful, though full as learned as thoſe biographers in great cities, appointed to explain the wonders of St. Paul's in London, or St. Peter's at Rome; their explanations, being nearly as illuſtrative of the objects, as the elaborate commentators on the texts of Shakſpeare, or the Holy Bible. The volumes of Nature and Religion, my friend, rarely re⯑quire any of theſe darkling elucidations; for both are ſo ſimple, and ſo intelligible, that in general, he that runs may read and under⯑ſtand them; and, wherever there are difficulties in either, they are, uſually, made worſe and more intricate, by bungling guides, who con⯑found confuſion. For all theſe reaſons, I perambulated the environs of Feſtiniog alone, and thus added another inſtance of my ob⯑ſtinate adherence to my own plans, which pro⯑duced [159]a portentous ſhake of my landlady's head.

Juſt as I was going out of the door, ſhe hinted that the young peaſant ſhe deſigned to accompany me, was thought a good ſcholard, and could talk Engliſh by the hour together. Had it been poſſible for my former reſolution of being a ſolitary, to have received any acceſſions of ſtrength, this intelligence would have the more determined me; for the affectation, of ſcience amongſt common people, produces ſuch inſufferable jargon, that it is even more nauſeating, than the pompoſity of pedantry it⯑ſelf. Had the guide only ſpoken Welch, or been gifted with abſolute ſilence, he might have had his uſe, juſt to keep me from two or three pitfalls, into which I tumbled head over heels in courſe of my walk, the ſnow having treacherouſly covered their ſurfaces. But to eſcape theſe little caſualties, at the expence of having one's ears aſſailed, by a good ſcholard, while the ſtupendous works of Nature, were inrolled in volumes before me, by the Divine Author; unſullied volumes that reached almoſt to the ſkies—would have been blaſphemy. For never, ſurely, in any part of his creation did the Creator diſplay himſelf with more awful mag⯑nificence, with more aſtoniſhing grandeur, than [160]in the precincts of the little village of Feſti⯑niog, on the day that I made my ſurvey of it.

This, you are already appriſed, is the place, the Summer dreſs of which, Lord Lyttleton ſo agreeably deſcribes. He tells us, that at the time he viſited it, it was in the perfection of beauty. From the height of this Merionethſhire village, which is the moſt lovely one my eyes ever be⯑held, you have, ſays his Lordſhip, a view of the ſea; the hills are green, and well ſhaded with wood: there is a delightful rivulet, which winds through the bottom, on each ſide are meadows, and above are cornfields, on the de⯑clivities of the immenſe mountains; at each end are mountains ſtill higher, which ſeem placed there by nature, to guard this charming retreat againſt any invaders. With the wo⯑man one loves, with the friend of one's heart, and a good ſtudy of books, one may paſs an age there, and think it a day. If one has a mind to live long, and renew his youth, let him come and ſettle at Feſtiniog. Not long ago, there died there, an honeſt Welch farmer, who was an 105 years of age: by his firſt wife he had thirty children, ten by his ſecond, and four by his third: his youngeſt ſon was eighty⯑one years younger than his eldeſt; and eight [161]hundred perſons deſcended from his body, at⯑tended his funeral.

My ſecond viſit to this happy vale in the ſpring, juſtified the above luxurious account. Its aſpect, when covered with ſnow, gave to the reſpective objects, a ſublimity, which cannot be done juſtice to, but by the memories of thoſe, who have ſeen a country abounding with aſpi⯑ring mountains, and humble glens, and every other grand irregularity of Nature, under the domination of froſt and ſnow. Theſe, in flat countries, preſent nothing but one uniform, un⯑intereſting waſte: amidſt the mountains, there is the cataract, which reſiſts the powers of ice; the variety of ground, that throws, even the ice itſelf, and the ſnow, into a thouſand fantaſtic forms; the hardy peaſants, that brave the wea⯑ther in a manner utterly unknown to ſouthern regions; the adventurous animals, that, im⯑pelled alike by the element and their ap⯑petite, dig the ſhrub on the points of the rocks, hunt for the periſhed herb, through mountains of ſnow piled on the mountains of earth, and an infinity of objects there only to be obſerved.

Full of this kind of imagery, I paſt ſeveral hours of the coldeſt day; but therewithal, the [162]brighteſt of winter. The ſnow had drizzled for about half an hour, but more radiant ſun⯑ſhine ſucceeded; yet the froſt was ſo much ſtronger than the thaw, that the flakes encruſted on my hat and cloaths as they fell, and I was as complete an icicle, on my return to the inn, as any of the ſurrounding objects.

The ſurrounding objects, indeed, on my re⯑turn, were in perfect contraſt to thoſe without doors. The whole peaſantry of the village of Feſtiniog, appeared to be got into the public houſe, where the blazing hearth and vacant hilarity, ſet froſt and ſnow at defiance. Theſe happy groups are very frequent in North Wales, and particularly in thoſe ſeaſons, when the rigorous elements drive men more upon their internal reſources. This, however, was an extraordinary occaſion. The member for Merioneth, in which county ſtands this ſweet village, had given a fat ſheep, and a barrel of homebrewed to the poor of every pariſh within his diſtrict, to counteract the inclemency of the froſt: and this animal was roaſting whole in the kitchen, while the gueſts were gathered together in bliſsful expectation, in a room ad⯑joining. All that could beat an alarm to ap⯑petite, or give to appetite gratified its moſt perfect tranquillity, was at work: an harper [163]played the Triumph of Wales in one corner, a poet ſung his own compoſitions, in imitation of the ancient bards, in the other, ſeveral Welch damſels joined in chorus; the firſt foaming jug of ale was drank off to the founder of the feaſt, the ſnow fell faſt, and was drifted on the windows, and the warmth of heart that reigned within, when the roaſted ſheep made its appearance, was more than enough to baffle the rigour of a December in Siberia.

You know enough of my diſpoſition to be certain, I mixed in theſe jovial doings with all my heart. Without ſtaying to be aſked, I ſaw that I was welcome. I was in a land of hoſpi⯑tality, and had I not been ſo, the company were, at the moment, too replete with feſtivity to be churliſh to a ſtranger. Could one enter the houſe of a miſer, while he was enjoying himſelf on the bounty of a friend, he could ſcarcely ſhut his heart to one that wiſhed to be happy alſo. Happineſs is naturally benevo⯑lent: and as the poor in their hours of relaxa⯑tion are, perhaps, the happieſt of the happy, ſo are they, when they have any thing to give, the moſt bountiful of the generous. Many of theſe will—I have known them to do it—ſhare their laſt ſhilling, their laſt meal, with a good [164]will, as ſervent an urbanity, and as courteous, as if they were only dividing with you, the ſuper⯑fluities of their ordinary table. The poor of Wales are, on all feſtive occaſions, the kindeſt of the liberal. "I eat, drank, and was merry," and in proceſs of the evening, every gambol that health, innocence, ruſticity, and good fellowſhip, let looſe from toil, could deviſe, took its round. Since the days of Cadwallader, to thoſe of the preſent Prince of Wales, there never was ſeen a more comfortable ſet of human creatures, on a more ſtormy night, through which many of them had to ſeek their way to their habitations, in the different huts, that were ſcattered in the mountains, or in the valley. But this idea did not break in upon the preſent moments, which were devoted to joys, that, in ſweet oblivion, abſorbed the fu⯑ture. You remember the winter evening of the Engliſh peaſants, deſcribed by Thomſon: It was now realized in Wales. The charming lines came to my memory, as I ſat at the feſtival; and they again recur at this inſtant: they are at the end of my pen. You would not forgive me for driving them back: Here then let them flow on the paper.

After this harmleſs merry-making, which was certainly as paſtoral, as if it had been the arcadia of primitive times, each departed to his home, and were fenced within, by hilarity and good cheer, againſt all annoyance from without, ſo effectually, that, I ſuſpect, it was neither in the power of froſt, ſnow, or ſuper⯑ſtition, to chill them. Such are, truly, what my friend Goldſmith ſo poetically called, ‘"The ſtill ſmall joys that aſk but little room."’

I do not know the time, when I paſſed an evening more to my ſatisfaction; nor when I crowned the night, with a more quiet reſt, in deſpite of fairies and fairy tales. May your's, my friend, this, and every other night, be as undiſturbed, after as pleaſant days.

LETTER XII. TO THE SAME.

IF we examine Lord Lyttelton's de⯑ſcription of Feſtiniog, ſhall we not think him a little unreaſonable? and, in one or two paſ⯑ſages, not quite correct as to ſentiment? With the woman one loves, the friend of one's heart, and a good ſtudy of books, there is ſurely ſcarce a man in the world, whoſe mind is fitted to reliſh them, but would convert Arabia Infelix into a Paradiſe. There needs no ſuch happy vales as that of Feſtiniog, to render a perſon ſo environed with heart-felt reſources, more than content. I argue, that even in abſence of theſe, at leaſt, the laſt article, many a year might paſs without a weary moment. No. I renounce the thought in the very inſtant that I have made it. I feel, that if the ſtudy of books might be diſpenſed with, the ſocial, boſom joys, which the two other ſources afford, may not be given up. His Lordſhip is in the right. The charm of ſeeing others happy, and being one of the party, made me for a little while forget, that the beſt part of their felicity proceeds from domeſtic happi⯑neſs. The men were ſurrounded by their fa⯑milies, [167]and ſuch as were not, I remember, had leſs jocund countenances, and ſeemed "maim⯑ed of half their joys." On finding that the ſnow continued to fall violently, had you ſeen how the mothers folded up their little ones, and how the fathers forced their great coats on the ſhoulders of the mothers, and almoſt ſtrip⯑ped themſelves, to fortify their wives and loves againſt the cold; in particular, had you ob⯑ſerved, as I did, how a young fellow, after put⯑ting the handkerchief that tied his own neck, on that of a laſs whom he loved, carried her in his arms, to the merriment of the whole com⯑pany, and deſiring every man to do as he did, while in a frolic, betwixt the tenderneſs and glee of their hearts, they ſet off with the wo⯑men in the ſame manner, the mountains re⯑verberating with the "long loud laugh, ſincere," you would have ſtood at the door, as long as I did, and been as little ſenſible of the cold.

Ah, my friend, there is nothing to be long enjoyed, in the abſence of thoſe who are dear to us! I feel that I am renewing the happineſs of the ſcenes, I have been pleaſed with in my journeyings, by deſcribing them in correſpond⯑ence to you and other of my friends: nay, I felt while they were paſſing before me, that I [168]ſhould again take delight in them, when I pre⯑pared them for the poſt; and I often have amuſed myſelf with thinking, as I rode by a beautiful proſpect, met with agreeable people, or gave way to the emanations of a tender diſpo⯑ſition, how ſtrongly will I point, and recom⯑mend all theſe to the friends of my heart.

Pr'ythee, tell me, does abſence ſoften the memory of injuries received? Does it take off the edge of that indignation one naturally feels for thoſe who have uſed us ungratefully? I have left behind me, now ſome hundred miles, more than a few perſons, the recency of whoſe unkind thoughts and practices towards me ought to prevent my ceaſing to think of them: I do not ceaſe to think; but I think of them every day with leſs aſperity. My ſenſe of their injuſtice is the ſame: perhaps it is the more impreſſive the oftener it is re⯑flected upon: but there is ſomething in my nature, either ſo exceſſively tender or weak, that, without affectation, I aſſure you, if, in the particular conduct of an avowed enemy, (one for inſtance who has ſaid and done all that an enemy can or dare do and ſay) there is on my recollection a ſingle trait of good⯑will or good-nature ſhewn to me, prior to the date of his enmity, and I have a memory very [169]faithful and retentive to kindneſs, I faſten upon that trait as a fort of reſource from the pain of thinking on the general tenor of his behaviour. Nay, if I have ever paſſed any happy days or hours in the ſociety of thoſe who have afterwards made me paſs many com⯑fortleſs or bitter ones, it is not eaſy to expreſs how I feel within me a propenſity to ſink the memory of the latter, and take refuge in the former. This I have reaſon to believe hath not a reliſh of benevolence in it, becauſe my ideas of the ill-treatment I may have received are unaltered; of courſe, the perſons of ſuch as have occaſioned it, are no leſs irkſome to thought: but it is a great relief to me, from that very miſery of dwelling on the dark ſide of human nature, where there is but a ray of light to turn it on the other. For this reaſon, though it is a ſelfiſh one, perhaps, I am hourly more convinced, that I am not made for long reſentments: for to you, and to God, I declare, that, though I have not parted many years from ſome who, I have reaſon to think, ſeek to do me an ill turn, for no other cauſe that I can recollect, but that they have injured me too greatly ever to forgive me; I cannot pay them in kind, by meditating ill-will, or even ill wiſhes; and though, as I obſerved above, there is neither "the milk of human kindneſs," nor [170]any other ſoftening quality in all this, but to get rid of the uneaſy ſenſations that accompany even a juſt revenge, or the contemplations which lead to and prepare it, it is at leaſt ſo far a greater felicity in temperature than the bias which diſpoſes a man to brood over his wrongs, and lie in wait, as ſome minds have ſhewn a power of doing, for months, years, half a long life, till opportunity gives effect to accumulated vengeance. To obtain, at the end of only one year, the moſt compleat re⯑venge over thoſe moſt injurious, I would not exchange this conſtitutional gift of tenderneſs, ſelf-love, or whatever you think fit to denomi⯑nate this capacity, of preferring pleaſant to diſ⯑agreeable reflections.

I would claim a much greater degree of merit from the eternally unfading freſhneſs with which I remember my abſent friends, did not their virtues, talents, or kindneſs to me, preclude all ſort of merit even on that ſubject, and make that remembrance a ſimple act of juſtice. But I may at leaſt ſay, that my memory of them is green and immortal as the laurel, and triumphs over abſence, adverſity, and even over the more oblivious power that often attends on proſperity. The deliberate traveller muſt either be worthleſs himſelf, or aſſociate only [171]with thoſe that are of that deſcription, if in his route, he does not find ſome, who have demands on his admiration for their genius, pity for their misfortunes, or friendſhip for their good offices. Of all theſe I have had my ſhare, but, believe me, none have, or ever can have, power to impair the ſentiment with which I retain every impreſſion due to thoſe from whom I am ſeparated. My "untravelled heart" turns to them even when ſilence has been conſtrued into neglect, and I appear to have forgotten them. Each of them comes to my memory with a fondneſs which often makes my heart ache, that human life, occupation, and events, permit not the power of giving as frequent expreſſion to kind wiſhes, as they are felt and excited. In years of greater leiſure and fuller health, the delights of correſpondence more than compenſated for the quantity of time em⯑ployed in ſuſtaining it. I neither ſeemed nor deſired to have any other employment than to receive and reply to the letters of my friends. Every poſt brought me the conti⯑nued hiſtory of their joys and ſorrows, and I gave mine in return with an ardour that doubled the one, and took from the other at leaſt half its ſtings. But, alas! the wants of health, of time, or of happineſs, ‘"check'd the genial current of the pen,"’ [172]which is an inſtrument of "the ſoul." Deep, heavy, and inceſſant too, are the taxes which certain incidents of life levy upon us. Many of theſe may make us ſacrifice the ſweeteſt occupations of the heart on the altar of more ſevere exerciſes: but never have the moſt vio⯑lent of theſe extinguiſhed one ſpark of that tenderneſs I bear to thoſe from whom I am divided; and every hour proves to me, that I recollect the virtues, the talents, and endear⯑ments of old friends, as affectionately as if this maturity of my life was engaged, like its earlier youth, only in the exchanges of per⯑ſonal or epiſtolary profeſſions. Ah! could my powers keep any pace with, or bear any proportion to, my inclinations on this ſubject, a correſpondence, regular as that I keep up with you, my friend, ſhould attempt the amuſement of every other whom I love. If, by my ſilence, I am ſuffering in the opinion of any on the idea of that ſilence being in⯑duced by motives leſs cogent than that depri⯑vation of health, leiſure, and ſpirits, which make ſuch frequent breaks in the lettered in⯑tercourſe I carry on with you, my loved friend, and a very few others, could they look in⯑to my ſoul at this moment, could they enter into its thoughts almoſt every moment of every day, they would not ſimply acquit me of [173]raiſing new friendſhips on the ruins of the old, but confeſs, that I reflected on their me⯑rits as warmly, and on their failings (when I thought on them at all) as candidly, as in the moſt gloſſy ſeaſons of attachment.

How have I rambled into theſe ſelfiſh de⯑velopements? Muſt I needs call them by ſo harſh a name? In abſence, many delicate ap⯑prehenſions aſſail us. The very phyſician that recommended the exerciſes of my pen ſet very unſocial bounds to them; for he knew, that the very poſture of writing was, if long con⯑tinued, pernicious to that inveterate pain and malady in my breaſt, which has ſo inceſſantly vexed me. It ſtops the progreſs of my pub⯑lic engagements: it continues to limit my private communications; and though my mind and body are relieved when I can in any mea⯑ſure ſurmount theſe boſom-evils, (and I am daily gleaning a little more of health as I go along) I am never ſo churliſh as to keep an unbroken hour to myſelf, but invariably de⯑vote the beſt part of it to you and to others whom I appreciate; and, in the ſeaſons that I cannot do this, I at leaſt think kindly of you.

Accept then theſe pages of ſelf-defence; for I know that the ſpirit of accuſation has gone [174]forth againſt me on the article of correſpon⯑dence: and if any thing could induce me to believe your welcome flatteries as to the merit of theſe letters, I ſhould derive the greateſt joy from the hope, that, if I adopt the propoſal you have made, of publiſhing them, I might acquire a ſenſible gratification by uniting pub⯑lic with private favour.

Forgive me, and return with me to Feſti⯑niog; or rather to my Lord Lyttelton's de⯑ſcription of its attractions: amongſt which he ſeems to reckon longevity. I fear, however, this is a complaiſance he was diſpoſed to ſhew the country. Thoſe who have long lived in towns, aſſume the ideas and feelings of a poet, happy, though but for a few weeks or days, to forget that they are men of the world. Country church-yards are amongſt the ob⯑jects moſt travellers viſit tranſiently; and when we have taſted the rural breeze, luxuriated in its proſpects, and been freſhened by a change of air and objects, we naturally enough con⯑clude that we have left the abodes of diſeaſe, langour, and untimely old age, and have, at length, found the regions of perpetual health, and of life, equally happy and long. From experience, nevertheleſs, of the fallacy of ſuppoſing our "days of nature" are more in [175]number when paſt in the ſhade, than amidſt the "hum of men," I have regretted, I know not how often, that, in this caſe, as in many others, truth and poeſy are ſo much at variance.

I uſually paſs an hour amidſt the manſions of the dead, in every town or village at which I pauſe; and I am, you know, a pauſing tra⯑veller; I always have been ſuch: but if graves and tombſtones are to be conſidered as the faithful regiſters of their reſpective pariſhes, and, I believe, they are to be pretty much depended upon; for all our little vanities are there uſe⯑leſs, and even the buried beauty there con⯑feſſes her age—the village annals will, I believe, have little to boaſt of the antidote of zephirs, or the anodyne of wholeſome labour, after undiſ⯑turbed repoſe. I have more than once had the curioſity, in this country, and in others, both at home and abroad, to compare the dates of life and death, as they are ſtated in the burial grounds, and if I have, ſometimes, been inclined to think the country church-yard, on a calcu⯑lation of equal inhabitants, the repoſitory of fewer young, and of more advanced old age, I have on the general average found, that the aſſertion of a celebrated touriſt on this ſubject, is founded in fact. It is generally ſuppoſed, ſays he, that life is longer where there are fewer [176]opportunities of luxury; but a cottager grows old over his oaten cakes, like a citizen at his turtle feaſt. A poor man is, indeed, ſeldom incommoded by corpulence. Poverty preſerves him from ſinking under the burthen of him⯑ſelf, but he eſcapes no other injury from time. Inſtances of long life are often related, which thoſe who hear them, are more willing to cre⯑dit than examine. To be told, that any man has attained an hundred years, (as in the caſe Lord Lyttelton has related,) gives hope and comfort to him, who ſtands trembling on the brink of his own climacteric. Length of life is, indeed, diſtributed impartially to very differ⯑ent modes of life, in very different climates; and the mountains have no greater inſtances of age and health, than the low lands, nor can vil⯑lages, and ſmall towns, produce more examples, than great cities, on a comparative average. Even in the village-receptacle of the dead at Feſtiniog, the infant, the youth, the mature man, and the veteran, lie mixing their aſhes together; and the inſtance which his Lordſhip has recorded, is amongſt the very few, who have materially exceeded the human ſpan.

But in this little country there live thoſe, whom, for the ſake of human kind, a benevolent tra⯑veller could not but wiſh he might continue in [177]the world, till that world itſelf ſhould be no more. The ſnow-clad mountains of Cambria, my friend, have not affrighted the ſpirit of philanthrophy, from viſiting their inhabitants; nor has the thick-ribb'd ice, that ſometimes places an impaſſable gulph, betwixt a man and his neighbour, ‘"Frozen the genial current of their fouls."’ The torrid zone boaſts not more glowing hearts, nor animated natures. It would be an hereſy committed againſt the beauties of the creation, to leave Wales without viſiting the ſeveral delicious domains, that appertain to my Lord Powis and his family; eſpecially that part, which is emparadiſed by Lord and Lady Clive. I make free with that word, as moſt expreſſive of the fact: for the two noble per⯑ſons, laſt mentioned, have literally raiſed a paradiſe around them: but though you will ſee wood, water, hill, and dale, manſion-houſes and cottages, in the moſt enviable abundance, all theſe are but ſecondary to ano⯑ther kind of beauty, which is here to be ſeen in perfection. Were you, for example, to make a circuit of the towns and villages ad⯑jacent to the ſeat of Lord and Lady Clive, and enter every houſe where either induſtry, indigence, ſickneſs, ſorrow, or misfortune, had entered before you, you would hear the voice, [178]or ſee the tear and ſmile of gratitude pouring forth the heart-felt praiſes of this noble pair. I know not when I have paſt a more delight⯑ful hour, than that which I ſpent on the road from Oakley Park to Welch Pool. My eyes were gratified with every grace of nature and art in vegetable beauty; my ears were regaled, yet more voluptuouſly, with a number of vil⯑lage annals, that have made me think more highly of human nature ever ſince.

I encountered one of Lord Clive's neigh⯑bours, and here follow, verbatim, the anſwers he gave to my enquiries. You are juſt to premiſe, that we are jogging on in a very neighbourly way, through his lordſhip's park, on a fine day, and in the fineſt month of the year; and that having converſed ſufficiently on the only acquaintance-making topic, which renders ſtrangers companionable—namely, the weather, we ſtruck into other ſubjects, drawn, principally, like moſt converſations on the road, from the ſurrounding objects.

"Yes, Sir," cried my aſſociate, in anſwer to a remark I had made on the beauty of the park through which we were, as I ſaid, tak⯑ing our way, ‘It is full of good ground, has ſome thouſand pounds worth of good tim⯑ber, [179]a brave head of deer, and game in abun⯑dance.—All theſe to be ſure are good things, but the folks to whom they belong are bet⯑ter than all of them. I am not a prejudiced perſon, never wanting a favour of lord or lady. I never received one but from my own induſtry, ſince I was born; I therefore may ſpeak.’

'No doubt you are an independent man.' ‘As an independent man, then, I inform you, that when either the lady or the lord, to whom this domain belongs, leave this world, all the hearts within a ſcore of miles round them, ought to break for it. As for my lady, it would comfort your ſoul, and make it better, if it wants mending—begging your pardon—to ſee ſo fine, ſo pretty, and ſo good a creature go her rounds of loving-kindneſs, ſometimes on foot, ſometimes on horſeback, and ſtopping at every hut and cottage, at⯑tended by all her children, by way of making them take after her.’

'And what is the end of thoſe circuits?' ‘Nothing on earth but to make the poor rich, the ſick well, and the ſad merry. I have often thought—God pardon me—when I have beheld her ladyſhip, and four or five of [180]her young ones, open the door of a miſer⯑able dwelling, which ſome of your great folks would not deign to look at, that it was more like an angel from heaven, and ſome little children, who, dying innocent, became cherubims, than human creatures.—Then they are as affable as if the poor things they make comfortable were their equals; and, in ſhort, inſtead of ſpending their time at a looking-glaſs, as thouſands do, who have not half ſuch handſome faces to look at, or their ſubſtance in the follies of the age, they may fairly be ſaid to keep a kitchen, cellar, and warehouſe, well-ſtored with good things, for thoſe that want them.’

That is ſtrange indeed: for commonly ſpeak⯑ing, to want the comforts which a fine houſe can ſupply, is the only objection, my good friend, for with-holding them: for which rea⯑ſon, I preſume, it is, that the very knockers, on the outſide of the doors of great men's houſes, are held by the iron-headed lion, tiger, or ſome other beaſt of prey; and that even, if a poor viſitor is ſo ſorely impelled by ne⯑ceſſity, as to brave this emblem of ſeverity without, and having the hardineſs to knock, ſhould thereby gain admittance within, he has generally to encounter another beaſt of [181]prey, in office, whoſe orders are, to ſuffer thoſe only to gain entrance, or at leaſt to paſs, who bring no wants but thoſe of which they can pay for the gratification: Nay, our town refine⯑ments are carried yet higher; for, as if neither the iron or brazen-headed monſter before the door, nor the Cerberus behind it, were ſuffici⯑ent guards to repel the ſighings of the ſor⯑rowful, or the cries of the indigent, the very hiſtory of a man's grievances, either of mind, body, or eſtate, are forbidden to obtrude them⯑ſelves on the nerves and feelings of the great perſonages who inhabit theſe great houſes; and, if a letter is not faſhionably folded up, ſu⯑perſcribed in a ſtyle of faſhionable illegibility, and impreſſed with arms that certify the writer to be a petitioner for nothing but what he can purchaſe by ſome commodity equivalent to that he receives, whether of courteſy or commerce, the letter is thrown out of doors, or referred to a reader of all papers ſuſpected to be filled with the complaints of thoſe poor devils who throw themſelves on the barren ſoil of a great man's humanity. All ſuch pa⯑pers, being found guilty of containing tales of diſtreſs, and petitionary repreſentations of ca⯑lamities of any kind, are condemned to lie on the inſpector's deſk, or be given up to the deriſion of the domeſtics, who fatten in the [132]ſervants' hall: but on pain of loſing their places, theſe pauper appeals, and mendicant manuſcripts, are kept from the maſter and miſtreſs of the manſion, who cannot have their delicate ſenſibilities ſhocked by the miſeries of their fellow-creatures, and imagine, that when they ſubſcribe to the public hoſpitals, in whoſe tell-tale books the names of the con⯑tributors, are pompouſly and oſtentatiouſly in⯑ſerted, they have fulfilled the whole duty of great men and women.

‘The great people I have been ſpeaking of, (continued my companion) are not of that deſcription. I remember a paſſage in one of the Spectators, the only books, except the Bible and Common Prayer, I ever read, or ever ſhall read, that juſt ſuits them; and as I got it by heart when I was firſt ſtruck with its force, I will repeat it to you—'If they have not the pomp of a numerous train, they have every day they live, the conſci⯑ouſneſs that the widow, the fatherleſs, the mourner, and the ſtranger, bleſs them in their prayers: they give up the compliments which people of their own condition could make to them, for the pleaſures of helping the af⯑flicted, ſupplying the needy, and befriending the neglected. Thus, keeping ſtill to them⯑ſelves [183]more than they want, they give a vaſt refuſe of their ſuperfluities to purchaſe heaven, and by freeing others from the temp⯑tation of worldly want, carry a retinue with them thither.'—I could employ twice the time it would take us in getting to Welch Pool, were I to tell you of one-third of the good things that I know to have been done by this noble family. They apprentice out the orphans, give portions to young women in marriage, grant annuities to the widows, put their old ſervants into farms on their own eſtate, and, though too often impoſed on, are ſtill as bountiful as if they had never met with an ungrateful perſon.’

There was ſomething in the manner of this my fellow-traveller, ſo illuſtrative of the mat⯑ter, that both at once co-operating on my heart, brought tears into my eyes; which be⯑ing perceived, and the cauſe miſtaken, the ho⯑neſt hiſtorian of the place caught hold of my horſe's bridle with one hand, and of my arm with the other, exclaiming—‘Perhaps you one way or other ſtand in need of the help of this noble couple, for there are decayed gentlemen as well as decayed tradeſmen; and if it be ſo, I ſhould be very ſorry that Lord and Lady C. are both from home at this [184]time on a viſit to Lord P. I ſay, I ſhould be very ſorry for this, had not I a toler⯑able good houſe in the neighbourhood on t'other ſide Pool, where you may wait the family's return, which is expected on Satur⯑day.’

The influence of a good great man's hoſpi⯑tality is more extenſive than we imagine, and it is in general a ſufficient motive of virtue, that it makes other emulous to "do likewiſe." Had time and circumſtance permitted, I would have humoured this honeſt man's miſconcep⯑tion, and gone home with him. As it hap⯑pened, I could only very truly aſſure him, the tears he obſerved on my cheek were thoſe of pleaſure; and that, though I was now con⯑ſtrained to take a different road, if ever I again met him in the journey of life, that pleaſure would be increaſed, and in the mean time I had a new ſource of moſt agreeable reflections, for which I ſhould bear an hearty good-will to all the inhabitants of Okely Park, and its en⯑virons, while I had a being.

Soon after this, he turned up a bye lane, which my companion ſaid would take him a ſhort cut acroſs the country to his houſe, which, as it did not ſuit me to make a ſtop at now, would be equally at my ſervice another time.

[185]In the direct road, I had about three miles to Pool, from the place at which we parted, and though the ſcenery merits all that travel⯑lers have ſaid of it, even to the luxuriant de⯑ſcription, which Lord Lyttelton has given of Powis caſtle, which is the fore-ground object, under your eye all the way, I looked at it then, almoſt without ſeeing it, my mind's eye being employed on what excels in lovelineſs all the caſtles, and proſpects of the earth—⯑a good heart engaging itſelf in acts of gen⯑tleneſs and mercy, for the ſake of goodneſs. A ſingle deed deſcribed by my travelling com⯑panion, in the daily benevolence of Okely Park, is ſufficient to overſet the ſelfiſh ſyſtems of Rochfaucault, Mandeville, and all the herd of Satiriſts on Human Nature, that ever ſor⯑didly narrowed its fair proportions; for after all they can ſay, Pope is right, when he inſiſts that ſelf-love and ſocial, are the ſame. Is not the pleaſure you will receive, even from the ſimple recital of ſo much real virtue, purely benevolent? Is not the gratification I feel in writing it, a ſpecies of benevolence alſo? and if either of us, in the courſe of our day, ſhall have added but a mite to the eaſe, accommo⯑dation, or comfort, of any one mortal, of even any one animal, to which we have the power of doing good, will it not ſtrew upon our pillows, [186]thoſe roſes which ſhall ſweeten our repoſe, and prove to us, that it is not for our own ſakes alone, that we have "done that which we ought to have done." But, I need not preſs this argument in defence of the motives of be⯑nevolence on you, my dear friend, whoſe whole life is a refutation of every attack, that has ever yet been made on the principle, that go⯑verns the ſocial virtues. Long, very long, may it continue to you a ſource of happineſs. Adieu.

N. B. Whenever you viſit Welch-Pool, you will be called upon by Nature herſelf, to viſit Powis caſtle, which is in its vicinity. The noble owner being now frequently the inhabi⯑tant, and having laid out in improvements, more than the three thouſand pounds, which my Lord Lyttelton conſidered neceſſary, to making it one of the moſt auguſt places in the kingdom, it commands the admiration of every traveller, and juſtifies the poetical language, which it has received in the following eulogy. It ſtands on the ſide of a very high hill; be⯑low lies a vale of incomparable beauty, with the Severn winding through it, and the town of Welch-Pool, terminated with ſublime moun⯑tains: the oppoſite ſide is beautifully culti⯑vated half way up, and green to the top, ex⯑cept [187]in one or two hills, whoſe ſummits are rocky, and of groteſque ſhapes that give va⯑riety, and ſpirit to the proſpect. Above the caſtle, is a long ridge of hills finely ſhaded, part of which is the park; and ſtill higher is the terrace, up to which you are led through very fine lawns, from whence you have a view that exceeds all deſcription.

It will not give a bad finiſhing to this faithful, though glowing picture, to under⯑ſtand, that Lady Clive, and the Earl of Powis, are of the ſame family, and not more nearly allied in blood, than by their virtues.— As you ſurvey Powis caſtle, you will think of this, and feel every beauty of the place expand on your heart from the recollection.

LETTER XIII. TO THE SAME.

YOUR affections are touched: you tell me that you cannot pay due homage to the parks, and caſtles I have deſcribed, juſt at pre⯑ſent, but that you would take a pilgrimage to Okely barefoot, and that you would do ſo were [188]Okely in the deſerts of Arabia, to offer the in⯑cenſe of a throbbing heart, to the Lord and Lady of the domain. You even bid me give you a poſt's reſpite from deſcription, adding, that your heart is brimful, and feels a bliſs, which edges upon pain from its exceſs. I have obeyed you. Four poſts have paſt by, during which you have been delivered up to the un⯑diſturbed enjoyment of your feelings. Your letter of yeſterday breaks the truce I had made with your heart, by requeſting me to pro⯑ceed;—ſtill in conformity to your wiſhes, I will go on; but as you ſay, your mind is even yet more open to the charms of philanthropy, than accounts of fine ſcenery, in which are to be ſeen only the charms of nature, this is the moment, as it is the place, to offer you a little hiſtory, which I have often intended to ſix upon paper, and which deſerves for its intrin⯑ſic worth to be engraven, by the regiſtering angel, on leaves of adamant. But in the very outſet, I have acted unſkilfully, for I have rouſed your expectation, and wound up your curioſity before hand, inſtead of taking them by ſurprize, and thereby have rendered the gra⯑tification more difficult. Your heart is pre⯑pared for its impreſſion, and to anticipate an emotion, is to weaken it. As an author, I [189]have done wrong: as a man you will pardon me. I felt the force of the facts I was about to dilate, too ſenſibly, to be upon my guard. My affections were too much warmed to think of taking your's captive, by any ſtratagems of cold dexterity. To write my letter over again, would injure the glow that is now animating my boſom, and would be an artifice, ſomething like practiſing on your ſenſibility. Accept then the ſtory, juſt as it riſes from my heart to my pen, and without conſidering how much a more adroit arrangement of the incidents might have moved you, take it as an inſtance of my love for you, that I ſtand not upon the ceremonies of compoſition, but give you my correſpondence—"warm from my heart, and faithful to its fires." I have only further to pro⯑miſe, that every ſentence of the enſuing ſcenes, records an unadorned, unaſſiſted truth, and that the only injury they can ſuffer, will be from the defects of the relation.

A merchant, of conſiderable eminence in London, was reduced to the ſituation of poor Baſſanio, and from preciſely the ſame run of ill-luck in his ſea adventures,

To theſe miſcarriages abroad, were added fimilar calamities at home. Several great houſes broke in his debt, and with the wrecks of his fortune, gathered together, he leſt the metropolis, and took refuge in the mountains of Montgomeryſhire. A little girl, then only nine years of age, his only ſurviving child, was the ſole companion of his retreat, and ſmiled away his misfortunes. The care of her education was his moſt certain relief from the corroding reflections of the paſt, and the cer⯑tainty of her poſſeſſing at his death, ſufficient to prevent a good mind from the horrors of dependence, ſoftened his thoughts of the fu⯑ture; the preſent was filled up with the de⯑lights of ſeeing her ambition yet humbler than her fortunes, and literally bounded by the ob⯑jects that ſurrounded her. To tend the flowers ſhe had ſet with her own hand, to nurſe the ſhrubs ſhe had planted, to ſport with and feed the lamb ſhe had domeſticated, to ſee it follow her in her rambles, and to liſten to the me⯑lodies of Nature, as they murmured in the waters, or echoed through the woods, were her chief amuſements without doors, and by a [191]thouſand love-taught duties, to make a father forget that he had ever been unhappy, or unfortunate, her deareſt ſtudy within. Of her perſonal attractions I ſhall ſay little: a ſingle line of Thomſon's gives the trueſt image of them, and of the unaffected mind, by which they were illumined.

It is not eaſy to be wretched in the conſtant ſociety of perfect innocence: the company of a beautiful child, wholly unpolluted by the world, affords one the idea of angelic aſſocia⯑tion. Its harmleſſneſs appears to guarantee one from harm: we reflect, nay we ſee and hear, almoſt every moment, it is climbing our knees, playing at our ſide, engaging our at⯑tentions, or repoſing in our arms, the words and acts of an unſpotted Being, and one can ſcarce be perſuaded, any real ill can befal us, while a companion ſo like a guardian cherub is near. When the babe is our own—ſay, ye parents, how the ſenſation is then exalted!— Which of you, having at your option the loſs of the ampleſt fortune, or of the feebleſt infant, would not cleave to the laſt, and reſign the former? or, if any of you balanced a moment, would not one liſping word, one [192]caſual look, turn the ſcale in favour of nature, and make you think it a crime to have heſitated?

Such were the ſentiments of the merchant, and under their chearing influence he lived many years, during which, a few mountain peaſants, an old relict of his better days, as a ſervant, who had been nurſe to the young lady, and his daughter, were the only objects with whom he converſed. So powerful is habit, that we aſſimilate to perſons, places, and things, that on our firſt introduction to them, we might ima⯑gine, neither philoſophy, cuſtom, or religion, could make ſupportable. We are ſurpriſed to find we attach to them, even to endearment. In time, even our former habits, no leſs ſtrong in us, are but ſlightly remembered, and thoſe purſuits, diverſions, and ſocieties, without which, it once appeared impoſſible we ſhould ever paſs a day, are yielded for others, that it then would have been thought as impoſſible even to be endured. Our merchant would have deemed the company of a monarch an in⯑truſion, and the jargon of the Exchange, which had for ſo many years been muſic to his ears, could not now have been borne. I have, here, given you ſome of his own expreſſions. At length he fell ſick. His daughter was then [193]in her eighteenth year; the diſorder was of a gradual kind, that threatened to continue life, after one has ceaſed to love it, and to cloſe in death. He lingered eleven weeks, and, the old domeſtic being now ſuperannuated and al⯑moſt blind, his daughter was at once his nurſe, his cook, his conſoler; and might truly be ſaid to make his bed in his ſickneſs. She wanted not the world to teach her the filial duties. Her own pure heart ſupplied them all, and her own gentle hands adminiſtered them. But now, for the firſt time of her exiſtence, ſhe ad⯑ded to her father's anguiſh. It almoſt kills me to look on you, my only love, cried he, with an emphaſis of ſorrow, and burſting into tears. I am ſure, replied ſhe, falling on her knees at his bedſide, it has almoſt killed me to hear you ſay ſo, and if it would make my deareſt father better, I would kill myſelf this mo⯑ment, and truſt in God's mercy to forgive me. Ah, my child, you miſtake the cauſe and mo⯑tive of my regrets, reſumed the parent—the thoughts of leaving you without protection—⯑there is the bitterneſs—I am not going to be left, ſaid ſhe, riſing haſtily, I have a preſage you will be well ſoon, and I am a great pro⯑pheteſs, my beloved father. Be in good ſpirits, for I am ſure, you will recover: I have ſent to [194]Montgomery and Welch Pool, and to-morrow, I am to have the two beſt doctors in Wales.

Your goodneſs is always a comfort, my darling, replied the deſponding merchant, but two thouſand Welch doctors could not ſet me again on my legs.—If, indeed, I was in a con⯑dition to procure—but that's impoſſible!—

Procure what? Whom? Nothing is impoſ⯑ſible, anſwered his daughter with the moſt eager haſte.

I have an idle and romantic faith, in the only man in the whole world, that knows my conſtitution, and he is as far beyond my reach, as if he were out of exiſtence

Good heaven! you mean Dr. ******, ex⯑claimed the daughter. I have heard you often ſpeak of his having twice before ſaved your precious life, for which I have had him in my nightly prayers ever ſince, and ſhall go on bleſ⯑ſing him to the hour of my death. O, that I were a man to fetch him!!

The father preſſed her tenderly in his feeble arms, in acknowledgment of her affection, but told her, that, from a multiplicity of other [195]claims, it would be as impoſſible for the Doctor to get down to Wales, as for himſelf to go out of his ſick bed to London. Do not, therefore, let us think of it, my child, continued the father; ſince it is only the aggravation of a vain wiſh to know that it muſt end in diſappoint⯑ment—I am reſigned.

Notwithſtanding this declaration, the mer⯑chant receiving no manner of benefit from the Welch Doctors, and being unable, indeed, to pay for their continued attendance, without an injury to that ſcanty fund, out of which he had to draw all the neceſſaries of life, he often ſighed out in a voice of pining, as it were, in⯑voluntarily, the name of ******. The ſound of that voice, languiſhing for that which might poſſibly change its tone to gladneſs, penetrated the ſoul of his daughter, who needed not ſo pathetic a memento of her father's wiſhes, to make her bitterly regret her inability to gratify them. The poor gentleman grew worſe, and expreſſing a deſire for ſomething, which he imagined might afford a momentary relief, his Amelia, ſo was the young lady named, took the firſt opportunity of his being compoſed, to go into the neighbourhood, in ſearch of a perſon to ſetch it from Montgomery. A [196]little road-ſide public-houſe, about a mile from her father's cottage, appeared the moſt likely place to find a meſſenger. Thither ſhe repaired, and arrived juſt in time to take ſhelter from a ſudden ſtorm that fell with great violence. At the moment of her en⯑trance there were none but the old hoſt and hoſteſs in the alehouſe, but in a very few mi⯑nutes after, it filled with labourers and paſ⯑ſengers, who, like herſelf, ſought protection from the hurricane: during the fury, however, of which, ſhe had too much compaſſion to mention her wiſhes, for ſhe was amongſt thoſe whoſe nature would not ſuffer her to "turn an enemy's dog out of door at ſuch a ſeaſon." This neceſſary delay, nevertheleſs, greatly in⯑creaſed her uneaſineſs, and ſhe kept watching the rain, and the hoped return of fine wea⯑ther, at the window. Seeing no proſpect of its clearing, ſhe determined to do that herſelf, at all hazards, which ſhe could not aſk another to perform:—namely, to be herſelf the meſ⯑ſenger; to which end ſhe deſired to know, whether the road ſhe ſaw from the window, was the neareſt and moſt direct to Montgo⯑mery, or to any other town, where there was an apothecary's ſhop, and what might be the diſtance to any ſuch place?

[197]The affecting voice in which theſe queſtions were demanded, and the prevailing appearance of the ſpeaker, gained her an intereſt in every hearer and beholder, ſeveral of whom knew, and acknowledged her for a neighbour, ming⯑ling their expreſſions of good-will, with num⯑berleſs kind enquiries after her ſick father, for whoſe languiſhing ſituation, they unanimouſly declared their pity and regard, and whoſe death, if it ſhould pleaſe God to ſnatch him away, they ſhould long lament.

This laſt obſervation bringing to mind the image of her father's danger more cloſely, the trembling Amelia loſt all thought of herſelf, or of the weather, and thanking every body around her for their civility, while her lovely face was covered with her tears, ſhe had got the latch of the door in her hand, and was pre⯑paring to hurry out on her commiſſion, accord⯑ing to the directions ſhe had received, when a traveller who had not opened his lips, during the converſation of the peaſants, but ſat drying himſelf at the fire, roſe up ſuddenly, and beg⯑ged permiſſion to ſpeak to her. She went with ſurprize and tottering ſteps into an adjoining room where he uſed to her theſe very words.

"One of your neighbours, young lady, has told me, you have been for many years, the [198]beſt daughter in the world, to the beſt father, who has been once the richeſt, though now the pooreſt man in Wales, conſidering you and he are to be ſupported as gentlefolks. It is plain to ſee, there is a great deal of diſtreſs upon your mind, and it is natural to gueſs the cauſe of it may be removed. I am not, by any means, a wealthy man, but I have had my ſhare of evils ſufficiently, to make me feel for the unfortunate, and I have always, thank God, a ſomething to ſpare for the mitigation of honeſt diſtreſs, in whatever country it is preſented to my view. I beg you will preſent this trifle, (giving her a bank bill) with com⯑pliments, begging the favour of his making uſe of it, till it may ſuit his circumſtances to return it.—I have no manner of occaſion for it, till about this time next year, when I will call to aſk after his health, which, I hope, will long ere that be eſtabliſhed; and if it ſhould not at that time be convenient to make reſti⯑tution of the loan, we will put it off till the year after, when I will pay a ſecond viſit to you; as I purpoſe paſſing through this country into Ireland, where I have concerns annually. I am now going to London."

The laſt ſentence ſeemed to annihilate the reſt. The very name of London had, at that [199]inſtant, more charms for Amelia, than it could ever boaſt of creating in the head of any Miſs in her teens, who had her mamma's promiſe to paſs a winter amongſt the ſine folks, and fine ſights, with which it abounds. But it drew the attention of Amelia, from ſuperior mo⯑tives. It was the reſidence of her poor father's phyſician, on whoſe heart ſhe now reſolved to make an attempt, by the medium of the ge⯑nerous ſtranger, who ſhe rightly judged, would ſuffer his bounty to take any direction ſhe might wiſh, and to whom ſhe ſtated the mer⯑chant's anxious, but hopeleſs deſires.

You have juſt the ſoul, my dear friend, to ſuggeſt the extacy of Amelia's, on hearing that this much-wiſhed for phyſician, was an intimate acquaintance of the traveller, and all the in⯑tereſts of an old affection ſhall be tried with the doctor, exclaimed the ſtranger, as ſoon as I get to town, on condition that you will now go home to your father with this purſe, and as an aſſurance, that although I am an uſurer, I will receive neither principal, nor intereſt, till he is very able to pay both.

He did not give the aſtoniſhed Amelia time to refuſe, but ſeeing the weather inclined to remit its rigours, he put half-a-crown into the [200]hands of the peaſants, to drink the young lady, and her ſick father's health; and order⯑ing his horſe to the door—mounted and pro⯑ceeded on his journey.

Does not your bounding heart aſſure you, his feelings would have defended him, from beſtowing a thought on the peltings of the pitileſs ſtorm, had they continued to rage? And does it not alſo inform you, that this fair pattern of filial piety was proof againſt the war of elements: the ſunſhine of benevolence had, indeed, ſo animated her, that its ſudden and intenſe rays, might have been too ſtrong for her tender frame, had they not been mode⯑rated by a ſhower of tears. She had ſcarcely regained her cottage, indeed, when overcome by her ſenſations, ſhe fainted in the arms of her aged nurſe, who had been mourning her delay.

Alas, my friend, what fragile creatures we are! How much at the diſpoſal of contrary events! How totally the vaſſals of ſorrow, and of joy! How little able to encounter the ex⯑tremes of either! But you will not eaſily for⯑give exclamations that detain you from poor Amelia, whom I left in diſtreſs to indulge them. My heart is but too often the maſter [201]of my pen, and guides it as it liſteth. Let me haſten to make atonement, by informing you, that our lovely ſufferer, on her recovery, had the pleaſure to find her father had doſed beſt part of the morning, and though he miſſed her, from his apartment, when he awoke, he told the nurſe, that he hoped ſhe was taking a little neceſſary reſt in her own room, where he deſired ſhe might remain undiſturbed.

This gave her opportunity to manage her good fortune, of which ſhe reſolved to be ſo excellent an oeconomiſt, that the ſupply ſhe had received ſhould anſwer the wiſeſt and hap⯑pieſt purpoſes: ſhe recollected that the day before ſhe met the benevolent ſtranger, her father had received by the poſt a Bank-bill, to the amount of the quarterly diviſion of his an⯑nuity; of courſe a farther reinforcement was not immediately neceſſary; on which account ſhe had to regret, that the flurry into which her ſpirits were thrown, had hindered her from perſiſting in her refuſal of the loan, to the acceptance of which, however, ſhe was ſome⯑what reconciled, when ſhe reflected on the condition annexed to her borrowing it; and an idea, which juſt then ſtarted to her imagi⯑nation, of the manner in which it might be [202]propriated, completely ſatisfied her feelings on the occaſion. She conſidered the gentleman's bank-bill as the luckieſt fund in the world, to ſerve as the phyſician's ſee, in caſe the gene⯑rous ſtranger ſhould prevail on him to come, and to that ſacred uſe her heart devoted it. The ſum was fifty pounds. A recompence which her ignorance in the price of medical advice in the golden climes of England led her to ſuppoſe would be all-ſufficient for a journey down to Wales. Alas! were a regular charge to be made out by Doctors W, R, G, F, L, or any other of the popular ſons of Eſculapius, of London, for ſuch a tour from the grand mart of cuſtom, the 50l. would ſcarcely be thought by thoſe meſſieurs a more than ſuffi⯑cient ſum to pay travelling expences. In many parts of the continent, indeed, where a ſhilling value in coin that has leſs of ſilver in its com⯑poſition, than would be found in the analyſis of a ſilver penny, is received as a ſettled gra⯑tuity for running a German mile, 50l. would cut a handſome figure in phyſic, and go very far towards curing a whole city of an epi⯑demy ſo far as preſcriptions could aſſiſt in its recovery.

As, however, the viſit of Dr. ****** was a point rather "devoutly to be wiſhed," than [203]expected, it being the middle of a very hard winter, Amelia thought it prudent to conceal the little adventure at the public houſe from her father, whoſe malady, nevertheleſs, rather increaſed than abated, and his love of life being in effect his love for his daughter, he could not help oocaſionally regretting his impaſſable diſtance from the only man, by whoſe aid there might be a chance of reſiſting his diſeaſe. There is, you know, a ſort of ſu⯑perſtition which often runs through a family in favour of its family phyſician. Nor is it altogether without a ſupport from reaſon, ſince the perſon who has long been in the ſecrets of our conſtitution, and familiar with our ha⯑bits of living, muſt, in all general caſes, be better able to apply the proper remedies, than he who is called into our bedchambers, when there is a diſeaſe in it, and when he ſees us for the firſt time under its influence: beſides which an old phyſician is commonly an old friend, and unites the lenitives of affection to the cathartics of ſcience; no wonder, then, that we have faith in him, and faith, you know is a great doctor in itſelf, performing a thou⯑ſand cures, which the higheſt profeſſional ſkill has not been able to accompliſh without it.

You will readily believe, that the bountiful ſtranger did not break promiſe to Amelia. He [204]kept it indeed ſo religiouſly holy, that in leſs than ten days from the date of his departure, our pious daughter received a meſſage, pur⯑porting that a perſon at the public houſe begged to ſpeak with her. You, my friend, whoſe fancy is ever warmed by your affection⯑ate heart, will immediately conclude what was concluded by Amelia, that it could be only the much-deſired Doctor, who had thus de⯑licately, to prevent the ill effect of ſurprize on the ſick merchant, announced his arrival. If ſo, you are in the right. However incon⯑ſiſtent with the ſpirit of buſineſs ſuch a long journey might be, it was perfectly in uniſon with the ſpirit of benevolence by which Dr. ****** was moved, to determine upon it the inſtant the caſe was ſtated to him, and to exe⯑cute what he had ſo determined, with all the diſpatch neceſſary to an affair of life and death, and the life and death, moreover, of an old and unfortunate friend. My good little girl, ſaid he, on the entrance of Amelia, who gliding from her father's bedſide with Sylphid ſteps, ran with duteous haſte to the village inn—My good little girl, I am come from —. Heaven! interrupted Amelia, falling on her knees, you are come from heaven to make my father well.—Under the auſpices of that heaven, I truſt I am, reſumed the Doctor. Let [205]us fly this inſtant, exclaimed Amelia, in the animated accents of nature—let us do all things in order, replied the Doctor, in the language of friendly diſcretion, otherwiſe we ſhall do more harm than good.—I preſume I am not expected? Amelia bowed a negative. Then my ſudden appearance would make thy father worſe, child, continued the Doctor. No; go back to him, and by telling him an old friend of his from London, and who has particular buſineſs in that part of Wales which he inha⯑bits, means to pay him a viſit on the ſcore of ancient amity, and will take cottage fare from him in his chamber. The name of this old London friend will then be a matter of amuſe⯑ing conjecture, in the midſt of which thou, child, mayſt ſuggeſt that thou ſhouldſt not wonder if it were me, telling him as much of the adventure that I find happened at this inn, between thee and the gentleman, who brought me thy meſſage, and with it the ſtory of thy virtues and misfortunes, to ſupport and to relieve which would have brought me ten times as far: but we have no time for profeſ⯑ſion, I am come here to practiſe; ſo fare thee well, my good little maid.—All that I have premiſed will be the work only of an hour, at the end of which I will be with thee.

[206]She kiſſed his hand ſervently, and without ſpeaking a ſingle word, ſprung up, and might rather be ſaid to fly than run to the cottage, though the paths thereto were loſt in ſnow. Her father was ſitting up in his bed, ſupport⯑ed by pillows, which the aged adherent had made ſhift to place in the abſence of his filial nurſe, who gently chid the old woman for tak⯑ing her proper buſineſs out of her hands; but that, if her dear father had found a moment's eaſe by this uſurpation of her natural rights, ſhe would then forgive the uſurper. She then entered on her errand, which ſhe managed ſo well, as to make the old friend's name, after much pleaſant conjecture on both ſides, the ſubject of a wager; the father obſerving, that if it ſhould prove to belong to the Doctor, Providence had ſent him to reward the virtue of his daughter, who on her part maintained that it would be chiefly owing to the value which heaven itſelf would ſet on her parent's life. This amicable ſtrife had put the invalid into unwonted ſpirits, and thereby, perhaps, not only prepared the way for the cure of a fever on the nerves, but laid the beſt founda⯑tion of it. The poor gentleman did not dare to lay any ſtreſs on the poſſibility of a viſit from the phyſician, and yet a faint bluſh of [207]hope denoted that he ſhould think himſelf moſt happy to loſe his wager.

At this auſpicious criſis it was, that our Doctor made his entrè, ſaying, as he advanced to the bed-ſide, "My eſteemed friend, I am come to return my perſonal thanks to thee, for having me in thy thoughts when thou wert too ſick to remember any but thoſe who are dear to thee, and of whom thou haſt a good opinion. Give me thy hand, and, without en⯑tering into long hiſtories, let us ſee, if in re⯑turn for thy kindneſs, I can make thee well again. Yes, this pulſe I foreſee, before I have done with it:

Thoſe eyes have I ſee, ſtill, the ſpirit of life in them, and this heart ſhall yet bound with re⯑novated enjoyments."

The emotions of Amelia during theſe fa⯑vorable prognoſtications no words can tell you. The merchant was ſtrongly affected. The Doc⯑tor perceived that his patient was recoverable both in the maladies of body and mind; and as he was no leſs a philoſopher and philan⯑thropiſt than a phyſician, he could with equal ſkill preſcribe for each. He was one of the [208]people called Quakers; and to a perfect know⯑ledge of the world, of his profeſſion, and of the human heart, united all the honeſt plainneſs of the character. The merchant's diſorder was, as I have ſaid, a fever on the ſpirits, of which the ſymptoms were, as uſual, want of apperite, laſſitude, watchfulneſs, and dejection of mind: a pulſe ſlow and creeping, difficulty of reſpiration, and a dread, yet hope, of death.

I need not tell you, that in this diſeaſe the cathartics of the mind, ſuch as exhilerate, en⯑liven, and amuſe the patient, are the moſt ef⯑fectual remedies, and ſuch as were adminiſtered with uncommon ſucceſs on the preſent oc⯑caſion. In leſs than a fortnight, the ſick man not only was in a condition to leave his bed, but his chamber, and play his part in the little cottage parlour, in a thouſand little frolics that Amelia and the Doctor deviſed to enter⯑tain him: in the courſe of the third week, he reſumed his accuſtomed exerciſes; and under the cordial ſupports of his friend and his child, he could aſcend the mountains that environed his habitation. In the middle of the fourth week, his ſpirits and ſtrength were ſo well re⯑ſtored, that in returning home to dinner, after a walk of ſome miles, he jocularly propoſed to run againſt the Doctor and Amelia for a [209]wager; which being agreed upon by the other parties, he ſet off, and beat them both. It was in the afternoon of this victorious day, that the good Doctor intimated the neceſſity of his return to town; good-humouredly obſerv⯑ing, that, although by a lucky arrangement, he had left his ſick and wounded in very good hands with a brother phyſician in London, he could not treſpaſs any longer, without fear of being ſet down by the college as a deſerter, and he muſt therefore repair to head quarters in the morning.

The reaſonableneſs of this was admitted: yet the merchant ſighed, and Amelia wept. The Doctor knew it muſt be done, and he ſaw that his prophecy, as to his friend's recovery, was fulfilled to his heart's content; but there is a ſympathy in generous regret, and his eyes were not more dry than Amelia's. In deſpite of exertions, the evening paſt heavily away: the morning did not riſe without caſting clouds on every countenance. The hour, the almoſt inſtant, that was to ſeparate the cottagers from their preſerver, approached.

Friend, ſaid the Doctor to his patient, as he heard the wheels of his carriage advancing, ſince I ſaw thee laſt in the great city, I have [210]proſpered exceedingly. All thoſe families, to whom thou tookeſt me by the hand, were, more for thy ſake than mine, on my liſt. Some merit, however, or infinite good fortune, I muſt needs have had, ſince, from an yearly gain of one hundred, I have increaſed my income to ſeveral thouſands per annum; and yet, I do not take fees for one in forty of my preſcrip⯑tions.—My houſe is too large for my family. Wilt thou come once again into the buſy world, with this mountain bloſſom, and oc⯑cupy ſome of the apartments?—This as thou wilt—At preſent I muſt give thee a few words of parting advice, and muſt rely on this dam⯑ſel to ſee that it is adopted. Thou art ſo much thy former ſelf, friend, that I fear not a relapſe; but, to fortify and ſtrengthen thee in my abſence, I have written, and made up, a preſcription, which, I am convinced, hits thy caſe exactly. Hearing ſomething of thy maladies from the friend who conveyed to me thy Amelia's meſſage, and forming a judgment, ſoberly, thereupon, I brought with me ſuch drugs as I thought could not be readily pro⯑cured in thy neighbourhood. They lie, how⯑ever, in a ſmall compaſs, even in this little box, yet, being compounds of peculiar ſtrength, they will laſt you, I judge, for at leaſt a year to come, probably more—if they ſhould not, [211]thou knoweſt where to addreſs the preſcriber for a freſh ſupply. There, friend, take it, but do not open it till you ſeem to wiſh for ſome⯑thing of a cordial nature. It will then, I have no doubt, do thee good.

He received their tearful embraces, and de⯑parted. You are impatient to lift up the lid of the box. When it was opened by the mer⯑chant and his daughter, they diſcovered two ſeparate pieces of paper, each containing a draft, on a different banker, for one thouſand pounds—the one, a preſent from the phyſician, the other from the ſtranger who had given him an account of this little family. Wrapt round theſe drafts was a ſlip of paper, in the Doctor's hand-writing, containing theſe words —"Tributes, from the friends of filial piety and parental love."

I muſt not deny you the gratification of knowing that the father recovered, and the child added to his bleſſings, and her own, many years; in the ſmiling courſe of which, the young lady's virtues attracted the affections of a very wealthy and worthy gentleman, whoſe power and inclinations not only enabled the merchant to make reſtitution of the generoſity received from the phyſician; but to make alſo [212]the reſidue of that man's life, from whom he derived the beſt and lovelieſt of wives, as happy, in proſperity, as it had been reſpectable, in misfortune.

There is an air of romance about this little hiſtory, better ſuited to the ſpirit of the days of chivalry (when to ſally forth in queſt of the unhappy and of the oppreſſed, and to relieve them, was a vital part of the educa⯑tion—nay, and even of the religion, of a gentleman) than to the preſent times, which, though perhaps not leſs diſtinguiſhed for libe⯑ral actions, than any age whatſoever, leſs en⯑courages that quixotiſm in benevolence, which marked the character of former aeras. On your heart I need not preſs my repeated aſ⯑ſurances of the ſimple truth of the above tranſactions. You will eaſily credit words and deeds, of which you are yourſelf ſo capable: indeed, to your feelings there will be nothing ſurprizing in all this, for you will follow the good old rule of judging others by yourſelf. Nay, I am perſuaded, that the wonder will ceaſe, and die away, in every heart you think fit to make partaker of theſe facts, when given to underſtand, that they proceeded from a phyſician who was the means of converting an highwayman, who had violated the public [213]faith, into a man who was afterwards choſen to guard the public faith, by holding a place of the higheſt truſt in one of the public trea⯑ſuries of his country; and that the Doctor's colleague in the bounty, ſhewn to our merchant and his Amelia, was no leſs a benefactor to human kind, than the late Mr. HOWARD, who happened, on the day that he was driven for ſhelter into the village inn, which was then graced with the preſence of Amelia, to be re⯑turning to England from one of his uſual tours of benevolence, to the different priſons of Ire⯑land and Wales. My friend, farewell.

LETTER XIV. TO THE SAME.

SINGULAR indeed! that you ſhould be peruſing the account of the death of the philanthropiſt mentioned in my laſt, at the moment that you received my letter, and that on the morning of the ſame day you ſhould have fallen in company with Dr. ******, of whoſe tour of loving kindneſs I had prepared for you ſo ample a detail.

Things of this ſort are occaſionally ſo well⯑timed, that there ſeems more in them than our [214]philoſophy can find out. It is impoſſible to hear that the King of Terrors has taken out of the world one of the beſt that ever entered it, for ſuch Mr. John Howard unqueſtionably was, without quitting one's ſubject, whatſo⯑ever it might be at the time of receiving ſuch intelligence, and faſtening upon that which adds a freſh proof to the certainty of that hour which is appointed for our own diſſolution. The loſs of the deareſt objects, one by one, as they drop from us, makes, perhaps, the ap⯑proaches of that hour leſs formidable, inaſ⯑much as we thereby feel our ties to life dimi⯑niſhed. The friendly intercourſe that ſubſiſted, betwixt me and the good Howard, is amongſt thoſe pleaſures of reflection, which, though at the preſent moment, daſhed by painful re⯑grets, will be cheriſhed for ever. I picked up many things reſpecting him well worthy of my gleaning hand in the courſe of our conver⯑ſations: ſome of which I ſhould ſend you, were I not certain that there will be more than a plenty of biographers follow faſt upon his funeral; and more lives, like more laſt dying ſpeeches, is an evil that is levied on every great man's aſhes. A few only of his particu⯑lar habits, as they occur at the moment, ſhall wait upon you.

[215]Howard had many ſingularities, but very few affectations. It was ſingular for mere mortal man to go about doing good for the ſake of doing it: to devote his fortune, and his life, to explore the moſt neglected, and the moſt forlorn of the wretched, and to re⯑lieve them "according to their ſeveral neceſ⯑ſities"—to begin the work of benevolence, where other people's bounty commonly ends it— in a priſon. All this, I ſay, was very ſingular, but wholly pure of affectation. Further, it was ſingular, deſerving that word, indeed, in⯑aſmuch as in human hiſtory—it is without a parallel—to put himſelf to the greateſt per⯑ſonal inconveniences, and to encounter the greateſt dangers, often of life itſelf, to accom⯑pliſh the propoſed ends of his philanthropy, ſince it is notorious that he traverſed the earth, without any conſideration of political diſtinc⯑tions, or the nature of climate, in ſearch of his objects, by which perſeverance and intre⯑pidity of reſolution, he overcame all impedi⯑ments that would have deterred many excellent perſons from attempting the like enterprizes; and made even thoſe faint by the way, who, with like good hearts, but with leſs firm minds, would have found themſelves unequal to like undertakings: yet in Howard this was alto⯑gether unaffected: and before any man ſets [216]down any part of it to a love of being particu⯑lar, or to a love of ſame, ariſing therefrom, let him well and truly examine his own heart, his own diſpoſition, and ſee that he is not hunting about for an excuſe to his own want of benevolence, or to his own vanities, in being bountiful, by lowering the principle of benevolence in another. Let it not be imputed to John Howard, as a diſhonour, that he had enemies, who while they could not but applaud the bleſſed effects of his virtue, laboured to depreciate the cauſe: the Saviour of the whole world, whom, perhaps, of human creatures he moſt correctly imitated, had the ſame, and to reſemble his divine example, even in the wrongs that were heaped on his ſacred head, is rather glory than ſhame.

He was ſingular in many of the common habits of life: for inſtance, he preferred damp ſheets, linen, and cloaths, to dry ones, and both riſing and going to bed ſwathed himſelf with coarſe towels dipped in the coldeſt water he could get; in that ſtate he remained half an hour, and then threw them off, freſhened and invigorated, as he ſaid, beyond meaſure. He never put on a great coat in the coldeſt coun⯑tries; nor had been a minute under or over the time of an appointment, ſo far as it depended on him⯑ſelf, [217]for ſix and twenty years. He never con⯑tinued at a place, or with a perſon, a ſingle day beyond the period prefixed for going, in his whole life; and he had not for the laſt ſixteen years of his exiſtence are any fiſh, fleſh, or fowl; nor ſat down to his ſimple fare of tea, milk, and ruſks, all that time. His journeys were continued from priſon to priſon, from one groupe of wretched beings to another, night and day, and where he could not go with a carriage he would ride, and where that was hazardous he would walk. Such a thing as an obſtruction was out of the queſtion.

There are thoſe who, conſcious of want⯑ing in themſelves what they envy in others, brand this victorious determination of ſuffer⯑ing no let, or hindrance, to ſtop him from keeping on in the right way, as madneſs. Ah, my friend, how much better would it be for their neighbours, and for ſociety, were they half as mad. Diſtractions they doubtleſs have, but it is to be feared, not half ſo friendly to the intereſts of human kind. But, indeed, all en⯑thuſiaſm of virtue is deemed romantic excen⯑tricity, by the cold hearted.

With reſpect to Mr. Howard's perſonal ſin⯑gularities above deſcribed, though they were, [218]certainly, hazardous experiments, in the firſt inſtance, it was not uſeleſs for a man, who had pre-reſolved to ſet his face againſt wind and weather, and after paſſing all ſorts of unhealthy climes, to deſcend into the realms of diſeaſe and death, to make them.

Some days after his firſt return from an at⯑tempt to mitigate the fury of the plague in Conſtantinople, he favoured me with a morn⯑ing viſit in London; the weather was ſo very terrible, that I had forgot his inveterate exact⯑neſs, and had yielded up even the hope, for his own ſake, of expecting him. Twelve at noon was the hour, and exactly as the clock, in my room, ſtruck it, he entered; the wet, for it rained torrents, dripping from every part of his dreſs, like water from a ſheep juſt landed from its waſhing. He would not even have attend⯑ed to his ſituation, having ſat himſelf down with the utmoſt compoſure, and begun converſation, had I not made an offer of dry cloaths, &c.

‘Yes, ſaid he, ſmiling, I had my fears, as I knocked at your door, that we ſhould go over the old buſineſs of apprehenſions, about a little rain water, which though it does not run from off my back, as it does from that of a duck, gooſe, or any other aquatic bird, [219]it does me as little injury; and after a long drought is ſcarcely leſs refreſhing. The coat I have now on has been as often wetted through, as any duck's in the world, and, in⯑deed, gets no other ſort of cleaning. I do aſſure you, a good ſoaking ſhower is the beſt bruſh for broad cloath, in the univerſe. You, like the reſt of my friends, throw away your pity upon my ſuppoſed hardſhips with juſt as much reaſon, as you commiſerate the common beggars, who, being familiar with ſtorms and hurricanes, neceſſity and naked⯑neſs, are a thouſand times, ſo forcible is habit, leſs to be compaſſionated than the ſons and daughters of Eaſe and Luxury, who, ac⯑cuſtomed to all the enfeebling refinements of feathers by night, and fires by day, are taught to feel like the puny creature ſtig⯑matiſed by Pope, who ſhivered at a breeze. All this is the work of art, my good friend; nature is more independent of external cir⯑cumſtances. Nature is intrepid, hardy, and adventurous; but it is a practice to ſpoil her, with indulgencies, from the moment we come into the world—a ſoft dreſs, and ſoft cradle, begin our education in luxuries, and we do not grow more manly the more we are grati⯑fied: on the contrary, our feet muſt be wrapt in wool or ſilk, we muſt tread upon carpets, [220]breathe, as it were, in fire, avoid a tempeſt, which ſweetens the air, as we would a blaſt that putrifies it, and guarding every crevice from an unwholeſome breeze, when it is the moſt elaſtic and bracing, lie down upon a bed of feathers, that relax the ſyſtem more than a night's lodging upon flint ſtones.’

‘You ſmile, added Mr. Howard, after a pauſe, but I am a living inſtance of the truths I inſiſt on. A more 'puny whipſter' than myſelf, in the days of my youth, was never ſeen. I could not walk out an even⯑ing without wrapping up: if I got wet in the feet a cold ſucceeded, I could not put on my ſhirt without its being aired, I was, politely, enfeebled enough to have delicate nerves, and was, occaſionally, troubled with a very genteel hectic. To be ſerious, I am convinced what emaſculates the body, debi⯑litates the mind, and renders both unfit for thoſe exertions, which are of ſuch uſe to us as ſocial beings. I, therefore, entered upon a reform of my conſtitution, and have ſuc⯑ceeded in ſuch a degree, that I have neither had a cough, cold, the vapors, nor any more alarming diſorder, ſince I ſurmounted the ſeaſoning. Prior to this, I uſed to be a [221]miſerable dependent on wind and weather; a little too much of either would poſtpone, and frequently prevent—not only my amuſe⯑ments, but my duties; and every one knows that a pleaſure, or a duty, deferred, is often deſtroyed. Procraſtination you very juſtly called the Thief of Time. And if, preſſed by my affections, or by the neceſſity of affairs, I did venture forth in deſpite of the elements, the conſequences were equally abſurd, and incommodious, not ſeldom afflictive. I muffled up even to my noſtrils; a crack in the glaſs of my chaiſe was ſufficient to diſtreſs me, a ſudden ſlope of the wheels to the right or left, ſet me a trembling, a jolt ſeemed like diſlocation, and the ſight of a bank or precipice, near which my horſe, or carriage, was to paſs, would diſorder me ſo much, that I would order the driver to ſtop, that I might get out and walk by the dif⯑ficult places. Mulled wines, ſpirituous cor⯑dials, and great fires, were to comfort me, and keep out the cold, as it is called, at every ſtage, and if I felt the leaſt damp in my feet, or other parts of my body, dry ſtockings, linen, &c. were to be inſtantly put on, the perils of the day were to be baffled by ſome⯑thing taken hot going to bed, and before I purſued my journey, the next morning, a [222]dram was to be ſwallowed down to fortify the ſtomach. In a word, I lived, moved, and had my being, ſo much by rule, that the ſlighteſt deviation was a diſeaſe.’

‘Every man, continued Mr. Howard, muſt, in theſe caſes, be his own phyſician. He muſt preſcribe for, and practiſe on, himſelf. I did this by a very ſimple, but as you will think, very ſevere regimen; namely, by deny⯑ing myſelf almoſt every thing in which I had long indulged. But as it is always much harder to get rid of a bad habit, than to contract it, I entered on my reform gradu⯑ally; that is to ſay, I began to diminiſh my uſual indulgencies by degrees. I found that a heavy meal, or a hearty one, as it is termed, and a chearful glaſs, that is to ſay, one more than does you good, made me inca⯑pable, or at beſt, diſinclined to any uſeful exertions, for ſome hours after dinner; and if the diluting powers of tea, aſſiſted the work of a diſturbed digeſtion, ſo far as to reſtore my faculties, a luxurious ſupper comes ſo cloſe upon it, that I was fit for nothing but diſſipation, till I went to a lux⯑urious bed, where I finiſhed the enervating practices, by ſleeping eight, ten, and ſome⯑times a dozen of hours on the ſtretch.—You [223]will not wonder, that I roſe the next morn⯑ing with the ſolids relaxed, the nerves un⯑ſtrung, the juices thickened, and the conſti⯑tution weakened. To remedy all this, I ate a little leſs at every meal, and reduced my drink in proportion. It is really wonderful to conſider, how imperceptibly a ſingle morſel of animal food, and a tea-ſpoonful of liquor deducted from the uſual quantity daily, will reſtore the mental functions, with⯑out any injury to the corporeal: nay, with increaſe of vigour to both. I brought my⯑ſelf, in the firſt inſtance, from dining upon many diſhes, to dining on a few, and then to being ſatisfied with one; in like manner, inſtead of drinking a variety of wines, I made my election of a ſingle ſort, and adhered to it alone.’

"In the next place—but I ſhall tire you."

I intreated him to go on till I either ſhewed by words, or actions, that I was weary.

He proceeded thus:—‘My next buſineſs was to eat and drink ſparingly of that adopted diſh and bottle. My eaſe, vivacity, and ſpirits, augmented. My cloathing, &c. underwent a ſimilar reform, the effect of all which is, and has been for many years, that [224]I am neither affected by ſeeing my carriage dragged up a mountain, or driven down a valley. If an accident happens, I am pre⯑pared for it, I mean ſo far as reſpects unneceſ⯑ſary terrors; and I am proof againſt all changes in the atmoſphere, wet cloaths, wet feet, night air, damp beds, damp houſes, tranſitions from heat to cold, and the long train of hypochondriac affections.’

‘Believe me, we are too apt to invert the re⯑medies, which we ought to preſcribe to our⯑ſelves—for inſtance, we are for ever giving hot things, when we ſhould adminiſter cold. On my going down to my houſe laſt week in Bedfordſhire, the overſeer of my grounds met me with a pail full of comfortable things, as he called them, which he was carrying to one of my cows, which was afflicted ſorely with, as he called it, a racketty complaint in her bowels. I ordered him to throw away his pail of comforts, and take to the poor beaſt, a pail of cold water. Cold water, your honour, exclaimed the man, with every mark of conſternation! Would you kill the poor dumb creature? Why, ſhe is in ſuch deſperations pain, that I don't think a bucket of ſheer brandy, would have any more effect upon her, than if I were to pour [225]it againſt a dead wall. No matter for that, ſaid I, take her a pail of water! Suppoſe, honeſt friend, ſhe had all her life run wild in a foreſt, and fell into the ſickneſs under which ſhe now labours, doſt thou think that nature would ever carry her the hot com⯑forts you have got in that pail? Nature, your honour, but with ſubmiſſion, nature muſt, when either man or beaſt is ſick, be clapped on the back a little: if not, nature will let them die. Not ſhe, truly; if they are recoverable, ſhe will, on the contrary, make them well. Depend upon it, ſhe is the beſt phyſician in the world, though ſhe has not taken her degrees in the college; and ſo make haſte to throw away what is now in your pail, and fill it as I directed; for whe⯑ther my cow die or live, ſhe ſhall have no⯑thing but graſs and cold water. Though the poor fellow dared not any longer reſiſt, I could ſee plainly that he put me down, as having loſt not only my ſenſes, but my hu⯑manity. However, the cure did very well, and I am ſatisfied, that if we were to truſt more to nature, and ſuffer her to ſupply her own remedies, to cure her own diſeaſes, the formidable catalogue of human maladies would be reduced to a third of their preſent [226]number. Dr. Sydenham, I think, reckons ſixty different kinds of ſevers, for example; of theſe I cannot ſuppoſe leſs than fifty are either brought about, or rendered worſe by miſapplication of improper remedies, or by our own violation of the laws of nature. And the ſame, I take it, may be ſaid of other diſorders.’

He now pulled out his watch, telling me he had an engagement at half paſt one, that he had about three quarters of a mile to walk to it, that as he could do this in twenty minutes, and as it then wanted ſeven minutes and almoſt an half of one, he had exactly time enough ſtill to ſpare, to ſtate the object of his viſit to me—‘Which is to thank you very ſincerely, ſaid he, taking my hand, for the honour you have done me in your verſes: I read them merely as a compoſition in which the poetical licence had been uſed to the utmoſt: poets, you know, my dear Sir, always ſucceed beſt in fiction.’

You will ſee by this converſation, that it was about the time when the Engliſh nation had been emulous of commemorating their reſpect for this great and good man, by erect⯑ing a ſtatue, towards which, I had contributed [227]my mite, by devoting to the fund the profits of my little Poem, called "The Triumph of Benevolence;" and while I am touched very ſenſibly with even the recollection of the public favour, which crowned this little work, I very ſincerely attribute a great deal of its ſucceſs to the popularity of a ſubject in which every lover of humanity took ſuch an intereſt.

In reply to Mr. Howard, I aſſured him, that he ought to be, and doubtleſs was, con⯑ſcious, the liberty allowed a poet, was never more unneceſſary, or leſs made uſe of than on the occaſion alluded to, and that if an agree⯑able fiction was any teſt of the poetical art, I could pretend to none from having very cloſely, as his heart could not but at that mo⯑ment tell him, adherred to truth: and that I aſſured myſelf he would admit that truth was the ſame, whether expreſſed in proſe or verſe. I added, it was my earneſt hope, there was no ground for an idea that had gone forth of his refuſing the offering of gratitude, which his country were preparing for him.

‘Indeed, but there is, anſwered he, with the moſt lively earneſtneſs, I was never more ſerious than in my refuſal of any and every [228]ſuch offering, and for the ſimpleſt reaſon in the world; namely, my having no manner of claim to it. What I do, have done, or may hereafter do, is, has been, and will always be, matter of inclination, the gratifying which always pays itſelf, and I have no more merit in employing my time and money in the way I am known to do, than another man in other occupations. Inſtead of taking plea⯑ſure in a pack of hounds, in ſocial entertain⯑ments, in a fine ſtud of horſes, and in many other ſimilar ſatisfactions, I have made my election of different purſuits; and being fully perſuaded a man's own gratifications are always, more or leſs, involved in other people's, I feel no deſire to change with any man, and yet I can ſee no manner of preten⯑ſion, whereon to erect a ſtatue; beſide all which, I have a moſt inconquerable averſion, and ever had, to have public exhibitions made of me, inſomuch, that I proteſt to you, it has coſt me a great deal of trouble, and ſome money, to make this inſignificant form and ugly face, eſcape a pack of draftſmen, painters, &c. that are lying in wait for me.’—

Unleſs you had perſonally known Mr. Howard, it is impoſſible you ſhould have the ſmalleſt idea of the pleaſant manner with [229]which he ſpoke on his own perſonal ſubject.— ‘I have detected a fellow at work upon this face of mine, ugly as it is, ſaid he, even as I have been walking in the ſtreets of Lon⯑don; and if a hackney-coach has been within call, I have popped into it, drawn up the blinds, and ſat ſnug, till I got to my own door, and then I have leaped out, and run into my own houſe, as if I was appre⯑henſive a bailiff was at my heels. Nay, I have often had my door itſelf infeſted by a lurking artiſt, who was literally in wait to take me off. But one day, ſince my return, a trick I played one of theſe takers off di⯑verted me exceſſively. You muſt know I am a great gaper at the novelties that are continually preſented at the print-ſhops in this great city; I was ſtanding at that of Carrington Bowles, in St. Paul's Church⯑yard, the other day, to look at ſome political caricatures very pleaſantly executed, when, happening to caſt my eye ſide-long, I diſco⯑vered a fellow operating on my phiz with all his might. Perceiving himſelf caught in the fact, he lowered his paper, and pretended to be, like myſelf and a number of others, looking only at the prints. I was juſt then in the humour to pay off this deception by another, ſo ſeeming, like him, to be wholly [230]engroſſed by a figure, called Scotch Oeco⯑nomy, well calculated to provoke the riſible muſcles, I threw mine into ſuch contortions, and gave ſuch ſudden changes from one de⯑formity to another, that had my painter etched any one of my features in its then po⯑ſition, the reſemblance betwixt my actual ſelf and the copy, would have been juſt as ſtrik⯑ing, as—I could deſire it to be. The painter, however, at length perceived the ſtratagem, and ſmiling, as if he gave me credit for it, put his pencil into his pocket and went away. I own I enjoyed the joke, and have ſince practiſed it, more than once, with no leſs ſucceſs.’

You will, doubtleſs, throw theſe ſallies amongſt his ſingularities, my friend, but they are by no means to be ſtigmatized as affecta⯑tions. From a very intent obſervation on Mr. Howard, I am perfectly ſatisfied, that as he had but few who acted like himſelf, the proportion of thoſe who felt in the ſame way the ordinary reſults of ſuch actions were not greater. That he was inſenſible to honeſt praiſe cannot be ſuppoſed, without depriving him of emo⯑tions which the moſt ingenuous modeſty may indulge, and which are indeed amongſt the moſt natural pleaſures of the human mind; but [231]to court the reputation of benevolence, by ſuf⯑fering the lucre of it to mix with any of his motives, or, ſtill worſe, to make it, as alas too many people do, a firſt great cauſe of being bountiful, argues an envy or a depravity in thoſe who impute to him ſuch vanities. In a word, if ever a human being could be truly ſaid to "do good, and bluſh to find it fame," it was the late Mr. John Howard.

I preſume you have heard, that, amongſt his other ſingularities, is to be enumerated his generous care of his ſuperannuated horſes. He had a range of paſtures ſacred to the old age of thoſe who had carried him pleaſantly, or worked for him honeſtly and induſtriouſly, till they were no longer fit for ſervice. This is the moment when horſes are, in general, either ſold at an under price to people who are con⯑ſtrained to allow no touch of pity to predomi⯑nate over that charity which begins at home, or elſe they are deſtroyed, and given to the dogs, their maſters alledging that it is an act of humanity. Our Philanthropiſt's humanity never leading him to kill an old ſervant, he turns his uſeleſs horſes into the aforeſaid paſtures, where they remain happy penſioners on his bounty for the reſt of their lives.

[232]I was much delighted on walking over thoſe grounds with the generous maſter of them, to ſee twenty or thirty of theſe quadruped pen⯑ſioners, enjoying themſelves in perfect free⯑dom from labour, and in full ſupply of all that old age requires. Each of the fields has a com⯑fortable ſhed, where the inhabitants can reſort to in the hard weather, and are ſure of finding the rigours of the ſeaſon ſoftened by a well⯑furniſhed crib of the beſt hay, and a manger either of bran, or corn, ground, or ſome other nouriſhing food. Chelſea hoſpital is not better accommodated: the day on which I made the circuit of the paſtures was one of the fineſt of Auguſt; ſome of the penſioners were renovating in the ſun, others repoſing in the ſhade; but on the approach of their benefactor, all of them, actuated by a ſpirit of gratitude worthy of imitation, that could move with eaſe, came towards him, invited his attentions, and ſeemed very ſenſible of their ſituation. Some, whoſe limbs almoſt refuſed their offices, put them⯑ſelves to no ſmall difficulties to limp towards him, and even thoſe, who, being confined to their hovels, might be fairly ſaid to be bed⯑ridden, turned their languid eyes to him, and appeared ſenſible of his pity, and careſſings.

[233] ‘Theſe have been all very faithful creatures, Sir, ſaid he, and who have ſtrong claims upon me: that poor fellow, who has now ſcarce a leg to ſtand upon, was the conſtant com⯑panion of my peregrinations for ſix and twenty years, and was as proud and prancing, as he is now humble and decrepid; and the iron grey invalid, which you ſee yonder, dragging his ſlow length along, was in the days of his youth ſuch a roving, riotous fellow, that no gate or hedge could keep him within bounds, and it was a day's work ſometimes to catch him; nay, when he was caught, it required more addreſs and horſemanſhip than ever I was maſter of, to make him underſtand, that the philoſophy of a parſon's pad, had more charms for me than all the flights of Bucephalus, or even of Pegaſus himſelf. Look at him now. The morality of the contraſt is obvious.’

In this manner he went on, enumerating the ſeveral qualities, and hiſtorical anecdotes of the ſeveral penſioners. The one laſt deſcribed, he told me, ‘was at no time a horſe for him, and would not probably have been amongſt his penſioners, but that he had been once rode by a relation of his, a young agreeable rake, [234]who valued him for the very points that made him uſeleſs to me, his ſkittiſhneſs, and impe⯑tuoſity; all which he aſſerted, were the ſure marks, both in man and beaſt of a generous ſpirit, high heart, and noble diſpoſition. Now, as my little frolic-loving couſin was preciſely of this character himſelf, and after a mad, but not vicious, career of fifteen years, conſolidated into a very good man, I ſuffered the horſe and his maſter to reform themſelves at leiſure, and wiſh with all my ſoul, that half the reformed rakes about town, had turned out ſo well, after ſowing their wild oats, as did this young gentleman, and his favourite ſteed, who, for the eight laſt years of his ſervitude, was a pattern of ſo⯑briety to horſes and riders.’

I do not recollect any other ſingularities re⯑ſpecting this extraordinary man: but if what I have here ſet down, gives you a curioſity for more, I have no doubt but it will be amply gratified, as there needs no ghoſt to foretel us, there will be an hiſtorian for almoſt every anec⯑dote and incident in his life! Luckily he is one of the ſubjects, which can never be exhauſted, and as Dr. Johnſon once ſaid to me of his friend Goldſmith,—"he was one who cannot be too much praiſed or lamented." And [235]never, perhaps, was the famous expreſſion of Hamlet more applicable, though quoted on ten thouſand occaſions, than to Howard—

LETTER XV.
TO THE SAME.

IT is a very high ſatisfaction to give you pleaſure, it increaſes my obligations to you, for it increaſes my happineſs. Your laſt letter, therefore, wherein you expreſs ſo vivid a ſenſe of the Howardine ſcraps I ſent you, could not but be moſt welcome: neither can I refuſe the flattering compliment you pay to my muſe, in deſiring a copy of the tributary verſes ſhe paid to our Great Philanthropiſt, at the time that the Britiſh empire, which he ſo much adorned and dignified, was preparing its memorial of national exultation. You tell me, that you have applied to the bookſellers, and to the publiſher of that little poem in vain. Had I known your wiſhes, I could have prevented your having any trouble to gratify them on this occaſion, having long known the poem was [236]out of print, and as long been applied to for ſending it again to the preſs, but the ſale of the former editions, having anſwered the end of ſomething enlarging the fund, which was intended to defray the expences of the ſtatue, and that deſign being ſuſpended by Mr. Howard's wiſh, that it might not be carried into execution, I conſidered that the ſubject was too local to warrant a re-publication, when that locality was taken away: amongſt a few partial friends, therefore, I diſtributed the copies that remained of the preſent, which was made me by the committee, who publiſhed the poem, and reſerving only a ſingle copy for my⯑ſelf, I thought no more about it. The death, however, of the meritorious man, who was the ſubject; the report that prevails of the commit⯑tee's completing a deſign, which can no longer affect the delicacy of Mr. Howard; the pleaſure I take in obeying your commands; and the de⯑ſire I have to preſerve my tribute to this excel⯑lent character, in my correſpondence with you, united with the confidence which the approba⯑tion of the world on the original publiſhing, gives me, are all motives ſo perſuaſive that to combat with, or to reſiſt them might appear an affectation more unpardonable than the in⯑dulgence of my vanity, at a moment, when it is connected with my duty to the dead, my [237]friendſhip for the living, and my gratitude to the public. It is under ſuch ſupports and ſuf⯑frages, I republiſh in this place, my dear friend, "THE TRIUMPH OF BENEVOLENCE," not, however, from the reſerved copy I ſpoke of, but from memory, that copy being amongſt the manuſcripts, miſſing or loſt, ſtolen or ſtrayed, with my trunks, who, as well as my⯑ſelf, have been upon their travels, but by a ſet of contretems, have not been my fellow travel⯑lers. I hope, however, as amongſt other mat⯑ters, they contain the literary labours of ſome years, not yet publiſhed, including the mate⯑rials for "Society," on which the public have a claim, I hope, I ſay, we ſhall meet ere it be long, like old friends, and part no more;—the rather as ſome of the characters in thoſe un⯑finiſhed performances, are left in a very forlorn ſituation, out of which no hand, but mine, can properly extricate them. A heroine is in a a deep ſwoon, and a hero at his laſt gaſp, in tragedy, but can neither die, or recover with⯑out my aſſiſtance: two whole families are thrown into a labyrinth of perplexities, and have no chance of extrication, but from the author, who involved them, but who was "cruel only to be kind." In ſhort, all theſe good people, are wandering in their ſeveral diſtreſſes, and look to me only for conſolation: [238]join with me, therefore, I beg of you, that they may ſpeedily be conducted from the croſs roads of life—pardon the pun, for the ſake of having the philoſophy of ſport with my misfortune— and, by making uſe of the encloſed clue, help me to ſet them in the right way.

I am this moment interrupted in my deſign of tranſcribing the poem, which, however, ſhall wait on you ſhortly. In the mean time, look into your own generous heart for all thoſe principles of affection and ſympathy you bear me, and be aſſured, while you ſurvey them, you are looking at the faithful counter⯑parts of thoſe which animate the breaſt of your friend.

LETTER XVI. TO THE SAME.
THE TRIUMPH OF BENEVOLENCE.

My friend, I have obeyed you. It is pleaſing to me at this moment to reflect that I enjoyed the friendſhip of the valuable and extraordi⯑nary man, who gave birth to theſe verſes: I thought ſo while I had the benefit of his con⯑verſation, but I think of it now more feelingly, as a benefit I can partake of no more. How infinitely touching is an idea of this ſort of deprivation! How anxiouſly does the ſoul fly about for ſuccour on ſuch occaſions! She takes refuge in a thouſand circumſtances little attended to while the good we have loſt was in our poſſeſſion. We take a retroſpect of the diſcourſes which have paſt between us and the friends deceaſed, the very places where we met are in a manner conſecra⯑ted, their perſons, manners, accents are before us: We kindle ourſelves into an enthuſiaſm of for⯑row, but feel that ſuch "ſorrow is heavenly"— it literally lifts us above the earth; it truly and neceſſarily ſets our affections on things above: we are moved, we are awed. And after all, but for theſe warnings—theſe proofs of the "attenuated thread," on which hangs the life and death of what is precious, what careleſs, ar⯑rogant [249]wretches ſhould we be?—How inde⯑pendent even of heaven itſelf! Alas, with all theſe checks are we not ſufficiently headſtrong, preſumptuous and vain: and inſtead of being as the ſolemn poet of the night finely calls us, the penſioners of an hour, do we not ſeem proudly to think that time and ſpace are our vaſſals, and that inſtead of being in a few years, poſſibly in a few moments, vanquiſhed ourſelves, is not the creſt uplifted as if we could put all things under our feet?

LETTER XVII. TO THE SAME.

ANCIENT manners are leſs worn away by time, and the varying modes of life in Wales, than in moſt other countries. There is a harper in almoſt every village, and more than a bard to every mountain. The poetical enthuſiaſm has deſcended from the earlieſt to the lateſt generation, with no loſs of its origi⯑nal fervor, at leaſt; for the Cambrian poets have monthly meetings and annual feſtivals, on which there is a ſtrife in rhime which makes the very rocks poetical. I received a card of invitation to one of theſe, and was much amuſed with the novelty of the cere⯑mony. About a hundred and thirty bards [250]aſſembled at a public houſe, in the village of Penmorva, in Merionethſhire. Twelve judges were appointed to decide of the ſuperiority of the poems, the ſix beſt of which were to have prizes, the one an arm-chair, decorated with the enſigns of Apollo; a ſecond a chaplet of laurels beſpread with gold leaf, and ſo on: only five-and-twenty bards were to recite, and each recitation not to exceed twenty minutes. This I ſoon found was a very proper reſtric⯑tion, for had the poeſy been equal to the vehe⯑mence of delivering it, had the ſenſe echoed to the ſound, Phoebus himſelf might have been proud of his votaries. It was, however, a very merry aſſociation; and though only half a dozen could obtain prizes, every man went away about day-light, well ſatisfied with others and with himſelf; for if each happy candidate was pleaſed with preſent ſucceſs, each unlucky one was whiſpered to by his ſelf-love, that the next meeting would atone for the diſappointment. Thus, ‘"Not a vanity is given in vain."’ and we are to be convinced of every thing but our want of merit in the art we cultivate. This good opinion of ourſelves is not only to be reckoned amongſt the painted clouds that beautify our days, but incites us to induſtry and emulation in the ſcience or occupation we purſue.

[251]The bards of old are too famous, and you are too well read in their ſtory, as it has been given in modern and ancient performances, to ſtand in need of much information. Old Ca⯑radoc (Craddock) of Lancarvon, whoſe book was originally written in Britiſh, and publiſhed in Engliſh, by Doctor Powel, as it is quaintly called, has furniſhed the beſt, as well as the earlieſt account of them; and it appears that one of the ancient Princes of Wales, named Gruffydth (Griffith) ap Conan, who died about the year 1136, to the grief and diſcontent of all his ſubjects, amongſt other wholeſome laws and ſtatutes enacted in his time, reformed the diſorders and abuſes of the Welch minſtrels.

Of theſe minſtrels there were three ſorts; the firſt compoſed ſeveral ſongs and odes of various meaſure, wherein, ſays Craddock, appeared not only the poet's ſkill, but alſo a vein, which the Latins call Furor Poeticus. Theſe of the firſt order likewiſe kept the records of the gentle⯑men's arms and pedigrees (a very ſacred truſt amongſt theſe deſcendants of Cadwallader in former times) on which account they were held in great veneration both by their brother poets and by the people. The next were ſuch as played upon inſtruments of muſic, chiefly the harp and the crowd, the latter of which [252]Prince Griffith, who deſcended from Iriſh pa⯑rents, and was born in Ireland, brought over with him from that country; and who, not contented with giving his Welch ſubjects the inſtrument, ſent over for ſome of the beſt per⯑formers upon it; and, although the Welch con⯑tend for the honour of the invention, it ſeems to belong principally to thoſe very Hibernians. The laſt ſort of Welch minſtrels and bards were to ſing to an inſtrument played by another. Each of theſe, by the ſame ſtatute, held their ſeveral rewards and encouragements allotted them: their life and behaviour was to be ſpotleſs, otherwiſe their puniſhment was very ſevere, every one, on proof of a well-founded complaint, having authority to correct them, even to a deprivation of all they had. They were alſo interdicted entering any man's houſe, or to compoſe any ſong upon any one, without the ſpecial leave and warrant of the party concerned.

Theſe regulations gave virtue to amuſement, by adding morality to muſic and poetry. It muſt be confeſſed, that, although the harmony, as well ſocial, as vocal and inſtrumental, ſtill remains in a certain degree, the morality, ſo far as ſobriety and temperance is a part of ethics, is a little the worſe for wear. The or⯑gies [253]of Bacchus generally finiſh thoſe of Apollo at the feſtivals of the modern Welch minſtrels, who, after the poetic trials of the day, eat and drink like ſo many aldermen at a turtle feaſt. Formerly bard and minſtrel united in the ſame perſon, at leaſt frequently: at preſent, the harper and the poet are, for the moſt part, diſtinct. The poet, like the harper, is ſtill welcome whereſoever he goes; they both migrate in a pleaſant wandering kind of life, from one place to another, mak⯑ing ſometimes a circuit of their neighbouring hills and vallies, and ſometimes of the whole principality. They travel with the harp at their backs, or their works in their pockets. They enter a houſe without invitation, and are conſidered as one of the family while they ſtay, which is ſeldom leſs than a week at a time. If any little domeſtic incident happens while they are inmates, it is celebrated on the ſpot: if the event be fortunate, the bard greets it by a gay and ſpirited impromptu; and the harper hails it with his moſt lively ditty. If it is diſtreſsful, they commemorate it by an extemporaneous elegy, and attempt to ſoften it by ſoothing ſounds. The marriage of children, the death or ſickneſs of parents, a fair proſ⯑pect of harveſt, an untimely froſt, and, in ſhort, almoſt every change and chance of hu⯑man [254]life is either gratulated or bewailed. This practice is not without its uſe; it excites to good neighbourhood; it prevents the induſtri⯑ous labourer, as well as his employers, from wandering abroad for thoſe relaxations and recreations which they find at home. The village hinds and huſbandmen can have a dance and ſong at their own cottages and farms, and all the family is regaled, invigo⯑rated, and amuſed, at a very ſmall charge, merely that of the occaſional entertainment of the bard and harper: on a ſcale of comparative expence, how much cheaper, as well as more free from hazard, is this, than the county town balls, to which the high-dreſſed farmers daugh⯑ters repair monthly in chaiſes, or on their brothers' hunters, in all the extravagance of the lateſt faſhions ridiculouſly imitated? In a word, thoſe muſico-poetical vagabonds are a very happy and uſeful ſet of people; and it is wonderfully pleaſant for a reſidentiary tra⯑veller, particularly if he is alſo a perambu⯑lating one, to be ſure not only of hoſpitable reception, but to be gratified with muſic and ſong into the bargain whereſoever he makes a pauſe; for it may very truly be ſaid in this country, that "every ſtranger finds a ready chair." With reſpect to myſelf, I have to render my acknowledgments even to ſome of [255]the untoward accidents of life for carrying me into ſeveral agreeable ſcenes and adventures: for inſtance, a ſhower, a ſudden turn of wea⯑ther from intenſe heat to cold, or vice verſâ, a conſiderable diſtance from a town or inn; thirſt, hunger, or the want of any thing that offers but the ſhadow of an apology for mak⯑ing another's houſe my own, has often been matter of felicitation to all parties; and I have ſometimes ſought the ſhelter of a few mi⯑nutes, but found it impoſſible to quit it for days. The harper always gives a zeſt to every meal by a tune; and in the evening, the bard, though often an unlettered votary of the muſe, offers the beſt poetry he has to beſtow. The bre⯑vity and diſpatch are recommendations in the worſt of times, for while a jug of ale or cyder is drinking, the bard will make a ſtanza of grati⯑tude for it. While ſupper is dreſſing, he is ready to ſerve it up with a copy of verſes in praiſe of Benevolence. And though it may happen, that neither the muſic nor the poetry have charms for the faſtidious critic; they are not deſtitute of attraction for the philanthropiſt.

The northern part of the principality is ſaid to have been the moſt famous, at all times, as it is at preſent, for the bards. A very cu⯑rious contention, indeed, is reported to have [256]taken place, betwixt the North and South poets, in 1176. Lord Rhys (Rice) Prince of South Wales, ſays the hiſtory, made a very great feaſt at Chriſtmas, in his caſtle of Aber⯑trifi, which he cauſed to be proclaimed through all Britain, Ireland, and the iſlands adjacent, ſome conſiderable time before; and according to his invitation, many hundreds of Engliſh, Normans, and others, were very honourably received, and courteouſly entertained. Amongſt other tokens of their welcome, the prince cauſed all the poets throughout all Wales to come to his caſtle, and for a better diverſion to the company, he provided chairs to be ſet in the hall, in which the bards being ſeated, they were to anſwer each other in rhime; and thoſe that overcame the reſt in this pitched engagement of poetical repartee, were reward⯑ed with rich preſents. The North Wales bards obtained the victory, with the applauſe of the whole company; and amongſt the harpers alſo, between whom there was a ſimilar ſtrife, the prince's own ſervants were accounted the moſt expert.

You may be ſure I did not fail to include, amongſt the objects of my moſt accurate at⯑tention, the moſt attractive of all that Cambria in ancient times moſt venerated, the Druids. [257]In my reſearches on this fruitful ſubject, though I was very highly gratified, I found nothing ſufficiently new to glean. A tour through Angleſea, which I made in the com⯑pany of a very intelligent man, who, luckily for my purpoſe, was mounted on a horſe, that, like my own, had long ſince adopted the mode of deliberate travelling, preſented to me a full view of all the reliques of druidical anti⯑quity ſtill to be ſeen in the iſland. The places of ſacrifice, where the blood of human vic⯑tims was devoted, by craft, to ſuperſtition, the enormous pile of rocks, under which they erected their ſanguinary altars, the now craggy heaths once covered with their temples, and the remains of thoſe immenſe woods wherein they performed their tremendous rites, were all viſited with an eagerneſs of curioſity which the ſubject is ſo well fitted to inſpire. I really felt a ſacred kind of horror as I traverſed the iſle, celebrated for ſo many ages as the theatre of religious rapine; and although at every ſtep I was reminded of ſome act more cha⯑racteriſtic of an aſſaſſin, or of a murderous ban⯑ditti, than of the miniſters of a religion pure and peaceful, at every ſtep I experienced that ſolemn ſenſation which mixes itſelf with every object of antiquity, over which poetry has thrown a charm. The power of the muſe [238]is manifeſted, perhaps, more in this than in any thing elſe. In that ſober ſtate of the mind which fits us for ſeeing objects in their natural ſize and colour, whether we are read⯑ing or reflecting, a fact is decided upon by reaſon, and pronounced either good or evil, according to its actual tendency. From this deciſion one would ſuppoſe there could be no appeal: preſently there comes a fair uſurper, called Imagination, who, by the ſlighteſt wavering of her wand, hurls reaſon from the throne, vaults into it herſelf, and governs with a ſovereignty, at once, ſo abſolute and agree⯑able, that we deliver up ourſelves to her en⯑chantment, and even aſſiſt her in dragging the lawful monarch at the wheels of her chariot, in which we ſuffer ourſelves to be carried over fairy land, the happy ſlaves of her uſurped au⯑thority.

Thus only can we account for the venera⯑tion we bear towards thoſe whoſe memory is ſtained by deeds which reaſon muſt for ever condemn. I was not to learn that the Iſle of Angleſy was the chief haunt of thoſe barba⯑rous beings, whoſe deſpotiſm and cruelty ſur⯑paſſed the rage of the panther, famiſhing for prey; that a more bloody race of ruffians never infeſted humanity than the Druids; that they [259]covered the moſt horrid enormities with the impenetrable maſk of religion; and yet ſo ef⯑fectually had Maſon, and other poets, aſſiſted our love of antiquity, to make us go over to the ſide of imagination, that I honoured the very name of Mona, and looked at the re⯑liques of the woods and caves, which had ſo often reſounded with the myſterious incan⯑tations, with a not unpleaſing horror. Thus faſcinated,

and even in places, where, had the mind been unſeduced, I ſhould have ſhuddered at the bare remembrance of the enormities practiſed therein,

Such are the triumphs over the muſe. We are called reaſonable beings, my friend: but how vaſt is the empire of imagination, and how ſweet is our captivity! What a pity that it ſhould ſo often be falſe and fatal! To you may fancy ever be a friend, and in connection with reaſon; or if they ever ſeparate, be it only like the parting of much-loved aſſociates, [260]who make ſhort excurſions to different places, but return ſoon into the arms of each other! or while fancy carries you into adventures, may Mentor ever attend on Telemachus!

LETTER XVIII. TO THE SAME.

TO the ſuperſtition of the Welch mountains, may be added that of their lakes and monumental ſtones. The former are ex⯑tremely numerous; but a countleſs variety of fables mingle in the hiſtory of each. The ſtones are of ſuch prodigious magnitude, that they are not likely to be moved, but by that commotion which ſhall ſubdue the world itſelf; they are of ſuch incredible bulk, that it is aſtoniſhing by what united power they were at firſt dragged to the cloud-capped hills on which they ſtand; and have ſtood for many centuries. A traveller who tells you the ſingle ſtones mea⯑ſured from ſeven, eight, to ten, and ſixteen feet high, is modeſtly within the truth; and it is alſo true, that fifty yoke of oxen could not poſſibly move ſome of them, much leſs climb with them up the fearful aſcents, whereon they certainly were originally placed by human art [261]and labour. No wonder, therefore, that the traditionary account of the peaſantry is, that the devil himſelf ſet them up there. And of the mountains themſelves, on the very ſummit of which theſe enormous ſtones are piled one upon another, it has been juſtly obſerved, their reſemblance is ſo great to the Alps, that, except the language of the people, a traveller could hardly avoid thinking he is paſſing from Gre⯑noble to Suſa, or through the country of the Griſons; but with this exception, that in abun⯑dance of places you have the moſt beautiful val⯑lies in the world, and ſome of them of very great extent, far exceeding thoſe ſo famed amongſt the mountains of Piedmont and Savoy.

The Welch are of a moſt inquiſitive temper. They ſtare, and flock round a ſtranger, as if he were the inhabitant of another world, juſt ar⯑rived amongſt them. If he makes the ſlighteſt advance to diſcourſe, they ply him with queſ⯑tions, and are never ſatisfied with anſwers, till they unlock every part of his hiſtory. At firſt I took this to be confined to a few curious people; but I found, in the end, it was the cuſtom of the country. You meet a Welchman on the road, or join him in the chat of a mi⯑nute at your inn—"Whence come you? where go you? what is your name? where were you [262]born? what is the object of your journey? are you in buſineſs? are you out of it? how long have you been from home? how long do you ſtay abroad? are you a ſingle man? have you a family?" are interrogatories that tread on the heels of the firſt ſalutation; and theſe, if re⯑plied to, are followed by others, more cloſe, and, if poſſible, more impertinent. Nor have you any way of ſhaking the enquirers off, but by an inveterate ſilence, and this they reſent by ſuch a torrent of freſh queries, that even ſilence is no ſecurity; and you muſt either bear to hear all they have to aſk, or take refuge in retreat. Horace's troubleſome fellow was not more importunate. But all this is without the ſmalleſt intention to offend; on the con⯑trary, it is often with a deſign to be ſociable; but chiefly, I believe, has no motive better or worſe than the gratification of ſimple curioſity. It is, however, very worrying, and has now and then provoked me to anſwer ſharply. At a place called Towy, a man, whom I met, at the inn where I baited, ſo urged me with queſtion upon queſtion, that I was malicious enough to put the moſt bitter ſarcaſms into my reſponſes. Queſtion—Where did I come from? Anſwer, The other world. Where was I going?—Out of hearing. What was my name?—Nameleſs. Where was I born?—In the moon.

[263]Till this anſwer the fellow did not ſeem to feel that I was laughing at him; but it had the effect, for he ſoon after ended his perſecutions, by ſaying, come from where I will, I was a merry gentleman, and he wiſhed me good day.

If ever you ſhould be ſprighted by one of theſe Welch queriſts, or by a vexer of this de⯑ſcription in any country, my plan may be worth adoption. You might be led to ſuppoſe this over-curious propenſity was in the way of their hoſpitable turn of character, but if you can agree with me, that it originates not in any ſuſ⯑picion or fear of deceit, you will place it in the long liſt of inconſiſtencies, which blend in human characters, without conceiving it to be a paradox. How often do we meet the moſt apparently, nay abſolutely, incompatible pro⯑perties compound themſelves in the ſame mind? avarice with prodigality, pride with hu⯑mility, charity with ſelfiſhneſs, vanity with diffidence, and a love of the world with pro⯑found retirement. I could illuſtrate each of theſe apparent contradictions by proofs perſonal taken from the catalogue of our mutual ac⯑quaintance, but what better would be inferred than ſo many freſh convictions of the oldeſt fact, that the beſt people re ſtrange com⯑pounds, [264]and that the world is a garden where not only, in a general ſenſe, ‘"Weeds and flowers promiſcuous ſhoot,"’ but where, by the ſide of the faireſt, ſweeteſt, flower, and almoſt twiſted round it, grows that weed, which is moſt baneful to it: one would think they could not live, or thrive in the ſame ſoil; yet we perceive they flouriſh very neigh⯑bourly together. Have you never, my dear friend, found the roſe and nettle take root in the ſame temper?—the fragrance and beauty of the one incommoded by the ſtinging proper⯑ties of the other? Yes, you reply, but then it is the buſineſs of the gardener, Education, to pluck up this ill-aſſorted aſſociate, and to leave the roſe to bloſſom either in ſolitude, or better ſociety. In vegetable culture, this may always do; in moral gardening, it is to be managed nicely, leſt in eradicating a favourite folly, or conſtitutional weakneſs, we injure the native virtue that is near it. No, my friend, we muſt be content rather with meliorating the ſoil, than deſtroying its natural productions; if ſome of theſe are utterly obnoxious to the valuable plants and ſhrubs, which are the pride and riches of the ground, they "muſt be hewn down and caſt into the fire," for ſuch "tares will to⯑tally choak the wheat; "ſuch weeds will blaſt [265]the roſe worſe than a canker; but if they are leſs ambitious of doing miſchief; if they are all but the frailties of our nature, ſpringing up amongſt our virtues, let them be conſidered as forming the tiſſue of the human character; where the coarſe and fine, the worſted, and the ſilk, are neceſſary to the general ſtrength of the piece:

Your pardon for this ſelfiſh quotation. Is it not in point? It repeats, perhaps, the alluſion, but it ſeems to gain force by the repetition. It is ſo exceſſively painful to be finding fault with poor human nature, continually, that it is quite a relief to one to plead her cauſe, and become her apologiſt for thoſe treſpaſſes which are at all defenſible. Heaven knows there are plenty of faux pas, where, to attempt her ex⯑cuſe, would be to partake her crimes.

Be ſatisfied, then, that the conſtitutional hoſpitality of the Welch receives no check [266]from their conſtitutional inquiſitiveneſs: the former is, indeed, ſo very general, that the ſtory, which a gentleman, who made the tour of Wales in 1774, relates, is not in the leaſt to be doubted. It is told to ſhew that a man may travel, through the whole country, with a conſtant ſuite of recommendations from one hoſpitable houſe to another. The ſubſtance of the ſtory is this: a gentleman of the neigh⯑bourhood of Mahuntleth, a little town in the extreme Weſt angle of Montgomeryſhire, and which I deſcribed to you in one of my letters, in⯑troduced himſelf politely to the company, and hearing they travelled to ſatisfy their curioſity, civilly offered to gratify it. They aſked him, if there was a good houſe at the next ſtage? He anſwered, there were many; Mr. Lloyd's, Mr. Powell's, Mr. Edward's, &c.—They ſtill required which was the beſt houſe? He re⯑plied they were all very good. To make him explicit, they perſiſted in aſking him, whether either of them was as comfortable, and proper, as that in which they were converſing, mean⯑ing the village inn.—Sir, ſaid he, with a peeviſh ſurprize, ſhould you take this houſe for a gentleman's? They quickly explained themſelves, and begged his pardon.

[267]It would be unjuſt in me to omit telling you, that the Welch are not only lovers of hoſpitality in themſelves, but ſincere admirers of it in others, and if a kindneſs has once been ſhewn them, they never loſe the impreſſion of it. One inſtance, out of many, I will recount. In the vicinity of Caernarvon, is one of the ſeats of my Lord Newborough. Paſſing this, one miſerably cold day, when the ſnows were frozen on the mountains, I could not help ex⯑claiming, in the hearing of the honeſt Welch⯑man, who was at that time my guide acroſs the country—Would to heaven that houſe were a public one! Ah, Sir, ſaid my guide, with a ſigh, and crack of his whip, it was one in former days, that is to ſay, it was a houſe for the good of the public, as every body who wanted entertainment, either for man or beaſt, was welcome. O, there was rare doings at Newborough-Hall, when my Lord —, God bleſs him, was at home: he is abroad now, and has been (the more is the pity, both for rich and poor) many years; but we expect him back ſoon, which will make ſuch a joy in Wales, as has ſcarce been known ſince that old moun⯑tain (meaning Snowden, which is viſible from the houſe) was no bigger than a mole-hill! You muſt know, Sir, I am William Jones, con⯑tinued this grateful fellow, I am one of his [268]Lordſhip's tenants—that little farm on the other ſide, is rented by me, where if your honour pleaſes, I will ſhew you that I have not lived ſo many years under ſo good and gener⯑ous a maſter, without benefitting by the ex⯑ample, and though I cannot ſet out my table like my Lord Newborough, my old dame, will give you a clean cloth, ſome new laid eggs, a curious ſlice or two of bacon, and as brave a mug of ale, or tankard of cyder, with a daſh of brandy, as ever was drawn, and we will drink the health and ſpeedy return of my maſter, to old Wales.—God knows, I will drink it—juſt as I wiſh it—with all my life and ſoul.

He went on to aſſure me that as the day of Lord N—'s departure from this country, was the moſt miſerable, ſo would his return be the moſt bleſſed to his ſervants, tenants, friends, and all deſcriptions of people—that for his part he felt it a comfort to get his bread on the ground that belonged to ſo good a maſter, and even to walk upon his land, and that he never paſſed by the deſerted manſion-houſe, without think⯑ing of the obligations which he and a thouſand others had received from the generous owner.

He then proceeded to juſtify, by inſtances of goodneſs, this exalted character, in the [269]courſe of his developing which, he diſcovered a moſt excellent heart, and not uncultured head, belonging to himſelf; but diſplayed ſo many marks of an enlarged benevolence in his maſter, that before he had half finiſhed his eulogy, my affections warmed towards the noble proprietor of Newborough-Hall, and I could not but join the regrets of honeſt Will Jones that he was abſent.

Theſe little road-adventures, which are ſo frequently riſing out of ſurrounding objects, I muſt once more remark, are amongſt the richeſt gratifications that can happen to a tra⯑veller of my taſte and temper. They are, in⯑deed, a ſource of almoſt daily pleaſure, and ex⯑erciſe of the ſocial principle: they freſhen, as it were, one's whole heart, and ſo occupy the beſt part of our feelings, that if the roads are bad, and the weather ſevere, we perceive all ruggedneſſes and rigours ſmoothe off; and if the way is without difficulty, and the weather fine, and the country, through which we paſs, beautiful, the whole is rendered more delicious by a little regaling caſualty of this ſort. De⯑cember has not often preſented a more bitter day than that on which I received a delinea⯑tion of Lord N— from William Jones, but ſome of the traits, created a kind of ſummer [270]in my boſom, and the reſt of the journey to Caernarvon was the happier for it. 'Tis even now ſweet to remembrance, and is regiſtered amongſt the riches of my ſheaf.

There is a great deal of character in this country; and much of that original wit, humour, and oddity, amongſt the lower ranks, which the late Henry Fielding ſo much de⯑lighted to deſcribe. Out of abundance I ſhall glean only two ſpecimens, each of which have ſomething ſo dramatic, that were I about to write a comedy, I ſhould be ſtrongly tempted to hitch them into the ſcene; and as I met with them both in the ſame day, their portraits ſhall be drawn in the ſame letter.

As there is a lady in the caſe, ſhe claims my firſt attention. I beg, therefore, to intro⯑duce the widow Bowyer to you. Suppoſe your Gleaning correſpondent taking his afternoon tea, at a little public houſe, betwixt Welch⯑Pool and Shrewſbury, and the widow, my landlady, thus officiouſly ſhewing herſelf off, by way of recommending herſelf and her houſe.— Would you have the idea of the ſpeaker before you—I magination muſt body forth a neat little old woman of the true Welch architecture, and dreſſed in the faſhion of her country—a blue [271]Yorkin, black broad brim beaver, ſcarlet petti⯑coat, and apron of black ſhining ſtuff, drop⯑ping a deep but rapid curtſey at every ſen⯑tence.—"I hope you find your tea good, Sir— I always have the beſt of tea, Sir, (curtſey.)— Perhaps, your honour's goodneſs would like a ſlice of cheeſe and hung beef—(curtſey—both at the bread and cheeſe.)—I am notorious for them, Sir, (curtſey.)—I am a widow woman, at your ſervice, Sir, (curtſey)—buried my huſ⯑band, (curtſey) about ſix weeks ago, (curtſey)— an ailing man, Sir, (curtſey)—always weak and wankly, (curtſey.)—Could do nothing for many years, Sir, (curtſey.)—Palſy, your honour, (curtſey) coſt me many a bright pound; (curtſey) but 'tis always ſomething for a wo⯑man to have a huſband in the houſe—(curtſey.) Servants think nothing of a lone woman— (curtſey.) They do juſt as they pleaſe with them, your honour knows—(curtſey.)"

Ah, poor David, continued ſhe, after a ſhort pauſe, ſeeing me diſpoſed to hear, but not to anſwer.—"Ah, poor dear David, he uſed to ſit, Sir, (curtſey) in that very arm⯑chair, Sir, (curtſey) where your honour ſits now; and though I had to lead him up ſtairs and down—put him to bed, and take him up—poor ſoul, helpleſs as an infant—ſtill [272]I liked to be doing for him.—Davy, I uſed to ſay—Davy—you'll never go on your legs again, I fear—you'll never be the man you have been—"

(By way of parentheſis, let me hook in the information that, although I do not continue to inſert the curtſeys, it is to be noted, that the good widow went as regularly on with her reverences, as with her ſtory, and that every daſh, you meet with, is ſubſtituted, to prevent interruption, for a curtſey; the long daſh be⯑ing expreſſive of an obeiſance nine deep, the ſhort one, of the little drop, or bob minor.)

"We were notorious for being happy, Sir— and our houſe, Sir—though thatched, Sir— is notorious all over the country, Sir—and if your honour ſhould be provoked to ſtay the night, Sir—you ſhall have as good a bed as ever was laid on—poor David died on it, Sir —we are notorious for our beds—me and mine have lived here hundreds of years— the fineſt air in the world—kill all our own meat—cut all our own garden ſtuff—grow all our own wheat—make all our own bread— brew all our own beer.—In ſhort, do every thing for ourſelves, without being beholden to [273]any body.—Thus, your honour ſees, we are the moſt notorious people on the road." —

The whole of the foregoing ſelf-deſcription, paſſed without the ſmalleſt encouragement or reply; my landlady ſtanding all the while curt⯑ſeying, nodding, crying, and laughing; for I ſhould have obſerved to you, that at every drop of her knees, ſhe gave a nod of her head, and that whenever ſhe mentioned David's in⯑firmities, ſhe made up her face and voice into a moſt pity-moving whine, which gave way, however, to a more pleaſant twiſt of her odd little countenance and tones, when ſhe ſpake of the notoriouſneſs of her houſe.

My tea, and her talk ended together, when I told her that I was thoroughly convinced, ſhe had not obtained a notorious character without reaſon; but that I found her ſo enter⯑taining, that as the evening was too far advan⯑ced to think of purſuing my journey towards Shrewſbury, I would avail myſelf of the many good things, for which her houſe is notorious, on condition that ſhe would favour me with as much of her company as poſſible, and put me into any bed, but that which poor David had [274]ſo lately died upon—the reflection of which circumſtance would prevent my taking any repoſe.

I gave it this turn to ſave the good widow's feelings, and I ventured to invite her, becauſe I imagined her houſe affairs would draw her nods and curtſeys to ſeveral other travellers, who now came to paſs the night. Unluckily, however, ſhe reſolved to compliment me with her dead David's bed, and though I could have wiſhed it put upon a longer quarantine, it was impoſſible, for ſhe aſſured me, (nod and curtſey as uſual) that not only gentry—but nobility—not only 'ſquires—but barrownights —not only barrownights—but lords— not only lords—but dukes— (here a nod that threw her head into her boſom, and a curtſey that almoſt overſet her)—and that even the Prince—of the Principality—(nod)—(nod)—(nod)— the Prince of Wales himſelf— (curtſey)—(curtſey)—(curtſey)— might lie in that bed.—

Had the corpſe of David been ſtretched ſtill upon the bed, you ſee I muſt have taken part of it; I therefore yielded, and the good widow-woman went nodding and curtſeying [275]through the reſt of the evening in perfect good-humour. Her manner muſt loſe much in narration, but I am convinced had it been dramatiſed, and ſhaped to the talents of one of our comedians it would have ſet, at leaſt, the galleries, and, perhaps, the whole houſe, in a roar.

Notwithſtanding this, none of her other cuſtomers, then in the inn, ſeemed to be ſtruck with what had ſo much diverted me: one bid her do more and talk leſs—another ſaid, he ſuppoſed, ſhe looked on her converſation as part of the entertainment, and would charge it in the bill—if ſo, he muſt decline any more of it. The author of this obſervation was a wag, who, perhaps, thought he was alſo a wit; a third could not help wiſhing ſhe had as good talents for ſilence, as making a noiſe. An hundred others might have entered and departed with⯑out being a whit more amuſed; but as I am convinced the lover of character would not have paſſed my widow-woman without a note of remark, I cannot but believe you, and your friends will excuſe, nay thank me, for making her a little more notorious.

One man only of the company was wholly ſilent, and he had the beſt reaſon for it; [276]namely, an intoxication, that wholly deprived him of the powers of ſpeech: two of the others juſt mentioned were his aſſociates, who had been to Haverford-Weſt on foot, to ſave as much as poſſible of that money, which they had appropriated to the releaſe of their friend, the drunken man, who had been two years a priſoner for debt, in the jail of the above⯑named town, and they were all three natives of Wales, working under the ſame maſter at Shrewſbury.

As our widow woman's general ſitting room uſually ſerved her like the merry cobler's in the ballad, "for parlour, for kitchen, and hall;" there being no fire-places in the other apart⯑ments, above, or below; we all were of the ſame meſs, while we were partaking of which, (the late priſoner excepted, who was as incapable of eating as converſing) one of the travellers— he who had his fears that my landlady would make him pay for her eloquence—thus opened upon me.—

"You muſt know, Sir," ſays he, addreſſing himſelf to me as familiarly as if we had been old acquaintance, "the poor fellow who is now ſnoring in the chimney corner, is Davy Morgan, as honeſt a little man as any in [277]Wales, and put into durance vile, for another man's debt; but we have worked him out, and in a few days we ſhall be able to ſhew him to all friends round the wrekin: in the mean⯑time, poor Davy, is gone tipſy with the thought of it: but you muſt not think the worſe of him for that; I hope his getting into jail, and out of it, once in his life, and being a little bickſius doxius upon it, (once in his life, I ſay) will not make you think the worſe of him. Come little drunken Davy, here is your health, my boy, as you can't drink, I'll drink for you: any thing to ſerve a friend ſleeping or wak⯑ing; ſo here's to you in a bumper that holds both our portions, my little ſleeping Taffy.

This bumper was emptied and filled with ſuch rapidity, that, if there is any truth in a head full of liquor, the account which was now given by both the comrades at ſupper, of the ſnoring Davy Morgan, did credit to the hearts of all the three. I gathered, from the torrents of information now poured out, much faſter than even the ale, that Davy Morgan had been bound for a friend, whoſe treachery had plunged him not only in a priſon, but in the ruin conſequent on the loſs of his time; which uſed to be induſtriouſly employed—that his companions had been in the habits of friend⯑ſhip, [278]labour, and diverſion with him, many years; that by his impriſonment, they were deprived at once of their playmate and fellow⯑workman; and that therefore they had a meet⯑ing one day, to ſee what could be done between them, towards getting their friend out of cuſ⯑tody. The reſult of their conference was a ge⯑nerous, but ſecret treaty, to uſe every means in their power to obtain his liberty: but the ſum for which he was confined exceeding abun⯑dantly their finances, (for they were all but journeymen weavers ſerving under the ſame maſter) they made an attempt on the mercy of the creditor, in the hope of ſuch a compro⯑miſe as they might be able to advance, repre⯑ſenting to him, that the misfortune of the priſoner was brought upon him wholly by an act of good-nature, and on the faith of the man who had betrayed him; and that, there⯑fore, in effect, he was puniſhed, not only for the vice of another, but for his own virtue.

This appeal, however, failed; and at a ſe⯑cond conſultation, ſtill held without the know⯑ledge of the captive Davy, they entered into a ſolemn compact, to put by one-third of their weekly wages, till a ſum, equal to the poor man's enlargement, ſhould be accumulated. "We were both brother-bachelors, Sir, ſaid one [279]of them, and ſo could do this without pinch⯑ing any body but ourſelves—Will Griffith there, indeed, was to be married when he could afford a ſet of linen, a wedding dinner, and a weaving loom, and had got a few good pounds ſnug in the box, which his intended gave him as a token; but the generous-hearted girl, who is an honour to her country—"

"She is a Welch girl," Sir, exclaimed Mr. Griffith, "and here's her health with all my ſoul."

"I ſay, Sir," reſumed the other traveller, "that this brave wench, on hearing the ſtory of poor Davy, and the plan to relieve him, in⯑ſiſted on her not being the hindrance, but the promoter of his liberty, declaring, that ſhe was ready to contribute an equal ſhare of her little ſavings towards effecting that good work, and that, by way of encouragement to her lover, Griffith, ſhe would give him the diſ⯑poſal of her hand as ſoon after Davy could at⯑tend at the wedding, as he thought proper to demand it."

"Till the moment after ſhe ſaid this, Sir," ſaid Griffith in rapture, "I did not think it [280]had been poſſible to love her more dearly— here's another bumper to her."

"To make ſhort of the ſtory," continued the other, "to work we went, aye, and worked double tides, for double pay, and Kitty Lewis, who worked too, kept the box. Every Sa⯑turday night we put in our ſavings, and count⯑ed at the end of every quarter. Not a ſyllable of this to Davy; though we took care in the mean time he ſhould not want, for while the graſs grows, you know, Sir—Well, thus we went merrily on—no matter how long—till we had enough, then, watching for the Paſſion week, when there is no work done, you know, off we ſet from Old Salop to Haverford, where poor Davy was taken as he was trying to get over to Ireland, and was ſhut up. Griffith and I, who were born in the country, knew every inch of the ground; and to ſave money for better uſes than throwing it away upon horſe⯑fleſh, we footed up after the faſhion of our country, carrying our ſhoes in one pocket, and ſtockings in another. When we got to the White Hart, which is a very good inn, directly oppoſite to the priſon, we did not ſtay to re⯑freſh, till we had paid a viſit to Morgan. Our hearts were at our lips as we croſſed over the way to him. The poor fellow was ſucking in [281]the freſh air, through the grating, which, be⯑ing on the ground floor, we could ſee and ſpeak to one another. I thought Davy would have leaped through his bars to get at us, though he looked pale as death, and his beard was grown like one of your Hermits. He threw out both his hands, which we took hold of, and told him they were cold as clay: but my heart is as warm and as much your's, as ever, my boys, ſaid he, in a terrible feeble voice; and if I remain here for the reſt of my life, as I ſuppoſe I ſhall, I will fall down, night and day, on my dirty ſtraw, to bleſs Pro⯑vidence, that it has ſent me the only two men I love in the whole world."

"Don't tell me, Davy, ſaid Griffith—you remember Will theſe were your words—don't tell me of ſtaying here the reſt of your life— we do not intend you ſhall remain here another day; if we can help it, not another hour. We come with a ſtrong box, my little Davy, that ſhall change your dirty ſtraw into clean feathers, and thoſe damn'd ugly looking bars into a warm glaſs window; but this is waſting time—where's the gaoler—let us do our buſi⯑neſs firſt, and talk afterwards."

Hereupon Griffith went in ſearch of the keeper, and I explained matters to Davy, who [282]was in a ſurpriſe paſt ſpeaking, only he cried like a child, and ſometimes laughed again like a madman, though when he came to himſelf, he ſaid he was aſhamed to diſtreſs us, and ſuch nonſenſe; to which I only anſwered, never mind, when we get our old fellow-workman amongſt us again, we will ſoon weave it up, I warrant you: and to tell you the truth, Davy, ſaid I, we have both had a fore loſs of the ſongs you uſed to ſing at the loom, and neither of us can do any longer without you.

Preſently, Sir, Will Griffiths returned with the gaoler, whom, though he ſeemed a glum, gruff, growling looking fellow, he had con⯑trived to make ſmile, as if he was half as good⯑humoured a fellow as Will himſelf.

"Aye, money works miracles, you know, Sir—exclaimed Will, who thus ended the ſtory.—A bribe out of my Kitty's amber-box made the keeper of our poor Davy haſten to his releaſe with almoſt as much glee as my⯑ſelf; and as ſoon as the law charges, which were, ſomehow, as heavy as the, debt, though nothing appeared to be ſaid or done, but clap⯑ping the poor fellow in priſon, and leaving him there.—As ſoon as theſe were fettled, I ſay, we took the bird out of his cage, and [283]carried him in triumph to the White Hart, where we paſſed one of the merrieſt evenings of our lives. We have kept it up ever ſince: as poor Davy's legs had been of no uſe to him for ſo long a time, they refuſed to do much for him, even now that they were untied, as one may ſay, ſo we got him into the ſtages as far as they went our way, and when we were obliged to croſs the country, we put him upon a horſe, and at laſt, after a jovial jour⯑ney, here we are at the widow Bowyer's, thank God! within half a dozen miles of Shrewſ⯑bury, and Kitty Lewis. That being the caſe, we will, if you pleaſe, Sir, have one more bottle to the health and happineſs of all par⯑ties: the amber-box holds out ſtill, and here it is, at the ſervice of any honeſt fellow that wants it, though we never ſaw him before in our lives, and ſhould never ſee him again. As to Kitty, if ſhe takes me without a ſhilling, ſhe takes me for myſelf: unleſs we are both ſick at the ſame time, we can never be in need of bread, becauſe the hands of either can earn it; and as to loom and linen, they may be waited for, and what the wedding dinner may want in fineries, it ſhall make up in good plain fare, and good appetite."

Will Griffiths having finiſhed his ſpeech, kiſſed the amber-box with great devotion, [284]ſwore it ſhould not be long ere his labours filled it again, and then ſhook me heartily by the hand, obſerving, that he could fee I liked the hiſtory he had been recounting, as it had made me ſhed tears more than once in the telling; and whenever I am touched to the heart with any thing, ſaid he, I always cry.

Davy Morgan waked, and was all the better for his nap. His comrades greeted his return to life, as one of them called it, with three cheers, three bumpers of the notorious widow's ale, and three ſuch flaps on the back, that he muſt have been actually dead not to have ſhook off all remains of ſlumber. And now he had one advantage over his friends, who had ſacrificed to Liberty in ſo many "pota⯑tions pottle deep, "that they literally fell mar⯑tyrs, on the floor, to their, affections, and the excellent home-brew'd of the widow, who ex⯑hibited, in the courſe of the tale, many in⯑ſtances of a good heart, by dropping a very low curtſey at every mark of the generality of the young weavers, giving them a grateful nod at the ſame rime; and declaring, that if the widow's mite would be accepted by Davy Morgan, the amber-box ſhould not be for⯑gotten.

[285]I really regret that Davy's pleaſant compeers were now rendered ſo incapable, as to re⯑quire the ſupports of the good widow, my own, and even thoſe of Davy himſelf to con⯑duct them to bed. Davy, on his part, was quite renewed; and, underſtanding from Mrs. Bowyer, that I had heard his ſtory, ſoon juſti⯑ſied his departed friends' eulogium, of being a very pleaſant, grateful, and good-humoured, as well as ingenious fellows.

Preſently, the widow reminding us it was midnight, I intreated to drink a glaſs of good wiſhes to the company, as well ſleeping as awake, and then promiſed to retire. One more tankard was therefore drawn; but it was ſo reliſhing to Davy, that he took it nearly off at a draught, not only from love of the liquor, but of his friends. A ſecond tankard was therefore brought, but unluckily the hearty viſit paid to the other, came too ſuddenly on Davy's recovery from the former libations, and his ſober ſenſes began to relapſe. The wi⯑dow began to wink in her wicker chair—that line you may think has called in— ‘"apt alliteration's artful aid;"’ but, I aſſure you, it was accidental—the wi⯑dow fell aſleep—Davy held the tankard in his [286]hand; and without attending to a third or fourth perſon being in the room—probably without knowing there was any body but him⯑ſelf preſent, indulged, and diſplayed himſelf in a ſoliloquy, which, if you will pleaſe to advert to time, place, and foregone circumſtances, may divert you. I ſtop you from it only while I aſſert that

A whole year's converſation could not, to my mind, better have pourtrayed the man.

Now, Davy Morgan, is the time to ſhew thyſelf a great fool, or a ſenſible little fellow. Twice to-day haft thou been out of thy wits for joy, and art but juſt come into them again enough to be ſorry for it. Beware the third time. The ale is certainly good—there's no denying it—(Here he lifted the tankard almoſt to his lips) I could drink every drop of it with the greateſt pleaſure.—It is but lifting the tankard half an inch higher, opening my mouth a little wider—in this manner—and if would be gone paſt recovery, as King or Prince Denmark ſays—

No, damn it, Davy, don't make a beaſt of thyſelf any more to-day, there's a good little fellow. Thou art at preſent merry and wife. Keep ſo, my lad, for the honour of Wales, and for the ſake of the good fortune that has dragged thee out of thy hole, into the land of freedom—Down, tempter, down."

Here he lowered the tankard, but with ſuch haſte, that he ſpilt part of its contents on his chin, the ſweet and ſavory ſmell of which ſo quickened appetite, as Milton ſaid of Eve, when the grand tempter preſented the forbid⯑den fruit, that poor Davy Morgan felt the original ſin was entailed on him. He again held the tankard up to his lips, and could not but taſte. In that perilous inſtant he ex⯑claimed—Davy, why don't you pull it away with all your might—(here he began to ſip) why don't you ſay—Satan in the ſhape of a tankard of beer, avaunt—(here he ſpoke with his head in the mug) why don't you daſh it to the ground—have you no honour—no re⯑ſolution—no philoſophy—no conſideration— no gratitude ? (a great gulp between each of [288]theſe queſtions) Fie upon you—when a tank⯑ard is before you—you have no more ſtrength— thought—idea—nor—nor—nor—(gulps con⯑tinued)—nor—any thing of that kind—than— than—than—(gulps) an infant.

At this moment, a lamentable cry was heard at the door, accompanied by a loud rapping. On opening it, a poor creature appeared half⯑famiſhed with cold: it was the poſt-boy, be⯑twixt Pool and Shrewſbury, who, being ſeized with the cramp in his ſtomach, came to get a dram. He had ſcarce time to deſcribe the nature of his complaint, before Davy Morgan applied a remedy, by thruſting the poker, which happened to be red-hot, into the tan⯑kard; and then pouring the ale, thus heated, down the ſhivering man's throat—execrating himſelf, all the time, as a prodigal who had been wantonly wafting that which might now have been ſo much better diſpoſed of.—See, you raſcal, ſaid he to himſelf, what comes of your guggling—you deſerve to be lent back again to priſon you do.—

The poor poſt-boy ſoon felt himſelf reno⯑vated, for the widow added a gill of her noto⯑rious brandy to Davy's burned ale, after which he again mounted his horſe, ſaying he ſhould ſoon fetch up loſt time, and honed God would [289]always bleſs thoſe who he ſwore had ſaved his life.

Davy Morgan, however, kept abuſing him⯑ſelf for ſome time after, but I contrived to pa⯑cify him by aſſuring him, if he could parody Hamlet's celebrated ſpeech ſo pleaſantly, I ſhould think he deſerved to get tipſy as often as he choſe, though it were to be with Nectar or Tokay. Begging, therefore, he would for⯑give himſelf this time, we all went to reſt.

The morning brought us all once more to⯑gether; and our breakfaſt, for I was now one of the party, was a very ſober one. In the middle of it there happened an incident, which ſo accumulated the intereſts of the little drama, that it added another notoriety to the houſe of the courteous widow. This was the entrance of a very handſome young woman, in a blue riding habit, and ſtraw bonnet, bound tight with a pea-green ribbon, which was faſtened gypſey faſhion; and diſplayed ſuch parts of a pretty countenance, as made the ſpectator deſirous to fee the whole. Such a bluſh as has a thouſand rimes ten thouſand been ſeen, and felt, by lovers, but never juſtly deſcribed, even by them, for who can paint like Nature? One of theſe indeſcribable graces of that

ſuffuſed itſelf over her fine, and by no means inelegant, countenance, at the fight of the man of her heart, ſeated at table with the choſen friend, towards whoſe ranſom from captivity, ſhe had herſelf ſo generouſly contributed. This young perſon was in the ſervice of an old lady of fortune, who was blind; a misfortune which this attendant, who, you perceive, was no other than Kitty Lewis, greatly mitigated; for being herſelf the daughter of a Mont⯑gomeryſhire farmer of ſome credit, and a girl of no mean talents; beſides the culture of a good education, ſhe was well calculated to entertain thoſe, who could not entertain themſelves, and was, therefore, very juſtly conſidered by her lady, rather as a friend than ſervant.

The moment that Davy Morgan's enlarge⯑ment was effected, Will Griffith wrote her word of it, and mentioned the time at which he ſhould regain Shrewſbury: but accidents on the road detaining him, Kitty, then for the firſt time, made her Lady confidential. She declined doing ſo till the object of her lover's journey was attained, willing that the honour of it ſhould not be ſhared with any but the trio [291]that projected it. The old lady, however, was, as Kitty afterwards told me, touched even to tears; nor did ſhe ſuffer thoſe dews of pity to melt away, or dry up without effect.

Kitty had heard from the Pool poſt-boy, with whom ſhe was acquainted, that his life had been loſt, but for the humanity of a merry gen⯑tleman, whoſe name, he underſtood, was David Morgan, then at the widow Bowyer's, from which information, ſhe drew the natural in⯑ference that her lover had got ſo far on his journey with his generous companion and li⯑berated friend; but that ſtopping ſo near the place of their deſtination might proceed from ſome little difficulty, that money might re⯑move. This latter idea was ſuggeſted by the good old Lady, who was now in the ſecret of the amber travelling box, and who inſiſted that Kitty ſhould be herſelf the bearer of a re⯑enforcement; but take care to preſent her bounty-money in a way that ſhould not ſpoil the plot, by an appearance of a fourth perſon's coming into it, deſiring, at the ſame time, that the party might, immediately, on their arrival at Shrewſbury, repair to her houſe; and that the adventure ſhould not want a finiſh, ſhe permitted Kitty to make the excurſion in a poſt chaiſe.

[292]Kitty was now ſeated by her lover's fide; but was far too happy with her errand, and with the view of the objects of it, to partake of our breakfaſt; neither did Will Griffith ſeem to take any food, but that which love and friendſhip provided for his honeſt and affec⯑tionate heart. The bill was ſoon demanded by Kitty Lewis, when the widow declared it was paid. "It is paid," quoth the good wo⯑man, "by the merrieſt night, and happieſt morning, I have ever had.—I will take no money.—Yeſterday and to-day ſhall be noto⯑rious. What you have had, you are welcome to—and a thouſand thanks—into—the bargain.—(Theſe thouſand thanks were ex⯑preſſed by almoſt as many nods and curtſeys.) You need not take out your amber box, Mr. Griffith—nor you your purſe, Miſs Kitty— what's jour name—I am notorious for telling the truth, and what I ſay, I ſay—ſo God be with you—(nod and curtſey)—and ſend you health and wealth, and grace to do well—and pray none of you paſs the King's Head, with⯑out calling—I can do a good turn, as well as another—ſervant—your ſervant—fare ye well—good bye—I wiſh ye all a good day— and a pleaſant ride to Shrewſbury—and next market-day, mayhap, you may ſee me—."

[293]During this ſpeech ſhe was nodding and curtſeying off the company—helping them to hats, ſticks, packages, and hurrying them out of her houſe, to prevent them inſiſting on the payment of the bill, which Kitty fettled in another room, whither ſhe and the generous widow went to confer. The young woman was diffident about entering the poſt-chaiſe, and Davy Morgan, who had cried for joy, almoſt the whole time of breakfaſt, was appre⯑henſive that the proud Salopians would laugh him to ſcorn, to go from a jail into a carriage; but Kitty gave it as her opinion, that their re⯑fuſal to profit by her Lady's goodneſs would be an affront never to be forgiven; obſerving, that as to the ſcorners, they muſt have little claim to attention, who did not feel that an honeſt man, who had been put into priſon for ſacri⯑firing himſelf to his friend, was not entitled to go home in the mod honourable manner; and that, for her part, ſhe thought ſuch a man had better claim to a triumphal entry than Julius Caeſar, Alexander the Great, or any other illuſtrious butcher of antiquity; in as far, as a friend to mankind is more deſerving of honourable diſtinctions than an enemy.

This adjuſted the difficulty, and after ſhaking hands, all round, the four friends ſet off for [294]Shrewſbury, where they patted the day in high feſtivity, under the auſpices of the good old Lady, who declared, that although Providence had denied her the pleaſure of beholding ſuch happineſs, it had not taken away the power of feeling it to the bottom of her heart.

I ſtayed no longer after them than while I congratulated myſelf, and the courteous wi⯑dow, on the little adventure which had paſſed at her inn, which I aſſured her would render it notorious to me for ever; and that I would make the circuit of Wales, in much harder weather than it then was, to obtain ſuch ano⯑ther night and morning. You, who are ſo verſed in the nooks, corners, and bye-places of my character, will not doubt my uſing a direction I had obtained from the young weavers to pay them my reſpects at home. I found them all aſſembled at the houſe of Will Griffith, who told me with rapture, too great to help it overflowing at his eyes, that Kitty's Lady had inſiſted on his not waiting for the happy day, while his labour ſhould regain a ſum, equal to what his friendship had ſo pro⯑perly diſpoſed; but that ſhe would herſelf ad⯑vance ſufficient to make them happy imme⯑diately, on condition that Kitty was to con⯑tinue her ſituation, and Will himſelf to ac⯑cept [295]an apartment in her houſe; declaring, that ſo many years attention to a poor, old, blind woman, who could not even move from one room to another, without the aid of that wor⯑thy girl, demanded alt the kindneſs ſhe could ſhew her; obſerving, moreover, that Griffith had, in his late journey, ſhewn himſelf ſo deſerv⯑ing of her, that ſhe was reſolved on the ſatis⯑faction of knowing they were united before ſhe died; and that ſhe was, in ſome meaſure, the means of bringing them together.

Fortunately, my dear friend, my engage⯑ments made me reſidentiary in Shrewſbury, a ſufficient time to witneſs this pleaſant event; but, I truly believe, that had no other point detained me, that one would not have ſuffered me to depart, till I had atteſted the felicity of William and Kitty.

It muſt, nevertheleſs, be confeſſed, that were I in theſe Gleanings, addreſſing only that part of your diſpoſition, which fits you to "ſhine in courts," and grace a drawing-room, it would have been ſinning, paſt forgiveneſs, to carry you into a common ale-houſe, and in⯑ſtead of leaving it after a little refreſhment, detaining you there all night, in low company: but when I look on myſelf, as making an [296]appeal to that, part of your character, which bids your beating heart exult in the happineſs of your humbleſt fellow-creatures: amongſt whom is often found, by thoſe who are not too lofty minded to look for them, in lowly dwell⯑ings, thoſe feelings of which the moſt noble born might be proud. I have no ſupercilious taunt to fear, but the moſt ingenuous thanks to expect, for thus flopping, by the way, when⯑ever an honeſt heart is to be pourtrayed, whe⯑ther it is the property of a prince or peaſant. Certain I am, that your affections have long ſince dropt your tributary guinea into the amber box, with a prayer that it may never be empty; that the notorious, widow has, in your grateful fancy, received your nods of re⯑ſponſe and approbation; that poor Davy Mor⯑gan's tankard has been twice filled with good wiſhes, for the comforting draught he gave the half-periſhed poſt-boy; that Will Griffith, and his friend have received your homage, for their adventure at the grate of Davy's priſon; that even the blind old Lady has had your bleſſing; and that the young couple will be long remembered by your ſympathiſing heart. Adventures like theſe, my friend, are unim⯑portant only to thoſe magnificent triflers, who think they are wife, when they are only vain; and as much of human comfort proceeds from [297]humble circumſtances, we may juſtly conclude with the poet, in thoſe enchanting lines I have ſo often read to you; and which are the more appreciated, inaſmuch as I loved the author, heard them recited by his own lips, a very few weeks before I loſt him for ever, and know how truly he felt, what, with ſuch exquiſite beauty, he has deſcribed: for Goldſmith was one of the very few poets of nature, who wrote only from his fenſations, and did not ſacrifice the plain honeſty of genuine feelings to decorate his rhimes.

With what energy and enthuſiaſm did the bard, though by no means a graceful reader, repeat the four laſt verſes; and on the evening I heard them delivered, he threw down the ma⯑nuſcript on his writing table, in his abrupt way, ſaying, "in troth, this is all as true as if it was in proſe," and as I have ſaid before, and ſhall continue to ſay to the end of my life— ‘"Theſe little things are great to little men!"’

[298]Are not you of his opinion, my honoured correſpondent? I can anſwer for you in the fulleſt affirmative. Long may you live to en⯑joy the joys of others!—They are your own; for with you, ſelf-love and ſocial are indeed the ſame.

LETTER XIX. TO THE SAME.

YOU inſiſt upon a copy of the lines, which were annexed to the "TRIUMPH OF BENEVOLENCE,"—a triumph, which, you juſtly obſerve, Jonas Hanway ought to ſhare with John Howard: ‘"Divide the glory and partake the gale."’

This applies well to my ſubject; and I re⯑member another verſe, no leſs applicable to myſelf on the occaſion, ‘"Born for your uſe, I live but to obey you."’ And, indeed, it ſeems no leſs a point of incli⯑nation, than of juſtice, to attempt preventing the fate which commonly attends fugitive poems, when publiſhed ſingly, for, like the ^* ſybyl's leaves, they are ſcattered about with [299]the winds and tides of occurrence, and, (with no diſparagement to my verſes be it ſpoken— ſince 'tis the deſtiny of others, which the loftieſt muſe might be proud to own,) they are as frequently found at the bottom of one's trunk as in one's library; and often, what we, in vain, offer money for to our bookſeller, we get of our paſtry-cook for nothing.

The little monumental tribute offered to Hanway, indeed, might, perhaps, eſcape this annihilation, by the care which love of the man may have taken of it in the private cabi⯑nets of friendſhip; and, I believe, it is to be found in ſeveral of the periodical and other public collections of the year in which it ap⯑peared; but, I own, I feel a ſentiment too tender for vanity, that it, like the poem it fol⯑lows, ſhould ſtand a chance to "travel down the ſtream of time," in a correſpondence with thee, ‘"My guide, philoſopher, and friend!"’ And ſo, without more ado, I here ſubjoin the

LETTER XX. TO THE SAME.

YOU thank me for my poetry, with⯑out being aware into what a ſcrape your ac⯑knowledgments have led you. The grant of one requeſt paves the way for freſh application, I have a reſiſtleſs deſire to ſend you more ef⯑fuſions of the muſe; and ſo far from being of the general opinion, that a little of verſe ſhould be relieved by a great deal of proſe, I think the mind is never ſo well diſpoſed to receive poetic impreſſion, or rather, to feel impreſſion conti⯑nued, as when it has been touched and warmed already by the ſubjects worthy of the lyre: or, if the emotion already excited ſhould be found too ſolemn, the gayer muſe may be permitted to ſtep in and ſoften, but not deſtroy, the pathos. For theſe reaſons I have choſen this letter for the inſertion of ſome ſpontaneous lines, which have not yet met your eyes, or thoſe of the public. You have long ſince, I truſt, agreed to accept my correſpondence as a literary ca⯑binet, in which I am permitted to place, for [302]your amuſement and information, whatever I can find worthy of preſervation; peradventure I may ſometimes ſend you articles, which you may deem neither proper objects of curioſity or care; in which caſe I muſt appeal from the ſeverity of your judgment to the lenity of your candour. What I have now to give, in⯑deed, is, I confeſs, not a little out of time, as you may one day know, but has the advantage of being perfectly in place; for it happened in this very country, in this very town, that I felt the emotions deſcribed in the following ſtanzas. You will conſider me in one of my ſoliloquy perambulations by the ſea-ſide, and my mind ſtrongly faſtened on by many of thoſe bitter reflections which baffled, at intervals, all the powers I invoked to diſpel them. Placing me in ſuch a ſituation, you will not deem the ſenſations, I indulged, for a few mo⯑ments unnatural; nor were they the leſs ſtrong or ſincere, for being made, as they were, in verſe. Though proſe has been deemed, per⯑haps falſely, the language of truth; that di⯑vine power loſes none of her charms by bor⯑rowing a dreſs from poeſy:

Ah, my friend! may none of the incidents, to which ſenſibility is heir, tempt your firm mind, beyond its ſtrength, even for a moment; but, if it ſhould, (as our ſouls, no leſs than our bodies, are very "fearfully and wonder⯑fully made,") may the ſacred order, mention⯑ed in the concluding ſtanza of theſe ſea-ſide verſes, impreſs you alſo with an awful ſenſe of their being amongſt the words ſpoken by [304]GOD, and give you energies to bear the miſe⯑ries of life.—I cannot but take notice of the uſe of thoſe great truths, which it is the part of education to engrave on our memories, while that regiſter is moſt favorable to im⯑preſſion. The moral ſentiments which we re⯑ceive in childhood "grow with our growth and ſtrength:" they are ſo many leſſons for the government of the heart in which they are fixed; every precept, we are taught to trea⯑ſure up in our memories, in the earlieſt pe⯑riods of our lives, comes by degrees into prac⯑tice, and ſerves not only to aſſiſt us to ſubdue vice, but to animate virtue, till ſhe feels proud of her difficulties. And hence, I am ſeriouſly led to believe, that we derive more real good, real virtue, and real wiſdom, from that little ſyſtem of morals, which we gather from the firſt books that are put into our hands (after we lay aſide our horn-books and primers) than from all our elaborate ſtudies afterwards; and I am perſuaded more true heroes, ſtateſ⯑men, and which is far better than either, ho⯑neſt men, have been formed by Aeſop, Phaedrus, Gay, and Robinſon Cruſoe, and by the hiſ⯑tories which take only half a day in reading, than were ever modelled by thoſe hiſtories which demand the ſtudy of half a life; and it has long been a doubt with me, whether [305]Jack the Giant Killer has not made more cou⯑rageous officers, and better generals, (I am ſure he has leſs miſchievous ones) than Julius Caeſar, or Alexander the Great.

For myſelf, I confeſs, I am indebted to the poets, whoſe maxims were imprinted on my inſant mind, for the heightening of every joy, and meliorating every ſorrow, that has befallen me ſince; and I particularly remember, that ſome paſſages from Robinſon Cruſoe tended more effectually to ſettle my mind to the diſ⯑penſations of Providence, on the evening of the day in which I wrote the verſes that ac⯑company this letter, than, perhaps, it would have been in the power of Seneca, Socrates, or any of the moſt renowned philoſophers, of an⯑cient or modern days, to afford me.

In fine, my friend—if we expect pleaſure, we muſt make up our minds to pain. They are twins, and Dr. Young is right:

LETTER XXI. TO THE SAME.

YOU may have perceived, my dear friend, that ſince I have been taking you out of Wales, we have been gradually taking leave alſo of our obſervations on that principality: in ſhort, I do not remember any other points which are gleanable. With reſpect to the an⯑cient and modern hiſtory of the country, it is well known to you: hiſtories, indeed, of every country, are ſo numerous, that a reader is puzzled to make his election. But the fault to be found with almoſt all biographical wri⯑tings, is not more their number than their bulk, which is, for the moſt part, produced by extraneous matter, not more neceſſary to the body politic, than an excreſcence to the body natural. Hiſtorians indulge themſelves in theſe ſuperfluities from various motives; amongſt which national prejudice, and the de⯑fire, the neceſſity, or the pride, of becoming, at once, a great folio or quarto author, are not the leaſt.

[307]I have often thought that all the hiſtories now extant, with reſpect to the facts really neceſſary to deſcribe the productions of art, or nature, or the progreſſive riſe and fall of ſtates, or their ſudden revolutions, might be com⯑preſſed, without being crouded into, at moſt, the number of volumes allotted to the hiſtory of any particular country, according to the modern faſhion of writing.

By way of example, let us take that of Eng⯑land. Would it not be better to give the facts in the ſtrongeſt and ſhorteſt way: offer the inferences in the ſame ſtyle, and leave the re⯑flections in a great meaſure to the reader? It would at leaſt be a decent compliment to his underſtanding; and ſave him money. If, in⯑deed, it could be proved, that the reflections made by the hiſtorian, Mr. A. were deciſive, and would ſettle the reader's mind on the ſub⯑ject, it would be mighty well; but unluckily the hiſtorian, Mr. B. comes upon you with ſeven or eight more volumes of reflections, in which he flatly contradicts the hiſtorian, Mr. A. and throws the reader in a ſtrait betwixt two. Now, as no man tumbles into a diffi⯑culty, without accepting any help that is of⯑fered him to get out of it, the poor reader [308]ſeeks the aid of the hiſtorian, Mr. C. who re⯑futes the reaſoning of the other two with ſo much good writing, that after the like quantity of good reading, the ſtudent wiſhes to fix his faith on this middle man, in the hope of going ſafe and ſure between the two other extremes.

Unfortunately, however, ſome judicious friend or other recommends to him, as a better guide than either of the three, that admirable hiſtorian, Mr. D. who, with great force of language, gives the lie direct to all that went before him, and either awes or frightens his readers into a belief of him only. And here perhaps he might fix his biographical creed, but that another friend puts into his hand the excellent work of the hiſtorian, Mr. E. in whom the ſpirit of contradiction is no leſs ful⯑minating againſt the other betrayers of the truth. By the greateſt good fortune, however, he meets in the hiſtorian, Mr. F. a ſtrict conformity of opinion with Meſſrs. A. and B. diſſenting only in a few points. He very na⯑turally wiſhes, therefore, to come to a ſort of compromiſe with theſe three hiſtorians, by dividing his faith between them: but, alas! while he is making up his mind to this, he is told of a production ſuperior to all that ever [309]went before, or ſhall come after—even the work of that delectable hiſtorian, Mr. G. an author, he is aſſured, who carries the energies of conviction in every page, and who does not merely diſtance his competitors in the biographical career, but is to keep them out of the reader's ſight for ever. He ſets "doggedly down," as Johnſon calls it, to this grand un⯑dertaking, and reads it with an eagerneſs pro⯑portioned to his expectation of being made eaſy for life, on the article of his hiſtorical faith: he is faſcinated with the ſtyle, the characters, and the pictureſque embelliſhments, and with a winter's hard reading, gets to the end of the book; but by no means, to the end of his labours; for, in the courſe of the performance, he finds ſo many reaſons to diſbelieve what he before credited, and to credit what others taught him to diſbelieve, that confuſion is con⯑founded, and Chaos is, indeed, come again. What ſhall he do next? Much ſtudy, and many many authors have made him almoſt mad.

But in this diſtracted ſtate he finds relief, only, in trying to eject the maſs of contrary opinions from his head, and to try that ſcience, no leſs hard in literature than in love, to forget. [310]He is reduced to the ridiculous neceſſity of making a memorandum not to remember!

Perhaps, he now gives himſelf a ſummer's receſs from reading hiſtories; but is taken by ſurpriſe in the winter; to enrich which there is put forth in weekly numbers ſo compleat a hiſtory, on an entire new plan, and by a ſo⯑ciety of gentlemen, amongſt whom are thoſe well-known hiſtorians, Meſſrs. H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. and ſeveral other illuſtrious perſonages of the Alphabet, that as it is to be paid for imperceptibly, and to anſwer the great end of fixing his hiſtorical belief on an immoveable baſis, he muſt needs become both purchaſer and reader. Amongſt ſo many coun⯑ſellors it is to be ſuppoſed there muſt be wiſ⯑dom, eſpecially as moſt of them are marked out to the public by ſome honorary diſtinctions; ſuch as A. M. D. D. LL. D. F. R. S. &c. &c. But before the numbers are half completed, he makes a diſcovery not a little mortifying to a man who has been at ſuch pains to get at the truth; namely, that this very gentlemanly aſſo⯑ciation are airy nothings, to whom the pub⯑liſher has given a local habitation, and a name to give plauſibility to a catchpenny performance. [311]And now for the firſt time he makes an ap⯑proach towards comfort, by feeling his indig⯑nation excited againſt the fabricators of theſe ſplendid nonentities.

At length, having tried all the hiſtorians from great A, to amperſand, he perceives there is no eſcaping from the puzzle, but by ſelecting his own facts, forming his own concluſions, and putting a little truſt in his own reaſon and judgment.

For all which conſiderations, I ſhall not pre⯑tend to point out to you another Hiſtory of England and Wales. I ſhall ſimply obſerve, that old Carodoc's book, obſolete as now it may be thought, ſeems to me to have been the grand ſource from whence all ſucceeding biographers have drawn their moſt uſeful in⯑formation. ‘"Truth they ſay lies in a well."’

Into this hiſtorical well of Carodoc, authors have let down their empty buckets, for more than a century, and drawn them up full, but though they have drank largely, they have [312]ſeldom had the gratitude, or honeſty to confeſs to whom they were indebted.

Thus, my valuable friend, we have travelled together, irregularly, indeed, and without any ſettled directions, but, I truſt, not un⯑pleaſantly; nor wholly unprofitably; and for a conſiderable time, over one of the moſt de⯑lightful countries in the univerſe. In our little pour, we have been diligent to add a ſheaf to the copious harveſt already carried home, to the great ſtorehouſe of the Britiſh empire, who ought to be proud of the bright and beautiful appendage, which we have been gleaning. We have picked up ſomething for the head, and for the heart. ‘"Try'd what the open, what the covert yields."’ and, I truſt, you would join my regrets in bid⯑ding Cambria adieu, did you not alſo join me in the hope that we ſhall one day ſee the ori⯑ginal of the picture, whoſe principal features I have copied, and ſee it together. Meantime, I cannot better take my leave of it than by con⯑firming with the moſt grateful ſatisfaction the following juſt and ſummary account, that the Welch are very hoſpitable, and the people in general, very obliging to ſtrangers; that they [313]are willing to tell every thing that belongs to their country, ready to ſhew all that is worth ſeeing, and to give you hearty invitations to refreſh you by the way. In a word, they re⯑ceive you well in their houſes, treat you very handſomely, and leave you nothing to deſire while you are their gueſt.

Farewell then to this gentle country, and —farewell to you.

LETTER XXII. TO THE SAME.

THE effect of contraſt is univerſally confeſſed, and its power could not be well called forth, more impreſſively on the eye, the heart, and the imagination, than by a rapid tranſition, from the beautiful mountains of North and South Wales, to the everlaſting flats of Holland; from the exquiſite wood⯑lands and vallies of Brecknock, and the ſub⯑limities of Snowden and Plinlimmon to the uniform levels of land and water, which ſo juſtly entitle the greater part of the terri⯑tory of the Dutch to the epithet amphibi⯑ous. I write to you amidſt proſpects and places ſo very different from thoſe I have re⯑cently left and deſcribed, that it almoſt ſeems as if I was addreſſing you from a new world. The pauſe, however, which has been allowed to my communications, (more than ſix months having elapſed ſince I laſt wrote) will evince that I do not preſume to give you new pictures of new people and new places, till I have given time to finiſh the drawings, and preſent them to you tolerable likeneſſes. In a word, [315]the ſtop that has happened in our corre⯑ſpondence, may ſerve to ſhew, that I hold my purpoſe of continuing to be a reſidentiary tra⯑veller here, as well as elſewhere, and that I deſign to glean the Continent in the ſame di⯑ligent and deliberate way, that I have gleaned particular parts of our beautiful iſland.

A French touriſt gives his readers the fol⯑lowing curious reaſon for not making any re⯑marks upon Holland. "I can give you," ſays he, "very little that is new reſpecting a coun⯑try, which, in truth, has no reſemblance to any other; but of which a ſufficient knowledge may be gained, without having ſeen it at all, for the little inſtruction it can ſupply."

Now this very circumſtance, of a country reſembling no other, is the moſt convincing one that could be given, that it muſt afford the greateſt novelty of obſervation; and ſo far from a truth is it, that he who has not ſeen, or read of it, can have a competent idea of it, that I do not believe there is a country in the whole world that is leſs to be gueſſed at, or that is more fertile of curious, amuſing, or inſtructive remarks. Much has certainly been ſaid of it, much remains to be ſaid. It [316]has yielded plentiful crops, but it will ſtill yield no ſcanty gleanings. Remember this is ſaid on the experience of half a year's reſidence in the Republic, before I even begin to write down what I have ſeen, felt, or underſtood: and during this ſpace of time I have examined what others aſſert with no leſs zeal than induſ⯑try, and with exactly the view that led me to inſpect all the publications reſpecting Wales, namely, to render my own the better, the wiſer, and the more entertaining by their aſſiſtance, whenever it could be called in to ſtrengthen, enrich, or illuſtrate—a view which will guide and govern me to the end of my journeyings, even though I ſhould purſue them to the end of the earth.

The ancient hiſtory of this country is liable to the complaint I brought againſt that of Eng⯑land, being ſwelled from octavos to quartos, from quartos to folios, and running from five volumes to five and twenty per work. Being firmly perſuaded, that the eſſence of all this may be conſolidated in at moſt five and twenty pages, I truſt you will accept of what follows on the riſe and progreſs of this ſingular coun⯑try, and its original inhabitants. It will, at leaſt, ſave you a great deal of unprofitable [317]reading, and give you in a ſingle morning, or evening, as much information, as I have been able to collect from a month's ſtudy. Nor will it, I truſt, prove unamuſing to one who attends ſo much as you do to the infancy of men and things.

About a century, then, before the common aera, the Cimbrians and Tutons ſuddenly expa⯑triated themſelves from the Cherſoneſus, now known by the names of Jutland, and the iſles of Conan, at preſent denominated Denmark. A violent and unexpected inundation, as it is ſaid, but more probably too exceſſive a popula⯑tion for their native country to ſupport, or per⯑haps, an ambition to eſtabliſh in another, in⯑duced this ſingular emigration. Be that as it may, men, women, and children, of all ages and deſcriptions, bid an everlaſting adieu to the places of their birth; and, like a torrent over⯑flowing its banks, they carried away with them almoſt every thing, and every body in their path; for divers other nations incited by their example, and, perhaps, inſtigated alſo by ſimi⯑lar motives, joined them on the way, and ſpeedily aſſociating, entered into the ſpirit of this romantic expedition.

[318]Amongſt the perſons whom theſe rovers met with in their paſſage, were the anceſtors of the people, in whoſe country I have now begun to make my hiſtorical Gleanings.

The old Batavians were the more ready to enter themſelves volunteers in this adventure, as their own country, ever more or leſs at the mercy of the mighty waters, was, at that par⯑ticular moment, invaded by an influx of the German ocean, which threatened not only their goods and habitations, but their lives. The Roman hiſtory ſhews us the ravages which theſe wandering multitudes committed in Spain and in Gaul, and how, for a length of time, they triumphed over all the generals which the imperial city ſent to oppoſe them, till that memorable epoch, when Marius exterminated with fire and ſword the innumerable ſwarms that covered the provinces.

The countries, from whence theſe ſelf-baniſh⯑ed banditti came, remained utterly depopu⯑lated; nor was it till ſeveral ages after, that another ſet of emigrants ſeized the ſame coun⯑try, and roſe, by degrees, a comparatively happy and ſucceſsful nation, on the very ground where ſo many thouſands of former adven⯑turers [319]had periſhed, the victims of their ambi⯑tion. The Cymbrian nation, till that period, appeared to be annihilated. Tacitus informs us, that, in his time, there remained only the memory of their enterprize.

The Batavians inhabited the banks of the Adriana, now called the Ader, a river which runs between Heſſe, and the country of Waldec. Theſe people, long harraſſed by their avaricious and ambitious enemies, the Cates, reſolved to explore a more peaceable ſituation. The great iſle of Rhine, as it was then called, and which, as I have already ob⯑ſerved, had loſt its inhabitants, was the place to which theſe new adventurers directed their ſteps. Encouraged and conducted by the chiefs of their religion; they landed, under favour of a proſperous voyage, on that part of the iſland which had been deſerted; and, ſatisfied with a country that had been forſaken by its original inhabitants, they determined upon ſettlement. The plan was attended with ſuch ſucceſs, that, although we find, in ſubſequent ages, various other people fixing there alſo, theſe new coloniſts, alone, rendered the land they occupied famous, and it was only theſe who gave it the name of Batavia.

[320]A ſhort deſcription of this iſland of Rhine, as it was anciently called, is neceſſary; and the beſt I can glean for you is, that it is a country detached from the Continent by the Rhine: the right arm of the river ſtill preſerves its name, and, according to general opinion, rolled its rapid waves into the boſom of the ocean, from the place now called Katwick. The left arm is denominated the Waahl, whoſe ſtreams preſently join thoſe of the Meuſe, which alſo finds its way to the ſea by another vaſt opening. Hence it appears, that Batavia, now the United Provinces, extended about twenty-ſeven leagues in length, and ſeven in breadth. Many reſpectable authors con⯑tend for a greater ſcope. Some inſiſt, that the left arm of the river, which loſt itſelf at Kat⯑wick, ſubdivided into ſeveral other branches, which formed a variety of lakes, the moſt con⯑ſiderable of which was called Flero, and a cluſter of ſmaller iſlands, of which the moſt important was that of Schelling.

It is certain, then, what was anciently called Batavia, included a very great part of the pro⯑vinces of Guelderland, Holland, and Utrecht. At the ſame time it ſeems to be an opinion, wholly unfounded, that the Batavians were [321]long content with the circumſcribed limits which was bounded by the left arm of the Rhine. They paſſed into what was then called Belgic Gaul, between the Meuſe and the Waahl. They ſoon poſſeſſed themſelves of the whole of Guelderland and Holland, and ſpread them⯑ſelves over the delightful country now deno⯑minated the dutchy of Cleves. There is rea⯑ſon to believe they carried their eſtabliſhments even as far as Zealand, at leaſt ſo much of it as was then habitable: and, in ſhort, it is ma⯑nifeſt, that the people which the Romans called, perhaps, a little confuſedly, Batavians, formed by far the greater part of the ancient inhabi⯑tants of the United States of Holland.

The people called Freezelanders made their appearance, on the ſtage, about the ſame time, and acted a no leſs important ſcene in the great drama of politics. They poſſeſſed the provinces of Freezeland, Overyſſel, and parts adjacent.

You will join my exclamation about the progreſs of this extraordinary race of powers! Originally a horde of miſerable wanderers quitting one inhoſpitable ſoil for another; chuſing an apparently impracticable ſpot, and attaching themſelves to it, as if proudly deter⯑mined to make the barren ground, and a world [322]under water, fruitful, even to abundance. Is it ſcarcely to be credited theſe are the people, who on a trembling quagmire founded a more noble city, in deſpite as it were of nature her⯑ſelf, than the imperial —? for who that has ſeen Amſterdam, but muſt give it the pre⯑ference to Peterſburgh? There is true ſublimity in the idea of ſupporting one of the moſt mag⯑nificent cities in Europe, on rafts of timber placed upon an enormous bog! Matter of fact is compelled to borrow ſtrength from imagina⯑tion, to believe ſuch a miracle, wrought by the toil, induſtry, and perſeverance of human be⯑ings! And indeed reaſon ſeems to ſtruggle againſt her own conviction, when ſhe ſanctions every word of the following apoſtrophe:— "How wonderful!" ſays the author of it, "that in a country without a ſtone or a pebble, there ſhould be ſtone edifices the moſt mag⯑nificent! without foreſts, or an oak tree (two little woods excepted) the Dutch navy ſhould be the ſecond in the world! that without arable land they ſhould ſupply half Europe with corn, and with a tract of country ſcarcely larger than an Engliſh county, they ſhould raiſe men and money to make themſelves of im⯑porrtance in the eyes of the firſt power in Chriſtendom!"

[323]How often, my friend, when I have ſeen the truth of theſe obſervations, have I called to mind a moſt beautiful remark of the excellent Dr. Johnſon, on the united effects of revolu⯑tion, induſtry, and perſeverance! "The power of perſiſting is indeed aſtoniſhing, ſince all the performances of human art, at which we look with praiſe or wonder, are inſtances of the re⯑ſiſtleſs force of perſeverance. It is by this that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that diſtant countries are united by canals. If a man were to compare the firſt effect of a ſingle ſtroke of the pick-axe or ſpade, with the ge⯑neral deſign and laſt effect, he would be over⯑whelmed by a ſenſe of their diſproportion; yet theſe petty operations, inceſſantly continued, at laſt ſurmount the greateſt difficulties, and mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded, by the ſlender force of human beings!"

The people we are conſidering ſtrongly illuſ⯑trate theſe ſentiments, more particularly where it is conſidered, that their ſucceſſors are almoſt the only race now in Europe, who have pre⯑ſerved, amidſt all the convulſions of paſſion and of power, their liberty and their country.

The beſt manner in which I have ever known this honourable truth explained, is to recol⯑lect, that the ſtate itſelf was founded on li⯑berty [324]and religion, that it was reared by in⯑duſtry and oeconomy, and has flouriſhed by its commerce and ſituation. The bigotted maxims of Philip the Second, the introduction of the inquiſition, and the erecting fourteen new biſhopricks in the Low Countries; the unrelenting rigour of Cardinal Granville, and the ſucceeding cruelty of the Duke of Alva, together with the council of twelve, called the Council of Blood, and the execution of Counts Egmont and Horn, were the cauſes which drove the people to throw off the yoke, and gave riſe to the union of Utrecht. Perſe⯑vering valour, joined to the political aſſiſtance of other powers, has been the means of pre⯑ſerving their independence, while the decline of the Venetian navy has made them the common carriers of Europe, and the wars of Flanders, and ſituation of Holland, have conſpired to render it what it now is.— The Dutch, likewiſe, by the ſucceſs of their arms againſt the Portugueſe in India, and by their treaties with the natives, in proceſs of time, drew the whole trade of India from Liſ⯑bon, which was before the ſtaple of the trade to the eaſt.

Holland, moreover, is moſt admirably ſitutated for the commerce of the Baltic, which includes [325]Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Ruſſia, Poland, and the North coaſt of Germany, while they ſend merchandiſe into the interior parts of the empire, and Auſtrian Netherlands, by thoſe watery mines of wealth, to them, the Maes, the Rhine, and the Scheld.—Thus you perceive the greatneſs, and much of the vigour, of this country has ariſen from a wonderful concur⯑rence of favourable circumſtances—from a long courſe of time—from the confluence of ſtrangers, driven either by perſecution, or in⯑vited by the credit of their government—from the cheapneſs of carriage, by medium of their canals—from the low intereſt of money, and dearneſs of land, which conſequently turn ſpecie into trade—from particular traffic car⯑ried on at particular places, each town valuing itſelf for ſome branch of trade: as for in⯑ſtance—Delft for the Dutch porcelain, Sardam for ſhip-building, Rotterdam for the Scotch and Engliſh trade; Amſterdam for that of the Straits, Spain, and the Eaſt-Indies; and the whole province for the herring fiſhery. They are alſo indebted much to their intenſe appli⯑cation to their navy, to the vaſt nurſeries for their ſailors, and to their oriental acquiſi⯑tions. Such are the circumſtances that have [326]conſpired to make this little Republic the ad⯑miration of the world.

When I next write to you, we will reſume our ſketches of the ancient inhabitants, the founders and forefathers of this ſingular coun⯑try: particularly in their exerciſes, cuſtoms, dreſſes, and habitations, in all which we ſhall diſcover a much ſtronger reſemblance to our own progenitors, than all our good country⯑men may be diſpoſed to allow. Aſſuredly, my worthy compatriots ought to be the moſt grateful people to the Great Fountain of all good things of any upon the face of the earth, for the ſtay-at-home part of them, which is always the majority, cannot be perſuaded that he has imparted the light of his counte⯑nance, or fed with his repleniſhing hand, any of their fellow-creatures, in a nearly equal de⯑gree. The happy iſland they inhabit has alone, they ſuppoſe, enjoyed his favour; and to tell them that there are in any other parts of the univerſe, as bright a ſky, as generous a ſoil, wholeſome laws, as beauteous proſpects, hearts as brave, hands as ingenious, or heads as wiſe, would be conſidered as amongſt thoſe liberties, which travellers, like poets, are allowed to take with truth.

[327]I muſt own the inflammable parts of my nature are apt to take fire, when I hear my friend John Bull thus dreſs out for univerſal admiration and homage his idol, Old England, and applying a verſe of Pope, I cannot but aſk— ‘"Has God, thou fool! work'd ſolely for thy good?’ And I am convinced, my friend, amongſt the beſt advantages of travel, ſhould be reckoned its enabling us to "vindicate the ways of God," by firſt diſcovering and then deſcribing the impartiality of his beneficence, not only as to his creatures, but as to the climates appointed for their reſidence; and thus proving that he is, "an equal God, the God of all."

LETTER XXIII. TO THE SAME.

YOU juſtly charge me with a digreſſion in my laſt letter, and at the ſame time honour⯑ably acquit me. In giving you the hiſtory of the preſent flouriſhing ſtate of the commerce, and its cauſes, I have a little anticipated that part of my information, which ſhould have been gleaned afterwards: but the obſervations appeared appoſite to the place where they are introduced, and I think none of their effects can be loſt by your being in poſſeſſion of them a few pages ſooner.

Let us now take up the tangled thread of the early hiſtory of the Batavians. Originally Germans, they partook their cuſtoms, man⯑ners, and language, frequently their names, and commonly their intereſts. They were as Yoric would ſay of them, "of the firſt order of ſizes," their limbs muſcular, their ſhoulders broad, their eyes blue; yet their countenances fierce: better able to endure the rigours of cold, than the languors of heat; penury than [333]care; the fatigues of pleaſure in the chace, and the pleaſures of ambition, or of plunder in the toils of war, than the labours of agriculture and domeſtic oeconomy. They could more eaſily ſupport famine itſelf, than the corrod⯑ings of ſorrow, from which, indeed, they were pretty ſecure, while there was enough left on the face of the earth to ſuſtain its in⯑habitants. The old Batavians, like the Arabs, could never want what others could ſupply. The ſpontaneous good, which nature refuſed to beſtow, ready cut and dried to their hands, in the country they had now made their own, they ſought and ſeized upon without any diſtinction of meum and tuum, in another. And, indeed, whatever could not be had with⯑out trouble at home, they raviſhed abroad; the law of might overcoming right, being the only one they acknowledged: and I fancy, my friend, this ſummary code was pretty univer⯑ſally adopted in all the countries of the globe, till the ſavage of our own ſpecies, or man in a ſtate of nature, and as the caſtle builder, Rouſſeau, calls it, a ſtate of equality, was taught a very different leſſon of juriſprudence. Na⯑tural man, and man made ſocial, no doubt are different ſort of perſons, but with all the boaſted refinements, civilizations, and meliora⯑tions [334]of the latter, what a ſavage he muſt ſtill be to require ſo many thouſand volumes, acts of parliament, ſtatutes, at little, and at large, to keep the ſtill unſubdued part of his nature, commonly honeſt!! Did ever the wildeſt courſer of the woods; did ever beaſt of prey require ſo much training, trammelling, muz⯑zling, chaining, coaxing, correcting, wheed⯑ling, ſpurning, whipping, goading and halter⯑ing! And after all, bound hand and foot, and tongue and teeth as he is, he continues to get looſe from his keepers, the lawyers, and ſnap, ſcratch, and bite moſt furiouſly. Is not this ſo ſelf evident a truth, that before one man dare truſt another; one friend enter into negocia⯑tions of any kind with the denizen of his bo⯑ſom; though he may have been nouriſhed with the ſame milk, and been rocked in the ſame cradle—muſt not the aforeſaid keepers double lock, and bolt, and bar, and chain, every door and crevice of the connexion they are about to form! And how often does one or the other, in deſpite of all this caution, find a loop hole to creep out at? Still more can the gentleſt of gentle creatures, delightful woman herſelf! formed as ſhe is by love, and for love, can even ſhe, who ſeems to wiſh or require only bonds of ſilk, and fetters of roſes, thrown [335]about her by Cupid, as if in ſport; alas and alas, and alas a thouſand times!! can this fair being, with any ſafety, truſt, or be truſted, in ſettling that tender point, which is to deter⯑mine, by an honourable union, the weal or woe of her life, till the wrecks of our original nature are tied together by contracts, ſettle⯑ments, proviſos, conditions, &c. &c. leſt any one of the "nice dependencies," of two eſpouſed hands and hearts, ſhould be invaded broken? A domeſticated tyger, whoſe nature it is expected may break out, is leſs watched, leſs dreaded, and leſs manacled than a modern fine gentleman, or (but remember, I am whiſpering this)—a modern fine lady.

You will have reaſon to accuſe me of a ſecond digreſſion. Forgive me. I own theſe poor old Batavians are ſadly interrupted, but you are to conſider a Gleaner is a ſad wander⯑ing being, and always ſtooping to ſee what he can pick up: one ear of corn lying here, ano⯑ther there, it is impoſſible he can go ſtrait for⯑ward, you know, and I once again warn you not to expect it. Nor is it to be deſired. My ſheaf, which I mean to interweave, and bind with flowers of all kinds, and of all countries, would want variety, and my Gleanings, only [336]fit for "Daws to peck at." I am ambitious to add ſweetneſs to its ſtrength. You tell me, in ſeveral of your letters, that I have done ſo: of courſe, I continue the plan that has been honoured with your approbation, and yet I cannot help now and then ſtopping to make an apology.

Even the ſports of the old Batavians partook of their averſion to labour. Thoſe games, which flattered with the hope of being ac⯑quired with little difficulty, and leſs attention, were in conformity to their diſpoſitional indo⯑lence, which they ſometimes ſuffered to put at hazard the only thing they truly valued— their liberty. They conſumed their exceſs of leiſure in feaſts, carouſals, and ſleep—a long trance of the latter being often neceſſary to prevent the effects of the other, as what they uſually began in good fellowſhip, ended in bloodſhed.

How different, I cannot but repeat, from the race of the ſame men, in progreſſive ages! How different even from thoſe who in the age immediately ſucceeding the firſt ſettlers, be⯑came, as in our own ancient hiſtory, often the formidable enemies, and often the powerful [337]auxiliaries of Rome! And yet how widely re⯑moved from their hardy, induſtrious, indefa⯑tigable poſterity, the late and preſent poſſeſſors of all that proportion of the globe which ap⯑pertains to the Dutch nation!

In taking a comparative view of ancient and modern Holland, we cannot but be ſtruck with great aſtoniſhment at the contraſt. When the provinces were in their infancy—when a little colony of emigrating Batavians made their election of a part of the world often choſen, and as often renounced, as an impracticable ſoil, the wants of nature were accommodated by nature herſelf, with all the facility theſe, her indolent children, required. They found the waters teeming with fiſh, and the land co⯑vered with cattle: no cities, and few towns, the ancient Germans, regarding the firſt as large, and the latter as ſo many ſmall priſons. The camp was at once their reſidence in peace and war, and a field was luckily, for their ſupine tempers, covered with temporary habitations, without much toil. They could pitch an hun⯑dred tents in leſs time than they could con⯑ſtruct one regular houſe, and could moreover move them at will from one province to an⯑other: while many preferred the bare ground, [338]whoſe carpet was ſpread ready to receive them, to any other dwelling-place, living, like the beaſts they fed on, as commoners of nature, ‘"Their footſtool earth, their canopy the ſkies.'"’ Long after their primary ſettlement, when there were about ten colonies within and without the iſland of the Rhine, each colony can⯑toned in the impaſſable moors, rather than be at the fatigue of moving farther. Were it poſſible, for their hiſtorian, Tacitus, to come from that "bourne whence no traveller re⯑turns," and take a ſurvey of thoſe provinces he wrote about in his life-time, and which I am now gleaning for my friend—were he to ob⯑ſerve the then impaſſable moraſſes that extend⯑ed their dreary waſte from province to pro⯑vince; and to ſurvey the then uſurping and uſeleſs waters, which inundated the drooping, the almoſt drowning, country, n [...]w converted into a noble republic, embelliſhed with ſome of the moſt magnificent towns in Europe, thickly interſperſed with beautiful villages:

[339]Were he, my friend, to have been the compa⯑nion of my journey through Holland, North and South, and traverſed with me the fine country of Gueldres—of all which I ſhall write you in their place—and yet more, were he to behold theſe very provinces inhabited by the deſcendants of thoſe very Batavians, who, though endued with every power to ſuffer every extremity, and to overcome it, refuſed either to toil or ſpin, now filled with ſwarm⯑ing multitudes, whoſe characteriſtic is perſe⯑vering induſtry, and who, while they have brought every branch of commerce, perhaps to its higheſt perfection, have not been un⯑mindful of the elegant arts, he would ſcarcely be able to find a trace of his Batavians, ex⯑cept in the unaltered feature of hereditary courage.

In the dreſs of the ancient poſſeſſors of this country, we find a reſemblance to that of the ancient Britons. Children of nature, they de⯑pended on their common parent to furniſh them, as well with raiment as with food; the ſkin of a beaſt faſtened with a wooden peg, or a pointed thorn, was wrapped about them. Their chiefs had, by way of diſtinction, a veſt made of the ſame, and ſo right, that they [340]ſeemed as if caſed in iron. The women were diſcriminated only by the addition of a thin veil, bordered with purple. Moſt of them diſcovered from bliſsful ignorance of harm, what the knowledge of the world, in its po⯑liſhed ſtate, conceals from conſciouſneſs. The arms, neck, and boſom, were always diſplayed. Their hair, though naturally of an ardent brown, was deepened by red ochre. They formed their treſſes into ſeveral large braids, faſtened at the top of the head with field flowers, not unlike the preſent mode, but they ſometimes ſuffered the hair to flow in all the liberty and abundance of nature. The men's beards were permitted to grow till they reached the waiſt; but on the downfall of an illuſtrious enemy, ſlain by their own hands, they were cut ſhort both before and behind.

When they began to domeſticate, and could be prevailed on to prefer a fixed reſidence to a moving tent, they built a local habitation wherever they found the cleareſt fountain, the moſt ſhady thicket, or moſt fruitful meadow, but always on an eminence, either natural or artificial, to guard them from the inundations common to the country they had choſen. They were, of courſe, long ignorant of the thou⯑ſand [341]arts by which civil ſociety is embelliſhed and advanced. Even when they began a little to civilize, the care of providing for the ne⯑ceſſaries of life—their only care—was left to the ſlaves, the freed men, or the women.

Their education was ſuited to the ſimplicity of their purſuits. Natural courage was taught as the firſt of virtues that ought to be che⯑riſhed, and a dextrous defence of the body from the attacks of an enemy, as the beſt of arts. Intrepidity in combat, contempt of death, and perſonal agility, were the three grand points to be acquired. Their conſtitu⯑tions, ſo ſluggiſh in times of peace, took fire at the very thought of war. They would tra⯑verſe the deepeſt ſnows, and plunge through the moſt turbulent rivers under arms, without even breaking their ranks. Their horſes were neither ſwift nor ſtrong; and being accuſtom⯑ed always to run a tilt in the ſtraight line, with⯑out having the ſmalleſt idea of the military evolutions, of ſo much importance in the mo⯑dern art of war, their principal force and de⯑pendence was, of courſe, in their infantry. When they were arranged in regular order of battle, they placed their wives and children in the rear, and always certain groupes of both within [342]view, as well to ſuſtain and excite the valour of the combatants, as to aſſiſt the wounded, and alſo to animate the whole army by inter⯑mingled ſhouts, cries, and acclamations. It was common to ſee wives, mothers, daughters, and lovers, ruſh amidſt the thickeſt dangers of the bloody field, carry off the dead, ſuccour the dying, and ſuck the reeking wounds of an huſband, father, lover, or brother. Actions of this kind are mentioned in our own hiſtory as great and glorious inſtances amongſt indi⯑viduals: but in the firſt approaches to the im⯑portance of this little republic, ſuch heroic atchievements were common to the ſex, and hundreds of Boadicea's and Eleonora's were to be ſeen acting wonders in the ſame army: nay, it was a part of their office to purſue and over⯑take the fugitives, make them return to the charge, and either contribute to victory, or en⯑counter death.

You may eaſily believe, my friend, the ef⯑fect of ſuch eye witneſſes of glory and diſgrace would be great: you feel the ſtrong and lively intereſt it muſt have produced on the minds, both of the timid and the brave; that it muſt have converted cowards into men, men into heroes, heroes into conquerors! And you will, [343]at the ſame time, allow, that we ſhall in vain look for equal enthuſiaſm, equal proweſs, amongſt thoſe modern mercenaries, who ſell their very blood to an unknown maſter, in whoſe ſervice they engage with his enemies for daily bread. Inſtead of taking the field, like the bold Batavian, at the command of the ge⯑nerous, at leaſt of the glowing paſſions, inſtead of fighting an enemy, and embracing a friend on the ſame heart-felt principle, the hired ſol⯑dier moves on mechanically to action, without any other idea than to obey. In this automa⯑ton ſtate, he is conducted, by his maſter, pro tempore, to conquer or defeat— ‘"Equal to both, and arm'd for either field!"’ Of the former he ſhares not, neither deſires to ſhare, the glory; nor of the other does he in⯑cur, or feel, any part of the infamy. Few are the real, ſcarce any the adequate, reaſons, which juſtify the horrors of public war: but the mercenary is left without the ſhadow of an apology. It is not a neceſſary of his life, be⯑cauſe that might be ſuſtained by converting the ſtrength, which is demanded of him in battle, to the arts of peace: his plunder is but a rob⯑bery licenced by the articles of war; and the murder which he commits in action, is a but⯑chery [344]in cold blood. Neither perſon, nor pro⯑perty, king, nor country, bid him unſheath the ſword, or fire the muſket, ſpring the mine, or dig the trenches: he is an inveterate bravo, a common ſtabber to any man that bids up to his price: that done, his maſter has but to ſay—"Look, ye ſlaves—thoſe are my enemies, whom I have hired you to maſſacre: kill as many of them as you can." On a ſimilar com⯑pact, in perhaps the next campaign, he turns his arms againſt the ſide he before eſpouſed, and goes on in this manner, letting himſelf out, firſt to one leader, then to another.

In theſe reflections, you ſee my opinion of mercenary troops. I dare ſay it is your's: for you are too much a woman of emotion to ap⯑prove of a man's ſtanding to be murdered, or to murder, with no better reaſon than that it is his trade, and his bloody work is paid for. War is at beſt an Hydra calamity! Every man has ſome country, ſome chief, ſome relatives. If he muſt take up arms, let it be for theſe. At any rate let him fight on ſomething like a principle; but the mercenary's very name points out his infamy. Will you tell me a mercenary troop is often brave. Would it were in a better cauſe! Yet how I argue! Were [345] your life endangered, my friend, and were the danger to threaten it in a diſtant land, far—far from your friends—far from me, I would become a mercenary myſelf, and fight for an hundred different pay-maſters, to re⯑ward the man who ſhould ſave you! Adieu.

LETTER XXIV. TO THE SAME.

ON the article of marriage I have to inform you, that the ancient Batavians con⯑ſidered it as infamous to connect themſelves in that ſtate before each party had reached the twentieth year. The conduct of the courtſhip, even to its final ſettlement, was ever in the preſence of the principals of the two families about to enter into the alliance. This might make love very moral, but ſurely not very en⯑tertaining. In the nuptial offerings, the bride⯑groom always took the lead. They uſually conſiſted of a yoke of oxen, a war-horſe capariſoned; a ſword, a lance, and a buckler: [346]ſtrange love-gifts you will think for a bridal preſent! but theſe warlike ſymbols taught, or were intended to teach, the bride to elevate herſelf on every great occaſion above the im⯑puted weakneſs of her ſex, to partake the labours and dangers, as well as laurels, of her lord, in war and in peace, in life and in death. Having thus armed the fair warrior, the bride preſented her offerings, which reſembled thoſe of her huſband, whom ſhe accout [...]ed for the field with equal gallantry, that each might defend the other. Very Gothic to be ſure; but perhaps, after all, nearly as good— ſenſical as the modern preliminaries of toys and trinkets, ſilks and ſattins, with which a mo⯑dern Britiſh bride, or even a modern Batavian lady, (of whom in due time) is loaded.

As the new married couple could eaſily pro⯑cure ſubſiſtence in their flock-herds and fruits of the earth, and game of their foreſts, (for part of their territory was then well wooded) beſides their corn-cakes, and a kind of beer, which the Batavians, in the moſt early times, were wont to make from their grain, there was little fear of wanting an healthy offspring, which, however numerous, knew no other breaſt than that of their mother. Then, my [347]friend, Refinement, a very puny and puling babe, and of a very delicate conſtitution, was but juſt born, and had not, amongſt other un⯑natural ideas, ſuggeſted that of committing the pledges of our love to the boſom of a ſtranger.

Their funerals partook the ſame ſimplicity. The corpſe of a diſtinguiſhed perſon was burned upon a kind of pyre, always with their arms, (a marriage gift) and very often with the horſe that had carried them to battle. A verdant hillock, a graſſy eminence, at once co⯑vered and marked the ſpot where their aſhes were depoſited. The natural affections, too, were in their ſimplicity—of courſe in their energy. The women honoured the deceaſed with ſuch tears as refinement ſeldom ſheds, and breathed over the grave with ſuch ſighs as faſhion rarely heaves; while the men mourned their dead by more ſilent ſorrow, and no leſs profound regret.

In regard to religion, the ancient Bata⯑vians, and the ancient Briton, had ſomewhat of ſimilitude. Through all the deep diſguiſes of fable, which in barbarous ages have always disfigured the truth, one may diſcover, among [348]the Germans, as among the Celtes and the Gauls, the idea of one God Supreme, the prin⯑cipal, and the preſervation, and the provi⯑dence of all. But, in the moſt remote time, we do not find theſe people had either temples or idols, holding it equally preſumptuous, profane, and abſurd, to attempt repreſenting or encloſing the Deiry. They ruſhed into the thickeſt foreſts, in ſearch of certain trees they conſidered to be ſacred, under whoſe ſhade they ſlew their victims, and, too frequently, Druid-like, mingled the ſtreams of human blood, with thoſe of the animals they ſacrificed. It does not ſeem probable, if we except the ſun, moon, and fire, that they had any of the divinities common to the Romans. Their Woden was different from the Oden of the Scandinavians, who at firſt conſidered this fa⯑mous perſonage as a hero, then worſhiped him as a God. Woden, Oden, and God, were, perhaps, names ſynonimous to ſignify Deity.

Nor had theſe people leſs veneration than our own forefathers for certain oracles and ſoothſayers. Theſe were conſulted on all oc⯑caſions of difficulty and danger, and their an⯑ſwers were expected with trembling awe, and heard with ſubmiſſive reverence.

[349]As in the ſweet country to which I have de⯑voted moſt of our hitherto correſpondence, the ancient Hollanders alſo had their bards, whoſe office it was to ſing and celebrate the heroes of their country; their romances, tranſmitted with pious care to their poſterity, not only ſerve to perpetuate their own exploits; but to incite in their deſcendants an equal emulation. The prophetic poets were principally reſorted to in the day of battle, concerning which ſo minute was the ſuperſtition, that the preſage of good or bad, of victory or defeat, or the degrees of either, depended on the different modulations with which theſe warlike ſongs were chanted, the very moment preceding the encounter. Like the Romans, they took alſo a fortunate or inauſpicious omen from the flight of birds, or the neighing of horſes, which were fed in conſecrated woods. The iſſue of a ſingle combat, between one of their own ſoldiers and a priſoner of war, brought forth to determine their ſucceſs, or their miſ⯑carriage, was an omen of the utmoſt import⯑ance.

Of their public ſpectacles little is to be ſaid. Their young men, however, frequently exhi⯑bited [350]one which you will think pretty extraor⯑dinary; and yet in conformity with the ferocity of their manners. They would jump naked into the middle of a ſort of theatre, encircled with lances, leaving only almoſt impoſſible mazes between them, for the whole arrange⯑ment formed a labyrinth of ſpears. The dex⯑terity conſiſted in threading theſe meanders, and performing the circuit of the whole nar⯑row, and almoſt indiſcernable, path, with in⯑finite rapidity, and without drawing blood: and they thought themſelves ſufficiently re⯑warded, if by theſe hazardous feats they amuſed the ſpectators.

Now, my dear friend, amongſt all the peril⯑ous arts, which have been invented by idle people in modern times, to entrap the money of perſons, as idle as themſelves; ſome by ſwallowing flintſtones, ſome fire, &c. I think we have never yet matched this pleaſant exer⯑ciſe of the youth of old Batavia; and, there⯑fore, if the enterpriſing Aſtley, Hughes, or any other great men, who trade in the mar⯑velous, could attempt ſomething of this kind, with the improvement, perhaps, of a little drapery to the picture—ſetting the tour of the lance-ſurrounded hero to muſic, it might give [351]us all the addreſs and agility of their moſt expert tumblers and poſture-maſters, without any of their abominable diſtortion.

Suppoſe you were to give one of them the hint, and when theſe letters come into volumes, to make him a preſent of a copy, doubling down the page. By this act of courteſey, you would, at leaſt, gain the free entré of a winter's run to all the jugglers, trickſters, brutes upon two legs, and brutes upon four! Nay, I know not, but the thing might, with better effect, be brought upon the ſtage, under the title of Harlequin in Old Holland. Worſe ſcats have been enacted by the hero of the wooden ſword and truncheon; and if he could but once dance round this Batavian gauntlet al freſco, he might bid defiance to the hackneyed, worn out pur⯑ſuits of Panteloon, and fooleries of Scara⯑mouch.

But to leave ſporting, and return to our pro⯑per objects. It remains only to ſay a few words on the ancient legiſlation, and public aſſemblies of the United States. An account of the modern government ſhall not be for⯑gotten.

[352]When they began to legiſlate, which was not till long after their ſettlement in this country, the ſovereignty reſided in a kind of National Convention. It was there, that their freemen and nobles inaugurated their generals and kings: there that they elected their centurions, tribunes, and judges, to diſ⯑tribute juſtice, through their colonies: there that their firſt Diet was eſtabliſhed, either at new or full moon, when all ſubjects were diſ⯑cuſſed, and propoſitions made for peace or war. The unanimity of the ſuffrage de⯑termined the meaſure: if the ſpectators clap⯑ped their hands, the ayes had it; and if a tumultuous murmur followed the propoſal, the noes carried the queſtion.

In this little ſenate's origin, every man ap⯑peared armed. When the youths had gained a certain age, they were admitted as members, and on the day—if I may be permitted to uſe parliamentary language—that they took their ſeats, they were preſented with a javelin and buckler. They were then to be conſidered as connecting the characters of ſenator and ſol⯑dier, and expected to contribute their ſervices to the government, and defence of the ſtates.

[343]With reſpect to the monarchy of the rude ages of the Batavian people, the name of king has been too generally confounded with that of chief. Whatever was then his title, his power exceeded not that of the firſt citizen: there was always an appeal, from his authority, to the ſenſe of the public: and if his elevation inſpired any ſentiment, or carried him into any action, that wore but the ſemblance of tyranny, or that trenched upon thoſe to whom he owed his diſtinctions, he was, inſtantly, marked, and controlled as one who had violated his truſt, and incurred the penalty of ſuch forfeiture.

The legiſlature of the country demands a few more obſervations: for even in the infancy— the babyhood, of Batavian juriſprudence, the moſt wholeſome laws were framed, though their code was little more than what was taught by a ſenſe of natural juſtice: and, per⯑haps, that is conſcience at the ſame time. The very people who, in their moſt barbarous ſtate, fed their indolence by invaſion of public and private rights, in proceſs of time, began to contemplate with horror, and with ſhame, a life of lazineſs and rapacity. They were induſtrious; and on induſtry grew the ſenti⯑ments [344]both of property and probity, and they ſoon enacted laws to tie up them⯑ſelves, as well as others, from the farther violation of theſe.

They were, however, ſimple and conciſe. The ſuperior magiſtrates in the great diſtricts, and the inferior ones in the towns and villages, conducted the proceſs. It was carried on without any ſort of dif⯑ficulty or delay, and what will equally con⯑found our modern lawyers, without any ex⯑pence. The cauſe was tried in open court, and invariably ended the day it was begun, without a poſſibility of farther appeal. Neither written laws, nor printed ſtatutes, were known, or neceſſary to be known. Privileges, rights, and wrongs, when well defended and ſettled in foro conſcientiae remain for ever clear, and were men as honeſt as they are artful, would require but one hearing and one deciſion. A twenty, or even a fifth year's ſuit in Chancery, would have ſounded in Batavia, like putting off the final iſſue to the day of judgment. But, I am aware that ſociety in its higheſt ſtate of population, power, and paſſion, muſt [345]have its wrongs mingled with its rights; and they are ſo twiſted together, by a variety of intereſts, that we muſt take them, juſt as we find them, worked into the piece. So may the laws flouriſh, and we enjoy their protection, my friend, without either incurring their cen⯑ſure, or wanting their active interference; for, perhaps, as many honeſt men have been ruined by their friendſhip, as there have been knaves deſtroyed by their enmity.

LETTER XXV. TO THE SAME.

HAVING thus taken a tranſient view of "the family canvaſs," in the long picture gallery of times paſt, we ſhall be more amuſed to look at, and better able to judge of, the portraits of the lineal deſcendants; in fine, we ſhall, with more profit, and more pleaſure, catch the reſembling ſimilitudes, obſerve where the im⯑preſſion of original character has been pre⯑ſerved, or loſt; and from this progreſſive ſurvey inveſt ourſelves with the power of com⯑paring progenitors with their poſterity, in all that regards the principles and purſuits of both. Theſe, as I glean, or rather as I find ſpirits and leiſure to arrange and parcel out, (for, remember I have now the pickings of half a year in my portable ſtorehouſe; but lying in heaps) ſhall be ſent you.—

Meantime, as what I have already exported, will make a pretty conſiderable ſheaf, I ſhall beg of you, to look upon this letter as the band [347]to make it up! and, as every harveſt-home, is accompanied by ſigns of ſatisfaction, that the grain is got in, ſuch as garlands, ſongs, &c. &c. as not even the humbleſt Gleaner, who has picked her ſcanty portion from day to day, through all the leaſing ſeaſon, but adorns the laſt handful with a few field flowers, and carols over them as ſhe bends her way to her cottage, I propoſe to crown our little harveſt-home, my friend, with a wreath of poetry, to which there appertains a long ſtory; but which, I perſuade myſelf, a mind like your's will find ſhort in the narration, when the time is ripe to "aſk your hearing patiently," as the player ſays in Hamlet.

Much have I for your fancy, your feelings, your affection; much for your information, and ſomething for your uſe. Matter for my affections in Holland! methinks, I hear thoſe who have found, or determined to think it barren ſoil—tauntingly exclaim!—Any thing that can intereſt my fancy in that region of fogs, bogs, and vapours! then ſhall the ſpices of the eaſt eject their fragrance from the ditch! and the roſes of Paradiſe bloom in the fen!

[348]You remember Yorick's beautiful paſſage, beginning—"I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Bathſheba, and cry all's barren; and ſo it is, and ſo is all the world to him, who will not cultivate the fruits it offers, &c." Be that my anſwer to all ſuch children of ſpleen, prejudice, or wilful blindneſs. Be the reſt of the ſentence implicating a tenderneſs of nature, and a candour of ſpirit ſo expreſ⯑ſive of your heart, a pledge to you, that when⯑ever you make a reſidentiary tour of this country, your affections, your imagination, your feeling, will not want their proper objects. You will not be reduced to "faſten them on the ſweet myrtle;" or on the "me⯑lancholy cypreſs;" but be preſented with many opportunities of enjoying ‘"The feaſts of reaſon, and the flow of ſoul;"’ notwithſtanding what has ſo often, and by ſo many different people, been ſaid to the con⯑trary, that dullneſs and the Dutch nation are become ſynonimous.

I am really concerned to find every where, and about every thing, the repreſentations of a truth in many reſpects ſo different, and in [349]not a few ſo diametrically oppoſite to the truth itſelf. Men, women, places, people, manners, cuſtoms, are all ſo drawn into this falſe colouring, and are ſo thrown out of their due proportions of mind and body, ſituation and circumſtance; here a caricature, there a figure, ſo fulſomely flattered, that a friend that loves one would be diſguſted; and in ſhort, things, as they are, ſo very generally differ from what they are ſaid to be, that in whatſoever I can, I am fully reſolved to form my opinions on the evidence of my own ſenſes; as, in all human caſes, the only proof poſitive, and in whatever falls ſhort of this oral, and ocular conviction, (ſtill humanly ſpeaking) to believe whatever is of good re⯑port, as much as I dare; and of evil, no more than I can poſſibly help.

With reſpect to the tales of travellers, thoſe of the Genii and Fairies, are not more fanciful or fallacious, when they chooſe to throw the rein upon the neck of prejudice, or imagina⯑tion, which they are very often ſufficiently diſpoſed to do. The tricks they play on their readers are the more dangerous, when they are expert enough at illuſion, to keep on this ſide [350]of the line of probability, which can neither on, or off the ſtage be violated, without counter⯑acting the effect intended to be produced.

What would you think of me, ſaid a ſprightly young man, in a letter to his rela⯑tion, the Baroneſs De S—, what would you think of your couſin, and correſpondent, who ſtops only to refreſh himſelf, and when re⯑freſhed, writes to you en paſſant; were he in imitation of many travellers, to give himſelf the airs of a dictator, and talk of the diſpoſi⯑tions of a people, the cuſtoms of a country, their finance, their government, their paſſions, their purſuits, riſquing every thing, fearing nothing; not even the deriſion and contempt of the friend he addreſſes! How, in fact, is it poſſible to avoid ſending falſehoods of one country into another, when running from country to country, as if in a fox-chace, without knowledge of the language, without becoming ſtationary amongſt the people, with⯑out comparing the living volume with the dead letter, with many ſocial, and many ſilent opportunities, a true idea, much leſs a faith⯑ful deſcription, of men and things, ſhould be given. If a traveller en gallop, would content himſelf with "catching the manners as they [351]riſe before him at the moment," his etching might often be agreeable, always juſt, as far as it went; but he muſt be an hiſtorian, a poli⯑tician, a philoſopher, and take up his pen to convince his private friend, and, perhaps, the world, that he knows, or can know no more of the matter than a courier, or a run⯑ning footman. I touched on this folly before, my dear friend, but I have ſince that time, been ſo miſled by truſting to falſe guides; have loſt ſo much of my time, and my money, by their advice about the diſtribution of it, that, that—in fine, that leſt I ſhould loſe my temper into the bargain, I will only re-aſſure you it is not without reaſon, the United Pro⯑vinces have been often called the compen⯑dium of the univerſe, and that notwithſtand⯑ing a very entertaining traveller has declared, in a kind of epigrammatic tour, that he has publiſhed—Martin Sherlock—the cardinal vir⯑tue of a Dutchman is cleanlineſs; his only Gods, Mercury and Plutus, and as for the Nine Siſters, and Apollo, they were never heard of in the country; notwithſtanding, it is inſiſted upon in a volume of our univerſal hiſtory, that the Dutch are cold, phlegmatic, brutal, without a ray of invention, a ſhadow of [352]liberty, genius, reflection, or forecaſt: that love was never known to ſigh in the nation, that the only paſſions are glutting and avarice; notwithſtanding even the Abbé Raynal him⯑ſelf, has condeſcended to join the herd of calumniators; certainement en de périodes arron⯑dies et de belles phraſes, I will venture to unite with a good old writer, who viſited this coun⯑try, near a century ago, when it was com⯑paratively rude and unimproved to what it now is, and who juſtly remarked, that he who hath obſerved the eaſy accommodation for travel in Holland; their excellent order and regular courſe in all things; the number of learned men; the variety of ingenious foreign⯑ers conſtantly reſiding in, or paſſing through it; the abundance of rarities of all kinds; the induſtry, frugality, and wealth of the people; their numerous towns, each extremely beauti⯑ful; their proper laws, and adminiſtration of juſtice; their incredible number of ſhipping and boats; a country of little extent, indeed, and ſoon paſſed over; but ſo repleniſhed with objects of curioſity, commerce, profit, and pleaſure, that not to admire it, is to be de⯑voured with prejudice, ſpleen, or inſenſibility.

[353]My loved friend, where there is taſte, judg⯑ment, and a heart, there will be always ob⯑jects to employ them. You can, therefore, never find a ſterile ſpot on any part of the earth; and in theſe Provinces, had you made the tour in them, as often as I have, and ſtopped as long in each, you would ſtill ſay as Titus does to Berenice in the French play—

And this reminds me of the verſes, which were to form the bandeau of my firſt ſheaf, (or volume); and which you may imagine, I have forgot. Ah no! I ſhall never forget them, while I am alive to the memory of ſenſations of gratitude, elegance, or ſocial plea⯑ſure; for amidſt ſuch were they written, in the boſom of a numerous family, from each of whom I found comfort in affliction, attend⯑ance in ſickneſs, and felicitations on recovery, that made me almoſt congratulate myſelf, that I had been both unwell and unhappy. Of all this I will one day— ‘"A round unvarniſh'd tale deliver."’

[354]Meanwhile accept the poetical bouquet, an offering of juſtice to the talents of one of the family party.