THE ADVENTURER: N^o 90.

NOTHING ſooner quells the ridiculous tri⯑umph of human vanity, than reading thoſe paſſages of the greateſt writers in which they ſeem deprived of that noble ſpirit that inſpires them in other parts; and where, inſtead of invention and grandeur, we meet with nothing but flatneſs and inſipidity.

The pain I have felt in obſerving a lofty genius thus ſink beneath itſelf, has often made me wiſh [2] that theſe unworthy ſtains could be blotted from their works, and leave them perfect and immaculate.

I went to bed a few nights ago full of theſe thoughts, and cloſed the evening, as I frequently do, with reading a few lines of Virgil. I acci⯑dentally opened that part of the ſixth book; where Anchiſes recounts to his ſon the various methods of purgation which the ſoul undergoes in the next world, to cleanſe it from the filth it has contracted by its connections with the body, and to deliver the pure aetherial eſſence from the vicious tincture of mortality. This was ſo much like my evening's ſpeculation, that it inſenſibly mixed and incorpo⯑rated with it, and as ſoon as I fell aſleep formed it⯑ſelf into the following dream.

I found myſelf in an inſtant in the midſt of a temple, which was built with all that magnificent ſimplicity, that diſtinguiſhes the productions of the ancients. At the Eaſt end was raiſed an altar, on each ſide of which ſtood a prieſt who ſeemed pre⯑paring to ſacrifice. On the altar was kindled a fire, from which aroſe the brighteſt flame I had ever beheld. The light which it diſpenſed, though re⯑markably ſtrong and clear, was not quivering and dazzling, but ſteady and uniform, and diffuſed a purple radiance through the whole edifice, not un⯑like the firſt appearance of the morning.

[3]While I ſtood fixed in admiration, my attention was awakened by the blaſt of a trumpet that ſhook the whole temple; but it carried a certain ſweet⯑neſs in its ſound, which mellowed and tempered the natural ſhrillneſs of that inſtrument. After it had ſounded thrice, the Being who blew it, ha⯑bited according to the deſcription of Fame by the ancients, iſſued a proclamation to the following purpoſe. ‘"By command of Apollo and the Mu⯑ſes, all who have ever made any pretenſions to fame by their writings are enjoined to ſacrifice upon the altar in this temple thoſe parts of their works, which have hitherto been preſerved to their infamy; that their names may deſcend ſpotleſs and unſullied to poſterity. For this purpoſe Ariſtotle and Longinus are appointed chief prieſts, who are to ſee that no improper oblations are made, and no proper ones con⯑cealed; and, for the more eaſy performance of this office, they are allowed to chuſe as their aſſiſtants whomſoever they ſhall think worthy of the function."’

As ſoon as this proclamation was made I turned my eyes with inexpreſſible delight towards the two prieſts; but was ſoon robbed of the plea⯑ſure of looking at them by a croud of people [4] running up to offer their ſervice. Theſe I found to be a groupe of French criticks; but their offers were rejected by both prieſts with the utmoſt indig⯑nation, and their whole works were thrown on the altar, and reduced to aſhes in an inſtant. The two prieſts then looked round, and choſe with a few others Horace and Quintilian from among the Romans, and Addiſon from the Engliſh, as their principal aſſiſtants.

The firſt who came forward with his offering, by the loftineſs of his demeanor was ſoon diſcovered to be Homer. He approached the altar with great majeſty, and delivered to Longinus thoſe parts of his Odyſſey, which have been cenſured as improba⯑ble fictions, and the ridiculous narratives of old age. Longinus was preparing for the ſacrifice; but obſerving that Ariſtotle did not ſeem willing to aſſiſt him in the office, he returned them to the venerable old bard with great deference, ſaying that ‘"they were indeed the tales of old age, but it was the old age of Homer."’

Virgil appeared next, and approached the altar with a modeſt dignity in his gait and counte⯑nance peculiar to himſelf, and to the ſurpriſe of all committed his whole Aeneid to the flames. But it was immediately reſcued by two Romans, who ran [5] with precipitation to the altar, delivered the poem from deſtruction, and carried off the author between them, repeating that glorious boaſt of about forty lines at the beginning of the third Georgick.

After him moſt of the Greek and Roman authors proceeded to the altar, and ſurrendered with great modeſty and humility the moſt faulty part of their works. One circumſtance was obſervable; that the ſacrifice always increaſed, in proportion as the author had ventured to deviate from a judicious imitation of Homer. The latter Roman authors, who ſeemed almoſt to have loſt ſight of him, made ſo large offerings, that ſome of their works, which were before very voluminous, ſhrunk into the compaſs of a primer.

It gave me the higheſt ſatisfaction to ſee philo⯑ſophy thus cleared from erroneous principles, hiſtory purged of falſehood, poetry of fuſtian, and nothing left in each but genius, ſenſe and truth. I marked with particular attention the ſeveral offerings of the moſt eminent Engliſh writers. Chaucer gave up his obſcenity, and then delivered [6] his works to Dryden to clear them from the rubbiſh that encumbered them. Dryden executed his taſk with great addreſs, and, as Addiſon ſays of Virgil in his Georgicks, ‘"toſſed about his dung with an air of gracefulneſs."’ He not only repaired the injuries of time, but threw in a thouſand new graces. He then advanced towards the altar himſelf, and delivered up a large paquet which contained many plays, and ſome poems. The paquet had a label affixed to it which bore this in⯑ſcription, ‘"To Poverty."’

Shakeſpeare carried to the altar a long ſtring of puns marked ‘"The taſte of the age,"’ a ſmall par⯑cel of bombaſt, and a pretty large bundle of in⯑correctneſs. Notwithſtanding the ingenuous air with which he made this offering, ſome officiates at the altar accuſed him of concealing certain pieces, and mentioned the London Prodigal, Sir Thomas Cromwell, the Yorkſhire Tragedy, &c. The poet replied, that ‘"as thoſe pieces were unworthy to be preſerved, he ſhould ſee them conſumed to aſhes with great pleaſure, but that he was wholly in⯑nocent of their original."’ The two chief prieſts interpoſed in this diſpute, and diſmiſſed the poet with many compliments; Longinus obſerving that the pieces in queſtion could not poſſibly be his, for [7] that the failings of Shakeſpeare were like thoſe of Homer, ‘"whoſe genius, whenever it ſubſided, might be compared to the ebbing of the ocean, which left a mark upon its ſhores to ſhew to what a height it was ſometimes carried."’ Ariſtotle concurred in this opinion, and added ‘"that although Shakeſpeare was quite ignorant of that exact oeconomy of the ſtage, which is ſo remarkable in the Greek writers, yet the meer ſtrength of his genius had in many points car⯑ried him infinitely beyond them."’

Milton gave up a few errors in his Paradiſe Loſt, and the ſacrifice was attended with great de⯑cency by Addiſon. Otway and Rowe threw their comedies upon the altar, and Beaumont and Fletcher the two laſt acts of many of their pieces. They were followed by Tom Durfey, Etherege, Wycherley, and ſeveral other dramatic writers, who made ſuch large contributions that they ſet the altar in a blaze.

Among theſe I was ſurprized to ſee an author, with much politeneſs in his behaviour and ſpirit in his countenance, tottering under an unwieldy burden. As he approached I diſcovered him to be Sir John Vanbrugh, and could not but ſmile, when [8] on his committing his heavy load to the flames, it proved to be ‘"his ſkill in architecture."’

Pope advanced towards Addiſon, and delivered with great humility thoſe lines written expreſsly againſt him, ſo remarkable for their excellence and their cruelty, repeating this couplet;

The ingenious critick inſiſted on his taking them again, ‘"for"’ ſaid he ‘"my aſſociates at the altar, particularly Horace, would never permit a line of ſo excellent a ſatiriſt to be conſumed. The many compliments paid me in other parts of your works amply compenſate for this ſlight in⯑dignity; and be aſſured, that no little pique or miſunderſtanding ſhall ever make me a foe to genius."’ Pope bowed in ſome confuſion, and promiſed to ſubſtitute a fictitious name at leaſt, which was all that was left in his power. He then retired, after having made a ſacrifice of a little paquet of Antitheſes, and ſome parts of his tranſlation of Homer.

During the courſe of theſe oblations, I was charmed with the candour, decency, and judgment, with which all the prieſts diſcharged their different functions. They behaved with ſuch dignity that it [9] reminded me of thoſe ages, when the offices of king and prieſt centered in the ſame perſon. Whenever any of the aſſiſtants were at a loſs in any particular circumſtances, they applied to Ariſtotle, who ſettled the whole buſineſs in an in⯑ſtant.

But the reflections, which this pleaſing ſcene produced, were ſoon interrupted by a tumultuous noiſe at the gate of the temple; when ſuddenly a rude illiterate multitude ruſhed in, led by Tindal, Morgan, Chubb and Bolingbroke. The chiefs, whoſe countenances were impreſſed with rage whch art could not conceal, forced their way to the altar, and amidſt the joyful acclamations of their followers threw a large volume into the fire. But the triumph was ſhort, and joy and acclamation gave way to ſilence and aſtoniſhment. The Vo⯑lume lay unhurt in the midſt of the fire, and, as the flames played innocently about it, I could diſ⯑cover, written in letters of gold, the words THE BIBLE. At that inſtant my ears were raviſhed with the ſound of more than mortal muſick, accompany⯑ing a hymn, ſung by inviſible beings, of which I well remember the following verſes:

The united melody of inſtruments and voices, which formed a concert ſo exquiſite, that as Milton ſays ‘"it might create a ſoul under the ribs of death,"’ threw me into ſuch extaſies, that I was awakened by their violence.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER I.

A GENIUS is a character purely modern, and of ſo late an origin, that it has never yet been deſcribed or defined in any treatiſe, eſ⯑ſay, lexicon, or dictionary. It is now, however, become almoſt univerſal. The originals are, in⯑deed, ſo numerous, and the features ſo ſtrong, that it requires but little ſkill to take an exact like⯑neſs. I am myſelf an acknowledged GENIUS; and ſince it is no more than drawing my own picture, I cannot better introduce myſelf to the reader, than by giving at one ſtroke a rough draught of my own character, and that of the nu⯑merous fraternity, by way of preliminary paper, or frontiſpiece, if you pleaſe, to the enſuing ſpe⯑culations.

[12]The ancients, according to their wonted nar⯑rowneſs of ſoul, honoured a very ſmall portion of the human race with this appellation. He, who to extraordinary talents had added extraordinary application, after the moſt arduous efforts to⯑wards excellence in ſome one art or ſcience, was perhaps at laſt fortunate enough to extort this diſ⯑tinction. The more generous moderns demand only the firſt requiſites; and even thoſe, like the places of men ballotted into the militia, may be ſupplied by ſubſtitutes. Vanity or aſſurance may paſs, in the modern muſter, for ſuperior faculties. The GENIUS, endowed with them, needs neither diligence nor aſſiduity. Supported by confidence, he diſdains to halt along on the crutches of application. So far from being verſed merely in one ſcience, he runs round the whole circle at his pleaſure. Knowledge is rained down on his head like manna from heaven, and he has no care but to gather it as it falls. Almoſt every man is an adept in every art; acquires learning without ſtudy; improves his good ſenſe without meditation; writes without reading; and, being full as well acquainted with one thing as another, is an un⯑queſtionable GENIUS; or, what is more extraordi⯑nary, maintains his right to that title without know⯑ing, or even pretending to know, any thing at all.

[13]There is a certain reverend and affecting biogra⯑pher in this town, who pens, almoſt every ſix weeks, the memoirs of ſeveral unfortunate great men, and among them of many a GENIUS. In order to ſhew the characters of his heroes at full length, he takes up their adventures, e'en from their boyiſh days, and fairly ſets down a plain account of their life, character, and behaviour, beginning with their birth, parentage, and education; ſo that the reader may ſee at one glance, by what ſteps they have gained the top-moſt round of the ladder. In imitation of ſo great an example, I will endeavour to trace the GENIUS almoſt from his birth to his ſublimeſt ſtage of excellence. GENIUS is, indeed, univerſally allowed to be the gift of nature: we cannot therefore be ſurpriſed to find it, like Hercules, exerting its ſtrength in the cradle.

The cradle, indeed, may be conſidered as a mere hot-bed for the raiſing of GENIUS; which is a plant of ſo delicate a nature, that it is often nipt in the bud. There never was a child, as its pa⯑rents will tell you, who did not ſoon give evident tokens of the brighteſt parts, by doing and ſaying ten thouſand witty things, which were never done or ſaid before ſince the infancy of Cain and Abel. [14] The wit of a child, like that of a monkey, (which is a very wiſe animal, and, we are told, could ſpeak if it would) conſiſts in miſchief; and the more ſpirit little maſter poſſeſſes, the more enter⯑taining he is to the company. I remember, that I was once taken ſo much notice of for my wit and humour in pulling off a grave gentleman's wig, that it afterwards betrayed me into ſeveral ſcrapes, by playing the ſame tricks over again upon dull fellows, who had not ſuch ſtrong ideas of pleaſantry. It may not be amiſs to obſerve here, that practical ſtrokes of humour are thoſe, in which a GENIUS takes the moſt delight.

At ſchool the young GENIUS will begin to heighten our expectations of his future abilities. His parts, indeed, will be too brilliant to attend the inſtruc⯑tions he might receive there; but his ſpirit will have more room to diſplay itſelf. He may be at the bottom of his claſs, but he will be at the head of every ſcrape. He may be deficient in Greek and Latin, make falſe concord in his proſe, and be guilty of falſe quantities in his verſe; yet, before he leaves ſchool, he will not be unacquainted with the world, will walk familiarly into a tavern, know the beſt ſongs at Comus's court, and the names and perſons of the kindeſt ladies upon town. But, [15] when once relieved from ſcholaſtick reſtraints, as his ſphere will be more noble, his fame will be⯑come more eminent. If he is entered at either of our univerſities, the tameneſs of an academical life being ill adapted to the vivacity of his diſpo⯑ſition, he will ſpend all his time in Covent Garden by way of being in genteel company. If he is ſent abroad, becauſe, forſooth, his wiſe parents or guardians imagine that the diſcipline of our own univerſities is not ſtrict enough, he will ſoon convince them that the government of foreign academies is infinitely more lax. He will ſpeedily diſtinguiſh himſelf by his uncommon ſpirit; and after ſhooting a waiter, killing his friend in a duel, or perhaps contaminating the ſixty deſcents in the houſe of a German baron by decoying his daughter, he may ride poſt out of the continent, and be glad to embark in a ſtorm in order to get ſafe footing in Old England.

Old England is, indeed, the nobleſt theatre in the univerſe for a GENIUS. Here he may go through all the changes and diverſities of his character at plea⯑ſure. Here he may ſend his miſtreſs to parade through the ſtreets in a gilt chariot, drawn by pye⯑bald horſes; he may at the ſame time be ſo deeply engaged at play, that his own chariot may [16] ſtand at the door of Arthur's till eight in the morn⯑ing. He may ride his own matches at Newmarket, and perform new miracles againſt time and weight, and number of horſes, every ſeaſon. In a word, he may indulge his vivacity in every ebullition of GE⯑NIUS, from toſſing off his quarts of champagne, to ſhooting himſelf through the head.

With this ſpirit and vivacity may a GENIUS of quality and eſtate employ himſelf: but as talents are the gift of nature, and riches the mere favours of fortune, it happens unluckily, that many a GENIUS is reduced to the mean reſources of trade or profeſſion to ſupport himſelf. In theſe caſes, if the warmth of a GENIUS is not abated, it involves him in many difficulties. The ſpirit of the clerk in a compting-houſe may perhaps betray him into a for⯑gery; and the evil GENIUS of the apprentice may tempt him to commit depredations on the till.

The young phyſician of GENIUS, inſtead of throwing that ſolemnity into his countenance, which would make him look as if he had himſelf taken the potion he ſhould preſcribe, adopts a whimſical air, and ſoon loſes his credit with the old practitioners, the apothecaries, and his bro⯑ther-attendants at the hoſpital, by laughing at the farce of phyſick, and ſwearing that water-gruel is [17] of infinitely more ſervice than the whole Materia Medica. A GENIUS of this ſpecies ſometimes re⯑trieves himſelf by recurring irregularly to phyſick, and hawking a noſtrum.

The lively ſtudent at the inns of court has too ſublime a turn of mind to follow his profeſſion. He gives the attornies a contempt for him by en⯑deavouring to converſe with them facetiouſly; and is ſeen walking the ſtreets in an illegal bag-wig, inſtead of prudently wearing the buſineſs-following bob. He may be found oftener behind the ſcenes at the play-houſe, than in the courts of juſtice; and if he is a prodigious GENIUS indeed, he even writes for the ſtage.

The exploits of a modern GENIUS in high life are indeed no where to be equalled, except by the pro⯑ductions of a modern GENIUS in low life, as an author. His works are not to be eſtimated accord⯑ing to the quality, but the quantity of them; and they are ſold, wholeſale and retail, to one ſet of bookſellers, as another ſet of bookſellers in Moorfields ſell thoſe of his predeceſſors—by the pound. He is not only capable of writing in any ſcience, but he will undertake to write in all ſciences at once. He will publiſh in one day detached parcels of biography, architecture, [18] huſbandry, gardening, and cookery. He will be, at one and the ſame time, the author of a long hiſtory, the tranſlator of a voluminous foreign writer, the inventor of a novel, the conductor of a review, the Doer of a magazine, and the manager of a news-paper. In compariſon to him, Tully ſhall appear to have written a volume no bigger than the primer, and the Iliad ſhall ſhrink into a nutſhell. Longinus, from his great learn⯑ing, was denominated a walking muſaeum; and our GENIUS, from the number and quality of his pro⯑ductions, may be more familiarly ſtiled a cir⯑culating library.

Such an author am I, the GENIUS. Hiſtory ſhall ſtand ſtill for events, and I will tranſcribe the news-papers, as the annals of politicks and lite⯑rature, 'ere my pen ſhall ceaſe to go on. Looſe papers, ſuch as theſe, will ſcarce engage the atten⯑tion of a moment, and will be haſtily ſcribbled over at the tea-table, juſt when the whim ſhall ſieze me, or any amuſing thoughts come uppermoſt in the whirl of my imagination. The reader there⯑fore muſt not expect me at certain periods, ſince I ſhall always pop abruptly in upon him. Some⯑times he may ſee me once, ſometimes twice, in a week; and ſometimes perhaps not above once in a [19] fortnight. I hope to wait on him again very ſoon; and, as I have here ſaid ſomething of my diſpoſition and ſituation, I propoſe in my next to give an exact deſcription of my perſon.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER II.

NOTWITHSTANDING the eminent advan⯑tages reſulting from the many rare talents and qualities neceſſarily included in that illuſtrious character deſcribed in my firſt paper, under the title of a GENIUS, I am, I muſt confeſs, neither the moſt completely happy, nor moſt univerſally ac⯑compliſhed man in the creation. Nature, who has in ſome inſtances been laviſh in her bounties to me, has in others been rather too unkind, and indeed remarkably niggard of her favours. Vanity, for example, ſhe has ſo exuberantly poured upon me, that my portion, to ſay no more of it, is at leaſt ſufficient to embolden me to venture forth as an author; and yet my ſenſibility is, at the ſame time, unfortunately ſo nice and exquiſite, that it [20] becomes a perpetual thorn in the ſides of that very vanity, laying it open to every ſlight attack, and rendering it too eaſily wounded by the petulance of folly, the ſlanders of envy, the groſs jeſts of buf⯑foonery, or the malice of a review.

But the greateſt drawback, which nature has, in my caſe, made on that vanity and ſelf-applauſe, which contributes more or leſs to the happineſs of every man and woman in the world, is moſt unfor⯑tunately external; viſible to all eyes, open to ge⯑neral obſervation, and liable to ridicule from the dulleſt fellow, that caſts a look upon my perſon. Peculiarities of figure, whether in make, ſize, or complection, have always been deemed an inex⯑hauſtible ſource of ridicule to the aſſociates of the man who poſſeſſes them. He, whoſe perſon is re⯑markable, ſeems to be conſidered as a butt, planted by nature, for all other men to ſhoot their wit at. The coarſe humour of our own vulgar, however blind to mental blemiſhes, is ſharp-ſighted as a lynx to external defects, and exerts itſelf as li⯑berally on genteeler paſſers-by, as on their own hump-backed companion, whom they jocularly en⯑title, my lord. Homer repreſents the gods themſelves as laughing at the ugly, aukward, blackſmith divi⯑nity of Vulcan. Tully in his Dialogues de Oratore, [21] recommends it to an orator to be pleaſant and face⯑tious on perſonal defects; though perhaps rather unadviſedly, and unſuitably to the grave dignity of that profeſſion: and, now we are got ſo deep in learned quotations, I defy the ſcholar to find in Lucian, Ariſtophanes, Theophraſtus, or any other author, ancient or modern, a greater profuſion of wit and humour beſtowed on any one ſubject, than Shakeſpeare has laviſhed, in his ſeveral deſcripti⯑ons of Falſtaff, Shallow, and Bardolph, on a fat man, a lean man, and a man with a red noſe. Happy indeed would it be for any other man, (eſ⯑pecially if he be a wit and a Genius) who bears about in his perſon this native fund of pleaſantry: if he could ſay with Falſtaff, and with equal juſtice too, ‘"I am not only witty myſelf, but alſo the cauſe of wit in other men."’

Let not, however, the partial reader con⯑clude too haſtily from what has been ſaid, that I pretend to the honour of the deformity of Scarron, the crookedneſs of Pope, the blindneſs of Milton or Homer, or even the long noſe, or no noſe of Triſtram Shandy. Not to make any further de⯑lay of introduction, after having ſo long announced myſelf to the good company, the truth, and the whole truth, is, that I am of a remarkable low [22] ſtature; a ſort of diminutive plaything of Madam Nature, that ſeems to have been made, like a girl's doll, to divert the good lady in her infancy; a little [...] without a tittle o'top; an human figure in miniature; a make-weight in the ſcale of morta⯑lity; a minim of nature; a mannikin, not to ſay minnikin; and indeed rather an abſtract or brief chronicle of man's fair proportions, than a man at large. My perſon, indeed, is not formed in that excellent mould of littleneſs, which, as in ſome inſects and animals, becomes beautiful from the nice texture and curious compoſition of its parts. I may be ſeen, it is true, without the help of a microſcope; and am not even qualified to ri⯑val the dwarf Coan, by being exhibited to my wor⯑thy countrymen at ſix-pence a-piece. I am, however, ſo low in ſtature, that my name is hardly ever mentioned without the epithet little being prefixed to it: the moment that my perſon preſents itſelf among ſtrange company, the firſt idea that ſtrikes the beholders is the minuteneſs of the figure, and a whiſper inſtantly buzzes round the room, lord! what a little creature! As I walk along the ſtreet, I hear the men and women ſay to one another, there goes a little man!—In a word, it is my irreparable misfortune to be, with⯑out [23] out my ſhoes, little more than five feet in height. Eating of daiſy-roots, we are told, will retard a man's growth: if the French alimentary powder, or any other new-invented diet, would at once elevate me, and ſurpriſe my friends, I would go through a long regimen to be raiſed ever ſo little nearer heaven. I think I could not endure to have my limbs ſtretched to a nobler length in the bed of Procruſtes; but, if I could be rolled out like dough or paſte, or extended by relaxation, like a rope or an eel's ſkin in dry weather, I believe I ſhould readily aſſent to it: for there is no impoſ⯑ſibility exiſting in nature, or recorded in ſcripture, at the truth of which I am more apt to repine, than that no man is able to add a cubit to his ſtature.

When the camel applied to heaven for ſome amendment in his figure, Jupiter (ſays the fabuliſt) cropt his ears for his impertinence. I ſhould be very loth, like ſome of my cotemporaries of the quill, by any means to endanger my ears; and yet nothing but the back of the camel being placed on my little body, could make me wiſh more ardently, than I do at preſent, for an happy al⯑teration in it. For not to mention the natural in⯑conveniencies of being trampled on and run over in a croud, almoſt preſt to death by huge [24] fellows and fat old women in machines and ſtage⯑coaches, deprived of all pleaſure at ſights and ſhews by taller perſons taking their places before me;—not to dwell, I ſay, on theſe and ſeveral other circumſtances of the ſame nature, it provokes me to find, that though I can ſometimes as ab⯑ſolutely forget my littleneſs, as if I was as big as Goliah, yet my friends and acquaintance cannot, for one moment, loſe the conſideration of it. The minuteneſs of my perſon ſo entirely governs their idea of my character, that they are not able to detach the contemplation of one from the other; and from the mere credit of having a larger quantity of clay and dirt put together in their huge frames than myſelf, they become (as Beatrice terms it) ſuch valiant pieces of duſt, that a man who has room enough in his boſom for more gall than a pigeon, muſt be moved with indig⯑nation. If they think of my marriage, they ſet themſelves to conſider, what fairy they ſhall find for me, or whether it would not be better to croſs the breed by providing me an amazon: they would have my chariot, like queen Mab's, made out of an hazel-nut: and as to an houſe, the caſe of a tre⯑ble hautboy were a manſion for me.

[25]A very intimate friend of mine one day inad⯑vertently betrayed to me, that his wife always ſpoke of me by the name of the baby; but after⯑wards, in order to mend the matter, he added, that ſhe had no contemptible opinion of my per⯑ſon, for that ſhe always ſaid, ‘"ſhe never ſaw ſuch a little man that was ſo ſtrait."’ In families, where I viſit, growing lads of thirteen or fourteen years of age are called out to ſtand back to back with me, and meaſure whether there is any differ⯑ence between their height and mine: and once, I remember, on my viſit to an acquaintance newly-married, being introduced to the bride, who was a fine tall woman, (but a prude or a wit, I cannot tell which) ſhe held her head ſo high, without making the leaſt inclination of her body, that I could as eaſily have ſcaled the monument, as have come at the tip of her chin without the help of a pair of ſteps. One day, juſt after the paſſing of the broad-wheel act, being on the road on a little poney, the man of the turnpike ſeeing me and my nag approach, cried out, ‘"Nay, nay, this muſt be above weight, I am ſure."’ and, cloſing the gate, left me to go over the place appointed for weighing the waggons. Another time, after hav⯑ing dined at a nobleman's houſe, I was honoured [26] with the uſe of his lordſhip's chariot to carry me home, but was deſired firſt to ſet down another of the company at St. James's coffee-houſe. My fel⯑low traveller, if I may ſo call him, was one of the biggeſt and talleſt men in the kingdom, and was at leaſt four and twenty ſtone in weight. Thus ridiculouſly coupled, like a lean rabbit and a fat one, we engaged the attention of the whole ſtreet, particularly of the company at Arthur's, who ſtood laughing, as we paſſed by, to ſee the body of the chariot inclined all one way, as if we were driving on the ſlope of a hill, though the wheels ran on as ſmoothly and evenly as Madam Catha⯑rina's clockwork equipage on a parlour floor. But I muſt declare, that the moſt ridiculous diſtreſs I ever underwent, was, when my unfortunate cu⯑rioſity carried me to ſee that wonderful phaenome⯑non of nature, the Italian Giant, ſcarce leſs than eight feet high! While the reſt of the company were walking under his arm, he ſeemed to ex⯑pect that I ſhould have crept between his legs; and, when I offered to preſent him with the uſual gratuity, he abſolutely refuſed to accept it, ſaying, ‘"that he thought it full as great a curioſity to ſee me, as I could poſſibly think it to ſee him."—’In ſhort, my ſituation is almoſt as ridiculous as [27] that of Gulliver in Brobdignag; and though I cannot, like him, be carried to the ridge of a houſe⯑top by a monkey, or be ſtuck upright by an un⯑lucky lad in a marrowbone, yet every day brings with it freſh inſtances of mortification.

But there is no circumſtance moves my ſpleen more forcibly than the inſolence of thoſe, whoſe ſtature very little exceeds my own, and who ſeem to look down on ſuch urchins as myſelf with a con⯑ſciouſneſs of their happy ſuperiority. One of theſe always affects to call me the little man; and another ſmall gentleman (a great actor I mean, whom in ſome future hiſtrio-maſtix, ſome neſcio quid majus ROSCIADE, I may poſſibly take a peg or two lower) is fond of ſidling up to me in all publick places, as ſecond-rate beauties commonly contrive to take a dowdy abroad with them for a foil. For my own part, though I could wiſh to be taller, I never made uſe of any undue arts to appear ſo. I am content to ſubmit my littleneſs, fairly to the world. I never ſuffered my hat to riſe into the air with a ſtaring Kevenhuller, and I would as ſoon ap⯑pear in ſtilts, as be lifted from the ground by dou⯑ble ſoles or high heels to my ſhoes. I rather endeavour to conſole myſelf by looking abroad into the world for great men of another order than [28] thoſe deſcribed by ſerjeant Kite: and ſo ſucceſs⯑ful have been my reſearches of this kind, that I could ſet down a long catalogue of perſons eminent in the ſtate, in the profeſſions, in arts and ſciences, (not to mention authors and actors) who are ſcarce taller than myſelf; ſo that in this reſpect, we may fairly pronounce in favour of the preſent period, as Lord Clarendon has declared of his own, that ‘"it was an age in which there were many GREAT and WONDERFUL MEN of THAT SIZE."’ I do not know whether in this extremity of war, any new raiſed regiment offers bounty-money for volunteers five feet high; but we flatter ourſelves that, in caſe an invaſion ſhould take place, we could form a corps infinitely more formidable than the late king of Pruſſia's uſeleſs tall regiment.

I cannot cloſe this paper without returning my thanks to the learned univerſity of Oxford, and to the illuſtrious Queenſbury family, for having publiſhed the above-mentioned papers of Lord Cla⯑rendon, in which there is much matter of conſo⯑lation to gentlemen of the like height and dimen⯑ſions with myſelf. It there appears, that moſt of his lordſhip's intimate friends were great and won⯑derful men of low ſtature. Mr. Hales, he tells us, was one of the leaſt men in the kingdom, and one [29] of the greateſt ſcholars in Europe. Mr. Chilling⯑worth was of a ſtature little ſuperior to Mr. Hales. Of his friend Sidney Godolphin he ſays, that there never was ſo great a mind and ſpirit contained in ſo little room; ſo large an underſtanding, and ſo unreſtrained a fancy, in ſo very ſmall a body. Of Sir Lucius Carey, afterwards lord Falkland, who was but little taller than Sidney Godolphin, he ſpeaks ſo highly, that I cannot reſiſt the tempta⯑tion of gratifying myſelf and all other little men by tranſcribing the deſcription of his perſon, hoping it may ſerve to recommend us to the favour of the world, and particularly to the good graces of the ladies, who are deſired to take notice, that Sir Lucius married for love, and made a moſt ex⯑cellent huſband. Lord Clarendon ſpeaks thus of him—‘"with theſe advantages he had one great diſadvantage (which in the firſt entrance into the world is attended with too much prejudice) in his perſon and preſence, which was in no degree attractive or promiſing. His ſtature was low, and ſmaller than moſt men; his motion not graceful; and his aſpect ſo far from inviting, that it bad ſomewhat in it of ſimplicity: and his voice the worſt of the three, and ſo untuned, that inſtead of reconciling, it offended the ears, ſo that no body [30] would have expected muſick from that tongue. And ſure no man was leſs beholden to nature for it's recommendation into the world: but then no man ſooner, or more, diſappointed this general and cuſtomary prejudice. That little perſon and ſmall ſtature was quickly found to contain a great heart, a courage ſo keen, and a nature ſo fearleſs, that no compoſition of the ſtrongeſt limbs, and moſt harmonious and proportioned preſence and ſtrength, ever more diſpoſed any man to the greateſt en⯑terpriſe; it being his greateſt weakneſs to be too ſolicitous for ſuch adventures: and that untuned tongue and voice, eaſily diſcovered itſelf to be ſup⯑plied, and governed, by a mind and underſtand⯑ing ſo excellent, that the wit and weight of all he ſaid, carried another kind of luſtre, and admiration in it, and even another kind of acceptation from the perſons preſent, than any ornament of delivery could reaſonably promiſe itſelf, or is uſually at⯑tended with; and his diſpoſition and nature was ſo gentle and obliging, ſo much delighted in courteſy, kindneſs, and generoſity, that all man⯑kind could not but admire and love him."’

After this extract from Lord Chancellor Claren⯑don, I beg leave to addreſs myſelf to all little men, who are deſirous to become great and wonderful, [31] like Sir Lucius, intreating them to meditate atten⯑tively for that end on the following maxim of that other great chancellor, Lord Bacon; which maxim may alſo ſerve as a ſort of moral to this long paper on a ſhort man: whoſoever hath any thing fixt in his perſon that doth induce contempt, hath alſo a perpetual ſpur in himſelf to reſcue and deliver himſelf from ſcorn.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER III.

AFTER having kept the diſcourſe entirely to myſelf, and made myſelf the delightful ſub⯑ject of that diſcourſe for two whole papers, I am glad of an opportunity to relieve my readers by publiſhing the two following letters.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER IV.

‘"WAR, ſaith Vincent Wing in his almanack, begets poverty, poverty peace."’ Now as ſome, at leaſt, of the parties engaged in the preſent conteſt, ſeem to be nearly whirled round to that part of the circle of events, deſcribed by the learned Philomath in the lines above-mentioned, all conſiderate perſons begin to look forward to the conſequences of ſuch a revolution. The ſagacious gentlemen at the Smyrna have already deliberated what part of our conqueſts we ſhall ſorego, and what we ſhall retain. It was but the other day, that I ſaw a political junto in a corner of the room, with a map of America lying before them, and heard their final reſolution not to reſtore an acre of Canada; though they were a little [44] diſconcerted by a ſugar-merchant from the city, who happened to drop in at the time, and declared with an oath, that the nation was undone, if we agreed to give up Guadalupe. The dealers in the ſtocks at Garraway's and Jonathan's are locking up all their ready money in the funds, and calculating at how much per cent. advance they ſhall be able to ſell out on the proclamation of peace; and, in the mean time, ſome of the gentlemen at Arthur's, with many other perſons at both ends of the town, are attentively conſidering the conſequences of a peace in diminiſhing or increaſing the emoluments of their ſeveral places, employments, or profeſſions. A friend of mine, a very honeſt gentleman, who is an agent in the city, told me laſt week, that, if he was but ſo happy as to ſee the war continue for only four years more, he ſhould make an eſtate, and ride in his coach and ſix: and it was but the next day that another intimate acquaintance, who has an employment in the war-office, declared to me, that he ſhould lay down his chariot immediately upon a peace. For my own part, none of the va⯑rious conſiderations, juſt enumerated, take hold on me. I have, I am ſorry to ſay it, no money in the funds, and no employment under the government; and, as to politicks, ſince theſe are not times [45] when author-incendiaries are hired to take up the bellows to kindle the embers of ſedition, or paid for laying them down again, what has a GENIUS to do with ſuch conſiderations on the war or the peace? Libels, publick or private, are, alas! attended only with fines, impriſonment, and the pillory. Waving, therefore, all other reflections, I ſhall conſider this important event, come when it may, as a mere moraliſt; and endeavour to trace out the moſt probable effects of a peace, on the manners and principles of the good people of Great Britain.

I think, I may venture to prognoſticate, that its firſt viſible effects will be manifeſt in our dreſs, ſo that every lady and gentleman may be ſaid to carry about them a kind of badge of peace and reconci⯑liation, by adopting that foreign air, of which we are ſo great admirers. I have no apprehenſion that our home manufactures will ſtand ſtill, and that the induſtrious artiſts of Spital-fields, whom publick ſpirit has of late ſo much encouraged, will be left to ſtarve for want of due employment; but I think I foreſee a whole pacquet of tailors, hair-cutters, and milliners, coming over in every veſſel, and new patterns for caps and handkerchiefs, with the true Paris cut for cloaths, ſent by every mail. There [46] ſeems to have been much decency and chaſte reſerve in the habit of both ſexes during the war; but, as we are allowed to be a very imitative, though not an inventive nation, I have ſome dread of the new faſhions to be introduced after the peace. Then, perhaps, we may again ſee, among the ladies, uncovered ſhoulders, naked breaſts, and legs revealed above the ancle; and among the men, ſhort jerkins, white hats, and red-heeled ſhoes. In order to prevent theſe and other irregularities, I would humbly propoſe that, before the treaty is concluded, a congreſs of dreſſers, friſeurs, and tyrewomen, plenipotentiary, be appointed to meet in ſome neutral country; and that, in the mean time, wooden dolls, dreſſed, a la mode de Païs, be reciprocally ſent over between the cities of London and Paris, the better to adjuſt the preliminaries.

The large cargoes of tailors, &c. which the peace will waft over, will, however, be very ina⯑dequate to the number of Engliſh gentlemen, and Milors Angloiſes, that will immediately ſet ſail for France, not for the ſake of intereſt, but diſſipa⯑tion. A bridge from Dover to Calais would per⯑haps hardly render the emigrations of our people more frequent. Paris will then be conſidered as an addition to the number of our places of publick [47] reſort, and viſited with as much readineſs as Tun⯑bridge, Bath, or Scarborough. This is a field which affords ſo much room for obſervation, that perhaps I may think it worth while to collect my materials on the ſpot, and may date ſome of my future papers from a Hotel at Paris. In the mean time, as our miniſtry and parliament will un⯑doubtedly turn their thoughts towards the reduc⯑tion of the national debt, neceſſarily increaſed by an expenſive, though glorious war, my ſkill in politicks cannot ſuggeſt a better meaſure or more equitable tax to their conſideration, than an heavy duty on the exportation of fools.

The ladies, who have juſtly complained of the dearth of men during the war, will, I dare ſay, concur with me in the propriety of this new tax, and to oblige them I would propoſe that all importations of volunteers from abroad, and other recruits, may be permitted duty-free. At the ſame time I cannot but congratulate my fair countrywomen on the great plenty of males, which the peace muſt produce. We ſhall no longer ſee a row of diſconſo⯑late females, ſitting, like ſuperannuated maidens, unſollicited at a ball, or a lady of faſhion reduced to the neceſſity of figuring in with the butler. The officers of diſbanded regiments will be glad to [48] ſupply the deficiencies of half pay by the acceſſion of a large portion with a wife; and the brave gentlemen of the militia, no longer embodied or traverſing the country to diſtant encampments, will add to the publick meetings and aſſemblies of their own counties the brilliancy of a red coat and cockade, without the terror that ſuch a dreſs com⯑monly brings with it, and as much harmleſſneſs as a ſword in the ſcabbard. Theſe new-commiſ⯑ſioned ſoldiers may rejoice at the thought of having wiped off the contempt, that once cleaved to the name of MILITIA, and the ladies may be happy to take an hero to their arms, who can fight for his country, without being ſent out of it. In a word, this is one of the moſt jocund ideas, that peace affords. Bath, Briſtol, Margate, Brighthelmſtone, &c. will again become the ſcenes of pleaſure and delight; and the gallant warriors, who have de⯑ſerved ſo well of Mars, now devoted to Venus in her turn, have nothing to do but to recommend themſelves to the favour of the fair ſex, and en⯑deavour to repair the ravages of war by determining, with captain Plume, ‘"To raiſe recruits the matrimo⯑nial way."’

But the joy, which the gaiety of theſe contem⯑plations inſpires, is much allayed by conſidering [49] the unhappy ſituation of the daily, weekly, morning, and evening retailers of news. During the time of war, a battle in Germany, a fort ſtormed in the Weſt-Indies, or a Nabob created in the Eaſt, is worth forty ſhillings to every paper, that reprints the particulars from the Gazette Extraordinary: nay a town taken or a town loſt is equally to the advantage of theſe half-ſheet hiſtorians; and the perpetual curioſity kept alive by the publick anxiety, ſells off whole quires of unintereſting details of births, deaths, marriages, and bankruptcies. How great then muſt be the dread of the conſe⯑quences of peace to the proprietors of the ſwarm of Advertiſers, Gazetteers, Ledgers, Journals, Chro⯑nicles, and Evening Poſts? A peace, which will lie heavier on their papers than the double duty on the ſtamps! My good friend Mr. H. BALDWIN of White Friars has already expreſt to me his fears on this occaſion. He fairly tells me to my face, that though the GENIUS were to ſtand in the front of his paper three times a week, the pub⯑lick attention would flag without great incidents and alarming paragraphs. He further acquaints me that, in order to recommend the St. James's Chronicle, he has engaged an ingenious gentleman, who, beſides tranſlating the mails, touching up [50] collectors' paragraphs, and writing occaſional let⯑ters from the Hague, has alſo a ſufficient portion of invention and philoſophy, (having finiſhed his education at St. John's college, Cambridge) to draw up accounts of earthquakes, meteors, and eruptions of Aetna and Veſuvius. Notwithſtand⯑ing all this, he requires my further aſſiſtance. Theſe, I proteſt, are matters with which I am very little acquainted; yet, I will ſtrive (to uſe the news-paper phraſe) to eſtabliſh correſpondences of another ſort. I will uſe my intereſt to oblige the publick, like Boccalini, with the freſheſt advices from Parnaſſus; or, if my intelligence from that quarter ſhould fail, I hope at leaſt to be able, as well as ſome of my cotemporaries, to produce a dialogue from among the dead.

The happieſt circumſtance which I can recollect in favour of theſe perſons employed in the eternal continuation of modern hiſtory, is, that a peace gives conſequence and dignity to ſeveral events, which would be ſunk and neglected during the tu⯑mult of a war. We all remember to have ſeen the whole nation, at ſuch a period, ſplit into parties concerning the poſſibility of a ſervant girl's ſubſiſt⯑ing for a month on a few cruſts of bread and a [51] pitcher of water, while the wits of the age drew their pens, and were ready to ſpill their laſt drop of ink on each ſide of the queſtion. At ſuch a period a rabbit-woman, or a fortune-teller, a quack, or a bottle conjurer, engages the attention and engroſſes the converſation of the whole town: and a quarrel between a dancer and his miſtreſs, or a diſpute between a couple of opera-ſingers, is of as much importance as the diſſention between two generals. The violence of the Britiſh ſpirit of party will always create fuel for its own flame to feed upon: when it can no longer rage abroad, it will commit devaſtations at home; when it has no occaſion to exert itſelf in vindication of liberty and property, it will vent itſelf on trifles; and the politicians of Britain, like the patriots of Lilliput, will divide concerning the height of ſhoe-heels, or the manner of breaking of eggs.

Among theſe domeſtick conſiderations, there is one in particular, which preſſes on my mind; but though I feel its force, I am quite at a loſs to ex⯑preſs my ſenſations: the idea is indeed too big and lofty, and ſo far above the pitch of theſe mean eſſays, that I ſeem, like the poet of old, to receive an admonition from ſome ſuperior, to have re⯑courſe to more familiar ſubjects. I ſhall, there⯑fore, [52] leave to ſome greater matter the endeavour to give to poſterity the portrait of a KING, happy in the love and admiration of his ſubjects, proud of calling every Briton his fellow-countryman, and employed in cultivating THE ARTS of PEACE.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER V.

AT this ſeaſon of annual migration, (as a great writer ſolemnly ſtiles it) when the noble lord and the knight of the ſhire go down to their ſeveral ſeats, to ſupport their intereſt in the county; when the lawyer takes his circuit; when the right reverend dioceſan appoints his viſitation; and when the humble out-rider, aſtride his ſaddle-bags, goes his rounds for freſh orders to dealers and chapmen in the country;—in a word, when buſineſs or pleaſure carry thouſands out of town, it is no wonder that one [53] or the other ſhould have tranſported the GENIUS almoſt two hundred miles beyond the limits of the bills of mortality. I could oblige the reader with a curious detail of my journey and adventures: I could tell him, that my publiſher furniſhed me with one horſe, and my printer with another, together with his devil in livery, for an attendant: but theſe and many other curious particulars muſt be deferred to ſome future opportunity, that in the mean time I may have leiſure to communi⯑cate ſome few obſervations made, en paſſant, on my fellow-ſubjects reſident in the country.

Notwithſtanding the encomiums on a rural life, ſown ſo thick in the writings of poets and philoſophers, we do not, in this degenerate age, think ourſelves ſure to breathe the pure air of in⯑nocence and ancient ſimplicity, the minute we have got out of the ſmoke of London; we do not perceive a gradual declenſion of vice at every mile-ſtone, or diſcover morality upon every hay⯑cock. The clown who works at plough and cart, nay even the tender of ſheep, for whom we have ſo much reſpect in paſtoral and romance, excite our veneration little more than a linkboy or a hackney-coachman. The very milkmaid, with her pail on her head, engages our eſteem no more [54] than her fellow-labourers, who carry the yoke, about our ſtreets: and ſo little do we expect to find the manners of the golden age prevail among our ruſticks, that we ſee, without remorſe or ſur⯑priſe, ſome bumkin Phillis condemned to the gallows for the murder of her baſtard child, or a refractory Damon committed to the houſe of cor⯑rection, ſet in the ſtocks, or ſent abroad for a ſoldier.

But though we have ſurmounted theſe preju⯑dices, perhaps we ſtill retain ſome antiquated ideas of the manners of the country, ſcarce leſs re⯑mote from thoſe which at preſent reign there, than even the manners of Arcadia. We are apt to take it for granted, that there yet remains among them, a ſtrong leaven of that roughneſs and ruſticity, which was ſo long conſidered as their diſtinguiſhing characteriſtick. It is ſcarce half a century ago, ſince the inhabitants of the diſtant counties were regarded as a ſpecies, almoſt as dif⯑ferent from thoſe of the metropolis, as the na⯑tives of the Cape of Good Hope. Their man⯑ners, as well as dialect, were entirely provincial; and their dreſs no more reſembling the habit of the town, than the Turkiſh or Chineſe. But time, which has incloſed commons, and ploughed up heaths, has likewiſe cultivated the minds, and [55] improved the behaviour of the ladies and gentlemen of the country. We are no longer encountered with hearty ſlaps on the back, or preſt to make a breakfaſt on cold meat and ſtrong beer; and in the courſe of a tour of Great Britain, you will not meet with a high-crowned hat, or a pair of red ſtockings. Politeneſs and taſte ſeem to have driven away the horrid ſpectres of rudeneſs and barbarity, that haunted the old manſion-houſe and its purlieus, and to have eſtabliſhed their ſeats in the country.

It is certainly to the intercourſe between the town and country, of late ſo much more frequent, that this extraordinary change muſt be imputed. Every traveller, that goes down to Cumberland or Cornwall, carries in ſome ſort the town along with him, and inevitably leaves ſome tincture of it behind him: and every viſit, which an honeſt ruſtick pays to London, inſenſibly files off ſome of the ruſt of the country. Formerly indeed, when that the roads were dark, and ways were mire, as Milton expreſſes it in one of his ſonnets, a journey into the country was conſidered as almoſt as great an undertaking as a voyage to the In⯑dies. The old family coach was ſure to be ſtowed, according to Vanburgh's admirable deſcription of [56] it, with all ſorts of luggage and proviſions; and perhaps in the courſe of the journey, a whole vil⯑lage, together with their teams, were called in aid to dig the heavy vehicle out of the clay, and to drag it to the next place of wretched accom⯑modation, which the road afforded. Thus they travelled, like the caravan over the deſerts of Ara⯑bia, with every diſagreeable circumſtance of te⯑diouſneſs and inconvenience. But now, the amendment of the roads, with the many other im⯑provements of travelling, have in a manner opened a new communication between the ſeveral parts of our iſland. The people venture forth, and find themſelves enabled to traverſe the country with eaſe and expedition. Stage-coaches, machines, flys, and poſt-chaiſes are ready to tranſport paſſen⯑gers to and fro between the metropolis and the moſt diſtant parts of the kingdom. The lover now can almoſt literally annihilate time and ſpace, and be with his miſtreſs, before ſhe dreams of his arrival. Even a troop of geeſe and turkies may be driven from the country to town in a ſhorter time, than a nobleman and his family could have taken the journey heretofore, and the game⯑ſter offers to bet, that he can go from London to Edinburgh in twelve hours. In ſhort, the manners, [57] faſhions, amuſements, vices, and follies of the me⯑tropolis, now make their way to the remoteſt corners of the land, as readily and ſpeedily along the turn⯑pike road, as, of old, Milton's SIN and DEATH, by means of their marvellous bridge over the Chaos, from the infernal regions to our world.

The effects of this eaſy communication, have almoſt daily grown more and more viſible. The ſeveral great cities, and we might add many poor country towns, ſeem to be univerſally inſpired with an ambition of becoming the little Londons of the part of the kingdom wherein they are ſituated: the notions of ſplendor, luxury, and amuſement, that prevail in town, are eagerly adopted; the various changes of the faſhion ex⯑actly copied; and the whole manner of life ſtudi⯑ouſly imitated. The country ladies are as much devoted to the card-table, as the reſt of the ſex in London; and being equally tired of making puddings and tarts, or working ſcreens and car⯑pets, they too have their routes, and croud as many of their neighbours as they can get together, into their apartments: they too, have their balls and concerts by ſubſcription; their theatres, their mall, and ſometimes their rural Ranelagh, or Vauxhall. The reading female hires her novels [58] from ſome country circulating library, which conſiſts of about an hundred volumes, or, is trundled from the next market town in a wheelbarrow; and the merchant, or opulent hardware-man, has his villa three or four miles diſtant from the great town where he carries on his buſineſs. The nobleman and country ſquire, no longer affect an old-faſhioned hoſpitality, or ſuffer the locuſts of the country to eat them up, while they keep open houſe, and diſpenſe victuals and horns of beer, like the anci⯑ent convents, to all comers; but more faſhion⯑ably diſplay the elegance of their taſte, by making genteel entertainments: the ſame French cooks are employed, the ſame wines are drank, the ſame gaming practiſed, the ſame hours kept, and the ſame courſe of life purſued in the country as in town. The force of this illuſtrious example in⯑fluences the whole country; and every male and female wiſhes to think and ſpeak, to eat and drink, and dreſs, and live, after the manner of people of quality in London.

There is no popular ſubject of ſatire, on which the modern common places of wit and ridicule have been exhauſted with more ſucceſs, than on that of a mere cockney affecting the pleaſures of the country. The duſty houſe cloſe to the road ſide, [59] the half-acre of garden, the canal no bigger than a waſh-hand baſon, &c. have all been marked out with much humour and juſtice; but after all, it is not unnatural for a tradeſman, who is continu⯑ally pent up in the cloſe ſtreets and alleys of a po⯑pulous city, to wiſh for freſh air, or to attempt to indulge a leiſure hour in ſome rural occupation; and he who prevails on himſelf to give up the en⯑joyments which nature has thrown into our laps in the country, for a poor imitation of the follies of the town, is infinitely more ridiculous. Ly⯑curgus paſſed a law in Sparta to prevent the impor⯑tation of foreign vanities, and not only expreſsly forbad the continuance of ſtrangers in the city, for fear of their corrupting the people, but for the ſame reaſons would not permit his own people to travel. Frequent intercourſe will undoubtedly pro⯑duce ſimilarity of manners; but the preſent com⯑munication between the various quarters of our iſlands, are ſo far from being to be lamented, that it is only to be wiſhed and recommended, that they may produce real refinements and improvements of a valuable nature. At the ſame time let it be conſidered by our country gentlemen and la⯑dies that no benefit can ariſe from changing one ſet of follies for another; and that the vices of the town never appear ſo truly ridiculous, or ſo [60] thoroughly contemptible, as when they are auk⯑wardly practiſed in the country.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER VI.

SLANDER is an elegant and refined art, which has been brought to ſuch a wonderful perfec⯑tion, that it is not only univerſally practiſed and thoroughly underſtood, but is become the ſoul of polite converſation, and one of the moſt agree⯑able amuſements of private life. Formerly, an infant lye, fearful of detection, and almoſt aſhamed to ſhew itſelf in publick, made its way but ſlowly in the world; but now, the groſſeſt falſe⯑hood comes abroad with the utmoſt confidence, and peremptorily challenges our notice and atten⯑tion. Not content with a general aſſertion of [61] any fact, it delights to be minute and circumſtan⯑tial; enters into particulars, tells you the man⯑ner how, the time when, the place where, and gives the names of all the parties concerned. Such a report having gone round to every coffee-houſe, and got into every private family, having been uni⯑verſally told, and almoſt as univerſally credited, comes at laſt to the ears of the perſons, who have been the unconſcious ſubjects of it. Then the whole ſtory proves entirely groundleſs; but they, whoſe reputation has been thus ſported with, have no remedy except the conſciouſneſs of their own integrity, unleſs they chuſe to make a genteel retaliation on their next neighbour, or to encoun⯑ter with the air. It might be deemed too ſevere an act of cenſorial authority, to diſcountenance ſo polite an entertainment, and might, perhaps, put ſome of the beſt company to ſilence. Yet, ſince it is but of late that ſlander has, at its very birth, come forth (like Pallas from the head of Jupiter) armed at all points, hedged round with circumſtance, and lackered over with probability, it may not be incurious to enquire, who are theſe active miniſters of falſhood, that ſet it ſo firmly on its legs, and bring it ſo early to maturity: I ſhall therefore dedicate the preſent paper to the [62] deſcription of two of theſe ingenious characters, each of which rough draughts, the reader, who is at all converſant with the world, will, I am ſure, be able to apply to more than one original.

LADY JACYNTHA SCANDAL is a woman of the firſt faſhion, and her houſe is the daily reſort of the firſt company. Her reputation, it is true, is not quite unſtained; but the blemiſhes of her character, like the ſpots in the ſun, are overcome by the ſplendor of her quality. By the force of a genteel malice and pleaſant ill-nature, together with an happy aſſurance that enables her to throw off the reſerve of her ſex, ſhe is univerſally ac⯑knowledged to be a wit. The ſmartneſs of her re⯑partees beſpeaks uncommon vivacity, and her ex⯑quiſite turn for the double Entendre denotes an ad⯑mirable pruriency of imagination. She will tell a ſtory to a room full of mixt company, almoſt rich enough in its circumſtances for the high-wrought memoirs of a woman of pleaſure, with⯑out uſing one indelicate expreſſion, without offend⯑ing the chaſteſt ear, or betraying the leaſt con⯑ſciouſneſs that ſhe is all the while on the very brink of indecorum. She receives all her viſitors with the moſt perfect good breeding; but the in⯑ſtant that any one of them departs, he becomes [63] the ſubject of her pleaſantry and ridicule to thoſe that ſtay behind. She cannot raiſe our idea of her own character, but ſhe can leſſen our opinion of another's. In a word, her ladyſhip is the fear and delight, the envy and ſcorn, the honey and gall, of the great world: nobody thinks well of her, but nobody ſpeaks ill of her, and every body viſits her.

Neither love, nor honours, nor riches, nor any other worldly pleaſure, can give half ſo much de⯑light to LADY JACYNTHA SCANDAL, as the gratification of her dear paſſion for miſchief: and there are likewiſe certain other female geniuſſes, who love a little witty malice better than their prayers. Several of theſe are frequently aſſembled at LADY JACYNTHA's, and it is to the ingenuity of this petticoat junto that the ſtrange reports, which alarm the whole town, are often owing. They are not contented with the more than uſual poig⯑nancy of their chit-chat over the tea-table, but ſet themſelves to invent important ſlanders, and to deviſe the ſureſt means to give them colour. If ſome pale-faced London coquette, ſome hagged member of the cabal, worn to the bone with paint and late hours, is offended with the ruddy bloom of ſome new toaſt from the country, it is here [64] that ſhe meditates revenge, and it is ſuddenly proclaimed, or, as the phraſe is, reported, that the innocent young lady has been detected in the groſſeſt familiarities with one of her father's foot⯑men; or if a dutcheſs has piqued ſome of the junto, by excluding them from her route, or leaving them uninvited to a ball, her rank will ſo little avail to exempt her from the like treatment, that the ſlander will rather be aggravated in pro⯑portion to the dignity of its object.

Never did ſtateſman ſtudy more attentively the art of political lying, or ſtockjobber uſe more ſtra⯑tagems to raiſe or ſink the value of the funds, than are uſed by the ingenious junto, to ſend forth an injurious report with ſecrecy. Nobody knows on what authority the ſtory is founded which every body repeats; and it is as impoſſible to trace the ſlander up to its ſource, as to diſ⯑cover the head of the Nile. I have obſerved, indeed, that it commonly takes its riſe in the moſt diſ⯑tant quarter, from that where the parties reſide whom it is intended to affect. When a perſon of high rank is deſtined for the victim, an emiſſary is diſpatched to ſet the ſtory abroach at ſome ob⯑ſcure coffee-houſe in the city, whence it ſpeedily marches to its head quarters near the court: or, [65] if perhaps ſome rich banker and his family are to be made a ſacrifice, it is whiſpered about the politer part of the town, that a certain great houſe near the Royal Exchange has ſtopt payment. Some⯑times the curious tale ſeems to have travelled out of the country, and ſometimes, like the great fire of London, it breaks out in ſeveral quarters of the town at once. However, come whence it may, true or falſe, probable or improbable, down it goes; and the dear, witty, ſweet, miſchievous crea⯑tures, who invented it, practiſe ten thouſand additional little arts to give it credit. ‘"They do not believe, indeed, that the thing happened, juſt as it is related; but then there muſt be ſome⯑thing in it, ſay what they will, or elſe how could there be ſuch a number of particulars? They have heard too, (good ſouls!) nay, they know, that the parties themſelves are very uneaſy at the ſtory, and have taken a great deal of pains to diſcredit it, which looks very ſuſpicious; for why ſhould they be ſo concerned, if, (in part at leaſt) it were not true, or ſuffer their peace to be broken by a mere idle report?"’ With ſuch candour and humanity do LADY JACYNTHA, and the reſt of theſe good ſort of people expreſs their ſentiments; and at the ſame [66] time many of the moſt intimate friends of the per⯑ſons reviled repeat the ſlander, or at leaſt make no efforts to contradict it: yet where is the offence or injury? it was not their invention, you know, and they only joined in the common talk of the town.

Lord Bacon ſomewhere remarks that great inqui⯑ſitiveneſs and curioſity concerning the affairs of others, is one of the chief characteriſticks of envy. It would be unpardonable to attribute ſo black a paſſion to a fine lady; and yet it is certain, that no mortal was ever more ſtrongly poſſeſſed of that inquiring ſpirit than LADY JACYNTHA SCANDAL. She will hold long conferences, for the ſake of intelligence, with her mantua-maker or milliner, and has an admirable knack at draw⯑ing the ſecrets of families from ſervants and chil⯑dren. By theſe, and the like means, ſhe is ac⯑quainted with the private buſineſs and private plea⯑ſures of the whole town. Nobody knows ſo well as her ladyſhip, what lady's diamonds are in pawn, what duke's eſtate was lately mortgaged, what lord's ſiſter's fortunes are not paid off, what poet keeps a miſtreſs, what young man and woman are clandeſtinely married, or what grave judge has been caught, in a frolickſome vein, at [67] a game of romps with his cook-maid. Such are the anecdotes which ſhe is eager to learn; and her aſſiduity in collecting them is only to be equalled by her induſtry in making them publick.

Equally attached to ſlander, but of the other ſex, and of a lower rank, is the pert, volatile, prating, ſcribbling, JACKY TATTLE. JACKY is the ſon of an attorney of Furnival's-Inn, and was originally intended for his father's profeſſion; but the ſtrength of his Genius ſoon drew him from the deſk, and carried him amongſt under-actors, un⯑der-authors, and women of the town: in which company he ſoon converted his pertneſs into aſſu⯑rance, and wonderfully improved his natural ta⯑lents for lying and defamation. Slander may, indeed, be ſaid to be his paſſion, and to ſpread it his daily employment; and as birds are obſerved to peck the fineſt fruit, ſo this fluttering tom-tit always aims his petulant attacks at the faireſt cha⯑racters. The company with which he aſſociates, naturally deal in detraction, his folly induces him to give credit to the ſlander, and his vanity often urges him publickly to interfere in it. He is alſo a great writer of anonymous epiſtles from unknown friends, as well as incendiary letters from ſecret enemies. He ſometimes amuſes himſelf [68] with ſending letters and paragraphs to the news⯑papers, in which he ſometimes appears as a ſix-lined epigrammatiſt, and is confidently ſaid to be the author of ſeveral articles in The New Review. If ever you obſerve an imper⯑tinent fellow, in the next box at a coffee⯑houſe, liſtening to your private converſation with a friend, or caſting his eye over a letter, which you are reading or writing, that is JACKY TATTLE.—Or if you ſee a ſtrange town-fly fluttering at the play-houſe, ſtaring every body out of countenance, and buzzing about the theatre, now in the orcheſtra, now in the green-boxes, and by-and-by behind the ſcenes, that is JACKY TATTLE.—Poor JACKY's courage is unhappily not quite adequate to his malignity, ſo that his indiſcretions have ſometimes betrayed him into puniſhment for his ſlanders; yet his appetite for detraction muſt be gratified; he conſiders himſelf as a formidable adverſary to ſeveral characters of merit, and is thoroughly perſuaded that the ladies all believe him to be a wit and a fine gentleman.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER VII.

NOTWITHSTANDING the rigour of ſome criticks, which would entirely preclude the choice of temporary ſubjects, there are no parts of periodical publications, which have been more favourably received at their firſt appearance, or afforded more entertainment afterwards, than ſuch as were founded on matters merely fugi⯑tive, and peculiar to the time in which they were written. Such pieces become a kind of ſupplement to hiſtory: they furniſh the curious with anec⯑dotes; and it is from theſe materials, that the lite⯑rary virtuoſo collects the manners, faſhions, and [70] cuſtoms of his anceſtors. The Tatlers and Spec⯑tators, for inſtance, ſerve almoſt as effectually as a gallery of pictures, to ſhew the habits in vogue at that period; and are, at the ſame time, a kind of hiſtorical regiſter of the prevailing plea⯑ſures, and the objects of publick attention. In the peruſal of theſe papers we ſeem to be endued, like Janus, with a ſort of backward face that enables us to take a clear, retroſpective view of times paſt. We ſpend evenings at the clubs of our fathers, ſome of whom may perhaps have been Mohocks, and gain admittance to the toilets of our mothers and grandmothers. We read, not without ſatisfaction, comments on the performances of actors, whom we never ſaw: we look upon the celebrated trunk-maker with a veneration equal to that of his cotemporaries; and are hugely entertained at Powell's puppet-ſhew.

It is to be conſidered, that periodical writers converſe more familiarly with the publick than any other authors; they are allowed, nay ex⯑pected, to chat of themſelves, the play, the opera, and are even in danger of being neglected, if they omit to diſcourſe on the popular topicks of converſation. Our good advice (for we are all ſagacious monitors of the publick) muſt not be [71] obtruded on our readers, but muſt ſeem to be uſhered in by the occaſion, and to take its colour from the times. The preſent complection of the people is ſuch, that I find it abſolutely vain and ridi⯑culous to attempt writing to them on any other ſubject than that of the Royal Wedding and Coronation. My printer too has moſt earneſtly re⯑queſted me to give what he calls a touch on the times, and to ſay ſomething on theſe great occaſions. He tells me, that there is ſcarce one of his cuſ⯑tomers, who would not ſooner give a guinea for a night's lodging on the floor at Greenwich, or five for the ſake of ſitting eight and forty hours in Weſtminſter Abby, than part with two-pence half⯑penny for the GENIUS, unleſs it treats of thoſe ſolemnities. Scarce a paragraph of news, relat⯑ing to any other matters, will go down. The proceedings of the Court of Claims, the ladies coronation robes, and the aldermens' coronation wigs, furniſh out the moſt intereſting articles of intelligence. The maſter of an ale-houſe in the next lane to my apartments has hung out a pa⯑per lanthorn to advertiſe the neighbourhood, that he ſells the beſt Mecklenburg purl and Coronation porter. The theatres are, I doubt not, both employed in the preparation of entertainments [72] ſuitable to the ſplendor and joy of theſe happy cele⯑brities; and a famous field-preacher has, to my knowledge, already anticipated the Archbiſhop in a Coronation Sermon.

I have alſo lately been honoured with a pacquet of letters from ſeveral correſpondents, not one of which but relates to theſe two grand occaſions of feſtivity. Many, I find, are ſollicitous to know what will become of the GENIUS, and into what corner he will ſqueeze his little body at the corona⯑tion. A gentleman, who ſigns himſelf Timothy Cautious, tells me, that in caſe I have no ticket, I may eaſily be conveyed into the hall undiſcovered in ſome old counteſs's pocket, or be rolled up and overſhadowed by the full bottom of a noble⯑man's periwig. A lady gives herſelf the trouble to recapitulate the advantages and diſadvantages of my perſon on this occaſion; and informs me that, indeed, I may be put any where, but that unfor⯑tunately, I ſhall be able to ſee no where. Ano⯑ther correſpondent, who ſubſcribes himſelf COKE junior, and dates from the Inner Temple, ſays, that he hopes I have ſecured a place in Weſtminſter⯑hall, and adds (but I do not know what he means by it) that he ſhould be glad to ſee me appear there oftener than I uſed to do. The two following [73] letters are, I think, the moſt proper of any I have received, to ſubmit to my reader at full length: to them therefore I ſhall devote the reſt of this paper.

The firſt comes from a lady, and is as follows.

[75]The other letter comes from a gentleman, who, I can aſſure the publick, is no leſs a GENIUS than MYSELF.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER VIII.

THE learned and honourable truſtees of The Bri⯑tiſh Muſeum, well knowing and duly conſider⯑ing the great work in which I am engaged, and thoroughly weighing the infinite importance of it to the morals of the people of Great Britain, have graciouſly reſolved to afford me every aſſiſtance in their power, and given orders to the proper offi⯑cers for my conſtant admiſſion to the reading-room, with free leave to peruſe ſuch old papers and ſcarce manuſcripts, as my curioſity may lead me to look into. They have alſo further ſhewn themſelves ſo favourably inclined to me and my undertakings, that they have ſet a-part a certain angle of the [79] room for my particular uſe; wherein there is erected an elegant machine, curiouſly contrived by Mr. Burnet, cabinet-maker in the Strand, and known by the name of the GENIUS's reading-deſk. This machine, in conſideration of my diminutiveneſs, is conſtructed ſomewhat on the principles of that uſed by Gulliver in Brobdignag, and has often enabled me to manage the moſt unwieldy volumes with eaſe, as well as, by means of its ſteps, to climb up to the top of the page of many a tall folio. The modern artificers of furniture have cultivate no taſte in moveables with more ſucceſs, than that which they call the BOOK FASHION; which is an ingenious method of reducing tea-cheſts to the ſhape and ſemblance of octavos and duodecimos, as well as Bedes and other neceſſary utenſils, of a larger ſize, to the figure of quartos and folios. Theſe goods may be had, neatly gilt and lettered, at the warehouſe of any faſhionable upholſterer; but where could ſuch a mode be followed with ſuch ſtrict propriety as in the conſtruction of the implements of Literature? On your firſt entrance into the room, you would take the GENIUS's read⯑ing deſk for an irregular heap of books of different ſizes, thrown careleſsly one upon another: and, as it is uſual to preſerve ſome analogy between the [80] mock volumes and the moveable which takes their form, commonly appropriating Pope's Letters, the Spectators, &c. to the tea-table, and waſte paper hiſtories, &c. to the cloſet; in like manner the artiſt has ingeniouſly raiſed the ſteps of my deſk upon STATIUS, and SCALIGER, and UP-ton, and STEP-ney, and MOUNT-eny, &c. with many other curious conceits of the like nature, not unworthy the genius of an upholſterer. A waggiſh Cantab, who popt into the room the other day, after having examined the deſk with great attention, told me, that he ſound the GENIUS, like Bayes, had certain mechanical helps for wit, and chriſtened it (after the univerſity ſtile of punning) my Gradus ad Parnaſſum.

A few days ago, as I was ſtudiouſly employed at this deſk, and preparing to ſay a word or two to the publick, as it were, ex cathedrâ, a ſagacious friend of mine, belonging to the Muſeum, (who is for ever peering with his pur-blind eyes into ſome curioſity, or bruſhing with his learned noſe the duſt from ſome rare manuſcript) threw a bun⯑dle of papers before me. This choice pacquet appeared, upon examination, to have been formerly in the poſſeſſion of Sir Thomas More, our great chancellor, of worthy and facetious memory, to [81] whom it was addreſſed by Petrus Aegidius (or, as ſome tranſlators call him, Peter Giles) of Antwerp, the very perſon to whom the chancellor inſcribed his Hiſtory of UTOPIA. This manuſcript contains a full detail of the laws, manners, cuſtoms, &c. of the inhabitants of the iſland of ANEMOLIA, taken from memory by Petrus Aegidius, like Sir Thomas More's own narrative, from the relation of Ra⯑phael. This country, as well as ſeveral others mentioned in theſe papers, is, I find, taken notice of in the Utopia; and Sir Thomas, ſpeaking cur⯑ſorily of the people, calls them ſuperbi magis quam ſapientes, a proud rather than a wiſe nation. My veneration for manuſcripts is not ſo implicit as to think, with ſome antiquarians, that every old paper is worthy to be printed, which has not yet been in print: but as I look upon this to be of an extremely curious nature, I ſhall put it to the preſs with all convenient ſpeed; and my friend above⯑mentioned has, for the benefit of the illiterate, chearfully ſubmitted to the labour of a tranſlation. This valuable narrative is written originally, like the Utopia, in very elegant Latin; and the genuine papers, for the ſatisfaction of the Vir⯑tuoſi, ſhall lie, till the time of publication, at Mr. Becket's, bookſeller, in the Strand. In the [82] mean time, I have thought proper to amuſe my readers with the following extracts made here and there from different parts of this valuable work, and I believe that moſt perſons will readily concur with me, merely from this ſpecimen, that ANEMO⯑LIA, muſt be the moſt extraordinary country un⯑der the ſun.

P. S. Having proceeded thus far in tranſ⯑lating the paſſages I have ſelected from the M.S. I find that my extracts are too large to come within the compaſs of one paper. I am therefore obliged to reſerve the reſt, among which are many curious particulars relating to the ladies, for my next, with whch I ſhall preſent the reader as ſoon as poſſible.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER IX.

AS the following letter is the firſt of any con⯑ſequence, with which I have been favoured from a female hand, the preference due to a lady muſt be my apology for deferring the reſt of the manuſcript, relating to the Anemolians, to my next paper.

The GENIUS. NUMBER X.

I Have received the following note in conſequence of the extract from the Latin Manuſcript, with which I preſented my readers a few days ago.

I am ſorry to have excited maſter John Trot's indignation; but if his objections to my purſuing the ſubject are inſuperable, I hereby give him fair warning not to peruſe the preſent paper. I ſhall only obſerve, that travellers, writing chiefly for the inſtruction and entertainment of their own coun⯑trymen, while they deſcribe the manners of fo⯑reign nations, and exhibit remote ſcenes, are apt, like other ſcene-painters, to work in diſtemper, and draw things and perſons, larger than the life, that they may ſtrike at a diſtance. This perhaps is in ſome meaſure, the caſe with our preſent author. The remaining extracts are as follow:

I have preſented the reader with the above paſſage, becauſe I think it extremely curious; but I cannot help fancying, that our author has tranſgreſſed the bounds of credibility in this part of his narrative. It is impoſſible that any females ſhould be guilty of ſuch deteſtable wick⯑edneſs, or give into ſuch groſs abſurdity. The accurate reader will eaſily conjecture, from ſome peculiarities of expreſſion in the above extract, that I have rendered the original with great ex⯑actneſs. The tranſlation is indeed very literal, ex⯑cept that I have here and there taken the liberty to ſoften ſome phraſes of indignation and reproach which would be eſteemed vulgar in our tongue, tho' they have a certain dignity in the learned languages. But to proceed from our M.S.

—I was particularly deſirous of laying the above paragraph before the reader, though it contains little elſe than mere matter of reflection, becauſe I think nothing ſo much illuſ⯑trates a book of voyages, and tends ſo much to the improvement of the reader, as the ſagacious and juſt obſervations with which the traveller is com⯑monly ſo kind as to oblige him.—But to proceed from our author.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER XI.

SWIFT, by way of deſcribing a reigning controverſy of thoſe times, has left us a moſt droll and humourous account of a battle of the books in St. James's Library; and Boileau in his [109] Lutrin has, with equal pleaſantry, brought the two adverſe parties in his Poem together in a book⯑ſeller's ſhop, where they break out into open war, and convert the books into weapons of offence. Many harmleſs volumes are torn from their ſhelves, and fly through the air as thick as hail; and many a French divine lies ſprawling beneath the weight of hard-bound poetry, heavy ſyſtems of philoſophy, and huge bodies of the law,

Such a deſcription, as that of the French writer, would, I think, be peculiarly applicable to the frequent and violent quarrels among authors. The Republick of letters is in a kind of perpetual civil war, and the beginning of every winter may be conſidered as the opening of a new literary cam⯑paign. The ſhort ſummer truce, hardly kept with good faith, is ſoon violated; and, while heroes ſuſpend the ſhedding of blood in war, au⯑thors contend which ſhall ſpill moſt ink in contro⯑verſy. One diſcharges the blunderbuſs of his wit, and out comes an ode: a ſecond, after whetting the ruſty ſword of his Genius, cuts you with a ſa⯑tire: a third—but it is endleſs to go through all the weapons of elegy, ſong, epigram, &c. and recite the whole artillery of wit—to it they go péle-méle, and, inſtead of making a general attack on vice [110] and folly, confine themſelves to individual knaves and fools, and fall on one another. It is fortunate enough for all new adventurers in theſe literary en⯑gagements, that they do not make war exactly after the manner deſcribed by Boileau; but that every author throws his work, like a bomb, into the town, leaving it to do what miſchief it may, without immediately levelling the volume itſelf at the head of his antagoniſt. If that were the caſe, as at the bookſeller's in the Lutrin, we have among us many authors, that would be moſt for⯑midable adverſaries even to Homer himſelf; writers, who could overwhelm all the poets and philoſo⯑phers of antiquity with a deluge of literature, and carry all before them in a torrent of folios, quartos, and duodecimos, of their own compoſition.

One would imagine, that every author is a na⯑tural enemy to every other author; and that the purſuit of letters, which ſhould refine and huma⯑nize the mind, ſerves only to embitter it. No princes can be more jealous of a neighbour's growing power, than ſome authors of a cotempo⯑rary's infant fame. In their own reputation too they are tender even to ſoreneſs, and do not con⯑ſider, that all, who court applauſe, may, at the ſame time, be ſaid to ſolicit cenſure. Accordingly, [111] each writer has his flatterers and his enemies; and, if he is vain enough to liſten to the adulation of one ſet of men, and weak enough to feel the malice of the other, he becomes the moſt unhappy being upon earth. The very nature of his employ⯑ment betrays him and his quarrels to publick ridicule. Other men differ, and are reconciled in ſecret; but the contention of authors is ſtudi⯑ouſly carried on in the moſt open manner, and they cut each other to pieces, like prize-fighters, for the diverſion of the reſt of the world.

The great ſucceſs of one or two giant ſatyriſts, of tranſcendant abilities, has tempted almoſt every puny witling to imagine that ſame and infamy are at his diſpoſal. He gives you to underſtand, that, unleſs you pay due homage to his extraordinary Genius, your name ſhall be regiſtered in the black ſcroll of diſgrace; and he ſtands, like a fretful porcupine, ready to dart his quills at all that make him angry. There are, however, a few conſide⯑rations, not unworthy the attention of a writer ſo ſubject to irritability. He may, undoubtedly, be of infinite conſequence to himſeif: every man, eſpecially every author, is ſo: but it is ten to one if he is of equal conſequence to the publick: his works indeed, if they are the reſult of Genius, may [112] engage their attention; but his private differences will moſt probably be thought impertinent. I do not know a more ridiculous circumſtance than a couple of ſcribblers, both big with vanity, calling each other fool and blockhead. It is exactly the ſcene of Vadius and Triſſotin in Moliere; which I am ſurpriſed that no one, in this age of authors, has tranſlated for the Engliſh ſtage.—Another re⯑flection,, which might curb their head-ſtrong Pegaſus, if he runs riot on the high road of ſatire, is, that, after all, let him write ever ſo bitterly, and ever ſo well, the publick are candid and impartial, and will give him credit no farther than he confirms their own ſentiments, and echoes back their own opinion. Pope himſelf has not been able to rob the eternal butt of his invective, Colley Cibber, of one grain of applauſe that is due to him; and the united efforts of both him and Swift, powerful as they were, were levelled in vain againſt Dryden, Vanburgh, Steele, and I will not add Addiſon. The beſt anſwer that an author can make to another who calls him dull (that dreadful ſentence!) is to write as well as he can; and if he is not able to confute him that way, he becomes his own ſatiriſt. But the chief conſideration, which ſhould abate the ſeverity of irritated writers, is, [113] the danger of failing in their attempt. To maim and murder reputations, to hack and hew, and gaſh at random, is, indeed, what any butcherly ſcribbler may attempt; but to keep up the fine edge of true ſatire, requires a very maſterly hand: and if his ſatire proves uncouth, and his execution coarſe, it turns back with ten-fold force upon himſelf, and faſtens on him the odious imputation of malice without wit, and envy without abi⯑lities.

But the worſt conſequence flowing from this ill blood between the writers of our times, is, that it diſcourages many men, poſſeſt of noble talents, from exerting them in the cauſe of literature. Fearful of being engaged in this illiberal war⯑fare, they will not venture to commit their pieces to the preſs. They would patiently abide the cor⯑rection of fair critieiſm, but do not care to provoke unmannerly cenſures.—In this temper of mind the following lines ſeem to have been written: at leaſt, it was the peruſal of them which threw me into the above vein of reflection. Having read them ſeveral times over with pleaſure, I was inclined to try their effect upon my readers, eſpecially as I cannot diſcover in them a line that appears to be perſonal.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER XII.

OF all the qualifications of the mind, which are not poſitive virtues, I do not know any that is more deſirable than Good Humour. No quality renders the poſſeſſor more eaſy and happy in himſelf, or recommends him more forcibly to other people. Virtue itſelf receives additional luſtre, abates the rigid ſeverity of its character, and takes its moſt raviſhing graces and embelliſhments from ſuch a diſpoſition; a diſpoſition ſo amiable in its nature, [118] that even a man of looſe principles, when of ſo agreeable a turn, often conciliates to himſelf many friends and well-wiſhers. The men at leaſt allow that he is a pleaſant fellow, court his company, and account him no-body's enemy but his own; while the women call him a dear agreeable creature, and declare that though, to be ſure, he is a wild devil, it is quite impoſſible to be angry with him.

It is hardly ſaying too much in favour of this quality, to aſſert that it is one of the firſt requiſites in ſociety: for though ſtrict honour and integrity are of more eſſential value in the grand purpoſes of human life; yet Good Humour, like ſmall money, is of more immediate uſe in the common com⯑merce of the world. There is no ſituation in life, no engagement in buſineſs, or party of pleaſure, wherein it will not contribute to mitigate diſap⯑pointments, or heighten enjoyment. A huſband, friend, acquaintance, maſter, or even ſervant, however faithful or affectionate, will occaſion many miſerable hours to himſelf, as well as to thoſe with whom he is connected, if his virtues are not ſeaſoned with Good Humour; and whether he is a partner for life, or a partner in a country-dance, an aſſociate in great and mighty undertak⯑ings, or a companion in a poſt-chaiſe, he ſhould, [119] on every occaſion, cheriſh and keep alive this agreeable diſpoſition.

Some perſons may almoſt be ſaid to be of a good-humoured complexion, and ſeem to be conſtituti⯑onally endued with this amiable turn of mind: a bleſſing, for which they may thank heaven with the ſame kind of gratitude that he ought to feel, who experiences the comforts of being born in a de⯑lightful and temperate climate. My fellow-coun⯑try-men, I think, are many of them deficient in that airy pleaſantneſs, and chearful temper, that diſtinguiſhes this quality: and as our climate, while it anſwers all the purpoſes of uſe and plenty, yet ſeldom affords us blue ſkies, or tempts us to cool grots and purling ſtreams, to lie down on the damp graſs, or to thoſe other rural delights ſo often mentioned by the poets; ſo the Engliſh themſelves, though overflowing with humanity and benevo⯑lence, ſuffer clouds of gloomy thoughts to come over their minds, and, however they muſt be al⯑lowed to be good-natured, are ſeldom remarkable for being good-humoured. Yet this half-virtue is worth cultivation, as it beſtows new charms on that real one. Good Humour is the fair-weather of the ſoul, that calms the turbulent guſts of paſſion, and diffuſes a perpetual gladneſs and ſerenity over [120] the heart; and he that finds his temper naturally inclined to break out into ſudden burſts of fret⯑fulneſs and ill-humour, ſhould be as much upon his guard to repreſs the ſtorm, that is for ever beating in his mind, as to fence againſt the incle⯑mencies of the ſeaſon. We are naturally attached even to animals that betray a ſoftneſs of diſpoſition. We are pleaſed with the aukward fondneſs and fi⯑delity of a dog: Montaigne could diſcover agree⯑able muſick in the good-humoured purring of his cat; and, though our modern grooms and jockies beſtow all their attention on make, colour, eyes, and feet, yet the beſt writers on horſemanſhip con⯑ſider a good temper as one of the beſt qualities in a horſe.

We ſhould be the more attentive to encourage and preſerve this pleaſing quality, becauſe many people loſe it by little and little in the progreſs of their lives. The thoughts of intereſt frequently proves a growing ruſt and canker in the mind; and the many troubles and embarraſſments at⯑tending worldly purſuits often ſour the temper, and entirely deſtroy the ſpirit of chearfulneſs and Good Humour that prevailed in the artleſs and un⯑deſigning ſeaſon of our youth. I do not know a more diſagreeable companion, than a man, who, [121] having ſet out in life with vaſt and vain hopes of advancement, together with a mighty conſciouſneſs of his own merit, has not been able to ſuſtain the ſhock of diſappointment, but has permitted his misfortunes to embitter his diſpoſition. Such a man overflows with gall on every occaſion, and diſcharges the ſpleen, that riſes within him, on all his fellow-creatures. He diſturbs the peace of the family to which he belongs, and poiſons the hap⯑pineſs of every company to which he is admitted. But the diſquiet that he brings with him, where⯑ever he comes, is nothing but an evidence of his own miſery and weakneſs of ſoul. How much more is he to be imitated, who meets the ſtrokes of fortune with an even temper, who ſuffers neither reproach nor diſtreſs to ruffle his Good Humour, and is, as Hamlet deſcribes his friend, ‘"As one, in ſuffering all, that ſuffers nothing!"’ Life is like a game at backgammon; and if an unlucky throw comes, we muſt make the beſt of it, and play on without grumbling at our ill luck: but who would venture to ſit down to the table with a man who could not bear an adverſe caſt without turning over the board in a fury, and throwing the dice-box at the head of his companion? The character of Sir Thomas More, though peculiarly illuſtrious for [122] unſhaken integrity, was in no inſtance more winning and amiable than in true pleaſantry and Good Hu⯑mour. His chearful behaviour on the ſcaffold, and in every particular relative to his death, is fa⯑miliar to all; but there is no circumſtance in which the evenneſs of his mind is more truly delineated, than in his behaviour to his family on his reſigna⯑tion of the Chancellorſhip. The way in which he diſcovered it to his wife beſpoke the moſt genuine Good Humour. When he went out of church, it was always uſual for ſome of his officers to go to his lady and acquaint her of his departure: but the Sunday after his reſignation, he went himſelf up to her pew, and, bowing, gravely ſaid, ‘"Madam, My Lord is gone."’ She, who was accuſtomed to the facetiouſneſs of his manner, did not immedi⯑ately comprehend his meaning; but on his ex⯑plaining the matter to her, as they went home, ſhe began to upbraid him for his ſhameful inattention to his intereſt; upon which, without being at all diſconcerted by this conjugal lecture, he took oc⯑caſion to turn the diſcourſe, by finding fault with ſome part of her dreſs.—This abſolute command of temper, and pleaſant vein, is ſurely to be envied; and he who ſees the goods of fortune fall from him, not only without ſhaking his fortitude, but alſo [123] without abating the gaiety of his heart, may fairly be ſaid to poſſeſs an uncommon ſhare of Good Humour.

SURLY is a man of an eaſy fortune, humane and benevolent in his nature, and, as Dogberry ſays, ‘"honeſt as the ſkin between his brows;"’ but he has contracted a kind of habitual peeviſhneſs, and every common occaſion of life affords him matter of offence. The inſtant he riſes in the morning, he is diſquieted with the appearance of the weather, and pours forth execrations on the climate; and when he ſits down to breakfaſt, the water is ſmoaked, the butter rank, the bread heavy, the news-paper dull and inſipid, and his ſervant ſulky or imper⯑tinent: yet all the while, he has no malice in his mind, and means no harm to any creature in the world. He has a thouſand good qualities, which the quickneſs of his temper converts into petulance and ill humour. He is a great lover of wit, but cannot bear the leaſt piece of pleaſantry on himſelf; and the moſt innocent jeſt touches him to the quick. He will beſtow twenty pounds in an act of charity, or do the kindeſt offices to ſerve an acquaintance in diſtreſs, and the next mo⯑ment quarrel with his friend for diſturbing his reflection by humming an opera-tune. Thus [124] SURLY lives, much eſteemed, and little beloved; and though every body thinks well of him, there are very few that care to cultivate his acquaintance.

But if the want of Good Humour is ſo conſpi⯑cuous in a man, of how many charms does it deprive one of the other ſex! ſoftneſs is their diſ⯑tinguiſhing characteriſtick; but though, like milk, they are naturally ſmooth, yet, like milk, they create particular diſguſt when they turn ſour. No female character is more offenſive than a Shrew; and the impolite ſpirit of the Engliſh law has provided very rough treatment for termagants, and pre⯑pared the ſevereſt diſcipline for the cure of a ſcold. The greateſt reproach on an old maid, that cha⯑racter ſo much dreaded and ridiculed in the female world, is her ill humour; and croſſneſs is the worſt part of a prude. On the contrary, Good Humour, like the Ceſtus, encircles the fair one with new beauties, and is an antidote to the ravages of age and the ſmall-pox. It is the beſt part of the portion with a virtuous wife, and a moſt amiable feature in the face of a Queen.

Among our own ſex, there is no race of men more apt to indulge a ſpirit of acrimony, and to remit their natural Good Humour, than authors. They come abroad, indeed, with a conſummate ſelf-ſatisfaction [125] and delight; but the leaſt ſhock given to their vanity taints the mind, and converts all their pleaſantry to rancour. The flame of emu⯑lation often kindles into envy; and theſe met⯑tleſome gentlemen preſs ſo furiouſly onward to the goal of fame, that they are ſometimes driven to the neceſſity of joſtling one onother in the courſe. For my part, I would rather chuſe to conſider myſelf on a journey than in a race; and ſurely it is better and pleaſanter to jog on in an eaſy trot, regardleſs who is left behind, or who is gone before, than to whip and ſpur a jaded Genius, and, in the heat of furious ſpleen and blind rage, to be carried perhaps on the wrong ſide of the poſt.

Good Humour is the happieſt ſtate of mind for a writer, as well as for every other man. Why ſhould an author ſuffer every hornet of the preſs to ruffle his temper, or dip his pen in gall, and prepare wormwood draughts to ſweeten the ill blood of a cotemporary? He that cauſeleſly and malignantly traduces another, writes a libel on himſelf; as the highwayman, who makes an attack upon the road, is, in fact, a greater enemy to himſelf than to the harmleſs traveller: ſuch a poor wretch, we know, as well as the reſt of the gang, will be [126] brought to juſtice ſooner or later; but no body cares to have their deaths lie at his own door. As for the GENIUS, though he ventures to become a Cenſor, he will never deſcend to the office of Ex⯑ecutioner. Even the Muſe of Satire ſhould poſſeſs her graces; and her productions, like the Sweet⯑brier, ſhould delight and refreſh the ſenſes by their fragrance, while they are armed for our annoyance. If we cannot exerciſe the inſtruments of wit, we can at leaſt lay by the weapons of offence and ill nature; and the candour of the Britiſh Publick will always countenance the fainteſt efforts to railly the reigning vices and foibles of the age with chearfulneſs, pleaſantry, and GOOD HUMOUR.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER XIII.

TALKING the other evening with a friend, who is ſomewhat of a philoſophical turn, and loves to deal in abſtruſe ſpeculations, he fell by degrees into a whimſical vein, and endeavoured to amuſe himſelf and me by conſidering phyſically, not to ſay metaphiſically, the probable cauſes to which the ſtrange diverſities of temper and under⯑ſtanding among mankind are owing. At one time he ſuppoſed, that ſeveral fortuitous circumſtances [128] at our birth might produce this variety; and that ſuch an accident as the dilation or compreſſion of the head by the hand of the nurſe or the midwife, might determine the infant's future qualities, and mould a hero out of a coward; or ſqueeze a poet, or a philoſopher, into a fool. He had alſo ſome conceits about the Homunculus, which, however, I ſhall not preſume to explain at preſent, as a re⯑verend friend of mine, who is deeply verſed in thoſe ſtudies, has promiſed to oblige me with a diſtinct paper on that ſubject. He then conſidered the notions of planetary influence; according to which, all the various actions and diſpoſitions of the human ſpecies are governed ſolely by the ſtars. On this occaſion, he aſſured me, that an eminent aſtronomer of his acquaintance was very fatal at caſting nativities; and, moreover, that the late re⯑volution in the miniſtry was abſolutely foretold laſt year in Partridge's Almanack. He dwelt a little on the ſuppoſition of the ſtubborn race of mortals being formed from the ſtones thrown, as is related by Ovid, over the heads of Deucalion and Pyrrha. From thence he made a quick tranſition to that kindred Hypotheſis, which ſuppoſes, that our frames are kneaded out of clay; in purſuance of which, he thought, it was natural to imagine, that the [129] affections of the mind take their tincture from the veſſel in which they are incloſed, and are impreg⯑nated, like water, with the qualities of the purer, or baſer earth through which they make their way.

With theſe reflections, the bottle and the cover⯑ſation, as is uſual among Engliſhmen, ended to⯑gether, and I retired to my reſt. Yet I found it impoſſible to ſhake off at once the vein of thought which we had been indulging for three or four hours together; and ſleep itſelf, inſtead of to⯑tally diſpoſſeſſing my mind of thoſe ideas, rather opened and enlarged my imagination to purſue them ſtill further.—The gentle reader is ſeldom averſe to accompanying the gentle writer in his ſlumbers; wherefore I ſhall venture to relate my dream.

I was ſcarce aſleep, when I fancied myſelf to be tranſported on a ſudden to the verge of the Gulph of Chaos; where, by the tranſient glimmering of an interrupted light, which now and then flaſhed upon me, I ſaw the Four Elements lying in confuſion on the boundleſs deep, wherein, as Milton has described it,

[130]I was much affected with the horror of my ſitu⯑ation, and expected every moment to be plunged ten thouſand fathom deep into the gulph that lay before me, when there emerged from the waves, if I may ſo call them, of this elemental ocean, a Being of a mild and benevolent aſpect, who, after landing on an eminence at ſome diſtance, beckoned me towards him with a ſort of Caduceus, which he held in his hand, and which was formed in the ſhape of a Lizard, to ſignify that he was a friend to Mankind. My fear had deprived me of all power of motion; but the power of his rod drew me inſenſibly to his ſide, as it were by a charm. His perſon was manly and noble: a ſerene chearfulneſs was diffuſed over his countenance: his garment was thrown looſely over him, ſomewhat after the faſhion of a Herald's Coat; and on the four quarters of it were delineated the figures of the Mole, the Whale, the Salamander, and the Camelion, as ſymbols of the Four Elements, over which, as it appeared, he preſided.

My ſon! ſaith he, I am the Genius of the Elements. In the vaſt abyſs now before us lie all the future race of Mankind, as it were, in em⯑brio. It is the buſineſs of certain ſpirits, over which I preſide, to ſelect from thence the crude [131] materials, of which all Human Beings are com⯑poſed. You, I know, are curious not only to en⯑quire into the various diſpoſitions of your fellow-creatures, but to inveſtigate the cauſes, to which their different manners and principles are owing. Theſe cauſes I am now going to declare to you; wherefore attend!

Every Mortal is compoſed of the Four Elements, but not in equal proportions, nor each mortal in the ſame degrees with another. On the contrary, men are, ſeverally, more or leſs agitated with this or that paſſion, or animated with a greater or ſmaller proportion of Genius, according to the nature of the particular Element that predominates in their frame; which prevailing Element, whether it be Earth, Water, Air, or Fire, creates the Ruling Paſſion, and influences every circumſtance of their lives.

In yonder quarter, continued the GENIUS, are formed the ſons and daughters of Earth; thoſe mortals, I mean, who take their exiſtence chiefly from that Element. Theſe are, for the moſt part, of a heavy and inanimate diſpoſition, of groveling ſouls and dull minds, and may be rather ſaid to vegetate than to live. A few, and very few of the Female Sex are compoſed of this Element; [132] and theſe are ſluttiſh in their houſes, ſlatternly in their perſons, and churliſh to their friends, rela⯑tions, and huſbands. Thoſe of the Male Sex, that owe their origin principally to Earth, are thoſe miſerly muckworms, who place their ſole happineſs in amaſſing vaſt ſums of money; thoſe locuſts and caterpillars, who eat out the ſubſtance of others by extortion and uſury. From this Element alſo are fabricated the race of ſtupid criticks, and heavy commentators, half-philoſophers, entire logicians, dry metaphyſicians, and muddling politicians; together with the whole tribe of wretched ſcrib⯑blers, whom your countrymen have ſo properly diſtinguiſhed by the denomination of Grubs. The particles of which theſe mortals are formed, weigh down their minds, and prevent their ſoaring to any thing lofty or ſublime; for the ſame reaſon that fathers, according to the principle of that fa⯑mous chancellor Lord Coke, cannot take an eſtate by inheritance from their ſons, viz. becauſe Land, or Earth, being of a heavy nature, cannot aſcend. There are, however, among mortals of this terrene com⯑poſition, ſome who poſſeſs ſolid parts and ſound un⯑derſtandings; and many, whoſe minds are not barren or unfruitful, if they labour to improve them by due cultivation.

[133]On the banks of that Lake, ſaid the GENIUS, pointing to another quarter, are created that part of the human ſpecies, who draw their life and being from Water. Theſe are commonly found to be cold and phlegmatick in their diſpoſition; men, who ſhelter their native dulneſs and inactivity under the names of caution and prudence; who damp the generous warmth of youth, repreſs the ardour of enterprize, and quench the flame of Genius; women, who can cry when they pleaſe; ſoaking ſots, who are far ever moiſtening their clay, till they grow maudlin in their liquor, and weep; lovers, who whine away their days in deſpair, till at laſt they take the Lovers'-Leap into their kindred ſea, or drown like blind puppies, in Roſamond's Pond; tragick authors and actors, who want fire, and draw tears from no eyes but their own: all theſe owe their origin to Water. Among theſe watry ſouls, there are indeed ſome few, that may be conſidered as ſalutiferous ſprings, that are bene⯑ficial to their fellow-creatures; or, like noble rivers, which are an ornament, as well as bleſſing, to the country through which they paſs.

Now, ſaid the GENIUS, raiſing his head, turn your eyes upward, and behold the region from whence they take their being, who are compoſed [134] chiefly of Air. Theſe are in general of a light and volatile diſpoſition; often fed with vain hopes, and pleaſed with empty trifles. Hence are derived the gay race of beaux and fops, who flutter, like but⯑terflies, about the polite world; and in this airy ſphere are formed coquettes, jilts, and thoſe females, who are enraptured with romance, or eternally dying with the vapours. Hence deſcend poets, pro⯑jectors, and caſtle-builders without number, who ſeem to be perpetually endeavouring to climb up to the region from whence they came; and the long train of dependants, who ſeem to have almoſt learnt to live, like the Camelion, on their native element, the Air. Hence come the light troop of Eſſayiſts, Pamphleteers, Sonneteers, Epigrammatiſts, &c. whoſe productions have their beginning in Air, and end in Fire. Of this Element too are com⯑poſed ſome daring ſouls, who take their bold flight, like eagles, and ſoar to the nobleſt heights; though never without being followed for a time with a multitude of crows, choughs, and ravens, who purſue them with hoarſe and diſſonant cawings, and diſturb earth and heaven with their clamour.

Laſtly, continued the GENIUS, behold the bright diſtrict where thoſe mortals are formed, who are compoſed principally of Fire. Theſe are, for the [155] moſt part, of a warm and paſſionate nature; amongſt whom the virtues and vices are to be found in their extremes. Here too you may find men of hot heads, and ladies of warm conſtitutions. Hence comes the termagant, who is all rage and fury, and the hero, who is all glory and gunpowder. Hence alſo comes the ſpirited race of bucks, bloods, libertines, and freethinkers. Hence too are derived many of thoſe glorious and ſublime ſages, heroes, princes, poets, and philoſophers, whoſe Genius throws a luſtre all around them, and who ſeem to be placed, like beacons, amidſt the human ſpecies, to hold forth lights to the reſt of the world.

Happy, ſaid the GENIUS, is he, who has learnt to temper the irregularities of his frame, ſo as to prevent the evil effects of the Element that prevails in his compoſition! Happier ſtill is that man, in whom the Elements are mixed in the neareſt pro⯑portion to each other.

At theſe words, whether from ſudden noiſe, ſuf⯑ficient reſt, a deſire to reply, or from what other cauſe I know not—I awoke.

THE GENIUS, NUMBER XIV.

BATH, and Tunbridge, and Cheltenham, and Scarborough, and the other Watering Places of this kingdom, although many miles diſtant from the metropolis, and ſome of them ſcarce to be brought within the compaſs of a day's journey, even in this age of expedition, when [137] the flying waggon is no extraordinary Phaenomenom, may yet be juſtly conſidered as places of publick diverſion belonging to the town. The Rooms in no wiſe reſemble other country aſſemblies, where the ſquire commands reſpect, and derives additional authority from being in the commiſſion of the peace; and the balls are quite in a different ſtile from a dance at the aſſizes, where the alder⯑mens' wives and daughters ſet off with the neweſt patterns, from London, are admitted to drop a curtſy to the ladies of the repreſentatives for the town or country, or, perhaps, even to the Lady Lieutenant. On the contrary, the company of theſe places make up the ſame fantaſtical medley, nay, conſiſts of the very ſame perſons as occaſionally compoſe the groupe in the places of entertain⯑ment in and about London; and while we are ſure to encounter the well-known faces that haunt every houſe and garden whoſe doors are thrown open to receive them, notwithstanding the real diſtance, we can ſcarce ſuppoſe ourſelves beyond the limits of the bills of mortality, any more than we are apt to fancy ourſelves out of town, when we have juſt got off the ſtones towards Vauxhall or Ranelagh.

[138]In this light, at leaſt, I was tempted to con⯑ſider this matter in a late trip to Bath—with this only difference: in town, the company is brought together for a few hours only; and though ſome may have repaired thither on foot, ſome in equipages decorated with bloody hands and co⯑ronets, and others in coaches diſtinguiſhed by ſquare plates of painted tin, yet, on their ſepara⯑tion, who can tell what becomes of his late aſſo⯑ciates, any more than where they came from? At Bath, and the like places, each perſon may be ſaid not only to exhibit himſelf for a time, but even to live in publick. He reſides in a houſe of glaſs, and all his words, actions, pleaſures, and at⯑tachments, are known to the whole circle of the little world he inhabits. Neither my lord, nor my lady, who diſdain to ſin in private, nor the petty treſpaſſer, who loves to be ſnug in his offences, are exempt from obſervation. Almoſt every body deſcants on the characters of others, and almoſt every body expoſes his own. It is a kind of ge⯑neral hob or nob, or give and take, as Shakeſpeare explains the phraſe, between all the good com⯑pany. The old, the young, the rich, the poor, the ſick, the well, Engliſh, French, Germans, Swiſs, and Italians, all live here together, as it were, in [139] one family; and with as little emotion of mutual concern or regard, as thoſe who are really of one family, commonly have for each other.

Bath no more owes its entire ſupport to mere in⯑valids, than the univerſities are filled with real ſtu⯑dents; or than the Temple coffee houſes are totally maintained by lawyers that have buſineſs, or Child's and Batſon's by phyſicians that have practice. If every ſaunterer in the Pump-Room was to be ſtrictly interrogated concerning the motive of his coming thither, or the manner of his paſſing his time there, diſſipation, play, and intrigue, would appear to have drawn after them a larger retinue than the gout or the cholick. A perſon, who is fond of taking an eſtimate of manners and prin⯑ciples, might find here much matter of ſpecula⯑tion. For my own part, being too poor to game, too well to drink the waters, too dull, or too briſk, too wiſe, or too fooliſh, too inſenſible, or too what you will, to fall in love, I remained an idle ſpec⯑tator of the buſy ſcene before me; and like a dull geographer, without pretending to account for the nature of the ſoil, or to diſcover the ſeveral ſprings and mines that lay underneath, I contented myſelf with taking a curſory ſurvey of the place, [140] and drawing out a map from what appeared on the face of the country.

It affords abundant matter of congratulation to this kingdom, that notorious games of hazard, ſuch as the E. O. Tables, and the like, are at length baniſhed from theſe places, as well as from the maſ⯑querade and ridotto. There are ſtill, it is true, to be found ſeveral hungry cormorants, eager to feed on the ignorant or unwary; and ſtudious to make uſe of the opportunities ariſing from the pro⯑miſcuous mixture of the cheat and the dupe, the gentleman and the ſharper. They, however, who are weak enough to fall a prey to theſe ſharks of ſociety, are the leſs to be pitied, as they ſeem to devote themſelves to deſtruction with their eyes open. The characters of theſe vagrant gamblers are generally notorious. He, therefore, who ven⯑tures his hundreds againſt the laſt ſtake of a fellow, whom he would not admit into his houſe, or ſpeak to, but acroſs the card-table, ſurely ſuffers himſelf to be robbed, while he feels the hand of the cut-purſe in his pocket; and has no more right to complain of ill treatment, than if he had deſcended to play with link-boys, and pick pockets in a night cellar.

[141]Far be it from me to endeavour, with rude hand, to force open the cabinet of love, or to unlock the ſecrets of the Temple of Cupid! Love, how⯑ever determined on ſecrecy, is apt to break out and betray itſelf unawares, to make itſelf known by a thouſand little inadvertencies and abſurdities in our conduct, the involuntrary emotions of ten⯑derneſs. Rather, therefore, would I admoniſh theſe ſweet triflers, in the ſuppoſed words of Caſſio to Deſdemona, ‘"let us be wary! let us bide our loves!"’ in order to which, let them abſtain from billing and cooing in publick, from rolling of eyes, and ſqueezing of hands, and joining of knees under the table! Idleneſs and curioſity are ever on the watch; and Scandal, like Virgil's Fame, has as many eyes as tongues. It is a maxim at Bath, and all other publick places, that when a young couple have been partners at a ball for two nights to⯑gether, every other point is ſettled between them; whereon the banns of marriage are publiſhed in the Rooms, long before the time for their declaration any where elſe. Making love may be, and no doubt is, a very engaging entertainment to the parties concerned; but there is no ſcene of courtſhip, which does not appear exttemely ridi⯑culous in the eyes of an indifferent ſpectator.

[142]But if the ſparks of honourable love are, in theſe common haunts of men, to be thus cautiouſly repreſſed from burſting into a blaze, what ſhall we ſay to the unwarrantable ebullitions of the ſpirit of intrigue? If a fine lady, juſt broke looſe from her huſband, or a warm widow lately relieved from the yoke of matrimony, have a mind to give their paſſions full play, why need they advertiſe their in⯑tentions to the whole world? Or, if a ſprightly young fellow has ſubdued some frail piece of fe⯑male virtue, is it not cruel to make his conqueſt publick? In a word, why ſhould both parties prefer an open ſcorn of virtue and decorum to the concealment of their vices? It would be too rigid and unreaſonable to debar perſons of ſpirit en⯑tirely from their pleaſures. I would only adviſe them to be temperate and diſcreet in the uſe of them. The cuckoldly huſband might put his horns quietly into his pocket, if he was not induſtriouſly pointed out for a monſter; and the world might wink hard at female frailties, if they did not provoke atten⯑tion, and peremptorily challenge obſervation. Open gallantries are ſure to become the ſubject of town-talk; and the rumour of Bath and Tunbridge intrigues is as quickly calculated through the [143] beſt company, as a box on the ear indiſcreetly dealt at Ranelagh.

There is no part of theſe mixt aſſemblies, which I am apt to conſider with more compaſſion, than thoſe unfortunate young females, whoſe wiſe rela⯑tions are fond of carrying them to and fro, from one publick place to another, by way of introducing them early to the knowledge of the world, or as the means of getting them a huſband. There is, indeed, no ſituation, where a decent and amiable be⯑haviour in a young lady would be more conſpi⯑cuous: but thoſe, who have been formed on the above-mentioned ſyſtem of education, have com⯑monly loſt all their domeſtick graces, without having acquired any allurements in exchange for them. They know the rules and cuſtoms of publick places, without being in the leaſt acquainted with the manners of the world, which are not to be collected in a giddy life of perpetual diſſipation, or learnt with the graces of a minuet, and the figure of a country dance, or picked up by chance at the lottery table; as a proof of which, it ſeldom hap⯑pens, that theſe female pupils of Flirtation con⯑tract an advantageous match, though they often fall a prey to the profeſſed rake or libertine. Or, if that is not the caſe, they are hawked about [144] from place to place, till the bloom is off the plum, when, (to purſue the alluſion) many nauſeate the fruit, ſo ſoon is grown dead and ſtale in the market, which perhaps they would have gathered with pleaſure, if it had been left to hang its due time upon the tree.

If there are any characters of this motley drama that move our mirthful indignation more power⯑fully than all the others, it is the ſwarm of humble retainers to the Great, that are for ever buzzing in the ear of nobility. The eaſy intercourſe be⯑tween perſons of different ranks, which this place affords, is particularly grateful to theſe ſpunges, as Hamlet terms them, who delight to ſoak up the countenances of people of faſhion. This nu⯑merous tribe is made up of both ſexes; and happy is he or ſhe who can be occaſionally called in to fill up a vacant corner in her Grace's party at Qua⯑drille; and how woeful is the mortification, if they ſhould fail to edge themſelves into his Lordſhip's tea-drinking! Such ſelf-made depen⯑dants, who are engendered by the ſmiles of the Great, like flies or maggots out of carrion by the rays of the ſun, have no idea of any diſtinction between perſons, except that which title beſtows on them. They ſeem indeed to ſuppoſe themſelves [145] noble and genteel by reflection, though they ſink in the eſtimation of others, in proportion as they riſe in their own. They are conſidereed in ge⯑neral as runners to the great, that fetch and carry, come and go, as they are bid. Though they flatter themſelves that they mix in the polite world, they live but in the ſuburbs and out-ſkirts of gen⯑tility. They are, in truth, but a mean appendage to the great, a higher, but yet more infamous degree, of pages and lacquies to hold up the tail of nobi⯑lity, or rather a contemptible part of the train itſelf; a narrow edging or border, a kind of beggar's tape that binds the hem of quality.

The late and ever-memorable Richard Naſh, Eſq. whoſe name is almoſt as much revered at Bath, as that of the great Bladud himſelf, for ſome few years before his death publiſhed propoſals for printing, by ſubſcription, The Hiſtory of BATH and TUNBRIDGE. Many, who ſubſcribed largely to this work, contrary to the caſe of all other ſub⯑ſcriptions, would have been much diſappointed and offended, if it had ever made its appearance; ſo that the price of ſubſcription might be conſidered as huſh-money, to keep the intrigues and gal⯑lantries of the nobility in ſilence. The original papers, containing many curious anecdotes, are [146] fallen into my hands; and, unleſs the dukes and dutcheſſes, peers and peereſſes, in general, and others the gentry of this realm, will ſubſcribe their five guineas to me, The GENIUS, as nobly as they did to the firſt author, the work ſhall certainly come out. In the mean time, the manuſcripts are lodged in the hands of an eminent counſel, as it is ſaid was the caſe with ſome of Pope's Epiſtles and Satires, that we may be enabled to go juſt upon the edge of libel and ſcandalum magnatum. Thoſe who would not have their adventures and amours recorded in this ſecret hiſtory, may take the gentle hint I now give them, and ſend in their ſubſcrip⯑tions to the printer of this paper. In the mean time, I would recommend it to Meſſrs. Wiltſhire and Simſon at Bath, as well as to the proprietors of the pump-room, and maſters of the coffee-houſes, to hang the rooms with the ST. JAMES's CHRO⯑NICLE.

THE GENIUS. NUMBER XV.

ON my return home a few evenings ago, I found lying on my table a ſoiled knave of diamonds, bearing evident marks of having ſerved in ſeveral campaigns, which I found, on exa⯑mination, to come from my old acquaintance, Mrs. Marrcourt, and to contain an invitation, written in her own old Engliſh black letter, to a private party at cards, on Monday the fourth of January.

Mrs. Marrcourt is the widow of a gentleman who had a place in the houſehold, and at her huſ⯑band's death obtained, by the intereſt and ſollici⯑tation of ſome powerful friends, an annual penſion [148] of a hundred and fifty pounds. Having had, as ſhe often ſays herſelf, a very genteel education, and always lived in a polite ſphere, ſhe entertains the moſt profound reſpect for all perſons of faſhion, as well as an implicit veneration for all the manners, appurtenances, and dependences, of quality. Wherefore, notwithſtanding the nar⯑rowneſs of her income, ſhe never could endure the thoughts of being exiled from the great world, but has been reduced to ſeveral ſhifts to maintain the appearance of a tolerable footing in it. Being now grown aged and infirm, ſhe cannot well crawl through the park in fair weather, or along the beſt paved ſtreets to pay her morning viſits. She is, however, in poſſeſſion of the caſt ſedan of a counteſs of her acquaintance, by whom ſhe was honoured with it as a preſent ſeven years ago; but being un⯑able to pay her chairmen the uſual rates for weekly attendance, ſhe drives a hard bargain, and retains them at an under price; whence it often happens, that her two chairmen are not only in liveries of two different colours, but ſhe is obliged to be car⯑ried by all the raw-boned, unpractiſed fellows, who jumble along in a rough trot, as uneaſy as a ſtage-coach over the ſtones; and no ſooner have they learnt to pace along in the true human amble, and [149] become capable of better buſineſs, than they deſert the good old lady, and their places are ſupplied by a freſh pair of hackney novices; ſo that ſhe has 'the breaking-in of moſt of the two-legged colts in town. She has apartments in one of the old palaces, gratis; and during the ſummer-months, becauſe ſhe would not, for the world, be ſo ungenteel as to ſtay in London, ſhe takes a two-penny lodging at Greenwich or Richmond. She conſtantly viſits at ſeveral great houſes, and though often ſhut out, by perſeverance and the utmoſt good-breeding, ſhe is ſometimes let in, and perhaps, if there is no particular company, aſked to ſtay dinner. The ladies treat her with a haughty familiarity, and ſtile her plain Marrcourt: and the facetious men of faſhion make mock love to her, compliment her, in the ſtrain of well⯑bred raillery, on her perſon, beauty, taſte, and other qualifications; freely indulging themſelves in all thoſe liberties, which young fellows, con⯑ſcious and vain of their rank, are apt to take with their inferiors.—Yet, even from this kind of con⯑nection with people of diſtinction, does Mrs. Marr⯑court derive no ſmall degree of conſequence. She remembers the day ſhe bought her laſt pound of tea, by recollecting it was the ſame on which ſhe [150] dined at his lordſhip's; ſhe talks familiarly of Lady Harriot and Lady Mary; and is reckoned, by all the lower gentry of her acquaintance, to be a mighty genteel ſort of body, and to keep none but the very beſt of company.

I waited on Mrs. Marrcourt on the evening appointed, but perceived, immediately on my entrance into her apartments, that although ſhe had given her aſſembly the modeſt appellation of a private party, ſhe had in fact collected all the company ſhe was able, with a particular view to bring together ſome perſons of rank and dignity. Her two rooms, the largeſt of which is ſcarce bigger than a cabin, and the leaſt a mere cloſet, were ſo crouded, that it was with the utmoſt difficulty that I could ſqueeze my little perſon ſideways between the backs of the chairs belonging to the ſeveral card tables, in order to make my way from one end of the place to the other. The tables were, many of them, placed diagonally, by which means ſhe had been able to edge in one or two extraordinary; and moſt of the company, who were not put down to cards, ſtood in a huddle by the fire-ſide, and the remaining few had diſpoſed themſelves in the ſeats of the windows. The room was lighted up with the ends of wax-candles, [151] bought of the duke of —'s butler, and the company regaled with a ſmall liquor, made by Mrs. Marrcourt herſelf, in the preſent ſcarcity of lemons, of the beſt Cream o'Tartar. The com⯑pany itſelf was as miſcellaneous as a pack of cards, or any hand that can be formed from different combinations of them; but the moſt diſtinguiſhed members of it, and to which I obſerved Mrs. Marr⯑court paid particular attention, were, an old Iriſh peer, of a diſputed title, a Creolian colonel, a diſ⯑treſſed baronet, a city knight and his lady, a French gentlewoman from the neighbourhood of Soho, an old general officer on half-pay, and a yellow ad⯑miral.

Such is the faithful picture of the good old lady's aſſembly; and without pretending to more than ordinary penetration, we may venture to pronounce that there are many Mrs. Marrcourts in this great metropolis. Nor is it any matter of ſurpriſe; for if ladies of diſtinction will delight to throw open their great gates, and court the whole tide of no⯑bility to flow in upon them, there will ever exiſt theſe minor dames of ſecond-hand gentry, fond of aping the vices and follies of their ſuperiors. But though the imitation of bad things, like the cor⯑ruption of the beſt, renders them moſt odious and [152] contemptible, it may not be amiſs to carry our re⯑flections ſtill further, and to conſider the nature of the politeſt of theſe aſſemblies, ſet off with every circumſtance of elegance and ſplendor.

Theſe genteel meetings, like Milton's Pandaemo⯑nium, frequent and full, are, in the dialect of the faſhionable world, denominated ROUTS; the ſigni⯑fication of which word, according to dictionaries of the beſt authority, is as follows, Johnſon defines a ROUT to be a clamorous multitude; a rabble; a tumultuous croud: and Giles Jacob, in his Law Dictionary, declares the word ROUT to ſignify an ASSEMBLY of perſons, gathered together, and going to execute, or indeed executing, an unlawful act. If we examine the thing itſelf as it appears in high life, we ſhall be convinced of the propriety of the term, and cannot but allow that all theſe ROUTS, from that of a dutcheſs down to Mrs. Marrcourt's, come within the meaning of both theſe deſcriptions. For what is a ROUT but a tu⯑multuous croud; a rabble; that is, a genteel mob, or the rabble of quality, drawn together, as Jacob ſays, and going to execute, or indeed executing, an un⯑lawful act?

But the prevailing idea is, undoubtedly, the Croud; and the lady, who is miſtreſs of the ROUT, [153] is happy in proportion to the numbers ſhe has been able to aſſemble. If the publick way is interrupted for three ſtreets together, and the company can ſcarce get to and fro between the houſe and their coaches and chairs; if the boxes at the play or the opera are robbed of their company, becauſe thoſe, who are left uninvited, are aſhamed to betray the contempt or neglect they are doomed to ſuſtain; if in the moſt ſpacious apartments in London, the company are crouded together, as cloſe as at Mrs. Marrcourt's, or as the poor pri⯑ſoners in the black-hole at Calcutta; the triumph is more ample and complete. I remember a dutcheſs and a counteſs, who for a time entertained the moſt mortal averſion for each other, from having both appointed their Routs on the ſame day of the week. The whole town, at leaſt the polite part of it, was divided into parties; and ranking them⯑ſelves, as under a banner, beneath the colours of the cards, were ſeverally called the Reds and the Blacks. The parties being equally powerful, and the Routs of each being of courſe rendered leſs numerous, who can ſay to what extremities matters might have been carried, if a man of faſhion, who, like a blank card, had yet received no impreſſion either from Red or Black, had not [154] fortunately compromiſed the affair, and pre⯑vailed on the ladies to be content with taking the day alternately, each holding a Rout only once in a fortnight?

It is remarkable, that this rage for a Croud has produced a moſt extraordinary revolution in dreſs. A friend of mine has compoſed a moſt ela⯑borate treatiſe, in the manner of Monteſquieu, on the cauſes of the riſe and fall of the hoop-petticoat. In the learned ſection on the ſubject of ROUTS, which is as curious as any chapter in Triſtram Shandy, the author has plainly demonſtrated, that theſe aſſemblies have produced a total revolution in architecture and dreſs. Every houſe is built as if it was intended to receive the whole town; and every lady is dreſt as if ſhe was going into apart⯑ments where ſhe would not have room to turn herſelf round. The hoop, which had ſtood the ſhocks of ridicule for forty years together, which dilated itſelf wider and wider on every new attack, which incumbered whole apartments, ſpread itſelf all over the Mall, eclipſed beaux, and overſha⯑dowed ſide-boxes, ſhrunk in an inſtant, like a flower ſhut up at ſunſet, or a cloſed umbrella. No Hoops became the common Nota Bene to all cards of invitation; and the ladies came abroad, [155] ſuddenly freed of all their tumours and incum⯑brances, like a new mother juſt delivered of her burthen, or like the fallen angels in Milton, as on a ſignal given,

It may almoſt be aſſerted, without a quibble, that the ſyſtem of life, now eſtabliſhed in the polite world, ſeems calculated to deſtroy ſociety for the ſake of company. A Lady's Journal is a mere calendar of viſits and routs; viſits often paid by the footmen, with a ſlip of card and a flam⯑beau; and Routs, where, inſtead of a few ſelect friends, ſhe meets with a croud of half acquaintance and ſtrangers. ROUTS are the modern ſchools of education for the female ſex; and as cards ſeem to be deſtined for their ſole amuſement and employ⯑ment, I would adviſe my good friend Mr. Newberry, the annual publiſher of the Ladies Me⯑morandum Book, to diſpoſe his next into the po⯑pular form of a pack of cards, the two and fifty cards, of which the pack conſiſts, naturally adapting themſelves to the uſe of the two and fifty weeks, into which the year is diſtributed. The [156] ſeveral Sundays might be diſtinguiſhed as the firſt, ſecond, third, or fourth Sundays of the dutcheſs of A's, the counteſs of B's, lady Van D's, or Mrs. E's Rout; and the little ſpaces allotted for ap⯑pointments, might be filled with ſecret aſſigna⯑tions, if it be true, (as the Chronicle of Scandal relates) that ſuch aſſignations are ſometimes made at theſe aſſemblies.

I have been the more earneſt to throw together my reflections on this ſubject at preſent, becauſe the female paſſion for ROUTS grows every day more and more predominant, and I am credibly in⯑formed that the contagion has actually ſpread even to our colonies, and been carried by our country-women into other parts of the world. General Aſſemblies, of no parliamentary nature, I am told, are frequently held in New England; the clerks of our Eaſt-India Company and their wives have, it is ſaid, been known to loſe a lack of rupees at a ſitting at Bengal; and I am confidently aſſured, that a lady of quality, on her travels, has ſo far broke in upon the ſimplicity of the Cantons, as to have abſolutely eſtabliſhed an evening aſſembly for halfpenny Lu in Switzerland.

In order, therefore, to prevent the further evil conſequences reſulting from theſe private publick [157] gaming-houſes, and at the ſame time not entirely to deprive perſons of diſtinction of their favourite amuſement, and yet to render it of ſome ſmall utility and advantage, I would humbly ſubmit to the attention of the legiſlature the following plan of a ROUT-ACT. No lady, of whatſoever rank, ſhould be allowed to hold in one night more than three card-tables for Whiſt, Cribbage, or Quadrille; which, with a fourth for the uſe of the more promiſcuous games, ſuch as Lanſquenet, Lu, Lottery, &c. may fairly be ſuppoſed to comprehend all the perſons that can meet at once for the ſake of ſociety. But, for the entertainment of thoſe, who delight in larger aſſemblies, two publick ROUTS ſhould be inſtituted, with authority to open their doors every night, like the theatres: one to be held, for the uſe of the court end of the town, at Carliſle Houſe, Soho Square; and the other, for the ladies of the merchants, aldermen, and common-council men, at Haberdaſher's-Hall in the city. The card-money, as well as the ſums ſubſcribed for admiſſion, (inſtead of being laviſhed on butlers, valets, and maitres d'hotel) ſhould be laid apart, in order to create a fund for the ſupport of decayed gameſters, whoſe neceſſities might be ſupplied by their ſucceſſors at the gaming-table, as the ſtage [158] now and then gives a benefit for diſtreſt and ſuper⯑annuated actors. By theſe means a lord, who has exhauſted his fortune by deep play, need not degrade himſelf by application for a penſion; and a merchant who has, by the like conduct, involved himſelf and family in the miſeries of bankruptcy, need not do the world and his creditors a further injury by going into buſineſs again.

THE GENTLEMAN. NUMBER I.

OF all bodies of men, Authors may juſtly claim the largeſt ſhare of publick ſpirit. Stre⯑nuous advocates for the rights of the people, they have not only even ſhewn themſelves vigilant guardians of the liberty of the preſs, but have alſo recently manifeſted a noble contempt for what appeared to be their own more immediate concern, [162] the property of the preſs; a property which they have lately ſeen voted away with a true ſtoical apathy and indifference. They have ſilently be⯑held, like unconcerned ſpectators, its very exiſtence denied, and have acquieſced in the ſublime doctrine of diſintereſtedneſs to the greateſt extreme. Phy⯑ſicians and lawyers avowedly plead and preſcribe for a fee, ſoldiers fight for pay, and even divines preach and pray for a benefice. The labourer, in other ſtations, is reckoned worthy of his hire. Authors alone are content to have little other re⯑compenſe than fame for their labours, and quietly allow that a general imprimatur converts their works into general property. The induſtrious commonwealth of literature has been plundered of the wax and honey, without one of the exhauſtleſs hive endeavouring to fix his ſting into his ſpoilers: but in vindication of the liberty of the preſs, not a drone but would join in inſtant commotion.

The Liberty of the Preſs is indeed a moſt glorious privilege. When it is but mentioned every En⯑gliſhman ſwells with a conſcious ſuperiority, and ſeems to feel himſelf half an inch taller; if on the Continent, the thought almoſt adds a cubit to his ſtature; yet this liberty, invaluable as it is, like all other liberty, has been ſhamefully abuſed; and has [163] oftentimes been exerciſed with the barbarity of ſa⯑vages, rather than the gallant ſpirit of freemen; by monſters wielding the pen, not as the ſword of publick juſtice or defence, but uſing it as the in⯑ſtrument of ruffian violence and private rancour. In political diſcuſſions, indeed, freedom of ſenti⯑ment and ſpeech ſhould be almoſt boundleſs: and a great and enterpriſing genius, beſt able to go all lengths, might perhaps with great propriety try, ‘"how far the Liberty of the Preſs could legally be carried:"’ but in writings of a private nature, that doctrine becomes ſhameful and ſcandalous, and the practice almoſt diabolical. He who exerciſes the Liberty of the Preſs, with no farther idea of reſtraint, than what the law impoſes, may eſcape a partial proſecution, but will incur univerſal contempt: for the rogue within the law, as any attorney can teſtify, is the moſt dangerous and deſ⯑picable of all rogues. In a moral as well as a civil ſenſe, every man's houſe ſhould in ſome meaſure be his caſtle; and the miſcreant who wantonly diſturbs the repoſe, or breaks into the harmleſs ſecrets, of a private family, commits a kind of literary bur⯑glary, and is almoſt as culpable as the miniſter or king's meſſenger who ſhould now attempt the ſeiſure of papers, or dare to enter a manſion by a [164] General Warrant. The Engliſh are a remarkably good-natured, as well as generous people; but were a ſtranger to form a character of them from a peruſal of their daily publications, they would ap⯑pear to require a conſtant evening ſacrifice to their ill-nature, and a hecatomb of reputations for their breakfaſt.

Seeing the colour of many other publications, and thoſe, alas, too generally popular, I mean oc⯑caſionally to hazard an eſſay in this paper, of a complection totally different, and now and then to reſcue at leaſt one column, in one news-paper, from ſcandal and politicks. The receſs of parliament, when the minds of men are leſs heated by con⯑tention, is a proper ſeaſon to commence ſuch an undertaking. For my own part, I am at preſent writing inclined to truſt the intereſts of my country, on both ſides of the Atlantick, to the three great branches of the legiſlature; but if I find them in⯑adequate or unfaithful, I ſhall be happy with other authors to embody, like the conſtitutional militia, in times of danger, and to change the Gentleman into the Politician, as Steele converted the Guardian into the Engliſhman. Even Quakers perhaps might, on ſuch an occaſion, ſuſpend the pacifick tenets of their perſuaſion; and even ſome of our Clergy [165] would, in ſuch circumſtances, exhibit a new idea of Church Militant, change their gowns for coats of mail, and like a boiled lobſter, turn from black to red.

It is however at preſent my wiſh and my intention to ſuffer my patriotick powers of writing to ſleep, like the ſword in the ſcabbard. Every Gentleman chuſes to wear one both for ornament and defence, but when he puts it on, ſays to himſelf with Mercutio, ‘"Heaven ſend me no need of thee!"’ I will not, like the court-fool of old times, run a muck againſt the King and his Nobles; I will not draw my wit upon the Miniſter; much leſs (as I have already profeſſed) will I wound the boſom of domeſtick tranquillity. I ſend theſe fu⯑gitive papers ſmiling into the world, wiſhing them, like Swedes' Tea, to ſweaten the blood and juices of my Countrymen, and to correct their ill hu⯑mours; but tho' intended for an antidote to black bile and acrimony, it is hoped they will not appear, like Magneſia, a cure for the heart-burn indeed, but in themſelves a drug taſteleſs and inſipid. The roſe and ſweet-briar are not the leſs fragrant for the thorn that makes a part of them; and the powers of ſatire and ridicule, while pointed at ge⯑neral vices and enormities, are not only innocent [166] but ſalutary. Bungling quacks cannot attack the diſeaſe, without injuring or perhaps killing the patient: but the true moraliſt ſees the drama of ſo⯑ciety performed before him, like the ſkilful natu⯑raliſt contemplating bees through a glaſs hive, marking their operations, and turning them to account, without offering the buſy inſects the leaſt injury. The preſent age ſwarms with follies, and teems with characters worthy of obſervation. Such will be frequently exhibited; but as they are in⯑tended, like thoſe of the New Comedy of Me⯑nander, to be general, it is hoped that none of them will be challenged by any individual.

The Motto prefixed to this Indroductory Eſſay may perhaps be thought arrogant; but it is only meant to imply ſuch ſubjects as are fit for diſcuſſion on a plan of this liberal nature, and ſuch a cha⯑racter as the writer would wiſh to exhibit in the perſon of The Gentleman: not that he preſumes to hint that he ſhall himſelf be found equal to it. He means to derive his chief importance from the merits of others. As to himſelf, whether really a Gentleman, or the meaneſt Plebeian; a ſtudent at his eaſe, or a ſcribbler in the Fleet; ſitting by a ſilver ſtandiſh in his own apartment, or with a broken ink-bottle in a garret or cellar; are matters [167] of no importance to the reader, ſo long as the author ſhall ſuſtain the part he has aſſumed. Though appearing in a publick character, he means to be nameleſs and unknown. He has drawn up the curtain, like other managers, without ad⯑mittance behind the ſcenes, an indulgence which might gratify the curioſity of a few, but tends to deſtroy the publick entertainment. In his bills the director can at preſent announce no more than The Gentleman, to which the wags (if they pleaſe) may ſubjoin, being the firſt time of his appearing in that character. I muſt beg leave, however, once for all to declare, that with whatever notice they may honour me, to their wit or their dulneſs I ſhall never make any reply; not from the ſpirit of ſilent contempt, but rather on the principle of Fielding, who when he was told in the Green Room that the audience were damning his Comedy, acquieſced in the badneſs of it, and cried, What! have they found it out!

It has heen ſuggeſted to me, that it would be more conſonant to the character of a Gentleman, to ſend forth my ſpeculations, like ſome of my predeceſſors, uncontaminated by paragraphs and advertiſements, beautifully printed on a ſheet and half of fine writing paper: but many of my [168] ſuperiors, ſeveral excellent eſſayiſts, moral and political, have written in news-papers. As to that, in which The Gentleman has choſen to inſert his Productions, he has diſtinguiſhed it on a prin⯑ciple of publick ſpirit; having obſerved it for ſome time paſt to have been the deadeſt, dulleſt, moſt unentertaining and inſipid of the many Journals and Chronicles which the preſs groans under at preſent; a circumſtance the more extraordinary, as it is, he is informed, the property of a junto of the ſprightlieſt, wittieſt, politeſt, and moſt learned ſpirits of the age; capable of inſtructing and enli⯑vening it with every ſpecies of compoſition, from Hiſtory down to a Pun or an Epigram. The very Printer, Mr. William Woodfall, if Fame ſay true, is able, like the ſilkworm, to weave his own rich materials, and, after the example of the Stevens's and Elzevirs, to be himſelf the editor of any produc⯑tions that might iſſue from his preſs. To ſtimulate therefore theſe capable but indolent geniuſſes, to rouſe them from their lethargy, to ſet all hands to work on board the London Pacquet, is the deſign and ambition of The Gentleman; happy, if like Falſtaff, he ſhould at any time be found to be witty himſelf, but content if he can at leaſt, like Falſtaff, be the cauſe of wit in other men.

THE GENTLEMAN. NUMBER II.

IT is uſual with thoſe who exhibit their perfor⯑mances to the Publick, to follow up their firſt effort with an account of the great and un⯑common applauſe that has been beſtowed on it. As I have always imagined ſuch accounts to be re⯑ligiouſly true, I cannot help conſidering myſelf as deplorably unpopular, or peculiarly unfortunate. I have not heard a ſyllable uttered in favour of the firſt Number of The Gentleman, and almoſt all the readers I expected to intereſt or engage, have been occupied with the Seſſions Paper or the [170] London Gazette. I have not ſeen a ſingle copy of verſes in praiſe of my ſtyle, and I have even been aſſured by my friends, that the people of this country will not at preſent read any article in a news⯑paper longer than a paragraph. I have however been honoured with the notice of two corre⯑ſpondents; and as they ſeem inclined, on certain conditions, to become aſſiſtants in my preſent un⯑dertaking, I ſhall introduce them to my readers by making their Letters publick, before I proceed in my own ſpeculations.

[173]According to my Correſpondent's definition, my idea of a Gentleman, and his idea of a Blackguard, conſtitute pretty nearly the ſame character. I think, indeed, he bears rather hard upon the FINE Gentleman of our age, and handles him with more roughneſs than ſo tender an animal provokes; yet it muſt be confeſſed that the writer's ruſticity, becomes him, and (as Addiſon ſays of Virgil in his Georgicks) that ‘"he toſſes about his dung with an air of gracefulneſs."’ I cannot therefore diſmiſs his epiſtle without aſſuring him, that I wiſh for a continuance of his correſpondence, as well as that of the Lady, who has favoured me with the fol⯑lowing Letter.

Till the Lady becomes acquainted with my name, character, and qualifications, ſhe is deſired to take it for granted that I am very tall, very well [177] made, exactly of the complection ſhe likes beſt, and juſt in my prime. In the mean time I moſt thankfully accept her kind offer, and do not doubt but it will be agreeable to my fair readers. The ladies have indeed betrayed ſome partiality for male hair-dreſſers, ſtay-makers, mantua-makers, and even men-midwives: yet I think they will un⯑boſom their failings more freely to one of their own ſex; and any lady, labouring with ſpleen, malice, envy, ambition, avarice, or ſecret diſorders of the mind, will be glad to be laid by a woman: eſpecially as an able and experienced practitioner (meaning myſelf) will always attend, ready to aſſiſt in any very nice caſe or an accident.

THE GENTLEMAN. NUMBER III.

LEARNING, like beaten gold, in proportion to its being more extended, becomes more ſuperficial. Groſs ignorance and profound eru⯑dition are now equally uncommon. Literature, [179] no longer confined to colleges and cloiſters, mixes itſelf in ſome meaſure with the commerce of the exchange, the exerciſes of the camp, and the graces of the court: but the deep-read ſcholar is a rarer character than ever. The main ſtream of ſcience, branching into numberleſs rivulets, grows ſhallow, as well as clear. The ſtores of learning are parcelled out by retail, and what was ſarcaſtically ſaid of the reputed knowledge of our northern neighbours, is nearly applicable to that of the whole iſland. Every man has a mouthfull, but no man has a bellyfull.

This obſervation, on the ſtate of learning in ge⯑neral, is almoſt equally true in reſpect to the leſſer [180] graces of Style and compoſition. That happy me⯑diocrity, denied by Gods and Men to the writers of former ages, has been reſerved for our own period. Few writers are barbarous and ungram⯑matical, or even unmuſical, in their language; but very few are truly ſimple, nervous, or elegant. Some ſtyles, like handſome faces, are ſpoilt by affectation, or ruined by varniſh and extrinſick or⯑nament; ſome are bloated with falſe pomp; ſome darkened by metaphyſical abſtract phraſeology; and ſome enervated by dapper familiarities, and the cant jargon of drawing-rooms, horſe-courſes, and gaming-tables.

Purity of Style, like purity of manners, is not wholly practicable: languages, like men by whom they are framed, will be imperfect: yet every en⯑deavour to trace the ſources of corruption, tends to ſtop its progreſs. Living authors, as well as living manners, are at once the chief objects of our cenſure and imitation. The works of deceaſed writers, which we have been taught by tradition to applaud, are too ſeldom turned over; while the productions of our cotemporaries preſent them⯑ſelves to our notice, oftener than their perſons. He, who has talents to diſtinguiſh himſelf from [181] the crowd, has more followers than an ancient phi⯑loſopher. A popular writer ſets the faſhion of Style, and the very herd of criticks, that wiſh to depre⯑ciate the value of his works, run after him. If an author ariſes, whoſe deep learning, and large imagination ſtruggling for expreſſion equal to his conceptions, tempt him to lengthen his periods, and ſwell his phraſeology; if an intimate famili⯑arity with the combinations of a dead language now and then betray him into too wide a deviation from the vernacular idiom; ſuch a writer will have the mortification to ſee the beauties of his Style diſtorted by aukward imitation, and his errors (if in him they are errors) made ridiculous by ag⯑gravation. The language that, in his maſter hand, like a well-tuned inſtrument, ‘"diſcourſes moſt eloquent muſick,"’ under their management utters nothing but diſcord. The rattling of their periods and tumidity of their phraſes, like the noiſe of a drum or ſwell of a bladder, are but ſymptoms of their wind and emptineſs.

Ornament of diction, ſays Quintilian, tho' the greateſt of beauties, is only graceful, when it follows as it were of itſelf, not when it is purſued. Of all ornaments, a foreign ſtructure of period, as it is the moſt prejudicial to the genius of our language, [182] appears the moſt ſtudied and unnatural. An adopted word is but a partial and trifling innovation, and is often happily incorporated, when care is taken to naturalize the foreigner, by giving a na⯑tional air to the turn of the phraſe. Every lan⯑guage, more eſpecially the Engliſh, has its idioms, which we ſhould not regiſter, with Grammarians and Lexicographers, among its irregularities, but with Poets and Orators, number among its beauties. To extirpate idiom from our tongue, would be like rooting up the old oaks, that are the glory and ornament of our country; or, to vary the alluſion, to ſquare the language of our ancient writers to the rigid rules of Roman or even French Syntax, would extinguiſh the genius of our Tongue, and give the whole a foreign air, like the labours of a taſteleſs improver, exchanging the luxuriance of nature, in our gardens, for clipt yews, ſtrait walks, and formal parterres.

Perſpicuity without meanneſs is pronounced by Ariſtotle to be the perfection of language, or, as he more nervouſly expreſſes it, the virtue of Style; to attain which, he recommends, as a principal inſtrument, the uſe of the moſt common words and phraſes in a figurative ſignification; the familiarity of the terms rendering them clear, and the novelty [183] of their application giving them an air of elegance or dignity. The works of our old writers, pro⯑ſaick as well as poetical, abound with theſe home⯑ſpun metaphors, by which the loweſt words in⯑creaſe their conſequence, or at leaſt, like cyphers, raiſe the value of their neighbours. Sometimes, indeed, theſe popular tropes are carried to exceſs, or uſed too licentiouſly; yet they commonly breathe a magnificent ſimplicity, and the whole conſtruction is purely Engliſh; a circumſtance, like that which induced Cicero to recommend the ſtudy of the an⯑cient Roman authors to his pupils in oratory, urging, that whoever was well read in their pro⯑ductions, could not, were he even inclined to it, ſpeak other than genuine Latin.

It will not, I hope, be imagined from what I have ſaid, that I think too lightly of the labours and genius of thoſe learned philologiſts, who, by compiling Grammars and Dictionaries, have en⯑deavoured to give preciſion and ſtability to our Tongue. Their works, if properly conſulted, are uſeful both to the learner and proficient; but if made the objects of their ſtudy, rather than occa⯑ſional aſſiſtants, they will certainly be pernicious. The Grammars of living and dead languages are too often framed on different principles: in the [184] latter, all irregularities, for which an authority can be pleaded, are ſanctified by a rule; while the other brands every idiom, or bold combination, as a licentious barbariſm. No man ever learnt a lan⯑guage, living or dead, from a Grammar or Dicti⯑onary; but by reading the beſt authors, and par⯑taking of the beſt converſation. He, who habi⯑tuates himſelf to ſuch ſtudies and ſuch ſociety, without propoſing to himſelf a particular model, will inſenſibly form a Style of his own; as in the mechanical part of writing, every man abandoning himſelf to his own fancy or powers, almoſt every man writes a different hand. A certain freedom of Style, a manly flow of language, will diſtinguiſh the authors of ſuch a ſchool; whoſe periods will not be divided into formal compartments, like the ſquares of a Moſaick pavement, exactly anſwering each other; but the members of a ſentence, like the members of the human body, will ſeem to be put together with eaſe as well as ſymmetry, and equally framed for the purpoſes of elegance and ſtrength.

As to Grammars and Dictionaries, though not adminiſtering to the foundation of our tongue, they may certainly be of great uſe to contribute to its preſervation. They are a kind of ſcaffold erected [185] by ſkilful workmen, after our language has been completely built, to repair the ruins of time, and to keep the venerable ſtructure from further decay. The laſt great Engliſh Dictionary will remain, as long as the Engliſh Tongue ſhall remain, a mo⯑nument of the learning and genius of its author; and I cannot better enforce the utility of the ſtudies recommended in this paper, than by concluding it with an extract from the admirable Preface to that work; a Preface, which at once delivers the precepts, and affords the example, of a pure and eloquent Style.

THE GENTLEMAN. NUMBER IV.

THE GENTLEMAN. NUMBER V.

THOUGH I did not on the commencement of this undertaking engage to appear before the Publick at any certain ſtated periods, yet it might not unreaſonably be preſumed by the occa⯑ſional reader, that I ſhould at leaſt adhere in ſome degree to the uſual practice of an Occaſional Writer. In the ſmall circle of thoſe, who did me the honour to peruſe the foregoing numbers, my long ſilence has, I find, given riſe to various conjectures. Some [197] have not ſcrupled to pronounce me really & bonâ fide deceaſed; while others have contented them⯑ſelves with lamenting my metaphorical departure from the literary world, ſaying, that my ſmall kilderkin of wit was entirely exhauſted. Others again have aſſerted, that during the ſummer months, I was, like my betters, retired into the country. Many concurring in this opinion, have however attributed my ſilence to ſome accident attending my retirement or peregrinations. Some have repre⯑ſented me on horſeback, like the Taylor riding to Brentford, and have cruelly diſlocated my collar⯑bone by a fall; ſome have ſhot me with a ſpring⯑gun, or ſtuck me in a man-trap, like Gulliver in a marrowbone; ſome have caſt me away on an inland-navigation; and ſome have buried me alive in a cavern of the Peak.

I have now the pleaſure to inform my friends that I am alive, and hope they will find me alive and merry. The truth is, I have been in the country; and though I cannot, like the inimitable Spectator, indulge myſelf in a ſeries of rural lucubrations; though I cannot extract entertainment from the hiſtory of an henrooſt, or pen an agreeable diſſer⯑tation upon haycocks; yet before I meet the Par⯑liament in London, and ſet up my reſt in town for [198] the winter, I will give a ſhort account of my firſt viſit during the ſummer receſs. This publication however is not without the privity and good liking of mine hoſt. Let me not be blamed therefore for a breach of the laws of hoſpitality!

My old ſchoolfellow and college acquaintance, Sir Jocelyn Hearty, having long importuned me to paſs two or three weeks with him in the country, about the beginning of Auguſt I ſet out for his ſeat, and towards the concluſion of the ſecond day, found myſelf nearly at the end of my journey. Within two or three miles of the manſion-houſe, I encountered ſeveral horſe-men whoſe ſeat appeared uncommonly looſe and unſteady; ſome in ſmall parties, hanging over their horſes, and ſeeming in earneſt converſation with each other; ſome galloping furiouſly after, dropping whips, and hats, and wigs, by the way, and ſhouting as they paſt, to denote their good fellowſhip, and hail their acquaintance. Upon turning into the grounds, which lead directly to the houſe, my ears were ſa⯑luted with a loud vocal chorus, which however quickly ſubſided, but was almoſt as quickly re⯑newed, and thus roſe and fell by turns, till I was arrived at the gate. Entering the hall, I found it ſtrewed with honeſt ruſticks, faſt aſleep, in their [199] boots and great coats. A ſaloon on each ſide of the hall was filled with benches and long ta⯑bles, at which a jovial company ſtill kept their places, drinking, toaſting, and ſinging.

My friend, it ſeems, was already retired. An old ſervant, however, took me under his protection, and provided me with every neceſſary accommo⯑dation till the next morning. About noon I was introduced to Sir Jocelyn, whom I found in his dreſſing-room, with a bowl before him, containing a compoſition of milk, nutmeg, and brandy, which he called a Doctor. This Doctor is, it ſeems, always called in on the morrow of theſe joyous feſ⯑tivities, and though not regular, may boaſt as numerous a ſet of patients, and a practice as ex⯑tenſive, as any of the Faculty. After a hearty ſhake by the hand, and a few other civilities, the Baronet informed me, that he and his friends of yeſterday had been getting drunk according to act of parliament. Having formerly been a ſtudent of the law, I expreſſed ſome ſurpriſe at not being able to recollect ſo particular a chapter in the ſtatute book. ‘"It is one of the beſt of them all, for all that, ſaid Sir Jocelyn: and yet it is but a new law neither, and I had the honour to aſſiſt at the paſſing it. The Grenville Bill, my friend! [200] Since that Bill paſt into a law, we dare not give a gill of wine, or a tiff of punch, before the election; but it is fit we ſhould entertain our friends handſomely ſome time after it is over, that the freeholders may ſee we do not forget them, and remember us hereafter accordingly."’ I could not help ſmiling at ſo ingenious an expoſi⯑tion of the ſtatute, telling my friend that the ſoundneſs of his law put me in mind of Foigard's logick, ‘"if you receive it before-hand it is a bribe; but if you take it afterwards, is is only a grati⯑fication."’

A few days after, Sir Jocelyn told me, if it was a matter of indifference to me which way I might ride that morning, he ſhould be very glad of my company to a village at about eight miles diſtance. ‘"But I muſt quit you at the town's end, ſays he, for I am engaged to dinner, and on particular buſineſs. We have a Meeting of the Juſtices."’ The chief buſineſs of this meeting, it ſeems, was to ſign Licences for the Publick Houſes for the year enſuing. This buſineſs was fortunately diſ⯑patched before dinner; fortunately, I ſay, be⯑cauſe their Worſhips ſhewed themſelves ſo ſincerely well inclined to promote the intereſt of thoſe, whoſe callings they met to authoriſe, that it [201] would not have been prudent to poſtpone an opera⯑tion for which their very zeal might diſqualify them. In ſhort, after a joyous day, Sir Jocelyn rode home rather quicker than he went, and we ſaw no more of him till the next morning.

In about a week more however he was again called forth to a Turnpike Meeting. Sir Jocelyn, ever ready to accommodate his friends, and ſerve the Publick, duly attended; but the road under conſideration proved ſo execrable, and ſo many difficulties occurred concerning the propoſals for repairing it, that the Committee ſat till midnight, and did not riſe till they had debated the matter, like the antient Germans, both drunk and ſober.

The Races and the Aſſizes, being each a kind of aſſembly of the whole county, it was impoſſible for the Baronet and his family to be abſent from either. On two different days of the Races were entered two horſes belonging to Sir Jocelyn. Both ſtarted, but their fortune was as various as their colours. The firſt day, his bald-faced grey horſe, North, won the odds againſt the field, carried off the King's Plate, and was victorious; but on the ſecond day his brown horſe, Orator, took ruſt, ran out of the courſe, and was diſtanced. Sir Jocelyn and his friends, after the example of the Ancients, celebrated [202] one of theſe events, and lamented the other, exactly in the ſame manner. The flowing bowls were crowned again and again in honour of the winner, and the cup of affliction ran over in ſorrow for the loſer.

At the Aſſizes, Sir Jocelyn was Foreman of the Grand Jury. So many bills were preſented, that the ſeveral members of the Inqueſt, exhauſted by their uncommon fatigue, required a more than or⯑dinary recruit. It is no wonder therefore that, having duly diſpatched in ſober ſadneſs the buſineſs of the nation, the honeſt country gentlemen relaxed their gravity, and converting their ſolemn aſſembly to a merry meeting, protracted their ſitting after ſupper till daylight.

An old boon companion of my acquaintance uſed to ſay, that getting tipſy was one of the pleaſanteſt things in the world, but that nothing was ſo irkſome and painful than its neceſſary conſequence, getting ſober again. This was exactly the caſe with Sir Jocelyn. The text of every evening was mirth and jollity, but the comment of the mor⯑row-morning was ſorrow and ſickneſs. The hunting ſeaſon commenced ſome little time before I departed. Every hare or fox that had been killed in the morning, was revived at night, and again [203] run down in full cry. The exerciſe of the chaſe was leſs laborious than the feſtivity of the evening. Politicks took their turn alſo. America was floated with lakes of claret, and the blockade of Boſton cauſed many an head-ach. On one of theſe oc⯑caſions, ſeeing my worthy friend in much pain, I could not refrain from a ſhort and affectionate ex⯑poſtulation, regretting that an excellent under⯑ſtanding ſhould be drowned in liquor, and the beſt of men rendered a martyr to his own hoſpi⯑tality and benevolence. ‘"Ah, my dear friend, ſaid Sir Jocelyn, with his hand preſſed upon his temples, you Town Gentlemen imagine that we lead very quiet, idle, lives in the Country: but take my word for it, that it requires a very good eſtate, and a very good conſtitution, to ſupport, as one ought to do, the character of a Country Gentleman."’

THE GENTLEMAN. NUMBER VI.

TERRAE-FILIUS. NUMBER I.

TO all whom it may concern, I the great TERRAE-FILIUS, the redoubted Acade⯑mical Satyriſt, the terror of old and young, male and female, graduates and undergraduates, gownſ⯑men and townſmen, matriculated and unmatri⯑culated, ſend greeting. I am come, Ladies and [218] Gentlemen, according to ancient cuſtom, to be one of the principal Actors in the Celebrities of the preſent Term. You have heard, without doubt, of the noble exploits of my predeceſſors, thoſe bold aſſertors of the Freedom of Speech, and the Li⯑berty of the Preſs. Though the degeneracy of the times, and the numberleſs innovations in the ancient cuſtoms and uſages of the Univerſity will not permit me, after the manner of my anceſtors, to enter the Theatre, and pour forth the torrent of my Family Eloquence from the Roſtrum, yet I am reſolved, not to be put to ſilence. My wiſdom ſhall cry aloud in the ſtreets, though no man re⯑gardeth it. I will erect my temporary Stage, like the itinerant practitioners in phyſick, in the high⯑way; I will make a ſpeech without doors. If I am forbid to mount the regular Pulpit, I do not doubt of having as numerous followers as other Field-Preachers. I am determined, at all events, to maintain the Honour, and aſſert the Privileges of my family; and make no doubt of being able to prove myſelf a Chip of the Old Block.

The method I have taken of announcing my intentions, by Advertiſements in the London Papers, and Oxford Journal has, I find, created the utmoſt conſternation among all ranks and [219] degrees of people in this famous Town and Univerſity. The Mayor and Corporation, I am informed were firſt ſeiſed with the pannick fit, and held a council extraordinary on this occaſion; when it was taken into conſideration, whether they ſhould put me into the Stocks, ſend me to the Houſe of Correction, or bind me over to appear at the next Quarter Seſſions. At length how⯑ever it was held to be an Univerſity-Buſineſs, and to fall more properly under the cogniſance of the Houſe of Convocation. From the Body Corporate therefore my cauſe was removed, by a new kind of Certiorari, to the Body Academical. The Right Honourable the Chancellor, I am told, is alarmed, and thinks of iſſuing a formal prohibition. The Learned and Reverend the Vice-Chancellor, I hear, has declared that he will not grant his Imprimatur to my Works: and the wiſe heads in Golgotha have laid their Sculls together about me and my paper. That formidable lawyer, and learned gentleman, the VENERIAN Profeſſor, it is confi⯑dently aſſerted, is conſulting the Archives, to pre⯑pare a SOLEMN LECTURE on the two tremendous Statutes De Contumeliis Compeſcendis, and De Famoſis Libellis. The Publick Orator, they ſay, is drawing up an Harangue in the ſtyle and ſpirit of Quouſque [220] tandem? and the Poetry Profeſſor is writing a Poem againſt me. It is further added, that the name of TERRAE-FILIUS himſelf, as ſoon as it is certainly known, will be regiſtered in the BLACK BOOK; and he himſelf, like moſt of his fore-fathers, will be publickly expelled:—That his poor printer will be trained after a Beadle, as big as Pope Beaver, into the Vice-Chancellor's Court, and in ſpite of the Statute De Privilegiis Urbis et Univer⯑ſitatis ſimul non fruendis, have the honour of an Academical Mittimus to the Caſtle or Bocardo.

Some few, however, who fancy that they ſee deeper than the ſurface, and that they have more penetration than their neighbours, affect to know me and my intentions better. The dreadful ſound of the name I have aſſumed, which has alarmed the vulgar, as that of Raw-head-and-bloody-bones ſerves as a bug-bear for children, theſe confident gen⯑tlemen affect to conſider as a mere ſcare-crow ſet up to fright the few ſhallow daws and chattering pies of the Univerſity, while my words, however big and ſonorous, are as innocent as the noiſe of a cherry-clapper. They affect to laugh at thoſe who have conceived horrible ideas of me, and cry out, when they hear that TERRAE-FILIUS is coming, that there is a lion in the way. TERRAE-FILIUS, [221] they pretend, is not that tremendous animal he was wont to be. Lion as he is, he has filed his teeth, and pared his claws, and though he may venture to lift up his voice, and make the wide foreſt tremble at his roar, yet like Shakeſpear's Lion, he will roar as gently as any nightingale.

Be this as it may, whether I ſhall prove myſelf a Literary Hornet, a downright Academical Waſp, or merely an innocent Humble-bee, with a ſmall ſting by way of defence, or melius non tangere, in my tail; whether my ſtyle will be more agreeable to the genius of our modern ENCAENIA, or the old Saturnalia; whether I ſhall pour forth from my ſmall cruet of wit and humour the oil of Panegyrick, or the vinegar of Invective and Satire; in what⯑ever manner I may write or ſpeak; ſtill, Gentle⯑men, I muſt inſiſt on it, that I have a natural, an uncontrovertible right to appear at theſe Solemnities, a right eſtabliſhed by the ancient forms of the Univerſity, and recogniſed by the Statutes. The celebrities appendant and appurtenant to the Act-Term, every man muſt acknowledge, would be imperfect without the admiſſion of ſuch a character as that I have undertaken to ſuſtain; a character as neceſſary to enliven the gravity of ſolemn convo⯑cations, formal proceſſions, long harangues, dull [222] diſputations, and oratorios moſt muſical, moſt me⯑lancholy, as the introduction of the Fool among the perſonages of the Old Comedy, or that merry gentleman Maſter Punch among the wooden Kings and Queens at a Puppet-Shew. It is the peculiar nature alſo of ſeaſons of feſtivity, to ſtrike out ſallies of Wit, and indulge ſtrokes of Satire, which give no more annoyance to the ge⯑neral merriment, than illuminations and fireworks on a night of rejoicing, though perhaps ſome queer old gentleman may be alarmed at the crackers bouncing about his ears, the ſerpents hiſſing at his tail, or a ſquib whizzing in his periwig.

In an age leſs productive of innovations than the preſent, I ſhould indeed be ſurprized that when the Celebration of the Peace has cccaſioned a kind of Publick Act, no perſon, properly qualified ſhould be called upon by the Heads of the Univerſity to officiate in the capacity of TERRAE-FILIUS in the Theatre; or at leaſt if ſo eſſential a Perſonage as TERRAE-FILIUS ſhould be by our Academical Licenſers and Chamberlains ſilenced and forbid to appear on the ſcene, I am ſtill more ſurprized that the character of Publick Orator alſo ſhould not be wiped out of the Dramatis Perſonae. His rattling Eloquence and my Sprightlineſs, (or, if you pleaſe [223] to call it ſo, Impertinence) ſhould accompany one another as naturally as thunder and lightning. To have all praiſe and no ſatire, all ſweet and no ſour, is to make your punch without lemon. The province of Publick Orator, we know by experience, is wholly Panegyrick; that is (the caſe of the preſent company always excepted) to ſay every thing of a man but the truth; whereas the very nature and ſpirit of my office demands, that al⯑though the truth ſhould not be told at all times, yet at this particular ſeaſon, I may tell the truth, the whole truth, and ſometimes perhaps, a little more than the truth; and though truth in general is well known to be at the bottom of the well, yet on theſe occaſions, it may be pumped up, be the ſprings ever ſo foul and muddy, till it runs clear, and dealt out among you by pails and buckets full.

The Reverend Dr. BROWN, a worthy member and Illuſtrious ornament of a Siſter Univerſity, in a diſſertation lately publiſhed, wherein he has drawn all the rudiments of politeneſs from ſavages, and ſhewn us that the Tree of Knowledge ori⯑ginally took root in the ſoil of ignorance; the learned Doctor, I ſay, Gentlemen, has proved almoſt to a logical, if not a mathematical demon⯑ſtration, that Satire and Comedy, as well as Ode and Tragedy, owe their birth to the ſolemnization [224] of that elegant Indian celebrity, the ſavage Song-Feaſt, where every man had a licence to make free with another, and to throw out jeſts and gibes upon his neighbour. Since therefore the Publick Orator ad⯑heres to his imitation of the great Prototypes of ſublime Panegyrick, ſhall not TERRAE-FILIUS be permitted to follow up the Originals of familiar Sarcaſm? Shall we, Ladies and Gentlemen, be leſs liberal and open-hearted in our mirth than the Cherokees and the Catabaws? Shall we be ex⯑ceeded in politeneſs by the Six Nations? And ſhall the ſavages on the Ohio and Miſſiſippi indulge themſelves in more truly-claſſical feſtivities, or ele⯑gant railleries, than the polite ſcholars on the banks of the Iſis?

If we deſcend to later times, or examine the cuſtom of more poliſhed ages, we ſhall find that at all ſeaſons of feſtivity and rejoicing, peculiar freedoms are allowed; nay that even ſome mixture of terror is often introduced, in order, as may be ſuppoſed, to give a higher reliſh to the other portions of the Celebrity. The Spaniſh bull-feaſts, and old Engliſh tilts and tournaments are of this nature; or to confine my illuſtrations entirely within the limits of our own times and nation, and to ſhew we love a little horſe-radiſh with our roaſt-beef, what do you think, Gentlemen and Ladies, [225] of the Champion at a Coronation? Is not a doughty knight, armed cap-a-pee, prancing in upon a milk white palfrey, by found of trumpet and beat of drum, and throwing his gauntlet in defiance, a moſt tremendous apparition? He makes his entrance too during the peaceful ceremonial of Dinner-time, yet I never heard that he frightened away the ſtomach of the moſt delicate Lord or Lady, or infuſed terror into any of the worſhipful Aldermen.—Do not let TERRAE-FILIUS diſturb your Gaudies, Gentlemen!

Suffer me, then, Ladies and Gentlemen, in like manner, at this ſeaſon of general feſtivity, armed at all points, with all the accoutrements of the Old TERRAE-FILIUS, and mounted on a high-bred Pegaſus, to make my uſual cavalcade among you. You, who have ſhewn yourſelves willing to afford general encouragement, who have committed your eyes to the care of Chevalier TAYLOR, and your tongues to Profeſſor SHERIDAN; you, who have given a hoſpitable reception to Drybutter on the Glaſſes, and Maddox on the Wire; you, who have welcomed the arrival of the Fire-Eater, and the Giant, and the Dwarf, and the Hermaphrodite; you, who have with infinite propriety circulated papers, propoſing to honour that accompliſhed [226] Maſter of Legerdemain, Highman Palatine, the HIGH-GERMAN ARTIST, with the degree of MASTER of ARTS; receive your old acquaintance TERRAE-FILIUS! inveſt him with all the dignities, privileges, and immunities of his Office; let the javelin-men in ruſty green, and the two cracked trumpets precede him, as they do the Judges of Aſſize, and let none but acknowledged felons and fore-doomed convicts be afraid of the conſequences of our opening our Commiſſion of Oyer and Ter⯑miner.

Let ſuch delinquents however, and ſuch it ſeems there are, let ſuch I ſay, tremble! My arm is raiſed, the ſcourge is in my hand, and conſcience (which, according to Swift, is a pair of breeches) lays them bare before me. Let all, to whom the lines which ſtand at the head of this paper, are any way applicable, prepare to be arraigned for their crimes and miſdemeanors, and receive ſentence foro conſcientiae accordingly. I will not now tranſcribe a tranſlation of my Motto from Francis or Creech, or after the new-fangled faſhion of modern wits, give a new one of my own, adapted to modern manners;^* but I rather chuſe to enforce and illuſtrate [227] the alarming words of the Roman Satiriſt, by the following ſtill more tremendous Quotation from Shakeſpeare.

The regular diſpatch of buſineſs, and the ſolemn adminiſtration of juſtice muſt however, be deferred till to-morrow. To-day the edge of our Satire, like the ax before the condemnation of a State-Priſoner, ſhall be turned away from the criminal. In the mean while, for the next twenty-four hours, let the Univerſity be at reſt! let the tea-giving Belles of this town, who have danglers in ſquare caps and hanging ſleeves, who boaſt the triumphs of a letter'd heart, not put the pit-a-pat-ation of their dear little boſoms into a flutter! Let the roſy Doctors and my good Maſters in every Common-Room ſleep in peace, till their next neighbour informs them that the bottle is at their elbow! Let them ſmoke their pipes in ſecurity! Let [228] not pale faces turn red, nor red faces turn pale! To-day (ſuch is my reſpect for the Anniverſary of the Commemoration) I will not diſturb even the tranquillity of a Pot-houſe! Let the young Smarts, and Bucks, and Bloods of the Univerſity lay aſide their apprehenſions for to-day! I will not diſcompoſe their dreſs by remarking on an unſtatutable Waiſtcoat or the want of a Band, or attempt to put their Hair out of Kidney. I will not, like an unmannerly Dean or Cenſor of a College, break in upon them to interrupt the evening's amuſement of Cards or Dice, the briſk circulation of Toaſts, or the merry merry round of Catches at their rooms; nor attempt to take them, like the Proctor, over a late bottle at the Coffee-houſe. I will not, like another GREAT TOM, toll them into College with a hundred ſober hum-drum Mementoes, that it is paſt nine o'Clock; nor will I lay open the myſteries of their Scenes of Merriment in London, Woodſtock, and Lady-grove: and if I fine them for their irregula⯑rities, it ſhall be in a much more moderate ſum than Forty Shillings, or any other Sconce impoſed by the Proctors. The Price of my Papers, Gen⯑tlemen, is no more than Sixpence apiece.

TERRAE-FILIUS. NUMBER II.

OF all the Literary Commodities, which are at preſent brought to market, there is not one which produces half ſo large a demand, or ſuch a quick ſale as SCANDAL. Formerly the ſweet flowers of Poetry, like Myrtle or Orange Trees in Pots, were the chief ornaments of a Bookſeller's Window, and ſold as well as Roſes and Hyacinths at Covent-Garden; but now every bud and bloſſom of Helicon, every fruit and flower of Poetry, every ſhrub of Parnaſſus is an unprofitable weed, unleſs [231] it be as bitter as Wormwood, or Coloquintida. Heavy Treatiſes, Moral Diſcourſes, and dull Diſſertations, were once as greatly in requeſt as beef at Leaden-hall; and Religion and Philoſophy were as fixt ſtaple commodities as corn at Bear-Key. Law, in white Calf-ſkin, while there were any Students in the profeſſion, ſold at as high rates in the purlieus of the Temple or Lincoln's Inn, as the Calf itſelf in Smithfield; and till the poring over muſty Parchments was exploded in the Inns of Court, the Sheep-ſkin was almoſt as valuable as the Sheep. It was eaſy alſo for the Manufacturers of Syſtems and Paradoxes to drive a kind of con⯑traband trade in Deiſm, Infidelity, and ſuch other Hardware; and little Dablers in Ink often made ſucceſsful cruiſes in ſmuggling Prophaneneſs and Bawdry. In a word, every common Pedlar in a Magazine was thought to have ſome curious Trinket in his Pack; and the loweſt Hawker was ſure to make a dinner on a Bloody Murder, or the King's Speech.

Theſe times, wherein the great Mart of Letters was in ſuch a flouriſhing ſituation, were indeed glorious! but now, to the unſpeakable detriment of Trading Authors of almoſt every denomination, Literary Property is reduced to a very narrow [232] compaſs; and the richeſt Copyholders not only groan under the load of heavy Fines and new Impo⯑ſitions, but ſee their moſt valuable Poſſeſſions periſhing under their hands, or in ſpite of every fence of Law and Equity, invaded by bold treſ⯑paſſers from Scotland. For many parcels and whole bales of goods they have now no vent. No performance can promiſe itſelf a great run that is not highly ſeaſoned with Abuſe; and the nearer a Writer approaches to unqueſtionable Libel, and the moſt open Scandalum Magnatûm, the more his Work will be read. If a ſmart piece of Satire is thought to have occaſioned a duel, though it is doubtful whether the piſtols of the combatants ever were more than upon half-cock, the paper will run off like wild-fire. An information in the King's-Bench, or a viſit from a King's Meſſenger will carry off a dozen impreſſions; and if the Author ſtands in the Pillory, or is committed to Newgate, or ſent to the Tower, the fortune of the Bookſeller is made for ever.

It is plain therefore, Ladies and Gentlemen, from theſe and many other conſiderations, which I have duly weighed and deliberated, that SCANDAL is the moſt profitable commodity which a Writer can deal in, being that to which Readers give [233] the moſt encouragement. Scandal-mongers, like Fiſh-mongers, may put what price they pleaſe on their goods, and be ſure to have them all bought off their hands, provided they will take care to ſupply their cuſtomers freſh and freſh. This therefore is to give Notice, that I, TERRAE-FILIUS, at the Univerſity-Scandal-Office in Oxford, have determined to open a ſhop in the High-Street, during the ENCAENIA; and though all will be accounted fiſh that comes to my net, yet to avoid creating a glut, which might make my ſtock too cheap, I ſhall, like the reſt of my honeſt fraternity, throw away the ſmall Fry, and offer you nothing but the very Prime of the Market; and I can aſſure you, Ladies and Gentlemen, that I have ſe⯑veral odd Fiſh, and ſuch as were never exhibited to ſale before, which are juſt brought to town BY LAND CARRIAGE.

I have already received, in conſequence of my late requeſt by publick advertiſement, ſeveral very curious and entertaining anecdotes concerning ſome of the moſt eminent Perſonages attending the preſent Celebrity, aliens and viſiters, as well as inhabitants and members of Colleges, with many of which, the names of the parties printed at full length, I propoſe to oblige my Readers; [234] reſerving the reſt to enrich the two Volumes of my College Atalantis, Subſcriptions to which pour in a-pace, abundantly more than ſufficient to defray the expence of any Proſecutions which my Papers may incur, or to carry on ſuch actions as I may think neceſſary to maintain, in vindication of the Freedom of the Subject, and the Liberty of the Preſs.

But while I am thus employed in collecting materials for Secret Hiſtory, and puſhing as far as poſſible my reſearches into the characters of others, you, I find, Ladies and Gentlemen, are equally aſſiduous in your enquiries after Me. It is a well known remark of Addiſon, that Readers never entertain a true reliſh for a Performance, till they know ſomething of the Author; as whether he is a fair man, or a black man; a ſhort, man, or a tall man; a nobleman, or a gentleman, or a tradeſman, or a highwayman; a divine, a lawyer, or a phyſician; high or low; rich or poor: ſorry am I to be obliged to call in queſtion the obſervation of ſo fine a writer, but I muſt beg leave to inſiſt on it, that till the Book is, by ſome means or other,—by its Whimſicalneſs, its Scurrility, or no matter what—become the object of general notice, nobody cares a farthing [235] about the Writer. Then, indeed, when the alarm is given, when Merit has made its way, or when Faſhion or Caprice have given the nod of approbation, then the Hue and Cry goes abroad after the Author.—Who is he? which is he? where is he? what ſays he?—This is, and I'll be judged by Mr. Shandy,—this is, as the Laureat terms it, the Honeymoon of Wit.—Now Lords aſk him to dinner; Ladies take him to Ranelagh; and Ma⯑nagers give him the Freedom of the Theatre. His Name is in every News-paper, and his Face in every Print-ſhop. If the real Author is not known, a ſubſtitute, as in the caſe of Militia-Men, is appointed to ſerve in his ſtead, which the world runs after with as much eagerneſs, as Turnus purſues the airy image of Aeneas, or ra⯑ther as the Bookſellers purſue the phantom of an Author in the Dunciad.

I had once ſome thoughts, in order to gratify the reigning paſſion for Caricature, of having my head cut in wood, and placed at the front of theſe papers. At another time I had half formed a re⯑ſolution of having my face painted by Haggarty, and hung up as a ſign, at the door of my Printer. But finding that maſked Balls are coming into faſhion, I at laſt determined to mix among the [236] croud in diſguiſe, with the liberty of other Maſqueraders, of attacking every perſon in com⯑pany, in a ſeigned voice, with the, witty Interro⯑gation of Do you know me?

Curioſity, however, is not to be repreft, and there are many that will flatter themſelves they ſee through the diſguiſe. They know your walk, your voice, your air, or ſome little peculiarity in your manner, or deportment. I have had the honour of being miſtaken for ſeveral celebrated perſons already, and every man is convinced that I am one of his old acquaintance. Some take me for that merry fellow, the facetious Author of The Companion to the Guide, and the Guide to the Companion; that lively ſpark who ſhewed early dawnings of a Poetical Genius, and ſoon proved himſelf a fine chopping boy, that would do honour to his ALMA MATER, when he ſung the Triumphs of Iſis: who not only brings up the rear of Epicaedia and Gratulationes with uncommon ſpirit, but can alſo deſcend from the ſublimer exerciſes of his Muſe, to celebrate the Maker of Mutton-Pies, or compoſe Odes on Grizzle-Wigs: who, though now a grave Tutor, cannot ſurely, nay ſhould not, wholly forget his days of pupilage; and though now

yet he muſt remember the days when his ALE firſt became a rival to Phillips's CYDER; the days when he frequented Chriſt-Church, and ſpent his evening at Captain Jolly's.

Some there are, who ſuppoſe me to be no other than that grave Antiquarian, that SOUL of AIL SOULS, who obliged the world ſome years ago with a diſſertation on the MALLARD; who has ſince appeared in the ſhape of a Decypherer, and wrote an Explanation of the. OXFORD ALMANACK; and about the ſame time, like an expert Gameſter, played my cards moſt notably at a certain Game of ALL FOURS.

Others take me for that Rattle the STUDENT; and others for that Dapperwit the GENIUS; and ſome for both theſe together who have come down expreſly from London, like the chairmen with their ſedans; or like a pair of oars on the Thames in Whitſon-Holydays, have agreed to ply together, during the preſent Celebrity on the Iſis. Should it be the firſt of theſe wags, it is [238] pretended that the company may expect a Sign Poſt Exhibition, or that the ſolemn Oratorios under the direction of Dr. Hayes, the Profeſſor of Muſick will be turned into ridicule by a grand Burleſque Ode, and a maſked Band from Ranelagh: and in caſe it ſhould be the other Little Wit, it is ſuppoſed that, beſides threatning the Univerſity with a TERRAE-FILIUS, he means once more to convert the Tennis-Court into a Playhouſe, and, in defiance of the Statute De ludis prohi⯑bitis, to bring down a company of Comedians (fu⯑nambulos et hiſtriones) to preſent us with new JEALOUS WIVES, and new POLLY HONEYCOMBES, of his own compoſition.

Some few, who indulge this laſt way of thinking, are half inclined to ſuppoſe that TERRAE FILIUS is the Haymarket MOMUS, who formerly gave Tea, and took off his Tutor and the reſt of the Fellows at Worceſter-College; in which honourable So⯑ciety he is acknowledged to be a Founder's Kin, of which circumſtance perhaps he may one day or other claim the benefit, notwithſtanding the objections raiſed in Dr. Blackſtone's learned Treatiſe on Collateral Conſanguinity.

Others again, the miniſterial and anti-miniſ⯑terial Characters in the Univerſity, whoſe ideas [239] of Wit and Humour are almoſt entirely abſorbed in Port and Politicks, will have it that I am one or other of the ſuppoſed Authors of the North-Briton; ſince it is generally reported that the Reverend Gentleman, having ſnapped the laſt cord of poor Hogarth's heart-ſtrings, will come down in his laced hat, like General Churchill, Or Tiddy-Doll, and being a member of the Uni⯑verſity of Cambridge, it is taken for granted that the Convocation will take this publick oppor⯑tunity of admitting him ad eundem. At the ſame time too the News-papers having already in⯑formed us that the Member of Parliament for Ayleſbury will be here in his way to Stowe, the Squire is hourly expected with a grand retinue of Compoſitors, Preſsmen, Devils, and his own extempore travelling Preſs from Great George Street, Weſtminſter.

Such, it ſeems, and ſo various, are the ſen⯑timents of different little cabals in this Town and Univerſity, concerning the real Perſon of TERRAE-FILIUS. Whether he be either, or nei⯑ther, or one, or all of the characters above⯑mentioned, time alone muſt diſcover. He is de⯑termined, like the Actors among the Antients, to play out his little Comedy in a Maſk, and [240] all the notification which he thinks proper to give of himſelf in his preſent Bills, is, that at the particular deſire of ſeveral Perſons of Quality, the part of TERRAE-FILIUS is attempted by a GENTLEMAN FOR HIS OWN DIVERSION, being the firſt time of his appearing in that character.

TERRAE-FILIUS. NUMBER III.

THE reigning paſſion of this nation, for ſome few years paſt, ſeems to have been the love of Shews, and Spectacles, and Feſtivals, and Solemnities. During the war, the people betrayed ſeveral ſymp⯑toms of this rage after fine ſights, and many thou⯑ſands followed the Camp, as young enſigns often take to the army, for the ſake of its ſplendor and gaiety. One week all the vehicles in England and from the coach and ſix, or landau with two poſtilions, down to the one horſe chaiſe, and ſober [243] ſulky, were whirling paſſengers along the road from all quarters towards Portſmouth, to ſee the Fleet aſſembled at Spithead; and the next, the ſame people were tranſported with the ſame rapi⯑dity, by the ſame paſſion for a ſight and a croud, to behold the evolutions and manoeuvres of the re⯑giments of Militia embodied and encamped at Wincheſter. At the Coronation the tide of company from every county in the kingdom flowed, like rivers diſcharging themſelves into the ſea, into the metropolis. Laſt ſummer one would have imagined that all the famous witches of Lancaſhire had been at work to draw the whole city of London from its foundations, which ſeemed, like Birnam wood going to Dunſinane, to be all moving together to Preſton Guild. This ſummer, now that Oxford is become the ſcene wherein the Grand Shew is exhibited, and the doors of the Sheldonian Theatre are thrown open for almoſt a whole week, it is no wonder that London once more empties itſelf into this magnificent reſervoir, and that all ranks and degrees of people are aſſembled to ſee the doctors in ſcarlet, and to attend the Lectures of TERRAE-FILIUS.

There is not a man on earth, Ladies and Gen⯑tlemen, who is a truer lover of mirth and jollity [244] than myſelf; and I take a moſt particular delight in the preſent ENCAENIA. It gives me an un⯑ſpeakable pleaſure to ſee the new Dunſtable-bonnets mixt with ſquare caps, and a gown and petticoat by the ſide of a gown and caſſock. I could ſtand whole hours to ſee the white fuſtian riding-habits and blue ſattin-waiſtcoats make their entry at Eaſt-Gate; and am tranſported to ſee the boot and the baſket of all the ſtage-coaches filled with roſin and cat-gut, and fiddles, and hautboys, and cla⯑rionets, and french-horns, and baſs-viols, while the inſide and outſide of every machine is crouded with the performers, Engliſh and Italian, vocal and inſtrumental. Feſtivals and Solemnities have, I grant, their uſes and advantages; and far be it from me to attempt to eraſe any of the red-letter days from the OXFORD Almanack! It muſt however, at the ſame time be confeſſed, that ſcenes of grandeur, and ſeaſons of celebrity, which ſerve merely for relaxation to the ſtudious, and fill the intelligent mind with great ideas, often prove only new occaſions of idleneſs to the holy-day-making tradeſmen, and open nothing but the mouth of the ignorant, who ſtand agape, gazing with a fooliſh face of pleaſure and aſtoniſhment. I am not one who lament as a diſappointment our not having [245] fireworks on occaſion of the preſent Peace; and think that the 40,000 people, aſſembled laſt week in Hyde-park, had ſufficient conſolation in the review. I am glad indeed to ſee our CHANCELLOR pre⯑ſiding in perſon, for the firſt time, at a publick Solemnity among us, yet do I not wiſh for the in⯑ſtallation of another to produce more ſpectacles, though as magnificent as what we ſaw at the inſtallation of Lord WESTMORLAND: and for the above reaſons, as well as for ſome others which I do not think it prudent or adviſable to mention at preſent, I hope it will be long, very long, before there is another Coronation!

Going along the High-ſtreet laſt Tueſday morning I was obſerving, not without a ſmile, one of thoſe modern tottering crazy vehicles, half-poſt-chaiſe, half-chariot, neither one nor the other, and yet ſomething of both, driving towards the Angel Inn-yard; but turning my eyes from the carriage to the perſons it contained, whom ſhould I ſee, but my good friend Mr. FOLIO the book⯑ſeller, near St. Paul's, and his wife, Mrs. FOLIO; who at that very inſtant happening to dart the rays of her bright eyes in right angles upon me, ſhe pulled my Friend FOLIO by the ſleeve, who ſeemed half a-ſleep by her ſide. FOLIO no ſooner [246] ſaw me, than he ran his head and neck a yard and a half out of the chariot window, and bawled out luſtily Mr. — but hold, I muſt not tell my name. I followed the chariot into the Inn-yard, and had the honour of handing out Mrs. FOLIO.

The firſt ceremonies occaſioned by this our un⯑expected interview being over, and being quietly ſeated in the parlour, Mr. FOLIO informed me, that having a new edition of a Jeſt-Book printing at a private preſs in Oxford, he took this oppor⯑tunity of viſiting the Univerſity, and giving Mrs. FOLIO an agreeable airing; after which he enquired very cordially after Mr. Fletcher of the Turle, Mr. Daniel Prince, and the reſt of his brother Bookſellers in Oxford. I find too, continued he, you have a TERRAE-FILIUS,—a new paper I ſup⯑poſe,—pray who is the Author? Does it make a noiſe? Does it ſell? How many do they print? Would you be ſo kind now, my dear Sir, (taking me by the hand and ſmiling) as to aſſiſt me in making proper extracts, and furniſh me with a few occaſional paragraphs to ſend up to the Ledger, and Lloyd's Evening Poſt? To theſe various in⯑terrogations I made no other reply, than enquiring after the younger part of the family,—I hope Miſs FOLIO is well, Ma'am,—Very well Sir, I [247] thank you, ſaid Mrs. Folio; we had ſome thoughts of bringing her down with us, but my ſpouſe had ſuch a quantity of things to put into the chariot, that we could not eaſily croud three on us into it: ſo I have left Polly in our lodgings at Iſlington Spa, and there, you know, ſhe can't be unked for want of company,—and if ſhe pleaſes, ſhe may go to the Wells every night.—And how does young Mr. FOLIO do?—What! Bonus! ſays Mr. FOLIO, Bonus is entered in one of the col⯑leges—He has left St. Paul's School, and is a brother gownſman of your's; at which words he rung the bell, and on the appearance of the waiter, diſpatched him to — College for young Maſter FOLIO, deſiring his company with ſome particular Friends at the Angel.

Till the return of the Meſſenger Mr. FOLIO, after having diſpatched another waiter to the barber's with his wig, amuſed himſelf with unpacking ſome parcels and valizes, which, it ſeems, were what had filled up Miſs FOLIO's place in the chariot. The firſt he unfolded, he informed me were ſome ſheets of a new work of his own writing, which he propoſed to publiſh early in the enſuing winter. He preſt me very hard to read ſome particular paſſages, which I evaded, pleading want of time [248] and leiſure to give it due attention in the preſent hurry and diſſipation of the place.—Come, come, ſays he, I know you Gentlemen that write don't approve of us in the trade pretending to publiſh books of our own—but we have ſome good hands among us, I can tell you.—Oh, I know that.—Know it! Ay, but you none of you care to own it. For any thing, courtly and airy, for a Dra⯑matick Satire, or a modern Tragedy, we have Dodſley in Pall-Mall,—Mr. Pope allowed him to be a good Poet—for Divinity and Morality we have Payne that lives in the Row—for Criticiſm, or any thing in the Belles Lettres way, there is R. Griffiths,—why he writes half the Monthly Review—and then for the whole Circle of Sciences there's our old Friend Mr. Newbery, at the North Door of St. Paul's—and the Author of a late Pamphlet, called The Lives of the preſent Writers, aſſures us for a fact that he has wrote two fa⯑vourite farces.

How much farther his zeal for the honour of the Trade would have carried him is uncertain, if his vehemence had not been broke in upon by the return of the meſſenger, and the arrival of Young FOLIO. The mother was charmed beyond expreſſion with his appearance in the Academical [249] Habit, and vowed he was grown half a head, or elſe that dreſs made him look ſo much taller. Well, I proteſt it becomes him vaſtly? Don't it? (turning to me) you muſt know, Sir, his father intends making on him a Clergyman.—Ay, ay, the gown by all means! ſaid Folio—But come, Bonus! you muſt ſhew your mother and me the Univerſity—Mr. — I hope will favour us with his company to make the tower of the Colleges, and return afterwards to eat a bit of mutton with us at dinner. I accepted the invi⯑tation, and Mr. FOLIO having waited in his gold laced hat with a handkerchief of Mrs. FOLIO's about his ears, till the return of his wig, properly buſhed out and powdered, and having in the interim equipped himſelf with a full ſuit of pom⯑padour with gold buttons, which he had brought down carefully packed between paſteboards, we ſallied out of the Angel into the High-Street to ſee the Univerſity.

We were no ſooner got into the ſtreet, than we were carried by a kind of inſtinct into Mr. Parker's, not only to give Mr. FOLIO an oppor⯑tunity of ſhaking his old friend by the hand, but alſo in order to furniſh himſelf with one of Mr. Prince's Pocket Companions, without which [250] he declared it was impoſſible to go round the Uni⯑verſity. There, Sir, continued he applying himſelf to me, there's another inſtance of a Genius in a Bookſeller. The Pocket Companion is all Mr. PRINCE's own,—not only his own property, but his own writing. One of your gownſmen, indeed, has ſince wrote a New Guide,—but it won't do,—ſhaking his head,—it won't do,—much inferior to my Friend Daniel's.

We then croſſed the way to Queen's College, where Bonus, as FOLIO called him, informed us, that the Eaſt ſide of the ſquare had been lately rebuilt, and that there had been ſome ſquabbles among the Fellows. FOLIO ſaid the Chapel was fine, very fine, and quoted two lines out of Milton's Spenſeroſo, for ſo he termed it, about a dim religious Light. As to Mrs. FOLIO, ſhe declared that nothing in the College pleaſed her ſo much, as the figure over the door of her Majeſty in a Cage.—But that ſhe ſaid was very pretty, and ſhe liked it vaſtly.

We then proceeded to ALL SOULS, and the RADCLIFF LIBRARY, at the firſt of which places Bonus informed us, that the Common Room there was remarkable for the beſt port in Oxford. Some of the fellows, ſays he, have toſt off four [251] bottles of it a day, for ſeveral years together, without doing them any manner of harm. FOLIO obſerved, that neither the College Library, nor the Radcliff, were as yet half ſufficiently ſtocked, and it would be a rare job to have the furniſhing them with books. Mrs. FOLIO ſaid, that the Radcliff was a good deal like St. Paul's, only not half ſo large or ſo handſome. A queer ſort of building, Ma'am, ſaid young Bonus,—a mere pepper-box,—and there,—(pointing to the turrets of All Souls) there are the ſugar-caſters.—This produced an univerſal laugh, which concluded with an ex⯑clamation of FOLIO's,—Well ſaid, Bonus! egad, I don't think that would be amiſs in the new edition of the Jokes.

We then entered the Schools' Quadrangle, where Mr. FOLIO took upon himſelf to inform his wife that all the rudiments of learning were taught in that ſpot. Here, ſays he, my dear, (pointing) there are Lectures read every morning,—Here the Stu⯑dents attend the Profeſſor of Divinity,—and here they attend the Hiſtory Profeſſor,—and here the Poetry Profeſſor,—and here the Profeſſor of Phy⯑ſick,—and here the Profeſſor of Civil Law,—and ſo on,—all learned men that have large ſalaries on purpoſe to lecture their pupils in the [252] ſciences.—Ay, ſays Mrs. FOLIO, it is no won⯑der that they have all ſo much Larning.—It is impoſſible to recount half their obſervations on the Picture-Gallery, the Bodleian Library, the Arun⯑del Marbles, the Pomfret Collection, the Cla⯑rendon Printing Houſe, the Theatre, and the Mu⯑ſeum. I can only recollect, that Mr. FOLIO met with an acquaintance among the compoſitors at the printing-houſe, with whom he entered into con⯑verſation about the method of printing Baſkerville's Bible without wetting the ſheets before they were put to preſs;—and that he ſuppoſed a good deal of money might be made of the M.S.S. in the Bodley;—that he compared the Muſeum to Don Saltero's Coffee-houſe, and that Mrs. FOLIO at going out aſked the perſon who ſhew'd the room, If there was no wax-work.—In the reſt of our circuit I remember nothing remarkable, except that Mrs. FOLIO was extremely delighted with the Baſon and Mercury in the center of the great quadrangle at Chriſt-church, and told her huſband ſhe wiſhed they had juſt ſuch a one in the middle of their garden at Iſlington.

We then returned to the angel, and as ſoon as dinner was ended, and the cloth taken away, Well, Bonus, ſays FOLIO, and what haſt thou learnt [253] here? Tell us ſome of thy ſtudies,—come give your mother and me a little touch of the Ma⯑thematicks.—Bonus, being hard preſſed, was obliged to comply; and drawing a kind of figure with his finger in the wine that was ſpilt on the table, uttered very gravely ſome incoherent jargon about A and B being equal to C and D, and pa⯑rallel lines, and equilateral triangles. FOLIO and his wife obſerved him with infinite attention, and the moſt viſible delight; and as ſoon as he had done, This, ſays FOLIO,—this my dear, (addreſſing himſelf to his wife) is what we call Demonſtration. Sir, ſays Bonus, I did not think you had ſo good a notion of the Mathematicks.—Child, ſays Mrs. FOLIO, your father has a general knowledge of every thing.

Not long after I took my leave, and could not help reflecting that to people like FOLIO and his wife, Sights and Shews afford but ſmall entertain⯑ment and no inſtruction: and that it would be al⯑moſt ſufficient for the gratification of ſuch minds, if Grand Solemnities, were to come round, like the year of Jubilee at Rome, or the blowing of the aloe, not above once in a hundred years.

TERRAE-FILIUS. NUMBER VI.

IT is neceſſary that TERRAE-FILIUS, like the Senior Proctor and other great officers of this Univerſity, ſhould make an harangue at the Time of laying down his office; but it gives me [255] infinite concern, that on this occaſion, inſtead of glorying in ſo favourable an opportunity to diſplay my merits, I am obliged to make it my chief en⯑deavour to wipe off a moſt infamous aſperſion that has been thrown on my character, no leſs than the charge of being a Counterfeit and an Impoſtor. It is hard for a man on his death-bed to be put upon the proof of the reality of his exiſtence, and though I am alive and merry, of which I hope you are all fully convinced, yet I cannot brook the thought that TERRAE-FILIUS, ſhould be ac⯑counted a kind of Baſtard Production, (or as the lawyers term it) NULLIUS FILIUS; and that it ſhould be in the power of Envy or Malice to make a blot in my eſcutcheon. I do not doubt, how⯑ever, of being able to blazon my title, and to prove that I am neither an Uſurper nor a Pretender.

It is true, indeed, that moſt of my anceſtors were the moſt noted manufacturers of Scandal, and great wholeſale dealers in Libel and Scandalum Magnatûm; and that in this glorious occupation they nobly ſuſtained all the pains and inconve⯑niences of martyrdom and perſecution. I muſt con⯑feſs that my father was expelled the Univerſity for villifying the grave and reverend heads of houſes, and that my grandfather was expelled the Houſe [256] of Commons for libelling the honourable mem⯑bers, and reviling the conſtitution. I cannot deny that moſt part of my family have, at divers times, had the honour of being pumped, beat, and toſt in a blanket; that many of them have lain whole months in Newgate, and ſtood in the pillory at the Royal Exchange, Temple-Bar, and Charing Croſs; and that of ſome I might even juſtly boaſt, that they were hanged for high-trea⯑ſon. I muſt own too that, for my own part, I nave not trod in the ſteps of my predeceſſors; and though I am not conſcious of any ſhameful de⯑generacy, yet I have never been on the brink of expulſion for defamation. I have not ſo much as been taken up: I never had my houſe entered at midnight by king's meſſengers: neither I nor my printer can complain of the illegal ſeizure of our papers, or bring actions againſt the ſecretaries of ſtate for falſe impriſonment: I never had the plea⯑ſure of having my noſe ſlit; I have as yet both my ears; and have not, according to what I have hitherto been able to diſcover, any proſpect of dying at Tyburn or Kennington-Common.

For theſe reaſons, ladies and gentlemen, as well as for the manner in which I have conducted myſelf in my office during the preſent Solemnity [257] I find that ſome evil-minded perſons have been in⯑duced to conſider me and my writings as Spurious. They ſay, that I have diſappointed their expecta⯑tions. They complain that I have offered no af⯑front to the Chancellor or any other perſon of qua⯑laty; nor turned the ſenior part of the Univerſity into objects of Ridicule for the entertainment of freſhmen and under-graduates. They confeſs that at firſt they were induced to conceive better hopes of me, but that it may now be ſaid of me, as it is of the month of March, that I came in like a lion, and go out like a lamb.

Theſe and ſeveral other circumſtances, which I cannot pretend to palliate or refute, I can, however, very eaſily account for. A Reverend Gentleman of Exeter College, eminent in all parts of Europe for his knowledge in Hebrew, in a late conteſted elec⯑tion being accuſed by the oppoſite party of time-ſerving, very ſhrewdly anſwered, in vindication of himſelf and his aſſociates, that they did not make the times, but the times made them. The Univer⯑ſity borrows its complection from its patrons, and the moon her light from the ſun, and at a time when there is a general revolution of princi⯑ples, or to (invert a little the arrangement of the phraſe) when Revolution-Principles are general [258] among us, is it any wonder that the honeſt TERRAE-FILIUS ſhould be as changeable as his Brethren?

I can remember the time, and indeed it is but a very little while ago, when a place was eſteemed at Oxford as a badge of corruption, and a green coat the livery of ſervitude. I can remember too that a certain great patriot informed the Houſe of Com⯑mons, that Oxford was paved with diſaffection and Jacobitiſm. But now the old true blue is faced, according to the court-faſhion, with green; and the red and white roſes were not more cloſely twined together by the union of the houſes of York and Lancaſter, than the OLD and NEW INTEREST in this county by the coalition and compromiſe at the late election of Lord Charles Spenſer and Sir James Daſhwood. We have lived to ſee the ſtaunch Doctor Blackſtone on the point of being ſent to Ire⯑land as a Judge, and honoured with a patent of precedency and a ſilk gown. We have lived to ſee Sir Francis Daſhwood created Lord Le Deſpen⯑ſer, and appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Maſter of the Wardrobe. Sir John Phillips it is well known is a Privy Counſellor, and our Right Honourable Chancellor is Captain of the Band of Penſioners. ‘[259]Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.’ The Tories are all at court, and Oxonians are made Biſhops. The Cocoa-Tree is running a race with Arthur's towards the golden goal of St. James's; and, it is ſaid, that at the next meeting of the parliament a bill will be brought in for cleaning, lighting, and NEW-PAVING the ſtreets of Oxford by the Right Honourable Mr, PITT.

I may be believed alſo when I declare, upon the Word and Honour of an AUTHOR, that it is not for want of information or materials, that I have not made my paper a Chronique Scandaleuſe, a Journal of Defamation. I have received letters ſufficient to form a volume, anecdotes without number, and ſatires, ſonnets, epigrams, and acroſticks by wholeſale. There is not a toaſt in the city or environs of Oxford, of whom I have not had a particular account; and there has not been a phaeton and four driven out of Oxford this ſum⯑mer, or a ſingle excurſion to Wallingford, that has not been faithfully regiſtered in MY black book. One correſpondent has ſent me a piece, which he calls the Secret Hiſtory of Ditchley; and another has tranſmitted an exact detail of all the ceremo⯑nies on opening the newly-repaired church at Weſt-Wycomb laſt Sunday, together with the copy [260] of a carol on the occaſion, which he tells me was written by Paul Whitehead, and ſung over Milk Punch in the Golden Ball. In ſhort, ſo willing are all to open the ſluices of Scandal, that there is not a corner of the country from which I have not been favoured with ſome curious ar⯑ticles of intelligence, with an earneſt deſire of their being communicated to the publick by the channel of my paper, ſo that had I been diſpoſed to ſit in judgment upon them, care has been taken to provide me a handſome calendar of delinquents.

A great number of correſpondents have very freely and abundantly communicated their obſerva⯑tions on the tranſactions of the preſent ENCAENIA: ſome have ſent me criticiſms on the verſes and orations delivered in the theatre; and others have commented on the voice, geſture, and deportment of the ſpeakers, greatly lamenting that Mr. SHE⯑RIDAN, as heretofore, was not employed to inſtruct our young nobility and gentry in the art of elocu⯑tion. One writer affects to be greatly diſguſted at the vehemence and frequency of the plaudits of the upper gallery, beſtowed indiſcriminately on the Chancellor or a ſinger, Dr. KING or the firſt fiddle. Another is much offended that the pieces on this occaſion are compoſed in no other lan⯑guages [261] than Latin or Engliſh. At ſuch a time, as well as in their printed gratulations, the mem⯑bers of the Univerſity might be expected to ſhew the extent of their learning, and we might not only, with the moſt modeſt expectation, have pro⯑miſed ourſelves ſeveral Greek odes after the man⯑ner of Pindar, and occaſional pieces of Hebrew pſalmody, but have flattered ourſelves with the certain hopes of ſeeing the elegant figure of Mr. Swinton delivering an oration in Etruſcan or Phoenician.

In this place, as I am ſettling the account with my correſpondents, it is alſo proper to acknow⯑ledge the receipt of ſeveral remarks on the preſent ſtate of the Univerſity, and hints for its improve⯑ment. A perſon who ſigns himſelf Londinenſis, laments that the arts of politeneſs, as well as the polite arts, are not taught at Oxford, and propoſes that Meſſieurs HART and DUKES, or at leaſt one of them, ſhould be invited down to inſtruct our grown gentlemen, thinking that he might be of as much ſervice to the Univerſity, and make as bril⯑liant a figure in that art, as Dr. Hayes in Muſick; on which conſideration it might be expedient to ap⯑point him DANCING PROFESSOR. Another per⯑ſon, a facetious clergyman of uncommon parts, who [262] dates his letter from Lincoln College, wiſhes to ſee the intended ſcheme of a riding-houſe, (to which the profits of the laſt collection of the Clarendon papers were ſuppoſed to be appropri⯑ated) carried into immediate execution. He fore⯑ſees great advantage accruing to the church-mili⯑tant, from our Doctors in Divinty being taught to ride the Great Horſe, and does not doubt but that, from their acknowledged ſkill in horſemanſhip, the Rector of his own houſe, Lincoln College, and the Preſident of Corpus Chriſti, will inſtantly be appointed joint maſters of the riding-houſe, and have the ſole direction of the Manége.

I have alſo received ſeveral rough draughts and curious portraits of academical characters, with the names, for fear of miſtake, at the bottom of the picture. A young buck of Chriſt Church has ſent me a cutting ſatire on a ſevere diſcipli⯑narian, whoſe name and additions I do not think proper to mention; and a fellow of Trinity com⯑plains of being forced, with ſeveral more, to lay out an hundred pounds in taking a doctor's degree; and inveighs moſt bitterly againſt tuft-hunters, and a perſon whom he calls Doctor Driver.

Theſe and ſeveral other articles of intelligence extraordinary, I have had virtue enough to ſup⯑preſs, [263] and think I deſerve the publick thanks both of the Town and Univerſity, together with ſome more ſolid and ſubſtantial marks of their favour, for my extraordinary moderation. The affairs of the corporation are, I fear, too much perplext to make me any handſome gratuity; but, I hope, in conſideration of my clemency towards them and my tenderneſs to their wives and daugh⯑ters, at leaſt to have the compliment of my free⯑dom in a gold box, with a right of common on Port-Meadow. As to the Univerſity, I expect on the next publick occaſion to be preſented to an honorary degree, and that in the mean time, the Burſars of the ſeveral colleges will have direc⯑tions to make up a purſe for TERRAE-FILIUS.

Publick writers, it is well known, have often been bought off, ſilenced with a bribe, or quieted with a penſion, when the fears of fine, pillory, and impriſonment have had no influence over their reſolutions, and all the terrors of the law have been let looſe upon them in vain. Our own Times too will afford examples of writers, who, after having been diſappointed of the expected Rewards from the hands of Power and Munificence, have turned from the pleaſant path of Panegyrick, and gone upon the highway of Satire. For my own part, [264] being naturally of a benevolent diſpoſition, I had rather it ſhould be made worth my while to pur⯑ſue the ſmooth Turnpike-Road in which I have ſet out. At preſent, being the firſt of my family who has hot been expelled, I am reſolved to take my leave in good humour, and ſhall conclude my preſent Courſe of Lectures with the words in which the late worthy Biſhop of Cloyne, who had ev'ry virtue under Heaven, and who ſpent the laſt part of his life amongſt us, uſed often to deſcribe this Univerſity.