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LIBERAL OPINIONS, UPON ANIMALS, MAN, AND PROVIDENCE.

In which are introduced, ANECDOTES OF A GENTLEMAN.

Addreſſed to the Right Hon. Lady CH***TH.

FROM GAY TO GRAVE, FROM LIVELY TO SEVERE. Pope.

By COURTNEY MELMOTH.

VOL. II.

LONDON, Printed for G. ROBINSON, and J. BEW, in Paternoſter-Row; and Sold by J. WALTER, Charing-Croſs.

MDCCLXXV.

LIBERAL OPINIONS, &c.

[]

CHAP. XXXII.

THE ardour of your ſentiments, ſir, becomes your age, and I am pleaſed with your compliment, becauſe I perceive it is the efferveſence of a ſincere heart—I was going to ſay, that if—but we will proceed to our more familiar illuſtrations!—Imagine that when theſe children were five weeks old, the mother of the pooreſt, reduced to extreme neceſſity, puts her infant [2]in a baſket, and lays it at the door of a perſon equally celebrated for wealth and benevolence—the gentleman takes it into his houſe, clothes, feeds, and educates it as his own —that very infant which with the parent would be the lout I have deſcribed, would with its protector be as different a creature as could exiſt. His pains, paſſions, pleaſures, and ideas, totally reverſed—imagine likewiſe that ſome gypſey ſteals, or kidnaps, as it is called, the rich child from the cradle, and ſtrolls with it up and down the country: it will have its education in the open air, its lodging in a barn, and its dirty diet under a hedge. Probably it will imbibe the craft and ſubtlety of the gypſey, and limit its utmoſt [3]ambition to trick the traveller out of ſixpence, croſs the palm with ſilver, and tell the events which have happened (or are ſtill to be brought forward) by the line of life. Thus, in every other inſtance, (with a few peculiar exceptions, that have nothing to do with general rules,) habit and education form the mind, and colour the human character.—

But how does this influence, what we call virtue and vice? ſaid I—Virtue and vice, (rejoin'd the gentleman,) are as dependent upon external as internal circumſtances: they are properties not more hereditary than adventitious and artificial: nor do they iſſue more from the heart than from habit.—You aſtoniſh me, I replied.—You are now, (cried he,) at the period of human life, [4]when curioſity is often caught in ſurprizes. Experience will teach you to hear what now ſeems ſtrange, without emotion I have ſaid nothing but what will too ſoon be intelligible.—

Pray go on, ſir—pray go on—

CHAP. XXXIII.

—There are, doubtleſs—reſumed the gentleman — ſome conſtitutions ſo adapted by nature to virtue, that no troubles, ſituations, or temptations, can ſubdue, or extirpate, their amiable propenſities—but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a character takes its bias and bearing from mere tuition, and the line it is either led or [5]thrown into, in the firſt ſtage of the human journey. If there are no innate ideas, ſir, it follows that the mind of every new-born babe is equally pure —If there are thoſe infantine ſeeds of the underſtanding and little embrios of intellect—they are eaſily turned into what channel the parent thinks proper —ſo that I cannot but think the father of a family one of the moſt aweful charges upon earth:

——— our parent's hand
Writes on our hearts the firſt faint characters,
Which time retracing deepens into ſtrength.

After which, ‘Nothing can efface them, but death or heaven.’ Yet we behold ſaid I, many children unlike their parents, both good and [6]bad. It is admitted, ſaid Mr. Greaves: yet you will, at the ſame time, obſerve, where the notions of parents and children are diſſimilar, the diſſimilitude ariſes rather from difference of ages, or improper culture, than any thing elſe; in general children are not liker in features than habits, and I do aſſure you family minds are as often tranſmitted as family-faces. There is a tractability in youth which receives like ſnow, every impreſſion—and it is almoſt as difficult to eraſe the impreſſion of one as the other: nothing but heaven can effect it.—If a ſon is trained up early to decency of manners, and has the example of dignity living and moving before his eyes (unleſs his temper is [7]particularly untoward) he will turn out an elegant character—If he is trained up in different principles, he will act accordingly.—The Hoyden and the Prude, amongſt the other ſex, take not their tint of character one time in ten from nature, but from a neglect early to give them a proper idea of deportment. But yet, ſaid I, very ſedate women have romping, runaway daughters, and very prudent fathers have very perverſe ſons.—I mean, (replied Mr. Greaves,) to ſay no more than this, that, generally ſpeaking, men and women act and think as they are taught whilſt they are only able to liſp out their meaning—that education will have ſome influence on the moſt abandoned; and that, upon the whole, virtue and vice depend very eſſentially [8]on our primary ſentiments and examples; which, whether good or ill, will externally attend us in ſome meaſure, through all poſſible tranſitions from the time we leave our cradles, to the time we ſhall be depoſited in our coffins—If I have not wearied you, we will now ſee how far habit, influences our judgments in the great and important article of reputation.

CHAP. XXXIV.

I liſten to you, ſir, (ſaid I) with joy, and only lament that I am contributing to your fatigue, at the time that I am receiving ſuch a fund of entertainment.—

[9]—Habit, my young friend, ſaid the gentleman, operates with equal energy upon man and beaſt. I could eaſily produce evidences of the fact, by caſting an eye upon the very horſes now engaged in the dutiful drudgery of dragging us along, and upon the herds and flocks which are grazing or ſporting beſide us: but we will confine ourſelves to our own ſpecies, which are certainly the moſt intereſting objects of ſpeculation. I was about to obſerve, that Cuſtom has much to do with our moral characters. There are certain actions, ſo naturally and palpably, good, or evil, that neither ſophiſtry, nor ſlander, nor addreſs, can either injure, mend, or mar them. To queſtion the light at noon day, or the dark in the zenith [10]of the night, would argue a malady beyond madneſs: ſo in like manner to diſpute, whether downright wickedneſs is wickedneſs, and evident excellence is excellence, would be a lunacy in ethics, ſo abſurd, that the poetical frenzy of poor Lee would be cool argument to it—on the other hand, my good ſir, if you live and mix long with mankind, you will find many of your fellow-creatures, pining away exiſtence under the laſhes,— the bleeding laſhes of reproach, merely becauſe it is the cuſtom to call one thing right and another wrong, without tracing either to the bottom. It is a maxim that the Vox Populi, is the Vox Dei —that (as you know it is tranſlated) "what every body ſays muſt be true." I know nothing ſo deſerving refutation [11]as a collection of thoſe old ſaws and proverbs, which, acquiring force from antiquity, and eſtimation from ruſt—for there are virtuoſos in letters, as well as in coins—are at length conſidered as utterly inconteſtible. Now, certain I am, that upon an examination into thoſe very maxims we put ſo much credit in, ſome will turn out futile, ſome diſputable, and many unfaithful—for minute ſcrutinies we have not time: it will be ſufficient to look into that I have juſt mentioned, and there is none more implicitly believed. "What every body ſays muſt be true"—I have myſelf ſeen many inſtances to diſprove this; but I ſhall beg your acceptance of one which is now uppermoſt in my memory.—A young gentleman of my [12]particular acquaintance, has for ſome time been deſerted by his old companions, and branded as a man of unſteady principles, whoſe heart I know to abound with all thoſe ſenſibilities which have hurried him as it were into the vortex of liberality, till he is become an object of liberality himſelf. He has thoſe glowing feelings, and ſentiments, which do at once honour and ſervice, to human-nature: notwithſtanding which, like poor Mr. Blewitt (whoſe hiſtory was recited by the grocer) embarraſſments have beſet him, and the world ſets him down an undone man. The world gets hold of a prejudice and then it is called Vox Dei. The Vox Populi, is given as the ſentiment of every-body, and thus many reputations are miſtaken and miſrepreſented, which deſerve a better fate. [13]There are various perſons likewiſe now particularly reprobated for a few indelicate conceſſions, to which neceſſity may, in violence of their better judgments, have conſtrained them to yield, who (had they poſſeſſed happier circumſtances) would have made a much more reſpectable figure than thoſe which now mark them with inſamy. Many an unfortunate female too, at this time wandering up and down the ſtreets—many an inſulted and deſerving character—But I am rambling too miſcellaneouſly—I feel myſelf a little weary—Heigho—

Here the gentleman ſtoped abruptly —His countenance became ſuddenly clouded—his lip quivered—his eye remained fixed; and claſping his hands forcibly together, he at length burſt [14]into tears—After he a little recovered himſelf—he caught me hold by the arm, and exclaimed—Oh! ſir—my daughter! my daughter!—my Almeria!

CHAP. XXXV.

I am now compoſed, my young friend —the idea of a domeſtic misfortune obtruded itſelf upon me, and I could not help feeling the ſtroke of humanity—of nature, and a father—Heaven! cried I,—you diſtract me. I was about to take notice, replied Mr. Greaves—of one cruelty in the Vox Populi, which is certainly againſt every notion of the Vox Dei. 'Tis the cuſtom, ſir, to abandon the weakeſt part of our ſpecies, for that ruin which [15]the artifices of our ſex have perpetrated; nor can any future repentence remove the ſenſe of their error, or reſtore them to the boſoms of more fortunate women: ‘They ſet like ſtars to riſe no more.—’ I had a wife, ſir, with whom I have mourned many years,—though I buried her but ſix weeks ago—She died of a broken heart, and there was, I aſſure you,—a woe in the family big enough to break it.—About eleven years ago, ſir, an only child was taken from me—I was robbed of her by a man whom I held the neareſt to my heart—and for five years it has been my inceſſant buſineſs to recover my darling, but in vain. My wife fell into a deep and rapid conſumption, [16]and I was obliged to reſide with her in the country—She grew worſe and weaker every hour—but two days before ſhe reſigned her laſt breath—we received (by a ſpecial meſſenger) a packet—how ſhall I ſpeak it—from— from my beloved—miſguided—repenting wanderer!—The poor thing had (the better to perſuade) thrown the pathetic parts of her ſtory into poetry. —But that which delighted me more— far more—than all the reſt—and which would have more magic for a parent's heart, than the poetry of a Milton— was an atteſted account from a man of reputation, that my child was actually at laſt under the protection of that noble inſtitution which offers an aſylum to inſulted penitence.—In the firſt tranſport, I could not conceal the [17]news from my wife, but ſhe had only power to preſs the paper, trembling to her boſom, and feebly lifted up her eyes to heaven—the reſt—you muſt ſpare me, ſir, upon the tender ſubject —ſhe is dead!—ſhe is in heaven!—

The poor gentleman covered his face in his hankerchief, and I have no words to deſcribe my own feelings—

CHAP. XXXVI.

—When Mr. Greaves could again lift up his head—he told me, that having truſted to the ground the remains of his wife, he was now going to viſit his long-loſt daughter, who was in —he ſtopt—and I was unwilling to enlarge upon the ſubject, though I [18]deſired moſt ardently to ſee the poetry he ſpoke of—But for the preſent we dropt the matter, and a profound ſilence enſued till we again changed horſes. At laſt, however, Mr. Greaves perceiving my anxiety, and gueſſing the cauſe, put his hand into his pocket, and produced a ſmall bundle of papers, faſtened by a piece of red tape—from theſe he took a manuſcript, of which he thus declared his intentions, as he held it in his hand.

Here it is—here is that unhappy girl—my poor Almeria's petition— read it, young gentleman—read it, and pity the daughter—and the father. —If it ſhould particularly ſtrike you, take a copy, and if you continue long in London, perhaps you may ſee it in print—If you ſhould not, and you [19]ſhould chance to ſurvive me, (as it is moſt probable you will)—publiſh it— and at the ſame time, publiſh with it this Letter of Gratitude—there are reaſons why—I would not chuſe (being but too much intereſted in the contents) to appear in the buſineſs—take it therefore, and give it to the world at your beſt leiſure—There, ſir,—it were improper to ſuppreſs it—perhaps it may fall into the hands of the young and diſſipated—perhaps it may find its way into the cloſets of the chaſte and beautiful—The libertine may ſnatch it up in the intervals of his gay career; and the parent, afflicted by the loſs of his child, may be induced to read it from affection and curioſity—In all, or in any of theſe caſes, it will afford ſome ſalutary reflections, [20]and the heart, the conſcience, and the underſtanding will point them out immediately—He put the paper into my hand—I reminded him of the pleaſing proſpect of ſeeing his reſtored daughter—He did not ſeem inſenſible of my wiſhes to diſſipate his melancholy, but ſaid nothing—As I knew it muſt be ſome time before he could collect himſelf, and perceiving he began to cloſe his eyes, as if he deſired ſilence, I left him to his reflecions (which it would have been impertinent to interrupt after the hint he had given me) and began to open my papers, which melted me ſo many times into tears during the peruſal, that I was heartily glad the poor gentleman affected ſlumber.—As I have now had the performance ſo long by [21]me I ſhall ſet it down in my journal in this place, where (though it ſomewhat interferes with my further connection with Mr. Greaves) it properly belongs, becauſe I would not disjoint the ſubject from the ſentiments which introduced it to my knowledge—So that if ever my hiſtory is found, the hiſtory of this unhappy lady will be found with it; and in ſo publiſhing an age, they can fall into few hands, which will not ſend them to the preſs.

CHAP. XXXVII.

The Letter of Gratitude directly follows; and was, I believe, deſigned as a ſhort dedication to the work. It was written by the father.

[22]

TO THE REVEREND *—* *—* *—*

SIR,

To whom ſhould the penitent daughter addreſs the ſentiments of reformation but to him who has had the greateſt ſhare in promoting it?— To whom ſhould the father (who hence derives the felicity of his laſt moments) pay the tribute of gratitude, but to that fountain from whence he traces his bleſſings to their ſource?— The reſtored ALMERIA, ſir, attributes to the force of your arguments, and to the tenderneſs of your admonitions, much of that abhorrence for vice, and dignity of amendment, that now inſpire [23]her. There are hundreds of daughters, no doubt, under the ſame obligation, and hundreds of fathers whoſe prayers and tears repay you for it. For this—I had almoſt ſaid— heavenly eloquence, may you long be diſtinguiſhed, and may you beſtow thereby, upon many other parents (now mourning for their children), the ſerenity and the hope which has been conferred upon

THE FATHER OF ALMERIA.

CHAP. XXXVIII.
ALMERIA; OR, THE PENITENT.
Being a Genuine Epiſtle from an Unfortunate Daughter in —, to her Family, in the Country.

[24]
WITHDRAWN from all temptations that entice,
The frauds of faſhion, and the ſnares of vice,
From all that can inſpire unchaſte delight,
To my dear-bleeding family I write;
But oh! my pen the tender taſk denies;
And all the daughter ruſhes to my eyes.
Oft as the paper to my hand I brought,
My hand ſtill trembl'd at the ſhock of thought;
Sighs interrupt the ſtory of my woe,
My bluſhes burn me, and my tears overflow;
[25]But nature now inſiſts upon her claim,
Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to ſhame;
No more the anxious wiſh can I reſtrain,
Silent no longer can your child remain;
Write, write, I muſt, each hope, each fear, declare,
And try, once more, to win a father's care:
Scorn not, ah ſcorn not then, the mournful verſe,
Revive my bleſſing, and recall my curſe;
Give to a daughter's wrongs, one parent-ſigh,
Nor let a mother my laſt prayer deny.
Yet where, oh where, ſhall I the tale begin,
And where conclude the narrative of ſin?
How each dire circumſtance of guilt diſcloſe,
Unload my breaſt, and open all its woes?
How, to an injured parent, ſhall I tell
The arts by which I ſtray'd, by which I fell?
No common language can the ſcenes expreſs,
Where every line ſhould mark extreme diſtreſs;
Mere human words, unequal all, we find
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind:
'Tis not the ſcribbler's vein, the ſongſter's art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
[26]'Tis not the lines that muſically flow
To mark the poet's well—imagin'd woe;
Nor all the frolicks of the tuneful tribe,
Can ſuch a mighty grief as mine deſcribe.
Full oft has ſcorpion FANCY to my view
Imag'd each anguiſh that a parent knew;
At midnight's ſtill and ſearching hour ſhe came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my ſoul with ſhame,
Crouded each black idea in my ſight,
And gloom'd a chaos on the balmy night,
"Behold,—ſhe ſaid,—on the damp bed of earth,
Behold th' unhappy man, who gave thee birth;
In duſt he rolls his ſorrow-ſilver'd-hair,
And on each muſcle ſits intenſe deſpair;
See how the paſſions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and teſtify diſgrace;
Retir'd from home, in ſilence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain;
Now ſinks oppreſs'd, now ſudden ſtarts away,
Abhors the night, yet ſickens at the day.
[27]And ſee, thou guilty daughter! ſee, and mourn
The whelming grief that waits the fire's return!
Beneath ſome black'ning yew's ſepulchral gloom,
Where penſive Sorrow ſeems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold ſhades repel the light of day,
And ghoſtly footſteps ſeem to preſs the way,
Bent to the ground by mis'ry, and by years,
There view thy bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look diſorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breaſt that fed a worthleſs child:
And oh! ſhe cries—
Oh had the foſtering milk to poiſon turn'd,
Some ague ſhiver'd, or ſome fever burn'd;
Had death befriended on the fatal morn,
In which theſe eyes beheld a daughter born;
Or, had th' ETERNAL ſeal'd its eyes in night,
Ere it the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Then had theſe curſes ne'er aſſail'd my head—
Why ſpring ſuch torments from a lawful bed!—
[28]Now, melted, ſoften'd, gentler ſhe complains,
Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
Then how th' affecting tears each other trace,
Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But ſtill the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of paſt joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliſs,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiſs;
Each throbbing hope, that caught th' embrace ſincere,
With ev'ry joy that roſe in ev'ry tear;
The beauteous proſpect brightning every day,
The father's ſondling, and the mother's play,
Yet ſoon ſhe finds again the ſad reverſe,
Till harraſs'd nature ſinks beneath its curſe;
Again more fierce—more mad ſhe rends her frame,
And loudly brands Almeria with her ſhame!"
Here paus'd, and ſhrunk, the VISION from my view,
But Conſcience colour'd, as the ſhade withdrew:
Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,
And all confuſion, roſe, with riſing day,
[29]But ah! what hope could morning bring to me,
What, but the mournful privilege, to ſee,
To view the pleaſures which I could not ſhare,
And waſte the day in ſolitude and care?
More clearly ſhone the ſun on my diſgrace,
And mark'd more plain the bluſhes on my face.
Then all enrag'd I curs'd the abandon'd hour
When honour yielded to the traitor's pow'r,
When raſh, I ſcorn'd the angel voice of truth,
In all the mad ſimplicity of youth:
When from a father's arms forlorn I ſtray'd,
And left a mother's tenderneſs unpaid;
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd
To fix obedience on the plaſtic mind.
Stung at the thought each vengeance I deſign'd,
And weary'd heav'n to deſecrate mankind;
From room to room diſtractedly I ran,
The ſcorn of woman, and the dupe of man.
Alcanor, curſt Alcanor! firſt I ſought
(And as I paſt a fatal dagger caught)
[30]The ſmiling villain ſoon, my Fury, found,
Struck at his heart, and triumph'd in the wound:
"A rain'd woman—gives—(I cried) the ſtroke!"—
He reel'd he ſell, he fainted as I ſpoke.
But ſoon as human blood began to flow,
Soon as it guſh'd, obedient to the blow,
Soon as the ruddy ſtream his cheek forſook,
And death ſat ſtruggling in the dying look,
Love, and the woman, all at once return'd;
I felt his anguiſh, and my raſhneſs mourn'd;
O'er his pale form I heav'd the burſting ſigh,
And watch'd the changes of his fading eye,
To ſtop the crimſon tide, my hair I tore,
Kiſs'd the deep gaſh, and waſh'd with tears the gore.
'Twas love,—'twas pity—call it what you will;
Where the heart feels,—we all are women ſtill,
But low I bend my knees to pitying heav'n,
For his recovery to my prayers was giv'n;
[31]He liv'd—to all the reſt I was refign'd,
And murder rack'd no more my tortur'd mind:
He liv'd—but ſoon with mean perfidious ſtealth,
Forſook his prey, and rioted in wealth.
Yet think not now arriv'd the days of joy;
Alcanor flatter'd only to deſtroy;
Alike to blaſt my body, and my mind,
He robb'd me firſt, then left me to mankind;
Soon from his Janus face the maſk he tore,
The charm was broke, and magic was no more:
The dreadful cheat awhile to hide he ſtrove,
By poor pretences of a partial love,
Awhile diſguis'd the ſurfeits of his heart,
And top'd, full well, the warm admirer's part;
Till tir'd at laſt, with labouring to conceal,
And feigning tranſports which he did not feel,
He turn'd at once ſo civilly polite,
Whate'er I ſaid, indifference made ſo right,
Such coldneſs mark'd his manners, and his mien,
My guilt—my ruin—at a glance was ſeen.
[32]
In vain, I now aſſum'd a chaſter part,
In vain I ſtruggl'd with a broken heart,
In vain I try'd to purify my ſtain,
Correct my life, and riſe (reform'd) again;
Pleas'd at the hope, from ſavage man I flew,
And ſought protection from each friend I knew;
Each friend at my approach ſhrunk back with dread,
And bade me hide my peſtilential head:
Ev'n for the meaneſt ſervitude I ſought,
But nice ſuſpicion at my figure caught,
My dreſs too flaunting, or my air too free,
And deep reſerve betok'ning myſtery;
Some frailty rais'd a doubt where'er I came,
And every queſtion fluſh'd my cheeks with ſhame;
Conſcious of guilt, overſhadow'd by pretence,
'Twas hard to act the farce of innocence.
Oft as I beg'd the ſervant's loweſt place,
The treach'rous colour ſhifted in my face;
The fatal ſecret glow'd in every look,
Trembling I ſtood, and ſtammering I ſpoke.
[33]
Next came the views of home into my mind,
With each dear comfort I had left behind;
Pardon, and pleaſure, ſtarted to my thought,
While Hope inſpir'd forgiveneſs of my fault;
But ſoon, too ſoon, the ſweet ideas ſled,
And left me—begging at each door for bread.
Yet poor indeed was this ſupport to me,
(Ah, had I ſtarv'd on common charity!)
Far other woes and inſults were in ſtore,
My fame was loſt, and I could riſe no more;
Driv'n to the dreadful precipice of ſin,
My brain ſwam round the gulph, and hurl'd me in.
And now no pen could picture my diſtreſs,
'Twas more, much more than ſimple wretchedneſs;
Famine, and guilt, and conſcience tore my heart,
And urg'd me to purſue the wanton's part.
Take then the truth, and learn at once my ſhame:
Such my hard fate—I welcom'd all that came.
[34]
But oh! no tranſport mingled in my ſtains,
No guilty pleaſure ever ſooth'd my pains;
No vicious hope indelicately gay,
Nor warmer paſſions lull'd my cares away;
The flatt'ring compliment fatigu'd my ear,
While half-afraid, I half-conceal'd a tear:
Whole nights I paſs'd inſenſible of bliſs,
Loſt to the loath'd embrace, and odious kiſs;
Nor wine nor mirth the aching heart could fire,
Nor could the ſprightly muſic ought inſpire;
Alive to each reflection that oppreſs'd,
The more I gain'd, the more I was diſtreſs'd;
Ev'n in the moment of unbleſt deſire,
Oft would the wretch complain I wanted fire;
Cold as a ſtatue in his arms I lay,
Wept though the night, and bluſh'd along the day—
Ah think what terrors e'er could equal mine!
Ah think, and pity—for I once was thine!
The ſweet ſociety of friends was o'er,
For happier women dare invite no more;
And they, at noon, would meet me with alarms,
Who ſtole at midnight to my venal arms.
[35]My own companions no ſweet comfort brought,
A ſhameful ſett, incapable of thought;
Their wanton paſſions ne'er could touch my heart,
For all was looſeneſs, infamy, and art;
No modeſt maxims ſuited to improve,
No ſoft ſenſations of a chaſter love,
No gen'rous proſpects of a ſoul refin'd,
No worthy leſſons of a noble mind,
E'er touch'd their boſoms, hardened to their ſtate:
Charm'd at their arts, and glorying in their fate;
Some ſtroke of frolic was their conſtant theme,
The dreadful oath, and blaſphemy extreme,
Th' affected laugh, the rude-retorted lye,
Th' indecent queſtion, and the bold reply;
Even in their dreſs, their buſineſs I could trace,
And broad was ſtampt the Harlot on each face;
O'er every part the ſhameful trade we ſpy,
The ſtep audacious, and the rolling eye;
The ſmile inſidious, the look obſcene,
The air enticing, and the mincing mein.
[36]
With theſe, alas! a ſacrifice I liv'd;
With theſe the wages of diſgrace receiv'd:
But heav'n, at length, its vengeance to complete,
Drove me—diſtemper'd—to the public ſtreet.
For on a time, when lightning fir'd the air,
And laid the ſable breaſt of midnight bare;
When rain and wind aſſail'd th' unſhelter'd head,
That ſought in vain—the bleſſing of a bed,
Diſtreſs'd—diſeas'd—I crawl'd to ev'ry door,
And beg'd, with tears, a ſhelter for the poor!
My knees, at length, unable to ſuſtain
The force of hunger, and the weight of rain,
Fainting I fell, then ſtagg'ring roſe again,
And wept, and ſigh'd, and hop'd, and rav'd in vain.
Then (nor tell then) o'erwhelm'd by ſore diſtreſs,
To my own hand I look'd for full redreſs;
All things were apt—no flatterer to beguile,
'Twas night—'twas dark—occaſion ſeem'd to ſmile:—
[37]Where'er I turn'd, deſtruction roſe to view,
And, on reflection, riſing frenzy grew.—
From fooliſh love, the knife, conceal'd, I wore,
That, in my rage, Alcanor's boſom tore;
Thought preſs'd on thought—th' unſettled ſenſes flew,
As from my breaſt the fatal blade I drew;
Still the ſtain'd point with crimſon ſpots was dy'd,
cry'd!
"And this is well—'tis blood for blood," I
Then did I poiſe the inſtrument in air,
Bent to the ſtroke, and laid my boſom bare:
But ah! my crimes that inſtant roſe to view,
Diſarm'd my purpoſe—my reſolves o'erthrew;
Fear ſhook my hand, I flung the weapon by,
Unfit to live—I was not fit to die!
Ah! wretch'd woman, ſhe, who ſtrays for bread,
And ſells, the ſacred pleaſures of the bed;
Condemn'd to ſhifts, her reaſon muſt deſpiſe,
The ſcorn and pity of the good and wiſe;
Condemn'd each call of paſſion to obey,
And in deſpite of nature to be gay;
[38]To force a ſimper, with a throbbing heart,
And call to aid the feeble helps of art;
Oblig'd to ſuffer each impure careſs,
The ſlave of fancy, and the drudge of dreſs;
Compell'd to ſuit her temper to each taſte,
Scorn'd if too wanton, hated if too chaſte;
Forc'd with the public whimſy to comply,
As veers the gale of modern luxury;
And oft th' afflicted creature muſt ſuſtain
Strokes more ſevere, yet tremble to complain:
The felon bawd, a dreadful beaſt of prey,
Rules o'er her ſubjects with deſpotic ſway,
Trucks for the human form, with fatal pow'r,
And bargains for her beauties by the hour.
But ſhould ſome female in her dang'rous train,
Attend the altar of her ſhame with pain,
Diſpute at length the monſter's baſe controul,
And dare aſſert the ſcruples of her ſoul;
Should ſhe reluctant yield to the diſgrace,
And ſhew the ſigns of ſorrow in her face,
Th' imperious abbeſs frowns her into vice,
And hates the ſinner that grows over-nice.
[39]But hear, yet hear, your hapleſs daughter's plea,
Some little pity ſtill is due to me.
If to have felt each agony of mind,
To bear the ſtings which Conſcience leaves behind;
If at each morn to ſhudder at the light,
Dread the fair day, and fear the coming night;
If, like the thief, of ev'ry eye afraid,
Anxious I ſought, the bluſh-concealing ſhade;
If my ſad boſom, burſting with its weight,
Bled and bewail'd the hardſhips of my fate;
If to have known no joys, and known all pains,
Can aught avail to purge my former ſtains,
Judge not your child,—your ſuppliant,—too ſevere,
But veil her frailties, and beſtow a tear.—
Yet has Almeria now a juſter claim,
To ſeal her pardon, and to cloſe her ſhame,
Each early treſſpaſs nobler to remove,
And hope again the ſanction of your love.
[40]THESE holy manſions, ſacred to our woes,
To ſcreen from ſcorn, and hide us from our foes:
Gradual, the fallen woman to retrieve,
Reform the manners, and the mind relieve
From barbarous man to ſhield his hapleſs prey;
Expunge the ſpot, and chace the bluſh away;
To ſooth each ſorrow by the pow'r of pray'r,
And half ſupply a parent's pious care;
To lull the fluttering pulſes to repoſe,
Each pang to ſoften, and each wiſh compoſe;
Wean us from ſcenes that fatally miſguide,
And teach the breaſt to glow with nobler pride;
Theſe holy manſions have receiv'd your child,
And here ſhe mourns each paſſion that beguil'd
Thrice has the ſun his annual beams beſtow'd,
And found me here, determin'd—to be good;
Already feels my heart a lighter grief,
And each white minute brings me freſh relief;
Or if by chance my ſorrows I renew,
Half claim my crimes, and half belong to you;
Here then for ever, ſecret and reſign'd,
Here for its GOD will I prepare my mind;
[41]Here paſs, conceal'd, my penitential days,
And lead a life of piety and praiſe.
Come then, thou lovely patroneſs of fame,
Thou bright reſtorer of a ruin'd name,
Come, fair REPENTANCE, o'er each thought preſide,
Patient I follow ſuch a heav'nly guide;
To all thy laws implicitly I bend,
And call thee ſiſter, ſaviour, genius, friend!
Oh! let me breathe the ſolemn vow ſincere,
Oh! let Religion conſecrate each tear!
Then, ſhould long life be mercifully giv'n,
The ſoul, (repair'd,) may dare to think of heav'n;
Then cleans'd from every dark and Ethiop ſtain,
VIRTUE, that dove of peace, ſhall come again,
With ſmootheſt wings re-ſettle on my breaſt,
And open proſpects of eternal reſt.
And yet, before that golden hour arrive,
Oh! would my injur'd relatives forgive,
Oh! could they ſee this happier turn of fate,
And view their Magdalen's far chaſter ſtate,
[42]Then would they fondly cloſe her fading eye,
Bleſs her laſt breath, and bid her peaceful die.
Deep in her ward's moſt venerable gloom,
Late was a contrite ſiſter, from her room,
Where long the bluſhing, pious vot'reſs lay,
And ſought a ſhelter from the ſhame of day,
In words half-ſmother'd, by the heaving ſigh,
And voice that ſpoke deſpair,—thus heard to cry.—
"Oh! injur'd CHASTITY, thou heavenly dame,
Thou ſpotleſs guardian of the cherub Fame,
Who arm'ſt fair Virtue 'gainſt th' inſulting foe,
And in her cheeks commands the roſe to blow:
Thou, whoſe reſiſtleſs ſhield protects the fair,
Who falls not, willing, in the traitor's ſnate:
Had I, oh! had I ſtill thy rules obey'd,
Deſpis'd the treach'rous town, and walk'd the ſhade;
Had I each villain ſtratagem defy'd,
And ſcorn'd the flatt'rer with a decent pride;
Had I withſtood his arrows at my heart,
Oppos'd cach trick, and baffled ev'ry art,
[43]Then lib'ral truth might ev'ry hour employ,
Each thought be rapture, and each hope be joy;
Then lov'd, rever'd, as mother and as wife,
Bleſt had I been, in the pure vale of life.
Haply my Edward—Oh! lamented name,
Once my high boaſt, before I plung'd in ſhame;
Haply my Edward, yielding to my charms,
(Oh! my ſmote boſom, whence theſe new alarms?
Why ſpring the conſcious drops into my eye?
Why feels my heart the love-impaſſion'd ſigh?)
I dare not ſpeak my promis'd happineſs—
Yet, Edward, couldſt thou witneſs my diſtreſs,
Witneſs the firm unviolated mind,
Seduc'd by vice, but not to vice inclin'd;
Could thou behold the conſtant-falling tear,
My pray'rs atteſt, my ſelf-reproaches hear;
Ah! couldſt thou think how deeply I bewail,
How thick enſhrowd me in the friendly veil;
How, in the ſacred ſolitude of night,
The care of heav'n unceaſing I invite,
[44]Breathe the warm wiſh, and pour the fervent prayer;
Now dare to hope, and now expect deſpair:
Couldſt thou but ſee theſe changes of my grief,
Surely thy pity would beſtow relief.
My Edward's virtue, (for I know his heart,)
The balms of ſoft compaſſion would impart,
His breaſt would mitigate each ſtern decree,
And judgment yield to mercy's milder plea;
But he is loſt—fond wretch, thy plaint give o'er—
The dear, the injur'd Edward, is no more,
Or, if he lives—he recollects thy ſhame,
Scorns thy falſe vows, and hates th' unworthy flame."—
Scarce had the penſive child of ſorrow ſpoke,
When from a neighbouring ward theſe accents broke:
"'Tis ſhe!—'tis ſhe!—th' unfortunate is found,
My pulſe beats quick—Ah! ſave me from the ground,
[45]Support me—help me—ſome aſſiſtance lend,
And my faint foot-ſteps to the mourner bend;
She lives!—ſhe lives!"—The unhappy woman heard,
Shook in each nerve, and trembled at each word,
Then ſwooning ſunk at length upon the floor,
Juſt as th' afflicted ſtranger reach'd the door:
Tottering he enter'd—caught th' afflicted fair,
And rais'd her flutt'ring frame, with tend'reſt care.
"Ah drooping lily! riſe to life and me,
And in this faded form thy Edward ſee;
Recall the luſtre in thy ſparkling eye,
And bid for ever all thy ſorrows fly;
Long have I ſought thee with a lover's zeal,
For thee alone I weep, for thee I feel:
Come then, fair penitent, forget each woe,
And ev'ry pleaſure, ev'ry tranſport know;
Loſt be the mem'ry of thy former ſtain,
Thy pow'rful pray'rs have waſh'd thee white again;
[46]Bury'd be ev'ry anguiſh in this kiſs,
Wake then, oh wake, to virtue and to bliſs!"—
This ſaid, he preſs'd her in a ſoft embrace,
And the warm blood came fluſhing to her face,
Now pale retir'd, now ran a deeper red,
Till cheer'd at laſt the ſweet diſorder fled;
A thouſand tender queſtions now ſucceed,
They ſmile alternate, and alternate bleed.
Edward, the chaplain's long try'd friend had been,
And hence aroſe the late propitious ſcene;
The ſacred chaplain gave her to his care,
Join'd their kind fates, and left them with a pray'r.

CHAP. XXXIX.

[47]

Before I proceed to ſet down other matters which fell out to chequer the adventures of my journey, I cannot but obſerve that about two years after this period I met Mr. Greaves in the Park, with a beautiful young creature under his arm; and ſome time afterwards I paid him a viſit, when he took me cordially by the hand, and ſpoke to me as follows.

My dear BENIGNUS, where have you been buried ſince our laſt interview? When I told you upon the road the occaſion of that melancholy you detected through my efforts to conceal it, you may remember I told you the motive of my journey. Upon my arrival [48]in London, and taking leave of you, I call'd an hackney coach, and drove directly to ***—In one word— I found my daughter.—I felt the fainting penitent in my arms. I received of her with an anxiety of joy—a tremor tranſport—Oh! BENIGNUS, think for me—colour the ſcene in the paint of youthful ardour—do juſtice to nature, and imagine the delicacies which were never ſpoken. You have ſeen my daughter—I never walk without her —and yet, ſir, all this joy is daſhed with an ingredient of ſorrow. The prudes (untouched by the pathos of her penitence) carry an air of ceremonious civility towards my child.—The faded virgins who have never paſſed the fiery trial of temptation, and a ſet of haughty matrons, who have every [49]other vice that diſgraces the ſex, but that of which even nature predetermined they ſhould never be guilty— treat my Almeria with a coy and inſulting reſerve, which goes too near her heart—an heart, BENIGNUS, generous and gentle as—

Here our diſcourſe was interrupted by ALMERIA herſelf, who came to inform us the chocolate waited for us in the little ſaloon.

—Grace was in all her ſteps,
In every action, dignity and love.

Her own epiſtle has ſo pathetically deſcribed the miſery of her ſituation, that ſhe has not left room for any thing but pity.—And yet who that conſiders ſuch a creature has been, as it were, public property—that reflects, [50]how many are at this very moment chained down to a neceſſity equally ſore; many of them expoſed to the want of that daily bread, which even nightly impurity cannot ſupply— ſome of them beating through the ſtreets by the barbarity of their betrayer—ſome hunted from one hiding place to another, by the vigilance of the bailiff; and all of them liable to contempt, indignity, and diſtemper—who, I ſay, that collects together theſe facts in his mind, can be content with expreſſing barren compaſſion?—Who can forbear mixing relief with their tears, and bleſſing the benevolence which firſt ſuggeſted, and ſtill continues, their Aſylum.

I have a little violated chronology, by placing theſe tranſactions ſomewhat [51]out of the order of time, but as my hiſtory is written at a venture, and may never viſit the world, I have been leſs cautious of obſerving critical rules. However, as I by no means deſign to make a book of digreſſions, I ſhall now turn back to Mr. Greaves, who having ſat with his eyes cloſed, was, when he opened them again, much more fitted for ſociety. There are, in truth, certain moments when the muſic of the ſpheres would be diſcordant, and when the condolence of our deareſt acquaintances is an unwelcome interruption. The human ſoul ſettles on her darling ſubject, deſcends into herſelf, and indulges in a luxury, which, bee like, extracts honey from the poiſon of calamity. In one of theſe diſpoſitions was Mr. Greaves, [52]when he counterfeited repoſe: he had now reconciled himſelf to the events he had contemplated, (for he was both a philoſopher and a chriſtian) and with an affability peculiar to well-bred people, begged my pardon for his reveries.

CHAP. XL.

We were now juſt ſtepping into our laſt ſtage but one, and though the glories of the ſun were over, his departing beams were extremely agreeable. Mr. Greaves reſumed a look of complacency, and I being willing to keep as clear of the only ſubject that could perhaps again diſcompoſe it, aſked what ſort of ſenſations were created [53]in his mind by the ſtory of Mr. Blewitt. Though his hiſtory was related (anſwered my companion) in unpoliſhed language, it contains a folio of valuable facts. But what a pity it is, repeated I, that ſuch mercenary hearts as are lodged in the boſoms of the Quaker and Grocer, ſhould be, in general, more undiſturbed through life, than ſuch as guided the feelings of the generous Mr. Blewitt. Alas! returned the gentleman, you are yet an infant in terreſtial events. I dare ſwear you have an excellent heart, and I am ſure a good underſtanding, yet you know but little of life.—You profeſs to be travelling in purſuit of happineſs, and to dedicate your fortune to the ſervice of ſociety. From hence I ſhould conclude that you are [54]flying from miſery. I related my adventures at the village. He ſaid if I could not find Contentment in the ſhade, it was doubtful whether I ſhould meet her in the city. But I fear, continued he, you expect from the world more than it can beſtow; you have, perhaps, placed the ſtandard of felicity too high, or your ideas of it are probably a little romantic.

All I want upon earth, replied I, is comprized in three things, friendſhip, fidelity, and gratitude.—At your age, reſumed Mr. Greaves, (ſmiling,) I entered the world, animated by the ſame hopes, and faſcinated by the ſame notions. My head—my hands, and my heart, were buſy to derive a reflected bleſſing to myſelf, by having promoted the bleſſedneſs of others. To [55]this end I continued in the world till that agonizing accident I have already related.—

At this criſis our chaiſe having juſt aſcended a hill arrived at a very beautiful ſpot indeed. It was an eminence that topt an extenſive proſpect, and commanded the ſcene below, which was compoſed of intermingled towers, and ſpires, woods and waters, the verdure of fields, and the variegation of vallies—I could not help ejaculating with ſome energy—Is it not ſtrange that a world like this, ſo fitted for the reception and happineſs of every being which inhabits it, with ſuch noble capacities of pleaſure adapted to each, ſhould nevertheleſs be the ſeat of general torment and fretfulneſs, diſaſter and diſtreſs.—Is it not ſtrange that—that—

[56]The gentleman took hold of my wriſt, and fixing his eyes very ſeriouſly upon me, ſpoke in a tone of unuſual dignity.

CHAP. XLI.

Never allow amazement to hurry you into expreſſions unbecoming the character of a chriſtian; nor let either the inſults or miſeries you ſee or feel in the world, make you charge Heaven with the ſhadow of injuſtice. Take my word for it, God is not, nor ever was in fault—You ſee before you, this moment, enough to convince you, that he has done every thing on his part—the ſun warms us —the moon in his abſence ſets off the [57]face of the earth, in a ſort of ſhady majeſty—the rain deſcends to bleſs us—the ground feeds and entertains us, and the ample intentions of univerſal nature are univerſally kind and beneficent. MAN has perverted the ſyſtem—the invention of coins, the paſſion for negotiation, and the love of barter have extended an ambition of the loweſt kind amongſt all claſſes of people. The motive of commerce is no longer rational; and buſineſs, which was originally deſigned to promote health, and circulate interchanged conveniencies, is now for the moſt part avariciouſly carried on, to ſwell the coffers of the individual by impoveriſhing the ſpecies; nay, the mercenary ſpirit of the times extends to nations and climates divided by the remoteſt part of the [58]ocean. But if you pleaſe we will trace this evil ab origine. The Almighty created a world, then peopled it, and afterwards found that it was good. The management of it was put into the hands of man—not, however, to be too minute, let us take notice, that every thing was once indiſcriminately enjoyed. The earth was a common property, and it was fertile without labour—the error of our firſt parents conſiderably changed the ſyſtem, and tillage and druggery became neceſſary to ſubdue a ſoil, that no longer produced plenty ſpontaneouſly. No abſolute right however or proprietorſhip was yet aſcertained, and every one fixed on, and cultivated the ſpot he choſe: this miſcellaneous participation ſoon created diſorder; for, as [59]the bad paſſions were now let looſe upon the world, indolence ſeized upon the comforts which had been acquired by induſtry; and hence ſprang domeſtic conteſt and civil diſpute, and half mankind were at war. Thoſe that obtained the victory held the conquered as his ſlave; and from hence originated thoſe diſtinctions, which, obtained by rapacity, and kept by force, were after ſanctified by political inſtitutions: for upon this (finding men were to be reſtrained from violence and invaſion only by compulſion, terror, and authority,) the laws came in to the aſſiſtance of the ſtronger party: the difference betwixt meum and tuum was ſoon underſtood, and every individual maintained himſelf upon that which was now ſecured [60]to him by certain compacts, to violate which was henceforth to be conſidered as a puniſhable crime. By this time an idea of property became ſacred and general, and by theſe means the civilized part of the earth was ſaid to belong, not as formerly, to all alike, but to a third part of its inhabitants. Subordination therefore of neceſſity took place. The pride of power gained ground every day, and one human creature uſurped dominion over another, becauſe the diſtinction was now known betwixt maſter and ſervant. From maſter and ſervant roſe notions of great privileges, and poverty dropt ſubmiſſive at the knee of riches. Paſtorals and Arcadia were no more. Inſtead of every man dreſſing the glebe, and turning up the ſoil [61]in common, ſuch as had now dominion over the acres, inſiſted upon having the eſſential drudgery they required, performed by thoſe whoſe fathers might probably poſſeſs the ſpot upon which they were to toil.

CHAP. XLII.

—Affairs once ſettled on theſe partial principles, reſiſted every effort of revocation—for who that could eat his bread without ſweating his brow, would give up the advantages he had gained. Centuries are now behind us, ſince things were thus regulated, and every year hath given force and venerableneſs to the eſtabliſhment. Every [62]man has given up the point, and makes the moſt of his ſituation: the clown riſes early to the taſk of cultivation, and the maſter looks indolently on, and receives the profit. Luxury was introduced under theſe auſpices —the beverage of the field—the ſallad of the brook, and the water of the ſpring—with the homely apparel that decently veil'd and warmed the body, were rejected, and Voluptuouſneſs turned Simplicity bluſhing away. The moment in which man became poſſeſt of more than was neceſſary to the wholeſome purpoſes of life; the moment in which his induſtry became nerveleſs, and his love of labour to ſlacken; pride ſoon taught leiſure, to miſuſe abundance, and the paſſions to wanton with authority—Hence, [63]ſome revelled in the riots of diſſipation, others found a pleaſure in accumulation, and ſome better ſpirits had a bliſs in diſtribution. At length through the natural chain of conſequences, we are arrived at the criſis. We are poliſhed, populated, and reſined in the extreme. Diſtinctions are ſo minute, property ſo tenacious, ſplendor ſo ſuperior, and trade ſo jealous, that no diſtreſſes you obſerve ſhould ſurpriſe you. Money hath acquired a univerſal aſcendency, property hath "ſubdued all things under her feet;" and luxury ſickens in deſpair, becauſe novelty is wanting to give an edge to the blunted appetites. Had the uſe of a metal-currency been reſtricted by any reaſonable rule of moderation, it might have ſettled the ſyſtem upon [64]a noble principle, for it is equally convenient to the great purpoſes of benevolence and buſineſs. But the lucky and fortunate have run into two extremes ſo egregiouſly abſurd, that the one opens upon us a fountain of poiſoned pleaſures, and the other a ſource of ſordid maxims. The paſſion for waſting on the one hand, and of hoarding on the other, have not only involved the world in confuſion, and thrown the paſſions into an uproar but have actually left almoſt one half of the human ſpecies naked and ſtarved, to cloath and accommodate the other.

CHAP. XLIII

[65]

You have diſcovered to me Mr. Greaves, ſaid I, a train of obſervations of which I had no idea—but you are preparing to ſpeak—and I would not interrupt you for the univerſe—

The obſervations I have made, (continued Mr. Greaves,) have been no doubt made, (and much more ſagaciouſly,) by many others, for contemplation, philoſophy, and ſcience, have now gone very far; our diſcoveries in letters and in lands, may perhaps have been pretty equal. There may be yet unknown tracks in ſpeculation; the intellect may ſtill abound with new reſerves of wiſdom. There is ſtill, it is [66]preſumed, a terra incognita; there may be ſtill an undug mine of knowledge—To explore this, muſt be the labour of ſome literary Columbus—I pretend not to ſuch ſkill; and indeed can only aſſure you, that I offer you frankly, on this ſubject the unadorned facts which I have collected from early readings and practical obſervations. —You run your eye haſtily over the world, and then complain that it abounds with miſery. After what has been ſaid, ſhould you not be ſurpriſed to find a great deal of happineſs: and yet, diſtributed up and down the various parts of it, there really is a very conſiderable ſhare. That the infelicity grows out of all proportion ſtill more conſiderable cannot eaſily be determined—for [67]though the fate of thouſands can only be made ſupportable, by the chearful expectation of a better, and though the human heart is in general blinded by temporal prejudices, yet coarſe as the maſs of gratifications are that endear life to the multitude, they are nevertheleſs gratifications, and receive attachment from cuſtom. The joys of more delicate minds are indeed leſs extended, and lie in a ſmall compaſs, being confined to the little circle of the few, whoſe feelings are ſoftened by nature, and refined by art. But were the agonies of exiſtence, ſtill greater and acuter than they are, the DEITY is not the author of it—he made the world—ſurvey it, ſir, (even through the ſhadings of the evening) and tell me, if it is not worthy of a divine [68]artificer. He made man to inhabit it —has he not beſtowed amiable and ample faculties upon him—fitted him equally to enjoy ſociety and ſolitude —given him a power to derive a pleaſure from the freſhneſs of the gale, or from the convivial glaſs—has not he beſtowed upon him eyes to ſee misſortune, an heart to feel it, and arms to remove it? Has he not implanted in the mind a ſympathy between the ſexes, ſo attractive, that by a kind of magnetic power, we are irreſiſtibly drawn to each other, that life may be perpetuated while love is unpolluted? Has he not given us early ideas of more diſintereſted attachments, and inſpired us with diſpoſitions, to philanthropy and friendſhip! has he not ſeated in the boſom a monitor, to compliment [69]us for every thing that is becoming, and accommodated the taſte with endleſs variety,—is not the ear enchanted by the harmonies of nature—and the ſmell gratified with perfume; and to crown the whole, has he not placed certain intimations in the ſoul, which aſſure it that however agreeable the Deity may have rendered the preſent ſlate, it is but a paſſage; and upon the eaſy terms of our acting properly to him, and each other, will lead us gently along, till it terminates in eternity?

CHAP. XLIV.

[70]

—This, my young friend, is a ſaint ſketch of the works and intentions of the Deity—that thoſe works and intentions are abuſed, can never be imputed to their all-kind Author, but to man.

If the beauties and benefits of nature are perverted; if the faculties of the mind and body are obſtinately bent to actions evidently contradictory to the purpoſes for which they were given; if love and friendſhip are overborne by their oppoſite paſſions; and, if—as has been before hinted, intereſt carries away the palm from earth and heaven—who but man [71]is chargeable with the conſequences of this general inverſion of bleſſings?—

The fact is indiſputable, ſir, ſaid I— I tremble, and I adore; but as Mr. Blewitt ſeemed always to perform the purpoſes for which he was born a man, how is it, that he, and others like him, ſhould not paſs ſmoothly through the ſea of life. Becauſe, ſaid the gentleman—to carry on the metaphor—when the ſtorm is violent, and the hurricane extreme, it is certain the good and bad ſailors will be wrecked alike. Is not that ſtrange, ſaid I—"Shall gravitation ſtop as you go by, replied Mr. Greaves?—no, ſir. The chain of cauſes and conſequences is irrefragable—that innocence ſhould ſuffer in a world of guilt is morally [72]inevitable, but depend upon it, the ſuffering will not be ultimately in vain.

As to Mr. Blewitt, I compaſſionate and admire him, but he is one of thoſe characters, whoſe amiable weakneſſes expoſe him to almoſt certain poverty. The poor man was kind, to a fault— the world would call him, a good-natured fool—Indeed he was wrong, ſir, to indulge the tenderneſs of his feeling in the extreme; though this cannot be owned, without its implying at the ſame time a very cutting ſatire againſt the depravity of human nature —a depravity I have all along taken notice of, as the ſource of ſo much diſaſter, and calamity.—

Mr. Blewitt did not reflect that —as money is the property by [73]which every paſſion is gratified, man will naturally idolize it as the golden calf; and that, to adopt a few ſaving maxims, in relation to keeping a part of ſuch property always at command, would be favourable even to his generoſity; becauſe it muſt needs be a deep misfortune to find the hand, accuſtomed to liberallity, compelled to contract, when it can give no more. —In a country where appearances of wealth, can claim veneration, where money acquires the chymic quality of turning every thing it approximates into gold, and where that gold is moreover able to array inſamy in the robe of integrity, and lead the judgments of the wiſeſt blind-fold as it pleaſes—In ſuch a country, every apparent want of this property, [74]will be liable to neglect and ill treatment—and every degree of indigence will meet deſertion, for this plain reaſon, becauſe indigence has nothing either to procure or excite the idea of authority, nor to obſerve thoſe rules which externally diſtinguiſh the maſter from the ſervant. You will ſay perhaps, all this ſort of diſtinction is ridiculous. No doubt of it; but as more than fifty, out of ſixty have adopted ſuch diſtinctions,—as they are actually the general ſtandards of conduct,—as they are alſo more than two thouſand years old—it is in vain to diſpute their propriety—one might as well diſpute the cuſtoms of a country —tell the Indian, it is indecent to go naked, or that a Toledo dangling by the ſide of the Spaniſh peaſant, muſt [75]be extremely inconvenient. Oeconomy therefore is now almoſt the only ſecurity from contempt, and though it were too narrow a line to tread in the track of the grocer, as no real joy could ariſe from ſuch a rigid policy, neither to lend ſix-pence, nor borrow ſix-pence, yet I (and I think my heart not an unfeeling one) —have always found it ſound prudence, to keep a friend in my pocket, and on no terms to lie at the mercy and compaſſion of another.—

CHAP. XLV.

[76]

—It was now night, and we were in the middle of Finchley Common— The driver bid us ſecure part of our money, if we had any great quantity about us, for that he ſaw a fellow lurking by the ſide of the road, at a little diſtance.—In five ſeconds we were up with the man, who was groaning piteouſly upon a graſſy hillock. Mr. Greaves, (who knew the arts of his own ſpecies) ſuſpected this to be an impoſition, and oppoſed my deſire to have him lifted into the chaiſe— But theſe ideas were preſently removed, for the ſtranger got up, and coming to the window, preſented [77]not a piſtol, but—a purſe. The chaiſe ſtopt—

Half an hour ago, gentlemen—ſaid the man—a horſeman came by me, and I was tempted, (to ſupply the wants of a large family) to demand his money—He put into my hand this purſe.—I conjure you, gentlemen, if by any ſtroke of happy chance he ſhould be any part of your company— take it, and return it to him juſt as I received it—It is my firſt violation of the laws, either of hoſpitality or my country—I might poſſibly return home undiſcovered, but I feel that I cannot bear it. My conſcience is victorious even over my neceſſities If you ſhould not know the traveller I have plundered—it is ſtill in your power to do my bleeding ſoul ſome [78]ſervice—Upon your arrival in London advertiſe the circumſtances of the robbery—take the property and redeliver it, upon the firſt application.— This I cannot do for myſelf, without throwing myſelf into the arms of juſtice; and the ſituation of a wife, (whom I doat on, with the fate of my poor little ones,) forbid my deſertion—ſo ſaying—he threw the purſe into the chaiſe and was going to retire.—

There was ſomething ſo very unuſual in this new mode of attacking, that it was ſome time before Mr. Greaves could ſpeak.—For my own part I was in a ſtate of mind betwixt trembling and crying.—At length Mr. Greaves, who could no longer doubt of the offender's ſincerity, invited him [79]to accompany us in the chaiſe, if he was going to town, pledging himſelf at the ſame time, as a man of honour, not to betray him.—The poor man after the deliberation of a minute —ſighed and aſcended—though the poſtilion muttered that we might be tranſported for harbouring robbers, and might repent it before we got over the common yet.—

Our converſation on the way was ſuch as might have touched the hardeſt heart.—As ſoon as we were upon the pavement, the gentleman got out, but not before we had obtained the ſecret of his addreſs—The driver ſeeing him eſcape—ſaid—he had a great mind to cry ſtop thief, for that he was ſure 'twas hanging matter— and he was not certain whether [80] he ſhould not come to the gallows for it himſelf, ſeeing as how he was aiding and abutting. In this conjecture he was perfectly prophetic, for upon my travelling the ſame road in my way to the village, about ſix months after, I underſtood that this very identical niceminded driver, had actually mounted, ſome little time before, for being detected in confederating with a gang of highwaymen, to whom he gave intelligence, what company had made appointments to paſs by his maſter's houſe, in their return to town.—The poor man inſiſted upon leaving the purſe, but we did our beſt to alleviate his miſerable condition, by an equal preſent of five guineas—I was going to give ten, but Mr. Greaves geatly pluckt me by the button, obſerving [81]to me afterwards, that five, at another opportunity, would very likely double their utility.

CHAP. XLVI.

As ſoon as the man was gone— There, ſaid Mr. Greaves, is another reaſon why money ſhould be cautiouſly parted with—What a noble ſoul muſt that gentleman poſſeſs, and yet to what deplorable ſhifts is he reduced—He is a man of education— but 'tis a cuſtom to ſhun decayed gentlemen, or at beſt to aſſiſt them in a way that muſt pierce them to the quick— A beggar who has ſerved a long apprenticeſhip to the buſineſs of whimpering and wailing—who lies down at the [82]door in deſpite of denial, and who is, in ſhort, a maſter of his calling, feels ſlightly, the neglect and abuſe of his fellow-creature; and if the footman hunts him from one haunt, he hobbles on towards another: but an unfortunate man of breeding—a poor creature whoſe education ſhines through his rags and dirt, feels the acumen of every inſult that is caſt upon him—by the random ſons of ſucceſs—in its utmoſt bitterneſs, and cannot help reflecting ſeverely on the inhumanity of mankind—Take care therefore, my dear ſir, what you do—You are now, I ſuppoſe, for the firſt time, in London —a place of various danger to all men, but more eſpecially to thoſe of your complexion.—Pleaſure and buſineſs ſeem to lie upon the ſurface— [83]and at the firſt glance neither miſery or impoſture will be diſcovered—When you riſe in the morning, every object will be gay; and curioſity will pay the debt to ſurrounding ſplendor; but you will be ſoon convinced that the fronti nulle fides was never more proverbially applicable than to this great city. Proceed, therefore with di [...]idence, and ſtep with caution—Your ſimplicity and kindneſs of heart have made me take an intereſt—almoſt paternal—in your welfare; and I could rejoice to paſs ſome time with you— but you already know the irreſiſtible —pathetic cauſe which draws me to town—when that is over, I ſhall be at your ſervice—In the mean time— (taking my hand with a ſoft preſſure, which brought the water into my eyes) [84]—once again, let me conjure you to be circumſpect. Beware that your bounty, like fire, does not burn itſelf out, by its own force—Husband the blaze, and be ſure ſome ſparks remain to warm yourſelf—I give a great deal, to a great many—but, as I have happily a great deal yet to beſtow, I paſs the muſter of my friends, whoſe ſevereſt cenſure is a prophecy that I ſhall not die rich. But certain it is, if I were to diveſt myſelf of every thing, and give the laſt penny to a ſtarving creature, I ſhould be the jeſt of men, the tittletattle of women, and the pity of mankind.—Mr. Greaves gave me his direction—ſtept'd into an hackney coach, and bade me farewell.—Some time after this, I paid a viſit to the highwayman, who at my departure gave [85]me the following manuſcript, which contains ſome reflections he made upon the tranſaction at Finchley Common. — But before I introduce this into my Legend, I think proper to take notice that I had an opportunity to return the purſe, to the perſon from whom it was taken, and that perſon forms no inconſiderable character in the remaining part of theſe Memoirs.

CHAP. XLVII.

[86]
A FRAGMENT. CONTAINING SOLILOQUIES OF A HIGHWAYMAN.
AH! family forlorn!
The ſport of fortune, famine, and mankind;
Compoſe thy griefs, Louiſa—ſtop thoſe tears;
Cry not ſo pitcous—ſpare, oh ſpare, thy ſire,
Nor quite diſtract thy mother,—hapleſs babes!
What ſhall I do?—which ever way I turn,
Scenes of inceſſant horror ſtrike my eye:
Bare, barren walls gloom formidably round,
And not a ray of hope is left to chear;
Sorrowing and ſick, the partner of my ſate
Lies on her bed of ſtraw,—beſide her, ſad
My children dear, cling to her breaſt, and weep;
Or preſt by hunger, hunt each nook for food,
[87]And, quite exhauſted, climb theſe knees—in vain.
How ev'ry aſking eye appeals at once!
Ah looks too eloquent!—too plainly marked,
Ye aſk for bread—I have no bread to give.
The wants of Nature, frugal as ſhe is,
The little calls and comforts which ſupport
From day to day the feeble life of man,
No more, alas! thy father, can ſupply!—
To me, the hand of heaven-born Charity
Hard, as the ſeaſon, gripes—the neighbourhood,
Buſy'd or pleas'd, o'erlook a ſtranger's woe;
Scarce knows the tenant of th'adjoining houſe,
What thin partitions ſhield him from the room
Where Poverty hath fix'd her dread abode.
Oh fatal force of ill-timed delicacy,
Which bade we ſtill conceal the want extreme,
While yet the decent dreſs remain'd in ſtore,
To viſit my Eugenius like myſelf;
Now ſhame, confuſion, memory unite
To drive me from his door.—
—Ah cruel man!
Too barbarous Eugenius—this from thee?
[88]Have I not ſcreen'd thee from a parent's wrath,
Shar'd in thy tranſports, in thy ſorrows ſhar'd?
Were not our friendſhips in the cradle form'd,
Gain'd they not ſtrength and firmneſs as we grew,
And doſt thou ſhift with fortune's veering gale?
Doſt thou ſurvey me with the critic's eye?
And ſhun thy friend, becauſe—(oh bluſh to truth,
Oh ſtain, to human ſenſibility!)
Becauſe his tatter'd garments, to the wind
And every paſſenger, more deep betray
Th' extremity ſevere—then, fare thee well!
Quick let me ſeek my homely ſhed again,
Fly from the wretch, who triumphs o'er my rags,
On my Louiſa's faithful boſom fall,
Hug to my heart my famiſh'd fondlings round;
Together ſuffer—and together die.—
—What piles of wealth,
What loads of riches glitter through each ſtreet?
How thick the toys of faſhion croud the eye!
The lap of luxury can hold no more;
Fortune, ſo rapid, rolls the partial ſhow'r,
[89]That ev'ry paſſion ſickens with exceſs,
And nauſeates the banquet meant to charm—
Yet, what are all theſe golden ſcenes to me,
Theſe ſplendid modiſh ſuperfluities;
What are theſe bright temptations to the poor?
Sooner, alas, will Pride new gild her coach,
Than bid the warming faggot blaze around
The hearth where chill Neceſſity reſides—
But muſt Louiſa, then—our tender babes,—
Muſt they untimely ſink into the grave;
Muſt all be victims to a fate ſo fore?
The world will nothing give but barren frowns:
What then remains—There ſtands the wretched hut
I dare not enter—Heav'n befriend them all!
What then remains—The night ſteals on apace;
The ſick moon labours through the mixing clouds:
Yes—that were well—O dire neceſſity!—
It muſt be ſo—Deſpair, do what thou wilt!
—I faint with fear,
With terror, and fatigue—This foreſt gloom,
[90]Made gloomier by the deep'ning ſhades of night,
Suits well the ſad diſorders of my ſoul:
The paſſing owl ſhrieks horrible her wail,
And conſcience broods o'er her prophetic note,
Light ſprings the hare upon the wither'd leaf,
The rabbit frolicks—and the guilty mind
Starts at the ſound, as at a giant's tread—
Ah me!—I hear the horſe along the road—
Forgive me, Providence—forgive me, Man!
I tremble thro' the heart—the clatt'ring hoof
Re-echoes thro' the wood—the moon appears,
And lights me to my prey
—Stop, traveller!—
Behold a being born like thee to live,
And yet endow'd with fortitude to die,
Were his alone the pang of poverty;
But a dear wife, now ſtarving far from hence,
Seven hapleſs hungry children at her ſide,
A frowning world, and an ungrateful frien [...]
Urge him to actions which his heart abhors
Aſſiſt us—ſave us—pity my deſpair,
O'erlook my fault, and view me as a man.
[91]A fellow-mortal ſues to thee for bread,
Invites thy charity—invites thy heart:
Perhaps thou art an huſband, and a father;
Think if thy babes, like mine, dejected lay
And held their little hands to thee for food,
What wouldſt thou have me do, wer't thou, like me,
Driven to diſtreſs like mine—oh! then befriend,
Make our ſad cauſe your own—I aſk no more,
Nor will I force what bounty cannot ſpare;
Let me not take aſſaſſin-like the boon
Which, humbly bending at thy foot, I beg.
Ne'er till this night—
—God ſpeed thee on thy way,
May plenty ever fit within thy houſe!
If thou haſt children, angels guard their ſteps!
Health ſcatter roſes round each little cheek,
And Heav'n at laſt reward thy ſoul with bliſs!
He's gone—and left his purſe within my hand;
Thou much-deſir'd, thou often ſought in vain,
Sought while the tears were ſwimming in my eye,
[92]Sought, but not found—at length, I hold thee faſt.
Swift let me fly upon the wings of love,
And bear the bleſſing to my fainting babes,
Then, gently take Louiſa in my arms,
And whiſper to the mourner, happier tidings.
—Hark! what noiſe was that?
'Twas the dull bittern, booming o'er my head;
The raven follows her—the duſky air,
Thickens each form upon the cheated fight:
Ha! ſomething ſhot acroſs the way, methinks!
'Tis but the ſhadow of this ſtripling tree,
That throws its baby-arms as blows the gale.
Each object terrifies Guilt's anxious heart!
The robber, trembles at—
—What have I ſaid?
Robber!—well may I ſtart—O heav'n!
What have I done?
—Shall then Louiſa live on ſpoil?
Shall my poor children eat the bread of theft?
And have I, at the peaceful hour of night,
Like ſome maligant thing, that prowls the wood,
Have I—a very felon!—ſought relief
[93]By means like theſe? And yet the traveller
Gave what I aſk'd, as if in charity:
Perhaps his heart, compaſſionately kind,
Gave from an impulſe it could not reſiſt:
Perhaps—'twas fear—left murder might enſue
Alas, I bore no arms—no blood, I ſought!
How knew he that?—yet ſure he might perceive
The harden'd villain ſpoke not in my air;
Trembling and cold, my hand was join'd with his,
My knees ſhook hard, my ſeeble accents fail'd,
The father's—huſband's—tears bedew'd my face,
And virtue almoſt triumph'd o'er deſpair!
Yet ſtrikes the thought ſeverely on my heart,
The deed was foul!—ſoft—Let me pauſe awhile!
Again, the moon-beam breaks upon the eye,
—Guilt bears me to the ground—I faint—I fall!
The means of food ſhould ſtill be honeſt means,
Elſe were it well to ſtarve!
— Cetera deſunt.—

[94] At this place, madam, we muſt ſtop—after Benignus reached London, he met with a great variety of adventures, all of which, were ſtrongly calculated to fix the aſſertions and hypotheſis in the 12th and 13th chapters, beyond any ſort of doubt— thoſe adventures, are of the moſt intereſting nature—ſome of them are pathetic—all are full of that agonizing knowledge, which is uſually purchaſed at the price of a broken heart— The manuſcript in my poſſeſſion is not large, but it is in ſo ſmall and cloſe a character, that it would yet furniſh out at leaſt ſix window-feat, faſhionable volumes—As I have already got beyond the limits of a letter, (unleſs it had been written upon one of thoſe leaves, which travellers aſſure us, will [95]cover, an acre of ground) I muſt reſerve the remainder of his Legend, till another opportunity—at preſent I can only ſpare my unfortunate hermit, a few more pages for an extract or two from the record.

THE LEGEND, Continued from the 685th Chapter.

I was now in the 37th year of my age,—as emaciated—unhappy—deſolute a creature as ever reluctantly crawled on the boſom of the earth,— the greateſt part of my fortune was gone—the remainder was in bad hands —my reputation was ruined—my wife [96]was dead—and my health was totally deſtroyed. The friend, whom I moſt loved, and moſt truſted, deceived me; and yet it was the conſtant aim and center of all my views to derive happineſs from goodneſs. One ſolitary 20l. bank note, which was paid me in full for a debt of 500l. was all I have left—priſons, croſſes, aſperſions, and cruelties, had driven me to the point of death—ſociety became dreadful to me, and indeed my conſumption had taken ſuch hold of me, that I became dreadful to ſociety. I bought a ſorry mule,—twelve ſacks of common biſcuit—wrapt up my exhauſted limbs in a horſeman's coat—left the deteſted town, and took the road to this foreſt.

[97]The ideas of a deſpairing mind are generally wild and violent. Mine were the direct contrary—I was not deſperate, but I was dying; and I was unwilling to lay my bones, where my body and my mind had been equally lacerated—at the edge of the wood I ſtopt—every part was almoſt inaceſſible, and appeared the more ſo, as the moonbeam threw a ſhade deeper on it—I knew not at what part to enter.—

Here, madam, we muſt make a ſecond gap in the hiſtory, and continue it from

[98]
CHAP. DCCLXX.

Being the laſt of the LEGEND.

I have now been an inhabitant of the foreſt only five weeks—I have got a few birds—my old dog, ſo frequently mentioned in the latter part of my hiſtory—a cat that ſtrolled one day into my cottage, which is nothing better than a collection of ſticks cloſely compacted, ſodded at the top, and carpetted with ſacks at the bottom —I am at the extremity,—God has permitted me to finiſh my adventures, wherein every thing that happened to me in the world, or in the wood, is accounted for—I find I am no [99]longer able to hold the pen—farewell then that which has been my chief amuſement—farewell writing—the hand of death is upon me—I will now hang my label on the door.—

—I have been at the point of death three days—I am too weak to riſe—My ſtore box is empty—my poor brutes are falling famiſhed around me —the pen (which I laid by the head of my ſack) is held ſo faintly, that I can ſcarcely mark the fate of my laſt moments — I make random efforts on the paper—and I die—a fatal example —that no ſorrows—no diſappointment—no barbarities,—ſhould at any time have power to drive a man totally from his ſpecies—the ſilver chord that [100]tied the ſoul, to the body, is broken —I am —*

* * * — * * *

This hiſtory, madam, together with other adventures in the world (with which at ſome future period, that world may be made acquainted) —have led me to a ſecluſion almoſt as retired from the buſtle and intrigue of life, as the unhappy author of the Legend. I intend my memoirs ſhall ſerve as the counterpart of his; and both will indiſputedly prove and validate, the peculiar truth of theſe ſingular ſentiments.

That, nine times out of ten, a life of benevolence is a life of inſult and pain.

That an unwearied attention to the pleaſure and comfort of others, is [101]generally repaid by ingratitude from the world.

And that (in a terreſtrial ſenſe)— tracing the fact through all claſſes of life, from the nobleman in his villa to the beggar in his ſhed—goodneſs is not often, in this world, rewarded by ſuch returns from our fellow creatures, as conſtitute thoſe ſenſations, which are included in our ideas of happineſs.

The reſult of the whole, madam, will be,

Firſt, To be good, would, to all intents and purpoſes, be to be happy, had not man degenerated in the extreme; and had not his worldly intereſt prevailed over the proſpects and promiſes of futurity.

[102] Secondly. That the world is permitted to exiſt, for the ſame reaſons it was ſpared in years which are far behind, when the Omnipotent declared with his own facred voice that—if ten, or even five, juſt people could be found, the city (over which the almighty arm of vengeance, was raiſed in ſuſpenſion) ſhould be ſpared.

Thirdly. That, the perverſion of money, and the abuſe of riches, has contributed more to the corruption of human nature, over every part of the habitable globe, than any other thing, ſince the invention of a commerce with it.

Fourthly. That, this world (and more particularly the poliſhed and voluptuous parts [103]of it) would be intolerable, to a truly good mind, and, of all poſſible places of torment, the moſt ſevere, (to men engaged in ſociety, but unengaged in its general aims) were it not for two reaſons, which will not only be fully given in the promiſed hiſtories —but may be briefly ſeen in the concluſive parts of theſe volumes.

But before we purſue ſubjects of ſo grave a nature, I ſhall beg your ladyſhip's leave to offer ſome lighter amuſement—I fear I have made you gloomy —let us then inſtantly return to our fancy-pieces—amongſt theſe I muſt number a little piece of poetry, wrote a year after leaving ſchool. I ſhall preſent your ladyſhip with this with all the marks of juvenility about it—poor Benignus thought much [104]of robbing an orchard. His idea might be right, but I muſt confeſs to you, that for my part, though I had a pretty early knowledge of meum and tuum, I was not quite ſo ſcrupulous, as to this particular. Benignus was likewiſe frequently inſulted for this benevolence—now I avoided inſult, by the only way to eſcape it, either in a ſchool or in the world—for I was one of their own ſort,—did as they did, and was as thoughtleſs, and as trickful as the beſt, or rather—the worſt of them—the evils of life, did not ſeize me ſo ſoon, as they ſeized Benignus— When your ladyſhip, at a future day, ſhall read my memoirs, you will perceive too many reaſons for an alteration in ſentiment.

ODE.
TO A SCHOOL-FELLOW.

[105]
HAIL to the harmleſs ſeats of happy youth!
To the ſmooth hours of genuine pleaſure, hail!
Hail to tranſport—hail to truth,
When jocund health blew freſh in ev'ry gale,
And reckleſs paſtime ſpread the frolic ſail!—
Backwards, dear Youth—a little caſt thine eye,
Let pregnant Fancy paint each early ſcene,
And pencil fair our boyiſh days,
The lively hope that crown'd the revel reign:
Our thouſand pleaſures—thouſand plays!—
If theſe thou haſt forgot—forbear to ſigh:
But if thou call'ſt to mind—beſtow thy ſympathy.
[106]Recall the hour that ſet us free
From gerunds, pronouns, proſody,
Recall the bliſs that throbb'd the heart,
When the glad ſummons bade us freely ſtart,
'Twas heaven, and holiday—
And ev'ry little ſoul was in its May!
'Tis true, we dealt in trifles then,
But trifles catch more mighty men;
Cheap were the baby-toys we choſe,
Blithe as the ruddy morn we roſe,
And ſlept at night, with—all a boy's repoſe.
We knew not man's amuſements wild,
Our wiſhes were the wiſhes of a child.
What tho' (for we are heirs of pain,
Even from cradle, ſore we ſigh,
And as the hill of life we gain,
More rugged is the road—more ſharp the miſery).
What tho' ſome vexing troubles choſe
Our ſports to diſcompoſe;
[107]What tho' the lightning of the maſter's eye,
The threat'ning tone, the brow auſtere,
Beſpoke diſaſter near,
And pedagogal tyranny:
Tho' knotty points of learned lore diſtreſt,
Puzzled the head, and throbb'd the breaſt;
Tho' the keen ſcourge—of dreadful ſize!
Acutely whipp'd to make us wiſe;
The fleeting anguiſh never reach'd the heart,
But the faint cries were tranſient as the ſmart.
Soon as the ſenſe of pain was o'er,
Suſpended happineſs return'd,
The paſſing tear was ſeen, no more.
The birchen ſceptre loſt its power,
For mirth reſum'd the vacant hour,
And the gay ſtripling laughs at what he mourn'd!
The ſoldier thus, in heat of wars,
Sunk by the ſudden blow to ground,
Still cover'd o'er with various ſcars,
E'er well the anguiſh leaves the wound,
[108]Soon as he gains the ſtrand
That girds his native land,
With triumph he recounts the hardy fray,
Shews the deep mark, where many a bare bone lay;
And ſmiles at all the blood-ſhed of the day.
Can'ſt thou, my friend, recall theſe joys,
Yet ceaſe to wiſh we ſtill were boys
Think on the deep complottings of our crew,
Scheme upon ſcheme, ſome arch exploir in view,
The merry moonſhine-pranks we play'd,
The little thefts at evening's fall;
The truant rambles we advent'rous made,
When bold we ſcal'd the orchard wall.
Where as we reach the ruddy bough,
On which the fair temptations grow,
One plucks the fruit,—and one receives below!
Ah miniature exact of man!
Nature's full-length, is ſtill on childhood's plan.
[109]But brighter colours deck the youth,
Rapture and health, vivacity and truth,
Soft too are then the ſhades of care,
And art wants time to paint
The figures of deſpair!

Your ladyſhip will now perhaps pay a viſit with me to my animals—poor creatures, they have been a long time neglected—to this end we muſt return to my cottage—there it is, madam!—very properly ſituated for a page of deſcription—a fancy-piece of itſelf.—There is ſo much poetry to edge the borders of proſe in this little ſubject, that for the ſoul of me I cannot enter the doors, without indulging the vanity, of drawing

A PICTURE OF THE PREMISES.

[110]

Did ever your ladyſhip behold the ſlope of any wood more beautiful than that, which riſes by ſoft gradations, from the ſpot which my cottage occupies, to the warm boundary of hills, which form a vegetable ſcreen for the valley? —every buſh is blooming with perfume, and every tree is pendent with bloſſoms—the hand of nature has woven me a carpet, ſo diverſified in colours, and ſo fantaſtically figured, that the utmoſt pride of Turkey droops even to dullneſs, on the compariſon—and hark! madam—the note of pleaſure affords for the ear, as fair a banquet as the proſpects of ſummer afford for [111]the eye. Murmuring along the brake, (intercepted in its paſſage by the pebbles) a ſmall rill of water winds its way along the grove, and at laſt is heard, bubbling into the brook at the bottom—the river rolls majeſtically ſlow at a little diſtance; and a ſtately ſwan (the empreſs of the tide!) ſails ſelfimportant on its boſom. On the left hand is a flock at feed, while ſome of the lambkins are ſlumbering in the ſun, and ſome friſking round the buſhes—on the right, the muſicians of the ſeaſon are warbling in the concert, and the pauſes of harmony are ſupplied by the ſonorous ſplaſh of the neighbouring water-mill. The green ſod embelliſhes the ſeat round my hut—the woodbine comes nodding into my caſement, and vegetation [112]goes ſmiling, even to my door—ſuch is the outſide of my little place.—

And now I ſubmit the matter to your ladyſhip—could I, with any fort of juſtice to myſelf, or it, have paſſed into the ſweet hut, without pulling you one moment by the ruffle, to ſhew you how prettily I ſtood; and that neither I, nor my ſociety, left the town without being decently provided for in the country.—

—Upon reading over the deſcription of my cottage a ſecond time, I cannot help thinking it would make a ſmart morſel for the magazines or for the next poetical noſegay Mr. Dodſley ſhall think fit to gather from the fugitive flowers of this literary land— but as I was fearful of detaining your ladyſhip, I have ſpoken of the matter [113]haſtily, and yet I do not think, a ſingle thing wanting to complete— (when turned into verſe)—a paſtoral poem—nay, I am farther ſatisfied that, what with the title, the advertiſement—the preface, the dedication, the argument, and the introduction, it would be quite large enough for a half-crown pamphlet — eſpecially when your ladyſhip takes two points into conſideration—firſt, that four lines of proſe will, at any time, make fourteen of poetry; and ſecondly, that the preſent taſte of printing is ſo extremely white and delicate, that a very few lines, will go a great way; inſomuch, that upon a pretty nice calculation it would be found, that ſixpenny-worth of ſenſe, and twelve penny-worth of paper, (allowing for [114]faſhionable margins) will, when properly manufactured, produce half a dozen pocket volumes, at the moderate price of three ſhillings per volume. We will now, madam, ſtep into

THE HUT.

Oh force of animal gratitude! how the creatures croud around us! we have left them but a few hours, and they are ready to devour us with their fondneſs—even the ſuperanuated pointer beſtirs himſelf on this occaſion—poor fellow, he is the ſon of an unhappy ſire, whoſe ſtory goes (I verily think,) as near to the heart as any that was ever recorded—and yet I am afraid I ſhall hurry your ladyſhip too quickly back into the region of gloomy ſentiments, [115]ſhould I relate it—but there is a pleaſure even in the anxieties of ſympathy; and as the ſtory is now freſh in my memory, and my letter drawing to the end, 'twere a pity to ſuppreſs it.

PASSAGES of a TRUE STORY.

—Oh Romeo,—Romeo, what a creature wert thou!—how courteous —how ſagacious—how well tempered!—

He was deſcended, madam, from a glorious line — the ſon of a noble ſtock—venerable from his pedigree —royal in his extraction, and, to crown his character, he was the favourite companion of a dear friend of mine who is now—no more.—

[116]In one of the ſharpeſt days, and yet one of the faireſt that winter could produce, the youthful Flavian prepared, with his gun and his Romeo, to take the diverſions of the field—happieſt of men—happieſt of dogs—They were particularly lucky, and it was a day of eminent ſucceſs—this pointed the game—that brought it to the ground —the net was ſoon crouded with the ſpoil,—but as Flavian was returning—

Notwithſtanding the elevation of your rank, your ladyſhip muſt have had frequent occaſion to deplore the capricious uncertainty of ſublunary enjoyments—muſt have ſeen the eye that in the preſent moment ſparkled with hope, in the next rolling with deſpair —and tears uſurp the features which [117]an hour before were dimpled by joy —this is indeed ſo hackneyed and univerſal a fact, that I ſhould beg your pardon for digreſſing into a parentheſis about it.

As Flavian was returning to his houſe, and Romeo was ranging the ſkirts of acopſe, rather in the way of wantonneſs than induſtry—knowing perhaps, that the buſineſs of the day was already done—juſt as the winding of the thicket meander'd into an elbow that jutted into the field,—Romeo broke ſhort his ſtep, and ſtood fixed in an attitude, which put Flavian on his guard. In the next inſtant an hare ſtarted from the buſhes, and ran trembling to the oppoſite hedge-row; on the other ſide of which, was a ſhaded lane, that led to Flavian's villa.— [118]There is an enthuſiaſm, which ſeizes the ſportman at the ſight of ſudden game. With that ſort of inſpiration was Flavian now ſeized, who, levelling his gun to the mark (with an aim too fatally erring) depoſited the charge into the boſom of —* —*.

—Mighty God,—I want fortitude to go on!—

Flavian, madam, had—a wife—unhappily for him, ſhe was tempted by the brightneſs of the morning, and the report of his fowling piece at no great diſtance, to ſtrole from her houſe, and —as was ſometimes her tender cuſtom—intended to haſten his return, not only to enjoy his ſociety, but to put an end to the depredations of the day.—The ſound of the gun had [119]ſcarcely died upon the air, when a ſound of a different kind ſaluted the ear: Flavian daſhed through the hedge, and ſaw his Maria extended along the path-way, which was over-hung by the buſhes, and her boſom was bathed in that blood, which ſhe now found had been ſhed by her huſband. In purſuing the game, Romeo firſt diſcovered his miſtreſs, and with his four-feet upon her lap, was mourning over her wounds: the agony was ſo legible in his countenance, that if he had the power of ſpeech—it would have been impoſſible to deſcribe it.

The huſband—ah, madam! In theſe caſes, as I have juſt remarked —the brute and the man are alike; ſince both muſt deliver over to the dumb ſenſations of the heart, a language [120]neither ſcience nor inſtinct can teach them to articulate—all that can be ſaid or done is dull painting,—he ſtruck his breaſt—caſt an eye of aſtoniſhment at heaven, and fell ſpeechleſs by her ſide—the poor woman ſaw his agony—madean effort to embrace him, but ſunk exhauſted on his breaſt.

A ſervant of Flavian's, who had been on a meſſage, now appeared upon the road in the lane—Romeo ran to him,—leaped round his horſe,—looked up to the man—and led the way to the ſcene of death—The ſervant rode away on the ſpur, to alarm the family at the manſion-houſe—in the mean time, the laſt endearments were faintly interchanged betwixt Flavian and Maria —to the latter, articulation was ſoon denied—but ſhe; by ſome means, got [121]her huſband in her arms, and in that ſituation expired—the diſtreſs of Flavian affected not even yet his tongue —the dear body, mangled as it was, could not be torn from him, and both he and the unhappy lady, were carried to that apartment, from which they had parted a few hours before, in the higheſt gaiety of wedded hearts, and in the warmeſt ardours of youthful expectation. And now comes on the buſineſs of poor Romeo—Flavian fell ſick—Romeo was the very centinel of his door, and the nurſe of his chamber—a fever followed, which at length touched Flavian on the brain, and in the violence of the delirium he ſtruck his poor attendant Romeo, who ſo far from reſenting the blow, licked lovingly the hand that gave it— [122]madneſs ſhifted into melancholy— Romeo was ſtill by the ſide of the bed, fearful to ſtep even on the carpet— after this—the fever returned, and burning its way to the heart, in a few days deſied phyſic, and united his aſhes to thoſe of his beloved Maria—from the room in which he died no force or contrivance could ſeduce Romeo, till the moment in which he was put into the coffin, and the people concerned in his funeral began to deem it neceſſary to deſtroy the dog, which reſiſted all their meaſures, but eſpecially their carrying him away; at length he ſuffered it—but followed them cloſe, and was perhaps the moſt ſincere mourner—as ſoon as Flavian was committed to the earth, his faithful Romeo took dominion of the ſpot, and was [123]the ſentry of his grave—grief and hunger had exhauſted every thing— but his attachment—yet he never was heard to whine—but, after laying till nature could do no more, he was at length found dead at the foot of the tomb—thus the maſter expired, and the ſervant found it impoſſible to ſurvive him.—

— Methinks I ſee your ladyſhip ſhed a tear to the complicated misfortunes of this family—I congratulate you upon it—Fie upon the heart that is aſham'd to feel—and wither'd be the cheek, that (in defiance of the impulſes of nature) is kept dry, by the maxims of faſhion!—but neither the above ſtory, madam, nor any other, in the preſent volumes, were introduced merely to excite ſenſibility—It finds a place amongſt theſe pages, as a ſuitable vehicle for ſome

MORAL OPINIONS.

[124]

In the few anecdotes of Benignus, were briefly ſhewn that, nine times out of ten—To be good, in this world ‘Was not the way—To be happy.’

That is—not to be happy, if our behaviour, and its conſequences, were to take their rewards from the returns of our fellow-creatures in general— The reaſon aſſigned for this, is the only true reaſon that can be aſſigned —The degenerate ſtate of maxims, and manners.—

All the evils therefore which are of a malignant nature—all ſuch as ariſe from the perverſion of money—or turbulence of paſſions, are totally to be imputed, to human ſources—but there are other evils (and ſome extremely [125]ſore) that fall out, to make goodneſs no ſecurity for worldly happineſs— Theſe—(I mean ſuch as abſolutely are placed beyond the reach, or prevention of man,) are certainly the acts of the Deity,—we call them, under the vague name of accidents —they light equally on man and beaſt, and every thing that hath an exiſtence; and (for ought we can tell) they may poſſibly affect vegetation, and carry the diſtreſs beyond the ſcale that is animated. As great proportions of that miſery which cloggs the path of life therefore is cauſed by the bad propenſities of men—ſo it muſt of neceſſity be admitted, that the road which leads from this world to the next, is made additionally weariſome and heavy, by the permiſſion of ſome power ſuperior [126]to theirs. It is peculiar to the moſt rational animal (as he is called), to perceive this, though he cannot adequately account for it—to account for it indeed has been the labour of the moſt ſhining underſtandings!— divines—moraliſts—theologiſts—philoſophers—metaphyſicians, and poets, have exerted every nerve, in every age upon the ſubject. The moſt pions and induſtrious of theſe all concur in their ſentiments, and conclude with the ſame ideas,—They ſay

That, though to be good may not be rewarded in general with the gratitude of our fellow-creatures, and that virtuous characters are commonly inſulted by the multitude (who are creatures of ignorance and intereſt) yet a man is ſufficiently rewarded for [127]his rectitude (even in this world), by the endearing ſociety of men like himſelf—beſides which,—the comforts of conſcience are more than a counterbalance for the ſevereſt ſufferings —to which are added the chearful proſpects of futurity.—

That with reſpect to all thoſe numberleſs diſaſters which fall out in deſpite of human ſagacity—the anſwer always has been and ſtill continues to be this—They are trials—&c.—&c.—

There is indiſputably a great deal of conſolitary truth in both theſe concluſions. Some part of the argument however is liable to objection—zeal will very often run away with the powers of reflection. The ſyſtem of men of religious moderation is comprized in the ſhort paſſages above. [128]More intemperate people, who call themſelves free thinkers, have under that title aſſumed a privilege, to argue very boldly on the other ſide of the queſtion. Some have contended that if vice is natural to the heart of man, it muſt be an effort as ridiculous as impoſſible to reſiſt it—the ſhocking inference is, that God is the ſole origin of evil, and that he certainly would not puniſh his creatures for yielding to a neceſſity in their nature —others, madam, of our own nation (the very ſoil of free-thinking) ſay, it would be an act of benevolence to withdraw evil from every part of the globe—another aſſerts, that vices and miſeries of all kinds are peculiar benefits, and that, to a trading nation eſpecially, they are the [129]very main-ſpring in the political machine. There have alſo been (and ſtill are,) a ſet of looſe pens, which (ſkilled in the trick of ſophiſtry) exculpate every wickedneſs in man at the blaſphemous riſque of lodging the cauſe and fault of the whole upon the Deity; and a celebrated Frenchman (whoſe genius is the pride of that polite nation) has written a book in the ſeventieth year of his age, to prove, that of all poſſible ſyſtems, the ſyſtem under which we are governed is the worſt. Theſe deſerve and meet the indignation of every honeſt man. A much anmired countryman of our own, madam, has, in a compoſition that contains the moſt poetical philoſophy in our language, advanced ſeriouſly an oppoſite [130]ſentiment, and terminates the whole by declaring, whatever is, is right.— My own opinions on this important ſubject are, I dare ſay, like thoſe of your ladyſhip—I think every work of God vindicable; but I do not think, ſome of them reconcilable to reaſon, by the beaten mode of defending them. There are at this inſtant, thouſands of our amiable fellow-creatures in the world (bad as it is)—ſtruggling with the ſtorms of fate, without finding relief in the ſociety of men like themſelves; for it will be eaſy to prove, that even the tendereſt and worthieſt connexions of a man fly off in the hour of neceſſity; nor will it be more difficult to ſhew—(if it could poſſibly need an inſtance beyond the reach of any one's experience)—that [131]poverty (in the extreme) is often accompanied with the loſs of reputation. Thoſe are yet babies in the world, who ſuppoſe half the bad reports they hear of men, are the conſequences of their ill conduct: for the fact is, that there are a pretty equal number of wretches deſerted by their friends (becauſe their unworthineſs unſitted them for what is called virtuous ſociety) and of wretches deſerted, becauſe their ill-luck in life drove them too often againſt the purſes of their acquaintance—for I muſt once again repeat, that the abuſe of riches has made avarice the ruling vice—and there is ſometimes the higheſt degree of avarice even in diſſipation— ſelf ſtill ſettles at the bottom. Nor are even the comforts of conſcience, always [132]ſufficient to bear a man up, againſt the inſults of mankind: for many of our ſpecies are ſo pelted by the tempeſts of life, that the pureſt integrity, and the ſweeteſt reflections reſulting from that integrity, are obliged to give way to the misfortunes which croud inceſſantly upon them. Sorrow treads faſt upon ſorrow, calamity ſtrikes upon calamity, and accident comes ſtumbling ſo rapidly upon accident, that the whole buſineſs of the ſoul is to ſhift for the neceſſities of the body; or to try the force of its religion, to accommodate itſelf with proper patience, to bear its allotment, without plunging into the errors of deſpair. Inſtances of this kind are extremely numerous. Men indeed who are plumped by proſperity and indolently loiter out an unſerviceable [133]exiſtence, in the eaſy chair of voluptuouſneſs; and women who are tied down to a peculiar ſet of amuſements, ideas, and purſuits, may ſee this matter in the light, which their contracted teachers have taught them to ſee it. But the ſons and daughters of luck and luxury, are the worſt judges of the ſons and daughters of misfortune. The grand amulet—the only effectual remedy of ſorrow remains behind, and that is a univerſal one—ample enough for the cure of miſery, even tho' miſery was univerſal—the proſpects of futurity—when friends forſake us—foes oppreſs us— and conſcience is cowed, by conſtant adverſity—thoſe, madam, and thoſe only, prevent deſpair, and point to felicity.—With regard to the evils of [134]accident, nothing but thoſe can reconcile them with the line of our moſt natural notions of eternal goodneſs; and thoſe do reconcile them to the ſublimeſt idea that ever was conceived of it.—But let us turn aſide from argument, and look upon life for exemplary

PROOF OF THIS MATTER.

Among other accidents that could only be reconciled by the proſpects of futurity, is the ſtory and fate of Flavian, and his family—how agrees it—might we argue—(but for thoſe proſpects) with the beneficence of the Creator to aſſlict ſo much morality and goodneſs, without any apparent cauſe. In ſhort, madam, the human ſoul [135]ebbs and flows like the ocean, though not with the ſame regularity. There is no purity, nor any devotion, but ſometimes wavers for a moment: believe me, there are periods when the moſt apoſtolic faith ſtaggers— aye, and that upon principle; for the better the mind, the greater is its occaſional agitation. Divines tells us, it is ſinful. I inſiſt, it is unavoidable, and I will in this caſe be ſo bold to enter a caveat againſt all the caſſocks in the kingdom. There is an intricacy in the events of the world which will on the firſt view conſtantly appear myſterious. They frequently put the human intellect upon the puzzle. We want not books, or arguments, to teach us ambiguities; for every rational ſenſe about us preſſes the whys [136]and wherefores ſpontaneouſly and irreſiſtibly upon us. 'Tis not, madam, the vanity of penetration: 'tis merely the curioſity and inquiring propenſity of nature.

It was, with a propriety peculiar to the claſſic genius of Mr. Addiſon, that he called theſe labyrinths of providence, that ſo frequently croſs the lines of life—"a regular conſuſion." Let us examine that celebrated expreſſion, and it may perhaps lead us into a train of thought, which may throw new light on our preſent ſubjects, both with relation to man and brute. The eye of God, (and poſſibly the eyes of his angels) may ſee the regularity, unintangled in the confuſion. But what proves this more, than that finite can by [137]no means, meaſure with infinite? To man's imperfect viſion, many events already hinted at in this letter, and many more which might be brought into the catalogue of inſtances, are not only repugnant to every moral, natural, or conſcientious law (were we to decide of them by the narrow line of human juſtice) but are utterly oppoſite to our own ideas of common compaſſion. Still farther. I beg leave to advance the matter much farther. It is a fact, (atteſted by the tears and agonies of a mournful multitude) that the horrid variety of miſeries which attack the attention on all ſides, would tempt the ſobereſt head, and the devouteſt heart, in the world, to ſuſpect that the affairs of that world were totally eclipſed in confuſion, [138]without a ſingle ray of apparent regularity: judging, (as was obſerved above) and faintly guided through the dark, only by the twilight glimmerings of natural reaſon, and natural equity.

To prove this, there ariſe at once ſo many inſtances, that choice is perplext in variety. Let us quit the fire-ſide, madam, for half an hour, and, turning our eyes on the active world, walk leiſurely along to ſurvey the great ſcenes that are ſlecting before us. If it is agreeable to your Jadyſhip, we will make

A MORAL, AND SENTIMENTAL EXCURSION.

[139]

And London ſhall be the boundary of our ramble. That ſtupendous maſs of building, contains every thing for our purpoſe: perhaps, there never was more happineſs and miſery crouded together, upon the ſame ſpace of ground, ſince the foundations of the world! In the firſt place (for your ladyſhip muſt ſuppoſe yourſelf endowed with a power of ſtepping into whatever places you think proper, during this tour)—we will pay a viſit to that wretched looking houſe; and though I am taking you into thoſe ſad retreats, which are very uncuſtomary to people of faſhion, yet we will walk up the broken [140]ſtairs, and open the door of that chamber. Pray ſurvey it with a critical eye. The ſpectre Famine hath uſurped the ſeat of Plenty. There are ſeven ſmall children, without any ſymptoms of the health, and roſy hilarity, which uſually attends the moſt untroubled period of life—the pale young woman, whoſe arm is round one of the youngeſt, with one (ſtill ſmaller) which ſhe is dandling on her knce, is their mother; and that tottering phantom of a man, whom age hath rendered fecbler than the feebleſt of the children, is the father of that mother—I beg pardon: I have overlooked a perſonage, of no ſmall conſequence. At the ſide of the broken lattice you behold, one of the king's officers. He has a paper in his [141]hand, a pen in his mouth, and his eyes are running up and down the room, in the moſt eager diſpatch. For once, we will diſpenſe with faſhionable ceremonies, and peep over his left ſhoulder. This method has enabled us to read, what he entitles

AN INVENTORY.
  • One table—ſplit in the left lid, and two of the joints wanting.
  • One cradle.
  • A ſmall ſtool.
  • An oyſter-barrel.
  • One go-cart.
  • Three chairs,—two without backs, the ruſh rotten.
  • One child's chair,—the bottom almoſt gone.
  • [142] Four knives.—One without a haft.
  • Do forks—two of the tongs broken.
  • One fifth of an iron poker.
  • A box-iron.
  • One cinder ſifter—terribly battered.
  • And one wooden fender—burnt in ſix places.

N. B. A ſmall tea-cheſt—lock loſt

—the caniſters bruiſed.—

December 12th.

To be carried off or ſold the 18th inſt.

—Sold! Heavens! Huſh, madam, —I perceive you are prepared with many queſtions. The anſwers are melancholy to every thing you can ſay. See, madam, the good man has diſcharged his duty (in which we muſt bear teſtimony he was conſcientiouſly particular) and is going out of the [143]room: we will follow his example— ah—madam, the tears are ſwimming round your eye, and your hand is in your pocket. There then—God proſper you with it, poor woman: ſee if one of the infants, is not quite taken with the flowers upon your ladyſhip's gown, another faintly plucks me by the ſkirt of my coat, and is paying ſtrong court to my buttons—the mother is upon her knees to you—ſhe thinks and looks the gratitude ſhe is unable to ſpeak—let us hurry away before the ſcene becomes too intereſting — even the ſmoky air of one of the moſt ſmoky ſtreets of the ſuburbs is chearful, and ſalubrious, to the oppreſſion I felt in the chamber we have juſt left—A coach will carry us to a more agreeable part of the town [144]inhabited by different ſort of people —in this ſquare we will ſtop, for here is breathing-room. Hark, how the roll of the chariots, the report of the horſes feet, and the echo of the doors prepare us for the magnificence of faſhion. We are now in the very region of finery. As ſudden tranſitions have always a great effect—I will now take your ladyſhip into a very ſplendid apartment—theſe foldingdoors will admit us, becauſe we ſhall not look as if we had no doors of our own; for in all caſes of that ſort, there is a peculiar difficulty in getting on the other ſide of the knocker, which, for the moſt part, is ſupported in the jaws of ſome monſter, that ſeems to ſay to every neceſſitous crawler, or even to every ſhabby gentleman— [145]come if you dare — approach, and be devoured. Luckily for us, madam, there is always another monſter appears, the inſtant the door opens, and as he conſtantly acts upon the liberal principles of Cerberus, we will give him, a ſufficient ſop; upon which he will become immediately ſo tame that he will make the hinges echo again, even though we were come to dun his keeper. The arts of opening a door, and delivering a meſſage, are ſciences that would very well fill a volume—I ſhall therefore certainly ſtand excuſed for having ſcribbled only a page upon the ſubject.

We are now walking up the geometrical ſtairs—that door opening upon another door, will lead us to another green door, which will lead us to [146]the apartment, where the family are aſſembled at breakfaſt. How beautifully and warmly the whole room is carpetted, and cuſhioned—We perceive at the table three hearty children—a lady of an elegant figure, and a gentleman in his night-gown and ſlippers. Bleſs me!—how the ſervants bow—what a profuſion of gilding and plate! and ſee, madam, the youngeſt boy is actually toſſing an handful of guineas up and down the floor by way of amuſement. I heartily wiſh the poor children we have juſt left, had the trouble to pick them up for my young maſter. If your ladyſhip will pleaſe to retire, I will tell you ſomething, as you go along, worth hearing, of this family.

[147]The gentleman, madam, whom you ſaw in the morning-dreſs, is one of thoſe human beings Providence hath for ſome wiſe end permitted to hold the happineſs and comforts of a great many other human beings in his poſſeſſion. In the Engliſh language he is known by the name of a creditor, the moral definition of which term is ſimply this;—a man who having the good things of this life in great abundance, diſtributes a ſmall portion of thoſe good things to ſuch as are deſtitute; a kind of benevolence, that would reflect dignity upon the author were it not liable to a trifling circumſtance, which ſome will think a drawback upon it—for the benefactor commonly chooſes to take in return a ſmall ſlip of paper, by virtue of which [148]he can torment, and have the perſon benefitted, as it were, on the hip, at a moment's warning; and in fault of payment, acquires full authority, either to ſeize the body, and depoſit it in a jail; or take poſſeſſion of the goods, and turn the body into the ſtreet. In ſome parts of the future hiſtory of Benignus, will be delineated the whole and extenſive ſcience of man-catching, wherein will be ſhewn, that the ſlave-trade flouriſhes ſurpriſingly in Great Britain, and that the traffic of buying and ſelling the human ſpecies is daily gaining ground, through every part of his majeſty's dominions: and this is eſteemed ſo curious and original a part of the manuſcript, that I expect a prodigious conſideration for the copy [149]—In the above work however, a proper and nice diſtinction is made, as to the nature and contraction of debts, inſomuch that it will infallbily prove a ſure guide to creditor, debtor, and bailiff, for thoſe, madam, are the principal agents in this humane and excellent art. I cannot quit this ſubject without preſenting your ladyſhip, with a ſlight ſpecimen of the above ſort of merchandiſe. The buſineſs is frequently tranſacted thus: one man in diſtreſs, borrows (in an humble tone, with his hat under his arm, and in all the confuſion of want) of another man, in no diſtreſs whatever, value fortyſhillings: (as misfortune is apt to expect a ſunſhiny day, even in the midſt of hard weather,) diſappointment trips up the heel of hope, and the day of [150]reſtitution runs by, in which the ſaid forty ſhillings remains, like the handwriting on the wall, againſt him. From that moment the bargain is ſtruck—the purchaſer demands his property, and as the tranſaction is ſanctified by the laws of the land, the carcaſe is at his diſcretion: it is dragged from its friends, and ſo cautiouſly prevented from taking cold in the open air, that it is put very tenderly under lock and key, and bar and bolt, that it is in a perfect cage: here a parcel of crows are ſuffered to peck at it, which are a kind of guarantees to the purchaſer of the body.—

And now we will go on with our ſtory—the gay ſpark who is the ſubject of our preſent enquiry, became a creditor to the poverty-ſtruck [151]family whom we ſaw in the ſuburbs of the town, by being landlord or poſſeſſor of a range of ruins, among which is the uncomfortable hut we deſcribed. The maſter of that hut, (who is at preſent out of the way) is amongſt the number of thoſe againſt whoſe tranquillity the dark events of this life were perpetually pointed. —The conſequence of this (which is pretty frequently the caſe) was the deſertion of acquaintances, and the diſtance of friends, and he was often accuſed of obliquity, though in truth he ſeldom deviated into thoſe crooked paths, which juſtly excite agony and ſhame. He was unable to anſwer the inclinations of his heart, and was two years in arrear for the rent. One morning the poor man's wife waited [152]at the door of Sophron (for ſo will we call him) and delivered an apology: by great chance the porter thought fit to deliver it immedately, and by a chance ſtill greater, the young woman was admitted into the prefence chamber, where Sophron was indulging the ſurfeiting luxuries of his ſituation. Diſtreſs had not, at that time, wholly deſtroyed the beauty which was naturally extraordinary in her—ſhe caught the fancy of the preſent moment. Sophron propoſed an immediate treaty, and offered moreover a purſe for the relief of her ſtarving family.—Generous as this might be, ſhe flatly refuſed it. As Sophron was not much accuſtomed to the language of denial, and thought beſides, his offer not only an honour [153]but a liberality, he ordered her haſtily to depart. She did ſo, and in going home felt one of thoſe ſenſations, which for a moment relieves the ſenſe of the worſt condition, by the triumph of the conſcience. She told the whole to her huſband, and in his rewarding embrace ſhe felt thoſe ſenſations revived. But where miſery is conſtantly ſhifting from one ſorrow to another, the pleaſures of reflection can ſeldom have leiſure to play—What was the reſult of this matter!—withdraw a moment, madam, to that gloomy-looking pile—the common receptacle,— the promiſcuous depoſit of diſtreſs and infamy for a length of years—we will wind up the dreadful ſtairs — alas! how does novelty give force to objects, which cuſtom has rendered [154]unnoticed! the grating of the bars — the jingle of the keys, and the clank of the chains, I ſee, terrify your ladyſhip—pray ſtop awhile, —in that diſmal cell, behold the conſequence of a wife's unſeaſonable chaſtity, and virtue—there lies the huſband—Sophron had once riſqued, as he called it, the loan of ten guineas; for that ſum he was arreſted — and for the rent his goods will ſhortly be ſold.

And here, madam, let me pay a compliment to the juſtice, ſagacity, and chriſtianity of our law-makers,— law-makers of the moſt refined, and poliſhed nation under heaven— who have aſſigned to unfortunate men, who owe and have the leaſt money, a reſidence of the greateſt [155]gloom, hardſhip, and diſcredit, amongſt wretches who have broken at midnight into our houſes—aſſaſſins who have ſhed the blood of our ſpecies, and robbers who commit hoſtilities upon the road. Encircled by ſuch aſſociates is Sophron—his children are famiſhing at home—his wife is condemned to ſee the neceſſity every moment encreaſe — his houſe has ſuffered a diſtreſs—their next migration muſt be into the ſtreet—the plain reaſon is this—the wife was virtuous—the huſband unfortunate —while the oppreſſor revels in his plenitude, though his fortunes were obtained by fraud, and are diſſipated in every kind of debauchery. Behold, madam, the wife is herſelf entering the cell—ſhe has brought the poor [156]creature a ſhare of that refreſhment your ladyſhip's bounty has enabled her to procure.

Heavens, what a ſhout is there!— See, they are bringing in a freſh priſoner.—How the old inhabitants cluſter round the new comer, as they would ſay, Welcome to Newgate, brother!—Pray, Mr. Jaylor, what is his crime?—murder!—a man was executed yeſterday ſe'nnight under a public gallows, upon ſtrong ſuſpicion of committing that very murder, which this priſoner has confeſſed. There is a confuſion in the innocence of ſome people, and a croſs concurrence of illlooking circumſtances, very like the bluſhing evidences of guilt. Such was the preſent caſe—appearances were ſtrong againſt him, human [157]ſagacity was baffled, and the victim was given up to the laws—he had a large family, his wife is in a fever— his ſon is burying reflection in the dreadful opiates of the bottle, and his connexions are in deep and diſgraceful mourning.

Yonder, madam, lies a miſerable object—unnatural parents have driven her from home—ſhe is too honeſt to ſteal—ſhe is aſhamed to beg, and being, from the pecularity of her fate, under a neceſſity to borrow—ſhe is at laſt provided for by the bounty of government, that humanely allows the wretched juſt food enough, to perpetuate the ſenſe, and lengthen out the period of calamity. But now, we will leave the ſufferings of our own ſpecies, and in our way home, caſt an eye upon the ſufferings of

THE ANIMAL WORLD.

[158]

Take notice how you team groan under the burthen. They are labouring in this ſevere weather for the ſervice of man. But obſerve their driver! hark how the knotted whip ſounds on their ſides — The blood guſhes at every ſtroke—the poor things labour in the extremity and when they have ſurmounted the difficuly, the ſanguinary maſter pats them on the neck, not a little pleaſed with the triumphant vigour of his arm. If it could poſſibly be ſuppoſed that brutes deſerved a ſtate of perpetual puniſhment, a large city were ſurely their hell. A few lap-dogs, ſpaniels, [159]and other favourites excepted—the general treatment of animals is ſavage beyond all compariſon of barbarity — There ſtands a cruel wretch who hath beaten out the eye of the fore-horſe for preſuming to ſtir, while the car is unloading; he then curſes himſelf for the exploit, and concludes the matter by a ſecond blow, becauſe the creature threw its eye in the way of the firſt; and ſee, madam, you fellow, in paſſing, careleſly drives his carriage againſt another that is going a different road; and in order to extricate the intertangled harneſſes both drivers apply to the old remedy, and inſtead of calmly ſetting things right, put the animals on their ſpirit, and every thing is at length torn in pieces: a freſh beating now enſues, and the [160]poor devils are to ſuffer again for what, at firſt, could not on their part be avoided. Such are the general lives of horſes, and ſuch the diſcipline practiſed upon them almoſt every hour.

It is an happineſs peculiar to the ſoftneſs of your ſex, and conſiſtent with the delicate proſperity of the female nature and ſituation, madam, that their purſuits and pleaſures entirely lay in ſuch parts of the town, as make ſhocking ſpectacles not very frequent, if we compare them with the more buſy parts of the city.—There is—I cannot but perceive—a civilization of addreſs, an urbanity of demeanour amongſt the very chairmen of St. James's, which we ſhall in vain look for in the meſſengers of Whitechapel, [161]and the porters of Thames-ſtreet. The politeſſe of the court ever influences in ſome degree the places that ſurround it: but in the city, the ſpirit of humanity is too often trod under feet by the ſpirit of trade: and the laws of trade have, indeed, ſo very little in general to do with the laws of benevolence, that in the full, and I might ſay, the overflowing tide of commercial ſucceſs, a man of buſineſs ſeldom regardeth any life, but ſuch as is neceſſary to puſh the point of gain to the extremity!—

I muſt once more draw your ladyſhip out of the way, to take a view of Smithfield.—There, madam—it is high market, and the diſtemper which ſome time ſince, raged amongſt the horned cattle, even to the alarm of [162]the nation, was mercy and providence to the uſage which the poor creatures ſuſtain in this place.—All that ſticks, ſtones, and iron-goads can effect, is here effected againſt thoſe inoffenſive animals, by which plenty is procured, riches circulated, and even life ſupported.—

Here, madam, we have ſelected a few of thoſe innumerable inſtances, which riſe up to alarm us. That ſuch have often happened cannot be denied; and if we were to take a cloſer ſurvey of the world, with a view to collect a more accurate journal of calamity;—if we were to bring into the black account, the miſeries, both of the rich and poor—the thouſand dreadful caſualties which no innocence can help, with the tens of thouſands [163]of fatal operations of paſſion, which deform exiſtence, and agonize our hearts—if we were to conſider likewiſe, the plagues, the diſguſts, the cares, the conteſts—the depredations of war, and the voluptuouſneſs of peace—if we were to look into the prodigious maſs of miſcellaneous miſchiefs branching out from avarice, prodigality, gaming, ſwearing, lawſuits, robberies, chagrines, murders, and every other prophanation—or if we were to dive ſtill further, and mention the diſtreſsful ſituations occaſioned by fire, famine, peſtilence, earthquakes, inundations, public tumults, and domeſtic inquietude— obſerving at the ſame time, that thouſands of every race of beings are frequently pining away life, inch by [164]inch, and are whole years in dying; adding to this eventful catalogue, the pangs of ſickneſs, the loſs of limbs, the deprivation of intellect, the undeſerved loſs of character, the diſobedience of children, and the cruelty of parents; with the horrid havock of thoſe deteſtable appetites of the heart, revenge and inordinate deſire —what madam—but for the chearful promiſes of an hereafter—what ſhould we think—what ſhould we ſay?—

That there is much happineſs, many bleſſings, and many people who deſerve them, cannot be diſputed—the world is in itſelf a paradiſe—but paſſions perverted, accidents permitted,—miſchiefs perpetrated, and money turned into the wrong channel, have ſo deſtroyed its ſerenity, that the [165]ſoul diſtreſſed in the world, is obliged to ſeek frequently for a retired corner, and argue with itſelf.— Theſe reflections, naturally lead us to the

CONCLUSION.

It has been the conſtant deſign, of the author of this letter, to examine ſeveral facts relating to men— animals—and things, in a new manner, —with this ultimate view—to vindicate the ways of God not only to man, but to every other living creature! —The limits I propoſed to allow myſelf are more than exceeded, and the length of my letter (ſwelled into volumes) ſeems to demand an apology. [166]The utmoſt that I can venture more, is to preſent your ladyſhip with a few inferences drawn from the whole of our ramble amongſt the fields of unuſual ſpeculation.

As the innocent man, madam, has often loſt his life, and diſgraced his relations on ſuſpicion of guilt—as the hardneſs of a creditor frequently tightens the cord of the law, till it pinches the bowels of a numerous family — as there are actually parents in the world which not only deſert their offspring, but ſear up that ſtrong attachment which is generally the vital principle of nature—as modeſty, ingenuity, and honeſty, are often harraſſed by innumerable cares and perplexities; to ſoothe which even the compliments of the conſcience are not [167]always adequate—and as—on the other hand,—thoſe to whom fortune hath been fuller-handed, frequently diſturb the good order of ſociety, and uſe their adventitious acquiſitions to promote oppreſſion and to extend luxury. —As thoſe who addreſs the Deity in fervor of heart, are often deſtitute of a comfortable proportion of food— wander naked and forlorn through life —and others that have food, want appetite to eat it—while thoſe who never mention the Deity, but to enforce an oath, and give poignancy to blaſphemy, enjoy every temporal good —as even the unblemiſh'd ſtate of childhood, when power is wanting to perpetrate intentional guilt—as the new-born babe frequently ſtruggles with various diſtreſs, at a time when its [168]weakneſs calls for peculiar ſupports— wanting which its future exiſtence is ſometimes waſted under the languors of an unſound conſtitution—as theſe, with every other calamity I have recapitulated, or advanced, through this letter—and as many more than can be poſſibly ſuggeſted at a ſingle view, have, and do, actually light upon the human race—notwithſtanding all the comforts and all the bleſſings in the world—ſome aſtoniſhing ſource of conſolation is abſolutely neceſſary to reconcile theſe facts to the mind. —To decide upon the matter (as was hinted before) agreeable to our ideas of rectitude, we ſhould pronounce it, without heſitation, a monſtrous ſyſtem, which confounds right and wrong, innocence and error. Natural [169]reaſon would condemn it as inconſiſtent—Pagan philoſophy would reject it as barbarous — pedantry would call it unfit—poetry would declare it unjuſt—common ſenſe would pronounce it abſurd.

Here then, madam, the two comfortable reaſons I have promiſed to give, as the only reconciling ones, that can poſſibly make life ſupportable, or the ſtrange intricacies of it conſiſtent, deſerve to be mentioned. They come to us, under the cherubic forms of FAITH and RELIGION—juſt as we are ſinking under our doubts, they come forward to diſpel them — they give ſtrength to reaſon—force to philoſophy, and illumination to conſcience— the wretched inſulted heart liſtens to [170]their arguments, and finds them deciſive—revelation herſelf ſteps into our relief—ſhe confeſſes, with the poet, there is apparent confuſion in the regularity of Providence,—that the cloudy mirrour, through which the human eye is directed in purblind ſpeculation repreſents the path of virtue as thorny and crooked, and the road to vice flowery and delightful —but that—were it poſſible for men to wind with their Creator, through all the infinitude of mazes that lead from, firſt cauſes, to ultimate effects—to view all the labyrinths which are abſolutely neceſſary to connect, continue, and complete the ſyſtem, the whole matter would be inverted, and the regularity appear, without confuſion— [171]Thus therefore, madam, all comes right at laſt.

To be good is to be happy
The confuſion is regular, and
Whatever is, is right.

A future life, only—(in every inſtance I have mentioned, and in many that I have omitted to mention) can make the preſent life ſupportable, or the preſent ſyſtem equitable. And upon theſe rational principles, I would argue the eſſentiality of that futurity—but not ſo much from the power and wiſdom, as from the benevolence of the hand that hath prepared us for it—nor is the attribute of juſtice leſs concerned in this proviſion—for —were the death of the body, the [172]death alſo of the ſoul,—the devil himſelf, as the ſyſtem now ſtands might yet want a malignity in his nature to continue it; and in that caſe, the wiſeſt way to put an end to a man's torments would be the ſhorteſt; and ſuicide would obtain a ſanction from common ſenſe. The very equity and tenderneſs of the ſupreme Power is concerned in a diſtribution of future puniſhments and rewards—to thoſe attributes therefore ſhould every unhappy creature look up—from them ſhould expect the hour, in which, that which is "now crooked ſhall be made ſtrait," and every unevenneſs be ſmoothed — when the balances ſhall be poiſed by an omnipotent arm, and juſtice at laſt prevail.—

[173]Having thus vindicated the ways of God to man, I will now put an end to my letter, and beg you will accept it at the hand of

Your ladyſhip's moſt humble and obedient ſervant, *—*—* *—*—*

POSTSCRIPT.

[174]

As theſe ſketches are deſigned for publication, and are to ſtand at the tribunal of a ſociety of literati, who review and take cognizance of every thing that ventures into this world of compoſition, I ſhall lay myſelf too negligently open to their cenſure, if I leave, ultimately, the animal creation, in the lurch—after having all along declared ſo much in its favor. And this, renders a poſtſcript eſſentially neceſſary. Nor ſhould I, indeed, ſtand excuſeable to your ladyſhip, if I omitted ſo material a part of the concluſions to be drawn from our ſurvey of the ſubject—Having vindicated—(notwithſtanding [175]all the miſeries of good men, and the ſucceſſes of bad men)—the diſpenſations of God, towards our own ſpecies, let us now then, madam, in the ſame tranſient, unſyſtematic manner, vindicate the ways of God, to a numerous race of beings, no otherwiſe connected with our ſpecies, than by the ties either of attachment, or neceſſity.—

GOD VINDICATED TO BRUTE.

Methinks, madam, the haughtyhearted man, takes fire at this—what! would the wicked wretch put the reptile and the rational upon an equality? Would he give to the almoſt undiſtinguiſhable atom — to [176]the dog that laqueys my heel, and to various monſters of the foreſt, and the ocean, the ſame proſpects with man? with the erect—the comprehenſive—the ſuperior? God vindicated to brute!—oh, infamous! blaſphemous! inconſiſtent — ſhall the ox that I kill for the ordinary ſupply of my appetite, and the mule, that I drive for my diverſion, be upon a level with their maſter—are they not all born to accommodate our convenience —are they not all put in ſubjection to our controul, and do we not treat them accordingly.—I have no time to anſwer the cavils of ſelfſufficiency — we will proceed cooly, madam.—

Let us argue this point from the impulſes of common ſenſe—in our ſurvey of the ſufferings of brutes, it [177]appeared that with a great deal leſs cauſe, they underwent, at any rate, as much hardſhip as men: our inſpection indeed into this matter, like our inſpection into the calamities of our own ſpecies, was ſlight and curſory; but were we to ſet apart a ſerious opportunity to examine the ſubject to the bottom, we ſhould find animal miſery as extended and as exquiſite as human. I admit that they are deſtitute of reaſon, and it muſt be owned that a moral ſenſe of the injuries men ſuffer, frequently give poignancy to the anguiſh: the mind takes, as it were, an intereſt in the ſufferings of the body; thus a blow on the face is reſented, not becauſe of the pain, but becauſe of the idea annexed by the ſoul to ſuch an act— [178]and with reſpect to other miſeries and accidents, the mind by ſympathizing often doubles them. This may be brought againſt me as an argument. It is none, madam. Even if the ſenſations of animal pain were merely corporeal, they muſt be ſufficiently terrible, when we conſider that they are moleſted by every innovation of torture — But I do not apprehend their ſenſations of anguiſh only bodily: they have not reaſon, but they have ſomething that does the buſineſs of reaſon ſo well, that man is very often put to the bluſh, and is almoſt aſhamed of the privilege that ſets him at the top of the ſcale. The fact is—brutes are as ſenſible of inſults done to each other as men — theſe they reſent indifferently—if they do [179]not often reſent the barbarities of men, it is not I ſhould conceive, madam, becauſe they do not feel the indignity, but becauſe the benevolent Creator has implanted in their natures a ſtrong principle, either of terror or obedience — an unlimited idea of human ſuperiority, or an unlimited idea of his tyranny. Be this as it may; certain it is, that the ſituation of animals in this life, particularly ſuch as are ſubdued to the domeſtic dominion of man, (and ſuch commonly diſplay the moſt amiable qualities) is not ſuch as can poſſibly make that life upon the whole deſirable. In a ſtate of nature, where they took peaceful poſſeſſion of the woods, it might be different. In their preſent ſtate of ſubordination to the imperious law of man, nothing can exceed [180]their miſeries, nor can any miſeries be more diverſified. Will it be urged, that a great many of them are ſavage in their natures, and cruel to each other,—that they are at continual war—invade the repoſe, property, and pleaſures, of one another—that they actually ſubſiſt by murder and rapine—and that man is juſtified in his uſage to them, nor can they upon this account fairly claim protection or redreſs from Providence. This would prove a ſorry argument. Do not men live upon each other—are not they at perpetual war—are not many of them ſavage in their natures — do not they diſturb the peace, and invade the property of their fellow-creatures—is not every paltry trick tried, and every dirty [181]paſſion put in motion, to perplex, over-reach, and fret one another?— is not this ſo general a fact, that the eye ſees—the ears ear, and the heart feels it every hour? Is it not the tale of tradition, — the burthen of compoſition—the hiſtory of the day —and the evidence of every newſpaper—ſpreads it not over the moſt diſtant climates—from the poliſhed European, who ſeizes his prey under a maſk, to the honeſt Hotentot, who roaſts it upon the ground, and ſits openly down to his banquet?—and yet where, madam, is the man, who would from hence argue, that for theſe reaſons they muſt never look up for mercy, but die without hope, without expectation—without proſpect? Rather, let them mend the imperfections, [182]they have been ſo ſharpſighted to detect. If the cruel inclination ſubſiſting in the boſoms of particular brutes, ſtrikes them with horror; let it operate properly upon the human heart; but let them reflect, that the animal never kills, but to gratify the calls of famine, or in its own defence—but that the rational frequently murders for ſport, and inflicts pain from a principle of malignity.

The ſtate of animals, after they leave the preſent world, has been the ſubject of very diſtinguiſhed talents; and ſome have very warmly contended for their immortality. Amongſt ſacred writers, Moſes and Solomon, have leaned much in their favour: amongſt moderns, Mr. Locke, [183]Dr. Hildrop, Soame Jennings, and many others, have taken up the cauſe: neither have French, Spaniſh, or Roman authors, been without conjectures on the ſubject. So that I have a ſufficient ſanction, to enter the liſt, as the champion of ſo many millions of uſeful, beautiful, and innocent beings.

Look, upon your Favourite— how harmleſs!—how affectionate!— would it not hurt you to conſider, that in a very few years, the poor creature muſt putrify in the duſt, and, mixing with it, ſoon become common earth, without hope of reſurrection? for my part nothing could give a keener ſhock to my ſenſibility than the horrid idea of univerſal annihilation [184]prevailing over the animal world—I proteſt, madam, I am almoſt ready to ſhed a tear to the very ſentiment—Muſt my dear Tabythyetta,—my demure Grimalcena — my merry Scugypugiſſa—(you will pardon me, madam, for Italianizing their names, there is ſomething ſo dreadfully dull and mechanic in the ſound of an Engliſh appellation) muſt all theſe, with that great traveller Tripſea, ſink into nothingneſs!—into oblivion! into dirt!

Oh horrible, horrible, moſt horrible!

But I ſee, madam, I am likely to ſwell my poſtſcript to the unreaſonable [185]ſize of my letter, and yet if you knew how extremely painful it is for a man, warmed by his ſubject, and entertain'd by his ideas—juſt as that ſubject begins to take poſſeſſion of him—while a ſwarm of benevolent arguments are pouring their honey in upon him— and charm him with the proſpect of carrying his point—if you knew the pangs, that laying aſide the pen, in ſo delicate a moment, coſts a writer—you would certainly pity me —however, I have ſaid enough of this matter and every other, juſt to ſhew my intentions; and I beg your ladyſhip — and I beg alſo my critics may conſider the whole as a mere collection of etchings—the pencil roughly run over them—the out-lines juſt marked [186]—but that, the boldneſs—the graces —the proportions—the re-touchings and — the ſiniſhings, — muſt be the buſineſs of ſeveral ſedate cautious, and careful future opportunities.—

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
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TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5378 Liberal opinions upon animals man and providence In which are introduced Anecdotes of a gentleman By Courtney Melmoth pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5AE4-E