To Lady C *—*

CHAP. I.

The hiſtory of my very babyhood is peculiar—I was certainly born to be [80]the ſport of fortune.—The day which gave me to the world, took my mo⯑ther out of it; and a month after⯑wards my father caught a fever,— ſickened and followed her. Thus was I an orphan in the nurſery—I ſoon diſ⯑covered a love of ſociety—My guar⯑dian (who was a clergyman) provided me with books, and little compa⯑nions, and put out my fortune (which conſiſted of twelve thouſand pounds in ſpecie) at intereſt. The books which he put into my hands were the Spectators.—They firſt put me upon ſpeculation, and my young friends led me into relaxations of amuſement. I had not the general objections of a boy to ſchool, becauſe I was eager af⯑ter every ſort of knowledge. I took my inſtructions in proportion to my [81]application—but in all my readings and reſearches, the attachment to my fel⯑low-creatures was my firſt and favour⯑ite paſſion. Benevolence was the leading principle of my life. I conſi⯑dered myſelf as born to the great duty of making every body happy around me. A virtuous ſentiment warmed my heart, a tender ſtory wetted my eye—my hand was open to diſ⯑treſs in every form, and I was always ready to give the allowance of my childhood to the alleviation of miſery —the Spectators which were all the private library I had at this time—with Virgil, Homer, Salluſt, and other of my ſchool books, were all full of expreſ⯑ſions which encouraged me, in my generous principle: they one and all declared, that ‘To be good, was to be happy.’

CHAP. II.

Upon this noble principle I re⯑ſolved to begin—continue—and end my exſtience—I wrote concerning my reſolution to my guardian—he confirmed and eſtabliſhed the maxim, and concluded by aſſuring me that the only way ‘To be happy, was to be good.’

There are few ſituations in life, more pleaſing, than the contempla⯑tions of a young mind, upon the ſub⯑ject of univerſal happineſs. The the⯑ory of theſe ideas is delightful—the practice is ſometimes a little mortify⯑ing [83]eſpecially to young people. I began to put in force my ſyſtem im⯑mediately: I entered into the com⯑mon pleaſure of a ſchool-boy, and tried every poſſible method to endear my⯑ſelf to my companions. Whenever they committed a childiſh fault, I took the blame upon myſelf—when⯑ever any diſputes aroſe, I endeavoured to compromiſe the matter to the gene⯑ral tranquillity; and whenever they broke any of their toys, I privately repaired the loſs with new ones. But ſome how or another, theſe efforts did not turn out quite ſatisfactorily. I got ſeveral ſevere whippings for fa⯑thering errors which were not my own; I was ſtigmatiſed by the lads as a buſy body, for interfering with quarrels which did not concern me; [84]and I was accuſed of partiality for making preſents to one playmate in preference to another. And thus my benevolence was in the very firſt outſet, rewarded with ſeverity, and contempt. However I was too well grounded in the truth of my grand principle, and had indeed naturally too tender an heart, to ſuffer a few ſlight mortifications to relax the vi⯑gour of my virtue. The morning of life is the meridian of generoſity, and though I was a little miſerable at my diſappointment, I made myſelf cer⯑tain, that if I continued ‘To be good, I ſhould certainly be happy—’

CHAP. III.

— A number of the boys had one day formed a party to rob the or⯑chard of a neighbouring farmer, and from the orchard had pre-deter⯑mined to march to the hen-rooſt, and then return with their ſpoils to their ſeveral chambers. Intelligence of this was communicated to me by a boy who was piqued at being unengaged in the adventure. The ſhock I felt at the news is indiſcribable. The next evening was to be the time fixt for the perpetration of the fact. It was altogether a buſineſs ſo repugnant to all the precepts I had read, and ſo im⯑mediately combated my notions of [86]benevolence that I trembled at the idea—I turned over the Spectators— every paper was flat againſt it. I knew not what to do. The moſt anxi⯑ous ſtate of the mind, is the agitation of divided and irreſolute reflections. I was bewildered betwixt two meaſures, unknowing which to chooſe or which to reject. The queſtions to be de⯑bated were theſe: Shall I prevent this bad action by expoſtulating with the boys, or by acquainting the maſter of the deſign to commit it?— the tenderneſs of my heart repre⯑ſented a general flaggellation, as the reward of the latter; and I there⯑fore choſe the former. When once a ſcheme of this kind is formed by a ſet of boys, there is a ſort of inflexi⯑ble attachment among the conſpirators, [87]that has all the ſolemnity of a plot up⯑on the government: every lip is ſeal⯑ed, and every eye is wary—I found the banditti (a part from the reſt of of the boys) gathered together in the true circle of conſultation—head with⯑in head, and arm within arm—I in⯑troduced the ſubject ſo as to ſoften its atrociouſneſs. Endeavoured as a friend—a ſchool-fellow and a compa⯑nion—to diſſuade them from ſo diſ⯑honeſt an attempt: argued with them as from play-mate to play-mate, and conjured them to deſiſt,—promiſing at the ſame time to purchaſe the very objects of their preſent machinations out of my own pocket—they heard me out without any other interrup⯑tion, than ſtifled titterings—winks, nods, and knocks againſt the elbows [88]of each other—but at the concluſion, the general pleaſantry was no longer to be diſguiſed, and they burſt out into a downright laugh. As ſoon as they had ſatisfied their appetite of deriſion, they aſſumed a more ſerious air, called me a liſtner, a poor, cow⯑ardly brat, without ſpirit for glori⯑ous enterprize—bid me ſtick to my books, and at laſt ſet up a great ſhout, and fairly hiſſed me from their ſociety.

CHAP. IV.

— I retired to my chamber, and burſt into tears: a train of reflec⯑tions preſſed hard upon my heart, and (in ſpite of all my belief in the recti⯑tude of my favourite maxim) I could not help arguing with myſelf—What [89](ſaid I) is it neceſſary that in the effort to do good to others, I muſt make myſelf miſerable? Well, well, no matter: theſe little miſcarriages are but ſo many trials of my integrity. As the gold comes purified from the fire, ſo, no doubt, ſhall my happineſs come augmented from trifling anxie⯑ties, magnanimouſly ſuſtained. I will go on in the ſtrait road, and not faul⯑ter at the thorns, briars, or impedi⯑ments, which I meet in the journey, even though their points and prickles draw blood from my heart: ‘To be good is, to be happy.’

The duſk of evening began at length to fall upon the earth, under cover of which, the young robbers were to ſally forth—I could no longer ſmother up [91]the ſecret in my breaſt. The anxiety of ſuppreſſion had already half-diſ⯑tracted me. I ſaw my maſter reading in the garden, and immediately ran to him. An act of real fraud muſt be done or prevented within half an hour; I loved my play-mates, but I loved my principles yet more—after many heſitations, and begging their only puniſhment might be a falutary lecture of reproof, I unſolded the whole ſcheme. The maſter looked extremely ſolemn, while I was ſpeaking, but how was I amazed at the concluſion, to ſee half a ſmile prevail over the habitual wrinkles of his forehead. He bid me "not be ſo much concerned—that boys would be boys—that robbing orchards and hen-rooſts, were a ſort of petty⯑larceny, which the little pilferers [90]would commit in defiance of the rod; and that, though he ſhould not encour⯑age theft, yet that ſuch ſmall depreda⯑tions, upon apples and poultry, were always among the adventures of every lad of ſpirit, and that it would not be political in a maſter to whip them vio⯑lently away, leſt it ſhould hurt their fu⯑ture courage to combat the adverſities of life—obſerving, (in the cloſe of his ha⯑rangue,) that in general thoſe children made the beſt men, which were fore⯑moſt in ſuch puerile archievements"— I bowed, and withdrew. Freſh think⯑ing brought on freſh perplexity—I fell again to ſoliloquy. He that ſteals a chicken, ſaid I, at ten years old, may be tempted to take a purſe at twenty —I rambled very far in the labyrinth of reflection—I could make nothing [92]of it—I gave up the point with the following remark—The maſter and the boys are both wrong—I have done my duty, and my conſcience is diſ⯑charged of a very great load.—With⯑out diſpute ‘To be good, is to be happy.’

The next morning—for my maſter did not think fit to flog for an in⯑tended error—but ſuffered the fact to be firſt committed—the next morn⯑ing, a charge was produced againſt the offenders, and I was pointed out as their accuſer. In this, however, the maſter was diſingenuous, for my evidence was utterly unneceſſary— the proofs being found on the very perſons of the parties, as their waiſt⯑coats, and coats and ſtockings, were [93]covered with the down and the feathers of their trophies, and the pockets of every delinquent, like the panniers of a fruiterer, ſtuck pre⯑poſterouſly out from each ſide, and betrayed the prog and vegetable ſpoils within. However, I ſtood forth, be⯑ing called upon, in defence of my ve⯑racity. The culprits were by no means hardened in the habit of error, and the deep bluſh of every cheek betrayed ſilent confeſſion—The bill was found againſt them, and the ſen⯑tence of whipping was executed on the ſpot—The cry was piercing, and went to my heart—how readily would I have partaken the anguiſh.—As ſoon as this exerciſe was over, my maſter went out of the ſchool—before his back was well turned, the very [94]objects of his diſcipline began to mi⯑mic, and make faces at him, and as ſoon as they judged him to be out of hearing, the whole ſchool was up in arms againſt me, who they aſperſed as a little paltry puppy, which ought to be knocked on the head for telling tales out of ſchool. News was now brought in, that as the maſter was ſeized with an head-ach, and could not attend ſchool, the chief boy muſt go through the buſineſs of the morn⯑ing in his ſtead. The boys took ad⯑vantage of this hour of ſecurity, and inſtantly revenged the diſcipline they had received for my information, ten⯑fold upon me. They buffeted me with their hats, ſpurted ink upon my cloaths, ſpit in my face, kicked me in the breech, and loaded me with every [95]inſult, that a ſet of barbarous brats could poſſibly inflict upon the cat which they had tied to the ſtake. In concluſion—not a boy would ſit near me—I was avoided as a peſtilence, and ſome of the ſmarteſt actually made verſes on my TREASON, as they called it, and ſung them about the yard to ludicrous tunes.—My ſenſations at theſe inſults, were a mixture of ten thouſand feelings, at the ſame mo⯑ment.

For a long time after this tranſ⯑action, I ſcarce exchanged ten words with any one, but wandered up and down the yard, in a ſad, ſolitary man⯑ner, like a diſtempered ſheep, diſ⯑carded and beaten from the flock.— Sometimes indeed an arch wag would tell me a ſorrowful hiſtory of his loſ⯑ſes,—the [96]breaking of a hoop or the de⯑molition of a top; but as ſoon as he had obtained his end, he would ſidle off to his old companions, and putting out his tongue, tell how cleverly he had taken in the INFORMER.

Thus was I cuſſed, mocked, hooted at, and deſerted, for endeavouring to prevent an action, which I thought, on all hands, unlawful, and unbene⯑volent. I again took up my dear Spectators, and in thoſe ineſtimable volumes, I found that the only way to felicity was to PERSEVERE in well doing.—This ſentiment was like a cordial to a fainting man.—I ſhut the book, walked chearfully acroſs my chamber, and reſolving to perſevere, concluded as uſual, that ‘To be good, was to be happy.’

CHAP. V.

— At the end of about two months, the ſeverity of my fate be⯑gan to remit of its rigour. Perpetu⯑ated malignity is not often the vice of a ſchool-boy. As I was altogether of a ſocial turn, I even went ſo far as to purchaſe a reconciliation, at the price of a few conceſſions. But the greateſt progreſs towards a re⯑union betwixt me and the boys, was made by a ſkilful diſtribution of pre⯑ſents and promiſes—for (however ſtrange it may ſeem) the influence of money is not greater in the ſtate, than in the ſchools. A penny judiciouſly beſtowed, will ſecure the heart of a child, as firm as a bank note can poſ⯑ſibly [98]ſecure the voice and intereſt of a man. Children learn very early to be venal; and though few are mi⯑ſers, a very great number are mer⯑cenary. I was at length pretty well re-eſtabliſhed in their graces, and really began to think they repent⯑ed of their treatment to me. This idea ſo ſoftened my heart, that I ac⯑tually invoked the Muſe upon the oc⯑caſion, and yielding to the friendly impulſe, compoſed a Poem in praiſe of youthful affection. This was read in open ſenate, and the ſentiments highly approved. I now thought my⯑ſelf bleſt, for I ſuppoſed I had per⯑ſuaded my ſchool-fellows to

[99]—A friend of our maſter, and a father to one of the boys, obtained us an holiday—the ſchool was emp⯑tied in a moment, and its inhabitants diſperſed into ſeveral parties, agree⯑able to their reſpective paſſions and purſuits. It was however ſoon reſolv⯑ed nem. con. to make it a day of bird-neſting. The idea of game once ſtarted by an experienced boy, like a pack of hounds, the whole follow his trail — they were civil enough to invite my company—that I might not offend them by refuſal, I agreed to accompany them, though I deteſted the diverſion—we immediately betook ourſelves to the fields, and incloſures, which reſounded with the notes of paſſion, the calls of courtſhip, and the ſong of ſatisfaction. The [100]boys inſpected narrowly into every hedge, and tore their fingers and hands in the ſcrutiny. It was the middle of the ſummer, when animal nature teems almoſt univerſally with life. Every buſh therefore inſpired expectation. They ſoon found eggs in abundance. Some formed them into a ſtring of beads—others ſmaſhed them againſt the ground to ſee the embrios within, thus prematurely hatched and murdered in the ſhock— while ſome, at all events, broke them at one end, and ſucked out the con⯑tents—as yet however no young were found, and being wearied with ſearch they ſuſpended it awhile, and agreed to lie down and reſt under a large cluſter of maples, which afforded an agreeable ſhade, at a ſmall diſtance. [101]Thither they repaired, and as they appeared to be in a leſs noiſy diſpoſi⯑tion than uſual, I thought proper to take advantage of the moment and endeavour to impreſs them with a ſenſe of my own PRINCIPLE—the re⯑treat was ſo comfortable that few of them were willing to forſake it, at leaſt till the ſun abated his fervor, as he deſcended to the weſt. To ſill up the interval, I propoſed, to tell them a ſtory. A ſtory is a very acceptable matter to the extreme curioſity of a young mind, and my offer was imme⯑diately caught at. A general ſilence prevailed through the little incum⯑bent audience, and I addreſſed it, in the following manner.

CHAP. VI.

—IN TIMES OF OLD there lived a man near a great foreſt. He was a keeper of ſheep, and had, (as the ſtory goes,) a very large family.—Some of his children were grown up and ſome were infants. One was in the cra⯑dle and two were upon the lap. The mother was a noted ſpinner, and ſhe ſet all the girls to work, as ſoon as they could hold the wool in their hands, and had ſtreagth enough to turn round the wheel: while the father took care to find out-of⯑door buſineſs for the boys—ſome were herdboys, and ſome that were too weak for hard work, ſcared the birds from corn—now it is reported by the neigh⯑bours [103]of the adjacent village that the old ſhepherd was a mighty odd character, and that he bred up his family in a very different manner from the maxims of his poor neighbours. As he was unable to give them the ad⯑vantage of an education like ours, and teach them Latin and Greek, he was re⯑ſolved to educate them in ſuch accom⯑pliſhments as his ſituation permitted. He was a man of tenderneſs and ſimplicity, and often ſaid to his chil⯑dren—"Do all the good you can, boys, but be ſure you do no harm. You muſt all labour for a livelihood, but you may always get your bread inno⯑cently; and the bread that is honeſtly earned, will be always ſweet — I am myſelf obliged to attend a flock —your mother is compelled to ſpin— [104]to the poor ſheep therefore we are all indebted — they furniſh us with food and raiment; I therefore love the harmleſs creatures, and would not hurt them for all that they are worth: let this teach you to behave properly to poor dumb animals, and to uſe them as they deſerve, and may thy father's curſe overtake thee, if at any time ye do wrong to thoſe, which do no wrong to thee: for be aſſured, wan⯑ton cruelty will always be returned upon the tormentor. The whole family liſt⯑ened to the old man's argument, and it would have been well for them if they had always obeyed the precepts of their father. But now comes the cream of the ſtory—pray therefore attend.— The eldeſt ſon had one day taken the neſt of a robin, which conſiſted of five [105]young ones, and a ſixth juſt burſting from the ſhell—he carried them home to his brothers and ſiſters, to each of which he gave a bird; but the little neſtling he gave to one of the children in the lap, who wrapping it up in a piece of flannel, put it into a ſmall wicker baſket, and ſet it to the fire.— The boy that found the neſt, tied a ſtring to the leg of his bird, and cru⯑elly dragged it after him—the ſecond ſon run pins through the eyes of his bird, and took a delight in ſeeing it bleed to death.—The third gave his to the cat, or rather, pretended to give it, for he held it firſt pretty cloſe to puſs's whiſkers, and then pulled it away from her, but at laſt, ſhe pounced upon it, and carried off one of the legs.—The eldeſt daughter intended [106]to have taken care of her's, but one of her brothers having murdered his own, ſeized upon her property, and both pulling the poor wretch different ways, betwixt compaſſion and cru⯑elty, it died in the conteſt—and the younger girl, now in poſſeſſion of the only bird that was left, put her's into a cage, and covered it over with wool. At this criſis the mother, who had been gleaning, and the old ſhepherd, re⯑turned home. The limbs of the dead birds were ſeen upon the floor, and the cat was buſily employed in a corner, at clearing them away. The old man inſiſted upon the truth. The trembling boy confeſſed it.—Barbarous wretches! cried the ſhepherd—is this the return for my care and inſtruction—but I will puniſh ye for it—the eldeſt ſon he tied by the leg and did to him as he [107]did to the bird—the ſecond ſon he ſcratched with pins till his hands were all over blood—at the third he ſet his dog, who caught him by the leg as he was uſed to catch the ſheep—the eldeſt daughter who had loſt her bird he pitied—he kiſs'd the ſecond daughter, which had put her poor thing into the cage, but he hugged to his very heart the little creature that had placed the neſtling in a warm baſket.—Now IT PLEASED GOD, that about ſix or ſeven months after this, the eldeſt ſon (which had been the cauſe of all this miſchief) fell ſick, and died; and many people are now living who ſay, that as he was going to be put into the ground, the ravens, rooks, kites, and other vaſt birds, all flew over his coffin, ſcreamed, and could by no [108]means be got away, nor could he reſt in his grave for them; becauſe the animals were always digging up the earth under which he lay, as if they were reſolved to eat him up—and ſome declare, he is actually gone. I beg pardon, ſchool-fellows, for this long ſtory, but I ſhall finiſh directly. I can⯑not help mentioning to you the dif⯑ferent fate of the good little girl that treated the poor animal tenderly. A year after the death of her brother ſhe died herſelf of the ſmall pox, and I do aſſure you, it has been told to me for fact, that her grave is a perfect garden, for the robins do not ſuf⯑fer a ſingle weed to grow upon it, and GOD ALMIGHTY has adorned it with wild field-flowers, as inno⯑cent as the baby which they cover.

CHAP. VII.

—Though this ſtory was univer⯑ſally attended to with great earneſt⯑neſs, yet it failed, upon the whole, of producing the effect deſired. Some few, indeed, were attracted by its moral, but the far greater number were ſatisfied with ſaying it was a pretty ſtory, only that they diſliked the conduct of the father, whom they cenſured as a cruel old fellow, which deſerved to be hanged. They now got up, and renewed their ſport with a vigour, which my poor ſtory ſeemed to have redoubled.—Nay, ſome of them carried the matter ſo far as to wiſh they could hit upon a robin's [110]neſt, that they might try what ſun could poſſibly lie in the experiments related in the narrative.—Perceiving this I began to re-perſuade—they laughed—I proteſted that I would go without pleaſure for ever, rather than derive it from the pain of innocence. —They jeſted on my gravity, even to clamour—I conjured them to liſten to the general notes of loſs and lament⯑ation which echoed from the parents whoſe young they were ſeeking to deſtroy.—They vowed that they wiſhed they had all the birds of the air in a net—and as to me (whom they called a ſqueamiſh milkſop), if I did not like the amuſement, I might go home, and play at pat-ball with my ſiſter;—adding—for their part, they intended each of them to bring home [111]a hatfull of creatures — then return and diſpoſe of their ſpoil as they thought proper.

CHAP VIII.

Once more, mortified, and diſ⯑appointed in my benevolent endea⯑vours, I ſought the road that led to the ſchool; and in walking along, I could not but indulge ſome myſterious ruminations.

—Surely, ſaid I, there is ſome⯑thing very ſtrange in all this? My efforts to

[112]At the time my good nurſe told me the ſtory, which I told to the boys, I remember it made me both weep and tremble; and I believe I never killed or injured a fly in my whole life—nay, I feel for the very brute that ſuffers to ſupport me, and ſometimes ſhed a tear to the neceſſity that condemns it to deſtruction.—My ſchool-fellows, on the contrary, de⯑light in ſlaughter, death, and maſ⯑ſacre. I have ſeen them exert upon a bird, a bat, a waſp, or a worm, more tortures than I thought any thing that had life could ſupport. I tell them it is cruel,—and they treat me with deriſion—nay, ſeveral grown up people join the laugh againſt me, and ſay, that I was deſigned for a girl. [113]I muſt write to my guardian on the ſubject—certainly, ‘To be good, muſt be to be happy.’

And yet, how is it, that (though I do all the little good in my power) I am ſtill miſerable!—How is it that on thoſe days in which I only do no harm, I am leſs inſulted, than on thoſe in which I labour to do good. Yet, in one caſe, my merit is negative—in the other, actually agree⯑able to all that I have read in the Scriptures, and Spectators, and all that I have heard from the lips of my guardian. What a number of indig⯑nities have I already ſuffered, for the very things from which I expected happineſs.—'Tis very diſtreſſing, [114]and I am determined to know the the cauſe of it—

By this time I had got into a green lane, pretty near the houſe of my maſter; and turning my head aſide, to ſee what occaſioned a flouncing I heard cloſe by me, I ſaw a creature hanging by the horns at the edge of the ditch—it was a ſheep, ei⯑ther thrown there by ſome boys, or caught amongſt the briars by chance —the poor creature was half ſmother⯑ed in the mud—at the price of a great deal of toil and dirt, I diſen⯑tangled the animal, but it was ſo weary with former efforts, that I had ſtill to drag it from the ditch—I did ſo, and when it came out, it was difficult to tell, which was the more ſhocking ſpectacle, for it was one of [115]thoſe ditches that (on account of its gloomy and humid ſituation) even the warmth of the ſummer could not dry up—

—I ſat by the creature till it re⯑covered ſtrength to ſtagger away, and I muſt own had no ſmall inclination to carry it with my own hands into the next graſs encloſure; but I deſiſt⯑ed from this, becauſe I thought I might treſpaſs on the property of ſome one to whom the ſheep did not belong: though I was now ſcarce fifteen, reading, thinking, and obſerv⯑ation had taught me ſuch habits of ſentiment.

At this criſis a man on horſeback paſſed me, and ſeeing the ſheep in ſuch a condition, and me in as bad, [116]ſuſpected that I had been its tormen⯑tor—he ſaid that I deſerved to have the ſkin whipped over my ears—ſo I ſhould think ſo too, ſaid I, if I had been guilty of ſo barbarous an action —come, come, don't tell a lie into the bargain, you young raſcal, that's worſe than the other, ſaid the man; and ſpreading the thong of his whip, hit me a violent blow in the face, that ſet my noſe a bleeding, and rode on—and yet while I was a talking with this merciful man, I happened to caſt my eye under the girth of his ſaddle, and found almoſt every vein in the horſe, from one flank to the other, guſhing with blood—his ſpurs, and the heel of his boot, were clogged.—

[117]—Notwithſtanding this treat⯑ment, I felt ſome pleaſure in the rich reflection of having reſcued a dumb animal from miſery—but my noſe ſpouted ſo obſtinately that I was obliged to make the beſt of my way to the ſchool; eſpecially as I had been detained rather late by my ad⯑venture. The bird-neſters had return⯑ed before me, and they, with the reſt of the ſcholars, were in the ſit⯑ting-room with the maſter at ſupper.

—I did not, till I entered the apartment, reflect, that my figure was at preſent likely to excite both ridicule, and enquiry—but the mo⯑ment I opened the door, the whole ſociety were in an uproar—my face was covered with gore—my noſe ſwelled with the laſh of the horſeman's [118]whip, and my clothes were of the ſame hue with the poor ſheep's back —the maſter was ſo exaſperated at the ſight, that he would not hear a word about the ſtory, but caned me ſeverely for ſpoiling my things, made me a public example before the very boys whom I had been adviſing to be tender-hearted,—puſhed me from his preſence, and ſent me ſupperleſs to bed.—

—My private meditations were not pleaſant—I had no light to look into my Spectators, nor do I ſuppoſe I ſhould have derived at that time any relief from them had it been fun⯑ſhine.—I had no inclination for ſleep, and yet got into bed — the bird⯑neſters came into my chamber, be⯑fore they retired for the night into [119]their own, and with an air of exult⯑ation, told me, they had rare ſport, but ſuppoſed I had ſtill better—call⯑ed me raw head and bloody-bones, and bade me good night—

After lying ſilent above three hours—

—Good God, cried I, for what have I been thus chaſtiſed—fretted, and inſulted—Is it for my benevo⯑lence—? If ‘To be good is to be happy,’ wherefore are all my beſt deſigns thus fruſtrated?—The firſt rays of the morning light broke in upon my re⯑flections—I aroſe and taking out ink, and paper, ſat myſelf down at the window to write.—

CHAP. IX.

—I threw together an explicit account of my various ſufferings, actions, and apprehenſions; and ſent them away to my guardian, as ſoon as I was allowed the privilege of walk⯑ing again amongſt my play-mates. The clergyman, to whom my father thought proper to leave the direction of his affairs, was as honeſt, and inoffenſive a prieſt, as ever harangued from a pulpit. He was eſteemed by his pariſhioners profoundly learned, inſo⯑much, that ſcarce any buſineſs was done in the village without his know⯑ledge. From his wiſdom and friend⯑ſhip I expected great ſatisfaction, and [121]anticipated the return of the poſt, with all imaginable pleaſure.

Anticipation of pleaſure however is the very deſtruction of it. The returning poſt came, and brought me a BLACK SEAL—my guardian had died of an apoplexy, an hour after the receipt of my letter, which he was preparing to anſwer. I was ſum⯑moned ſuddenly away to take poſſeſ⯑ſion of his papers, for the good man having no family, nor any connexions, which were dearer to him than the ſon of the friend of his youth, had, in the fondneſs of his heart, made his laſt ſentiments in my favor, and indeed left me ſole excutor. The ſud⯑denneſs of the circumſtance, at firſt ſtunned me—I put the letter of death into the hand of my maſter—begged [122]he would ſuffer me to ſet out directly, and flung myſelf into a chair—the tears came at laſt. I loved the deceaſed beyond expreſſion—without attend⯑ing to what was ſaid to me—I got into a chaiſe, and drove to * * * *.

CHAP. X.

To young men of a ſerious com⯑plexion, the chamber of death is inexpreſſibly terrible, eſpecially when the body of a benefactor is extended on the bed.—At a proper time, I truſt⯑ed him to the boſom of the earth, with every mark of decency, and affection: and at length I ventured to read over his will, and take account of [123]his effects—my youth, and experience unſitting me for theſe affairs, I called in the aſſiſtance of an attorney who reſided at a market town three miles from the village, who had indeed drawn up the teſtament for my guar⯑dian. To the judgment of this gen⯑tleman, who bore a fair reputation, I truſted. Till he came indeed the houſe might very properly be termed an houſe of mourning, for a great concourſe of ſable looking people were crowding together into every room. The whole village was actually empti⯑ed into the vicarage: I found they came upon two diſtinct errands. To condole, and to congratulate. They were vaſtly ſorry their good paſtor was gone, but they were extremely glad that I was come, and heartily [124]wiſhed me many happy years. I re⯑turned them thanks for the latter part of their buſineſs, and wept with them for the firſt. The lawyer appeared. They fled. Mourners of this kied deteſt an attorney—perhaps becauſe he knows them better than a raw ſchool-boy. My houſe was cleared in a moment. It is not without very pe⯑culiar propriety I make uſe of the word cleared, for I ſoon found that thoſe very weepers and wailers, were no other than ſome of thoſe birds of prey, that watch the mortality of an human body, ſcent the carcaſe from afar, and vulture like immediately proceed to plunder. They cried in⯑deed with their eyes, but not chuſing to hold up an handkerchief to wipe them, their pickers and ſtea⯑lers [125]were at liberty, to ſecrete certain portable moveables, which perhaps they might take a particular fancy to Poor wretches, they did not know that ‘To be good, was to be happy!’

Upon inſpection into matters, it appeared that the good clergyman had died worth three thouſand pounds, beſides his dwelling houſe (which he built), a large garden, a ſmall paddock adjoining his garden, and a conſider⯑able quantity of furniture. (His living fell again into the hands of the pa⯑tron.) The whole of the above he had given to me, ſubjected to the payment of a ſmall legacy of 100l. to a very diſ⯑tant relation, and twenty pounds to the [126]poor of the village, to be diſtributed amongſt the propereſt objects, on the ſecond Sunday after his deceaſe—By the will of my own father, it was re⯑queſted, that my guardian, would nominate a ſecond in caſe of his own death during my infancy. This ap⯑pointment my father neglected to do himſelf, perhaps becauſe he wiſhed to pay a compliment to the good cler⯑gyman. But being himſelf an hearty man, he had not made over the truſt, and as he died ſuddenly, the ſole diſ⯑poſal both of the fortune left by my father, and the fortune left by my guardian, came naturally to my diſ⯑cretion. I expreſſed a ſurprize at this—the attorney ſaid it was cer⯑tainly an overſight in my guardian— [127]we were both a good while ſilent. The lawyer ſubmitted it to me as an act of prudence, whether I would chooſe myſelf to appoint a truſtee, till I came of age, and there was I re⯑member an egotiſm in his looks, which ſeemed to aſk me what I ſhould think of him for that office? I told him I would take a day to deliberate upon it, and conſult with him again.

CHAP. XI.

Now of all the things upon earth, I knew the leaſt how to manage money, and yet I was in poſſeſſion of near twenty thouſand pounds, including the accumulated intereſt of the twelve [128]thouſand, left by my father—a thought came ſuddenly acroſs me, which de⯑termined me at once—the power of a pleaſant idea when the ſoul is gloomy, operates like an unexpected ſunbeam, darting through an hemi⯑ſphere of clouds—the ſky and the face, the element and the whole ma⯑chine of man, are in thoſe caſes equally bright and delightful—'twas ſo with me. As I am now maſter of twenty thouſand pounds, ſaid I, I ſhall be able to make many of my good fellow-crea⯑tures happy,—I will neither return to ſchool nor attend lethargic univerſities, but inſtantly ſtep into life, and, mixing with mankind, indulge at once my cu⯑rioſity, and my benevolence.—With⯑out more ado I wrote to the attorney, that I intended to travel, and ſhould [129]therefore want my ready money left by my guardian; and that, the ſum which was already inveſted in the funds, might remain. The law⯑yer did not ſeem to like the mea⯑ſure, but for the firſt time in my life, I ran the riſque of diſobliging another, to gratify myſelf: 'twas not perhaps ſtrictly benevolent, yet as it was the firſt petulance I ever indulged, the idea of the error came ſoftened upon my underſtanding— happy had it been for me, if in⯑ſtead or ſtepping into life, and put⯑ting money in my purſe, I had ſat quietly down in the chimney-corner, and, like the virtuoſo in the comedy, travelled only in my Books.—

—Amongſt the furniture of the houſe which now decended to me, [130]was a ſmall walnut-tree book-caſe, at the opening of which my fooliſh heart, bigotted to ſentiment, leapt for pleaſure: and it was a dearer trea⯑ſure to my heart at that time, than all the money I had in the world. It contained the following books:

• Works of Jeremy Taylor.
• — of Thomas à Kempis.
• B— Burnet's Paſtoral Care.
• Practice of Piety.
• St. Chryſoſtom.
• The Tragedy of Cato.
• Annotations on the Scriptures,
• Quarles's Emblems.
• Pilgrim's Progreſs.
• Paſſion of Chriſt.
• Sermons, in 23 Volumes (ſelected)
• Prayers for Private Houſes.
• [131] Baxter, on the Soul.
• And
• Drelincourt on Death.

To theſe were added, a collection of diſcourſes in manuſcript, which my poor old friend, uſed ex officio, with every paſſage of which his pa⯑riſhioners were made repeatedly ac⯑quainted. I wanted extremely to read all the volumes in my poſſeſſion, and would have begun the taſk directly, but for one of thoſe interruptions which are immediately attendant up⯑on people in proſperity.

CHAP XII.

I was now condemned to that ſort of drudgery, which cuſtom and com⯑plaiſance have impoſed upon men juſt ſtepped into a fortune.—The gen⯑try of the neighbourhood came upon the commerce of viſitings; and the poor of my pariſh, and all the pariſhes adjacent, were at my gate, upon the ſubject of charity. I have ſince found out, that theſe were pickpockets of different kinds. At that time, how⯑ever, I thought of them very differ⯑ently—the rich I received with cordial⯑ity, and the poor never went away empty-handed; and yet by ſome ſtrange waywardneſs and perverſeneſs of my ſtars—my ill-luck—or what⯑ever [133]elſe influenced the events of my life, I had never the good fortune to ſatisfy either. Benevolence was ſtill the motive, but felicity was not the effect. My heart was one of thoſe, which might be ſuppoſed to reſide in the breaſt of a ſtripling, impreſſed in the nurſery, with a ſenſe of that great ſocial duty, extending from earth to heaven—the duty which beginning with GOD, deſcends to man, and ter⯑minates in brute. With a natural in⯑clination to gentleneſs, I ſoon acquir⯑ed from the Bible and Spectators, an habit of thinking, as well as feeling right. Never indulging myſelf in thoſe boyiſh feats which ſow in chil⯑dren the firſt fatal ſeeds of cruelty, in⯑juſtice, and ingratitude, I in ſome ſort acquired a degree of primitive purity [134]in my ideas, that carried me into that line of action, which I then thought the road to happineſs, but which I now perceive the certain path to indignity and diſgrace. With ſuch a heart, and with ſuch pro⯑penſities and principles belonging to it, I loved all—thought well of all— embraced all. With the ſad I ſympa⯑thized—with the happy I exulted; and to ſuch as had none to help them, but he who bids the primroſe ſpring modeſtly round my preſent retreat, I gave the comforts which even the eco⯑nomy of nature demanded. Perhaps no man was ever accoutered with weapons of worſe defence, to ſtruggle through the warfare of life, than the principles and propenſions I have mentioned.

[135]After all the fretful labours of an ac⯑tive though ſhort exiſtence, I am now writing the heads of my hiſtory in the depth of an unfrequented foreſt. From man I have nothing to expect, ſince I have abjured his ſociety—I am provided with water from the ſpring, and I have taken care to ſupply myſelf with ſtores which were brought to the ſkirts of the wood, by a mule whom I have now turned adrift to him that ſhould find him—I eat but lit⯑tle—much ſtill remains in my ſtore⯑box—the tugs of heart, and ſtrokes of anguiſh that I met in ſociety, aſſure me that I ſhall not long conti⯑nue in ſolitude alive. I have aſcended the hill, and though I am yet but in the middle of man's life, I feel myſelf at the very verge of the declivity. The [136]ravages of miſery, are even greater than thoſe of time. There is nothing in my fight but a few dumb domeſtics, which I have ſummoned together, as the ſubſtitute of man, and which ſoothe me when the broken heart requires conſolation: nor do I hear any thing in my foreſt but the inno⯑cent language, and animated va⯑riety, of ſuch creatures, as are form⯑ed to inhabit the wood. The moment of fate, which muſt car⯑ry me from earth, cannot be long delayed—I am writing theſe paſſages of my life, under the immediate eye of a GOD, whom I expect ſhortly to ſee—I expect therefore at the ſame time, that whenever my hiſtory is read, (if it be ever found,) that the ſtartling ſentiments in this chapter, may [137]be very particularly attended to—not condemned as the haſty effuſions of a ſplenitic refugee, who (diſappointed in his expectations) prefers the ſociety of beaſt, to man; but as a mournful fact, the force of which will be always felt in proportion to the experience of the reader.—If however my ſenti⯑ments ſhould as yet appear irreconcile⯑able, as I confeſs they claſh with moſt of the common ſyſtems of the age, let the objector read on; and he will find them exemplified in the future periods of a narrative written by a a dying man.—

CHAP. XIII.

The laſt chapter contains the aſſer⯑tion which I pronounced would ſtartle a great many people, notwith⯑ſtanding what has been advanc'd to cor⯑roborate it, in the former part of this manuſcript—I have ventured to aſſert that an extreme tender and good mind, ardently purſuing its propenſi⯑ties, is the moſt improper mind in the world to produce TERRESTRIAL feli⯑city. Objectible as this may ſeem, I muſt take upon me (in the full en⯑joyment of a ſound mind, and per⯑fect memory) to puſh the point far⯑ther; and add, that in nine inſtances [139]out of ten, thoſe propenſities, are utterly againſt him in this world: and often bring their maſter, to diſcredit, poverty, and ſhame.

The world will be up in arms againſt me, and my bones will be hunted for, and gibbetted—What!

Is not—to be good—to be happy?—

The anſwer is given in a ſentence. In this world, generally ſpeaking No.

Nor, in the world to come?

Yes.

Are not men therefore

To be good?

Yes.

Wherefore—

[140] For the ſake of God, and our conſcience.

But is goodneſs then againſt our worldly intereſt?

Nine times out of ten.

Is not that the fault of God—?

No.

Whoſe then.

Man's.

Impoſſible!

Suffer me to prove it.

READ ON.

CHAP. XIV

About this time happened the Sun⯑day on which the legacy of twenty pounds was to be divided amongſt [141]ſuch objects, as more immediately ſtood in need of the donation. After morning ſervice, I had requeſted the clerk to ſummon all thoſe mendicants into the veſtry, which he knew to be particular⯑ly indigent and deſerving. It is almoſt impoſſible to do things privately in a village: it was ſoon known to the whole pariſh, that the favour of their bene⯑factor was on this day to be diſtribut⯑ed, and accordingly, the church was on this day crouded with more poor people than had been known there for many years.

Too many of them were led thither by the hand of hope rather than of reli⯑gion. The money was divided by the curate of the next pariſh, who officiated at both that and my guardian's, ſince the death of the latter. He was an up⯑right [142]character, knew every inhabi⯑tant, and was therefore a proper per⯑ſon for ſuch an office.—The people aſ⯑ſiſted, went ſatisfied away, and I was truly of opinion that ‘To be good, was to be happy.’ At the porch of the church, as the curate, the clerk, and I were go⯑ing home, we were intercepted, by the ſight of a pretty large multi⯑tude, every member of which ſeemed to be viſited by all the afflictions of Lazarus. Lameneſs, blindneſs, filth, and nakedneſs, were here in the moſt formidable array: Their numbers baffled computation, and every one's buſineſs appeared to be, how he could moſt effectually appeal to my [143]compaſſion. The hoſpital at Chelſea, could ſcarce have produced ſuch a con⯑greſs of invalids. The clerk was for driving them away with his wand— I prevented this, and enquired for what they aſſembled. In the true key of complaint, they God-bleſſed my honour, and ſaid, it was for money. The curate replied, the moſt needy were already relieved.—The beggars diſplayed their tattered garments, lean looks, and imperfect limbs. I did not know what to do. The clerk bid them go home to their own pariſhes, for that they did not belong to us. I put my hand into my pocket—my purſe was empty—I bid them come to my gate within an hour—they came, and I deſired the clerk to divide 20l. more upon them, a ſum which I [144]very luckily happened to have in halfs crowns, a kind of pieces which my guardian was always fond of hoard⯑ing. In ten minutes after the clerk diſappeared, I heard a violent noiſe at at my gate: the beggars, diſſatisfied with his bounty, or rather with his manner of diſtribution, had all fal⯑len upon him, and bruiſed the poor fellow unmercifully: they ſaid the men in the veſtry had right to no more money than they—they drove the clerk about till he was glad to find ſhelter in the houſe—I threw up the faſh, to expoſtulate—they muttered before my face, and upon the clerk threat⯑ening to have them ſet in the ſtocks, ſeveral of the moſt audacious of them, in token of defiance, broke my windows with pebble-ſtones. About [145]eight o'clock in the evening another mortifying circumſtance fell out; for the people in the yard having ſpent their reſpective modicums at the ale⯑houſe, to the great annoyance of many ſober diſpoſed people of the pariſh, they at length fallied out in a body, and encountered the people of the veſtry, by whom they eſteemed themſelves robbed of their right. A war of words (as uſual) began the conteſt—a fierce and bloody battle en⯑ſued. The farmers left their houſes to ſtill the riot by authority, but they were obliged to retreat with many a broken head,—the wives and daughters came next, and abuſed me for throwing away my money, and encouraging a ſet of lazy vermin that did not belong to the pariſh—they ſaid that I might be [146]aſhamed of myſelf for turning the ſabbath day, into a day of drunkenneſs, when every good body ought to have the Teſtament in their hands; and concluded by obſerving, that there did not uſe to be ſuch goings on in their poor dead miniſter's time; but indeed what better could be expected from a mad-brain harum-ſcarum bit of a boy.—

This was but a bad prognoſtic of future felicity — I proteſt that I meant all for the general ſatisfaction —twenty pounds was to be given away to the pooreſt of the pariſh, and I took great pains to have the pooreſt ſelected and relieved—a party of unexpected neceſſitous creatures invit⯑ed my charity; and that no complaint of partiality might prevail either [147]againſt the memory of my guardian, or againſt myſelf, I directed an equal quantity of money to be divided amongſt thoſe who were not included in the bequeathed bounty—the merce⯑nary part of the mob made head againſt me—abuſed my agent, and ſtruck the glaſs out of my windows: inſtead of carrying in their hands the comforts I had given them to their pining families they ſteal into an alehouſe and pour the bounty—down their throats—they next pick a quarrel with their fellow-labourers, break the ſconces of their maſters, and then I am to bear the blame of the whole. I am always treated in this manner I think. 'Twas juſt thus with me, at ſchool.—I muſt ſome how or another have a ſtrange method of [148]going about benevolent actions,— or I have peculiar ill-luck—or elſe my ideas of happineſs muſt be dreadfully confuſed, or—or—

CHAP. XV.

—The curate (who generally reſerv⯑ed all his language for his Sunday duty) was at this very time twirling round his band with one hand, and holding his pipe up to his mouth with the other—but feeling the wind attack him through the broken caſement, he had entrenched himſelf behind a large ſcreen, which extended from one end of the room to the other—not a word ſaid he to the complaints either [149]of widows, wives, huſbands, or daughters; and yet rolled his eyes up and down, and ſeemed to liſten to every body—

Doctor, ſaid I—who could have ſuppoſed that from ſo innocent an action, ſuch diſtreſſing conſequences ſhould ariſe—who could ſuppoſe it, I ſay?

Nobody—ſaid the prieſt.—

Might not one have reaſonably ex⯑pected to receive the thanks and tears, rather than the reproaches of theſe poor people—?

Certainly—ſaid the prieſt —

Have you, my friend, ever met theſe hard returns?

Frequently—ſaid the prieſt, ſhaking his head.

Don't they make you very unhappy?

[150]No doubt—ſaid the parſon.

How do you get over them, doctor?

Smoke—ſaid the prieſt, pointing to his pipe.

Is that a ſpecific for the anxieties, which ariſe from ingrateful treatment?

I never ſmoke, doctor—have you no other remedy for me more in the road of your profeſſion?

Surely, ſaid the prieſt.

Name it, my dear friend, for I am truly miſerable—

PATIENCE, ſaid the prieſt—If a man has patience, no croſſes, nor any miſ⯑fortunes—nor any accidents—nor any diſtreſſes—nor any—

The good prieſt was now ſet in for it. I drew my chair oppoſite to his, and hoped now for great improve⯑ment—the doctor took the pipe from [151]his lips—a ſpark fell from it upon his leg—Patience ſir, ſaid the doctor, (exalting his voice,) is that bleſſed, beatific, divine, caeleſtial — zounds and the devil, cried the prieſt, I've ſcorched the calf of my leg to pieces.—He rubbed the part affected—ſkipped about the room like a madman, threw the pipe in the ſire, and ran out of the houſe.

Go thy ways, ſaid I — neither from thee nor thy patience will my perplexity of mind be relieved. —I unlocked my book-caſe, and read without intermiſſion till twelve o'clock at night—the volumes were all ſet to the ſame tune: Be good, and be happy — be happy, and be good — I took up Cato, and my boſom bound⯑ed when I came to this couplet, [152]

I applied the ſentiment to my own caſe, and found that it fitted me to a hair—I repeated it over and over— and I admired it more at every recep⯑tion—the clerk knocked at my door, and told me that one of the drunken beggars, in ſtaggering home, had tumbled into a ditch, and was drown⯑ed, and that a wife to a principal far⯑mer was frightened into an untimely labour by the riot, and not expected to get over it—Honeſt man, replied I—I am heartily ſorry for it, but how could I poſſibly help it—? I meant well, the thing has fallen out ill— remember Mr. Clerk—remember what the poet ſays, [153]

Sempronius, ſir, ſaid the clerk!— I don't know for that—but I tell you the fact. He walked off, and I believe ſuſpected the ſanity of my intellect.—

CHAP. XVI.

I ſet in for a week's cloſe reading— 'twas ſtill the ſame maxim, multipli⯑ed and modified into different expreſ⯑ſions, through different volumes— ‘To be good is to be happy.’

[154]I was determined to try the virtue of the expreſſion, beyond the limits of the village. I ſet out for London, and in that city I arrived in the ſix⯑teenth year of my age, after having deſired the attorney to give an eye to my affairs at the village, during my abſence—at my firſt entrance into the metropolis, new ſenſations took root in my heart. Every ſtreet was full —every ſhop was buſy—and every foot was in motion—this, ſaid I—is certainly the place to bring every principle and every ſentiment to the teſt—I took up my lodging at the houſe of a gentlewoman to whom I was diſtantly related—ſhe received me politely.

And now came on a train of trials, and a ſeries of events, which ſhall be [155]related as they recur to my me⯑mory.—

—But before I proceed to ſet down my tranſactions in the metro⯑polis, it is impoſſible for me to paſs a few circumſtances, that fell out upon the road. The ſocial turn of my temper made me prefer a journey in the ſtage, to the ſolitary luxury of going poſt. I had three miles to ride to the machine, in which my fellow⯑paſſengers were ſeated ſive minutes before I reach'd the inn: nor did this ſmall delay paſs unnoticed by the driver, who was rubbing his hands to⯑gether and blowing his fingers upon account of the cold; declaring at the ſame time, that he had waited for me till his horſes were ſtarved to [156]death. Notwithſtanding which, he thought proper to aſk for ſomething to drink my health, thereby detaining us a quarter of an hour longer; then having given the hoſtler his perquiſite —without which he would certainly have held the coach-door in his hand, at leaſt another quarter of an hour— we found ourſelves in motion. My fellow-travellers were not only muffled by the darkneſs of the night, but were ſo enveloped in their great coats, that though (by the intermixture of legs) I ſuppoſed myſelf amongſt human creatures, yet I received no other aſſurances of the matter, till (after toſſing for about five hours,) we made a full ſick ſtop to refreſh our⯑ſelves with breakfaſt.

CHAP. XVII.

This houſe had as unfriendly an ap⯑pearance as ever hung out to the eye of the traveller, a ſignal of welcome, that is, in other words, an invitation for him to ſpend his money. Not a creature was up, though every body knew the exact time in which the coach would come in. In a garret window indeed glimmered a malancholy can⯑dle, and after the coachman had ſmacked his whip about twenty times, and reinforced the reports by a pretty conſiderable number of oaths (peculiar to gentlemen of the whip) from that garret, with the candle between his fin⯑gers, came the hoſtler, rubbing his eyes, and crawling his way to the ſtable, [158]rather by inſtinct, than a conſciouſneſs of knowing what he was about. About ten minutes after this the truſty chambermaid (whoſe buſineſs was in have every thing in readineſs, againſt the arrival of the coach) came blink⯑ing to the door like a buzzard, and conducted us to ſo dark, diſmal, and damp a room, that if we had requeſted the good man of the manſion for the charity of a breakfaſt, it would have been difficult to have depoſited our miſerable carcaſes in a more un⯑fortable apartment.—And now it was, that my fellow paſſengers began to convince me they were capable of moving their tongues, of which they one and all made uſe to expreſs the ſame complaint; viz. that it was a moſt ſhameful thing for travellers to [159]be treated in that manner upon the road—that if they expected a coach and ſix with my lord L—or my lady M—, the whole houſe and ſtables would be illuminated, and, perhaps, half the village at the wheels to gape at their honours; but that people who jumble to town in a ſtage, and have a couple of hun⯑dred miles to go upon buſineſs, can nei⯑ther get ſire or candle in the firſt ſtage.

For my part theſe things were new to me, and therefore I contended my⯑ſelf with begging Mrs. Betty to beſtir herſelf, and get us a diſh of tea as expeditiouſly as ſhe could—In a little time, the faggot began to blaze—the kettle began to boil, and thoſe little domeſtic comforts made at laſt their appearance, which removing our diſ⯑appointments, [160]put the company into a better humour—and preſently we had leiſure and opportunity to contemplate the countenances of one another.—

CHAP. XVIII.

Our ſociety conſiſted of three per⯑ſons beſides myſelf, and all were men; one was dreſſed in a ſuit of plain light brown with buttons of the ſame—the brims of his hat were of immenſe circumference, and there was a primi⯑tive nicety in the tie of his neck-cloth that ſpoke his character.—Another had a ſuit of black, ſomewhat faded; and the third, who was habited in a coat of ſnuff colour, with waiſtcoat and breeches of black velvet, had the air [161]of a ſhop about him ſo palpable, that I could almoſt have ſworn to his trade at the firſt glance. When the heart is happy and ſatisfied, the tongue is generally voluble and communicative. About the third diſh we became ſociable, and at the en⯑trance of the ſecond plate of toaſt, we knew of what we were each in purſuit of. The man in black indeed was extremely reſerved, ſaid little, and ſipped his tea, or rather play⯑ed with his tea-ſpoon, as if he thought ſociety an interruption. — The gen⯑tleman in brown was of the num⯑ber of people called quakers, travelling upwards, to attend a ſolemn meeting of friends upon the marriage of a preach⯑er: the man in ſnuff-colour, was an inhabitant of the market-town from [162]whence we came, and was going to viſit his daughter. The moſt difficult matter remained, and that was to diſcloſe my buſineſs in the capital. I told them that mine was a buſineſs of benevolence, and that I was actually upon the road to Lon⯑don in ſearch of happineſs. The paſſengers looked upon each other, and ſmiled, but every ſmile was dif⯑ferent. The coachman came now to acquaint us our half hour was expired, and the horſes were ready; and af⯑ter paſſing through the uſual cere⯑monies with the hoſtler (who inſiſted on his cuſtomary ſix pence notwith⯑ſtanding his idleneſs in being found in bed) and ſomething for Mrs. Betty (for the trouble of riſing up when ſhe was called) we again ſet forward on [163]our journey—as ſoon as we were pretty well ſettled, the quaker open'd the converſation.

CHAP. XIX.

—I could not help ſmiling friend (ſaid he, looking ſagaciouſly at the broad flaps of his beaver) to hear thee ſay thou wert journeying to⯑wards the great city, in ſearch of happineſs, and yet, I, as well as thou, and theſe other good brethen at our ſide as well as we—and indeed all the fellow-men upon the earth, are en⯑gaged in the like vain purſuit; we are all travellers bound for the ſame place, [164]though, peradventure, we take differ⯑ent roads thereto; and yet, ſuch is the frail nature of the fleſh, that we are for ever jogging onward, and ſhift about from place to place, diſſatisfied with our road — diſguſted with our journey, till we put off the old man, and reach the gloomy gate that leads to the city of the Saviour—

Vanity of vanities, ſaith preacher wiſely, all is vanity.

—Here the quaker ſpread his chin upon his cheſt (upon which it deſcend⯑ed to the fourth button of his waiſt⯑coat) and, twirling one thumb round the other with his fingers folded toge⯑ther, communed with the ſpirit about the vanity of ſearching for happineſs in a world where happineſs was not to be found.

[165]Surely, ſir, (ſaid I) there is a great deal of happineſs in the world not⯑withſtanding this—the quaker Groan'd inwardly—Happineſs!—cried the gro⯑cer (for ſuch was the calling of the man whoſe exteriors ſmelt ſo ſtrong of the counter—happineſs in the world—aye, certainly there is—I'll anſwer for that, and a great deal of happineſs too—I am the happieſt man upon earth myſelf; —if any man ſays he's happier, I ſay he's—no matter for that—the Quaker lifted up the ball of one eye to ſurvey him—I am worth five thouſand pounds every morning I riſe, aye, and more money—I have got every ſhilling by my own induſtry—I have a ſet of good cuſtomers to my back—my wife knows how to turn the penny in the ſhop when I have a mind to ſmoke my pipe in [166]the parlour; and I make it a rule never to lend a ſix pence nor borrow a ſix pence.

For what wert thou born, friend, ſaid the quaker, drily? Born! why to live—aye and to die too, ſaid the quaker.—piſh! replied the grocer, who does not know that; but what does that there argufy, if I can but live merrily and bring up my family honeſtly—keep the wolf from the door and pay every body their own? I have only one child, and her I'm now going to ſee—ſhe's 'prentice to a mantua-maker in the city. If ſhe be⯑haves well, and marries to my think⯑ing—(and I have a warm man in my eye for her) why ſo—If ſhe's head⯑ſtrong, and thinks proper to pleaſe herſelf rather than pleaſe me, why [167]ſhe may beg or ſtarve for what I care.

Good GOD! (exclaimed I with ve⯑hemence) and is it poſſible—don't ſwear interrupted the quaker, young man—then turning his head deliber⯑ately round towards the grocer—and ſo thou art very happy friend, art thou? Never was man more ſo—quoth the grocer; ſo that if you are looking for mertiment and hearts-eaſe come to to the Sugar loaf, I'm your man— here he begun to hum the fag end of a ballad—"For who is ſo happy,— ſo happy as I."—Thy ſort of happi⯑neſs, friend (returned the quaker) I ſhall never envy—thou art happy without either grace or good works to make thee ſo—Good works, ſaid the grocer, what do you mean by [168]that? I don't owe a penny in the world—I pay lot and ſcot—I go to church every other Sunday, and I never did a wrongful thing in my life, —Thee may'ſt be very unſerviceable in thy generation for all that, ſaid the quaker—I am afraid by thy own account, thou takeſt too much care in cheriſhing thy outward man, yet art ſlow to cheriſh thy poor brethren. Why in what pray does thy happineſs conſiſt? ſays the grocer archly—In turn⯑ing the wanderer into the right way, rejoin'd the quaker—in feeding the hungry penitent with the milk of bro⯑therly love, and in cloathing the naked, ſoul with the comfortable rai⯑ment of righteouſneſs.—Pſhaw! cries the grocer; you had better feed the poor devils with a pennyworth of my [169]plumbs. How many pennyworth of plumbs may'ſt thou give away yearly in thy pariſh? (ſaid the quaker.) I tell thee, ſaid the grocer, I never pretend to give away any thing—things are too dear, and taxes are too heavy for that—beſides about ſeventeen years ago, I was poor myſelf and wanted a dinner as much as any body —but I never found ſolk ſo ready to give me any thing—no, not ſo much as a bit of bread—not ſo much as this, ſnapping his ſingers.

Surely (cried I, greatly agitated) that ought to be a ſtrong argument to ſtimulate your benevolence—Bene⯑volence, ſaid the quaker, young man is not conſined to the mere act of throwing away money—I never give any money myſelf, but then I give ſtore [170]of ſpiritual food—I preach in the houſe and tabernacle of the Lord, and I travel far and near to beſtow religi⯑ous conſolation of the ſpirit gratis— whereas that man on the contrary ſpendeth his ſubſtance amongſt vain companions or hoardeth it up to ſwell the pomps of the fleſh—verily, I fear his tranſgreſſions are mighty.— The quaker pauſed and the grocer winked waggiſhly upon me with one eye, and kept looking ironically at the quaker with the other.—Here now (thought I) are two very oppoſite cha⯑racters—the quaker, for aught I ſee, is as mercenary as the grocer, though their avarice is differently modiſied according to the different prejudices of their education.

CHAP XX.

Pray gentlemen give me leave to aſk you a few queſtions, ſaid I. Is not to be good to be happy—there can be no doubt of it, ſaid the quaker —Is not benevolence the way to good⯑neſs—certainly—would not you then be happier, ſir, if you were to add a few corporeal comforts to the religious conſolations you beſtow— for inſtance, if to the milk of brotherly love (which is perhaps a delicious diet for the ſoul) you were to add the wholeſome milk of a cow, to ſatisfy the natural cravings of the body—and would it not increaſe [172] your happineſs, Mr. Grocer, if, not contented with the negative merit of having done no wrong, you would now and then condeſcend to do ſome⯑thing abſolutely good—ſuch as be⯑ſtowing, from the over-ſlowings of your plenty, ſomething to thoſe which cannot but look up to your ſucceſsful circumſtances with a little envy— and ſuppoſe, inſtead of chooſing for your daughter, you were, in a point ſo important to her, to leave the choice to herſelf—for my own part gentlemen I have a good fortune, which I deſign to dedicate to the ſervice of my fellow-creatures, and though I ſhould be ſorry to waſte my bounty upon the undeſerving, yet I had rather hazard ſuch a miſ⯑take than not indulge the liberal pro⯑penſities [173]of my heart—Thou talkeſt like a young man, ſaid the quaker: I I am ſure he knows nothing of trade, ſaid the grocer, and if you hold in that mind long, I'd lay ten to one you will not have ſix pence to bleſs yourſelf. Benevolence, indeed—its very well to talk of in the pulpit, as maſter Holdfaſt ſays—and its very well in your hiſtory books, and your ſermon books, but it won't do in the world—not at all—a man may give away all he has, and be never the nearer—people will only laugh at you, when all is ſaid and done. While you have got money in your pocket to pay the butcher's bill, you may always have a hot diſh every day, aye, and ſauce into the bargain; but if you do all the good in the world and come at laſt to [174]want, you may paſs by a whole mar⯑ket full of meat, and I'd lay ten to one the man whom you ſet up in buſineſs, will hardly give you a marrow-bone.—Here the quaker groaned bitterly — and the grocer taking a paper full of biſcuits out of his pockets, eat away without offer⯑ing to diſtribute his refreſhment, and then proceeded.—

CHAP XXI.

You talk of benevolence, and good⯑neſs, and ſuch like—for my part, as I ſaid before, I never knew any thing but miſchief come of any thing but trade. Now I'll tell you a ſtory— at this inſtant a poor tatter'd wretch, with a bundle of thread-bare rags on his back—a wooden leg—half an hand, and a tenth of an eye, came ſtumping towards the coach, to ſollicit our com⯑miſeration.—The driver no ſooner beheld him riſing from the bank on which he was reſting, than—probably to ſave his paſſengers the trouble of hearing a diſmal ſtory—he began to ſpirit up his horſes, in that kind of [176]language which defies ſpelling, and which the animals underſtand as per⯑fectly, as the greateſt philologiſt in the world. It is a dialect peculiar to the ſtable, and not inſerted in any dictionary extant. In this dialect the driver now harangued his ſteeds: and as a convincing proof, they took the hi [...]t, we felt the wheels ſpring unde [...] us, by which means the poor lame fellow was ſoon thrown far be⯑hind, and the grocer declared it was very well done in the coachman, whom he ſhould remember at the next ſtage to dram for his civility. The quaker obſerved, the high⯑ways and hedges were now ſo lined with vagrants, that ſober people could not paſs unmoleſted by ſuch naughty children of hypocriſy — the [177]perſon in brown put his hand as if in⯑voluntarily, upon his breaſt, and ſighed—upon looking through the windows, I ſaw the poor beggar at a conſiderable diſtance, halting on his crutch, and giving up the purſuit in deſpair. The coach now arrived at the foot of a ſteep hill, and there ſtopt awhile, and the humane driver, (who had galloped away from his fellow-creature) came to acquaint us how much he would be obliged to us, and how charitable it would be, if our honours would pleaſe to walk up the hill, and give the poor jades a bit of a holiday. I ordered him imme⯑diately to open the door, and alighted; the gentleman in mourning did the ſame—the grocer ſwore he paid for horſeſleſh, and would have it, that he [178]would not ſtir a foot till he came to the dining-place—that he had walking enough at home, and that he would always have his pennyworth for his penny; adding, he did deſign to wet the whiſtle of Mr. Whipcord, but that he would now put the money to a bet⯑ter uſe. The quaker bid the coach⯑man ſhut the door, and proceed in his journey: the fellow muttered between his teeth, they were a couple of Hot⯑tentots, and did not know what be⯑longed to a chriſtian to behave in that manner to dumb creatures. He then converſed very pathetically with his horſes, ſtroked them on the neck, and gradually gained the ſummit. By this time the lame man ſeeing the carriage make a dead ſtop, and ga⯑thering freſh hope, or perhaps urged [179]by extreme hunger approached within a few paces of us. I beckoned him to make the beſt of his way. He ſhook his head, as much as to ſay he apprehended the thing was not practicable. I went to him, but the aſthma was ſo heavy on his lungs, and his breath was ſo laboriouſly exerted, that he could only teſtify his neceſſity by dropping on the only whole knee he had, and holding out his hat in his only whole hand. I put ſome⯑thing in it, raiſed him up, and with ſome difficulty got him to the ſide of the coach, which had made a ſecond pauſe, at the center of the hill. He bowed to the gentleman in black who put ſix-pence into the hat, and dropt a tear into the bargain. I bid him to try his luck in the coach.—The [180]fellow looked into his hat, and a little ſuffuſion of red, rambled over his cheek, as much as to ſay, he had been already nobly uſed—I inſiſted upon his paying his reſpects to my fellow-paſſengers. He did ſo — the grocer (ſeeing ſo much money in the hat) proteſted, that nothing could ex⯑ceed his impudence, except the extra⯑vagant folly of thoſe who had taken ſo much pains to encourage a vagabond—that he had more in his hat than enough to ſet up a ſhop in the country, and that he ought to go home to his pariſh, and be whipped into workhouſe; the quaker ſaid, he was a naughty beggar, and deſired he would move away from the vehi⯑cle. The poor man ſaid nothing— there was no reproach in his eyes, [181]but when he limped again towards us, to make a farewel bow, they were ſo full of tears, that he turned about as quickly as he decently could, to con⯑ceal them.

CHAP. XXII.

—And now we were at the top of the hill (which was indeed one of the cloud-capt kind) and the coachman deſired us to get in, as the Angel was hard by, where we ſhould have the beſt attendance upon the road. A diſpute now aroſe upon the ſubject of giving alms to com⯑mon beggars—the quaker ſaid they were ungodly brethren, and deſerved [182]no aſſiſtance either ſpiritual or pecu⯑niary—the grocer, obſerved that they always made him ſick to look at them, and that if they were to hanker about the Sugar-loaf, he would dite them for a nuiſance. The ſilent gentleman— for ſuch he might be almoſt called— ſaid, it was ſometimes hard to tell whether itinerant mendicants, merited aſſiſtance or not, but when a poor wretch without either limbs, or cloaths, preſented himſelf before the eye, there could be neither doubt nor diſſi⯑culty in the caſe—where there is doubt ſaid I, I had rather run the riſque of miſplacing bounty, than by not being, bountiful through a cool and political caution, and dread of being wrong—the grocer cloſed the whole diſſertation by that excellent [183]and new obſervation—that charity, begins at home, and that it behoved every man to take care of his fa⯑mily.—

CHAP. XXIII.

The ſign of the Angel, upon which the ſunbeams were ſporting, now diſ⯑played itſelf, beſide the road, and the coachman (delighted with the proſpect and reſolving to impreſs us with a proper idea of his dexterity) reſound⯑ed the whip, and drove us upon the full trot up to the door. After we had ſwallowed our meal, a freſh driver obſerved to us that as the road to the next ſtage was heavy, and dragging, [184]and that as it was winter time—though in fact it was only the fall of the leaf —dark came upon us ſooner than if it was ſummer, he therefore hoped we would make haſte. The grocer de⯑clared he did not like to be benighted, though he had nothing to loſe even if he ſhould be ſtopt—the quaker turned white—though his natural complexion was roſy,—at the idea— the gentleman in mourning ſaid that he was ready, and I—(holding out a glaſs to the driver, who toſſed it off without any other teſtimony of gratitude, than ſcraping a dirty boot along the floor—for which the waiter caſt an evil eye at him) led the way to the machine. As ſoon as we had got into the road, I remind⯑ed the grocer of his promiſe to oblige [185]us with a ſtory. He ſaid he was but a bad hand at that ſort of work, but that if we were inclined to hear the thing rough as it run, we might. I told him I ſhould thankfully at⯑tend — the quaker nodded aſſent, and the grocer after once more aſſur⯑ing us he had no knack at ſtory⯑telling, and that Tim Slade the exciſe⯑man was twice a match for him, thus began:

Why, as I was going to tell you, there was young Bob Blewitt, of our pariſh, as fine a ſcholar, and as come⯑ly a man as you ſhall ſee 'twixt this and London. He was one of your benevolent chaps. One man he put into a farm—another he ſet up in a ſhop; another he gave a potion to marry; and to ſeveral fatherleſs, and [186]motherleſs girls, he gave dowries. As to beggars, and ſick folk, and ſuch like, he ſent them broth and broken victuals—to lying in women, (whether they had been before parſon or not) he ſent bottles of wine, and poſſets and potecaries; and at the end of town he purchaſed a piece of ground, upon which he built a bit of an hoſpital, which I think he called a cradle for old age, and people paſt labour. In ſhort, and to come at once to the point without running round about my ſtory—how confoundedly the coach jolts ſays the grocer, and what a d—d noiſe it makes—I can't hear myſelf — the quaker bid him not be prophane—The ſilent gentle⯑man pulled up one window—I pulled up the other. The grocer went on—

[187]—In ſhort, as I ſaid before—whew whew—whereabouts was I?—at the hoſpital, ſaid I—aye—aye, right, con⯑tinued the grocer—this hoſpital, coſt him a pretty round ſum—he wanted indeed to build by ſubſcription,— no—no, ſaid the gentry o'the neigh⯑bourhood, that will bring all the vagrants of the country upon us, and we have poor enough of our own, and for them we have a workhouſe. Mr. Blewitt ſaid he did not mean to build a workhouſe, but a comfortable— ſylum, I think he called it—for ſuch as can work no longer. Howſomdever not a ſouſe could he get, only the old curate (who has five or ſix and twenty pounds, per year) was fool enough to give five pounds to⯑wards the ſcheme—ſo Blewitt carried [188]on his building alone, and curſed was the hour in which he dipped his fingers in mortar and laid the firſt brick—

How ſo, ſaid I eagerly, ſure this was rearing for himſelf a monument, which aſcended (figuratively ſpeak⯑ing) into heaven—I don't know for that—but figure or no figure, maſter Bob Blewett cut but a bad figure in the end. In fine, you ſhall ſeldom here of ſuch a man—ever doing ſommit for ſomebody or another. The upſhot was, that he was teazed from morning to night with beggars and impoſters, and vagabonds, and baſtards—one went with a ſorrow⯑ful face to beg one thing—another to beg another thing—in ſhort every body wanted ſomething—now [189]you ſhall hear what come of this. Come of it, ſir, ſaid I, what could come of it, but congratulation of heart, and univerſal gratitude? the quaker began to hum—the grocer ſmil'd, and the cheek of the gentleman in mourning was wet

CHAP. XXIV.

—Now mind (cried the grocer), mind what tricks were played, upon the founder of the feaſt. The labour⯑ers pretended to be ſick that they might get food for nothing, ſo that the farmers could not get their field⯑work done—many people got into trouble, purpoſe that he ſhould get them out again—the young forward [190]huſſeys of the pariſh got big-bellies, purpoſe that he ſhould ſee the brats provided for, ſo that this made the juſtice grunt a little—he muſt needs put a large parcel of money into the hands of lawyer Limbo—every body knows him—I'd as ſoon build churches with my money, as truſt he with it—well, one night, off went maſter Limbo and got beyond ſea—and ſe⯑veral other things about the ſame time ran croſs and crooked with poor Bob, ſo that in ſhort he found matters ſadly altered.—

Alas? ſaid the gentleman in black —alas? I love and pity him.

I worſhip him, ſaid I,—I reſpect him, ſaid the quaker.

That's more than other folk did, rejoined the grocer. He was now [191]next to pennileſs. As ſure as you are alive he ſtayed till all was gone, and his bones came well nigh through his ſkin before he complained, and then he tried to borrow a trifle of folk he had made—not a ſix-penny piece could he get in the pariſh. At length the old curate, after a deal of perſuaſion, prevailed on him to go and live with him, though the old fellow could ſcarely buy a neck of mutton to make ſabbath-day broth for himſelf.—

But GOD, ſaid the gentleman in mourning, will make him amends yet.—He may be in heaven now for aught I know to the contrary cried the grocer—I am ſure of it ſaid I— very like proceeded the grocer, for he died about ſix weeks after this, and put the pariſh to the charge of open⯑ing [192]the ground for him at laſt. Not a doit did he leave behind him, ex⯑cept a few old books, and picture, —two old faſhioned blackiſh coats, and a bit or two of a ſhirt; as to no⯑nicals he could not afford they, and ſo he preached in ſarplus—as ſoon as he was buried and put into the grave which we thought Blewitt would never leave—affairs were worſe than ever. Bob was as bad off as a beggar. The bettermoſt people lifted up their ſhoulders and gave him a bit of dinner, firſt one, then another; and this they ſay hurt him, for at laſt the rich made no ceremonies, but bid him ſtep down and get a morſel in kitchen. After this—he never held up his head; the poor folks ſaid 'twas a thouſand pities ſuch a good gentleman ſhould come to want: his kin told him 'twas juſt [193]what they expected; his friends ſaid he deſerved it, and the world at firſt whiſpered, then openly declared that nothing but a madman, or a perſon never brought up to any buſineſs, would have acted in that manner. Here the quaker groan'd louder than ever, and holding up his hands as high as his ſhoulders, ſhook them in a horizontal deſcenſion, till they fell again with great method and ſolemnity upon the flaps of his coat. The grocer began to yawn and ſtretch himſelf; and where think you, conti⯑nued he, gaping — where is Mr. Blewitt now—why in one of the dirti⯑eſt wards in his own hoſpital—ſeldom or ever ſees any body—now and then crawls out at dead night and goes into churchyard to viſit the grave of the [194]old curate—ſometimes is quite aſide himſelf: and is maſhiated to a per⯑fect ottomey: and all this is true as ſure as you are in this coach.—

CHAP. XXV.

—How far are we come? ſaid I haſtily,—The laſt ſtone, ſaid the grocer, was ſixty-ſix—I have a great mind to go back, replied I—I would give any money to ſee Mr. Blewitt—how⯑ever I will not forget to ſend my com⯑pliments to ſo excellent a character. Aye, quoth the grocer, but while the graſs grows—you underſtand me— ſpare your reproof, fir, ſaid I, no time ſhall be loſt—did he ever taſte thy bounty friend, cried the quaker— [195]aye has he, many a time, ſaid the gro⯑cer. I have given him the offal of plumbs, currants, raſpins of a loaf and ſuch like. Dainty diet, returned the quaker, truly!—I cannot expreſs my anxiety for him ſaid I—Xiety, re⯑plied the benefactor of raſpins—what ſignifies talking of that—ſtick to the main chance. Go to church, and hear good ſermons, and read good books, and take good advice, and keep your money in the till, and put the key in your pocket, and keep yourſelf out of debt—but above all, mind this—neither lend a ſix-pence, nor borrow ſix a pence, for that's the only way to live, take my word for it.—Here he finiſhed, with the ſelf⯑important air of a man, who, having the world before him, did not care [196]ſix pence for the intereſt of any perſon in it except the concern he took in the welfare of one worthleſs individual,— namely—himſelf.

Thy ſtory, friend, ſaid the quaker, is too exact a picture of this wicked world. I pray thee, young friend, have the fate of brother Blewitt in thy re⯑membrance. If thou haſt abundance, take care thereof, for no man know⯑eth what ſhall happen to-morrow, and I have myſelf ſeen, ſtrange things in my time.

The ſhadows of the night now prevailed over the day, and the light of ſome candles at a ſmall diſtance led me to ſuppoſe we were pretty near our deſtination for the evening —however I was miſtaken; the lights were in a village through which we [197]were to paſs, and we had many a long mile to travel to the place of our re⯑poſe.

CHAP. XXVI.

At length we reached our inn, where being ſhewn into a ſmall but comfortable room, I propoſed to order a ſupper. The quaker declared he never eat any—that the fraility of his mortality weighed down his ſpirit, and he found himſelf in⯑clined to ſlumber. So ſaying, he rang the bell for a candle, folded himſelf up in his ſurtout, and in leſs than ten minutes forgot, I doubt not, the fate of Mr. Blewitt, and even the holding⯑forth which he ſhould give before the brother and ſiſter, who became help⯑mates [198]in the fleſh, and yoke-fellows after God's holy ordinance. The gro⯑cer wiſhed him a good night, proteſt⯑ing nevertheleſs, that for his part, ſupper was his beſt meal; upon which declaration I ſhall only obſerve, that if he meant to depoſit more in⯑to his belly than he did at din⯑ner few people would chooſe to board him, at the uſual rates. The gentle⯑man in black declined eating, but obſerved it would be right to order ſomething. I declared that I had ſup⯑ped upon Mr. Blewitt. The grocer thought proper to ſhew his—want of wit; ſaying, (it would, he believed,) be no eaſy matter to make a meal out of poor Bob, as he was certain there was not an ounce of fleſh upon his whole carcaſe: upon this ſally, (at which he [199]laugh'd heartily,) he applied to a bell which hung in the center of the room, and after the waiter had repeated the promiſe of Coming!—coming!— about ten times, he actually made his entrance, and was as pert perpendicular an appearance as could be well conceiv⯑ed. The grocer ordered a moſt plenti⯑ful and ſolid banquet, wiſely conſidering that, as the charges were to be divided into three equal ſhares, and as it was likely there would in reality be no great occaſion for more than one knife and fork, which knife and fork would be neareſt to the ſides of his own plate, the expence, upon the whole, could not be greater to himſelf than if he had purchaſed ſingly a very moderate ſupper. While the ſupper was dreſ⯑ſing, I could not but take a review of the grocer, who, inſtead of drooping [200]under the fatigues of his corpulence, or the natural laſſitude which ſucceeds a journey, was all hope, eagerneſs, and expectation. He began to handle the knife, called for a whetſtone, tucked a towel under his chin, ſmacked his lips in echo to the cork—bad us take notice of the ſtains in the bottle, and ſet the wine before the fire. In this ſituation he ſat and filled an elbow⯑chair—as fine a figure for the pencil of Hogarth, or for Reynolds (if Reynolds choſe to aſtoniſh in the ludicrous,) as ever preſented itſelf to the imagina⯑tion of genius. He was a ſquat, thick, —diſproportioned, puffing rotundity; his face had that jolly plumpneſs, which buries every natural mark of meaning in greaſy vacuity. In the middle of that face were ſet two eyes, which ſwam in a ſtupid fluid, that [201]ſeemed to be a diſtillation from tal⯑low; and at the bottom was a chin which unuſually broadened from the under jaw downwards; ſo that inſtead of terminating in a peak, was rolled up at the bottom into a round pellet of fleſh under which hung thoſe col⯑lops that diſtinguiſh men of his habit. The thickneſs of his hands were by no means proportioned to their length, nor was there any ſpace from the ear to the ſhoulder, for a cord, had it been his fate to be elevated: ſuch was the perſonage that now waddled—I will not venture to ſay walked into the kitchen, with a reſo⯑lution to haſten the cook, for having waited near half an hour, he declared that if he ſtayed five minutes longer, he ſhould out wait his appetite and then [202]ſhould not be able to eat a morſel—tho' he was, he muſt own, vaſtly fond of fiſh, loved roaſt fowl beyond any thing that was ſpitted—doated upon cold ham—admired veal cutlets, had no objection to pigeon pye, and thought minced-veal very tolerable. He had not diſappeared more than tea mi⯑nutes before the kitchen was in an uproar, and the waiter came ſkipping into the room to acquaint us that our friend would certainly be murder'd if we did not immediately carry him off. We buſtled into the kitchen which now preſented a ſcene of caricature and confuſion, ſo truly ridiculous, that it requires the pens of the immortal Fielding and Smollete to do it juſtice.—It demands a chapter to itſelf.—

CHAP. XXVII.

—The grocer was ſtanding in his ſhirt offering to box with the beſt in the place, the cook was brandiſhing the baſter, the landlord was threatening to deſtroy the carcaſe of the grocer, an half-pay officer with one arm, was clapping our hoſt upon the back, the houſe-dog held the grocer by the breeches, and the hoſteſs was encou⯑raging Tiger to keep his hold. It was ſome time before we could learn the occaſion of the fray, for the comba⯑tants rather grew more violent than tranquil, eſpecially when the grocer oſtentatiouſly ſwore that he could buy the whole houſe, and afterwards [204]have more money to ſpare than any man in company. This touched the ſon of the ſword, whoſe face became immediately regimental, and march⯑ing up to the grocer ſnaped his fin⯑gers againſt that prominent piece of fleſh which nature had given him for a noſe; and which, unuſed to that rigid and ſoldier like ſalutation, ſpouted a copious ſtream, which be⯑painted the prodigious breadth of linen which covered his carcaſe. The grocer however by no means ſickened at the ſight of blood, but grew more ſanguine in his reſentment, for he now daſhed his fiſts, about like a fury,—his blows were indeed given at random, becauſe he was obliged to hold his head down to prevent drinking his own blood—In one of theſe blows it [205]happened, that his tremendous paw fell upon the jaws of the landlady, who catching him by the ear, overſet his wig, and diſcovering a fat new⯑ſhorn pate, did ſo decorate it with the crimſon marks of her delicate nails, that in leſs than three minutes, his head reſembled a new ploughed field, only that the ſurrows were red inſtead of being earth-colour. The landlord had now an opportunity to reinforce his wife—the captain gave the word of command, Tiger roar'd out mainly in the midſt, and the cook emptied the dripping-pan upon the back of the miſerable grocer, whoſe life was now ſo critically circumſtanced that had not the officer by declaring the victory was completely gained, put an end to the contention, he [206]muſt aſſuredly have given up the ghoſt. This dreadful fracas (as is often the caſe) aroſe from a very trifling begin⯑ing: upon the grocer's entering the kitchen, he thought proper to aſſume the authority of a man of very con⯑ſiderable conſequence, and began by acquainting the cook, that though he choſe to travel in a ſtage he was not to be trifled with, as he could pay for a coach and ſix if he thought ſit, adding, he believed few that travel⯑led the road knew better what good uſage was—he then found fault with the cutlets which he ſaid were too thick, and too red—complained that the fowl was an old hen, for that her legs were as well guarded as a ſighting cock's, and that the fire was abun⯑dantly too fierce and would ſcorch [207]before it warmed through: upon this, he ſallied to the ſalt box, and was proceeding to empty the con⯑tents upon the coals, when the (landlady, though not an ill-tem⯑pered woman,) thought her pro⯑vince of ſcolding her own ſer⯑vants ſo cruelly invaded that ſhe de⯑ſired him, in no very gentle voice, to deſiſt; and on his refuſing the requeſt the hoſt himſelf interpoſed, till at laſt the grocer (recollecting how well he had ſecured the mainchance, and tak⯑ing from thence a pride of heart, which frequently emanates from a full purſe,) he told the landlord he was an ill-bred ſaucy raſcal, and that he was a better man than ever ſtood in his houſe. This being a cenſure that involved every one preſent, the [208]aforeſaid armleſs officer thought him⯑ſelf aggrieved, and approaching the grocer, chucked him under the chin; but unluckily the grocer's mouth being then open'd by anger, thoſe two ranges of bony fortification caught his tongue, till he almoſt ſunk to earth with the violence of the pain. And this it was that made him diſrobe himſelf and ſtand in the poſture we at firſt found him; which, though heroic, was rather unfortunate, as ſomebody, (in the hurry and heat of battle, perhaps to prevent their being made bloody,) had moved off with his ſnuff-coloured coat, and black velvet waiſt coat. The engagement was how⯑ever at length over, and we led our champion (not indeed in triumph, but leaning upon the arm of me, and [209]the gentleman in mourning) into the room, with ſuch a burleſque altera⯑tion of figure, that benevolence itſelf muſt have ſmiled, as ſhe pitied him.

The idea, even of ſupper, was now his laſt idea—his firſt was that of water, to waſh away his ſtains; his ſecond, was a bed to ſoothe his bruiſes. The landlady was now rather appeaſ⯑ed, and permitted the chamberlain to ſhew the poor devil to bed, vowing however that ſhe would make him pay ſmartly for it in the morning. As ſoon as the grocer was gone, the gentleman in mourning obſerved to me, that people of low education, and little minds, were always capable of a ſilly oſtenſibility, that ſooner or later brought them into diſgrace. Having ſpent a few minutes more in contem⯑plating [210]the vanity of this odd and diſguſting character, and promiſing to riſe early to purſue our journey, we parted for the night.

CHAP. XXVIII.

Our reſt was interrupted at the dawn. The quaker, however, com⯑plained that he was ill—The grocer was tolerably mended, but ſwore he would not ſtir a foot till he recover⯑ed every thing he had loſt, from the biſcuits in his pocket to the minuteſt hair in his peruke. As this meſſage was brought us, a chaiſe and four, which had been travelling all night, came rattling into the yard, before which came two ſervants, and one [211]was at the tail of it. The whole houſe, (early as it was,) got out of their beds and hurried to the chaiſe-door— the bells rang as if the houſe was on fire, and his honour was ſerenaded into the beſt room, by about a dozen domeſtics. The gentleman in black ſaid he knew the traveller. Heavens! ſaid I, what a buſtle is here about an individual indeed—aye, ſir, replied my friend, (for ſuch I began to wiſh he was) there is an invariable rule for theſe things—a chaiſe and pair commands attention—a chaiſe and four enforces homage, but a chaiſe and ſix claims adoration. Nor is this obedience paid ſo often to the perſon⯑ages within, as to the idea of the thing itſelf—we travel in a common ſtage; 'tis ſo mechanical a conveyance, [212]that as the waiter and landlords ex⯑pect little, they let us come in, and go out, as peaceably as if we were the paſſengers of a waggon. If we were to go poſt we ſhould be uſed in a dif⯑ferent ſtyle, and 'tis ten to one if the poſtilions, (who have a vanity in ſitting before their ſuperiors,) do not tranſmit a lye from one to an⯑other, that we are princes in-cog. —To tell you the truth (ſaid I) I am heartily tired of my old companions, from whom I have already gained as much knowledge, as if I were to tra⯑vel with them to the world's end, and for once—(if you will bear me com⯑pany,) I will purchaſe a little atten⯑tion upon the road, by performing the reſt of our journey in chaiſes. With all my heart, ſaid the gentleman.—

[213]After drinking a glaſs of warm wine, and having taken leave of our former fellow-travellers, we got into a neat carriage, which rolled away briſkly on the road to London; but not before we had run the gaunt⯑let through a new ſett of impoſtors, and ſatisfied the demands of all thoſe who hang round the wheels of an hackney chaiſe. At this additional charge I expreſſed my ſurprize; Be not alarmed, replied the gentleman, but think yourſelf very well off, for if you had clapt another pair of horſes to the carriage the expectations of the ſervants would have been raiſed in proportion. Aye, and I can tell you, the perſon we ſaw ſtep out of the chaiſe and four paid ſomething extra, for his gold binding upon the ſaddle⯑cloths, [214]and even for the trimming upon his waiſtcoat—though that laſt circumſtance has loſt its priſtine dignity in a great degree, ſince our barbers, taylors, and other craſts, have of late years belaced themſelves from top to bottom, whenever they make an excurſion into the country. Yet gold, either in or out of the pocket, will always have an influence. Then reſpect of this kind is really to be bought, ſaid I—not only of this kind, rejoined the gentlemen, but of almoſt every other. The interchange of all ordinary civilities, is a mere verbal traffic, and as to compli⯑ments upon gay appearances, they are ſo extremely marketable, that the bargain and ſale at Smithfield is not more in the way of buſineſs.

CHAP. XXIX.

—Whenever the gentleman in black ſpoke, there was ſo much ſere⯑nity and good ſenſe in his remarks, ſhaded, and as it were ſoftened by ſome latent anxiety, that I own my curioſity was extremely excited to know more about him. His perſon was tall and ſpare; his complexion extremely pale, and ſomewhat tinged with a faint⯑iſh yellow: there was a pathetic penſive caſt in his eyes, that rather denoted the languors of inceſſant uneaſineſs, than the deadneſs of diſſipation; and the ruins of a ſmile, which ap⯑peared to be conſtitutional, gave a philanthropy to his face, which de⯑fied the depredations of ſorrow and time.

[216]The ſun now had riſen above the clouds, and promiſed us an agreeable day; and the face of nature, even in the decline of the year, appeared bright and beautiful. There are few calami⯑ties ſo great, and few fates ſo ſevere as to leave us totally inſenſible⯑to the magic of a fine morning. A warm ſun, a clear ſky, the charm of vegetation,—the melody amongſt the branches,—the refreſh⯑ment from the night's repoſe,—and the proſpects of ſurrounding plenty, are ſufficient to relax the woe of the moſt melancholy traveller. Such were their force at preſent that every feature of my companion underwent a chearful alteration. He always ſpoke before in a plaintive voice, but (as he now bid me obſerve how fortu⯑nate [217]we were in our weather,) there was a degree of that ſort of pleaſure in his accent, which appears to be in⯑ſpired by any ſudden ſatisfaction of the heart. I improved this humour by turning our diſcourſe into an en⯑tertaining channel: and it will be ſoon ſeen that this gentleman (whoſe name I found to be Greaves) was maſter of every ſubject, had thought much and rightly, and had contem⯑plated every point deſerving contem⯑plation, with an accuracy, a taſte, and an elegance, peculiar to men which have caught inſtruction from leſſons of life, a ſober exerciſe of the underſtand⯑ing, and a judicious courſe of ſtudy.

CHAP. XXX.

The ſatisfaction, ſir, ſaid I, that I feel, from our favourable weather, is much heightened by finding myſelf relieved from the nonſenſe of my for⯑mer companions—pray what do you think of them?—I think of them, replied Mr. Greaves, as of men, poſſeſſing that kind of knowledge which confers the happineſs ſuited to their coarſe, and—I had almoſt ſaid invulnerable feelings—each is happy according to the habits of his life— they are a freſh, and by no means a weak inſtance, of a great truth, I have long maintained, aye, and at the expence of many a warm argu⯑ment.

[219]Pray what is it?—Why, ſimply this, ‘—Education is all in all.—’

I ſcarce compre—Give me leave, ſir, —ſaid Mr. Greaves, putting his two fore-ſingers lightly on my breaſt. I have ſeen this world (and that is a bold word to ſay) from top to bot⯑tom; and have now paſt upwards of forty-three years—I might have ſaid forty-ſix—in a ſituation which threw me amongſt all ranks of people, and the reſult of my whole experience is this—but my meaning is ſo prettily expreſs'd by one of our preſent drama⯑tic poets, that—though I am no friend in general to quotations, I cannot reſiſt it in this caſe—I think it is in the ſentimental play of Zara—to the beſt of my memory theſe are the words, [220]which are intended as an apology for apoſtacy:

In theſe lines there is not more poe⯑try than truth, and truth which extends from pole to pole. A mind unaccuſtomed to remark, or inexperi⯑enced in life, cannot poſſibly conceive how ſurprizingly all people are influ⯑enced [221]by cuſtom and early inſtruc⯑tion. It is indeed a proverb with us, which proverb is in every mouth, that "uſe is ſecond nature"—but thouſands ſearch no farther into this matter, than juſt to repeat the expreſſion, and there leave it. Every one knows and feds the fact, and that is ſufficient to convince us of its univerſality: but I, who have occaſionally delight⯑ed in philoſophic ſtudies, have taken ſome pains—but they were extreme pleaſing ones—to trace the point, countained in the lines I have juſt ſpoken, very minntely; and from the cloſeſt, and the cooleſt inveſtiga⯑tion I am led to believe, that an inſi⯑nite quantity of that which paſſes in the world for vice, and virtue—ob⯑ſerve I ſpeak not of natural good or [222]evil—is totally the operation of habit, and cuſtom, and education.

CHAP. XXXI.

—I am quite a child, ſir—ſaid I —in ſuch ſpeculations—I cannot clearly—I will endeavour to explain myſelf, (rejoined the gentleman with great good-nature.) Mr. Pope obſerves —that as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. How beautiful and how juſtly was it ſaid. The colour of our future fortune greatly depends up⯑on a few ſlight circumſtances, that attend us in our nurſery—exceptions you know are admitted. But pray call to mind your acquaintances— ſome are in buſineſs—others are train⯑ed [223]to pleaſure. Suppoſe a child born under every favourable event of tem⯑poral proſperity—the father is rich— the mother is beautiful: its cradle is ſoft and downy, its pap is made of the whiteſt bread, and every accommoda⯑tion that the little ſtranger demands, is in the higheſt perfection—It will not be long before theſe ſoftneſſes will have ſo great an influence upon the body, that the infant will imbibe from theſe bleſſings, an idea of luxury—ſuppoſe on the other hand a child which is the offspring of laborious and indi⯑gent parents—its birth is effected upon the ſtraw, or on ſacking without cur⯑tains, the wind blowing hard through the caſement—the mother lies down contented with her ſmall beer caudle, and on the third or fourth day, ſhe is [224]up, and dandling the babe upon het knee, or dancing it in her arms—about the time that the rich child begins to know the delicacy of its condition, he poor one would find itſelf promiſing and hardy, and in ſome degree i [...] ⯑ed to the ſtorms of life—let them he at this period each five years old; the one has acquired a ſenſation of [...], the other an habit of hardihood—ſup⯑poſe then, about this time, it were poſſi⯑ble for them to change ſituations. The pennyleſs lad ſhall go into the warm villa—the rich ſtripling into the cold cottage—what would be the conſequence? exactly the ſame as if the two mothers and fathers ſhould exchange. All would be diſtreſs, dilemma, confuſion, and aukward⯑neſs—the pampered youth would [225]croud over the wretched bit of a blaze made by two ſticks, laid acroſs a brick, and the lad who was bred in a tem⯑peſt, and ſeaſoned to wind and wea⯑ther, would very probably toſs his play⯑thing againſt the fine ſaſh-window to let in the air, and prevent ſuffoca⯑tion. Thus far I have ſpoken with reſpect to the influence of early habits upon the body. Let us now ſee what effect they have upon the mind. The connexion betwixt our mortal and immortal part, is far cloſer than be⯑twixt man and wife. Nothing can befal the one that is indifferent to the other: ſympathy implanted by na⯑ture is univerſally reciprocated, and the tie is at once tender, and forci⯑ble. [226]Conſequently the minds of thoſe two boys, muſt be affected very ſenſibly by their reſpective educations and cuſtoms. As they grow up thoſe cuſtoms will ſo ſtrengthen, that no⯑thing but "death or heaven" can reconcile them to an innovation, either in thought, word, or deed. The poor boy, having heard nothing but unpoliſhed language, eat no⯑thing but coarſe food, and paſſed his day amongſt clowns, and cat⯑tle, will for ever continue in the track, and if by any unlucky ſtroke of chance, he is called to new purſuits, his miſery muſt be dated from the day in which he deſerted the ſpade, the ploughſhare, or the flail. The rich boy in the mean time riſes into [227]man, amidſt the claſh of carriages, the comfort of couches, and the luxuries of lazineſs. His ears are ac⯑cuſtomed to muſic, flattery, and faſh⯑ion; and his eyes are daily charm⯑ed with objects of diſſipation or de⯑light. No poſſible accident could be more fatal to his peace, than a ſudden deprivation of theſe pleaſures. Take him again into the hut, like a fiſh upon land, he finds himſelf inſtantly out of his element: the greateſt tranſports of the peaſant, are agony to him, and every thing around, and within him, is as ſtrange as if he had ſtept into a new world. Why is all this?—merely becauſe they have been taught to think, and feel and act differently—on the other hand—but I [228]muſt tire you, fir—I am concerned; returned I, Mr. Greaves ſhould think an apology neceſſary for beſtowing upon me the greateſt pleaſure upon earth.—Mr. Greaves pauſed a little, bowed and proceed⯑ed.