AMONG the ſeveral degrees of authors, there are none perhaps, who have more obſtacles to ſurmount at their ſetting out, than the writers of periodical eſſays. Talk with a modern critic, and he will tell you, that to ſet up a new paper is a vain attempt after the inimitable SPECTATORS and others; that the ſubjects are already pre⯑occupied, and that it is equally impoſſible to find out a new field for obſervation, as to diſcover a new world. With theſe prejudices the public are prepared to receive us; and while they expect to be cloyed with the ſtale repetition of the ſame fare, though toſſed up in a different manner, they have but little reliſh for the entertainment.

[422]THAT the SPECTATOR firſt led the way, muſt undoubt⯑edly be acknowledged: but that his followers muſt for that reaſon be always ſuppoſed to tread in his ſteps, can by no means be allowed. In the high road of life there are ſeveral extenſive walks, as well as bye-paths, which we may ſtrike into, without the neceſſity of keeping the ſame beaten track with thoſe that have gone before us. New objects for ridicule will continually preſent themſelves; and even the ſame characters will appear different by being differently diſpoſed, as in the ſame pack of cards, though ever ſo often ſhuffled, there will never be two hands exactly alike.

AFTER this introduction I hope to be pardoned, if I in⯑dulge myſelf in ſpeaking a word or two concerning my own endeavours to entertain the public; which I imagine I could never do with ſo good a grace, as at the beginning of my ſecond volume. And firſt, whatever objections the reader may have had to the ſubjects of my papers, I ſhall make no apology for the manner in which I have choſe to treat them. The dread of falling into (what they are pleaſed to call) colloquial barbariſms has induced ſome unſkilful writers to ſwell their bloated diction with uncouth phraſes and the affected jargon of pedants. For my own part, I never go out of the common way of expreſſion, merely for the ſake of introducing a more ſounding word with a Latin termination. The Engliſh language is ſufficiently co⯑pious and expreſſive without any further adoption of new terms; and the native words ſeem to me to have far more force than any foreign auxiliaries, however pompouſly uſhered in: as Britiſh ſoldiers fight our battles better than the troops taken into our pay.

[423]THE ſubjects of my eſſays have been chiefly ſuch, as I thought might recommend themſelves to the public notice by being new and uncommon. For this reaſon I purpoſely avoided the worn out practice of retailing ſcraps of mora⯑lity, and affecting to dogmatize on the common duties of life. In this point, indeed, the SPECTATOR is inimitable; nor could I hope to ſay any thing new upon theſe topics after ſo many excellent moral and religious eſſays, which, are the principal ornament of his work. I have therefore contented myſelf with expoſing vice and folly by painting the actors in their natural colours, without aſſuming the rigidneſs of a preacher, or the moroſeneſs of a philoſopher. I have oftener choſe to undermine our faſhionable exceſſes by ſecret ſapping, than to ſtorm them by open aſſaults. In a word, upon all occaſions I have endeavoured to laugh peo⯑ple into a better behaviour; as I am convinced, that the ſting of reproof is not leſs ſharp for being concealed; and advice never comes with a better face, than when it comes with a laughing one.

THERE are ſome points in the courſe of this work, which perhaps might have been treated of with a more ſerious air. I have thought it my duty to take every opportunity of ex⯑poſing the abſurd tenets of our modern free-thinkers and enthuſiaſts. The enthuſiaſt is, indeed, much more difficult to cure than the free-thinker; becauſe the latter, with all his bravery, cannot but be conſcious that he is wrong; whereas the former has perhaps deceived himſelf into a be⯑lief, that he is certainly in the right, and the more he is op⯑poſed, the more he conſiders himſelf as ‘"patiently ſuffer⯑ing for the truth's ſake."’ Ignorance is too ſtubborn to yield to conviction; and on the other hand thoſe, whom [424] ‘"a little learning has made mad,"’ are too proud and ſelf⯑ſufficient to hearken to the ſober voice of reaſon. The only way left us, therefore, is to root out ſuperſtition, by making its followers aſhamed of themſelves: and as for our free-thinkers, it is but right to turn their boaſted weapons of ridicule againſt them; and as they them⯑ſelves endeavour to banter all others out of their ſerious and virtuous notions, we too (in the language of the Pſalmiſt) ſhould ‘"laugh them to ſcorn, and have them in deriſion."’

BUT whatever merit I may aſſume to myſelf from my writings, I muſt at the ſame time confeſs myſelf indebted to ſeveral correſpondents for many excellent pieces; and more particularly to the gentlemen, who have ſigned themſelves A. B. and G. K. As I know not the real names of any of my correſpondents, I am not without ſome hopes, that I have been honoured by an Earl or a Right Honourable at leaſt: for to ſay the truth, I cannot at preſent apply to myſelf the known boaſt of Terence,

IT is with infinite pleaſure, that I find myſelf ſo much encouraged to continue my labours, by the kind reception which they have hitherto met with from the public: and Mr. Baldwin with no leſs pleaſure informs me, that as there are but few numbers left of the preſent edition, he intends to collect them into Two Pocket Volumes. The reader cannot conceive, how much I already pride myſelf on the charming figure, which my works will make in this new [425] form: and I ſhall endeavour to render theſe volumes as complete as I poſſibly can, by ſeveral conſiderable additions and amendments. Though contracted into the ſmall ſpace of a twelves volume, I ſtill hope to maintain my former dignity; like the Devils in Milton's Pandaemonium, who,

THE SPECTATOR has very elegantly compared his ſingle papers, as they came out, to ‘"cherries on a ſtick,"’ of the dearneſs of which the purchaſers cannot complain, who are willing to gratify their taſte with choice fruit at its earlieſt production. I have conſidered my own papers as ſo many flowers, which joined together would make up a pretty noſegay; and though each of them, ſingly taken, may not be equally admired for their odours, they may receive an additional fragrance by an happy union of their ſweets.

CUSTOM hath lately introduced a new faſhion among eſſay-writers, of giving tranſlations of the mottos for the benefit of the ladies. But (as Denham has remarked of tranſlation in general) ‘"the ſpirit of the original is evapo⯑rated in the transfuſion, and nothing is left behind but a mere caput mortuum."’ Tranſlations, however, muſt be given; and it has been the uſual way to copy them pro⯑miſcuouſly from Dryden or Francis: though they are gene⯑rally very wide of the intended ſenſe of the original, and not unfrequently nothing to the purpoſe. For this reaſon I de⯑ſign to give new tranſlations, or rather imitations, of all the mottos and quotations, adapted to the preſent times. Some of theſe will admit of epigrammatic turns; and many of [426] them will afford room for lively and pictureſque allu⯑ſions to modern manners. In this dreſs they will at leaſt appear more of a piece with the eſſays themſelves; and not like the patch-work of random tranſlations.

IN the mean time, I ſhall only add, that if any Noble⯑man, Gentleman, or Rich Citizen, is ambitious to have his name prefixed to either of theſe volumes, he is deſired to ſend in propoſals, together with a liſt of his virtues and good qualities, to the publiſher; and the Dedications ſhall be diſpoſed of to the beſt bidder.

*⁎*None but principals will be treated with.

THE managers of our Public Gardens, willing to make their ſummer diverſions as com⯑plete as poſſible, are not content with laying out beautiful walks, and providing an excel⯑lent band of muſic, but are alſo at much expence to amuſe us with the old Engliſh entertainment of Ballad-ſinging. For this end they not only retain the beſt voices that can be procured, but each of them alſo has a poet in ordinary, who is allowed a ſtated ſalary, and the run of the Gardens. The productions of theſe petty lau⯑reats naturally come within my notice as CRITIC; and, indeed, whether I am at Vauxhall, Ranelagh, Marybone, or even Sadler's Wells, I indulge myſelf in many remarks on the poetry of the place; and am as attentive to the ſongs as to the Caſcade, the Fireworks, or Miſs Iſabella Wilkinſon.

[428]BALLADS ſeem peculiarly adapted to the genius of our people; and are a ſpecies of compoſition, in which we are ſuperior to all other nations. Many of our old Engliſh Songs have in them an affecting ſimplicity; and it is re⯑markable, that our beſt writers have not been aſhamed to cultivate this branch of poetry. Cowley, Waller; Rofcommon, Rowe, Gay, Prior, and many others, have left behind them very elegant Ballads; but it muſt be confeſſed, to the honour of the preſent age, that it was reſerved for our modern writers to bring this kind of poetry to perfection. Song-writing is now reduced to certain rules of art, and the Ballad-maker goes to work by a method as regular and me⯑chanical, as a carpenter or a blackſmith.

SWIFT, in his "Voyage to Laputa," deſcribes a ma⯑chine to write books in all arts and ſciences: I have alſo read of a mill to make verſes; and remember to have ſeen a curious table, by the aſſiſtance of which the moſt illiterate might amuſe themſelves in compoſing hexameters and pentameters in Latin: Inventions wonderfully calculated for the promotion of literature. Whatever gentlemen of Grub-ſtreet or others are ambitious to inliſt themſelves as hackney ſonetteers, are deſired to attend to the following rules, drawn from the practice of our modern ſong-writers: a ſet of geniuſſes excellent in their manner, and who will probably be hereafter as much known and admired as Garden-Poets, as the celebrated Taylor is now famous under the denomination of Water-Poet.

I MUST beg leave poſſitively to contradict any reports, inſinuating that our Ballad-makers are in poſſeſſion of ſuch a machine, mill, or table as above-mentioned; and believe [429] it to be equally falſe, that it is their practice to huſtle certain quaint terms and phraſes together in a hat, and take them out at random. It has, indeed, been aſſerted on ſome juſt ground, that their productions are totally void of ſenſe and expreſſion, that they have little rhyme and leſs reaſon, and that they are from beginning to end nothing more than nonſenſical rhapſodies to a new tune. This charge I do not mean to deny: though I cannot but lament the deplorable want of taſte, that mentions it as a fault. For it is this very circumſtance, which I, who am profeſſedly a CONNOISSEUR, particularly admire. It is a received maxim with all compoſers of muſic, that nothing is ſo melodious as nonſenſe. Manly ſenſe is too harſh and ſtubborn to go through the numberleſs diviſions and ſub⯑diviſions of modern muſic, and to be trilled forth in crotchets and demiquavers. For this reaſon, thought is ſo cautiouſly ſprinkled over a modern ſong; which it is the buſineſs of the ſinger to warble into harmony and ſentiment.

OUR Ballad-makers for the moſt part ſlide into the familiar ſtile, and affect that eaſy manner of writing, which (accord⯑ing to Wycherley) is eaſily written. Seeing the dangerous conſequence of meaning, in words adapted to muſic, they are very frugal of ſentiment: and indeed they huſband it ſo well, that the ſame thoughts are adapted to every ſong. The only variation requiſite in twenty ballads is, that the laſt line of the ſtanza be different. In this ingenious line the wit of the whole ſong conſiſts; and the author, whether he ſhall die if he has not the laſs of the mill, or deſerves to be reckon'd an aſs, turns over his dictionary of rhymes for words of a ſimilar ſound, and every verſe jingles to the ſame word [430] with all the agreeable variety of a ſet of bells eternally ring⯑ing the ſame peal.

THE authors of love-ſongs formerly waſted a great deal of poetry in illuſtrating their own paſſion and the beauty of their miſtreſs; but our modern poets content themſelves with falling in love with her name. There cannot be a greater misfortune to one of theſe rhymers than a miſtreſs with a hard name; ſuch a misfortune ſends them all over the world and makes them run through all arts, ſciences, and languages for correſpondent terms: and after all per⯑haps the name is ſo harſh and untractable, that our poet has as much difficulty to bring it into verſe, as the cele⯑braters of the Duke of Marlborough were puzzled to reduce to rhyme the uncouth names of the Dutch Towns taken in Queen Anne's wars. Valentine in Love for Love, when he talks of turning poet, orders Jeremy to get the maids together of an evening to Crambo: no contemptible hint to our Ballad⯑makers, and which, if properly made uſe of, would be of as much ſervice to them as Byſhe's Art of Poetry.

FEARING leſt this method of ſong-writing ſhould one day grow obſolete, in order to preſerve to poſterity ſome idea of it, I have put together the following dialogue as a ſpecimen of the modern manner. I muſt, however, be in⯑genuous enough to confeſs, that I can claim no farther me⯑rit in this elegant piece than that of a compiler. It is a Canto from our moſt celebrated new ſongs; from which I have carefully culled all the ſweeteſt flowers of poetry, and bound them up together for the delight and wonder of the world. As all the lines are taken from different ſongs ſet to different tunes, I would humbly propoſe that this curious [431] performance ſhould be ſung jointly by all the beſt voices, in the manner of a Dutch concert, where every man ſings his own tune. I had once ſome thoughts of affixing mar⯑ginal references to each line, to inform the reader by note at what place the ſong whence it is taken was firſt ſung. But I ſhall ſpare myſelf that trouble by deſiring the reader to look on the whole piece as ariſing from a coalition of our moſt eminent ſong-writers at Vauxhall, Ranelagh, Mary⯑bone, and Sadler's Wells: aſſuring him, that this ſhort dia⯑logue contains the pith and marrow, or rather (to borrow an expreſſion from the Fine Lady in Lethe) the Quinſetence and Emptity of all our modern ſongs.

WALKING the other, day in Weſtminſter Abbey, among the many oftentatious monu⯑ments erected to kings and warriors, I could not help obſerving a little ſtone, on which was this pompous inſcription—Aeternae Memoriae Sacrum—Sacred to the Eternal Memory of —. The name of the perſon, to whom immortality was thus ſecured, is almoſt obliterated; and perhaps, when alive, he was little known, and as ſoon forgot by the ſmall circle of his friends and acquaintance.

I HAVE been uſed to look upon epitaphs as a kind of flattering dedications to the dead; in which is ſet down a long catalogue of virtues, (that nobody knew they were [434] poſſeſſed of while living) and not a word of their vices or follies. The veracity of theſe poſthumous encomiums may, indeed, be fairly ſuſpected, as we are generally told, that the diſconſolate widow, or weeping ſon, erected the monu⯑ment in teſtimony of their affliction for the loſs of the kind⯑eſt huſband, or moſt affectionate father. But what dowager, who gets a comfortable jointure by her good man's deceaſe, would refuſe to ſet her hand to it on his tomb-ſtone, that he was the beſt of huſbands; though perhaps they had parted beds? or what heir would be ſo baſe and ungrateful, as not to give a few good words to a crabbed parent after his death, in return, for his eſtate?

BY the extravagant praiſes, which are indiſcriminately laviſhed on the aſhes of every perſon alike, we entirely pervert the original intent of epitaphs, which were contrived to do honour and juſtice to the virtuous and the good: But by the preſent practice the reputations of men are equally con⯑founded with their duſt in the grave, where there is no diſ⯑tinction between the good and the bad. The law has ap⯑pointed ſearchers to enquire, when any one dies, into the cauſe of his death: in the ſame manner I could wiſh, that ſearchers were appointed to examine into his way of living, before a character be given of him upon the tomb-ſtone.

THE flatteries, that are paid to the deceaſed, are un⯑doubtedly owing to the pride of their ſurvivors, which is the ſame among the loweſt as the higheſt ſet of people. When an obſcure grocer or tallow-chandler dies at his lodg⯑ings at Iſlington, the news-papers are ſtuffed with the ſame parade of his virtues and good qualities, as when a duke, goes out of the world: and the petty overſeer of a little [435] hamlet has a painted board with the initials of his name ſtuck up at the end of his wicker'd turf, while the noblemen repoſes under a grand mauſoleum erected to his memory, with a long liſt of his titles and heroic deeds.

THE Great, indeed, have found means to ſeparate them⯑ſelves even in their graves from the vulgar, by having their aſhes depoſited in churches and cathedrals, and covered by the moſt ſuperb monuments. In my late viſit to Weſtminſter Abby, I could not but remark the difference of Taſte, which has prevailed in ſetting up theſe edifices for the dead. In former times, we find, that they were content to clap up the buſt or ſtatue of the deceaſed, ſet round perhaps with the emblems of his merits, his employment, or ſtation of life. If any perſon was remarkable for his virtue and piety, it was pointed out by two or three little chubby-faced che⯑rubims, who were crying for his death, or holding a crown over his head. The warriour was ſpread along at full length in a complete ſuit of armour, with the trophies of war hung round about him; and the biſhop was laid flat upon his back, with his coifed head reſting on a ſtone bible, and his hands joined together in the poſture of praying.

IF Socrates, or any other of the ancient Philoſophers could revive again, and be admitted into Weſtminſter Abby, he would be induced to fancy himſelf in a Pantheon of the Heathen Gods. The Modern Taſte, (not content with introducing Roman temples into our Churches, and repre⯑ſenting the Virtues under allegorical images) has ranſacked all the fabulous accounts of the Heathen Theology to ſtrike out new embelliſhments for our Chriſtian monuments. We are not in the leaſt ſurpriſed to ſee Mercury attending [336] the tomb of an orator, and Pallas or Hercules ſupporting that of a warriour. Milton has been blamed for his frequent alluſions to the Heathen Theology in his Sacred Poem: but ſurely we are more to be condemned, for admitting the whole claſs of their fictitious deities into the Houſe of God itſelf.

IF there is not a ſtop put to this Taſte, we may ſoon expect to ſee our churches, inſtead of being dedicated to the ſervice of religion, ſet apart for the reception of the Heathen Gods. A deceaſed admiral will be repreſented like Neptune, with a trident in his hand, drawn in a ſhell by dolphins, preceded by Tritons, and followed by Nereids laſhing the marble waves with their tails. A general will be habited like Mars, bearing an helmet and ſpear in poliſhed ſtone; and a celebrated toaſt will be ſtuck up naked, like the Ve⯑nus de Medicis, cut in alabaſter.

IT has been propoſed (on a different account) to have a ſeparate place diſtinct from our churches, for the reception of our monuments. I could wiſh to ſee ſuch a ſcheme put in execution: for the preſent abſurd mixture of the ſeveral objects of Pagan and Chriſtian belief, as repreſented on the tombs lately ſet up in compliance of the modern taſte, muſt be ſhocking to every ſerious beholder. Our pious fore⯑fathers were content with exhibiting to us the uſual em⯑blems of death, the hour-glaſs, the ſkull, and the croſs-marrow-bones: but theſe are not ſufficient for our preſent more refined age: The Three Fatal Siſters, mentioned in the Heathen Mythology, muſt be introduced ſpinning, draw⯑ing, and cutting the thread of life. Could one of the laſt century ſee a winged figure blowing a trumpet on the top [337] of a modern monument, he would be apt to miſtake it for an arch-angel, and be naturally put in mind of that awful time, ‘"when the trumpet ſhall ſound, and the dead ſhall riſe."’ But the deſign, we are told, is very different; and this winged meſſenger is no other than the ancient perſonage of Fame, who is proclaiming the virtues of the defunct round the world.

SHOULD any one propoſe to take down from St. Paul's Ca⯑thedral thoſe paintings of Sir James Thornhill repreſenting the tranſactions of St. Paul, and in their place to ſet up Titian's pictures of the amours of the Heathen Gods and Goddeſſes, every one would be ſhocked at the impiety of the propoſal. Nor is the faſhion of introducing Heathen Deities into our monuments much leſs abſurd: for while any of thoſe are ſuffered to remain in our Churches, the reproof of our Sa⯑viour concerning the Temple at Jeruſalem may perhaps be⯑come applicable to the preſent times— ‘"My Houſe is an Houſe of Prayer; but ye have made it a DEN OF THIEVES."’

I HOPE I ſhall not be thought too grave or whimſical, if I earneſtly recommend it to the conſideration of thoſe whom it may concern, whether a reformation is not neceſſary in our Churches, to purge them from theſe prophane images; which, though not the objects of our idolatry, have no more pretence to be ſet up in the Temple of the Living Lord, than thoſe of the canonized Saints of the Roman Catholics.

MODERN Taſte is continually ſtriking out new improve⯑ments. We may therefore conclude, that when our ſtatu⯑aries [338] have travelled through the ancient Pantheon, and ex⯑hauſted all the ſubjects of the Grecian and Roman Mytho⯑logy, we ſhall have recourſe to the ſuperſtitions of other nations for the deſigns of our monuments. They will then probably be adorned with Aegyptian Hieroglyphics, and the tomb of ſome future hero may be built according to the model of the Prophet's tomb at Mecca. It is not to be doubted, but that the Chineſe Taſte, which has been already introduced into our gardens, our buildings, and our furni⯑ture, will alſo ſoon find its way into our Churches; and how elegant muſt a monument appear, which is erected in the Chineſe Taſte, and embelliſhed with dragons, bells, Pagods, and Mandarins!

THERE is no method of reproof more in vogue, than the drawing invidious parallels between the preſent times and the paſt. The grumbling politician rails over his coffee at the preſent miniſtry, and reminds you with a ſigh of the golden Days of Queen Beſs: while, in mat⯑ters of leſs conſequence, the critic ſhakes his head at Mr. TOWN, and mentions BICKERSTAFF. But the mo⯑raliſts are above all others devoted to this practice. Theſe wiſe gentlemen are continually looking backwards, and con⯑demning what lays immediately before them by retroſpect. They are for ever harping on this jarring chord, and have [440] ſcarce more words in their mouths than the ſolemn ſentences ſaid to be delivered by Fryar Bacon's Brazen Head, Time is—Time was—Time is paſt.

NO compariſons of this ſort are ſo frequently repeated, and ſo much inſiſted on, as thoſe drawn between the An⯑cients and Moderns. If an eloquent member of the Houſe of Commons is cruelly ſuſpected of bellowing for a place, no⯑thing rings in his ears but Tully and Demoſthenes. If a gen⯑tleman or perhaps a nobleman, with a heavy mortgage on his eſtate, diſencumbers it by ſelling his intereſt at a county election, he is immediately upbraided with one Roman that was not aſhamed to follow the plough-tail, and another who could refuſe large bribes, and content himſelf with a cottage and turnips. If a lady makes an unfortunate ſlip, ſhe is told again and again of Lucretia, and fifty other ſchool-boy tales of honour and chaſtity. In a word, there is not one faſhiona⯑ble frailty but has ſome ſtubborn antiquated virtue ſet in oppo⯑ſition to it; and our unhappy metropolis is every day threaten⯑ed with deſtruction for its degeneracy from the rigid maxims of Rome or Sparta.

IN the midſt of all theſe ſevere reflections, it gives me infinite pleaſure, that I can with juſtice take notice of the inconteſtable ſuperiority of the Moderns in point of Modeſty. The arrogance of the Ancients was ſo remarkable, that, in their idea of a perfect character, they included every public and private virtue. They aimed at a ſtrict obſervance of all the duties of life: and if ſome old Romans had been ſtiled Gods while living, it would not have been ſuch groſs flattery as was afterwards practiſed, in honouring the Emperors with an Apotheoſis. Their inflexible honeſty was their perpetual [441] boaſt, and their virtue was their pride. This high idea of a Perfect Character among the Ancients naturally urged them to lift themſelves to an invidious ſuperiority above the reſt of the world: while the modeſt Moderns, by taking all the vices inſtead of the virtues into their notion of a Fine Gentle⯑man, endeavour to let themſelves down to a level with the loweſt of their ſpecies, and have laid the ſureſt foundation for humility. Fine Gentlemen are ſo far from being proud, that they are never guilty of any thing which gives them the leaſt reaſon to be ſo: and our Fine Ladies have none of the diſguſting haughtineſs of virtue, though indeed they are ſel⯑dom known to be aſhamed.

IT is impoſſible to deviſe one method of lowering the good opinion a man might poſſibly conceive of himſelf, that has not been put in practice. No Fine Gentleman ever aimed at acquiring any excellence, and if any natural perfections might give ſome little occaſion for pride, the greateſt pains have been taken to deſtroy them. Good parts have been often drowned in drunkenneſs, and a ſtrong conſtitution ſweated away in bagnios: and in the mean time learning has been totally neglected, leſt improvement ſhould bring on pedantry and literary pride. The moſt ſhining parts in the character of a Fine Gentleman are, that he drinks deep, dreſſes gen⯑teelly, rides well, can ſhoe his own horſe, and is poſſeſſed of ſome few other qualifications, which nobody can ever ſuſ⯑pect a mind the leaſt given to ambition would ever labour to acquire. For my part I am ſo far from agreeing with our famous ſatiriſt that love of fame is the univerſal paſſion, that when I obſerve the behaviour of our Fine Gentlemen, I am apt to think it proceeds from the loweſt and humbleſt turn of mind: indeed their ſingular modeſty appears to me the [442] only means of accounting for their actions, which commonly tend to place them in the meaneſt and moſt contemp⯑tible light.

NOTHING but this invincible Modeſty, and fear of ſeeming to aim at excellence, could ever give riſe to certain habits, not only ridiculous, but ungraceful. Good eyes, for inſtance, are univerſally acknowledged to give luſtre to the whole coun⯑tenance, yet faſhion and humility have blinded the whole town. The beau draws his eyes out of his pocket, and the beauties kill us through ſpying-glaſſes. It has been known to be the vogue for perſons of faſhion to loſe the uſe of their legs, and limp along as if they were crippled: this practice I daily expect to be revived, for I take it for granted that the tall ſtaves now carried about muſt naturally dwindle into crutches. An inarticulate liſp even now infects the delivery in polite converſation. It is not at all unfaſhionable to pre⯑tend deafneſs; and unleſs the ladies object to it, I do not deſpair of ſeeing the time when the whole modiſh world ſhall affect to be dumb.

THIS humble way of thinking has been carried ſo far, that it has even introduced a new ſpecies of hypocriſy. Fine Gen⯑tlemen, fearing leſt their good qualities ſhould in their own deſpite overbalance their bad ones, claim ſeveral vices to which they have no title. There is ſomething very admirable and ingenuous in this diſpoſition among our young people, who not only candidly diſcover all their frailties, but accuſe them⯑ſelves of faults, which they never intended to commit. I know a young fellow who is almoſt every morning complain⯑ing of the head-ache, and curſing the laſt night's champagne at the St. Alban's, when I am well aſſured he paſſed his evening [441] very ſoberly with his maiden aunts in Cheapſide. I am alſo acquainted with another gentleman, who is very fond of con⯑feſſing his intrigues, and often modeſtly takes ſhame to him⯑ſelf for the great miſchief he does among the women; though I well know he is too baſhful even to make love to his laun⯑dreſs. He ſometimes laments publickly the unlucky conse⯑quences of an amour, and has more than once been diſcover⯑ed to ſend pill-boxes and gallipots directed for himſelf, to be left at the bar of neighbouring coffee-houſes. The ſame humble turn of mind induces the frugal to appear extravagant: and makes many a religious young fellow deny his principles, brave his conſcience, and affect the character and converſation of an Atheiſt. To ſay the truth, the generality of the gay world are arrant hypocrites in their vices, and appear to be worſe than they really are. Many of our pretended Bloods are, in fact, no more drunkards, whoremaſters, or infidels, than a bully is a man of courage: and are as ſincere in their boaſts of vice, as ſtateſmen or beauties in their mutual pro⯑feſſions of friendship.

THAT part of the female world, which compoſes the order of Fine Ladies, have as much humility as their counterparts, the Fine Gentlemen. There is ſomething ſo charming in the fair ſex that we ſhould almoſt adore them, if they did not lay aſide all the pride of reputation, and by ſome good-natured familiarities reduce themſelves to an equality with us. It is indeed wonderful to ſee with what diligence our polite ladies pare off the excellencies from their characters. When we ſee them almoſt as naked as the Graces, it is natural to ſuppoſe them as warmly devoted to Venus; and when we hear them talk looſely, and encourage double meanings in converſation, we are apt to imagine their notions of honour not very ſtrict [444] or ſevere. But after all this is frequently mere hypocriſy, and the effect of humility. Many a lady very wanton in appear⯑ance, is in reality very modeſt; and many a coquet has loſt her reputation, without loſing her virtue. I make no doubt but that ſeveral ladies of ſuſpicious characters are not ſo bad as they ſeem, and that there are honourable perſons among the gayeſt of our women of quality.

TO return whence I ſee ſet out, the extraordinary Modeſty of the Moderns, ſo averſe to the arrogant pride of the Ancients claiming all virtues and good qualities whatſoever, is the only key to their behaviour. Thus vice, or at leaſt the appear⯑ance of vice, becomes abſolutely requiſite to paſs through the world with tolerable decency, and the character of a man of ſpirit. As Sir John Brute ſays, ‘"they were ſneaking dogs, and afraid of being damned in thoſe days,"’ but we are better informed, and fear nothing but the appearance of too much virtue. To ſecure the nobility, gentry, and others from ſo ſhocking an imputation, I ſhall ſpeedily preſent the world with a curious piece, compiled from the practice and principles of the preſent times, entitled A New Treatiſe on Ethicks; or, a Syſtem of Immoral Philoſophy. In this treatiſe I have treated at large of Modern Modeſty, ſhewn the excel⯑lence and utility of Immorality, and conſidered Drinking, Whoring, Fighting, and Gaming, as the four Cardinal Vices, or in other words, the principal conſtituents of Bucks, Bloods and Fine Gentlemen.

GOOD-NATURE is to the mind, what beauty is to the body; and an agreeable diſ⯑poſition creates a love and eſteem for us in the reſt of mankind, as an handſome perſon recommends us to the good graces of the fair-ſex. To ſay the truth, any little defect in point of figure is ſooner overlooked than a ſourneſs in the temper; and we conceive a more laſting diſguſt at a moroſe chur⯑liſhneſs of manners than at a hump-back or a pair of bandy legs. Good-Nature is, indeed, ſo amiable a qualification, that every man would be thought to poſſeſs it: and the ladies themſelves would no more like to be accuſed of a perverſe turn of mind than of an unhappy caſt of features. Hence it proceeds, that thoſe unfortunate ſtale virgins, uſually call'd Old Maids, have both theſe heavy cenſures [446] thrown upon them; and are at once condemned, as ugly and ill-natured.

SOME perſons are (according to the ſtrict import of the phraſe itſelf) born Good-Natured. Theſe fortunate people are eaſy in themſelves, and agreeable to all about them. They are, as it were, conſtitutionally pleaſing, and can no more fail of being affable and engaging in converſation, than a Hamilton or a Coventry can be otherwiſe than beautiful and charming. Yet it is the duty even of theſe, who are naturally endowed ‘"with the ſoft parts of converſation."’ to be careful not to deprave or abuſe them. They muſt not rely too confidently on their native agreeableneſs of temper: for we ſhould no more eſteem a man, who diſcovered a negligence of pleaſing, than we ſhould admire a beauty, who was an intolerable ſlattern. Nor on the other hand, ſhould they let their Good-Nature run to an exceſs of com⯑pliment and extravagant civility: for an engaging temper has been as often ſpoiled by this troubleſome politeneſs, as a fine ſhape has been ſqueezed into frightful diſtortions by bad ſtays, and a fine complexion entirely ruined by paint.

BUT if this care is requiſite even in thoſe few, who are bleſt with this native complacency and good humour, how neceſſary is it for the generality of mankind to labour at rectifying the irregularities in their temper. For this pur⯑poſe it would be fully ſufficient, if they would employ half the art to cultivate their minds, that is daily made uſe of to ſet off their perſons. To this important end not only the female delicacies of paint and eſſence are called in as auxi⯑liaries to the embroidered ſuits and French perukes, but this anxiety to ſupply any perſonal defect has ſet the invention of [447] artificers to work with ſo much earneſtneſs, that there is ſcarce any external blemiſh, which may not be removed or con⯑cealed: and however unkindly nature may have dealt with you, you may by their aſſiſtance be made a model for a ſtatuary, or a pattern for a painter to ſtudy. If you want an inch in height, your ſhoemaker can ſupply it, and your hoſier can furniſh you with a pair of calves that may put an Iriſhman to the bluſh. An irregularity in your ſhape can be made inviſible by your taylor, or at leaſt by the artiſt near the Hay-market, who daily gives notice, that he makes ſteel ſtays for all thoſe who are INCLINED to be crooked. There are various compounds and coſmetics that will cure ſpots and freckles in the complexion, and combs and oint⯑ments that will change red hair to the fineſt brown. Do you want an eye? Taylor will fill the vacant ſocket with as bright a piercer as the family of the Pentweazles can boaſt: or is your mouth deficient for want of teeth, Paul Jullion (to uſe his own phraſe) will rectify your head, and fix a ſet in your gums as even and beautiful as ever adorned the mouth of a chimney-ſweeper. Theſe and many other inven⯑tions as curious and extraordinary have been deviſed; and there are no operations, however painful, which have not been ſubmitted to with patience to conquer perſonal defor⯑mities. I know a gentleman who went through the agony of having his leg broke a ſecond time, becauſe it had been ſet awry; and I remember a lady, who died of a cancer in her breaſt, occaſioned by the application of repelling plaiſters to keep back her milk, that the beauty of her neck might not be deſtroyed. I moſt heartily wiſh the ſame resolution was diſcovered in improving the diſpoſition. Half the care that is taken of the body would have happy effects upon the [448] temper. Tully in that part of his Offices, where he ſpeaks of Grace, tells us, ‘"that it is deſtroyed by any violent per⯑turbations either of the body or mind."’ It is a pity that mankind cannot be reconciled to this opinion; ſince it is likely, they would ſpare no pains in cultivating their minds if it tended to adorn their perſons. Yet it is certain that a man makes a worſe figure with an ignorant pate than an un⯑powdered peruke, and that knowledge is a greater ornament to the head than a bag or a ſmart cocked hat; that anger ſets like a blood-ſhot in the eyes, while good-nature lights them up with ſmiles, and makes every feature in the face charming and agreeable. There is a certain ſweetneſs of diſ⯑poſition, which is ſure to procure to thoſe who poſſeſs it the good-will of their acquaintance; but it is as ridiculous for a man to hope to be beloved, while he neglects to be amiable, as it would be in a lady, who expects a multitude of admi⯑rers, to appear always in a dirty diſhabille.

THE difficulty of being convinced that we want this ſocial turn, is the grand reaſon that ſo little pains are taken to acquire and perfect it. Would a man once be perſuaded of any irregularity in his temper, he would find the blemiſhes of the mind more eaſily corrected and amended than the de⯑fects and deformities of the body; but alas! every man is in his own opinion ſenſible and good-humour'd. It is, indeed, poſſible to convince us, that we have a bad complexion or an aukward deportment, which we endeavour to amend by waſhes and a dancing-maſter; but when the mind is in fault, ſelf-adulation, the moſt fatal ſpecies of flattery, makes us cajole ourſelves into a belief, that the fault is not in our own diſpoſition, but in that of our companions: as the mad [449] inhabitants of Moor-fields conclude all, that come to viſit them, out of their ſenſes. A whimſical perſon complains of the perverſeneſs of his acquaintance, and conſtantly ac⯑cuſes them of fancy and caprice: and there never was an inſtance of a poſitive untoward man, that did not continu⯑ally rail at the ſtubbornneſs and obſtinacy of the reſt of the world. A modern Buck damns you for a ſullen fellow, if you refuſe a pint bumper, and looks upon you as a ſneaking ſcoundrel if you decline entering into any of his wild pranks, and do not chuſe to lay all night in the round-houſe. It was the ſaying of an old philoſopher, that ‘"the eye ſees not itſelf:"’ but when this blind partiality is carried ſo far, as to make us think thoſe guilty of the folly who make us ſenſible of it, it is ſurely as abſurd as to imagine, that the hair-lip or carbuncled noſe, a man ſees in the glaſs, belongs to the figure in the mirror, and not to his own face. This fooliſh flattery it is, that makes us think ourſelves inflexibly right, while we are obſtinately wrong, and prevents our receiving or communicating, any pleaſure in ſociety. The untractable humouriſt, while he diſguſts all that are about him, conceives himſelf to be the perſon affronted, and la⯑ments that there is no harmony in the converſation, though he is himſelf the only one out of tune.

PERFECTION is no more to be expected in the minds of men than in their perſons: Natural defects and irregularities in both muſt be overlooked and excuſed. All I deſire at preſent is, that they would endeavour with equal earneſtneſs to cultivate their minds, as they do to adorn their perſons. To this end we ſhould examine ourſelves impartially, and not erect ourſelves into judges, and treat all the reſt; of man⯑kind like criminals. Would it not be mighty ridiculous in [450] a perſon of quality to go to court in a ruff, a cloak, a pair of trunk breeches, and the habit worn in the days of Queen Elizabeth, and while he ſtrutted about in this antiquated garb, to accuſe all the reſt of the world of being out of the faſhion? As we are compoſed of a body and mind, equal attention ſhould be paid to both; and we ſhould not be anxious to cloath the perſon, and at the ſame time let the mind go naked. We ſhould be equally aſſiduous to obtain knowledge and virtue as to put on lace and velvet: and when our minds are completely dreſſed, we ſhould take care that good-nature and complacency influence and direct the whole; which will throw the ſame grace over our virtues and good qualities, as fine cloaths receive from being cut according to the faſhion.

I CANNOT conclude better than with a paſſage from Swift's Tale of a Tub, where the ſtrict analogy between the cloathing of the mind and the body is humourouſly pointed out. ‘"Man (ſays he) is a Micro-coat. As to his body there can be no doubt; but examine even the acquirements of his mind, you will find them all contribute in their order towards furniſhing out an exact dreſs. To inſtance no more; is not religion a cloak, honeſty a pair of ſhoes worn out in the dirt, ſelf-love a ſurtout, vanity a ſhirt, and conſcience a pair of breeches, which though a cover for lewdneſs as well as naſtineſs, is eaſily ſlipt down for the ſervice of both."’

THE Britiſh Lion, who has for a long time paſt been a paſſive couchant beaſt, or at moſt been heard to growl and grumble, now be⯑gins to roar again. His tremendous voice has rouſed the whole nation, and the mean⯑eſt of the people breathe nothing but war and revenge. The encroachments of the French on our colonies are the ge⯑neral topic of converſation, and the popular cry now runs NEW England for ever! Peace or War has been the ſub⯑ject of bets at White's as well as debates at the Robin Hood; and ‘"a Fleet roaſting, new world's new dreſs, the colonies in a rope, &c."’ were, laſt Sunday, the ſubjects of a [452] prayer and lecture at the Oratory in Clare Market. The theatres alſo, before they cloſed the ſeaſon, entertained us with ſeveral warlike Dramas: The Preſs Gang was exhibi⯑ted at Covent Garden; and at Drury Lane, the ſame ſea that rolled its canvas billows in pantomime at the beginning of the ſeaſon, to carry Harlequin to China, was again put in motion to tranſport our ſailors to North America. At preſent the ſtreets ring with the martial ſtrains of our ballad ſingers, who are endeavouring, like Tyrtaeus of old, to rouſe their fellow countrymen to battle: while all the polite world are hurrying to Portſmouth to ſee mock-fights, and be regaled on board the Admiral.

THIS poſture of affairs has occaſioned politics, which have been long neglected as ſtudies uſeleſs and impertinent, to become once more faſhionable. Religion and politics, though they naturally demand our conſtant attention, are only cultivated in England by fits. Chriſtianity ſleeps among us, unleſs rouſed by the apprehenſions of a plague, an earthquake, or a Jew-bill: and we are alarmed for a while at the ſudden news of an invaſion or a rebellion, but as ſoon as the danger is over, the Engliſhman, like the ſoldier recovered from his fright occaſioned by Queen Mab's drumming in his ear, ‘"ſwears a prayer or two, and ſleeps again."’ To preach up public ſpirit, is at ſome ſeaſons only blowing a dead coal; but at others, an accidental blaſt kindles the embers, and they mount into flame in an inſtant. The reign of politics ſeems at preſent to be re-commencing. Our news⯑papers contain dark hints and ſhrewd conjectures from the Hague, Paris, and Madrid; and ſpirited orations from Nova-Scotia: and the lye of the day is artfully contrived to influence the riſe and fall of the money-barometer in [453] Change-Alley. This is the preſent ſtate of politics within the bills of mortality, of which I ſhall now take no further notice, but ſubmit to the peruſal of my readers the fol⯑lowing letter from my Couſin VILLAGE on the ſame important ſubject.

THOUGH the following letter was origi⯑nally written for the inſtruction of a Young Gentleman going to the Univerſity, yet as it contains ſeveral juſt and ſenſible reflections, (which may be of uſe to many of my rea⯑ders,) I have willingly complied with the requeſt of my correſpondent in making it the entertainment of to-day.

SINCE genius is the chief requiſite in all kinds of poetry, nothing can be more con⯑trary to the very eſſence of it, than the adopting, as beauties, certain arts, which are merely mechanical. There are daily ariſing many whimſical excellencies which have no foun⯑dation in nature, but are only countenanced by the preſent mode of writing: with theſe it is as eaſy to fill our compo⯑ſitions as to dreſs ourſelves in the faſhion; but the writer, who puts his work together in this manner, is no more a poet than his taylor. Such productions often betray great labour and exactneſs, but ſhew no genius: for thoſe who ſit down to write by rule, and follow ‘"dry receipts how [500] poems ſhould be made,"’ may compoſe their pieces with⯑out the leaſt aſſiſtance from the imagination; as an apothe⯑cary's prentice; though unable to cure any diſeaſe, can make up medicines from the phyſician's preſcription, with no more knowledge of phyſic than the names of the drugs. Thus the Muſe that ought to fly, and ‘"aſcend the brighteſt heaven of invention,"’ walks in leading-ſtrings, or is ſup⯑ported by a go-cart.

AMONG the many poetical tricks of this ſort, none has been more ſucceſsfully practiſed, or had more advocates and admirers, than a certain fantaſtical conceit called ALLITERA⯑TION: which is nothing more than beginning two, three, or perhaps every word in a line with the ſame letter. This method of running diviſions upon the alphabet, and preſſing particular letters into the ſervice, has been accounted one of the firſt excellencies in verſification, and has indeed received the ſanction of ſome of our beſt poets; but wherein the beauty of it conſiſts, is ſomething difficult to diſcover: ſince Quarles or Withers might practiſe it with as much adroit⯑neſs as Dryden or Spenſer. It is one of thoſe modern arts in poetry which require no fancy, judgment, or learning in the execution: for an author may huddle the ſame letters on each other again and again, as mechanically as the printer ſelects his types, and ranges them in whatſoever order he pleaſes.

THIS partial attachment to particular letters is a kind of contraſt to the famous Odyſſey of Tryphiodorus, where every letter in the alphabet was in its turn excluded: and the Al⯑literator muſt be as buſily employed to introduce his favou⯑rite vowel or conſonant, as the Greek poet to ſhut out the let⯑ter he had proſcribed. Nothing is eſteemed a greater beauty [501] in poetry than a happy choice of epithets; but Alliteration reduces all the elegancies of expreſſion to a very narrow com⯑paſs. Epithets are culled indeed with great exactneſs, but the cloſeſt relation they are intended to bear to the word to which they are joined, is that the initials are the ſame. Thus the fields muſt be flowry, beauty muſt be beaming, ladies muſt be lovely, and in the ſame manner muſt the ‘"waves wind their watry way,"’ the ‘"bluſtring blaſts blow,"’ and ‘"locks all looſely lay,"’ not for the ſake of the poetry, but the elegance of the Alliteration. This beauty has alſo taken poſſeſſion of many of our tragedies, and I have ſeen ladies wooed and heroes killed in it: though I muſt own I never hear an actor dying with deadly darts and fiery flames &c. but it always puts me in mind of the celebrated pippin-woman in Gay's Trivia, whoſe head, when it was ſevered from her body, rolled along the ice crying pip, pip, pip, and expired in Alliteration.

THE ſame falſe taſte in writing that ‘"wings diſplay'd and altars rais'd,"’ alſo introduced Alliteration; and Acroſ⯑tics in particular are the ſame kind of ſpelling-book poetry. It is therefore ſomewhat extraordinary that thoſe ſublime writers, who have diſgraced their pages with it, did not leave this as well as the other barbarous parts of literature to the Goths in poetry: ſince it is a whimſical beauty, below the practice of any writer, ſuperior to him who turned the Aencid into Monkiſh verſes. Shakeſpeare, who was more indebted to nature than art, has ridiculed this low trick with great humour in his burleſque tragedy of Pyramus and Thiſbe. Beſides that noted paſſage of

[502] He before introduces a mock rant, which Bottom calls Ercles' vein, which is not only rank fuſtian, but is alſo remarkable for its Alliteration. To make all ſplit the raging rocks, and ſhivering ſhocks ſhall break the locks of priſon gates—and Phibbus car ſhall ſhine from far, and make and mar the fooliſh fates. In this ſtrange ſtile have whole poems been written, and every learned reader will recollect on this occaſion the Pugna Porcorum per P. Porcium Poetam, which I wiſh ſome of our poetaſters would tranſlate, in the true ſpirit of the original, and praiſe pigs and pork with all the beauties of Alliteration.

THE advocates and admirers of this practice have aſſert⯑ed, that it adds ſignificance and ſtrength of expreſſion to their verſes, but I fear this boaſted energy ſeldom appears to the reader. The Alliteration either remains unregarded, or, if it is very ſtriking, diſguſts thoſe who perceive it, and is often in itſelf, from ſuch a diſagreeable cluſter of the ſame letters, harſh and uncouth. There are very many inſtances where Alliteration, though ſtudiouſly introduced, renders the verſification rough and inharmonious; and I will appeal to the greatest lovers of it, whether the following line, where the repetition was ſcarce intended, is one of the moſt pleaſing in all Virgil's works.

IT muſt be acknowledged, that there is ſomething very mechanical in the whole conſtruction of the numbers in moſt of our modern poetry. Sound is more attended to than ſenſe, and the words are expected to expreſs more than the ſentiment. There are ſet rules to make verſes run off glibly, or drawl ſlowly on, &c. and I have read many a [502] poem with ſcarce one tolerable thought in it, that has con⯑tained all theſe excellencies of verſification: for which reaſon I muſt confeſs myſelf no friend to thoſe critics, who analyſe words and ſyllables, and diſcover latent beauties in every letter, when the author intended that the whole ſhould be taken together. Poetry ſhould ſeem at leaſt to flow freely from the imagination, and not to be ſqueezed from the droppings of the brain. If we would endeavour to acquire a full idea of what we mean to deſcribe, we ſhould then of courſe expreſs ourſelves with force, elegance, and perſpi⯑cuity: and this native ſtrength of expreſſion would have more true energy than elaborate phraſes, and a quaint and ſtudied combination of words and letters. Fine numbers are undoubtedly one of the chief beauties in poetry; but to make the ſound echo to the ſenſe, we ſhould make the ſenſe our chief object. This appears to me to have been the manly practice of the Ancients, and of our own Shake⯑ſpeare, Milton, &c. who breathed the true ſpirit of poetry, without having recourſe to little tricks and mean artifices, which only ſerve to diſgrace it. A good writer, who would be above triffling even with a thought, would never perſue words, and play with letters, but leave ſuch a childiſh em⯑ployment for the ſmall fry of rhimers who amuſe them⯑ſelves with anagrams and crambo. The true poet truſts to his natural ear and ſtrong conception, and knows that the verſification is adapted to the ſentiment without culling particular letters, and ſtringing them on his lines; as he is ſure that his verſes are juſt meaſure, without ſcanning them on his fingers.

THERE are almoſt daily publiſhed certain Lilliputian volumes, entitled Pretty Books for Children. A friend of mine [503] who conſiders the little rhimers of the age as only ‘"children of a larger growth,"’ who amuſe themſelves with rhimes inſtead of rattles, propoſes to publiſh a ſmall pocket volume for the uſe of our Poetaſters. It will be a treatiſe on the art of poetry adapted to the meaneſt capacities, for which ſub⯑ſcriptions will be taken, and ſpecimens may be ſeen, at George's and the Bedford coffee-houſes. It will contain full directions how to modulate the numbers on every occa⯑ſion, and will inſtruct the young ſcribbler in all the modern arts of verſification. He will here meet with infallible rules how to ſoften a line and lull us to ſleep with liquids and dipthongs; to roughen the verſe and make it roar again with reiteration of the letter R; to ſet it hiſſing with ſemi⯑vowels; to make it pant and breathe short with a hun⯑dred heavy aſpirates; or clog it up with the thickeſt double conſonants and monoſyllables: with a particular table of Al⯑literation, containing the choiceſt epithets for any words that can be wanted. To be illuſtrated with examples from the modern poets. The whole to be publiſhed about the mid⯑dle of the winter under the title of The Rhimer's Play-thing, or, Poetaſter's Horn-book; ſince there is nothing neceſſary to form ſuch a poet, except teaching him his letters.

SO long ago as my fourth number (the reader perhaps may not remember) I made men⯑tion of a FEMALE THERMOMETER, conſtructed by my ingenious friend Mr. James Ayſcough, Optician, on Ludgate-Hill; and I then informed the public, that ‘"the liquor contained within the tube was a chymical mixture, which being acted upon by the circulation of the blood and animal ſpirits, would riſe and fall according to the deſires and affections of the wearer."’ But I have now the further ſatisfaction to acquaint my fair readers, that after ſeveral repeated trials and improvements we have at length brought [512] the inſtrument to ſo great a degree of perfection, that any common by-ſtander may, by a proper application of it, know the exact temperature of any lady's paſſions. The liquor, among other ſecret ingredients, is diſtilled ſecundúm artem from the herbs lady's love, and maiden-hair, the wax of virgin-bees, and the five greater hot and cold ſeeds: and the properties of it are ſo ſubtle and penetrating, that immediately on its coming within the atmoſphere of a lady's affections, it is actuated by them in the ſame manner, as the ſpirits are by the impulſe of the air in the common Ther⯑mometer.

IT was not without ſome difficulty, that we could ſettle the different degrees of heat and cold in a lady's deſires, which it would be proper to delineate on our Thermometer: but at laſt we found, that the whole ſcale of female characters might be reduced to one or other of the fol⯑lowing; viz.

• Abandoned IMPUDENCE.
• — GALLANTRY.
• — LOOSE BEHAVIOUR.
• — INNOCENT FREEDOMS.
• — INDISCRETIONS.
• Inviolable MODESTY.

FROM theſe degrees, which we have accurately marked on the ſide of the tube, we have been able to judge of the characters of ſeveral ladies, on whom we have made the experiment. In ſome of theſe we have found the grada⯑tions very ſudden; and that the liquor has riſen very faſt from the loweſt point to the higheſt. We could likewiſe diſcover, that it was differently affected according to the [513] different ſtation and quality of the ſubject: ſo that the ſame actions, which in a lady of faſhion ſcarce raiſed the liquor beyond INDISCRETIONS, in another cauſed it to mount almoſt to IMPUDENCE. Much alſo depended upon the air and temperature of the place, where we made our trials: and even the dreſs had ſome influence on our Thermo⯑meter; as we frequently obſerved, that the riſe and fall of the liquor in the tube bore an exact proportion to the riſe and fall of the ſtays and petticoat.

I SHALL now proceed to give a ſuccinct account of the many repeated experiments, which we have made on differ⯑ent ſubjects in different places. During the winter ſeaſon we had frequent opportunities of trying the effects, which the play-houſe, the opera, and other places of diverſion, might have on the Thermometer. At the play-houſe we always found the liquor riſe in proportion, as the drama was more or leſs indecent or immoral: at ſome comedies, and particularly the Chances, its elevation kept pace exactly with the luſciouſneſs of the dialogue and the ripening of the plot; ſo that it has often happened, that with ſome ſubjects, at the opening of the play, the liquor has ſtruggled a-while, and roſe and ſunk about the degrees juſt above MODESTY; but before the third act it has ſtood ſuſpended at the middle point between MODESTY and IMPUDENCE; in the fourth act it has advanced as far as LOOSE BEHA⯑VIOUR; and at the concluſion of the play it has ſettled at downright IMPUDENCE. At public concerts, and the opera eſpecially, we obſerved that the Thermometer conſtantly kept time (if I may ſay ſo) with the muſic and ſinging: and both at the opera and the play-houſe, it always regulated its motions by the dancer's heels. We have frequently [514] made trials of our inſtrument at the maſquerades in the Hay-Market: but the temperature of that climate has proved ſo exceeding hot, that on the moment of our coming into the room the liquor has boiled up with a ſurpriſing effer⯑veſcence to ABANDONED IMPUDENCE.

DURING the ſummer ſeaſon we have not failed to make our obſervations on the company at the public gardens. Here we found, indeed, that with ſome raw unpoliſhed females, who came only to eat cheeſe-cakes and ſee the fire-works, the liquor did not ſtir beyond MODESTY; with many it has crept up to INDISCRETIONS; and with ſome it has advanced to LOOSE BEHAVIOUR. We had no opportunity to try our Thermometer in the dark walks: but with ſome ſubjects we have plainly perceived the liquor haſtening up towards INNOCENT FREEDOMS, as they were retiring to theſe walks from the reſt of the company; whilſt with others, who have gone the ſame way, it has only con⯑tinued to point (as it did at the beginning of our obſer⯑vations) at GALLANTRY. One young lady in particular we could not help remarking, whom we followed into Vaux-Hall, gallanted by an officer; we were glad to ſee, at her firſt going in, that the liquor, though it now and then faintly aſpired towards INDISCRETIONS, ſtill gravitated back again to MODESTY: after a turn or two in the walks we perceived it fluctuating between INNOCENT FREEDOMS and LOOSE BEHAVIOUR: after this we loſt ſight of them for ſome time; and at the concluſion of the entertainment (as we followed them out) we could not without concern obſerve, that the liquor was haſtily bubbling up to a degree next to IMPUDENCE.

[515]BESIDES the experiments on thoſe ladies, who frequent the public places of diverſion, we have been no leſs careful in making remarks at ſeveral private routs and aſſemblies. We were here at firſt very much ſurpriſed at the extreme degree of Cold which our Thermometer ſeemed to indicate in ſeveral ladies, who were ſeated round the card-tables; as we found not the leaſt alteration in it either from the young or old: but we at laſt concluded, that this was owing to their love of play, which had totally abſorbed all their other paſſions. We have, indeed, more than once perceived, that when a lady has riſen from cards after ſo much ill luck as to have involved herſelf in a debt of honour to a gentle⯑man, the Thermometer has been ſurpriſingly effected; and as ſhe has been handed to her chair, we have known the liquor, which before was quite ſtagnate, run up inſtantane⯑ouſly to the degree of GALLANTRY. We have alſo been at the trouble to try its efficacy in the long rooms at Bath, Tun⯑bridge, Cheltenham &c. as it is well known, that theſe places have brought about ſurpriſing changes in the conſtitutions of thoſe SICK ladies, who go thither for the benefit of the waters.

HAVING thus ſufficiently proved the perfection of our Thermometer, it only remains to acquaint my readers, that Mr, Ayſcough will be ready to ſupply the public with theſe uſeful inſtruments, as ſoon as the town fills. In the mean time I would adviſe thoſe ladies, who have the leaſt regard for their characters, to reflect that the gradations, as marked on our Thermometer, naturally lead to each other; that the tranſitions from the loweſt to the higheſt are quick and obvious; and that though it is very eaſy to advance, it is impoſſible to recede back again, Let them, therefore, be [516] careful to regulate their paſſions in ſuch manner, as that their conduct may be always conſiſtent with decency and honour; and (as Shakeſpeare ſays) ‘"not ſtepping o'er the bounds of MODESTY."’ I ſhall conclude with obſerving, that theſe Thermometers are deſigned only for the ladies: for though we imagined at firſt, that they might ſerve equally for the men, we have found reaſon to alter our opinion; ſince, in the courſe of ſeveral fruitleſs experiments on our own ſex, there has ſcarce appeared any medium in them between MODESTY and IMPUDENCE.

EATING and drinking being abſolutely requiſite to keep our crazy frames together, we are obliged to attend to the calls of na⯑ture, and ſatisfy the regular cravings of the appetite: Though it is, in truth, but a very ſmall part of the world, that eat becauſe they are hungry, or drink becauſe they are dry. The common day-labourer may, indeed, be glad to ſnatch an haſty meal with his wife and children, that he may have ſtrength to return to his work; and the porter finds it neceſſary to refreſh himſelf with a full pot of entire butt, while he reſts his load upon the bulk at the ale-houſe door: but thoſe, who have more leiſure to ſtudy what they ſhall eat and drink, require ſome⯑thing [524] more in their food, than what is barely wholſome or neceſſary; their palates muſt be gratified with rich ſauces and high-ſeaſoned delicacies; and they frequently have re⯑courſe to whetters and provocatives, to anticipate the call of hunger, and to enable their ſtomachs to bear the load they lay on it. There are a ſort of men, whoſe chief pride is a good taſte (as they call it) and a great ſtomach: and the whole buſineſs of their lives is included in their breakfaſt, dinner and ſupper. Theſe people, of whatever rank and denomination, whether they regale with turtle, or devour ſhoulders of mutton and peck-loaves for wagers, whether a duke at White's, or a chairman at the Blue-Poſts, are cer⯑tainly of the number of thoſe, ‘"whom nature, (as Salluſt tells us,) has made like the brutes, obedient to their bellies;"’ and, indeed, partake in ſome meaſure of the ſentence paſſed on the Serpent, ‘"to be curſed above all cattle, and to go for ever on their bellies."’

THERE are many follies and vices, which men endeavour to hide from the reſt of the world: but this, above all others, they take a pride in proclaiming; and ſeem to run about with the cap and bells, as if they were ambitious to be ranked among the Sons of Folly. Indeed, as the politeneſs of the French language has diſtinguiſhed every glutton by the title of Bon Vivant, and the courteſy of our own has honoured their beaſtly gluttony by the name of Good Living, the epi⯑cure thinks to eat and drink himſelf into your good opinion, and recommend himſelf to your eſteem by an exquiſite bill of fare. However this may be, it is remarkable, that as the fox-hunter takes delight in relating the incidents of the chace, and kills the fox again over a bowl of punch at night, ſo the Bon Vivant enjoys giving an account of a de⯑licious [525] dinner, and chews the cud of reflection on ſuch ex⯑quiſite entertainment.

I HAVE been led into theſe thoughts by an acquaintance which I have lately made with a perſon, whoſe whole con⯑verſation is, litterally ſpeaking, Table-Talk. His brain ſeems to be ſtuffed with an hodge-podge of ideas, conſiſting of ſeveral diſhes, which he is perpetually ſerving up for the en⯑terainment of the company. As it was ſaid of Longinus, that he was a Walking Library, in the ſame manner I con⯑ſider this gentleman as a Walking Larder: and as the ora⯑tions of Demoſthenes were ſaid to ſmell of the lamp, ſo my friend's whole converſation ſavours of the kitchen. He even makes uſe of his ſtomach as an artificial memory; and recol⯑lects every place he has been at, and every perſon he has ſeen, by ſome circumſtances relating to the entertainment he met with. If he calls to mind any inn, he adds, ‘"for there the cook ſpoiled a fine turbot:"’ another houſe is recollected, ‘"becauſe the parſon took all the fat of the haunch of veniſon:"’ he remembers a gentleman you mention, ‘"becauſe he had the ſmalleſt ſtomach he ever knew;"’ or one lady, ‘"becauſe ſhe drank a great deal of wine at ſupper;"’ and another, ‘"becauſe ſhe has the beſt receipt for making her pickled cu⯑cumbers look green."’

HIS paſſion for eating alſo influences all his actions, diverſions, and ſtudies. He is fond of hare-hunting, as he ſays his perſuit is animated by the hopes of ſeeing puſs ſmoking on the table; but he wonders how any man can venture his neck in a chace after a fox, which, when it is got, is not worth eating. He has had occaſion to viſit the [526] ſeveral Wells in this kingdom, which he conſiders, not as places where perſons go to drink the waters, but where they go to eat; and in this light he gives a character of them all. ‘"Bath, ſays he, is one of the beſt markets in the world: At Tunbridge you have fine mutton, and moſt exquiſite wheat-ears: But at Cheltenham, pox take the place, you have nothing but cow-beef, red veal, and white bacon."’ He looks upon every part of England in the ſame light; and would as ſoon go to Cheſhire for butter, and Suffolk for cheeſe, as miſs eating what each particular town or county is famous for having the moſt excellent in its kind. He does not grudge to ride twenty miles to dine on a favourite diſh; and it was but laſt week, that he appointed a friend in Buckinghamſhire to meet him at Uxbridge, ‘"which (ſays he in his letter) is the beſt place we can ſettle our buſineſs at, on account of thoſe excellent rolls we may have for breakfaſt, and the delicious trout we are ſure to have at dinner."’

MR. CRAMWELL (for that is his name) is ſo unfortunate as to want a purſe adequate to his taſte; ſo that he is put to ſeveral ſhifts, and obliged to have recourſe to ſeveral arti⯑fices, to gratify his appetite. For this purpoſe he has with great pains conſtituted a Club, conſiſting of perſons moſt likely to promote Good Living. This Society is compoſed of members, who are all of them of ſome trade that can furniſh it with proviſions, (except one country ſquire, who ſupplies it with game,) and they are obliged to ſend in the beſt of whatever their trade deals in, at prime coſt: by which wiſe management the Club is ſupplied with every delicacy the ſeaſons affords, at the moſt reaſonable rates. Upon any vacancy much care and deliberation is uſed in [527] electing a new member. A candidate's being able to de⯑vour a whole turkey with an equal proportion of chine, or eat one haunch of veniſon with the fat of another as ſauce to it, would be no recommendation: On the contrary; there was never more caution uſed, at the death of a Pope, to elect a ſucceſſor who appears the moſt likely to be ſhort-lived, than by this Society of Epicurean Hogs to admit nobody of a ſtomach ſuperior to their own. Mr. CRAMWELL, on account of his extraordinary profici⯑ency in the Science of Eating, is honoured with the office of Caterer; and has arrived to ſuch a pitch of accuracy in the calculation of what is ſufficient, that he ſeems to gage the ſtomachs of the Club, as an Exciſeman does a caſk: and when all the members are preſent, they ſeldom ſend away three ounces of meat from the table. A Captain of a ſhip trading to the Weſt-Indies has been admitted an hono⯑rary member, having contracted to bring over as a preſent to them a ſufficient cargo of turtle every voyage; and a few days ago I met CRAMWELL in prodigious high ſpirits, when he told me, that he was the happieſt man in the world: ‘"for now, ſays he, we ſhall have Ortolans as plenty as pidgeons; for it was but yeſterday, that we balloted into our ſociety one of the Flanderkin-Bird-Merchants."’ This aſſociation for the preſervation of elegant fare gratifies my friend CRAMWELL's luxury at a cheap rate: and that he may make as many good meals as poſſible, he often con⯑trives to introduce himſelf to the tables of perſons of quality. This he effects by ſending my lord or her ladyſhip a preſent of a Bath Cheeſe, a Ruff or Land-Rail from his friends in Lincolnſhire or Somerſetſhire, which ſeldom fails to procure him an invitation to dinner. It once happened, that dining [528] with an Alderman his appetite got the better of his good-breeding, when he ſhaved off all the outſide of a plumb-pudding; and he has ever ſince been talked of in the city by the name of SKIN-PUDDING.

AS all his joy and miſery conſtantly ariſes from his belly, he thinks it is the ſame with others; and I heard him aſk a perfect ſtranger to him, who complained that he was ſick, whether he had over-eat himſelf. It is no wonder, that CRAMWELL ſhould be ſometimes troubled with the gout: I called upon him the other morning, and found him with his legs wrapped up in flannel, and a book lying open before him upon the table. On aſking him what he was reading, he told me he was taking phyſic; and on enquiring whoſe advice he had, ‘"Oh, ſays he, nobody can do me ſo much good as Mrs. Hannah Glaſſe. I am here going through a courſe of her Art of Cookery, in hopes to get a ſtomach: for indeed, my dear friend, (added he, with tears in his eyes) my appetite is quite gone; and I am ſure I ſhall die, if I do not find ſomething in this book, which I think I can eat."’

HORACE, in the paſſage quoted at the head of my paper, tells us (after Ariſtotle) of a man, who uſed to ſit in the empty theatre, and fancy that he ſaw real exhi⯑bitions on the ſtage. We have the like account in another ancient author, of a perſon that uſed to wait with great ſollicitude the coming in of ſhips into [530] the harbour, believing them to be his own property. The end of theſe madmen was alſo ſimilar: they were both cured; and both complained, that they were deprived of the ſatisfaction which they before enjoyed from a pleaſing error of their minds.

THAT the happineſs and miſery of the far greateſt part of mankind depends upon the fancy, need not be inſiſted on: Crede quòd habes et babes, Think that you have and you have, is a maxim not confined to thoſe only within the walls of Bedlam. I remember an humouriſt, who would fre⯑quently divert himſelf in the ſame manner with the mad⯑men above-mentioned, and ſupply his real wants by the force of his imagination. He would go round the markets, and ſuppoſe himſelf to be cheapening the moſt dainty proviſions; and when he came home to his ſcanty meal, by the ſame ideal contrivance he would convert his trotters into turbot, and his ſmall beer into the moſt delicious Burgundy. As he was a barber by trade, he would put on the air and manners of his cuſtomers, while he combed out their wigs: with every bag he would conceive himſelf going to court or a ridotto; and once, when he was ſick, he got together three or four of the largeſt tyes, placed them upon blocks round his bed-ſide, and called them a conſultation of phyſicians.

BUT of all others, there are none perhaps, who are more obliged to the imagination for their ideal happineſs, than the fraternity of which I am an unworthy member. There is no ſet of people, who are more ambitious to appear grand in the world, and yet have leſs means, than thoſe gentlemen whom the world has ſtiled Authors. Wit and pride as often [531] go hand in hand together as wit and poverty: but though the generality of writers are by the frowns of fortune de⯑barred from poſſeſſing a profuſe ſhare of the good things of this world, they are abundantly recompenced by enjoying them in ſpeculation. They indulge in golden dreams, at the time that they have not ſixpence in their pockets, and conjure up all the luxuries of Pontac's before them, though they are at a loſs perhaps where to get a dinner. Thus a Critic by a kind of magic will tranſport himſelf to the thea⯑tres in an imaginary gilt chariot, and be ſeated at once in the front-boxes; when in reality he has waited for two hours in Vinegar-Yard before the opening of the doors, to ſecure to himſelf a corner in the twelve-penny gallery. Hence it alſo happens to moſt Authors, that though their way of life be ever ſo mean, their writings favour of the moſt unbounded magnificence; and as they have nothing to beſtow, a moſt ſurpriſing generoſity always accompanies every action of the quill. Thus a Novelliſt, for example, is remarkably laviſh of his caſh on all occaſions; and ſpares no expence in carrying on the deſigns of his perſonages through ever ſo many volumes. Nothing, indeed, is more eaſy than to be very profuſe upon paper: An author, when he is about it, may erect his airy caſtles to what height he pleaſes, and with a wave of his pen may command the mines of Peru: and as he deals about his money without once untying his purſe-ſtrings, it will coſt him the ſame whether he throws away a mite or a million; and another dip of ink, by the addition of two or three gratis cyphers, may in an inſtant convert a ſingle ten into as many thou⯑ſands. We muſt not therefore be ſurpriſed, that the heroes of our modern novels ſeem to poſſeſs the Purſe of Fortu⯑natus, [532] as their writers have all of them the power of his Wiſhing-cap.

BUT it muſt be confeſſed, that we Eſſay-writers, as we are the greateſt Egotiſts, are conſequently moſt vain and oſtentatious. As we frequently find occaſion to prate about ourſelves, we take abundant care to put the reader con⯑ſtantly in mind of our importance. It is very well known, that we keep the beſt company, are preſent at the moſt expenſive places of diverſion, and can talk as familiarly of White's, as if we had been admitted to the honour of lo⯑ſing an eſtate there. Though the neceſſaries as well as the luxuries of life may perhaps be denied us, we readily make up for the want of them by the creative power of the imagination. Thus, for inſtance, I remember a bro⯑ther Eſſayiſt, who took a particular pride in dating his lu⯑cubrations, From my own Apartment; which he repreſented as abounding with every convenience: though at the ſame time he was working three ſtories from the ground, and was often forced to ſcribble upon wrappers of tobacco for want of other paper. As to myſelf, I make no doubt but the reader has long ago diſcovered without my telling him, that I loll at my eaſe in a crimſon velvet chair, reſt my elbow on the poliſhed ſurface of a mahogany table, write my eſſays upon gilt paper, and dip my pen into a ſilver ſtandiſh.

Indeed, though I have taken upon me the Title of a CONNOISSEUR, I ſhall not preſume to boaſt, that I am poſ⯑ſeſſed of a Muſaeum like Sloane's, or a Library equal to Mead's. But as Pliny, and after him our countryman Mr. Pope, have left us a deſcription of their elegant Villa, I hope [533] it will not be thought arrogance in me (after what I have ſaid,) if I ſet before the reader an account of my own STUDY. This is a little edifice ſituated at a ſmall diſtance from the reſt of the houſe, for the ſake of privacy and re⯑tirement. It is an ancient pile of building, and hangs over a ſmall rivulet, which runs underneath it; and as the entrance into it is ſhaded by a thick hedge of ever-greens, which caſt a kind of awful gloom about it, ſome learned antiquarians have been led to conjecture, that it was formerly a Temple (or rather Chapel of Eaſe,) dedicated to one of the heathen Goddeſſes. This Goddeſs, they inform me, was worſhipped by the Romans, and was probably held in no leſs veneration by the Aegyptians, Chaldees, Syrians, and other nations. However this be, the walls on the inſide are deco⯑rated with various inſcriptions alluding to the religious rites performed there, and hung round with the rude rhymes of ancient bards.

TO this STUDY I retire conſtantly every morning after breakfaſt, and at other parts of the day, as occaſions call. Here I am at liberty to indulge my meditations unin⯑terrupted, as I ſuffer no one to break in upon my privacy; and (what will perhaps ſurpriſe my readers) I find in myſelf the greateſt inclination to viſit it after an hearty meal. In this place I have made a very rapid progreſs in literature, and have gone through ſeveral very learned volumes, which otherwiſe I ſhould never have looked into. I have here travelled leaf by leaf through the works of many worthy, but neglected ancient divines, critics, and politicians; and have turned over many a modern pamphlet or poem with equal ſatisfaction. I muſt not forget to mention, that (like the ſcrupulous Mahometans) I have often picked up the [534] fragments of ſeveral learned writers, which have come from the chandlers, and lodged them, among others no leſs valu⯑able, in my STUDY.

I MAY ſafely boaſt, that I am indebted for many of my beſt thoughts in the courſe of theſe papers to the reflections I have had the leiſure to make in this STUDY; which pro⯑bably has the ſame influence on my mind, as the ſtew'd prunes, which Bayes tells us he always took when he wrote. But if my STUDY ſerves to inſpire me ſometimes with agre⯑eable ideas, it never fails on the other hand to remind me of the mortality of writers; as it affords repeated proofs, that we may juſtly ſay of our works, as well as of ourſelves,

GOING the other day to viſit Mrs. Penelope Doat, after I had waited ſome time in the parlour, the maid returned with her miſtreſs's compliments, and informed me, that as ſhe was extremely buſy, ſhe begged to be excu⯑ſed coming down to me, but that ſhe would be very glad to ſee me in the Nurſery. As I knew ſhe was a maiden lady, I was a good deal ſtartled at the meſſage; but how⯑ever I followed the ſervant up ſtairs to her miſtreſs; whom I [536] found combing a little white dog that lay in her lap, with a grey parrot perched on one arm of the ſettee where ſhe ſat, a monkey on the back, and a tabby cat with half a dozen kittens in the other corner. The whole room, which was a very large one, was indeed a Nurſery for all kinds of animals, except thoſe of the human ſpecies: It was hung every where with cages, containing parrots, mackaws, ca⯑nary birds, nightingales, linnets, goldfinches, &c. on the chairs were ſeveral cats repoſing on ſoft cuſhions; and there were little kennels, in the Chineſe taſte, in almoſt every corner of the room, filled with Pugs, Fidos, and King Charles's breed. As ſoon as the chattering of the birds, the barking of the dogs, and the mewing of the cats, which my entrance oc⯑caſioned, began to ceaſe, ‘"You find me here, Sir, (ſaid the lady) tending my little family, the only joy of my life: Here's a dear pretty creature (holding up the dog ſhe was combing) a beauty! ſir, a fine long-eared ſnub-noſed beauty! Lady Faddle advertiſed three quarters of a year, and cold not get the fellow to it. Ah, bleſs it, and love it, ſweet ſoul!"’—And then ſhe ſtroaked it, and kiſſed it for near two minutes, uttering the whole time all thoſe inarticulate ſounds, which cannot be committed to paper, and which are only addreſſed to Dogs, Cats, and Children, and may be ſtiled the language of the Nurſery. Upon ob⯑ſerving me ſmile, at the embraces ſhe beſtowed on her little motley darling, ‘"I am afraid (ſaid ſhe) you don't love theſe pretty creatures. How can you be ſo cruel? Poor dumb things! I would not have them hurt for all the world: nor do I ſee why a lady ſhould not indulge herſelf in having ſuch ſweet little company about her, as well as you men run out eſtates in keeping a pack of filthy [357] hounds."’ Then ſhe laid Pompey on his cuſhion by the fire-ſide, and railed at the barbarity of the human ſpecies to the reſt of the creation, and entered into a long diſſertation on tenderneſs and humanity.

A HUMANE diſpoſition is, indeed ſo amiable either in man or woman, that it ought always to be cheriſhed and kept alive in our boſoms; but at the ſame time we ſhould be cautious not to render the firſt virtue of our nature ridi⯑culous. The moſt compaſſionate temper may be ſufficiently gratified by relieving the wretches of our own ſpecies: but who would ever boaſt of their generoſity to a lap-dog, and their conferring eternal obligations on a monkey? or would any perſon deſerve to be celebrated for their charity, who ſhould deny ſupport to a relation or a friend, becauſe he maintains a litter of kittens? For my part, before I would treat a Dutch puppy with ſuch abſurd fondneſs, I muſt be brought to worſhip dogs, as the Aegyptians did of old; and e'er I would ſo extravagantly doat upon a monkey, I would (as Iago ſays on a different occaſion) ‘"change my huma⯑nity with a baboon."’

YET there have been many inſtances, beſides my female friend, of this fondneſs for the brute creation being carried to very ridiculous lengths. The grave doctors of the faculty have been called in to feel the pulſe of a lap-dog, and inſpect the urine of a ſquirrel: nay, I am myſelf acquainted with a lady, who carried this matter ſo far, as to diſcharge her chaplain, becauſe he refuſed to bury her monkey. But the moſt ſolemn piece of mummery on theſe occaſions is the making proviſions for theſe animals by will; which abſurd legacies as little deſerve the title of humanity, as thoſe people [538] merit being called charitable, who in a death-bed fright ſtarve their relations, by leaving their eſtates to found an hoſ⯑pital. It were indeed to be wiſhed, that money left in truſt for ſuch uſes were ſubject to ſome ſtatute of Mortmain; or at leaſt that the gentlemen of the long robe, would contrive ſome ſcheme to cut off the entail from Monkeys, Mackaws, Italian Greyhounds, and Tabby Cats.

THAT a ſtage coachman ſhould love his cattle better than his wife and children, or a country ſquire be fond of his hounds and hunters, is not ſo ſurpriſing, becauſe the reaſon of their regard for them is eaſily accounted for; and a ſea⯑captain has, upon the ſame principles, been known to con⯑tract an affection for his ſhip: but no coachman would, like Caligula, tye his horſes to a golden rack, but thinks he ſhews ſufficient kindneſs by filling them with good wholeſome provender; and the country ſportſman takes care to provide his hounds with a good kennel and horſe⯑fleſh, but would never think of placing them on cuſhions before the fire, and feeding them with fricaſees, or breed them with as much care as the heir to his eſtate. This irre⯑gular paſſion (if I may ſo call it) is moſt frequently to be met with among the ladies. How often has the ſlighted gallant envied the careſſes given to a lap-dog, or kiſſes be⯑ſtowed on a ſquirrel! and ‘"I would I were thy bird!"’ has been the fond exclamation of many a Romeo. But it is remarkable, that this affection for birds and beaſts generally wears off after marriage, and that the ladies diſcard their four-footed darlings and feathered favourites, when they can beſtow their endearments on an huſband. Wherefore, theſe dry nurſes to Puggs and Grimalkins are moſtly to be met with among thoſe females, who have been diſappointed [539] in the affairs of love, and have againſt their will retained the flower of virginity till it has withered in their poſſeſſion. It often happens, that there is ſome kind of analogy between the gallant they once loved, and the animal on which they afterwards fix their affections: and I myſelf remember an inſtance of a lady's paſſion for a lawyer being converted into dotage on a parrot; and have an old maiden aunt, who once languiſhed for a beau, whoſe heart is now devoted to a monkey.

BUT I ſhould not ſo much quarrel with theſe humane ladies, who chuſe to ſettle their affections on the brute ſpe⯑cies, if they were not troubleſome to others, who are not ſo ſenſible of the charms of a ſnub noſe, or can diſcover any beauty in the grey eyes of a cat. A doating mother would never forgive you, if you did not call her brat a fine child, and dangle it about, and prattle with it, with as much ſeeming rapture as herſelf: and in like manner, a lady would take it as an affront to her own perſon, if you did not pay your adreſſes equally to her pug or her parroquet. I know a young fellow, that was cut off with a ſhilling by an old maiden aunt, becauſe he gave poor Veny a kick only for lifting up his leg againſt the gentleman's ſtocking: and I have heard of another, who might have carried off a very rich widow, but that he could not prevail upon himſelf to extend his careſſes to her dormouſe. Indeed, I cannot help thinking, that the embraces and endearments beſtowed on theſe rivals of the human ſpecies ſhould be as private as the moſt ſecret intrigues; and I would have lap-dogs, like fretful and ſqualling children, confined to bark and growl only in the Nurſery. We may often ſee a footman following his lady to church with a common prayer-book under one arm [540] a dog under the other: I have alſo known a grave divine forced to ſtop ſhort in the middle of a prayer, while the whole congregation has been raiſed from their knees to attend to the howling of a lap-dog: and I once ſaw a tragedy monarch diſturbed in his laſt moments, as he lay expiring on the car⯑pet, by a little black dog of king Charles's breed, who jumped out of the ſtage-box, and ſeizing upon the hero's perriwig, brought it off in his mouth, and lodged it in his lady's lap.

IT will not appear ſtrange, after what has been ſaid, that theſe ladies (or lady-like gentlemen) ſhould be as ſollicitous to preſerve the breed of their favourite animals, as a ſportſ⯑man of his hounds and horſes. I have known a gentleman in St. James's ſtreet ſend his little Cupid in a ſedan chair as far as Groſvenor ſquare to wait upon a lady's Veny for this very purpoſe: and I ſhall never forget a Card, which was ſent to another lady on a like occaſion, expreſſed in the fol⯑lowing terms.— ‘"Mr. —'s compliments to Lady Betty —, is glad to hear Miſs Chloe is ſafely delivered, and begs it as a particular favour, that her ladyſhip would be pleaſed to SET HIM DOWN FOR A PUPPY."’

IF we conſider that part of our acquaintance, whom we remember from their infancy, we ſhall find, that the expectations we once en⯑tertained of their future abilities are in many inſtances diſappointed. Thoſe, who were accounted heavy dull boys, have by diligence and application made their way to the firſt honours, and become eminent for their learning and knowledge of the world; while others who were regarded as bright lads, and imagined to poſſeſs parts equal to any ſcheme of life, have turned out diſſolute and ignorant; and quite unworthy the title of a Genius, except in the modern acceptation of the word, by which [542] it ſignifies a very ſilly young fellow, who from his extrava⯑gance and debauchery has obtained the name of a Genius, (like lucus a non lucendo) becauſe he has no Genius at all.

IT is a ſhocking draw-back from a father's happineſs, when he ſees his ſon bleſſed with ſtrong natural parts and quick conception, to reflect that theſe very talents may be his ruin. If vanity once gets into his head and gives it a wrong turn, the young coxcomb will neglect the means of improvement, truſt entirely to his native abilities, and be as ridiculouſly proud of his parts, as the brats of quality are taught to be of their family. In the mean time thoſe, whom nature threw far behind him, are by application enabled to leave him at a diſtance in their turn; and he continues boaſting of his Genius, till it ſubſiſts no longer, but dies for want of cultivation. Thus vanity and indolence prevents his improvement, and if he is to riſe in the world by his merit, takes away the means of ſucceſs, and perhaps reduces him to very miſerable diſtreſſes. I know one of theſe early Geniuſes, who ſcarce ſupports himſelf by writing for a bookſeller; and another, who is at leiſure to contem⯑plate his extraordinary parts in the Fleet-priſon.

IF we look into the world, we ſhall find that the mere Genius will never raiſe himſelf to any degree of eminence without a cloſe and unwearied application to his reſpective buſineſs or profeſſion. The Inns of Court are full of theſe men of parts, who cannot bear the drudgery of turning over dry Caſes and Reports; but, though they appear ever ſo eloquent in taverns and coffee-houſes, not the neareſt relation will truſt them with a Brief: And many a ſprightly phyſician has walked on foot all his life, with no more [543] knowledge of his profeſſion than what lies in his perriwig. For whatever opinion they themſelves may have of their own parts, other perſons do not chuſe to be bantered out of their eſtates, or joked out of their lives: And even in trade, the plodding men of the Alley would foretell the bankruptcy of any wit among them, who ſhould laugh at the labour of Accounts, or deſpiſe the Italian Method of Book-keeping. Thus we ſee, that parts alone are not ſuf⯑ficient to recommend us to the good opinion of the world: and even theſe, if not rouſed and called forth by ſtudy and application, would become torpid and uſeleſs: as the race⯑horſe, though not put to drag a dray or carry a pack, muſt yet be kept in exerciſe. But I ſhall enlarge no further on this ſubject, as I would not anticipate the thoughts con⯑tained in the following elegant little Fable; which (as my correſpondent informs me) is written by the ſame ingenious hand, that obliged the public with the Verſes on Imitation, inſerted in my ſixty-ſeventh number.

DRINKING is one of thoſe popular vices, which moſt people reckon among their venial failings, and it is thought no great blot on a man's character, to ſay he takes his glaſs rather too freely. But as thoſe vices are moſt dangerous and likely to prevail, which if not approved are at leaſt excuſed by moſt people, I have been tempted to examine, whether Drinking really deſerves that quarter it receives from the generality of mankind: and I [554] muſt own, that after a ſtrict attention to the principal mo⯑tives that induce men to become hard-drinkers, as well as to the conſequences which ſuch exceſſes produce, I am at a loſs to account for the received maxim that ‘"in good wine there is truth;"’ and ſhould no more expect happineſs in a full bowl, than chaſtity in the bar of a tavern.

THE incentives to this practice are ſome of them very ſhocking, and ſome very ridiculous; as will perhaps appear from the following characters. Poor Heartly was bleſt with every noble qualification of the head and heart, and bade fair for the love and admiration of the world, but was unfortunately bound in a very large ſum for a friend, who diſappeared, and left him to the mercy of the law. The diſtreſſes, thus brought upon him by the treachery of another, threw him into the deepeſt deſpair, and he had at laſt re⯑courſe to drinking, to benumb (if poſſible) the very ſenſe of reflection. He is miſerable when ſober, and when drunk ſtupified and muddled: His misfortunes have robbed him of all the joys of life, and he is now endeavouring wilfully to put an end to them by a ſlow death.

TOM BUCK, from the firſt day that he was put into breeches, was always accounted a boy of ſpirit: and before he reached the top of Weſtminſter ſchool, knew the names and faces of the moſt noted girls upon town, toſſed off his claret with a ſmack, and had a long tick at the ta⯑vern. When he went to Oxford, he eſpouſed the Tory party, becauſe they drank deepeſt; and he has for ſome years been accounted a four-bottle man. He drank for fame, and has ſo well eſtabliſhed his character, that he was never known to ſend a man from his chambers ſober, but gene⯑rally laid his whole company under the table. Since his [555] leaving the univerſity, nobody ever acquired more reputa⯑tion by Electioneering; for he can ſee out the ſtouteſt free⯑holder in England: He has, indeed, ſwallowed many a tun in the ſervice of his country, and is now a ſounder pa⯑triot by two bottles than any man in the county.

POOR Wou'd-be became a debauchée through mere baſh⯑fulneſs, and a fooliſh ſort of modeſty, that has made many a man drunk in ſpite of his teeth. He contracted an acquaintance with a ſet of hard drinkers, and though he would as ſoon chuſe to ſwallow a doſe of phyſic, has not courage to refuſe his bumper. He is drunk every night, and always ſick to death the next morning, when he con⯑ſtantly reſolves, to drink nothing ſtronger than ſmall beer for the future; but at night the poor fellow gets drunk again through downright modeſty. Thus Wou'd-be ſuffers himſelf to be preſt into the ſervice; and ſince he has com⯑menced a jolly fellow is become one of the moſt miſerable wretches upon earth.

HONEST Ned Brimmer is at preſent the moſt diſmal object that ever fell a ſacrifice to liquor. It was unluckily his firſt ambition to promote what is uſually called Good Fellowſhip: In this undertaking he has in a very few years entirely ruined his conſtitution, and now ſtalks up and down in ſo piteous a condition, as might inſpire his companions with more melan⯑choly reflections than an empty bottle. He has quite loſt all appetite; and he is now obliged to keep up a weak arti⯑ficial heat in his body, by the ſame means that deſtroyed the natural warmth of his conſtitution. Rum, brandy, and uſ⯑quebaugh are his diet-drinks, and he may perhaps linger a few months, before he falls a martyr to Good Fellowſhip.

[556]HAVING thus taken a ſhort view of the unhappy mo⯑tives, that induce men to become hard-drinkers, few perhaps will think ſuch reaſons any recommendation to Drunkenneſs: nor can I imagine they will grow more fond of it, by ob⯑ſerving what ſtrange creatures they are during their intoxi⯑cation. Shakeſpeare calls it ‘"putting a devil into their mouths to ſteal away their brains;"’ and indeed a cup too much turns a man the wrong ſide out; and wine, at the ſame time it takes away the power of ſtanding from the legs, de⯑prives the mind of all ſenſe and reflection. It is whimſical enough to conſider the different effects, which wine produces on different tempers. Sometimes, like love, it makes a fool ſenſible, and a wiſe man an aſs; and ſeems to imbibe a new quality from every different body, as water takes a tincture from the ground it runs through.

HORACE has with great pleaſantry recapitulated the various effects of wine in a ſtanza, which I have placed at the head of this paper. One man grows maudlin and weeps; ano⯑ther becomes merry and facetious; a third quarrels, throws a bottle at his companion's head, and could run his deareſt friend through the body; a fourth is mad for a girl, and falls in love with a ſtreet-walker, or an old woman roaſting cheſnuts; while to a fifth, the liquor ſerves as an opiate, and lulls him to ſleep. Shakeſpeare has alſo ſhewn this vari⯑ety of characters with great humour. Caſſio crys, ‘"let's to buſineſs,"’ and immediately begins to hiccup out his prayers, and belches out his hopes of ſalvation: Juſtice Silence, who does not ſpeak a word while he is ſober, has no ſooner ſwal⯑lowed the rouzing cup, than he roars out a catch, and grows the noiſieſt man in the company. It is reported to have been one of the moſt exquiſite entertainments to the [557] choice ſpirits in the beginning of this century, to get Addiſon and Steele together in company for the evening. Steele enter⯑tained them till he was tipſy; when the ſame wine that ſtu⯑pified him, only ſerved to elevate Addiſon, who took up the ball juſt as Steele dropt it, and kept it up for the reſt of the evening. They who have never been preſent at a ſcene of this kind may ſee the whole group of drunken characters, diſplayed at one view with infinite humour, in Hogarth's Modern Midnight Converſation.

THUS exceſs of drinking verifies all the transformations recorded in the fable of Circe's cup; and perhaps the true reaſon why Bacchus is always painted with horns, is to in⯑timate that wine turns men into beaſts. Indeed, if none were to indulge themſelves in drinking, except thoſe who, like Steele and Addiſon, could be witty and agreeable in their cups, the number of hard-drinkers would be very hap⯑pily diminiſhed. Moſt men have ſo little right to plead an excuſe of this ſort in vindication of their drunkenneſs, that wine either makes them very rude, very ſtupid, or very mad. It is a vulgar error to ſuppoſe that liquor only ſhews ill qualities, ſince it alſo frequently creates them; and engen⯑ders notions in the mind quite foreign to its natural diſpoſi⯑tion, which are the mere effects of wine, and break out, like blotches and carbuncles on the face. The diſguſtful appearance, which moſt people make when they are drunk, was what induced the Spartans to intoxicate their ſlaves, and ſhew them to their children, in order to deter them from ſo odious a vice: In like manner let the Choice Spirit, who is often ſeen hanging his head over the pot, or ſnoring in an armed-chair in a tavern, reflect what a ſhocking figure he muſt have made, when he ſees the drunken beggar ſleeping on a bulk, or rolling in the kennel.

[558]WHOEVER thus conſiders the motives that generally in⯑duce men to give into theſe exceſſes, and how ridiculous and unhappy they are often rendered by the effects, will hardly be tempted by the charms of a bottle: and, indeed, Hard-Drinking is frequently one, among the many evils, that ariſe from want of education. The dull ſquire, ſettled in the country, who has no taſte for literary amuſements, has nothing, except his dogs and horſes, but his bumper to divert him: and the town ſquire fits ſoaking for the ſame reaſons in a tavern. Theſe are the common herd of Bacchus's ſwine: but nothing is more ſhocking, than to ſee a man of ſenſe thus deſtroying his parts and conſtitution. It not only makes a terrible innovation in his whole frame and intellects; but alſo robs him of the ſociety of thoſe like himſelf, with whom he ſhould aſſociate, and reduces him to the level of a ſet of wretches; ſince all may be admitted to his com⯑pany and converſation, who are able to toſs off a bumper.

THESE conſiderations are ſufficient to convince us of the evils which reſult from hard-drinking: but it will ſhock us ſtill more, if we reflect how much it will influence our life and conduct. Whoever is engaged in a profeſſion will never apply to it with ſucceſs, while he ſticks ſo cloſe to his bottle; and the tradeſman, who endeavours to make buſineſs and plea⯑ſure compatible, will never be able to make both ends meet. Thus whether health, fame, or intereſt is regarded, Drunken⯑neſs ſhould be avoided; and we may ſay with Caſſio, ‘"Every inordinate cup is unbleſt, and the ingredient is a Devil."’

I CANNOT but admire the ingenious device prefixed to the advertiſements of Hazard's Lottery-Office, in which Fortune is repre⯑ſented hovering over the heads of a number of people, and ſcattering down all kinds of Prizes among them. What Mr. Hazard has here delineated, every adventurer in the late Lottery had pictured to himſelf: the ten thouſand conſtantly floated before his eyes, and each perſon had already poſſeſſed it in imagination. But alas! all our expectations are now at an end; the golden dream is at length vaniſhed; and thoſe, who were kept giddy all the while that the wheel of For⯑tune [560] was turning round, have now leiſure ſoberly to reflect on their diſappointment. How many unhappy tradeſmen muſt now trudge on foot all their lives, who deſigned to loll in their chariots! how many poor maidens, of good family but no fortune, muſt languiſh all their days with⯑out the comforts of an huſband and a coach and fix! Every loſer thinks himſelf ill uſed by Fortune: and even Mrs. Betty, the poſſeſſor of a ſingle ſixteenth, flies to the Office, pays her penny, and receives the tidings of her ill luck with ſurprize; goes to another Office, pays her penny, hears the ſame diſagreeable information, and can hardly, very hardly perſuade herſelf, that Fortune ſhould have doom⯑ed her ſtill to waſh the diſhes and ſcrub down the ſtairs.

THUS the views of every adventurer are directed to the ſame point, though their motives for engaging in the Lot⯑tery may be different. One man puts in, becauſe he is willing to be in Fortune's way; another, becauſe he had good luck in the laſt; and another, becauſe he never got any thing before. This indulges in the proſpect of making a fortune, and that buoys himſelf up with the hopes of retrieving his deſperate circumſtances. Every one, however, thinks himſelf as ſure of the ten thouſand, as if he had it in his pocket; and his only concern is, how to diſpoſe of it. In this light we may conſider every adventurer, as having been in actual poſſeſſion of this treaſure; and out of fifty thouſand people, who have been bleſt within this fortnight with ſuch ideal good fortune, I ſhall ſelect the fol⯑lowing inſtances, which fell within my own notice.

JOSEPH WILKINS of Thames Street Eſquire, Oilman and Cheeſemonger, got the 10,000 l. He could not bear [561] the foggy air and dingy ſituation of the City: he therefore reſolved to take an houſe at the St. James's end of the town, and intended to fit up a ſnug box at Hampſtead in the Chineſe taſte, for his retirement on Sundays. A Chariot was abſolutely neceſſary, to carry him to and from 'Change every morning: but he deſigned to have it made accord⯑ing to the modern faſhion, that it might occaſionally be con⯑verted into a Poſt-Chaiſe, to wheel him on a Saturday night to his Country-ſeat, and back again on the Monday morning. Nothing was now wanting but a careful plod⯑ding partner, who ſhould take upon himſelf the whole drudgery of the ſhop; ſo that the Squire might have no farther trouble than to receive his dividend of the profits. But while he was conſidering on whom this important favour ſhould be conferred, his ticket was drawn—blank: and Squire Wilkins is contented with his greaſy employment of meaſuring out lamp-oil, and cutting out penny-worths of Cheſhire Cheeſe.

JOHN JONES of Ludlow in the county of Salop Eſquire, Dealer and Chapman, got the 10,000 l. This gentleman was fore-warned of his ſucceſs by ſeveral undeniable to⯑kens. His lady had dreamt of a particular Number four nights together; and while the bells were ringing upon his being choſe Bailiff of the Corporation, they ſpoke in as plain words, as ever Whittington heard, ‘"Mr. John Jones will get ten thouſand pound—Mr. John Jones will get ten thouſand pound."’ He and his lady therefore came up to London: and not being able to meet with the particular Number at Hazard's or Wilſon's or any other Office always remarkable for ſelling the ten thouſands, they advertized it [562] in the papers, and got the great Prize, for only paying a guinea more for their ticket than the market-price. As Mrs. Jones knew a good deal of the world, (having lived for ſome years in quality of an upper ſervant in a great houſe,) ſhe was determined that Mr. Jones ſhould take the opportunity, now they were in town, of learning how to behave himſelf as he ſhould do, when he came to his fortune. She therefore introduced him into the beſt com⯑pany in all the houſe-keepers and ſtewards rooms in the beſt families, where ſhe was acquainted: and as Mr. Jones was ſo deficient in politeneſs, as not even to know how to make a bow in coming into a room, he had private leſſons from Mr. Dukes, who undertakes to teach Grown Gentle⯑men to dance. Mrs. Jones herſelf was very buſy in con⯑ſulting with the milliner and mantua-maker about the neweſt faſhions, when the long looked-for ten thouſand came up: and directly after the Hey-Ge-Ho carried them down again to Salop with this only conſolation, that their ticket was within one of the fortunate Number.

JONATHAN WILDGOOSE of Cheapſide, Silk Mercer, had too much taſte to be confined to dirty buſineſs, which he neglected for the more agreeable perſuits of pleaſure. Having therefore met with great loſſes in trade, he was obliged to embark the remains of his ſhattered fortune in the Lottery, and by purchaſing a number of tickets ſecured to himſelf the 10,000 l. He had determined to keep his ſucceſs ſecret, bilk his creditors by becoming bankrupt, turn the whole into an annuity for his life, and live abroad like a gentleman upon the income. But unluckily his creditors came upon him too quickly; and before he could know that he had not got the ten thouſand, hurried him [563] to jail, where he now lies, lamenting that the Act of Inſol⯑vency was not poſtponed 'till after the Lottery.

SIR HUMPHRY OLDCASTLE, having greatly dipt his eſtate by being choſen into Parliament on the Tory intereſt, mortgaged all he had left, to put himſelf in the way of the the 10,000l. for the good of his country. This ſeaſonable recruit fixed him a ſtaunch patriot: and he declared he would ſtand another election againſt all oppoſitions. But, however it happened, the finiſhing of the lottery has induced him to change his ſentiments; and Sir Humphry in lieu of the 10,000 l. has accepted a place.

JEMMY LISTER, an Attorney's Clerk, was carried into the Lottery by pure diſintereſted love. He had conceived a violent paſſion for his maſter's daughter; but the prudent old gentleman could not be prevailed on to give her away to an handſome young fellow without a penny. This enra⯑ged him ſo much, that he was in doubt whether he ſhould beſtow his 10,000 l. on the young lady, or employ it more faſhionably in keeping a girl. However, his hopes ſoon ſunk to one of the 5,000 l. prizes, which he at once deter⯑mined to ſettle upon her together with his perſon. But in this too he was diſappointed, as alſo of the other inferior prizes; and having received a poſitive refuſal from his miſtreſs, out of mere ſpite he directly married the maid.

CAPTAIN MAC MULLEN, a decayed Gameſter, made a ſhift to purchaſe the Chance of a Ticket, which came up 10,000l. He immediately flew to Arthur's (late White's,) riſked it all at Hazard, ſet the whole table, and ſtript the company of their laſt ſhilling. After this he bought running-horſes, made matches, carried off the beſt plates, and took in all the Knowing-Ones on the Turf. But ſo fluctuating is the ſituation of a Gameſter, that at the end of the Lottery [564] he found that Fortune had left him in the lurch, without ſo much as a groat to buy an halter.

I NEED not point out any particular inſtances among the other ſex, with reſpect to their diſpoſal of the 10,000 l. which every lady had ſecured by chuſing the ticket herſelf, taking particular care that the number be an odd one. The married ladies have ſufficient calls for even double this ſum, to ſupply them with the neceſſaries of dreſs, and to anſwer the expences of frequenting public diverſions: and as to the unmarried ladies, they very well know the truth of that maxim in the ballad, that ‘"in ten thouſand pounds ten thouſand charms are center'd."’ Some ancient maiden ladies, who could never be brought to think of an huſband, or to give into the vanities of the world, were reſolved to live retired upon their Prize in the country, and leave proofs of their good diſpoſitions behind them, by ſwelling out their Wills with a long liſt of Items to this or that charity or hoſpital.

BEFORE I conclude, I cannot but take notice of the great generoſity of my own PUBLISHER upon getting the 10,000 l. As his ſucceſs was owing to his laying out in the Lottery all the profits, which had already riſen from the publication of this Paper, he had determined to circulate my future numbers gratis; and had even deſigned to keep open houſe for the re⯑ception of poor authors. Unhappily for the public, as well as my brother-writers, Fortune has fruſtrated his diſintereſted ſcheme: Even I myſelf am admitted to eat his mutton but once a week; and (inſtead of giving away my papers) he has advertiſed, that the Twelves edition of the CONNOISSEUR will be publiſhed on Tueſday the 25th of this inſtant No⯑vember, in Two Pocket Volumes, Price Six Shillings bound.

AS I was going through Smithfield the other day, I obſerved an old fellow with a wooden leg, dreſt in a ſailor's habit, who courte⯑ouſly invited the paſſer-by to peep into his raree-ſhow, for the ſmall price of an half⯑penny. His exhibitions, I found, were very well ſuited to the times, and quite in character for himſelf: for among other particulars, with which he amuſed the little audience of children that ſurrounded his box, I was mightily pleaſed to hear the following, ‘"—there you ſee the Britiſh fleet perſuing the French ſhips, which are running away—there you ſee Major-General Johnſon beating the French ſoldiers in America, and taking Count Dieſkau pri⯑ſoner—there you ſee the Grand Monarque, upon his [566] knees before King George, begging his life."’ As the thoughts of the public are now wholly turned upon war, it is no wonder that every method is taken to inſpire us with a love of our country, and an abhorrence of the French king: and not only the old ſeaman with his raree-ſhow, but the public theatres have likewiſe had a view to the ſame point. At Drury-Lane we have already been enter⯑tained with the Humours of the Navy; and I am aſſured, that at Covent-Garden Mr. Barry will make an entire con⯑queſt of France in the perſon of that renowned hero Henry the fifth. And as the Engliſh are naturally fond of bloody exhibitions on the ſtage, I am told that a new Pantomime, entitled the Ohio, is preparing at this laſt houſe, more terrible than any of it's Hells, Devils, and fiery Dragons; in which will be introduced the Indian Manner of Fighting, to conclude with a repreſentation of the Grand Scalping Dance with all its Horrors.

WHILE this warlike diſpoſition prevails in the nation, I am under ſome apprehenſions, leſt the attention of the public ſhould be called off from the weighty concerns of theſe papers. I already perceive, that the common news⯑papers are more eagerly ſnatched up in the public coffee-houſes than my eſſays; and the Gazette is much oftener called for than the Connoiſſeur. For theſe reaſons I find it neceſſary to lay open my own importance before the public, to ſhew that I myſelf am acting (as it were) in a military capacity, and that Cenſor-General TOWN has done his country no leſs ſervice as a valiant and ſkilful com⯑mander at home, than Major-General Johnſon in America. Authors may very properly be ſaid to be engaged in a ſtate of literary warfare; many of whom are taken into [567] pay by thoſe great and mighty potentates the bookſellers: and it will be allowed, that they undergo no leſs hardſhips in the ſervice, than the common ſoldiers who are contented to be ſhot at for a groat a day.

IT has been my province to repell the daily inroads and encroachments made by vice and folly, and to guard the nation from an invaſion of foreign fopperies and French faſhions. The town has been principally the ſcene of action; where I have found enemies to encounter with, no leſs formidable than the Tquattotquaws or the Chickchimuckchis of North-America. But as the curioſity of the public is ſo much engaged in attending to the enterprizes of Old Hendrick the Sachem, and the incurſions of Indians who have taken up the hatchet againſt our Colonies, I am afraid that my exploits againſt the Savages, which infeſt this metropolis, will be wholly over-looked. I have therefore reſolved to give my readers freſh advices from time to time of what paſſes here, drawn up in the ſame warlike ſtile and manner as thoſe very alarming articles of news, which are commonly to be met with in our public papers.

WE hear from White's, that the forces under Major General Hoyle, which uſed to encamp at that place, are removed from thence, and have fixed their winter quarters at Arthur's. The ſame letters ſay, that an obſtinate engage⯑ment was fought there a few nights ago, in which one party gained a great booty, and the other ſuffered a conſi⯑derable loſs. We are alſo informed, that an epidemical diſtemper rages among them, and that ſeveral of the chiefs have been carried off by a ſudden death.

[568]THEY write from Covent-Garden, that laſt week a Body of Irregulars ſallied out at midnight, ſtormed ſeveral forts in that neighbourhood, and committed great outrages; but being attacked by a detachment from the allied army of watchmen, conſtables, and juſtices, they were put to flight, and ſeveral of them taken priſoners. The plague ſtill rages there with great violence, as well as in the neigh⯑bouring territories of Drury.

WE hear from the ſame place, that the Company com⯑manded by Brigadier Rich has been reinforced with ſeveral new-raiſed recruits to ſupply the place of ſome deſerters, who had gone over to the enemy: but his chief dependance is on the light-armed troops, which are very active, and are diſtinguiſhed, like the Highlanders, by their party-coloured dreſs. The enemy, on the other hand, have taken ſeveral Swiſs and Germans into pay; though they were at firſt under terrible apprehenſions of their being ſet upon by the Critics. Theſe are a rude, ignorant, ſavage people, who are always at war with the nation of Authors. Their conſtant manner of fighting is to begin the onſet with ſtrange hiſſings and noiſes, accompanied with an horrid inſtrument, named the Cat-call; which, like the War-hoop of the Indians, has ſtruck a panic into the hearts of the ſtouteſt heroes.

WE have advice from the Butcher Row, that on monday night laſt the Infidels held a grand Council of war at their head quarters in the Robin Hood, at which their good friend and ally, the Mufti of Clare-market, aſſiſted in perſon. After many debates, they reſolved to declare war againſt the Chriſtians, and never to make peace, till they had pulled [569] down all the Churches in Chriſtendom, and eſtabliſhed the Alcoran of Bolingbroke in lieu of the Bible.

ALL our advices from the City of London agree in their accounts of the great havock and ſlaughter made there on the Feſtival, commonly called My Lord Mayor's Day. All the Companies in their black uniform, and the trained bands in their regimentals, made a general forage. They carried off vaſt quantities of chickens, geeſe, ducks, and all kinds of proviſions. Major Guzzledown of Baſſiſhaw diſtinguiſhed himſelf greatly, having with ſword in hand gallantly attacked the out-works, ſcaled the walls, mounted the ramparts, and forced through the covert-way of a large fortified Cuſtard, which ſeemed impregnable.

THE Inhabitants of Suſſex have lately been alarmed with the apprehenſions of an Invaſion; as the French have been very buſy in fitting out ſeveral ſmall veſſels laden with ſtores of wine and brandy, with which it is thought they will attempt to make a deſcent ſomewhere on our coaſts. The Independant Companies of Smugglers in the ſervice of France are to be ſent on this expedition: but if the fleet of Cuſtom-houſe ſmacks, &c. do not intercept them at ſea, we are preparing to receive them as ſoon as they are landed.

FROM divers parts of the country we have advice, that the roads are every where crowded with Ladies, who (not⯑withſtanding the ſeverity of the weather) are hurrying up to London, to be preſent at the meeting of the Female Parli⯑ament. At this critical juncture the fate of the nation de⯑pends entirely on the deliberations of this wiſe and auguſt Aſſembly: and as there are known to be many diſintereſted [570] patriots in the Houſe, it is not to be doubted but that proper meaſures will be perſued for the good of their country. Many ſalutary laws are already talked of, which we could wiſh to ſee put in execution; ſuch as—A Bill for prohibiting the importation of French Milliners, Hair⯑cutters, and Mantua-makers.—A Bill for the exportation of French Cooks and French Valets de Chambres.—A Bill to reſtrain Ladies from wearing French Dreſſes.—And laſtly, a Bill to reſtrain them from wearing French Faces.

AS every marriage is a kind of family feſtival, the wedding-day is honoured with various celebrities, and diſtinguiſhed like the fifth of November, the birth-days of the Royal Family, or any other public day, with many demonſtrations of joy: The happy couple are dreſt in their richeſt ſuits, the bells ring all day, and the evening is con⯑cluded with the merry ceremony of throwing the Stocking. But theſe feſtivities are not always ſo religiouſly obſerved in Town, where many a pair of quality are tacked together with the utmoſt privacy, and immediately after ſneak out of town, as if they were aſhamed to ſhew their faces after what they had done. In the Country, when the ſquire, or [572] any other perſon of diſtinction is married, the Honey-Moon is almoſt a continued Carnival: and every marriage is ac⯑counted more or leſs likely to be proſperous, in proportion to the number of deer, oxen, and ſheep, that are killed on the occaſion, and the hogſheads of wine and tuns of ale, with which they are waſhed down. By the laſt poſt I received an account from my Couſin VILLAGE, of the wedding of a near relation, with a particular detail of the magnificence of the entertainment, the ſplendor of the ball, and the uni⯑verſal joy of the whole manour. At the ſame time I received compliments from the new-married couple, with a large ſlice of the BRIDE-CAKE; the virtues of which are well known to every girl of thirteen. I was never in poſ⯑ſeſſion of this nuptial charm before: but I was ſo much delighted with this matrimonial token, and it excited in my mind ſo many reflections on conjugal happineſs, that (though I did not lay it under my pillow,) it gave oc⯑caſion to the following Dream.

I FOUND myſelf in the middle of a ſpacious building, which was crouded with a variety of perſons of both ſexes; and upon enquiry was told, that it was the Temple of the God of Marriage; and that every one who had an incli⯑nation to ſacrifice to that Deity, was invited to approach a large altar which was covered with a great number of CAKES of different ſhapes and appearance. Some of theſe were moulded into the form of hearts; and others were woven into true-lovers-knots: ſome were ſtrewed with ſugar, and ſtuck about with ſweet-meats; ſome were covered with gold; ſome were ſtamped with coronets; and others had their tops embelliſhed with glittering toys, that repreſented a fine houſe, a ſet of jewels, a coach and [573] ſix or the like. Plutus and Cupid were buſily employed in diſtributing theſe Cakes (which were all of them marked with the word MATRIMONY, and called BRIDE-CAKES) to different perſons, who were allowed to chuſe for them⯑ſelves, according to their different views and inclinations.

I OBSERVED ſeveral haſten to the altar, who all appeared to be differently affected by their choice. To ſome the Cakes ſeemed of ſo delicious a flavour, that they imagined they ſhould never be ſurfeited; while others who found the taſte very agreeable at firſt, in a ſhort time declared it to be flat and inſipid: However, I could not help remark⯑ing, that many more (particularly among the quality) ad⯑dreſſed themſelves to Plutus, than to Cupid.

BEING deſirous to take a nearer view of the company, I puſhed through the croud, and placed myſelf cloſe by the altar. A young couple now advanced, and applying to Cupid, deſired him to reach them one of the Cakes, in the ſhape of a double heart pearced through with darts; but juſt as they were going to ſhare it betwixt them, a crabbed old fellow, whom I found to be the girl's father, ſtepped up, broke the cake in two, and obliged the young lady to fix upon another which Plutus picked out for her, and which repreſented the figure of a fine gentleman in gilt ginger-bread.

AN old fellow of ſixty-two, who had ſtolen one day from the buſineſs of the 'Change and the Alley, next came towards the altar, and ſeemed to expreſs a ſtrong deſire for a Cake. Plutus, who recollected him at firſt ſight, immedi⯑ately offered him one, which, though very mouldy and [574] coarſe, was gilt all over; but he was aſtoniſhed at the old gentleman's refuſing it, and petitioning Cupid for a Cake of the moſt elegant form and ſweeteſt ingredients of any on the altar. The little God at firſt repulſed him with indig⯑nation, but afterwards ſold it to him for a large ſum of money; a circumſtance which amazed me beyond expreſ⯑ſion, but which I ſoon found was very commonly practiſed in this Temple. The old fellow retired with his purchaſed prize: and though I imagined he might ſtill have a colt's tooth remaining, after having for ſome time mumbled it be⯑tween his old gums in vain, it lay by him untouched and unenjoyed.

I WAS afterwards very much diſguſted with the many inſtances that occurred, of theſe delicate morſels being ſet up to ſale: and I found, that their price roſe and fell, like that of beef or mutton, according to the glut or ſcarcity of the market. I was particularly affected with the diſpoſal of the two following. A young gentleman and lady were ap⯑proaching the altar, and had agreed to take between them a Cake of a plain form but delicious flavour, marked Love and Competence; but a perſon of quality ſtepping forward perſuaded the falſe female to join with him, and receive from Plutus a glittering dainty, marked Indifference and a large Settlement. Another lady was coming up with a Knight of the Bath, being tempted by a Cake with a red ribbon ſtreaming from it, like the flags on a Twelfth-Cake; but was prevailed on by a perſon of greater rank and diſ⯑tinction to accept a more ſhowy Cake, adorned with a blue ribbon and a coronet.

A BUXOM dame of an amourous complexion came next, and begged very hard for a Cake. She had before received [575] ſeveral which ſuited her tooth, and pleaſed her palate ſo exceſſively, that as ſoon as ſhe had diſpatched one, ſhe conſtantly came to Cupid for another. She now ſeized her Cake with great tranſport, and retiring to a corner with it, I could diſcern her greedily mumbling the delicious morſel, though ſhe had fairly worn out ſix and twenty of her teeth in the ſervice. After this an ancient lady came tottering up to the altar, ſupported by a young fellow in a red coat with a ſhoulder-knot. Plutus gave him a ſtale Cake marked with the word JOINTURE in large golden capitals, which he received with ſome reluctance, while the old lady eagerly ſnatched another from Cupid, (who turned his head aſide from her,) on which I could plainly diſcover the word DOTAGE.

A RICH ruſty batchelor of the laſt century then came buſtling through the croud. He brought with him a red⯑cheeked country girl of nineteen. As he approached the altar, he met ſeveral coming from it with Cakes, which he had refuſed: ſome of which were marked Riches, ſome Family, ſome Beauty, and one or two Affection. The girl he brought with him proved to be his dairy-maid, whom he had for ſome time paſt been in vain attempting to bring over to his wiſhes; but at laſt finding his deſign impracticable, he came with her to the altar. He ſeemed, indeed, a little aſhamed of his undertaking, and betrayed a good deal of aukwardneſs in his manner and deportment. However, as ſoon as he had taken his Cake, he retired; and determined to ſpend the reſt of his days with his milch-cow in the country.

TO ſatisfy a modeſt longing, there now advanced a mai⯑den lady in the bloom of threeſcore. She had, it ſeems, heretofore refuſed ſeveral offers from Cupid and Plutus; but [576] being enraged to find, that they had now given over all thoughts of her, ſhe ſeized by the hand a young Enſign of the Guards, and carried him to the altar, whence ſhe her⯑ſelf ſnatched up a Cake, and divided it with her gallant. She was highly delighted with the taſte of it at firſt, but her partner being very ſoon cloyed, ſhe too late diſcovered that the half which ſhe held in her hand was ſigned Folly, and that which ſhe had forced upon her paramour was marked Averſion.

A LITTLE, pert, forward Miſs in a frock and hanging ſleeves briſkly ran up to Cupid, and begged for a Cake: what it was ſhe did not care; but a Cake ſhe muſt and would have, of one kind or another. She had juſt ſtretched out her hand to receive one from Cupid, when her mamma interpoſed, ſent the child back again blubbering to the boarding-ſchool, and carried off the Cake herſelf.

AN old woman, fantaſtically dreſt, then burſt into the Temple, and run raving up to the altar, crying out that her name was MARY SINGLETON, and ſhe would have an huſ⯑band. But the poor lady ſeemed likely to be diſappointed; for as ſhe could prevail on no one to join hands with her, both Cupid and Plutus refuſed to favour her with a Cake. Furious with rage and deſpair, ſhe ſnatched one off the altar; and ſeizing on the firſt man that came in her way, (which unfortunately happened to be myſelf,) ſhe would have crammed it forcibly down my throat. As the leaſt crumb of it was as diſagreeable as a drench to an horſe, I began to ſpawl and ſputter and keck; and though the flurry of ſpirits, which it occaſioned, awaked me, I thought I had the nauſeous taſte of it ſtill in my mouth.

I REMEMBER to have heard a couſin of mine, who was formerly at Cambridge, often men⯑tion a ſect of Philoſophers diſtinguiſhed by the reſt of the collegians by the appellation of Tuft-Hunters. Theſe were not the diſciples of the Stoics or Epicureans, or the advocates for the old or new philoſophy, but the followers, literally ſpeaking, of the fellow-commoners, noblemen, and other rich ſtudents, whom, it ſeems, the courteſy of the Univer⯑ſity has honoured with a cap adorned with a gold toſſel. Theſe few gold threads have almoſt as much influence in the Univerſity as a red or blue ribband at court, and always draw after the wearer a train of humble companions, who [584] will be at his call to breakfaſt, dine, or ſup with him whenever he pleaſes, will go with him any where, drink with him, wench with him, borrow his money, or let him pay their reckoning. They are, I am told, a ſort of diſeaſe of the place, which a man of fortune is ſure to catch as ſoon as he arrives there: and theſe faſt friends ſtick ſo cloſe to him, that he can never ſhake them off, while he keeps his gown on his back.

THE Univerſity of London is not without its Tuft-Hunters, who faſten, like leeches, on a young man of fortune at his firſt coming to town. They beſet him as ſoon as he arrives, and when they have once ſurrounded him, ſeldom fail of ſe⯑curing him to themſelves; for no perſons of character care to have any connections with him, when he has been fre⯑quently ſeen in ſuch bad company. It is a great misfortune for any young gentleman to fall into their hands: though indeed, as a fool is the natural prey of knaves, the wealthy maintainers of this fraternity are generally none of the wi⯑ſeſt: And as at the Univerſity, ‘"where the learned pate ducks to the golden fool,"’ the gentleman-ſtudent is diſtinguiſhed by a cap with a gold tuft, I always conſider theſe ſons of folly in town as adorned with a ſhowy cap hung with bells, which ſerve at once to denote the depth of their parts, and to call their train about them.

THE dialect of the town has very expreſſively charac⯑teriſed theſe humble dependants on men of fortune by the name of Hangers-on. They will, indeed, take ſuch ſure hold, and hang on a man ſo conſtantly, that it is almoſt im⯑poſſible to drop them. Whenever the gentleman appears, the Hanger-on is ſure to be at his elbow. They will ſqueeze [585] themſelves into every party that is formed; and I have known inſtances of their thruſting themſelves into ſtrange families, by ſticking to their patron's ſkirts, and impu⯑dently introducing themſelves where he has been invited to dinner: which, indeed, I think would not be an im⯑proper cuſtom, provided they would ſubmit to ſtand behind his chair. They will ſtick ſo cloſely, that all the adheſive quality of burs, pitch, &c. ſeem to be collected in them; and the line in Pope's Odyſſey, ſo often ridiculed, may rather be conſidered as emphaſis than tautology in ſpeaking of Them. The Hanger-on clings to his fool, as Ulyſſes did to the rock, and in Pope's words,

THE tenaciouſneſs of a Hanger-on is ſo very ſtrong, that whoever is drawn into their ſnares, is ſo firmly limed he can hardly ever looſe himſelf from them. For as nothing but the loweſt meanneſs of ſpirit could ever prevail on a man to ſubmit to ſuch dependance on another, it is in vain to think of getting rid of ſuch abject wretches by treating them with contempt. They will take as much beating, provided you will allow them an equal degree of familiarity, as a ſpaniel. They will alſo ſubmit to do any little offices, and are glad to make themſelves uſeful, whenever they have an opportunity. They will go among the brokers to borrow money for you, pimp for you, or ſubmit to any other ſuch gentleman-like employment to ſerve their friend.

IT muſt here be noted, that every Hanger-on is a perſon of ſtrict honour and a gentleman; for though his fortune is (to be ſure) ſomewhat inferior to yours, and he ſubmits to [586] make himſelf convenient on ſeveral occaſions, yet on that account you are indebted to his infinite good-nature; and all his endeavours to ſerve you proceed from his great friend⯑ſhip and regard for you. I remember one of theſe friendly gentlemen, who carried his eſteem ſo far, that in a quarrel with his rich companion, in which he was favoured with ſeveral tweaks by the noſe and kicks on the breech, he received all theſe injuries with patience, and only ſaid with tears in his eyes, ‘"Dear Jack, I never expected this uſage from you. You know I don't mind fighting; but I ſhould never have a moment's peace, if I was to do you the leaſt injury. Come, Jack, let us buſs and be friends."’ Their gentility is unqueſtionable, for they are ſeldom of any trade, though they are ſometimes (being younger-brothers perhaps) of a profeſſion. I know one, who is a nominal lawyer; but though his friend has often fee'd him, our Counſellor could never with any propriety con⯑ſider him as a client; and I know another, who (like Gibbet in the play) is called Captain, whoſe elegant manner of living muſt be ſupported by his being on full pay with his patron, ſince he does not receive even the common ſoldier's groat a day from his commiſſion. However, con⯑ſidering at one view the gentility of their profeſſion, and the ſhortneſs of their finances, I often look on them as a band of decayed gentlemen, the honourable penſioners of thoſe they follow. The great men among the Romans had a number of theſe Hangers-on, which attended them where-ever they went, and were emphatically called Umbrae, or Shadows; and, indeed, this appellation conveys a very full idea of the nature of theſe humble retainers to the wealthy, ſince they not only follow them like their ſhadows, but ‘"like a ſhadow prove the ſubſtance true:"’ for whenever [587] you obſerve one or more of theſe Umbrae perpetually at the heels of any gentleman, you may fairly conclude him to be a man of fortune.

THESE faithful friends are ſo careful of every thing that concerns you, that they always enquire with the greateſt exactneſs into your affairs, and know almoſt as well as your ſteward the income of your eſtate. They are alſo ſo fond of your company, and ſo deſirous of preſerving your good opi⯑nion, that a Hanger-on will take as much pains to keep you entirely to himſelf, and to prevent a rival in your af⯑fections, as a miſtreſs: and as a convenient female is a very neceſſary part of the equipage of a perſon of faſhion, theſe male companions muſt be a very agreeable part of the retinue of thoſe high-ſpirited young gentlemen, who are fond of being the head of their company. It is only a more refined taſte in expence to pay a man for laughing at your wit, and in⯑dulging your humour: and who will either drink his bottle with you at the tavern, or run to the end of the town for you on an errand.

I MIGHT alſo take notice of an humbler ſort of Hangers-on, who fix themſelves to no one particular, but faſten upon all their friends in their turns. Their views, indeed, are ſeldom extended beyond a preſent ſubſiſtence, and their utmoſt aim perhaps is to get a dinner. For this purpoſe they keep a regiſter of the hours of dining of all their acquaintance; and though they contrive to call in upon you juſt as you are ſitting down to table, they are always with much difficulty prevailed upon to take a chair. If you dine abroad, or are gone into the country, they will eat with your family to prevent their being melancholy on account [588] of your abſence; or if your family is out, they will break⯑faſt, dine, and ſup with you out of charity, becauſe you ſhould not be alone. Every houſe is haunted with theſe diſturbers of our meals: and perhaps the beſt way to get rid of them, would be to put them, with the reſt of your ſervants, upon board-wages.

BUT beſides theſe danglers after men of fortune, and in⯑truders on your table in town, the country breeds a race of lowly retainers, which may properly be ranked among the ſame ſpecies. Almoſt every family ſupports a poor kinſman, who happening to be no way related to the eſtate, was too proud of his blood to apply himſelf in his youth to any profeſſion, and rather choſe to be ſupported in lazineſs at the family-ſeat. They are, indeed, known perhaps to be cou⯑ſins to the ſquire, but do not appear in a more creditable light than his ſervants out of livery; and ſometimes actually ſubmit to as mean offices of drudgery as the groom or whipper-in. The whole fraternity of Hangers-on, whether in town or country, or under whatever denomination, are the ſons of idleneſs: for it will be found upon examina⯑tion, that whenever a man, whoſe bread depends on his induſtry, gives himſelf up to indolence, he becomes capable of any meanneſs whatever: and if they cannot dig, yet like our Hangers-on, to beg they are not aſhamed.

AS the appointed time of our publication now happens to fall on New-year's-day, I cannot open the buſineſs of the year with a better grace, than by taking the preſent hour for the ſubject of this paper: a ſubject, which pleaſes me the more, as it alſo gives me an opportunity of paying my readers the compliments of the ſeaſon, and moſt ſincerely wiſhing them all a happy new year, and a great many of them. But in order to make theſe civilities of more conſequence than a bare compliment, I will alſo endeavour to give them a little [608] wholeſome advice, by which they may be moſt likely to enſure to themſelves that happineſs, and to go through the enſuing year with eaſe and tranquility.

No God in the heathen Pantheon was expreſſed by properer emblems, or more ſignificantly repreſented, than Janus, whom we may fairly ſtile, in our language, the God of the New Year. The medals on which the image of this Deity was engraved bore two faces, not ogling each other like thoſe on the ſhillings of Philip and Mary, nor cheek by jowl like the double viſage on the coin of William and Mary, but turned from each other, one looking forwards, as it were, into futurity, and the other taking a retroſpective view of what was paſt. There can⯑not ſurely be deviſed a ſtronger, or more ſenſible leſſon of moral inſtruction, than this figure teaches us. This double view comprehends in itſelf the ſum of human prudence; for the moſt perfect reaſon can go no higher than wiſely to gueſs at the future, by reflecting on the paſt; and morality is never ſo likely to perſevere in a ſteady and uniform courſe, as when it ſets out with a fix'd determination of mutually regulating the New Year by a recollection of the Old, and at the ſame time making the ſucceeding a critique on the laſt.

Moſt of the faults in the general conduct of mankind, and their frequent miſcarriages in their moſt favourite en⯑terprizes, will be found, upon examination, to reſult from an imperfect and partial view of what relates to their duty or undertakings. Some regulate their actions by blind gueſs, and raſhly preſuming on the future, without the leaſt attention to the paſt. With theſe the impe⯑tuoſity of the paſſions gives their reaſon no ſcope to exert itſelf, but, neglecting the premiſes, they jump to a con⯑clusion. Others, who are often taken for men of deep [609] reflection and marvellous underſtanding, meditate ſo profoundly on the paſt, that they ſcarce take any notice either of the preſent or the future. To theſe two cha⯑racters, whoſe miſconduct ariſes from two ſuch contrary ſources, may indeed be added a third, whoſe wild irre⯑gular behaviour is founded on no fix'd principles, but proceeds from a total abſence of thought and reflection. Theſe eaſy creatures act entirely at random, neither troubling themſelves with what has been, what is, or what will be; and, as the image of Janus ſeems to bear two heads, theſe thoughtleſs vacant animals may almoſt be ſaid to have no head at all.

But that the neceſſity of taking this comprehensive view of our affairs may appear in the ſtronger light, let us conſider the many difficulties in which men of any of the above characters are involved from a total neglect or partial ſurvey of matters that ſhould influence their conduct. The firſt ſort of men, who nouriſh great expectations from the future, and ſuffer hope to lay their prudence to ſleep, are very common: Indeed almoſt every man, like the dairy-maid with her pail of milk, pleaſes himſelf with calculating the advantages he ſhall reap from his undertakings. There is ſcarce a ſervitor at either univerſity, who, when he takes orders, does not think it more than poſſible he may one day be a biſhop, or at leaſt head of a college, though perhaps at firſt he is glad to ſnap at a curacy. Every walking attendant on our hoſpitals flatters himſelf that a few years will ſettle him in high practice and a chariot: and among thoſe few gentlemen of the inns of court, who really deſerve the name of ſtudents, there is hardly one who ſits down to Lord Coke without imagining that he may himſelf, ſome time or other, be Lord Chancellor. At this early period [610] of life theſe vain hopes may perhaps ſerve as ſpurs to dili⯑gence and virtue; but what ſhall we ſay to thoſe people, who in ſpite of experience and repeated diſappointments, ſtill place their chief dependance on groundleſs expecta⯑tions from their future fortune? This Town ſwarms with people who rely almoſt ſolely on contingencies: and our goals are often filled with wretches who brought on their own poverty and misfortunes, by promiſing themſelves great profit from ſome darling ſcheme, which has at laſt been attended with bankruptcy. The preſent extra⯑vagance of many of our ſpend-thrifts is built on ſome ideal riches of which they are ſoon to be in poſ⯑ſeſſion; and which they are laying out as freely, as the girl in the farce ſquanders the ten thouſand pounds ſhe was to get in the lottery. I am myſelf acquainted with a young fellow who had great expectations from an old uncle. He had ten thouſand pounds of his own in ready money; and as the old gentleman was a good deal turned of ſixty, the nephew very conſiderately computed, that his uncle could hardly laſt above five years, during which time he might go on very genteely at the rate of 2000l. per ann. However the old gentleman held toge⯑ther above ſeven years, the two laſt of which our young ſpark had no conſolation but the daily hopes of his uncle's death. The happy hour at length arrived; the will was tore open with rapture; when, alas! the fond youth diſcovered, that he had never once reflected, that though he had a ticket in the wheel, it might poſſibly come up a blank, and had the mortification to find himſelf disin⯑herited.

I ſhall not dwell ſo particularly on the ridiculous folly of thoſe profound ſpeculatiſts, who fix their attention en⯑tirely on what is paſt, without making their reflections of ſervice either for the preſent or the future, becauſe it is not a very common or tempting ſpecies of abſurdity: [611] but ſhall rather adviſe the reader to conſider the time paſt, as the ſchool of experience, from which he may draw the moſt uſeful leſſons for his future conduct. This kind of retroſpect would teach us to provide with fore⯑ſight againſt the calamities to which our inexperience has hitherto expoſed us, though at the ſame time it would not throw us ſo far back, as to keep us lagging, like the Old Stile, behind the reſt of the world. To ſay the truth, thoſe ſage perſons who are given to ſuch deep re⯑flection, as to let to-day and to-morrow paſs unregarded by meditating on yeſterday, are as ridiculous in their con⯑duct, as country beaux in their dreſs, who adopt the town modes, juſt after they are become unfaſhionable in London.

But there is no taſk ſo difficult as to infuſe ideas into a brain hitherto entirely unaccuſtomed to thinking: for how can we warn a man to avoid the misfortunes which may hereafter befal him, or to improve by the calamities he has already ſuffered, whoſe actions are not the reſult of thought, or guided by experience? Theſe perſons are, indeed, of all others, the moſt to be pitied. They are prodigal and abandoned in their conduct, and by vi⯑cious exceſſes ruin their conſtitution, till at length poverty and death ſtare them in the face together; or if, unfortu⯑nately, their crazy frame holds together after the utter deſtruction of their fortune, they finiſh a thoughtleſs life by an act of deſperation, and a piſtol puts an end to their miſeries.

Since then good fortune cannot be expected to fall into our laps, and it requires ſome thought to enſure to our⯑ſelves a likelihood of ſucceſs in our undertakings, let us look back with attention on the old year, and gather inſtruc⯑tions from it in what manner to conduct ourſelves through [612] the New. Let us alſo endeavour to draw from it a leſſon of morality: and I hope it will not be thought too ſolemn a concluſion of this paper, if I adviſe my readers to carry this reflection even into religion. This train of thought, that teaches us at once to reflect on the paſt, and look forward to the future, will alſo naturally lead us to look up with awe and admiration towards that Being who has exiſted from all eternity, and ſhall exiſt world with⯑out end. No idea can give us a more exalted idea of the Power who firſt created us, and whoſe providence is always over us. Let us then conſider with attention this pagan image, by which we may add force to our morality, and prudence to our ordinary conduct; nor let us bluſh to receive a leſſon from Heathens, which may animate our zeal and reverence for the Author of Chriſtianity.

I MUST agree with my correſpondent, that the ſtudy of Heraldry is at preſent in very little repute among us; and our nobility are more anxious about preſerving the genealogy of their horſes, than of their own family. Whatever value their progenitors may have formerly ſet upon their Blood, it is now found to be of no value, when put into the ſcale and weighed againſt ſolid plebeian gold: Nor would the moſt illuſtrious deſcendant from Cadwallader, or the Iriſh Kings, ſcruple to debaſe his lineage by an alliance with the daughter of a city-plumb, though all her anceſtors were yeomen, and none of her family ever bore arms. Titles of quality, when the owners have no other merit to recommend them, are of no more eſtimation, than thoſe which the courteſy of the vulgar have beſtowed on the deformed: and when I look over a long Tree of Deſcent, I ſometimes fancy I can diſcover the real characters of Sharpers, Repro⯑bates, and Plunderers of their Country, concealed under the titles of Dukes, Earls, and Viſcounts.

IT is well known, that the very ſervants, in the abſence of their maſter, aſſume the ſame titles; and Tom or Harry, the butler or groom of his Grace, is always my Lord Duke [618] in the kitchen or ſtables. For this reaſon I have thought proper to preſent my reader with the Pedigree of a Footman, drawn up in the ſame ſounding titles, as are ſo pompouſly diſplayed on theſe occasions: and I dare ſay it will appear no leſs illuſtrious, than the pedigrees of many families, which are neither celebrated for their actions, nor diſtinguiſhed by their virtues.

THE Family of the SKIPS, or SKIP-KENNELS, is very antient and noble. The founder of it Maitre Jaques came into England with the Dutcheſs of Mazarine. He was ſon of a Prince of the Blood, his mother one of the Meſdames of France: This family is therefore related to the moſt illuſ⯑trious Maitres d' Hotèl and Valets de Chambre of that kindgom. Jaques had iſſue two Sons, viz. Robert and Paul; of whom Paul the youngeſt was inveſted with the purple before he was eighteen, and made a Biſhop, and ſoon after became an Archbiſhop. Robert, the elder, came to be a Duke, but died without iſſue: Paul, the Archbiſhop, left behind him an only daughter, Barbara, baſe-born, who was afterwards Maid of Honour; and inter-marrying with a Lord of the Bed-chamber, had a very numerous iſſue by him; viz. Re⯑becca, born a week after their marriage, and died young; Joſeph, firſt a Squire, afterwards Knighted, High Sheriff of a County, and Colonel of the Militia; Peter, raiſed from a Cabin-Boy to a Lord of the Admiralty; William, a Faggot in the Firſt Regiment of the Guards, and a Brigadier; Tho⯑mas, at firſt an Earl's Eldeſt Son, and afterwards Lord Mayor of the City of London. The ſeveral branches of this family were no leſs diſtinguiſhed for their illuſtrious progeny. Jaques the founder, firſt quartered lace on his coat, and Robert added the ſhoulder-knot. Some of them, indeed, met with great trouble: Archbiſhop Paul loſt his See for getting a cook-maid with child; Barbara, the Maid of Honour, was diſmiſſed with a big belly; Brigadier William was killed by a Chairman in a pitched battle at an ale-houſe; the Lord of the Admi⯑ralty was tranſported for ſeven years; and Duke Robert had the misfortune to be hanged at Tyburn.

IT may not be improper, as my correſpondent has but ſlightly touched upon this topic, to add a word or two, by way of poſtcript to his letter, on the extraordinary ſollici⯑tude of many notable houſewives in the care and preſerva⯑tion of their furniture. In middling genteel families it is not uncommon to have things more for ſhew than uſe: [624] and I cannot but applaud the ingenious thought of a friend of mine, who has contrived to furniſh his houſe in the moſt elegant taſte at a very ſmall expence. He is pleaſed, it is true, to eat off your common ſtone ware, becauſe it looks ſo clean; but you ſee his beaufet crowded with a variety of curious enamelled China plates, which are ranged in ſuch manner as to conceal the ſtreaks of white paint that cement the broken pieces together: he likes to drink his porter out of the original ale-houſe pewter pot; but a large ſilver tan⯑kard always ſtands upon the ſide-board, which the moſt curious eye cannot at that diſtance diſcover to be French plate. The whole range of rooms in his middle ſtory is moſt grandly fitted up: but as it would be pity to ſoil ſuch good furniture, his curtains, which we muſt ſuppoſe to be made of the richeſt damaſk, are carefully pinned up in paper-bags; and the chairs, of which the ſeats and backs are undoubtedly of the ſame ſtuff, are no leſs cautiouſly ſkreened with ordinary-checked linnen. Thus does he an⯑ſwer, by the appearance of finery, all the purpoſes of pride and oſtentation:—Like many families, who being really poſſeſſed of ornamental and uſeful furniture, make no more uſe of it than the beau blockhead does of his library; which, though it contains many books finely bound and gilt, is deſigned merely for ſhew, and it would ſpoil the backs or rumple the leaves to look into the contents of them.

THE uſe of language is the ready communi⯑cation of our thoughts to one another. As we cannot produce the objects which raiſe ideas in our minds, we uſe words which are made ſigns of thoſe objects themſelves. No man could convey to another the idea of a table or chair, without pointing to thoſe pieces of furniture: as children are taught to remember the names of things by looking at their pictures. Thus if I wanted to mention King Charles on horſe-back, I muſt carry my companion to Charing-Croſs; and would I next tell him of the ſtatue of Sir John Barnard, we muſt trudge back again, and he muſt wait for my mean⯑ing 'till we got to the Royal Exchange. We ſhould be like the ſages of Laputa, who (as Gulliver tells us) having ſubſtituted things for words, uſed to carry about them [626] ſuch things as were neceſſary to expreſs the particular buſineſs they were to diſcourſe on. ‘"I have often beheld (ſays he) two of thoſe ſages almoſt ſinking under the weight of their packs, like pedlars among us: who, when they met in the ſtreets, would lay down their loads, open their ſacks, and hold converſation for an hour together; then put up their implements, help each other to reſume their burthens, and take their leave."’ In theſe circumſtances a man of the feweſt words could not, indeed, talk without carrying about him a much larger apparatus of converſation, than is contained in the bag of the noted Yeates, or any other ſlight-of-hand artiſt: he could not ſpeak of a chicken or an owl, but it muſt be ready in his pocket to be produ⯑ced. In ſuch a caſe we could not ſay we heard, but we ſaw the converſation of a friend; as in the epiſtolary correſpond⯑ence carried on by thoſe pretty hieroglyphic letters (as they are called), where the picture of a deer and a woman finely dreſt is made to ſtand for the expreſſion of dear lady.

BUT the invention of words has removed theſe difficulties; and we may talk not only of any thing we have ſeen, but what neither we, nor the perſons to whom we ſpeak, ever ſaw. Thus we can convey to another the idea of a battle, without being reduced to the diſagreeable neceſſity of learn⯑ing it ‘"from the cannon's mouth:"’ and we can talk of the people in the world of the moon, without being obliged to make uſe of Biſhop Wilkins's artificial wings to fly thither. Words, therefore, in the ordinary courſe of life, are like the paper-money among merchants; invented as a more ready conveyance, by which the largeſt ſum can be tranſ⯑mitted to the moſt diſtant places with as much eaſe as a let⯑ter; while the ſame in ſpecie would require bags and cheſts, and even carts or ſhips to tranſport it. But, however great theſe advantages are, the uſe of language has brought along with it ſeveral inconveniences, as well as paper-money: for as this latter is more liable to miſcarry, more eaſily concealed, [627] carried off, or counterfeited than bullion, merchants have frequent cauſe to complain, that the convenience of this ſort of caſh is not without ſome alloy of evil; and we find, that in the uſe of language there is ſo much room for deceit and miſtake, that though it does not render it uſeleſs, it is much to be wiſhed ſome remedy could be contrived.

MEN are ſo apt to uſe the ſame words in different ſenſes, and to call the ſame thing by different names, that they can⯑not oftentimes underſtand or be underſtood. If one calls that thing black which another calls green, or that prodigality which another calls generoſity, they miſtake each other's meaning; and can never come to agree, 'till they explain the words. It is to this we owe ſo much wrangling in diſ⯑courſe, and ſo many volumes of controverſy on almoſt every part of literature. I have known a diſpute carried on with great warmth, and when the diſputants have come to explain what each meant, it has been diſcovered they were both of a ſide: like the men in the Play, who met and fought firſt, and after each had been heartily beat found themſelves to be friends. What ſhould we ſay, if this practice of calling things by their wrong names was to obtain among tradeſmen? If you was to ſend to your haberdaſher for an hat, you might receive a pair of ſtockings; or inſtead of a cordial julep from your apothecary, be furniſhed with a cathartic or a clyſter.

IT would be needleſs to inſiſt on the inconveniences ari⯑ſing from the miſuſe or miſapprehenſion of terms in all ver⯑bal combats; whether they be fought on the ſpot by word of mouth, or (like a game of Cheſs) maintained, even tho' lands and ſeas interpoſe, by the aſſiſtance of the preſs. In our ordinary converſation it is notorious, that no leſs confu⯑ſion has ariſen from the wrong application or perverſion of the original and moſt natural import of words. Thus, for inſtance, the word Devil, is uſed at preſent only as a bug⯑bear for children; nor will it raiſe in the moſt vulgar minds [628] the idea even of a cloven foot or the ſmell of brimſtone: and all we can underſtand by it are, the errand-boy of a printing-houſe, the name of a tavern, and the broiled giz⯑zard of a turkey. The no leſs tremendous words, damned and helliſh, are uſurped equally to ſignify any thing ſuperla⯑tively good, as well as bad: and I am almoſt aſhamed to mention, that we cannot wonder a particular liquor ſhould be diſtinguiſhed by the name of biſhop, when the title of the higheſt dignitary of our church has been proſtituted to a more ſcandalous purpoſe. A mere country put might be ſtartled (at this juncture eſpecially) at the warlike ſound of a route, a drum, or a drum-major; which, we know, have been long adopted by the faſhionable world without any de⯑ſign to alarm us with the notion of a campaign or a battle, but only to call us (without a pun) to more peaceful engage⯑ments: and he would be very much ſurpriſed to receive a card from a lady of quality inviting him to an Hurricane, or perhaps an EARTHQUAKE.

I REMEMBER, when I commenced author, I publiſhed a little pamphlet, which I flattered myſelf had ſome merit, though I muſt confeſs it did not ſell. Conſcious of my grow⯑ing fame, I reſolved to ſend the firſt fruits of it to an aunt in the country, that my relations might judge of the great ho⯑nour I was likely to prove to the family: but how was I mortified, when the good lady ſent me word, ‘"that ſhe was ſorry to find I had ruined myſelf, and had wrote a book; for the parſon of the pariſh had aſſured her, that authors were never worth a farthing, and always died in a goal."’ Notwithſtanding this remonſtrance I have ſtill perſiſted in my ruin; which at preſent I cannot ſay is quite compleated, as I can make three meals a day, have yet a coat to my back, with a clean ſhirt for Sundays at leaſt, and am lodged ſomewhat below a garret. However, this pre⯑diction of my aunt has often led me to conſider, in how many ſenſes different from its general acceptation the word [629] RUINED is frequently made uſe of. When we hear this ap⯑plied to another, we ſhould naturally imagine the perſon is reduced to a ſtate worſe than he was in before, and ſo low that it is ſcarce poſſible for him to riſe again: but we ſhall often find, inſtead of his being undone, that he has rather met with ſome extraordinary good fortune; and that thoſe who pronounce him ruined, either mean you ſhould underſtand it in ſome other light, or elſe call him undone, becauſe he differs from them in his way of life, or becauſe they wiſh him to be in that ſituation. I need not point out the extreme cruelty, as well as injuſtice, in the miſapplica⯑tion of this term; as it may litterally ruin a man, by de⯑ſtroying his character: according to the old Engliſh proverb, give a dog an ill name, and hang him.

MOST people are, indeed, ſo entirely taken up with their own narrow views, that, like the jaundiced eye, every thing appears to them of the ſame colour; and it is no wonder, that they ſhould ſee ruin ſtaring every man in the face, who happens not to think as they do. From this ſelfiſh preju⯑dice we are led to make a wrong judgment of the motives and actions of others: I ſhall, therefore, here ſet down a catalogue of ſome of my own acquaintance, whom the cha⯑rity and good-nature of the world have not ſcrupled to pro⯑nounce abſolutely ruined.

BEFORE I conclude I cannot but take notice of the ſtrange ſenſe, in which a friend of mine once heard this word uſed by a girl of the town. The young creature, being all life and ſpirits, engroſſed all the converſation to herſelf; and her⯑ſelf indeed was the ſubject of all the converſation: But what moſt ſurpriſed him, was the manner, in which ſhe uſed this word Ruined; which occurred frequently in her diſcourſe, though never intended by her to convey the meaning gene⯑rally affixed to it. It ſerved her ſometimes as an aera to determine the date of every occurrence—ſhe bought ſuch a gown juſt after ſhe was ruined—the firſt time ſhe ſaw Garrick in Ranger, ſhe was in doubt whether it was before or after ſhe was ruined.—Having occaſion to mention a young gen⯑tleman, ſhe burſt into raptures—O he is a dear creature!—He it was that ruined me.—O he is a dear ſoul!—He car⯑ried me to an inn ten miles from my father's houſe in the country, where he ruined me.—If he had not ruined me, I ſhould have been as miſerable and as moping as my ſiſters. But the dear ſoul was forced to go to ſea, and I was obliged to come upon the town, three weeks after I was ruined—no, not ſo much as three weeks after I was ruined—yes, it was full three weeks after I was ruined.

MY Couſin VILLAGE, from whom I had not heard for ſome time, has lately ſent me an account of a Country Parſon; which I dare ſay will prove entertaining to my town readers, who can have no other idea of our Clergy than what they have collected from the ſpruce and genteel figures, which they have been uſed to contemplate here in doctors ſcarfs, pudding-ſleeves, ſtarched bands, and feather-topp'd grizzles. It will be found from my Couſin's de⯑ſcription, that theſe reverent enſigns of orthodoxy are not ſo neceſſary to be diſplayed among ruſtics; and that when they are out of the pulpit or ſurplice, the good paſtors may without cenſure put on the manners as well as dreſs of a groom or whipper-in.

IT is with the utmoſt pleaſure that I have obſerved an article in the news-papers, ſig⯑nifying that the magiſtrates of this city will oblige all taverns, ale-houſes, &c. to be ſhut up to-morrow, which is appointed to be ſet apart as a day of ſolemn faſt and humiliation, on account of thoſe dreadful Earthquakes from which we have been ſo providentially preſerved. Without ſuch a reſtriction it is to be feared, that too many of the vulgar will obſerve this day in the ſame manner as they are wont to obſerve the or⯑dinary [638] Sundays; which they have been long accuſtomed to look upon as dedicated to Idleneſs and Intemperance; to which deities they very devoutly pour their libations (accord⯑ing to their own phraſe) in a church with a chimney in it.

BUT if the common herd are to be thus compelled to their duty, perſons of faſhion, who are above the law, will I doubt pay as little regard to this nominal faſt-day, as to Aſh-Wedneſday, Good-Friday, or the long-exploded 30th of January. Nor can we expect, that it will work any greater reformation of manners in them, than the abſurd panic oc⯑caſioned formerly by the ridiculous predictions of a Swiſs madman. Therefore, as they are not to be frightened into a ſenſe of virtue and religion, we ſhould rather try to wean them gradually from their darling vices; which may be kept under by ſoftening methods, though we cannot hope wholly to eradicate them. For this purpoſe, the firſt ſtep to be previouſly taken, as it appears to me, ſhould be to decoy people of quality into coming to church, by making it as faſhionable to be ſeen there, as it was ſome time ago to meet at Ranelagh on a Sunday. They muſt, therefore, be al⯑lowed to curteſy, bow, nod, ſmile, ogle, whiſper, or even bawl to one another, before the ſervice is begun; and that churches may reſemble other public places of diverſion, ladies and gentlemen may be permitted to ſend their ſervants to keep places in the pews: but it ſhall on no conſideration be lawful for them (as is their cuſtom at the opera or play-houſe) to diſturb the congregation by dropping in while the prayers are reading or to, interrupt the parſon by talking loud in the middle of the ſermon.

[639]THIS point being once gained, it might be poſſible to bring about ſome other reformations in the polite amuſe⯑ments. Perhaps to baniſh all ſuch moral plays as the Chances for ever from our theatres, would be in effect to ſhut them up, or condemn them to empty boxes: the polite world may, therefore, be ſometimes indulged with them at the particular deſire of ſeveral perſons of quality; or for the be⯑nefit of ſome hoſpital, when their appearance may be attri⯑buted to a motive of charity. Nor would I be ſo ſcrupu⯑lous as to aboliſh Maſquerades entirely; though I would have them put under new regulations: and no lady ſhould be ſuffered to go there half-naked under the pretence of being better diſguiſed; nor ſhould any one be allowed to perſonate Eve, though with a fig-leaf. As to the darling amuſement of Gaming, I fear it would be a vain attempt to think of reſtraining it within any bounds at preſent: nor is it poſſible to expell the card-table from the routes of perſons of faſhion, even upon a Sunday. I would therefore pro⯑poſe, that ſince they muſt play, the winnings on that day ſhould be given to the poor of the pariſh; and that they ſhould uſe a particular ſort of cards (like thoſe contrived for the amuſement and inſtruction of children) ſtrewed with texts of ſcripture and other religious and moral ſentences.

GALLANTRY and intrigue may be likewiſe reckoned among the faſhionable amuſements of the preſent age: and I confeſs I am at a loſs to know under what reſtrictions to confine them. Married people may perhaps be allowed to indulge themſelves in any freedoms, by the mutual conſent of each party; provided always, that they are perſons of diſtinction, and that the match between them was made merely on account of family or fortune, in conformity to [640] the true ſenſe and ſpirit of the late Marriage Act. With reſpect to thoſe, who take a pleaſure in debauching raw country girls and common tradeſmens daughters, I had once a thought, that a clauſe ſhould be added to the above⯑mentioned Act, to oblige the offenders to do penance in a white ſheet; but I have ſince conſidered, that our modern bucks and bloods would probably take as much pride in this badge of honour, as a young officer in his ſcarf and cockade. As to the genteel practice of keeping miſtreſſes, no one ſhould be allowed to take a girl into keeping, but thoſe who are already paſt their grand climacteric, and may be ſuppoſed to want a nurſe: except it ſhould be thought expedient to extend this privilege to thoſe ſpirited young fellows, who at the age of five and twenty have worn down their conſtitutions to threeſcore.

WE cannot but admire the extreme courage and ſenſe of honour, which characteriſes our modern heroes, and inſpires them ſometimes with a deſire of killing their friends, and ſometimes of killing themſelves. But as this noble ſpirit ſhould be only exerted againſt the common enemy, the honour of the Duelliſt might be ſatisfied, I ſhould think, by a mock-combat without bloodſhed; and the courage of the Suicide might be confined to a bare attempt on his own life, without the loſs of it. Duels, therefore, ſhould be fought with guarded ſoils, as in tragedy-rencounters; and any gentleman (or even mechanic) who finds an inclination to make away with himſelf, may be allowed to try the expe⯑riment, by drawing a knife or razor acroſs his throat ſo as not to cut the wind-pipe, or by running a ſword through the ſkin without piercing the ribs; or he may flaſh a piſtol in his face charged with powder only, or be tucked up in his [641] own garters with a wad of cotton about his neck, and his neareſt relation ſtanding by, ready to cut him down (if he pleaſes) before he be quite dead.

I am prevented from perſuing this ſubject any farther, in order to make room for the following letter.

MY correſpondents, whoſe letters are not of ſufficient length to make up a whole Paper, muſt be contented to wait 'till I can find convenient room to introduce them. I ſhall for the preſent fling together the two fol⯑lowing, from a number now lying before me, though their ſubjects have no connection with each other.

IT is not eaſy for the mind of man to recover itſelf from any extraordinary panic which has once ſeized it: for this reaſon we can⯑not be ſurpriſed, that many well-meaning people, who have not yet ſhook off the ap⯑prehenſions occaſioned by the late dreadful earthquakes, ſhould be led to conjure up new terrors, and alarm them⯑ſelves with imaginary dangers. Their fears interpret every common incident, and even the change of weather, as ſigns of approaching deſtruction: if the day be calm and ſerene, ſuch (they ſay) is the uſual fore-runner of a ſhock; or if the [656] night prove tempeſtuous, they can hardly perſuade them⯑ſelves that it is only the wind which rocks their houſes. With this propenſity to entertain any unreaſonable dread about future events, it is no wonder, that weak minds ſhould be further worked upon by little dablers in philoſo⯑phy; who having gleaned a few barren ſcraps from the Magazines, preſume even to foretell the diſſolution of the world by the Comet which will appear in 1758. Swift, in his Voyage to Laputa, has a paſſage ſo very appoſite to theſe idle pretenders to ſcience, that I ſhall beg leave to tranſcribe it.

LET us therefore baniſh from our thoughts all ſuch vain notions, and let us fortify our minds with a true ſenſe of religion, which will teach us to rely on the protection of that providence, which has hitherto preſerved us. It is with great pleaſure, that I remarked the unanimous concur⯑rence of all ranks of people, in obſerving the late ſolemn Faſt, as a neceſſary act of humiliation, to avert the wrath and vengeance of heaven, and to call down its mercies upon us: nor do I doubt, but the approaching Seaſon will awaken in us the ſame ſerious attention to our duty; that we may not ſeem to have barely complied with a ſtated form, or to have been affected with the ſhort-lived piety of a ſingle day.

[658]IT is true, indeed, that no perſons do more prejudice to the cauſe of religion, than they who cloud its genuine chearfulneſs with the gloom of ſuperſtition, and are apt to conſider every common accident that befalls us, as a judg⯑ment. They cloath religion in the moſt terrifying habit, and (as it were, dreſs it up in all the horrors of the Inquiſition. Theſe people are much to be pitied; and it is to be wiſhed, that their miſtaken piety could be better regulated. But there is another ſet of men of a different turn, more nume⯑rous and much more dangerous to the community, who treat every act of religion as a jeſt, and hold its moſt ſacred ordinances in contempt. Set forms and ceremonies, though they have no eſſential virtue in themſelves, are yet indiſpen⯑ſably requiſite to keep alive in us a quick ſenſe of our duty. It muſt be allowed, indeed, that if a man could conſtantly employ his mind in holy meditations, exerciſe the virtues, and believe the myſteries of our religion, he would be a true Chriſtian, though he never complied with any outward forms, or ſo much as repeated a ſingle prayer. But it is manifeſt from experience, that thoſe who neglect the ordi⯑nances, neglect alſo the duties of a Chriſtian; and the leaſt reflection on the human mind will convince us, that ſome external rites are neceſſary to ſettle the wandering ideas, and to fix the attention on its proper object. The fervent re⯑petition of a prayer is apt to inſpire us with love and gra⯑titude towards the DEITY, and kindles the ſparks of devo⯑tion within us: and it is eaſy to conceive, that if the cele⯑bration of public worſhip was neglected among us only for one year, it would be a more fatal blow to religion than all the weak attacks of infidels and free-thinkers. No argu⯑ments, therefore, could be more ill-grounded than the ob⯑jections [659] of thoſe people, who conſidered the appointment of the late ſolemn faſt as uſeleſs and unneceſſary.

BUT though forms may be ſaid to compoſe the body, a good life is the ſoul of religion, without which the reſt is but a dead maſs. The moſt rigid compliance with every ordinance of the Church, if it has no influence on our con⯑duct, is rather a ſolemn mockery than an attonement for our offences: as they, who receive the bread and wine without a firm reſolution to lead a new life, are ſaid to eat and drink their own damnation: Wherefore, a ſtrict obſervance of this or that particular day is not a ſufficient diſcharge of our duty, except it ſerve to rouze us from the lethargy of ſin, to awaken in us a deſire of becoming worthy the protection of the ALMIGHTY, by animating our faith, amending our lives, and working in us a repentance of our tranſgreſſions. Thus the Lord's Day is not merely ſet apart for devotion, with an unlimited licence to wickedneſs all the reſt of the week; but our being particularly exerciſed in acts of piety for one day, is calculated to ſtrengthen our virtue, and to give a tincture of religion to our whole conduct through the other ſix.

THESE conſiderations I have thought fit to lay before the reader, as preparatory to another ſolemn Faſt ordained by the Church: and if the obſervance of this ſhould be neg⯑lected or ſlightly paſſed over, may we not conclude, that our ſenſe of religion is only in proportion to our ſenſe of danger? As for thoſe, who require conſtantly to be fright⯑ened into their duty, I will for once venture to commence prophet: and let them be aſſured that my predictions will in⯑fallibly come to paſs. There is a danger, more certain than an [660] Earthquake or a Comet, which will inevitably overwhelm us; from which we cannot poſſibly guard ourſelves, and which perhaps is even now at our doors. This danger I cannot better ſet forth, than in the alarming words of a ce⯑lebrated French preacher. ‘"I know a man (and I will point him out preſently) who is now in this church; a man, in perfect health; a man, in the flower of his age: And yet this man, perhaps before next Sunday, perhaps by to-morrow, will be in his grave. This man, my dear brethren, is Myſelf who ſpeak to you, it is You who hear me."’

THE generality of the young unmarried ladies of the preſent age diſlike no company ſo much as the elderly perſons of their own ſex, whether married or unmarried. Go⯑ing with an old maiden aunt, a mamma, or grand-mamma to the play, or to Ranelagh, is ſo inſipid an amuſement, that it robs their entertainment of the very name of a party of pleaſure. To be handed into a box, walk in the public gardens, or make one at a card-table at a route, with a ſprightly young nobleman, or gallant colonel of the guards, has ſome life in it; but to be kept perpetually under the wing of an old lady, can have no charms for a woman of ſpirit. The preſence of theſe antiquated females impoſes a conſtraint on their behaviour: they are, indeed, like the [668] Duennas in Spain, ſpies on the conduct of the gay and young; and a good old gentlewoman with a young beauty by her ſide watches her every motion, and is as much frighted, if the pretty creature makes any advances to a man, as a hen, who has been foſter-mother to a brood of duck⯑lings, is alarmed at their taking to the water.

BUT though a looſe coquet behaviour is ſo much in vogue, a modeſt deportment is moſt natural and becoming in the fair ſex; and I am always glad to ſee a young lady of ſufficient ſenſe and diſcretion, to behave with an innocent chearfulneſs, inſtead of apparent uneaſineſs and conſtraint, before her more aged female friends and relations. But though a daughter ſhould prefer no company to her mother, a ſon would appear as ridiculous, if he always dangled at the ſide of his mamma, as if he wore his ſiſter's petticoats: and however amiable this maidenly demeanor might ſeem in a young girl, I cannot view it with equal approbation in the character of a Male-Virgin;—a character, with which I ſhall here preſent the reader, as drawn by one of my cor⯑reſpondents.

I AM much pleaſed with the propoſal of my ingenious correſpondent, and think it particularly well adapted to the preſent diſpoſition of the ladies. A fondneſs for ſhowy equipages is now become one of their darling paſſions; and the ſplendor in which they are to be maintained ſeems to be one of the chief conſiderations in modern matches. If a fine lady can be carried to court in a chair richly ornamented, or roll to the opera in a gilt chariot, ſhe little considers with how diſagreeable a companion ſhe goes through the journey of life: and a polite female would no more fix her affections on a man, who drives but a beggarly pair, than ſhe could be content to be tumbled down to his country ſeat, like Punch's wife to Rumford, in a wheel-borrow.

[677]BUT as the ladies have ſtrongly manifeſted this paſſion for equipage, the gentlemen, I ſuppoſe out of mere gal⯑lantry, and in order to further the gratification of their de⯑ſires, have taken great pains to convert themſelves into coachmen, grooms, and jockies. The flapped hat, the jemmy frock with plate buttons and a leathern belt, and the pride which ſome young men of quality take in driving, are all calculated the better to qualify them for being the ladies humble ſervants. I am therefore for extending my corre⯑ſpondent's ſcheme: and as the ladies now adorn their heads with the ſign of a coach and ſix, like the door of a Meuſe alehouſe, I would have the gentlemen alſo bear theſe emble⯑matical vehicles; by which the other ſex may, by a ſingle glance at a lover's head, ſee in what ſtate they will be ſup⯑ported; as we know a clergyman by his roſe, or an officer by his cockade.

THE pretty fellows, who ſtudy dreſs, might ſhew a great deal of invention in ſuiting their Caprioles to their circum⯑ſtances. Any nobleman or gentleman, who has the honour to be a Knowing one, might ſhew his affection for the turf by carrying the horſe and jockey; another, who is an excellent driver, might bear his own figure exalted in a Phaeton; and a third, who thinks of picking up a partner for life, that can be pleaſed with a tête-a-tête or ſober picpuet party with her huſband, may bear a vis-à-vis. In a word, all the different propoſals of various ſuitors might be made by means of theſe ornaments, which might be worn over the foreheads of the beaux, like the white horſe in the grenadiers caps; and the ladies might be as much ſmitten with a promiſing Capriole on the head of a lover, as heretofore with an elegant perriwig.

[678]IF this mode ſhould prevail, the concluding a treaty of marriage between two perſons of quality might be conſidered in the ſame light, and expreſſed in the ſame terms as making a match at New-market; and inſtead of the hackneyed phraſes at preſent uſed by our news-writers, we might perhaps ſee the important articles in the public papers, concerning mar⯑riages drawn up after the following manner.

VIRTU is almoſt the only inſtance, in which the appearance of literary knowledge is affected in the preſent age; and our per⯑ſons of rank acquire juſt enough ſcholarſhip to qualify themſelves for Connoiſſeurs. Theſe ſort of ſtudents become ſufficiently acquainted with the cuſ⯑toms of the ancients, to learn the leaſt intereſting par⯑ticulars concerning them. They can diſtinguiſh a Tiberius from a Trajan, know the Pantheon from the Amphitheatre, and can explain the difference between the praetexta and the tunica: which (only ſuppoſing the preſent times to have elapſed ſome hundred years) is juſt as deep knowledge as if [680] ſome future antiquarian ſhould diſcover the difference between a Carolus and an Anna, or St. Paul's church and Drury-Lane playhouſe, or a full-trimmed ſuit and a French frock.

BUT the full diſplay of modern polite learning is exhi⯑bited in the decorations of parks, gardens, &c. and centered in that important monoſyllable, Taſte. Taſte comprehends the whole circle of the polite arts, and ſheds its influence on every lawn, avenue, graſs-plat, and parterre. Taſte has peopled the walks and gardens of the great with more nu⯑merous inhabitants than the ancient Satyrs, Fauns and Dry⯑ads. While infidelity has expunged the Chriſtian Theology from our creed, Taſte has introduced the heathen Mytho⯑logy into our gardens. If a pond is dug, Neptune, at the command of Taſte, emerges from the baſon, and preſides in the middle; or if a viſta is cut through a grove, it muſt be terminated by a Flora or an Apollo. As the ancients held that every ſpot of ground had its guardian Genius, and that woodland deities were pegged in the knotty entrails of every tree, ſo in the gardens laid out by modern Taſte every walk is peopled with gods and goddeſſes, and every corner of it has its tutelar-deity. Temples are erected to all the train of gods and goddeſſes mentioned in Homer or Ovid, which edifices as well as their ſeveral ſtatues are adorned with Latin or Greek inſcriptions; while the learned owner won⯑ders at his own ſurpriſing ſtock of literature, which he ſees drawn out at large before him, like the whole knowledge of an apothecary inſcribed upon his gallipots.

THESE perſons of Taſte may be conſidered as a ſort of learned idolaters, ſince they may be almoſt ſaid to adore theſe graven images, and are quite enthuſiaſtic in their veneration [681] of them. The following letter may poſſibly give them ſome offence; but as I have myſelf no extravagant fondneſs for a Jupiter Tonans or a Belvidere Apollo, I heartily wiſh the ſcheme propoſed by my correſpondent may take place, though it ſhould reduce the price of heathen godheads.

I REMEMBER when I was very young, a re⯑lation carried me to viſit a gentleman who had wrote ſome pieces that had been very well received, and made me very happy by promiſing to introduce me to an Author. As ſoon as I came, I ſurveyed his whole perſon from top to toe with the ſtricteſt attention, ſat open-mouthed to catch every ſyllable that he uttered, and noticed his voice, manner, and every word and geſture with the minuteſt obſervation. I could not help whiſpering to myſelf the whole evening, ‘"I am in company with an Author,"’ and waited with the moſt anxious impatience to hear him deliver ſomething that [686] might diſtinguiſh him from the reſt of mankind. The gentleman behaved with great chearfulneſs and politeneſs; but he did not at all anſwer the idea which I had conceived of an Author, and I went away exceedingly diſappointed, becauſe I could not find any ſtriking difference between him and the reſt of my acquaintance.

THERE is no character in human life, which is the ſub⯑ject of more frequent ſpeculation among the vulgar, than an Author. Some look on him with contempt, and others with admiration; but they all agree in believing him to be ſomething different from all other people: and it is re⯑markable with what greedineſs they attend to any little an⯑ecdotes, which they can pick up concerning his life and con⯑verſation. He is, indeed, a kind of an ideal being, of which people conceive very different notions. By ſome he is ſuppoſed never to ſtir out of a garret, to wear a ruſty black coat, dirty ſhirt, and darned ſtockings, and to want all the neceſſaries as well as conveniences of life; while others regard him as a creature ſuperior to the reſt of mortals, and endowed with ſomething more than reaſon. One part therefore is ſurpriſed to ſee him walk abroad, and appear as well dreſſed as other people; and another is diſappointed, when they find him talk and act, and fill the offices of life, no better than any other common man.

NOR is it leſs curious to conſider the different ideas they conceive of the manner in which the buſineſs of writing is executed. The novice in literature, ſmit with the love of ſacred ſong, but not yet dipt in ink, ſuppoſes it all rapture and enthuſiaſm, and in imagination ſees the Author running wildly about his room, talking poetry to the chairs and ta⯑bles; [687] while the mechanick conſiders him as working at his trade, and thinks he can ſet down to write whenever he pleaſes, as eaſily as the ſmith can labour at his forge, or a carpenter plane a board. Indeed he regards the Author with ſome veneration as a ſcholar; but writing appears to him a mighty eaſy buſineſs, and he ſmiles whenever he hears any body mention the labour of it; nor has he the leaſt concep⯑tion of the mind's being fatigued with thinking, and the fancy harraſſed with perſuing a long train of ideas.

AS people are led frequently to judge of a man from his ordinary converſation, ſo it is common for them to form an idea of the author's diſpoſition from the peculiar turn and colour of his writings: they expect a gloom to be ſpread over the face of a mathematician; a controverſial writer muſt be given to wrangling and diſpute; and they imagine that a ſatiriſt muſt be made up of ſpleen, envy, and ill-nature. But this criterion is by no means certain and determinate: I know an author of a tragedy, who is the merrieſt man living; and one who has wrote a very witty comedy, though he will ſit an hour in company without ſpeaking a word. Lord Buckhurſt is celebrated for being ‘"the beſt good man with the worſt-natured muſe;"’ and Mr. Addiſon was remarkably ſhy and reſerved in converſation. I remember I once fell into company with a painter, a poet, a divine, and a phyſician, who were no leſs famous for their wit and humour, than for their excellence in their ſeveral profeſſi⯑ons. After the uſual common topics were diſcuſſed, the phyſician and the poet fell into a diſpute concerning pre⯑deſtination, the divine ſmoked his pipe quietly without put⯑ting in a word, while the painter and myſelf formed a privy [688] council for the good of the nation. Thus were it poſſible to conjure up the ſpirits of the moſt eminent wits in former ages, and put them together, they would perhaps appear to be very dull company. Virgil and Addiſon would probably ſit ſtaring at each other without opening their mouths; Horace and Steele would perhaps join in commendation of the liquor; and Swift would in all likelihood divert him⯑ſelf with ſucking his cheeks, drawing figures in the wine ſpilt upon the table, or twirling the cork-ſcrew round his finger.

THE ſtrange prejudices which ſome perſons conceive againſt Authors, deter many a youth from drawing his pen in the ſervice of literature: or if he ventures to commit a favourite work to the preſs, he ſteals to the printer's with as much caution and privacy, as he would perhaps, on ano⯑ther occaſion, to a ſurgeon. He is afraid that he ſhall in⯑jure his character by being known to have written any thing, and that the genteel part of his acquaintance will deſpiſe him as a low wretch, as ſoon as they diſcover him to be an Author: as if merely the appearing in print was a diſ⯑grace to a gentleman, and the imprimatur to his works was no more than a ſtamp of ſhame and ignominy. Theſe are the terrors, which at firſt diſturb the peace of almoſt every Au⯑thor, and have often put me in mind of the exclamation of that writer, who cried out, ‘"O, that mine enemy had writ⯑ten a book!"’

THESE fearful apprehenſions are perhaps no unlucky drawback on the vanity natural to all Authors, which un⯑doubtedly they often conceal or ſuppreſs, out of deference to the world: but if this falſe modeſty is too much che⯑riſhed, [689] it muſt of courſe damp all genius, and diſcourage every literary undertaking. Why ſhould it be diſgraceful to exert the nobleſt faculties given us by nature? and why ſhould any man bluſh at acquitting himſelf well in a work, which there is ſcarce one in five hundred has a capacity to perform? Even ſuppoſing an Author to ſupport himſelf by the profit ariſing from his works, there is nothing more diſ⯑honeſt, ſcandalous or mean in it, than an officer in the army (the politeſt of all profeſſions) living on his commiſſion. Senſe and genius are as proper commodities to traffick in as courage, and an Author is no more to be condemned as an hackney ſcribbler, though he writes at the rate of ſo much per ſheet, than a Colonel ſhould be deſpiſed as a mercenary and a bravo, for expoſing himſelf to be ſlaſhed, ſtuck, and ſhot at for ſo much per day. The truth is, that Authors themſelves often create the evils they complain of, and bring a diſgrace on the ſervice of literature, by being aſhamed to wear the badge of it. Voltaire, in his letters on the Engliſh, relates a remarkable inſtance of this kind of falſe pride in our own Congreve. Voltaire, when he was in England, waited on Congreve, and told him that he was glad of an opportunity of paying his reſpects to a writer ſo much cele⯑brated for his wit and humour. Congreve received him po⯑litely enough, but told him that he ſhould be glad to ſee him as a common gentleman, but would not be conſidered or converſed with as an Author. The French writer was a good deal ſurpriſed at ſuch a ridiculous piece of delicacy, and could not help telling him, that he thought this nicety ſome⯑thing extraordinary, for that if he had been no more than a common gentleman, he ſhould never have had any deſire of ſeeing him.

I HAVE often pleaſed myſelf with reflecting on the differ⯑ent opinions, which my readers muſt have formed of me, ſince my firſt appearance as an Author. As poverty is one of the general characteriſtics of our brotherhood, thoſe who indulge themſelves in a contempt of writers, have, I doubt [690] not, often painted me to their own imagination in a very groteſque taſte. Their ideal caricatures have perhaps often re⯑preſented me lodged at leaſt three ſtories from the ground, compoſing diſſertations on the modern taſte in architecture: at another time I may have been delineated ſitting in a tat⯑tered night-gown and the breeches of a heathen philoſopher, writing ſatires on the preſent modes in dreſs: and ſometimes perhaps they have figured me half ſtarved for want of a hearty meal, penning invectives againſt luxury and de⯑bauchery.

BUT while theſe have reduced me to this low condition, and ‘"ſteeped me in poverty to the very lips,"’ I flatter my⯑ſelf that ſome few have beſtowed on me an extraordinary ſhare of virtue and underſtanding. After ſo many grave leſ⯑ſons againſt the vices and luxury of the preſent age, they will naturally ſuppoſe, that I never riſked a farthing at the gaming-table, never kept a miſtreſs, would decline an invitation to a turtle-feaſt, and rather than be provoked to fight a duel, would take a kick on the breech, or tweak by the noſe, with all the calmneſs and reſignation imaginable. As to my wit and humour, I ſhould bluſh to ſet down the many com⯑pliments I have had from ſeveral unknown correſpon⯑dents on that head: and I once received a note from a very honeſt gentleman, who deſired to ſpend an evening with me, promiſing himſelf great diverſion in cracking a bottle with the facetious Mr. TOWN.

THESE various opinions of me as an Author, I ſhall never labour to reconcile, but ſhall be equally contented with in⯑ſtructing or amuſing the gentle reader, whether he conſiders my papers as favours ſhowered down upon him from a book⯑ſeller's garret in Grub Street, or iſſuing from my own apart⯑ment. However this may be, I ſhall never think it a diſgrace to have written, or be aſhamed to be conſidered as an Au⯑thor; and if ever Mr. Voltaire ſhould think proper to viſit England again, I ſhall be very glad of a literary chat with him, and will give him a very gracious reception.

THOSE parents, who are unable to give their ſons an eſtate, regard the educating them to one of the three great profeſſions of Law, Phyſic, and Divinity, as putting them in the high road to acquire one. Hence it happens, that nineteen parts out of twenty of our young men are brought up with a view to Lambeth, the Seals, or Warwick-Lane. But alas! their hopes and ex⯑pectations of riſing by their profeſſions are often fruſtrated, and the ſurprizing numbers engaged in running the ſame race neceſſarily joſtle one another. For though the courts of juſtice are tolerably ſupplied with matters of litigation; [698] though there are many invalids and valetudinarians; and though great part of England is laid out into church pre⯑ferments; yet there is not in all the kingdom ſufficient matter for legal contention to employ a tenth part of thoſe who have been trained to engroſs deeds in their chambers, or to harangue at the bar: the number of patients bears no proportion to the ſwarms of the Faculty, nor would it, though a conſultation were to ſit on every ſick man, like carrion-flies upon a carcaſe: and the prodigious number of reverend Divines infinitely exceeds that of thoſe biſhopricks, deaneries, prebends, rectories, vicarages, &c. which, when they are ordained, they conceive it to be part of their holy office to fill. From theſe frequent failures in each of the profeſſions, the younger ſons of great men often wiſh they had been permitted to diſgrace the family by ſome mer⯑cantile, or more plebeian occupation; while the ſon of the mechanic curſes the pride of his father, who inſtead of ſecuring him a livelihood in his own buſineſs, has con⯑demned him to ſtarve in pudding-ſleeves, that he might do honour to his relations by being a gentleman.

THE Three Profeſſions being thus crouded with more candidates for buſineſs and preferment, than can poſſibly be employed or promoted, has occaſioned ſeveral irregula⯑rities in the conduct of the followers of each of them. The utter impoſſibility of ſupporting themſelves in the uſual method of practiſing Law, Phyſic, or Divinity, without clients, patients, or pariſhioners, has induced the labourers in each of thoſe vocations to ſeek out new veins and branches. The young Solicitor, who finds he has nothing to do, now he is out of his clerkſhip, offers his aſſiſtance, in the tranſaction of all law affairs, by the public papers, and [699] like the advertiſing taylors promiſes to work cheaper than any of his brethren: while the young Barriſter, after having exhibited his tye-wig in Weſtminſter-Hall, during ſeveral terms, to no purpoſe, is obliged to forego the hope of ri⯑valling Murray and Coke, and content himſelf with being the oracle of the courts of Jamaica. The graduate in me⯑dicine, finding himſelf unſolicited for preſcription or advice, and likely to ſtarve by practiſing Phyſic ſecundùm artem, flies in the face of the college, and profeſſes to cure all diſ⯑eaſes by noſtrums unmentioned in the diſpenſatory. He com⯑mences a thriving quack, and ſoon makes his way through the important medical degrees of walking on foot, riding on horſeback, diſpenſing his drugs from an one-horſe-chaiſe, and laſtly lolling in a chariot. The Divine, without living, cure, or lectureſhip, may perhaps incur tranſportation for illegal marriages, ſet up a theatrical-oratorical-Billingſgate-chapel under the ſhelter of the toleration-act and the but⯑chers of Clare-Market, or kindle the inward light in the boſoms of the Saints of Moor-Fields, and the Magdalens of Broad St. Giles's.

BUT notwithſtanding theſe ſhoots ingrafted, as it were, into the main body of the profeſſions, it is ſtill impoſſible for the vaſt multitude of Divines, Lawyers, and Phyſicians to maintain themſelves at any rate within the pale of their reſpective employments. They have often been compelled, at leaſt to call in adventitious ones, and have ſometimes to⯑tally abandoned their original undertakings. They have frequently made mutual tranſitions into the occupations of each other, or have perhaps embraced other employments; which, though diſtinct from all three, and not uſually dig⯑nified with the title of Profeſſions, may fairly be conſidered [700] in that light: ſince they are the ſole means of ſupport to many thouſands, who toiled in vain for a ſubſiſtance in the three Capital Ones. On theſe Profeſſions, and their various followers, I ſhall here make ſome obſervations.

THE firſt of theſe Profeſſions is an Author. The mart of literature is indeed one of the chief reſorts of unbeneficed Divines, and Lawyers and Phyſicians without practice. There are at preſent in the world of Authors, Doctors of Phyſic who (to uſe the phraſe of one of them) have no great fatigue from the buſineſs of their profeſſion: many Clergymen, whoſe ſermons are the moſt inconſiderable part of their compoſitions: and ſeveral Gentlemen of the Inns of Court who, inſtead of driving the quill over ſkins of parch⯑ment, lead it through all the mazes of modern novels, cri⯑tiques, and pamphlets. Many alſo have embraced this Pro⯑feſſion, who were never bred to any other: and I might alſo mention the many bankrupt tradeſmen and broken artificers, who daily enter into this new way of buſineſs, if by perſuing it in the ſame mechanical manner as their former occupati⯑ons, they might not rather be regarded as following a trade than a Profeſſion.

THE ſecond of theſe Profeſſions is a Player. The inge⯑nious gentlemen, who aſſume the perſons of the Drama, are compoſed of as great a variety of characters as thoſe they repreſent. The hiſtory of the ſtage might afford many in⯑ſtances of thoſe who in the trade of death might have ſlain men, who have condeſcended to deal counterfeit ſlaughter from their right hands, and adminiſter harmleſs phials and bowls of poiſon. We might read alſo of perſons whoſe fiſts were intended to beat the ‘"drum eccleſiaſtic,"’ who have [701] themſelves become theatrical voluntiers. In regard to the Law, many who were originally deſigned to manifeſt their talents for elocution in Weſtminſter-Hall, have diſplayed them in Drury-Lane; and it may be added on theatrical authority, that

I will not ſo far affront thoſe gentlemen, who were at any time engaged in the ſtudy of the three honourable profeſ⯑ſions of Law, Phyſic, and Divinity, as to ſuppoſe that any of them, have ever taken up the more faſhionable employment of a Pimp. Yet it is certain, that this is a very common and lucrative Profeſſion, and that very many provide themſelves with the neceſſaries of life, by adminiſtering to the pleaſures of others. A convenient couſin, ſiſter, or wife, has ſome⯑times proved the chief means of making a fortune; and the tongue of ſlander has often ventured to affirm, that the price of procuration has been paid with a place or a biſhoprick.

THE moſt advantageous and genteel of all Profeſſions is Gaming. Whoever will make this ſcience his ſtudy will find it the readieſt way to riches, and moſt certain paſſport to the beſt company: for the polite world will always admit any one to their ſociety, who will condeſcend to win their money. The followers of this Profeſſion are very nume⯑rous; which is indeed no wonder, when we reflect on the numbers it ſupports in eaſe and affluence, at no greater pains than packing the cards or cogging the dice, and no more riſk than being ſometimes tweaked by the noſe, or kicked out of company: beſides which, this Profeſſion daily re⯑ceives [702] new luſtre from the many perſons of quality that follow it, and croud into it with as much eagerneſs, as into the army. Among Gameſters may alſo be found Lawyers, who get more by being maſters of all the Caſes in Hoyle, than by their knowledge of thoſe, recorded in the report⯑books; Phyſicians, the chief object of whoſe attention is the circulation of the E. O. table; and Divines, who, we may ſuppoſe, were hinted at by a famous wit in a certain aſſembly, when among the other benefits reſulting from a double tax upon dice, he thought fit to enumerate, that it might poſſibly prevent the Clergy from playing at back-gammon.

BUT the more danger the more honour: and therefore no Profeſſion is more honourable than that of a Highwayman. Who the followers of this Profeſſion are, and with what ſuc⯑ceſs they practiſe it, I will not pretend to relate; as the memoirs of ſeveral of them have been already penned by the Ordinary of Newgate, and as it is to be hoped that the lives of all the preſent practitioners will be written here⯑after by that faithful hiſtorian. I ſhall therefore only ſay, that the preſent ſpirit of diſſoluteneſs and freethinking muſt unavoidably bring this honourable Profeſſion more and more into vogue, and that every Seſſions may ſoon be expected to afford an inſtance of a Gentleman-Highwayman.

I Have often amuſed myſelf with conſi⯑dering the mean and ridiculous ſhifts, to which the extravagant are ſometimes re⯑duced. When the certain ſupplies of a regular income are exhauſted, they are obliged to caſt about for ready caſh, and ſet the invention to work in order to deviſe the means of repairing their finances. Such attempts to enlarge their revenue have frequently driven thoſe, whoſe great ſouls would not be curbed by the ſtraitneſs of their circumſtances, into very uncommon undertakings: they have ſent lords to Arthur's, and ladies to aſſemblies, or ſometimes worſe places. We may ſafely conclude, that whoever breaks through all oeconomy, will ſoon diſcard honeſty; though perhaps it might be deemed Scandalum Magnatum to aver, that prodigal men of quality have often ſold their [704] country to redeem their eſtates, and that extravagant ladies have been known to make up the deficiencies of their pin-money by pilfering and larceny.

But one of the firſt and chief reſources of extravagance, both in high and low life, is the Pawnbroker's. I never paſs by one of theſe ſhops without conſidering them as the repoſitories of half the jewels, plate, &c. in town. It is true, indeed, that the honeſt and induſtrious are ſometimes forced to ſupply their neceſſities by this method: but if we were to enquire, to whom the ſeveral articles in theſe miſcellaneous warehouſes belong, we ſhould find the greateſt part of them to be the pro⯑perty of the idle and infamous among the vulgar, or the prodigal and luxurious among the great: and if, in imi⯑tation of the antients, who placed the Temple of Honour behind the Temple of Virtue, propriety ſhould be at⯑tempted in the ſituation of Pawnbrokers' ſhops, they would be placed contiguous to a gin-ſhop, as in the in⯑genious print of Hogarth, or behind a tavern, gaming-houſe, or bagnio.

Going home late laſt Saturday night, I was witneſs to a curious dialogue at the door of one of theſe houſes. An honeſt journeyman carpenter, whoſe wife, it ſeems, had pawned his beſt cloaths, having juſt received his week's pay, was come to redeem them, that he might appear as fine as he uſually did on Sunday: but it being paſt twelve o'clock, the man of the houſe, who kept up the converſation by means of a little grate in the door, re⯑fuſed to deliver them; though the poor carpenter begged hard for his holiday cloaths, as the morrow was Eaſter Sunday. This accident led me to reflect on the various perſons in town, who carry on this kind of commerce with the Pawnbrokers, and gave occaſion to the fol⯑lowing Dream.

I was ſcarce aſleep, before I found myſelf at the entrance of a blind alley, which was terminated by a little hatch; where I ſaw a vaſt concourſe of people, of different ages, ſex, and condition, going in and coming out. Some of theſe, I obſerved, as they went up, very [705] richly dreſt; and others were adorned with jewels and coſtly trinkets: but I could not help remarking, that at their return they were all diveſted of their finery; and ſeveral had even their gowns and coats ſtript off their backs. A lady, who ſtrutted up in a rich brocaded ſuit, ſneaked back again in an ordinary ſtuff night-gown; a ſecond retreated with the loſs of a diamond ſolitaire and pearl necklace; and a third, who had bundled up her whole ſtock of linen, ſcarce eſcaped with what ſhe had upon her back. I obſerved ſeveral gentlemen, who brought their ſideboards of plate, to be melted down, as it were, into current ſpecie: many had their pockets diſ⯑burthened of their watches; and ſome, even among the military gentlemen, were obliged to deliver up their ſwords. Others of the company marched up, heavy laden with pictures, houſehold goods, and domeſtic utenſils: one carried a ſpit; another brandiſhed a gridiron; a third flouriſhed a frying-pan; while a fourth brought to my remembrance the old ſign of the Dog's Head in the Porridge-pot. I ſaw ſeveral trot up merrily with their chairs, tables, and other furniture: but I could not help pitying one poor creature among the reſt, who, after having ſtript his whole houſe, even to his feather-bed, ſtalked along like a Lock-Patient, wrapt up in the blankets, while his wife accompanied him, doing pe⯑nance in the ſheets.

As I was naturally curious to ſee the inſide of the re⯑ceptacle, where all theſe various ſpoils were depoſited, I ſtept up to the hatch; and meeting a grave old gentleman at the threſhold, I deſired him to inform me what place it was, and what buſineſs was tranſacted there. He very courteouſly took me by the hand, and, leading me through a dark paſſage, brought me into a ſpacious hall, which he told me was the Temple of Uſury, and that he himſelf was the chief prieſt of it. One part of this building was hung round with all kinds of apparel, like the ſale-ſhops in Monmouth Street; another was ſtrew'd with a variety of goods, and reſembled the brokers' ſhops in Harp Alley; and another part was furniſhed with ſuch an immenſe quantity of jewels and rich plate, that I ſhould rather have fancied myſelf in the Church of the [706] Lady of Loretto. All theſe, my guide informed me, were the offerings of that croud, which I had ſeen re⯑ſorting to this Temple. The Churches in Roman-Catholic countries have commonly a croſs fixed upon them; the Chineſe erect dragons and hang bells about their Pagods; and the Turkiſh Moſques have their peculiar hieroglyphics: but I could not help taking particular notice, that this Temple of Uſury had its veſtibule adorned with three wooden balls painted blue; the myſtery of which, I was told, was as dark and unfathomable as the Pythagorean number, or the ſecret doctrines of Triſmegiſt.

When I had in ſome meaſure ſatisfied my curioſity in taking a general ſurvey of the Temple, my inſtructor led me to an interior corner of it, where the moſt ſplendid offerings were ſpread upon a large altar. This bauble, ſaid he, ſhewing me an elegant ſprig of diamonds, is an aigret, ſent in laſt week by a lady of quality, who has ever ſince kept home with her head muffled up in a double clout for a pretended fit of the tooth-ache. She has at different times made an offering of all her jewels: and beſides theſe, her whole wardrobe was very lately lodged here, which threw her into an hyſteric fever, and con⯑fined her to her bed-gown for upwards of a month. Thoſe ear-rings and other jewels are the parapher⯑nalia of a young bride; who was ſo conſtant a votary to this place, that, when nothing elſe remained for an offering, ſhe even brought in her wedding-ring. You may be ſurpriſed, perhaps, to behold ſuch a variety of necklaces, girdle-buckles, ſolitaires, and other female ornaments, as are here collected: but it is obſervable, that their devotions in the Temple of Uſury have been chiefly encouraged and kept alive by their aſſiſting at the midnight orgies of Avarice.

Nor are the gentlemen, continued he, leſs encouragers of our rites. That gold watch laid ſnug, for a conſi⯑derable time, in the fob of a young man of quality; but it was one night jerked out by a ſingle throw of the dice at a gaming-table, and made its way into the pocket of a ſtranger, who placed it here, to keep company with ſeveral others, which have been brought hither on a [707] ſimilar occaſion. Thoſe brilliant buckles once glittered on the ſhoes of a very pretty fellow, who ſet out laſt winter on his travels into foreign parts, but never got further than Boulogne: and that ſword with the rich fillagree hilt, and elegantly-fancied ſword-knot with gold taſſels, once dangled at the ſide of a ſpirited Buck, who left it here two years ago, when he went off in a great hurry to take poſſeſſion of a large eſtate in his native country, Ireland, whence he is not yet returned. You may ſee many others of theſe inſtruments of death, which ruſt peacefully in their ſcabbards, as being of no uſe whatever to their owners: that, which commonly hangs upon the vacant peg there, belongs, you muſt know, to a noble captain: it is called upon duty once a month, and is at this inſtant mounting guard at St. James's.

Not far from theſe rich ornaments hung ſeveral em⯑broidered coats, laced waiſtcoats, Point d'Eſpagne hats, &c. This ſuit, ſaid my venerable inſtructor, pointing to one richly embroidered, was made up for a noble lord on the laſt Birth-day, and was conveyed hither the very next morning after it had appeared at court. That jemmy waiſtcoat with the gold-worked button-holes, on the next peg, was the property of a ſmart templar, who, having ſpent a night out of his chambers, ſent his waiſt⯑coat hither in the morning, as a penitential offering, by his landlady. As to that heap of camblet gowns, checked aprons, and coloured handkerchiefs, which you ſee ſtrung together a little further off, they are oblations made here by a ſect of maudlin votaries, who reſort to this Temple to pay their devotions to a Goddeſs, whom they have chriſtened Madam Gin, but whom they ſometimes honour with the more proper appellation of Strip me Naked.

While my conductor was thus relating the hiſtory of the various offerings, and the perſons who had made them, he was ſuddenly called aſide to a dark cloſet, ſe⯑veral of which were erected near the entrance, and ap⯑peared not unlike the confeſſionals of the Romiſh prieſts. Theſe little boxes, I found, were appointed to receive the votaries, who came to pay their devotions, and make their offerings: but the neceſſary rites and ceremonies [708] were commonly ſolemnized with as much caution and privacy, as the myſteries of the Bona Dea among the Romans. At preſent, however, there was a greater noiſe and hubbub than uſual. A perſon of the firſt rank in the kingdom, who had made ſome very conſiderable oblations of gold and ſilver plate, was now about to celebrate a feaſt in honour of Bacchus, in which theſe rich utenſils would be requiſite, on which occaſion he prayed to have the uſe of them. The chief prieſt, after having received the cuſtomary fee, granted a diſpen⯑ſation for this purpoſe, and loaded the meſſengers with a number of wrought ewers, vaſes, and chargers, at the ſame time commiſſioning two or three of the inferior officials of the Temple to attend the celebration of the feaſt, and to take care that the plate was duly returned, and ſafely lodged again in the Temple.

Theſe matters were ſcarce adjuſted, before an unex⯑pected incident filled the whole Temple with confuſion and diſturbance. A rude tribe of officers broke in upon us, put a ſtop to the rites, and ſeized the chief prieſt himſelf, charging him with having prophaned the place by a crime almoſt as infamous as ſacrilege. He was accuſed of having encouraged robbers to ſtrip the citizens of their moſt valuable effects, and for a ſmall reward to depoſit them as offerings. The clamour on this occaſion was very great, and at laſt one of the officers, methought, ſeized me, as a party concerned; when endeavouring to clear myſelf, and ſtruggling to get out of his clutches, I awoke.

THERE is no race of people, that has been more conſpicuous in almoſt every relation of life, than the illuſtrious fa⯑mily of NONSENSE. In every age of the world they have ſhone forth with uncommon luſtre, and have made a wonderful progreſs in all the Arts and Sciences. They have at different ſeaſons delivered ſpeeches from the throne, harangued at the bar, debated in parlia⯑ment, and gone amazing lengths in philoſophical enqui⯑ries and metaphyſical diſquiſitions. In a word, the whole hiſtory of the world, moral and political, is but a Cyclo⯑paedia of NONSENSE. For which reaſon, conſidering the dignity and importance of the family, and the infinite ſervice it has been of to me and many of my cotemporaries, [710] I have reſolved to oblige the public with a kind of abſtract of the Hiſtory of NONSENSE.

NONSENSE was the daughter of IGNORANCE, begot on FALSEHOOD many ages ago in a dark cavern in BOEOTIA. As ſhe grew up, ſhe inherited all the qualities of her parents: ſhe diſcovered too warm a genius to re⯑quire being ſent to ſchool; but while other dull brats were poring over an horn-book, ſhe amuſed herſelf with ſpreading fantaſtical lies, taught her by her mamma, and which have in later ages been familiarly known to us under the names of Sham, Banter, and Humbug. When ſhe grew up, ſhe received the addreſſes, and ſoon became the wife, of IMPUDENCE. Who he was, or of what profeſſion, is uncertain: Some ſay he was the ſon of IGNORANCE by another venter, and was ſuffered to become the huſband of NONSENSE in thoſe dark ages of the world, as the Ptolemies of Aegypt married their own ſiſters. Some record, that he was in the army; others, that he was an interpreter of the laws; and others, a divine. However this was, NONSENSE and IM⯑PUDENCE were ſoon inſeparably united to each other, and became the founders of a more noble and nume⯑rous family, than any yet preſerved on any tree of deſcent whatſoever; of which ingenious device they were ſaid to have been the firſt inventors.

It is my chief intent at preſent to record the great exploits of that branch of the family, who have made themſelves remarkable in England; though they began to ſignalize themſelves very early, and are ſtill very flouriſhing in moſt parts of the world. Many of them were Aegyptian Prieſts four thouſand years ago, and told the people, that it was religion to wor⯑ſhip dogs, monkeys, and green leeks: and their deſcen⯑dants prevailed on the Greeks and Romans to build tem⯑ples in honour of ſuppoſed deities, who were, in their [711] own eſtimation of them, whores and whore-mongers, pickpockets and drunkards. Others roſe up ſome ages after in Turky, and perſuaded the people to embrace the doctrine of bloodſhed and the ſword, in the name of the moſt merciful God: and others have manifeſted their lineal deſcent from NONSENSE and IMPU⯑DENCE, by affirming that there is no God at all. There were alſo among them many ſhrewd philoſophers; ſome of whom, though they were racked with a fit of the ſtone, or laid up with a gouty toe, declared that they felt not the leaſt degree of pain; and others would not truſt their own eyes, but when they ſaw an horſe or a dog, could not tell whether it was not a chair or a table, and even made a doubt of their own exiſtence.

We have no certain account of the progreſs of NON⯑SENSE here in England, till after the Reformation. All we hear of her and her progeny before that period of time is, that they led a lazy life among the monks in cloyſters and convents, dreaming over old legends of ſaints, drawing up breviaries and maſs-books, and ſtring⯑ing together ſome barbarous Latin verſes in rhyme. In the days of Queen Elizabeth, ſo little encouragement was given to her family, that it ſeemed to have been almoſt extinct: but in the ſucceeding reign it flouriſhed again, and filled the moſt conſiderable offices in the nation. NONSENSE became a great favourite at court, where ſhe was highly careſſed on account of her wit, which conſiſted in puns and quibbles; and the bonny monarch himſelf was thought to take a more than or⯑dinary delight in her converſation. At this time, many of her progeny took orders, and got themſelves preferred to the beſt livings, by turning the Evangeliſts into pun⯑ſters, and making St. Paul quibble from the pulpit. Among the reſt, there was a biſhop, a favourite ſon of NONSENSE, of whom it is particularly recorded, that he uſed to tickle his courtly audience, by telling them that [712] matrimony was become a matter of money, with many other right reverend jeſts recorded in Joe Miller. Several bro⯑thers of this family were likewiſe bred to the bar, and very gravely harangued againſt old women ſucked by devils in the ſhape of ram-cats, &c. As an inſtance of their profound wiſdom and ſagacity, I need only men⯑tion that juſt and truly pious act of parliament made againſt the crying ſin of witchcraft. ‘1 Jac. I. chap. 12. Such as ſhall uſe invocation or conjuration of any evil ſpirit, or ſhall conſult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any evil ſpirit to any intent, or take up any dead perſon, or part thereof, to be uſed in witchcraft, or have uſed any of the ſaid arts, whereby any perſon ſhall be killed, conſumed, or lamed in his or her body, they, together with their ac⯑ceſſories before the fact, ſhall ſuffer as felons, without benefit of clergy.’

In the troubleſome times of King Charles the firſt, NONSENSE and her family ſided with the Parliament. Theſe ſet up new ſects in religion: ſome of them cropt their hair ſhort, and called themſelves the enlightened; ſome fell into trances, and pretended to ſee holy viſions; while others got into tubs, and held forth, with many whinings, and groans, and ſnuffling through the noſe. In the merry days of King Charles the ſecond, NONSENSE aſſumed a more gay and libertine air; and her progeny, from fana⯑tics, became downright infidels. Several courtiers of the family wrote lewd plays, as well as luſcious love-ſongs, and other looſe verſes, which were collected together, and greedily bought up in miſcellanies. In the ſucceeding reign, ſome of the kindred, who had received their edu⯑cation at St. Omers, thought themſelves on the point of eſtabliſhing NONSENSE in church and ſtate, and were preparing to make bonfires on the occaſion in Smithfield, when they were obliged to leave the kingdom.

Since the Revolution, the field of Politics has afforded large ſcope for NONSENSE and her family to make [713] themſelves remarkable. Hence aroſe the various ſects in party, diſtinguiſhed by the names of Whig and Tory, Miniſterial and Jacobite, Sunderlandians, Oxfordians, Go⯑dolphinians, Bolingbrokians, Walpolians, Pelhamians, &c. &c. &c. names, which have kindled as hot a war in pamphlets and journals, as the Guelphs and Gibilines in Italy, or the Big and Little-Endians in the kingdom of Lilliput.

I have here endeavoured to give a ſhort abridgement of the Hiſtory of NONSENSE; though a very ſmall part of the exploits of the family can be included in ſo com⯑pendious a chronicle. Some of them were very deep ſcho⯑lars, and filled the Profeſſors' Chairs at the Univerſities. They compoſed many elaborate diſſertations to convince the world, that two and two make four; and diſcovered by dint of ſyllogiſm, that white is not black. Their enquiries in Natural Philoſophy were no leſs extraordi⯑nary: many ſpent their lives and their fortunes in at⯑tempting to diſcover a wonderful Stone, that ſhould turn every baſer metal into gold; and others employed them⯑ſelves in making artificial wings, by the help of which they ſhould fly up into the world of the moon. Another branch of the family took to the Belles Lettres, and were the original founders of the learned Society of Grub-Street.

Never was any aera in the annals of NONSENSE more illuſtrious than the preſent; nor did that noble family ever more ſignally diſtinguiſh itſelf in every occupation. In Oratory, who are greater proficients than the progeny of NONSENSE? Witneſs many long and eloquent ſpeeches delivered in St. Stephen's Chapel, in Weſtminſter Hall, at Aſſizes and Quarter-Seſſions, at Clare-Market, and the Robin-Hood.—In Philoſophy, what marvellous things have not been proved by NONSENSE? The ſometime Profeſſor of Aſtronomy at Greſham College ſhewed Sir Iſaac Newton to be a mere aſs, and wire⯑drawed [714] the books of Moſes into a complete ſyſtem of Natural Philoſophy: Life-guard-men have with the ut⯑moſt certainty of NONSENSE foretold Earthquakes; and others have penned curious eſſays on Air-quakes, Water⯑quakes, and Comets.—In Politics, how ſucceſsfully have the ſons of NONSENSE bandied about the terms of Court and Country? How wiſely have they debated upon Taxes; and with what amazing penetration did they but lately foreſee an Invaſion?—In Religion, their domain is particularly extenſive: for, though NONSENSE is ex⯑cluded at leaſt from the firſt part of the ſervice in all regular churches, yet ſhe often occupies the whole cere⯑mony at the Tabernacle and Foundery in Moorfields, and the Chapel in Long-Acre. But for the credit of ſo po⯑lite an age, be it known, that the children of NON⯑SENSE, who are many of them people of faſhion, are as often ſeen at the Play-houſe as at Church: and it is ſomething ſtrange, that the family of NONSENSE is now divided againſt itſelf, and in high conteſt about the management of their favourite amuſement—the OPERA.

THERE is no mark of our confidence taken more kindly by a friend, than the intruſting him with a ſecret; nor any which he is ſo likely to abuſe. Confidantes in general are like crazy fire-locks, which are no ſooner charged and cocked, than the ſpring gives way, and the report immediately follows. Happy to have been thought worthy the confidence of one friend, they are impatient to manifeſt their importance to another; 'till between them and their friend, and their friend's friend, the whole matter is preſently known to all our friends round the Wrekin. The ſecret catches as it were by contact, and like electrical matter breaks forth from every link in the chain, almoſt at the [716] ſame inſtant. Thus the whole Exchange may be thrown into a buz to morrow, by what was whiſpered in the middle of Marlborough Downs this morning; and in a week's time the ſtreets may ring with the intrigue of a woman of faſhion, bellowed out from the foul mouths of the hawkers, though at preſent it is known to no creature living but her gallant and her waiting-maid.

AS the talent of ſecrecy is of ſo great importance to ſociety, and the neceſſary commerce between individuals cannot be ſecurely carried on without it, that this deplorable weakneſs ſhould be ſo general is much to be lamented. You may as well pour water into a funnel, or a ſieve, and expect it to be retained there, as commit any of your concerns to ſo ſlippery a companion. It is remarkable, that in thoſe men who have thus loſt the faculty of retention, the deſire of being communicative is always moſt prevalent where it is leaſt to be juſtified. If they are intruſted with a matter of no great moment, affairs of more conſequence will perhaps in a few hours ſhuffle it entirely out of their thoughts: but if any thing be delivered to them with an air of earneſtneſs, a low voice, and the geſture of a man in terror for the con⯑ſequence of it's being known; if the door is bolted, and every precaution taken to prevent a ſurpriſe; however they may promiſe ſecrecy, and however they may intend it, the weight upon their minds will be ſo extremely oppreſſive, that it will certainly put their tongues in motion.

THIS breach of truſt ſo univerſal amongſt us, is perhaps in great meaſure owing to our education. The firſt leſſon our little maſters and miſſes are taught, is to become blabs and tell-tales; they are bribed to divulge the petty intrigues [717] of the family below ſtairs to pappa and mamma in the parlour, and a doll or a hobby-horſe is generally the encou⯑ragement of a propenſity which could ſcarcely be attoned for by a whipping. As ſoon as children can liſp out the little intelligence they have picked up in the hall or the kit⯑chen, they are admired for their wit: if the butler has been caught kiſſing the houſekeeper in his pantry, or the foot⯑man detected in romping with the chambermaid, away flies little Tommy or Betſy with the news; the parents are loſt in admiration of the pretty rogue's underſtanding, and reward ſuch uncommon ingenuity with a kiſs and a ſugar-plumb.

NOR does an inclination to ſecrecy meet with leſs encou⯑ragement at ſchool. The governantes at the boarding-ſchool teach miſs to be a good girl, and tell them every thing ſhe knows: thus, if any young lady is unfortunately diſcovered eating a green apple in a corner, if ſhe is heard to pronounce a naughty word, or is caught picking the letters out of another miſs's ſampler, away runs the chit who is ſo happy as to get the ſtart of the reſt, ſcreams out her information as ſhe goes, and the prudent matron chucks her under the chin, and tells her that ſhe is a good girl, and every body will love her.

THE management of our young gentlemen is equally abſurd: In moſt of our ſchools if a lad is diſcovered in a ſcrape, the impeachment of an accomplice, as at the Old Bailey, is made the condition of a pardon. I remember a boy, engaged in robbing an orchard, who was unfortunately taken priſoner in an apple-tree, and conducted under a ſtrong guard of the farmer and his dairy-maid, to the maſter's houſe. Upon his abſolute refuſal to diſcover his aſſociates, [718] the pedagogue undertook to laſh him out of his fidelity, but finding it impoſſible to ſcourge the ſecret out of him, he at laſt gave him up for an obſtinate villain, and ſent him to his father, who told him he was ruined, and was going to diſ⯑inherit him for not betraying his ſchool-fellows. I muſt own I am not fond of thus drubbing our youth into treachery, and am much more pleaſed with the requeſt of Ulyſſes when he went to Troy, who begged of thoſe who were to have the charge of Telemachus, that they would above all things teach him to be juſt, ſincere, faithful, and to keep a ſecret.

EVERY man's experience muſt have furniſhed him with inſtances of confidantes who are not to be relied on, and friends who are not to be truſted; but few perhaps have thought it a character ſo well worth their attention, as to have marked out the different degrees into which it may be di⯑vided, and the different methods by which ſecrets are communicated.

NED TRUSTY is a tell-tale of a very ſingular kind. Ha⯑ving ſome ſenſe of his duty, he heſitates a little at the breach of it. If he engages never to utter a ſyllable, he moſt punctually performs his promiſe; but then he has the knack of inſinuating by a nod and a ſhrug well-timed, or a ſea⯑ſonable leer, as much as others can convey in expreſs terms. It is difficult, in ſhort, to determine, whether he is more to be admired for his reſolution in not mentioning, or his in⯑genuity in diſcloſing a ſecret. He is alſo excellent at a ‘"doubtful phraſe"’ as Hamlet calls it, or an ‘"ambiguous giving out,"’ and his converſation conſiſts chiefly of ſuch broken innuendos

Here he generally ſtops; and leaves it to his hearers to draw proper inferences from theſe piece-meal premiſes. With due encouragement however, he may be prevailed on to ſlip the padlock from his lips, and immediately overwhelms you with a torrent of ſecret hiſtory, which ruſhes forth with more violence for having been ſo long confined.

POOR MEANWELL, though he never fails to tranſgreſs, is rather to be pitied than condemned. To truſt him with a ſecret, is to ſpoil his appetite, to break his reſt, and to deprive him for a time of every earthly enjoyment. Like a man who travels with his whole fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you approach him, and immediately ſuſpects that you come with a felonious intent to rob him of his charge. If he ventures abroad, it is to walk in ſome unfre⯑quented place, where he is leaſt in danger of an attack. At home, he ſhuts himſelf up from his family, paces it to and fro' in his chamber, and has no relief but from muttering over to himſelf, what he longs to publiſh to the world; and would gladly ſubmit to the office of town cryer, for the li⯑berty of proclaiming it in the market place. At length however, weary of his burthen, and reſolved to bear it no longer, he conſigns it to the cuſtody of the firſt friend he meets, and returns to his wife with a cheerful aſpect, and wonderfully altered for the better.

CARELESS is perhaps equally undeſigning, though not equally excuſable. Intruſt him with an affair of the utmoſt importance, on the concealment of which your fortune and happineſs depend: he hears you with a kind of half-atten⯑tion; [720] whiſtles a favourite air, and accompanies it with the drumming of his fingers upon the table. As ſoon as your narration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of it, he aſks your opinion of his ſword-knot, damns his taylor for having dreſſed him in a ſnuff-colour'd coat inſtead of a pompadour, and leaves you in haſte to attend an auction; where, as if he meant to diſpoſe of his intelligence to the beſt bidder, he divulges it with a voice as loud as the auctioneer's; and when you tax him with having played you falſe, he is hear⯑tily ſorry for it, but never knew that it was to be a ſecret.

TO theſe I might add the character of the open and un⯑reſerved, who thinks it a breach of friendſhip to conceal any thing from his intimates; and the impertinent, who ha⯑ving by dint of obſervation made himſelf maſter of your ſecret, imagines he may lawfully publiſh the knowledge it has coſt him ſo much labour to obtain, and conſiders that privilege, as the reward due to his induſtry. But I ſhall leave theſe with many other characters, which my reader's own experience may ſuggeſt to him, and conclude with pre⯑ſcribing, as a ſhort remedy for this evil,—That no man may betray the counſel of his friend, let every man keep his own.

TASTE is at preſent the darling idol of the polite world, and the world of letters; and, indeed, ſeems to be conſidered as the quin⯑teſſence of almoſt all the arts and ſciences. The fine ladies and gentlemen dreſs with Taſte; the architects, whether Gothic or Chineſe, build with Taſte; the painters paint with Taſte; the poets write with Taſte; critics read with Taſte; and in ſhort, fidlers, players, ſingers, dancers, and mechanics themſelves, are all the ſons and daughters of Taſte. Yet in this amazing ſuper⯑abundancy of Taſte few can ſay what it really is, or what the word itſelf ſignifies. Should I attempt to define it in the ſtile of a Connoiſſeur, I muſt run over the names of all the famous poets, painters, and ſculptors, ancient and mo⯑dern; [722] and after having pompouſly harangued on the excel⯑lencies of Apelles, Phidias, Praxiteles, Angela, Rubens, Pouſſin, and Dominichino, with a word or two on all taſte⯑ful compoſitions, ſuch as thoſe of Homer, Virgil, Taſſo, Dante, and Arioſto, I ſhould leave the reader in wonder of my profound erudition, and as little informed as before. But as deep learning, though more flaming and pompous, is perhaps not always ſo uſeful as common ſenſe, I ſhall endeavour to get at the true meaning of the word Taſte, by conſidering what it uſually imports in familiar writings and ordinary converſation.

IT is ſuppoſed by Locke and other cloſe reaſoners, that words are intended as ſigns of our ideas: but daily expe⯑rience will convince us, that words are often uſed to expreſs no ideas at all. Thus many perſons, who talk perpetually of Taſte, throw it out as a mere expletive, without any meaning annexed to it. Bardolph, when demanded the meaning of the word accommodated, wiſely explains it by ſay⯑ing that ‘"accommodated, ſir, is—a—a—a—accommodated, ſir, is as if one ſhould ſay—a—accommodated:"’ and if in like manner, you aſk one of theſe people What is Taſte? they will tell you that "Taſte is a kind of a ſort of a—a—a—, in ſhort ‘"Taſte is Taſte."’ Theſe talkers muſt be con⯑ſidered as abſolute blanks in converſation, ſince it is im⯑poſſible to learn the explanation of a term from them, as they affix no determinate meaning to any expreſſion.

AMONG men of ſenſe, whoſe words carry meaning in their ſound, Taſte is commonly uſed in one of theſe two ſignifications. Firſt, when they give any perſon the ap⯑pellation of a Man of Taſte, they would intimate that he [723] has a turn for the polite arts, as well as the leſſer elegancies of life; and that from his natural bent to thoſe ſtudies, and his acquired knowledge in them, he is capable of diſtin⯑guiſhing what is good or bad in any thing of that kind ſubmitted to his judgment. The meaning at other times implied by a Man of Taſte is, that he is not only ſo far an adept in thoſe matters as to be able to judge of them ac⯑curately, but is alſo poſſeſſed of the faculty of executing them gracefully. Theſe two ſignifications will perhaps be more eaſily conceived, and clearly illuſtrated, when applied to our Senſual Taſte. The Man of Taſte, according to the firſt, may be conſidered as a Bon Vivant, who is fond of the diſhes before him, and diſtinguiſhes nicely what is ſavoury and delicious, or flat and inſipid in the ingredients of each: according to the ſecond, he may be regarded as the Cook, who from knowing what things will mix well together, and diſtinguiſhing by a nice taſte when he has arrived at that happy mixture, is able to compoſe ſuch exquiſite diſhes.

BOTH theſe ſignifications of the word will be found agree⯑able to the following definition of it, which I have ſome⯑where ſeen, and is the only juſt deſcription of the term, that I ever remember to have met with. ‘"Taſte conſiſts in a nice harmony between the Fancy and the Judgment."’ The moſt chaſtiſed judgment, without genius, can never conſtitute a Man of Taſte; and the moſt luxuriant Imagina⯑tion, unregulated by Judgment, will only carry us into wild and extravagant deviations from it. To mix oil, vinegar, butter, milk, eggs, &c. incoherently together, would make an Olio not to be reliſhed by any palate; and the man who has no goût for delicacies himſelf will never compoſe a good [724] diſh, though he ſhould ever ſo ſtrictly adhere to the rules of La Chapelle, Hannah Glaſſe, and Martha Bradley. I con⯑fine myſelf at preſent chiefly to that ſignification of the word, which implies the capacity of exerting our own facul⯑ties in the ſeveral branches of Taſte, becauſe That always includes the other.

HAVING thus ſettled what Taſte is, it may not be unen⯑tertaining to examine modern Taſte by theſe rules: and perhaps it will appear, that on the one hand its moſt pleaſing flights and raviſhing elegancies are extravagant and abſurd, and that on the other hand thoſe who affect a correct Taſte in all their undertakings, proceed mechanically without ge⯑nius. The firſt ſpecies of Taſte, which gives a looſe to the imagination, indulges itſelf in caprice, and is perpetually ſtriking new ſtrokes, is the chief regulator of the faſhion. In dreſs, it has put hunting-poles into the hands of our gentlemen, and erected coaches and windmills on the heads of our ladies. In equipage, it has built chariots of papier maché, and by putting ſpotted Daniſh horſes into the harneſs, has made our beaux look like Bacchus in his car drawn by leopards. The ornaments, both on the outſide and inſide of our houſes, are all Gothic or Chineſe; and whoever makes a pagod of his parlour, throws a plank or two with an irre⯑gular croſs-barred paling over a dirty ditch, or places battle⯑ments on a root-houſe or a ſtable, fits up his houſe and garden entirely in Taſte.

THE ſecond ſort of Men of Taſte are to be found chiefly among the Literati, and are thoſe, who deſpiſing the mo⯑dern whims to which faſhion has given the name of Taſte, pretend to follow with the moſt ſcrupulous exactneſs the [725] chaſte models of the antients. Theſe are the poets who favour us with correct, epithetical, and taſteful compoſitions; whoſe works are without blemiſh, and conformable to the preciſe rules of Quintilian, Horace, and Ariſtotle: and as they are intended merely for the peruſal of perſons of the moſt refined Taſte, it is no wonder that they are above the level of common underſtandings. Theſe too are the Critics, who in their comments upon authors, embarraſs us with repeated alluſions to the ſtudy of Virtù: And theſe too are the Connoiſſeurs in Architecture, who build ruins after Vi⯑truvius, and neceſſaries according to Palladio. One gentle⯑man of this caſt has built his villa upon a bleak hill, with four ſpacious porticos, open on each ſide to court the four winds; becauſe, in the ſultry regions of Italy, this model has been thought moſt convenient; and another has, in great meaſure, ſhut out the light from his apartments, and cut off all proſpect from his windows, by erecting an high wall be⯑fore his houſe, which in Italy has been judged neceſſary to ſcreen them from the ſun.

ARCHITECTURE ſeems indeed to be the main article, in which the efforts of Taſte are now diſplayed. Among thoſe who are fond of exerting their fancies in capricious innova⯑tions, I might inſtance the many pretty whims, of which an infinite variety may be ſeen within ten miles of London. But us a proof of the noble and judicious Taſte among us, I ſhall beg leave to deſcribe, in the ſtile of a Connoiſſeur, a moſt amazing curioſity, erected in a very polite quarter of this town.

IN the midſt of a noble and ſpacious area ſtands a grand Obeliſk. The Baſe forms a perfect ſquare with right [726] angles; the Body of it is cylindrical; but the Capital is an Heptagon, and has ſeveral curious lines and figures deſcribed on each of its ſeven flat ſides or ſuperfices, which ſerve to terminate as many moſt magnificent and ſtriking Viſtas. This ſuperb Column, no leſs remarkable than the famous Pillar of Trajan, ſeems (from the ſeveral Gnomons and other Hieroglyphics ſtuck about it) to have been originally dedicated to the Sun; but is now known among the vulgar by the more common name of The Seven Dials.

THOUGH I ſhall not as yet vouchſafe to let the reader ſo far into my ſecrets, as to inform him whether I am married or ſingle, it may not be amiſs to ac⯑quaint him, that ſuppoſing I ſtill remain a batchelor, it has not been the fault of my friends or relations. On the contrary, as ſoon as I was what they call ſettled in the world, they were ſo aſſiduous in looking out for a wife for me, that nothing [728] was required on my part, but immediately to fall in love with the lady they had pitched upon: and could I have complied with their ſeveral choices, I ſhould have been married at the ſame time to a tall and a ſhort, a plump and a ſlender, a young and an old woman; one with a great deal of money, and another with none at all: each of whom were ſeparately recommended by them as the propereſt perſon in the world for me.

I know not how it happens, but it is notorious, that moſt people take a pleaſure in making matches; either thinking matrimony a ſtate of bliſs, into which they would charitably call all their friends and acquaintance; or perhaps ſtruggling in the toils, they are deſirous of catching others in the net that enſnared them. Many matches have been brought about between two perſons abſolute ſtrangers to each other, through this kind mediation of our friends, who are always ready to take upon them the office of an honourable go-between. Some have come together merely from having been talked of by their acquaintance as likely to make a match; and I have known a couple, who have met by accident at an horſe-race, or danced together at an aſſembly, that in leſs than a fortnight have been driven into matrimony in their own defence, by having been firſt paired in private converſations, and afterwards in the common news-papers.

As we cannot inſure happineſs to our friends, at the ſame time that we help them to huſbands or wives, one would imagine that few would care to run the ha⯑zard [729] of beſtowing miſery, where they meant a kindneſs. I know a good-natured lady, who has officiouſly brought upon herſelf the ill-will and the curſes of many of her deareſt and moſt intimate friends on this very account. She has a ſiſter, for whom ſhe provided a moſt excellent huſband, who has ſhewn his affection for her by ſpend⯑ing her whole fortune upon his miſtreſſes: ſhe con⯑trived, that another near relation ſhould ſnap up a rich widow, who was arreſted for her debts within a week after marriage; and it coſt her a whole twelvemonth to bring two doating lovers of her acquaintance together, who parted beds before the honey-moon was expired.

But if our friends will thus condeſcend to be Match-makers from a ſpirit of benevolence, and for our own ad⯑vantage only, there are others who have taken up the pro⯑feſſion from leſs diſintereſted motives; who bring beauty and fortune to market, and traffick in all the accompliſh⯑ments that can make the marriage ſtate happy. Theſe traders diſpoſe of all ſorts of rich heirs and heireſſes, ba⯑ronets, lords, ladies of faſhion, and daughters of country ſquires with as much coolneſs as drovers ſell bullocks. They keep complete regiſters of the condition and quali⯑fications of all the marriageable perſons within the king⯑dom; and it is as common to apply to them for an huſband or wife, as to the regiſter-offices for a man or maid-ſervant. They may, indeed, be conſidered as fa⯑thers and guardians for the greateſt part of our youth of both ſexes, ſince in marriage they may be moſt properly ſaid to give them away.

[730]It is ſomething comical to conſider the various perſons, to whom men of this profeſſion are uſeful. We may naturally ſuppoſe, that a young fellow, who has no eſtate, but what, like Tinſel's in the Drummer, is merely perſonal, would be glad to come down handſomely after conſummation with a woman of fortune; and a ſmart girl, who has more charms than wealth, would give round poundage on being taken for better for worſe by a rich heir. Many a tradeſman alſo wants a wife to manage his family, while he looks after the ſhop; and thinks it better to recommend himſelf by this convenient friend, than by means of the Daily Advertiſer. There are alſo ſeveral young people, who are indifferent as to any perſon in particular, and have no paſſion for the ſtate itſelf, yet want to be married, becauſe it will deliver them from the reſtraint of parents. But the moſt unnatural, though very common applications of this ſort are from the rich and the noble; who having immenſe eſtates to beſtow on their children, will make uſe of the meaneſt inſtruments to couple them to another of the ſame over⯑grown fortune.

I have known many droll accidents happen from the miſtakes of theſe mercenary Match-makers, and remem⯑ber one in particular, which I ſhall here ſet down for the entertainment of my readers. A careful old gen⯑tleman came up from the North on purpoſe to marry his ſon, and was recommended by one of theſe couplers to a twenty thouſand pounder. He accordingly put on his beſt wig, beſt beaver, and gold-buttoned coat, and went to pay his reſpects to the lady's mamma: He told her, [731] that he had not the pleaſure of being known to her; but as his ſon's quiet depended on it, he had taken the liberty of waiting on her: in ſhort, he at length broke the matter to her, and informed her, that his boy had ſeen her daughter at church, and was violently in love with her; concluding, that he would do very hand⯑ſomely for the lad, and would make it worth her while to have him. The old lady thanked him for the ho⯑nour he intended her family; but ſhe ſuppoſed, to be ſure, as he appeared to be a prudent and ſenſible gentle⯑tleman he would expect a fortune anſwerable. ‘"Say nothing of that, madam, ſay nothing of that",’ inter⯑rupted the Don;— ‘"I have heard—but if it was leſs, it ſhould not break any ſquares between us."—’ ‘"Pray, ſir, how much does the world ſay?"’ replied the lady.— ‘"Why, madam, I ſuppoſe ſhe has not leſs than twenty thouſand pounds.—"’ ‘"Not ſo much, ſir;"’ ſaid the old lady, very gravely.— ‘"Well, madam, I ſuppoſe then it may be nineteen, or—or—only eighteen thouſand pounds".—’ ‘"Not ſo much, ſir.;"—’ ‘"Well, well, per⯑haps not: but—if it was only ſeventeen thouſand."—’ ‘"No, ſir."—’ ‘"Or ſixteen".—’ ‘"No."—’ ‘"Or (we muſt make allowances) perhaps but fifteen thouſand".—’ ‘"Not ſo much, ſir."—’Here enſued a profound ſilence for near a minute; when the old gentleman, rubbing his fore-head— ‘"Well, madam, we muſt come to ſome con⯑cluſion—Pray is it leſs than fourteen thouſand? How much more is it than twelve thouſand?"—’ ‘"Leſs, ſir."—’ ‘"Leſs, madam?—"’ ‘"Leſs."—’ ‘"But is it more than ten thouſand?"—’ ‘"Not ſo much, ſir."—’ ‘"Not ſo much, madam?"—’ ‘"Not ſo much."—’ ‘"Why, [732] if it is lodged in the funds, conſider, madam, intereſt is low, very low—but as the boy loves her, trifles ſhall not part us. Has ſhe got eight thouſand Pounds?"—’ ‘"Not ſo much, ſir."—’ ‘"Why then, madam, perhaps the young lady's fortune may not be above ſix—or five thouſand pounds."—’ ‘"NOTHING LIKE IT, SIR."—’At theſe words the old gentleman ſtarted from his chair, and running out of the room— ‘"Your ſervant, your ſervant—my ſon is a fool; and the fellow who recommended me to you is a blockhead, and knows nothing of buſineſs."’

I MENTIONED in a former paper, that a friend of mine was writing A New Treatiſe on Ethics, or, A Syſtem of Immoral Philoſophy, compiled from the principles and practice of the preſent age; in which the extraordinary modeſty of the Mo⯑derns would be enlarged on, which has induced them to comprehend all the vices, inſtead of virtues, in their idea of a Fine Gentleman. The work is now finiſhed; and the Author has ſent me the following letter concerning the Dedication, with leave to ſubmit it to the public.

THE notices in the public papers that the Foundling Hoſpital will be open for the reception of all infants in general under a certain age, have, I find, given uni⯑verſal ſatisfaction. The conſequences of a big belly do not appear ſo dreadful as heretofore: and it was but yeſterday that a young fellow of intrigue told me, he was happy that his children would no longer be thrown out of the Hoſpital, as he himſelf was out of Arthur's, by black balls. For my part, though I have no lady in keeping, no child by my houſe-keeper, nor any other affair of gallantry on my [740] hands, which makes me wiſh to ſwell the number of infants maintained by that charity, I muſt own myſelf to be exceedingly rejoiced at the extenſion of ſo benevo⯑lent a deſign. I look upon it as the certain preſervation of many hundreds in embryo: nor ſhall we now hear of ſo many helpleſs babes birth-ſtrangled in a neceſſary, or ſmothered by the ditch-delivered drab. As a baſtard is accounted in law, quaſi nullius filius, the child of no⯑body, and related to nobody, and yet is bleſt with as fair proportions, and capable of an equal degree of per⯑fection with ‘"honeſt madam's iſſue,"’ it is ſurely an act of great humanity thus to reſcue them from untimely deaths and other miſeries, which They do not merit, whatever may be the guilt of their parents.

THOUGH it is obvious, that this Hoſpital will be made the receptacle of many legitimate children, it is no leſs certain that the rich, as well as the poor, will often ſend their baſe-born bantlings to this general nurſery. The wealthy man of quality, or ſubſtantial cit, may have their private family-reaſons for not owning the fruits of their ſecret amours, and be glad to put the little living witneſs of their intrigues out of the way. For this reaſon, an hiſtory of the Foundlings received there would be very curious and entertaining, as it would contain many anec⯑dotes not to be learned from any Pariſh Regiſter. The reflections that paſſed in my mind on this ſubject, gave occaſion the other evening to the following Dream.

Methought, as I was ſtanding at the private door of the Hoſpital, where a croud of females (each of them with a child in her arms) were preſſing to get in, an elderly gentleman, whom from his white ſtaff I took to [741] be a governour of the charity, very courteouſly invited me to come in. I accepted his offer; and having ſeated myſelf next him— ‘"Mr. TOWN, ſays he, I am con⯑ſcious that you look upon moſt theſe little infants as the offsprings of ſo many unmarried fathers, and maiden-mothers, which have been clandeſtinely ſmuggled into the world. Know then that I am one of thoſe guar⯑dian Genii, appointed to ſuperintend the fortunes of Baſtards: therefore, as this Hoſpital is more immedi⯑ately under my tuition, I have put on this diſguiſe; and, if you pleaſe, will let you into the ſecret hiſtory of thoſe babes, who are my wards, and their parents."’

I aſſured him, his intelligence would be highly agree⯑able; and ſeveral now coming up to offer their children, he reſumed his diſcourſe— ‘"Obſerve, ſaid he, that jolly little rogue, with plump cheeks, a florid com⯑plexion, blue eyes, and ſandy locks. We have here already ſeveral of his brethren by the mother's ſide; ſome fair, ſome brown, and ſome black: and yet they are all ſuppoſed to have come by the ſame father. The mother has for many years been houſekeeper to a gentleman who cannot ſee that her children bear the marks of his own ſervants, and that this very brat is the exact reſemblance of his coachman.’

‘"THAT puling whining infant there, with a pale face, emaciated body, and diſtorted limbs, is the forced pro⯑duct of viper-broth and cantharides. It is the offspring of a worn-out buck of quality, who at the ſame time he debauched the mother, ruined her conſtitution by a filthy diſeaſe; in conſequence of which, ſhe with much [742] difficulty brought forth this juſt picture of himſelf in miniature.’

‘"THE next that offers is the iſſue of a careful cit; who, as he keeps an horſe for his own riding on ſundays, which he lets out all the reſt of the week, keeps alſo a miſtreſs for his recreation on the ſeventh day, who lets herſelf out on all the other ſix. That other babe owes his birth likewiſe to the city, but is the joint product, as we may ſay, of two fathers; who being great oeconomiſts in their pleaſures as well as in their buſineſs, have ſet up a whore and an one horſe-chaiſe in partnerſhip together.’

‘"THAT pert young baggage there, who ſo boldly preſſes forward with her brat, is not the mother of it, but is maid to a ſingle lady of the ſtricteſt honour and unblemiſhed reputation. About a twelve month, ago her miſtreſs went to Bath for the benefit of her health; and ten months after, ſhe travelled into North Wales to ſee a relation; from whence ſhe is juſt returned. We may ſuppoſe, that ſhe took a fancy to that pretty babe while in the country, and brought it up to town with her, in order to place it here; as ſhe did a few years ago to another charming boy, which being too old to be got into this Hoſpital, is now at a ſchool in Yorkſhire, where young gentlemen are boarded, cloath⯑ed, and educated, and found in all neceſſaries, for ten pounds a year.’

‘"THAT chubby little boy, which you ſee in the arms of yonder ſtrapping wench in a camblet gown and red cloak, is her own ſon. She is by profeſſion a bed-maker [743] in one of the univerſities, and of the ſame college, in which the father (a grave tutor) holds a fellowſhip under the uſual condition of not marrying. Many ſober gentlemen of the cloth, who are in the ſame ſcrape, are glad to take the benefit of this charity: And if all of the ſame reverend order, like the prieſts abroad, were laid under the ſame reſtrictions, you might expect to ſee a particular Hoſpital, erected for the reception of the Sons of the Clergy.’

‘"THAT next child belongs to a ſea-captain's lady, whoſe huſband is expected to return every moment from a long voyage; the fears of which have happily haſtened the birth of this infant a full month before its time. That other is the poſthumous child of a wealthy old gentleman, who had married a young girl for love, and dyed in the honey-moon. This his ſon and heir was not born till near a twelve month after his deceaſe, becauſe its birth was retarded by the ex⯑ceſſive grief of his widow; who on that account ra⯑ther choſe to lye-in privately, and to lodge their only child here, than to have its legitimacy and her own honour called in queſtion by her huſband's relations."’

MY companion pointed out to me ſeveral others no leſs extraordinary; among which I remember he told me, one was the unhallowed brood of a Methodiſt teacher, and another the premature ſpawn of a Maid of honour. A poor author eaſed himſelf of a very heavy load of two twin-daughters, which in an evil hour he begot on an hawker of pamphlets, after he had been writing a luſcious novel: but I could not help ſmiling at the marks ſent in with theſe new Muſes, ſignifying, that one had been [744] chriſtened Terpſichore, and the other Polyhymnia. Several bantlings were imported from Iſlington, Hoxton, and other villages within the ſound of Bow Bell: many were tranſplanted hither out of the country; and a whole litter of brats were ſent in from two or three pariſhes in particular, for which it is doubtful whether they were moſt indebted, to the parſon or the ſquire.

A modeſt-looking woman now brought a very fine babe to be admitted; but the governors rejected it, as it appeared to be above two months old. The mother on the contrary perſiſted in affirming, that it was but juſt born, and addreſſing herſelf to me, deſired me to look at it. I accordingly took it in my arms; and while I was toſſing it up and down, and praiſing its beauty, the ſly huſſy contrived to ſlip away, leaving the precious charge to my care. The efforts which I made to bawl after her, and the ſqualling of the brat which rung pite⯑ouſly in my ears, luckily awaked me; and I was very happy to find, that I had only been dandling my pillow inſtead of a bantling.

ALMOST every man is or has been, or at leaſt thinks that he is or has been a Lover. One has fought for his miſtreſs, another has drank for her, another wrote for her, and another has done all three: and yet perhaps in ſpite of their duels, poetry, and bumpers, not one of them ever entertained a ſincere paſſion. I have lately taken a ſurvey of the numerous tribe of Enamoratos, and after having obſerved the various ſhapes they wear, think I [746] may ſafely pronounce, that though all profeſs to have been in Love, there are very few who are really capable of it.

IT is a maxim of Rochefoucault's, that, ‘"many men would never have been in Love, if they had never heard of Love."’ The juſtice of this remark is equal to its ſhrewdneſs. The ridiculous prate of a family has frequently great influence on young minds, who learn to Love, as they do every thing elſe, by imitation. Young crea⯑tures, almoſt mere children, have been conſumed with this ſecond-hand flame lighted up at another's paſſion; and in conſequence of the loves of the footman and chambermaid, I have known little maſter fancy himſelf a dying ſwain at the age of thirteen, and little miſs pining away with Love in a bib and hanging ſleeves.

THAT vaſt heap of volumes, filled with Love, and ſuffi⯑cient in number to make a library, are great inflamers, and ſeldom fail to produce that kind of paſſion deſcribed by Rochefoucault. The chief of theſe literary ſeducers are the old romances, and their degenerate ſpawn, the modern no⯑vels. The young ſtudent reads of the emotions of Love, till he imagines that he feels them throbbing and fluttering in his little breaſt; as valetudinarians ſtudy the hiſtory of a diſeaſe, till they fancy themſelves affected with every ſymp⯑tom of it. For this reaſon, I am always ſorry to ſee any of this traſh in the hands of young people: I look upon Caſſandra and Cleopatra as well as Betty Barnes, Polly Willis, &c. as no better than bawds; and conſider Don Bellianis of Greece, and Sir Amadis de Gaul, with George Edwards, Loveill, &c. as arrant pimps. But though romances and novels are both equally ſtimulatives, yet their operations are very different. [747] The romance-ſtudent becomes a fond Corydon of Sicily, or a very Damon of Arcadia, and is in good truth ſuch a dying ſwain, that he believes he ſhall hang himſelf on the next willow, or drown himſelf in the next pond, if he ſhould loſe the object of his wiſhes: but the young noveliſt turns out more a man of the world, and after having gained the affections of his miſtreſs, forms a hundred ſchemes to ſecure the poſſeſſion of her, and to bam her relations.

THERE are, among the tribe of Lovers, a ſort of luke⯑warm gentlemen, who can hardly be ſaid, in the language of Love, to entertain a flame for their miſtreſs. Theſe are your men of ſuperlative delicacy and refinement, who loath the groſs ideas annexed to the amours of the vulgar, and aim at ſomething more ſpiritualized and ſublime. Theſe philoſophers in Love doat on the mind alone of their miſtreſs, and would fain ſee her naked ſoul, diverted of its material incumbrances. Gentlemen of this complexion might per⯑haps not improperly be ranged in the romantic claſs, but they have aſſumed to themſelves the name of Platonic Lovers.

PLATONISM, however, is in theſe days very ſcarce; and there is another claſs, infinitely more numerous, compoſed of a ſort of Lovers, whom we may juſtly diſtinguiſh by the title of Epicureans. The principles of this ſect are diametri⯑cally oppoſite to thoſe of the Platonics. They think no more of the ſoul of their miſtreſs, than a muſſulman, but are in raptures with her perſon. A Lover of this ſort is in perpetual extaſies: his paſſion is ſo violent that he even ſcorches you with his flame; and he runs over the perfec⯑tions of his miſtreſs in the ſame ſtile that a jockey praiſes his [748] horſe. ‘"Such limbs! ſuch eyes! ſuch a neck and breaſt! ſuch—oh, ſhe's a rare piece."’ Their ideas go no farther than mere external accompliſhments; and as their wounds may be ſaid to be only ſkin deep, we cannot allow their breaſts to be ſmitten with Love, though perhaps they may rankle with a much groſſer paſſion. Yet it muſt be owned that nothing is more common, than for gentlemen of this caſt to be involved in what is called a Love-match: but then it is owing to the ſame cauſe with the marriage of Sir John Brute, who ſays, ‘"I married my wife, becauſe I wanted to lie with her, and ſhe would not let me."’

OTHER gentlemen of a gay diſpoſition and warm conſti⯑tution, who go in the catalogue for Lovers, are adorers of almoſt every woman they ſee. The flame of Love is as eaſily kindled in them, as the ſparks are ſtruck out of a flint, and it alſo expires as ſoon. A Lover of this ſort dances one day with a lady at a ball, and loſes his heart to her in a minuet; the next another carries it off in the mall; and the next day perhaps he goes out of town, and lodges it in the poſſeſſion of all the country beauties ſucceſſively, till at laſt he brings it back to town with him, and preſents it to the firſt woman he meets. This claſs is very numerous; but ought by no means to hold a place among the tribe of true Lovers, ſince a gentleman who is thus in Love with every body, may fairly be ſaid not to be in Love at all.

LOVE is univerſally allowed to be whimſical; and if whim is the eſſence of Love, none can be accounted truer Lovers, than thoſe who admire their miſtreſs for ſome particular charm, which enchains them, though it would ſingly never captivate any body elſe. Some gentlemen have been won [749] to conjugal embraces by a pair of fine arms; others have been held faſt by an even white ſet of teeth; and I know a very good ſcholar, who was enſnared by a ſet of golden treſſes, becauſe it was the taſte of the antients, and the true claſſical hair. Thoſe ladies, whoſe lovers are ſuch piecemeal admirers, are in perpetual danger of loſing them. A raſh, or a pimple may abate their affection: All thoſe, the object of whoſe adoration is merely a pretty face or a fine perſon, are in the power of the like accidents; and the ſmall pox has occaſioned many a poor lady the loſs of her beauty and her Lover at the ſame time.

BUT after all theſe ſpurious Enamoratos, there are ſome few, whoſe paſſion is ſincere and well-founded. True, ge⯑nuine Love is always built upon eſteem: not that I would mean that a man can reaſon and argue himſelf into Love; but that a conſtant intercourſe with an amiable woman will lead him into a contemplation of her excellent qualities, which will inſenſibly win his heart before he is himſelf aware of it, and beget all thoſe hopes, fears, and other extrava⯑gances, which are the natural attendants on a true paſſion. Love has been deſcribed ten thouſand times: but that I may be ſure that the little picture I would draw of it is taken from nature, I will conclude this paper with the ſtory of honeſt WILL EASY and his amiable wife. WILL EASY and Miſs — became very early acquainted, and from being familiarly intimate with the whole family, WILL might be almoſt ſaid to live there. He dined and ſupped with them perpetually in town, and ſpent great part of the ſummer with them at their ſeat in the country. WILL and the lady were both univerſally allowed to have ſenſe, and their fre⯑quent converſations together gave them undoubted proofs of [750] the goodneſs of each other's diſpoſition. They delighted in the company, and admired the perfections of each other, and gave a thouſand little indications of a growing paſſion, not unobſerved by others, even while it was yet unknown and unſuſpected even by themſelves. However, after ſome time WILL, by mutual agreement, demanded the lady of her father in marriage. But alas! ‘"the courſe of true Love never yet run ſmooth:"’ the ill-judged ambition of a parent induced the father, out of mere love to his daugh⯑ter, to refuſe her hand to the only man in the world with whom ſhe could live happily, becauſe he imagined that he might in the Smithfield phraſe, do better for her. But Love, grounded on juſt principles, is not eaſily ſhaken; and as it appeared that their mutual paſſion had taken too deep root ever to be extirpated; the father at laſt reluctantly half-conſented to their union. They enjoy a genteel competency, and WILL by his integrity and abilities is an honour to a learned profeſſion, and a bleſſing to his wife; whoſe greateſt praiſe is, that her virtues deſerve ſuch an huſband. She is pleaſed with having ‘"left droſs to ducheſſes."’ He conſiders her happineſs as his main in⯑tereſt, and their example every day gives freſh conviction to the father, that where two perſons of ſtrong ſenſe and good hearts, conceive a reciprocal affection for each other, their paſſion is genuine and laſting, and their union is perhaps the trueſt ſtate of happineſs under the ſun.

NOTHING has given me a more ſen⯑ſible pleaſure in the courſe of this un⯑dertaking, than the having been occa⯑ſionally honoured with the correſpon⯑dence of ſeveral ingenious gentlemen of both our Univerſities. My paper of to day gives me unuſual ſatisfaction on this account, and I cannot help looking on it with a great deal of plea⯑ſure as a ſort of a little Cambridge Miſcellany. The reader will ſee, it is compoſed of two little poems, which I have lately received from two different correſpondents in that learned Univerſity. The Ode to Friendship has, in my opinion, many beauties, and is infinitely ſuperior [752] to the meagre productions of ſome celebrated Ode⯑mongers. The Fable I have ſome reaſon to imagine, beſides the peculiarity of ſtile and manner, comes from the ſame hand, who has already obliged the public with ſome other pieces of poetry publiſhed in this paper.

I Remember a rector of a pariſh at the court end of the town, who was gene⯑rally accounted a very fine preacher, that uſed to aim at delivering himſelf in the moſt bold and animated ſtile of oratory. The tone of his voice was nicely accommodated to the different branches of his diſ⯑courſe, and every thing was pronounced with uncommon energy and emphaſis; he alſo indulged himſelf in equal freedom of action, and abounded in various extraordi⯑nary geſticulations; his ſermons themſelves were ſown thick with tropes, metaphors, and ſimilies, and every where enriched with apoſtrophe and proſopopaeia.

[758]AS I knew that this reverend gentleman had been abroad with a young nobleman in the capacity of a tra⯑velling tutor, I did not wonder at the violent exertion of his voice, and the vehemence of his action; as this is a piece of clerical foppery, which an itinerant clergyman is apt to adopt, while his pupil is gleaning all the other follies of Paris: at which place it is very common to ſee a capuchine ſo heated with his ſubject, that he often ſeems in danger of throwing himſelf out of the pulpit. But I was at a loſs how to account for the glowing ſtile of his diſcourſes, till happening to turn over the works of a celebrated French preacher, I found that the oratorical performances of my friend were no other than faithful tranſlations of them.

THIS ſort of pulpit plagiariſm may perhaps be more adapted to the taſte of ſome of our faſhionable de⯑claimers, than the more hackneyed method of tran⯑ſcribing a page from Barrow, Tillotſon, or Atterbury: but although ſuch practices may be leſs liable to de⯑tection, it is certainly more orthodox to rifle the works of our own Divines, than to ranſack the treaſures of Romiſh prieſts; and their inflamed orations are undoubt⯑edly leſs adapted to the genius of our people, than the ſober reaſonings of our own preachers. It muſt be owned indeed that ſome of our clergy are greatly want⯑ing in that life and ſpirit, which would render their inſtructions more affecting as well as more pleaſing. Their ſermons are frequently drawn out in one continued drawl, without any variation of voice or geſture: ſo that it is no wonder, if ſome of the congregation ſhould be caught napping, when the preacher himſelf hardly [759] ſeems to be awake. But though this drowſy delivery is not to be commended, yet a ſerious earneſtneſs is moſt likely to engage the attention, and convince the reaſon. This manner, as it is moſt decent in itſelf, is beſt ſuited to an Engliſh audience; though it is no wonder that a different ſtrain of oratory ſhould prevail in France, ſince a Frenchman accompanies almoſt every word in ordinary converſation with ſome fantaſtic geſture, and even enquires concerning your health, and talks of the weather, with a thouſand ſhrugs and grimaces.

BUT though I do not like to ſee a preacher lazily lolling on the cuſhion, or dozing over his ſermon-caſe, and haranguing his audience with an unchriſtian apathy; yet even this unanimated delivery is perhaps leſs offenſive, than to obſerve a clergyman leſs aſſiduous to inſtruct his audience, than to be admired by them. A ſober divine ſhould not aſcend the pulpit with the ſame paſſions that a public orator mounts the roſtrum: much leſs ſhould he aſſume the voice, geſture, and de⯑portment of a player, and the language of the theatre. He ſhould preſerve a temperance in the moſt earneſt parts of his diſcourſe, and go through the whole of it in ſuch a manner, as beſt agrees with the ſolemn place in which it is uttered. Pompous nonſenſe, bellowed out with a thundering accent, comes with a worſe grace from the pulpit, than bombaſt and ſuſtian injudiciouſly ranted forth by a ‘"periwig-pated fellow"’ on the ſtage. I can⯑not better illuſtrate the abſurdity and indecency of this manner, than by a familiar, though ſhameful, inſtance of it. Whoever has occaſionally joined with the butchers in making up the audience of the Clare-Market [760] Orator will agree with me, that the impropriety of his ſtile and the extravagance of his action become ſtill more ſhocking and intolerable by the day which they pro⯑phane, and the eccleſiaſtical appearance of the place in which the declaimer harangues. Thus while thoſe who thunder out damnation from pariſh pulpits, may, from aſſuming the manners of the theatre, be reſembled to ranting players; the Clare-Market Orator, while he turns religion into farce, muſt be conſidered as exhibiting ſhews and interludes of an inferior nature, and himſelf regarded as a Jack-pudding in a gown and caſſock.

A BLOATED ſtile is perhaps of all others leaſt to be commended. It is more frequently made a ſhelter for nonſenſe, than a vehicle of truth: but though improper on all occaſions, it more especially deviates from the chaſte plainneſs and ſimplicity of Pulpit Eloquence. Nor am I leſs diſpleaſed with thoſe who are admired by ſome as pretty preachers; as I think a clergyman may be a coxcomb in his ſtile and manner, as well as a prig in his appearance. Flowers of rhetoric injudiciouſly ſcattered over a ſermon are as diſguſting in his diſcourſe, as the ſnug wig and ſcented white handkerchief in his dreſs. The pretty preacher aims alſo at politeneſs and good-breeding, takes the ladies to taſk in a genteel vein of raillery, and handles their modiſh foibles with the ſame air that he gallants their fans: but if he has a mind to put his abili⯑ties to the ſtretch, and indulge himſelf in a more than ordinary flow of rhetoric, he fritters away the ſolemnity of ſome ſcriptural ſubject; and I have heard a flourishing declaimer of this caſt take off from the awful idea of the Paſſion by dwelling principally on the gracefulneſs of perſon, ſweetneſs of voice, and elegance of deportment [761] in the Divine Sufferer; and at another time in ſpeaking of the Fall, I have known him enter into a pictureſque deſcription of the woods, groves, and rivulets, panſies, pinks, and violets, that threw a perpetual gaiety over the face of nature in the garden of Eden.

AFFECTED oratory and an extravagant delivery were firſt practiſed by thoſe who vary from the regular eſta⯑bliſhed church: nor is there any manner ſo unbecoming and indecent, which has not at one time or another been accounted truly ſpiritual and graceful. Snuffling through the noſe with an harmonious twang has been regarded as a kind of church-muſic beſt calculated to raiſe devo⯑tion, and a piteous chorus of ſighs and groans has been thought the moſt effectual call to repentance. Irregular tremblings of the voice and contortions of the perſon have long been the eloquence of Quakers and Preſbyterians; and are now the favourite mode of preaching practiſed by thoſe ſelf-ordained teachers, who ſtrike out new lights in religion, and pour forth their extempore rhapſodies in a torrent of enthuſiaſtical oratory. An inſpired cobler will thunder out anathemas, with the tone and geſture of St. Paul, from a joint-ſtool; and an enlightened brick⯑layer will work himſelf up to ſuch a pitch of vehemence, as ſhall make his audience quake again. I am ſorry to ſee our regular divines rather copying than reforming this hot and extravagant manner of preaching; and have with pain been witneſs to a wild intemperate delivery in our pariſh-churches, which I ſhould only have expected at the chapel in Long-Acre, or at the Foundery and Ta⯑bernacle in Moor-Fields.

[762]AS a ſerious earneſtneſs in the delivery, and a nervous ſimplicity in the ſtile of a diſcourſe, are the moſt becom⯑ing ornaments of the pulpit, ſo an affectation of elo⯑quence is no where ſo offenſive. The delivery of a preacher as well as his diction ſhould, like his dreſs, be plain and decent. Inflamed eloquence and wild geſtures are unſuitable to the place and his function; and though ſuch vehement heat may perhaps kindle the zeal of a few enthuſiaſtic old beldams in the iſle, it has a very dif⯑ferent effect on the more rational part of the congrega⯑tion. I would therefore recommend it to our faſhion⯑able divines to aim at being Preachers rather than Orators or Actors, and to endeavour to make their diſcourſes ap⯑pear like Sermons rather than Orations.

IT is ſaid by an old poet, that no man's life can be called happy or unhappy till his death: in like manner I have often thought that no words or actions are a better comment on a perſon's temper and diſpoſition, than his laſt will and teſtament. This is a true portraiture of himſelf drawn at full length by his own hand, in which the painting is com⯑monly very lively, and the features very ſtrongly marked. In the diſcharge of this ſolemn act, people ſign and ſeal themſelves, either wiſe and good characters, or villains and ſools: and any perſon that makes a ridiculous will, and be⯑queaths his money to frivolous uſes, only takes a great deal of pains, like Dogberry in the play, ‘"that he may be ſet down and aſs."’

[779]THE love of fame governs our actions more univerſally than any other paſſion. All the reſt gradually drop off, but this runs through our whole lives. This perhaps is one of the chief inducements that influences wealthy per⯑ſons to bequeath their poſſeſſions to oſtentatious uſes, and they would as willingly lay out a conſiderable ſum in buying a great name (if poſſible) at their deaths, as they would beſtow it on the purchaſe of a coat of heraldry during their lives. They are pleaſed with leaving ſome memorial of their exiſtence behind them, and to perpetuate the remembrance of themſelves by the application of their money of ſome vain-glorious purpoſes; though the good gentlemen never did one act to make themſelves remarkable, laid out a ſingle ſhilling in a laudable manner, while they lived. If an Apotheoſis were to be bought, how many rich ſcoundrels would be deified after their deaths! not a plumb in the city but would purchaſe this imaginary godſhip, as readily as he paid for his freedom at his firſt ſetting up; and I doubt not but this fantaſtical diſtinction would be more frequent on an eſcutcheon, than a coronet.

THE diſpoſal of our fortunes by our laſt will ſhould be conſidered as the diſcharge of a ſacred truſt, which we ſhould endeavour to execute in a juſt manner; and as we have had the enjoyment of rich poſſeſſions, we ought care⯑fully to provide that they may devolve to thoſe, who have the moſt natural claim to them. They who may firſt de⯑mand our favour, are thoſe who are allied to us by the ties of blood: next to theſe ſtand thoſe perſons to whom we are connected by friendſhip: and next to our friends and rela⯑tions, mankind in general. But the humanity of a teſ⯑tator will not be thought very extenſive, though it reaches [780] to poſterity, or includes the poor in general, if it neg⯑lects the objects of charity immediately under his eye, or thoſe individuals who have the beſt title to his benevolence. Virgil has placed thoſe rich men, who beſtowed none of their wealth on their relations, among the chief perſonages in his Hell. Wherefore I would adviſe my good correſpondent Mr. Vainall firſt to conſider, whether he has not ſome poor relation, ſtarving perhaps in ſome diſtant part of the king⯑dom: after that let him look round, whether he has not ſome friends, whom he may poſſibly relieve from miſery and diſtreſs. But if he has no relation, nor no perſon in the world that has any regard for him, before he begins to en⯑dow a college or found an hoſpital, I ſhould take it as a par⯑ticular favour if he would leave his money to me, and will promiſe to immortalize his memory in the Connoiſſeur.

I HAVE juſt received the following let⯑ter from lady Humkin, the muſical con⯑ſort of my late correſpondent Sir Aaron. I ſhall not pretend to moderate in family diſputes of ſo important a nature, but leave each party to ſpeak for themſelves.

NO other diſpoſition or turn of mind ſo totally unfits a man for all the ſocial offices of life as Indolence. An idle man is a mere blank in the creation, he ſeems made for no end, and lives to no purpoſe. He can⯑not engage himſelf in any employment or profeſſion, be⯑cauſe he will never have diligence enough to follow it; he can ſucceed in no undertaking, for he will never perſue it; he muſt be a bad huſband, father, and relation, for he will not take the leaſt pains to preſerve his wife, children, and family from ſtarving; and he muſt be a worthleſs friend, for he would not draw his hand from his boſom, though to [788] prevent the deſtruction of the univerſe. If he is born poor, he will remain ſo all his life, which he will probably end in a ditch or at the gallows; if he embarks in trade he will be a bankrupt; and if he is a perſon of fortune, he ſtew⯑ards will acquire immenſe eſtates, and he himſelf perhaps will die in the Fleet.

IT ſhould be conſidered that nature did not bring us into the world in a ſtate of perfection, but has left us in a capacity of improvement: which ſhould ſeem to intimate that we ſhould labour to render ourſelves excellent. Very few are ſuch abſolute ideots, as not to be able to become at leaſt decent, if not eminent, in their ſeveral ſtations, by unwearied and keen application: nor are there any poſſeſt of ſuch tranſcendant genius and abilities, as to render all pains and diligence unneceſſary. Perſeverance will over⯑come difficulties, which at firſt appear inſuperable; and it is amazing to conſider, how great and numerous obſtacles may be removed by a continual attention to any particular point. I will not mention here the trite example of De⯑moſthenes, who got over the greateſt natural impediments to oratory, but content myſelf with a more modern and fami⯑liar inſtance. Being at Sadler's Wells a few nights ago, I could not but admire the ſurprizing feats of activity there exhibited, and at the ſame time reflected what incredible pains and labour it muſt have coſt the performers, to ar⯑rive at the art of writhing their bodies into ſuch various and unnatural contortions. But I was moſt taken with the ingenious artiſt, who after fixing two bells to each foot, the ſame number to each hand, and with great propriety placing a cap and bells on his head, played ſeveral tunes, and went through as regular triple peals [789] and Bob Majors as the boys at Chriſt Church Hoſpital; all which he effected by the due jerking of his arms and legs, and nodding his head backward and forward. If this artiſt had taken equal pains to employ his head in another way, he might perhaps have been as deep a proficient in numbers as Jedediah Buxton, or at leaſt a tolerable modern rhimer, of which he is now no bad emblem: and if our fine ladies would uſe equal diligence, they might faſhion their minds as ſucceſsfully as Madam Catharina diſtorts her body.

THERE is not in the world a more uſeleſs idle animal, than he who contents himſelf with being merely a Gentle⯑man. He has an eſtate, therefore he will not endeavour to acquire knowledge: he is not to labour in any vocation, therefore he will do nothing. But the misfortune is that there is no ſuch thing in nature as negative virtue, and that abſolute idleneſs is impracticable. He who does no good, will certainly do miſchief; and the mind, if it is not ſtored with uſeful knowledge, will neceſſarily become a magazine of nonſenſe and trifles. Wherefore a Gentleman, though he is not obliged to riſe to open his ſhop or work at his trade, may always find ſome ways of employing his time to advantage. If he makes no advances in wiſdom, he will become more and more a ſlave to folly; and he that does nothing becauſe he has nothing to do, will become vicious and abandoned, or at beſt ridiculous and contemptible.

THERE is not a more melancholy object, than a man of an honeſt heart and fine natural abilities whoſe good quali⯑ties are thus deſtroyed by Indolence. Such a perſon is a conſtant plague to all his friends and acquaintance, with all the means in his power of adding to their happineſs; and [790] ſuffers himſelf to rank among the loweſt characters, when he might render himſelf conſpicuous among the higheſt. Nobody is more univerſally beloved, and more univerſally avoided than my friend Careleſs. He is a humane man, who never did a beneficent action; and a man of unſhaken integrity, on whom it is impoſſible to depend. With the beſt head, and the beſt heart, he regulates his conduct in the moſt abſurd manner, and frequently injures his friends; for whoever neglects to do juſtice to himſelf, muſt in⯑evitably wrong thoſe with whom he is connected; and it is by no means a true maxim, that an idle man hurts nobody but himſelf.

VIRTUE then is not to be conſidered in the light of mere innocence, or abſtaining from harm, but as the exertion of our faculties in doing good: as Titus, when he had let a day ſlip, undiſtinguiſhed by ſome act of virtue, cried out, ‘"I have loſt a day."’ If we regard our time in this light, how many days ſhall we look back upon as irretrievably loſt? and to how narrow a compaſs would ſuch a method of cal⯑culation frequently reduce the longeſt life? If we were to number our days, according as we have applied them to virtue, it would occaſion ſtrange revolutions in the manner of reckoning the ages of men. We ſhould ſee ſome few men arrived to a good old age in the prime of their youth, and meet with ſeveral young fellows of fourſcore.

AGREEABLE to this way of thinking, I remember to have met with the epitaph of an aged man, four years old: dating his exiſtence, from the time of his reformation from evil courſes. The inſcriptions on moſt tomb-ſtones commemo⯑rate no acts of virtue performed by the perſons who lie under [791] them, but only record that they were born one day and died another. But I would fain have thoſe people, whoſe lives have been uſeleſs, rendered of ſome ſervice after their deaths, by affording leſſons of inſtruction and morality to thoſe they leave behind them. Wherefore I could wiſh, that in every pariſh ſeveral acres were marked out for a new and ſpacious Burying-Ground: in which every perſon, whoſe remains are there depoſited, ſhould have a ſmall ſtone laid over them, reckon⯑ing their age according to the manner in which they have improved or abuſed the time allotted them in their lives. In ſuch circumſtances, the plate on a coffin might be the high⯑eſt panegyric which the deceaſed could receive; and a lit⯑tle ſquare ſtone, inſcribed with Ob. Ann. Aetat. 80. would be a nobler eulogium than all the lapidary adulation of mo⯑dern epitaphs. In a Burying-Ground of this nature, allow⯑ing for the partiality of ſurvivors, which would certainly point out the moſt brilliant actions of their dead friends, we might perhaps ſee ſome inſcriptions, not much unlike the following.

I KNOW not any greater misfortune that can happen to a young fellow at his firſt ſetting out in life, than his falling into Low Company. He that ſinks to a familiarity with perſons much below his own level, will be conſtantly weighed down by his baſe connections: and though he may eaſily plunge ſtill lower, he will find it impoſſible ever to riſe again. We cannot give a liberal [794] turn of mind to a vulgar by introducing him to genteel company, any more than we can make a beau of him by dreſſing him in embroidery: but a gentlemen will as na⯑turally catch the manners of a blackguard by mixing with blackguards, as he would daub his cloaths with foot by running againſt a chimney-ſweeper.

BY Low Company I would not be ſuppoſed to mean the beſt and moſt valuable part of mankind, which have been diſtinguiſhed by the name of Middling ſort of people: though I am not ignorant, that theſe are deſpiſed by all, who would be thought to keep the Beſt Company. The apes of quality affect to look upon all others, who have no reliſh for the amuſements of high life, or do not chuſe to pay a guinea for their ordinary, as downright vulgars: and it was with the utmoſt contempt I once heard a young coxcomb of faſhion ſpeak of a moſt inti⯑mate friend, ‘"that he ſhould be forced to drop his ac⯑quaintance, becauſe he kept ſuch low company."’ Nei⯑ther would I confine this appellation ſolely to the inferior order of tradeſmen and mechanics, or the whole body of the mobility in general: for although this rank of people may be literally ſaid to be in low life, a right honourable, who lets himſelf down to the manners of a porter or a hackney-coachman, differs from them in nothing but his title.

A PROPENSITY to Low Company is either owing to an original meanneſs of ſpirit, a want of education, or [795] an ill-placed pride, commonly ariſing from both the fore-mentioned cauſes. Thoſe, who are naturally of a grovelling diſpoſition, ſhew it even at ſchool, by chuſing their play-mates from the ſcum of the claſs; and are never ſo happy, as when they can ſteal down to romp with the ſervants in the kitchen. But the moſt frequent cauſe is the deſire of being, as it is called, the head of the company; and a perſon of this humble ambition will be very well content to pay the reckoning, for the honour of being diſtinguiſhed by the title of The Gentle⯑man. It ſometimes happens, that a man of genius and learning will ſtoop to receive the incenſe of mean and illiterate flatterers in a porter-houſe or a cyder-cellar: and I remember to have heard of a poet, who was once caught in a bawdy-houſe in the very fact, of reading his verſes to the good old mother and a circle of her daughters.

THERE are ſome, who have been led into Low Company, merely from an affectation of Humour; and from a notion of ſeeing life, and a deſire of being ac⯑counted men of humour, have deſcended to aſſociate with the meaneſt of the mob, and picked their cronies from White-Chapel and Broad St. Giles's. Of theſe cha⯑racters the moſt remarkable is a young fellow of family and fortune, who was born and bred a gentleman, but has taken great pains to degrade himſelf; and is now as complete a blackguard as thoſe whom he has choſen for his companions. He will drink purl in a [796] morning, ſmoke his pipe in a night-cellar, and eat black puddings at Bartholomew Fair, for the Humour of the thing. All the while, he is reckoned by his friends to be a mighty good-natured gentleman, and without the leaſt bit of pride in him.

IN order to qualify himſelf for the ſociety of the vulgar, Bob has ſtudied and practiſed all the vulgar arts under the beſt maſters. He has therefore cultivated an intimacy with Buckhorſe, and is very proud of being ſometimes admitted to the honour of converſing with the great Broughton himſelf. He is alſo very well known among the hackney-coachmen, as a brother⯑whip: but his greateſt excellence is cricket-playing, in which he is reckoned as good a bat as either of the Bennets; and is at length arrived at the ſupreme dig⯑nity of being diſtinguiſhed among his brethren of the wicket by the title of Long Robin.

IT is diverting enough to conſider the fate of many of Bob's intimate friends and acquaintance. It muſt be owned, that ſome of theſe have come to an untimely end; that ſome have been ſent abroad, and others been ſet in the pillory, or whipt in Bridewell. One of Bob's favourite amuſements is attending the executions at Tyburn: and it once happened, that one of his com⯑panions was unfortunately brought thither; when Bob carried his regard for his deceaſed friend ſo far, as to [797] get himſelf knocked down in endeavouring to reſcue the body from the ſurgeons.

As Bob conſtantly affects to mimic the air and man⯑ners of the vulgar, he takes care to enrich his conver⯑ſation with the emphatical oaths and expreſſive dialect of Billingſgate and St. Giles's; which never fails to re⯑commend him as a man of excellent humour among the Choice Spirits and the Sons of ſound ſenſe and ſatis⯑faction, and frequently promotes him to the chair in theſe facetious ſocieties. But he is particularly famous for ſinging thoſe Cant Songs, drawn up in the lingo of ſharpers and pick-pockets; the humour of which he greatly ſets off and heightens, by ſcrewing up his mouth, and rolling about a large quid of tobacco be⯑tween his jaws.

BOB has indulged the ſame notions of humour even in his amours: and he is well known to every ſtreet-walker between Charing-Croſs and Cheap-Side. This has ruined his conſtitution, and often involved him in ſeveral unluckly ſcrapes. He has been fre⯑quently bruiſed, beat, and kicked by the bullies in Fleet-Ditch and Blood-Bowl Alley; and he was once ſoundly drubbed by a ſoldier for engaging with his trull in St. James's Park. The laſt time I ſaw him, he was laid up with two black eyes, and a broken pate, which he got in a midnight ſkirmiſh about a miſtreſs in a night-cellar. He had carried down a [798] bunter which he had picked up in the ſtreets, in order to treat her with a quartern of gin royal; when a ſturdy chairman attempting to take away his doxy, a battle enſued between them, and he was ſeverely handled, amid the univerſal cry of the whole company, of—kick him up ſtairs—kick him up ſtairs.

I Am ſorry to have provoked the reſent⯑ment of many of our preſent poets by rejecting their compoſitions; which, as they abounded in high-flown metaphors and compound epithets, were, I feared, too ſublime for my humble province of plain proſe. I have found, that the ſame poetical genius, which could ſoar to an Ode, can be whetted to a moſt cutting Satire againſt me and my works: and one in particular has poured forth his whole wrath upon me in an Acroſtic. But I need not offer any apology for laying the following [812] Verſes before the public, which may be conſidered as a ſupplement to a former paper on the like ſubject. The eaſy elegance, which runs through the whole, will readily diſtinguiſh them to come from the ſame hand, that has more than once obliged us in the courſe of this undertaking.

WE, whoſe buſineſs it is to write looſe eſſays, and who never talk above a quarter of an hour together on any one ſubject, are not expected to enter into philoſophical diſquiſitions, or en⯑gage in abſtract ſpeculations: but it is ſuppoſed to be our principal aim to amuſe and inſtruct the reader by a lively repreſentation of what paſſes round about him. Thus, like thoſe painters who delineate the [818] ſcenes of familiar life, we ſometimes give a ſketch of a Marriage à là mode, ſometimes draw the outlines of a Modern Midnight converſation, at another time paint the comical diſtreſſes of itinerant Tragedians in a barn, and at another give a full draught of the Rake's or Harlot's progreſs. Sometimes we divert the public by exhibiting ſingle portraits; and when we meet with a ſubject where the features are ſtrongly marked by nature, and there is ſomething peculiarly characteriſtic in the whole manner, we employ ourſelves in drawing a full length. In a word, we conſider all mankind as ſitting for their pictures, and endeavour to work up our pieces with lively traits, and embelliſh them with beautiful colouring: and though perhaps they are not always highly finiſhed, yet they ſeldom fail of pleaſing ſome few at leaſt of the vaſt multitude of Critics and Con⯑noiſſeurs, if we are ſo happy as to hit off a ſtriking likeneſs.

THERE is perhaps no knowledge more requiſite, and certainly none at preſent more ardently ſought after, than the Knowledge of the World. In this ſcience we are more particularly expected to be adepts, as well as to ini⯑tiate, or at leaſt improve our readers in it. And though this knowledge cannot be collected altogether from books, yet (as Pope ſays) ‘"Men may be read as well as books too much;"’ and it is to be lamented, that many, who have only conſulted the volume of life as it lay open be⯑fore them, have rather become worſe than better by their ſtudies. They, who have lived wholly in the world [819] without regarding the comments on it, are generally taint⯑ed with all its vices; to which the gathering part of their inſtructions from books would perhaps have proved an antidote. There indeed, though they would have ſeen the faults and foibles of mankind fairly repreſented, yet vice would appear in an odious, and virtue in an amiable light; but thoſe, who unwarned go abroad into the world, are often dazzled by the ſplendor with which wealth gilds vice and infamy, and being accuſtomed to ſee bare⯑foot honeſty treated with ſcorn, are themſelves induced to conſider it as contemptible. For this reaſon I am a good deal offended at the ingenious contrivance of our modern novelliſts and writers of comedy, who often gloſs over a villainous character with the ſame falſe varniſh, that lackers ſo many ſcoundrels in real life; and while they are exhibiting a fellow, who debauches your daugh⯑ter or lies with your wife, repreſent him as an agreeable creature, a man of gallantry, and a fine gentleman.

THE world, even the gayeſt part of it, may be paint⯑ed like itſelf, and yet become a leſſon of inſtruction. The pieces of Hogarth (to recur to the illuſtration I firſt made uſe of) are faithful delineations of certain ſcenes of life, and yet vice and folly always appear odious and contem⯑ptible. I could wiſh it were poſſible to learn the know⯑ledge of the world without being ‘"hackney'd in the ways of men;"’ but as that is impracticable, it is ſtill our duty ſo to live in it, as to avoid being corrupted by our intercourſe with mankind. We ſhould endeavour to guard againſt fraud, without becoming ourſelves deceit⯑ful; [820] and to ſee every ſpecies of vice and folly practiſed round about us, without growing knaves and fools. The villainy of others is but a poor excuſe for the loſs of our own integrity; and though, indeed, if I am attacked on Hounſlow-Heath, I may lawfully kill the highwayman in my own defence, yet I ſhould be very deſervedly brought to the gallows, if I took a purſe from the next perſon I met, becauſe I had been robbed myſelf.

THE Knowledge of the World, as it is generally un⯑derſtood, conſiſts not ſo much in a due reflection on its vices and follies, as in the practice of them; and thoſe, who conſider themſelves as beſt acquainted with it, are either the dupes of faſhion, or ſlaves of intereſt. It is al⯑ſo ſuppoſed to lie within the narrow compaſs of every man's own ſphere of life, and receives a different interpre⯑tation in different ſtations. Thus, for inſtance, the man of faſhion ſeeks it no-where but in the polite circle of the beau-monde, while the man of buſineſs looks no farther for it than the Alley. I ſhall beg leave to illuſtrate this by two characters; each of whom, though diametrically op⯑poſite to the other, has acquired a thorough Knowledge of the World.

SIR Harry Flaſh had the good luck to be born be⯑fore his brother Richard: conſequently the heir to the eſtate was bred a gentleman, and the other condemned to plod in the dull drudgery of buſineſs. The merchant was ſent to learn accompts at the Academy upon Tower-Hill, and the baronet had the finiſhing of his education in [821] France. Sir Harry is now a moſt accompliſhed fine gentleman, is an excellent judge of faſhions, and can cal⯑culate the odds at any game as readily as Hoyle or De⯑moivre: the Alderman is the moſt knowing man upon 'Change, and underſtands the riſe and fall of Stocks bet⯑ter than any Jew. Both of them know the world; but with this difference, that one by his conſummate know⯑ledge has run out a large eſtate, while the other has raiſed a plumb by it.

BEFORE I conclude, it will be proper to take notice of the great improvements made by our modern ladies in this part of their education. The pretty creatures were formerly kept at home, and employed in the domeſtic cares of good houſewifery: they were taught as much as poſſible to ſhun the company of the men, and knew no more of the world than a cloiſtered Nun. But theſe reſtraints are now happily removed by the preſent mode of education. The little lady, inſtead of being ſent to the boarding-ſchool to learn needle-work, is introduced to the politeſt routs and aſſemblies, and taught to make one at the card-table: ſhe is carried about to Vauxhall, Rane⯑lagh, and other genteel places of amuſement; and beſides theſe, if we add a trip to Bath or Cheltenham, there is no doubt but ſhe is completely verſed in the Knowledge of the World. This, we muſt own, is very neceſſary to be attained by ladies of faſhion: but it is with great concern that I have obſerved the inferior rank of females fre⯑quenting the ſame ſchools, and learning the ſame leſſons. Some have purchaſed their knowledge very dearly at the [822] expence of their reputation, while others have laid out their whole fortunes to acquire it; and I could not but ſmile the other day at reading an advertiſement in the public papers, begging our charity for a poor diſtreſſed gentlewoman, who had formerly lived well, and ſeen a great deal of the World.

IN the comedy of the Frenchman in Lon⯑don, which we are told was acted at Paris with univerſal applauſe for ſeveral nights together, there is a character of a rough Engliſhman, who is repreſented as quite unſkilled in the graces of converſation; and his dialogue is made up of almoſt nothing but a repetition of the common ſalutation of how do you do, how do you do? Our nation has, indeed, been generally ſuppoſed to be of a ſullen and uncommunicative diſpoſition; while, on [830] the other hand, the loquacious French have been allowed to poſſeſs the art of converſing beyond all other people. The Engliſhman requires to be wound up frequently, and ſtops as ſoon as he is down; but the Frenchman runs on in a continued alarum. Yet it muſt be acknow⯑ledged, that as the Engliſh conſiſt of very different hu⯑mours, their manner of diſcourſe admits of great variety: but the whole French nation converſe alike; and there is no difference in their addreſs between a Marquis and a Valet de Chambre. We may frequently ſee a couple of French barbers accoſting each other in the ſtreet, and paying their compliments with the ſame volubility of ſpeech and grimace of action, as two courtiers in the Thuilleries.

I SHALL not attempt to lay down any particular rules for converſation, but point out ſuch faults in the diſcourſe and behaviour, as render the company of half mankind rather tedious than amuſing. It is in vain, indeed, to look for converſation, where we might expect to find it in the greateſt perfection, among perſons of faſhion; where it is almoſt annihilated by univerſal card-playing: inſomuch that I have heard it given as a reaſon, why it is impoſſible for our preſent writers to ſucceed in the dialogue of genteel comedy, that our people of quality ſcarce ever meet but to game. All their diſcourſe turns upon the odd trick and the four honours: and it is no leſs a maxim with the votaries of Whiſt than with thoſe of Bacchus, that talking ſpoils company. Every one endeavours to make himſelf as agreeable to ſociety as he can: but it often happens, that thoſe, who moſt aim at ſhining in converſation, over-ſhoot their mark: and though a man ſucceeds, he ſhould not (as is frequently [831] the caſe) engroſs the whole talk to himſelf; for that deſtroys the very eſſence of converſation, which is talk⯑ing together. We ſhould try to keep up converſation like a ball bandied to and fro from one to the other, rather than ſeize it all to ourſelves, and drive it before us like a foot-ball. We ſhould likewiſe be cautious to adapt the matter of our diſcourſe to our company; and not talk Greek before the ladies, or of the laſt new furbelow to a meeting of country juſtices.

THE peſts and nuiſances of ſociety, which are com⯑monly to be met with, may be ranged in the following manner. And firſt, the Attitudinarians and Face-makers. Theſe accompany every word with a peculiar grimace or geſture: they aſſent with a ſhrug, and contradict with a twiſting of the neck; are angry with a wry mouth, and pleaſed in a caper or a minuet ſtep. They may be conſidered as ſpeaking Harlequins; and their rules of eloquence are taken from the poſture-maſter. Theſe ſhould be condemned to converſe only in dumb ſhew with their own perſons in the looking-glaſs; as alſo the Smirkers and Smilers, who ſo prettily ſet off their faces together with their words by a je ne ſçai quoi between a grin and a dimple. With theſe we may likewiſe rank the affected tribe of Mimics, who are conſtantly taking off the peculiar tone of voice or geſture of their ac⯑quaintance: though they ‘"imitate humanity ſo abomi⯑nably,"’ that (like bad painters) they are frequently forced to write the name under the picture, before we can diſcover any likeneſs.

NEXT to theſe, whoſe elocution conſiſts chiefly in the action, we may conſider the profeſt ſpeakers. And firſt, [832] of the Emphatical; who ſqueeze, and preſs, and beat down every ſyllable with as much vehemence, as a paviour thumps the pebbles with his rammer. Theſe energetic orators are remarkable for the force of expreſſion, with which they utter the particle the and conjunctive and; which they ſeem to hawk up with much difficulty out of their own throats, and to cram them with no leſs pain in⯑to the ears of their auditors. Theſe ſhould be ſuffered only to ſyringe (as it were) the ears of a deaf man through an hearing trumpet: and with theſe we may join the Whiſperers or Low Speakers, who come up ſo cloſe to you, that they may be ſaid to meaſure noſes with you, and have frequently a ſtinking breath. I would have theſe oracular gentry obliged to talk at a diſtance through a ſpeaking trumpet, or apply their lips to the walls of a whiſpering gallery. The Wits, who will not condeſcend to utter any thing but a bon mot, and the Whiſtlers or Tune-hummers, who never articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably together in concert: and to theſe tinkling cymbals I would alſo add the ſounding braſs; the Bawler, who inquires after your health with the bellowing of a town-cryer.

THE Tatlers, whoſe pliable pipes are admirably adapt⯑ed to the ‘"ſoft parts of converſation,"’ and ſweetly ‘"prattling out of faſhion,"’ make very pretty muſick from a beautiful face and a female tongue: but from a rough manly voice and coarſe features it is as harſh and diſſonant as a jig from a bagpipe. The Half-Swearers, who ſplit, and mince, and fritter their oaths into gad's bud, ad's fiſh and demmee, and the Humbuggers, and thoſe who nickname God's creatures, who call a man a cab⯑bage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fiſh, and an unac⯑countable [833] muſkin, ſhould never come into company with⯑out an interpeter. But I ſhall not tire my reader's pa⯑tience by pointing out others, no leſs deſtructive of ſo⯑ciety: ſuch as the Senſibles, who pronounce dogmatical⯑ly on the moſt trivial points, and ſpeak in ſentences; the Wonderers, who are always wondering what o'clock it is, or wondering whether it will rain or no, or wondering when the moon changes; and laſtly, the Silent Men, who ſeem afraid of opening their mouths for fear of catch⯑ing cold, and literally obſerve the precept of the goſpel, by letting their converſation be only yea yea, and nay nay.

THE rational intercourſe, which is mutually kept up among men by converſing with each other, is one of our principal diſtinctions from brutes: and it is imagined by ſome philoſophers, that birds and beaſts (though with⯑out the power of articulation) perfectly underſtand one another by the ſounds they utter; and that dogs, cats, &c. have each a particular language to themſelves, like different nations. Thus it may be ſuppoſed, that the nightingales of Italy have as fine an ear for their own na⯑tive wood-notes, as any Signor or Signora for an Italian Air; that the boars of Weſtphalia gruntle as expreſſively through the noſe, as the inhabitants in High-German; and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland croak as intelligibly as the natives jabber their High-Dutch. However this may be, we may conſider thoſe, who let their tongues always vibrate as their hearts beat, and do not keep up the proper converſation of human creatures, as imitating the language of different animals. Thus, for inſtance, the affinity between Chatterers and Monkeys, and Praters and Parrots, is too obvious not to occur at once: Grunters [834] and Growlers may be juſtly compared to Hogs: Snarlers are Curs, that continually ſhew their teeth, but never bite; and the Spitfire Paſſionate are a ſort of wild Cats, that will not bear ſtroaking, but will purr when they are pleaſed. Complainers are Scriech-Owls; and Story-tel⯑lers, who are always repeating the ſame dull note, are Cuckows. Poets, that prick up their ears at their own hideous braying, are no better than Aſſes: Critics in gene⯑ral are venomous ſerpents, that delight in hiſſing; and ſome of them, who have got by heart a few technical terms without knowing their meaning, are no other than Magpies. I myſelf, who have crowed to the whole town for near three years paſt, may perhaps put my readers in mind of a Dunghill Cock: but as I muſt acquaint them, that they will hear the laſt of me on this day fortnight, I hope they will then conſider me as a Swan, who is ſuppoſed to ſing ſweetly at his dying moments.

I WROTE to my Couſin VILLAGE, informing him of my deſign to finiſh with the next number; and I have re⯑ceived the following anſwer from him, which I ſhall lay before my readers.

AFTER this account, which my Couſin has ſent me, of the reception I have met with in the country, it will be proper to ſay ſomething of my reception here in town. I ſhall therefore conſider myſelf in the threefold capacity of CONNOISSEUR, CRITIC, and CENSOR-GENERAL. As a CONNOISSEUR, in the confined ſenſe of the word, I muſt own I have met with ſeveral mortifications. I have neither been made F. R. S. nor even a member of the Academy of Bourdeaux or Peterſburgh. They have left [839] me out of the liſt of Truſtees to the Britiſh Muſaeum; and his Majeſty of Naples, though he preſented an "Account of the Curioſities found in Herculaneum" to each of the univerſities, never ſent one to me. I have not been celebrated in the Philoſophical Tranſactions, or in any of our Magazines of Arts and Sciences; nor have I been ſtiled tres-illuſtre or tres-ſçavant in any of the fo⯑reign Mercures or Journals Literaires. Once indeed, I ſoothed myſelf in the vain thought of having been diſtin⯑guiſhed by the great Swediſh Botaniſt, Linnaeus, under the title of Eruditiſſimus Urbanus, which I conceited to be the name of TOWN latinized; but to my great diſap⯑pointment I afterwards diſcovered, that this was no other than the learned Naturaliſt, Mr. Silvanus Urban, author of the Gentleman's Magazine. This neglect of me, as a CONNOISSEUR, I can attribute to no other cauſe, than to my not having made myſelf known by my Muſaeum or Cabinet of Curioſities: and to ſay the truth, I am not worth a farthing in antique coins; nor have I ſo much as one ſingle ſhell or butterfly. All my complaints againſt the modern innovations of Taſte have been therefore diſregarded: and with concern I ſtill ſee the Villas of our citizens fantaſtically adorned with Chineſe palings, and our ſtreets encumbered with ſuperb colonnades, porticos, Gothic arches, and Venetian windows, before the ſhops of our tradeſmen.

NOR have I, as a CRITIC, met with greater ſucceſs or encouragement in my endeavours to reform the pre⯑ſent Taſte in literature. I expected to have the priviledge of eating beef gratis every night at Vauxhall, for adviſing the garden-poets to put a little meaning into their ſongs: but though I was there ſeveral nights this ſummer, I could not ſay (with Caſſio) of any of their productions, ‘"this is a more exquiſite ſong than t'other."’ I have not been able to write the operas out of the kingdom: and though I have more than once ſhewed my contempt for Harlequin, I am aſſured there are no leſs than three [840] Pantomimes to be brought on this ſeaſon. As I ſet my⯑ſelf up for ſupreme judge in theatrical matters, I was in hopes, that my Lord Chamberlain would at leaſt ap⯑pointed me his Deputy-Licenſer; but he has not even conſult me on any one new play. I made no doubt, but the managers would pay their court to me: but they have not once ſent for me to dinner; and ſo far from having the freedom of the houſe, I declare I have not had ſo much as a ſingle order from any of the under-actors.

IN my office of CENSOR-GENERAL, though I cannot boaſt of having over-turned the card-tables at routs and aſſemblies, or broke up the club at Arthur's, I can ſafely boaſt, that I have routed the many-headed monſter at the Diſputant Society at the Robin-hood, and put to ſilence the great Clare-market Orator. In a word, I have la⯑boured to prevent the growth of vice and immorality; and with as much effect as the Juſtices at the Quarter-ſeſſions. For this reaſon I expected to have been put into commiſſion, and to have had the power of licenſing all places of public diverſion veſted ſolely in my hands. But as I find my merits have been hitherto overlooked, I am determined to lay down my office; and in my next num⯑ber I ſhall take my final leave of the public, when I ſhall give them an account or my correſpondents, together with a full and particular account of MYSELF.

PERIODICAL writers, who retail their ſenſe or nonſenſe to the world ſheet by ſheet, acquire a ſort of familiarity and intimacy with the public peculiar to themſelves. Had the Th [...]ſe Two Volumes in [...] will make Four in Duodecimo; the Two [...] which are already publiſhed, and the Third and Fourth preparing for the preſs.Two Volumes in Folio, which have ſwelled by degrees to their preſent bulk, burſt forth at once, Mr. TOWN, muſt have introduced himſelf to the acquaintance of the public with the aukward air and diſtance of a ſtranger; but be now flatters himſelf, that they will look upon him as an old companion, whoſe [842] converſation they are pleaſed with; and, as they will ſee him no more after this time, will now and then perhaps miſs their uſual viſiter.

HOWEVER this may be, the Authors of the CON⯑NOISSEUR now think proper to cloſe the undertaking, in which they have been engaged for near three years paſt: and among their general thanks to the indulgent readers of their papers, they muſt include in a particular manner their acknowledgments to thoſe, who have been pleaſed to appear in them as writers. They have, there⯑fore, at the cloſe of their work brought Mr. TOWN and all his aſſociates on the ſcene together, like the dra⯑matis perſonae at the end of the laſt act.

OUR earlieſt and moſt frequent correſpondent is only known to us by the initials G. K. and we are ſorry, that he will not put it in our power to mention his name; which (if we are not miſtaken in our gueſs) would reflect as much credit on our work, as we are ſure will redound to it from his contributions. To him we are proud to own ourſelves indebted for moſt part of N^o. 14 and 17; for the letter, ſigned Goliah Engliſh, in N^o. 19; for a great part of N^o. 33 and 40; and for the letters, ſigned Reginald Fitzworm, Michael Krawbidge, Moſes Orthodox, and T. Vainall, in N^o. 102, 107, 113, and 129.

THE next, in priority of time, is a gentleman of Cam⯑bridge, who ſigned himſelf A. B. and we cannot but re⯑gret that he withdrew his aſſiſtance, after having obliged us with the beſt part of the letters in N^o. 46, 49, and 52; and of the eſſays in N^o. 62 and 64.

THE letters in N^o. 82, 98, 112, and 130, came from various hands, equally unknown to us. The Imi⯑tation of Horace, in N^o. 11, was written (as we are in⯑formed) by a gentleman of Oxford: the Ode to Friend⯑ſhip, in N^o. 125, was ſent to us by a gentleman of Cam⯑bridge; and from two other gentlemen of that Univerſity we received the letter, ſigned W. Manly, in N^o. 65, and another, ſigned B. A. in N^o. 107.

[843]THESE unexpected marks of favour, conferred on us by ſtrangers, demand our higheſt gratitude: but we are no leſs happy in being able to boaſt of the aſſiſtance of ſome other gentlemen, whom we are proud to call friends, though we are not at liberty to introduce them to the acquaintance of our readers. From a friend, en⯑gaged in the Law, we had the firſt ſketches and moſt ſtriking paſſages in N^o. 75, 78, 87, and 104; though it may be regretted by the public as well as ourſelves, that his leiſure would not permit him to put the finiſhing hand to them. From a friend, a gentleman of the Temple, we received N^o. 111, 115, and 119. To a friend, a member of Trinity College, Cambridge, we are indebted for the Song in N^o. 72, and the Verſes in N^o. 67, 90, 125, and 135. The liſt of contributions from ſuch capable friends would doubtleſs have been much larger, had they been ſooner let into the ſecret: but as Mr. TOWN, like a great prince, choſe to appear incog. in order to avoid the impertinence of others, he did not even make himſelf known to thoſe about his perſon, till at laſt they themſelves found him out through his diſguiſe.

THERE are ſtill remaining two correſpondents, who muſt ſtand by themſelves; as they have wrote to us, not in an aſſumed character, but in propriâ perſonâ. The firſt is no leſs a perſonage than the great Orator HENLY, who obliged us with that truly original letter, printed in N^o. 37. The other, who favoured us with a letter no leſs original in N^o. 70, we have reaſon to be⯑lieve, is a Methodiſt Teacher and a mechanic; but we do not know either his name or his trade.

WE now come to the moſt important diſcovery of Ourſelves, and to anſwer the often-repeated queſtion of; Who is Mr. TOWN? it being the cuſtom for periodical writers, at the ſame time that they ſend the hawkers abroad with their laſt dying ſpeech like the malefactors, like them alſo to couple it with a confeſſion. The general method of unravelling this myſtery is by de⯑claring, to whom the different ſignatures affixed to dif⯑ferent papers are appropriated. For ever ſince the days of the inimitable SPECTATOR, it has been uſual for a [844] bold Capital to ſtand, like a ſentry, at the end of our eſſays, to guard the author in ſecreſy: and it is com⯑monly ſuppoſed, that the writer, who does not chuſe to put his name to his work, has in this manner, like the painters and ſtatuaries of old, at leaſt ſet his mark. But the Authors of the CONNOISSEUR now confeſs, that the ſeveral letters, at firſt pitched upon to bring up the rear of their eſſays, have been annexed to different papers at random, and ſometimes omitted, on purpoſe to put the ſagacious reader on a wrong ſcent. It is particularly the intereſt of a writer, who prints himſelf out week by week, to remain unknown during the courſe of this piece-meal publication. The beſt method, therefore, to prevent a diſcovery is to make the road to it as intricate as poſſible; and, inſtead of ſeeming to aim at keeping the reader entirely in the dark, to hang out a kind of wan⯑dering light, which only ſerves to lead him aſtray. The deſire of giving each writer his due, according to the ſignatures, has in the courſe of this undertaking often confuſed the curious in their inquiries. Soon after the publication of our firſt papers, ſome ingenious gentlemen found out, that T, O, W, N, being the letters that form⯑ed the name of TOWN, there were four authors, each of whom ſheltered himſelf under a particular letter; but no paper ever appearing with an N affixed to it, they were obliged to give up this notion. But, if they had been more able decypherers, they would have made out, that though T, O, W, will not compoſe the name of TOWN, yet by a different arrangement of the letters it will form the word TWO; which is the grand myſtery of our ſignatures, and couches under it the true and real number of the Authors of the CONNOISSEUR.

HAVING thus declared Mr. TOWN to conſiſt of two ſeparate individuals, it will perhaps be expected that, like two tradeſmen, who have agreed to diſſolve their part⯑nerſhip, we ſhould exactly ballance our accounts, and aſſign to each his due parcel of the ſtock. But our ac⯑counts are of ſo intricate a nature, that it would be im⯑poſſible for us to adjuſt them in that manner. We have not only joined in the work taken altogether, but almoſt every ſingle paper is the joint product of both: and, as we have laboured equally in erecting the fabric, we can⯑not [845] pretend, that any one particular part is the ſole work⯑manſhip of either. An hint has perhaps been ſtarted by one of us, improved by the other, and ſtill further heigh⯑tened by an happy coalition of ſentiment in both; as fire is ſtruck out by a mutual colliſion of flint and ſteel. Sometimes, like Strada's lovers converſing with the ſym⯑pathetic needles, we have written papers together at fifty miles diſtance from each other: the firſt rough draught or looſe minutes of an eſſay have often travelled in the ſtage-coach from town to country, and from country to town; and we have frequently waited for the poſtman (whom we expected to bring us the precious remainder of a CONNOISSEUR) with the ſame anxiety, as we ſhould wait for the half of a bank note, without which the other half would be of no value. Theſe our joint labours, it may eaſily be imagined, would have ſoon broke off ab⯑ruptly, if either had been too fondly attached to his own little conceits; or if we had converſed together with the jealouſy of a rival, or the complaiſance of a formal ac⯑quaintance, who ſmiles at every word that is ſaid by his companion. Nor could this work have been ſo long car⯑ried on, with ſo much chearfulneſs and good-humour on both ſides, if the Two had not been as cloſely united, as the two Students, whom the SPECTATOR mentions as recorded by a Terrae Filius at Oxford, ‘"to have had but one mind, one purſe, one chamber, and one hat."’

IT has been often remarked, that the reader is very deſirous of picking up ſome little particulars concerning the author of the book, which he is peruſing. To gratify this paſſion, many literary anecdotes have been publiſh⯑ed, and an account of their life, character, and behaviour, has been prefixed to the works of our moſt celebrated writers. Eſſayiſts are commonly expected to be their own Biographers: and perhaps our readers may require ſome further intelligence concerning the Authors of the CONNOISSEUR. But, as they have all along ap⯑peared as a ſort of Sofias in literature, they cannot now deſcribe themſelves any otherwiſe, than as one and the ſame perſon; and can only ſatisfy the curioſity of the pub⯑lic, by giving a ſhort account of that reſpectable perſonage Mr. TOWN, conſidering him as of the plural, or rather (according to the Grecians) of the dual number.

[846]Mr. TOWN is a fair, black, middle-ſized, very ſhort man. He wears his own hair, and a perriwig. He is about thirty years of age, and not more than four and twenty. He is a Student of the Law, and a Batchelor of Phyſic. He was bred at the Univerſity of Oxford; where having taken no leſs than three degrees, he looks down on many learned Profeſſors, his inferiors: yet having been there but little longer than to take the firſt degree of Batchelor of Arts, it has more than once happened, that the CEN⯑SOR-GENERAL of all England has been reprimanded by the Cenſor of his College, for neglecting to furniſh the uſual Eſſay, or (in the collegiate phraſe) the Theme of the week.

This joint deſcription of ourſelves will, we hope, ſa⯑tisfy the reader without any further information. For our own parts, we cannot but be pleaſed with having raiſed this monument of our mutual friendſhip and eſteem: and if theſe eſſays ſhall continue to be read, when they will no longer make their appearance as the fugitive pieces of the week, we ſhall be happy in con⯑ſidering, that we are mentioned at the ſame time. We have all the while gone on, as it were, hand in hand together: and white we are both employed in furniſhing matter for the paper now before us, we cannot help ſmiling at our thus making our exit together, like the two Kings of Brentford ſmelling at one noſegay.