Fleet, May 6.
IN consequence of my engagements, I address you
once more from the habitations of misery. In this
place, from which business and pleasure are equally
excluded, and in which our only employment and
diversion is to hear the narratives of each other, I
might much sooner have gathered materials for a
letter, had I not hoped to have been reminded of
my promise; but since I find myself placed in the
regions of oblivion, where I am no less neglected by
you than by the rest of mankind, I resolved no
longer to wait for solicitation, but stole early this
evening from between gloomy sullenness and riotous
merriment, to give you an account of part of my
companions.
One of the most eminent members of our club is
Mr. Edward Scamper, a man of whose name the
Olympick heroes would not have been ashamed. Ned
was born to a small estate, which he determined to
improve; and therefore, as soon as he became of age,
mortgaged part of his land to buy a mare and stallion,
and bred horses for the course. He was at first
very successful, and gained several of the king's
plates, as he is now every day boasting, at the
expense of very little more than ten times their value.
At last, however, he discovered, that victory brought
him more honour than profit: resolving, therefore,
to be rich as well as illustrious, he replenished his
pockets by another mortgage, became on a sudden
a daring bettor, and resolving not to trust a jockey
with his fortune, rode his horse himself, distanced
two of his competitors the first heat, and at last
won the race by forcing his horse on a descent to full
speed at the hazard of his neck. His estate was thus
repaired, and some friends that had no souls advised
him to give over; but Ned now knew the way to
riches, and therefore without caution increased his
expenses. From this hour he talked and dreamed of
nothing but a horse-race; and rising soon to the summit
of equestrian reputation, he was constantly expected
on every course, divided all his time between
lords and jockeys, and, as the unexperienced
regulated their bets by his example, gained a great deal
of money by laying openly on one horse and secretly
on the other. Ned was now so sure of growing rich,
that he involved his estate in a third mortgage,
borrowed money of all his friends, and risked his whole
fortune upon Bay Lincoln. He mounted with beating
heart, started fair, and won the first heat; but in
the second, as he was pushing against the foremost
of his rivals, his girth broke, his shoulder was
dislocated, and before he was dismissed by the surgeon,
two bailiffs fastened upon him, and he saw
Newmarket no more. His daily amusement for four
years has been to blow the signal for starting, to
make imaginary matches, to repeat the pedigree
of Bay Lincoln, and to form resolutions against
trusting another groom with the choice of his girth.
The next in seniority is Mr. Timothy Snug, a
man of deep contrivance and impenetrable secrecy.
His father died with the reputation of more wealth
than he possessed: Tim, therefore, entered the world
with a reputed fortune of ten thousand pounds. Of
this he very well knew that eight thousand was
imaginary: but being a man of refined policy, and
knowing how much honour is annexed to riches,
he resolved never to detect his own poverty; but
furnished his house with elegance, scattered his
money with profusion, encouraged every scheme
of costly pleasure, spoke of petty losses with
negligence, and on the day before an execution entered
his doors, had proclaimed at a publick table his
resolution to be jolted no longer in a hackney coach.
Another of my companions is the magnanimous
Jack Scatter, the son of a country gentleman, who,
having no other care than to leave him rich,
considered that literature could not be had without
expense; masters would not teach for nothing; and
when a book was bought and read, it would sell for
little. Jack was, therefore, taught to read and write
by the butler; and when this acquisition was made,
was left to pass his days in the kitchen and stable,
where he heard no crime censured but covetousness
and distrust of poor honest servants, and where all
the praise was bestowed on good housekeeping,
and a free heart. At the death of his father, Jack
set himself to retrieve the honour of his family:
he abandoned his cellar to the butler, ordered his
groom to provide hay and corn at discretion, took
his housekeeper's word for the expenses of the
kitchen, allowed all his servants to do their work
by deputies, permitted his domesticks to keep his
house open to their relations and acquaintance, and
in ten years was conveyed hither, without having
purchased by the loss of his patrimony either honour
or pleasure, or obtained any other gratification
than that of having corrupted the neighbouring
villagers by luxury and idleness.
Dick Serge was a draper in Cornhill, and passed
eight years in prosperous diligence, without any
care but to keep his books, or any ambition but to
be in time an alderman: but then, by some
unaccountable revolution in his understanding, he
became enamoured of wit and humour, despised the
conversation of pedlars and stock-jobbers, and
rambled every night to the regions of gaiety, in quest
of company suited to his taste. The wits at first
flocked about him for sport, and afterwards for
interest; some found their way into his books, and
some into his pockets; the man of adventure was
equipped from his shop for the pursuit of a fortune;
and he had sometimes the honour to have his
security accepted when his friends were in distress.
Elated with these associations, he soon learned to
neglect his shop; and having drawn his money out
of the funds, to avoid the necessity of teasing men
of honour for trifling debts, he has been forced at
last to retire hither, till his friends can procure him
a post at court.
Another that joins in the same mess is Bob Cornice,
whose life has been spent in fitting up a house.
About ten years ago Bob purchased the country
habitation of a bankrupt: the mere shell of a building
Bob holds no great matter; the inside is the
test of elegance. Of this house he was no sooner
master than he summoned twenty workmen to his
assistance, tore up the floors and laid them anew,
stripped off the wainscot, drew the windows from
their frames, altered the disposition of doors and
fire-places, and cast the whole fabrick into a new
form: his next care was to have his ceilings painted,
his pannels gilt, and his chimney-pieces carved:
every thing was executed by the ablest hands:
Bob's business was to follow the workmen with a
microscope, and call upon them to retouch their
performances, and heighten excellence to perfection.
The reputation of his house now brings round him
a daily confluence of visitants, and every one tells
him of some elegance which he has hitherto
overlooked, some convenience not yet procured, or
some new mode in ornament or furniture. Bob, who
had no wish but to be admired, nor any guide but
the fashion, thought every thing beautiful in
proportion as it was new, and considered his work as
unfinished, while any observer could suggest an
addition, some alteration was therefore every day made,
without any other motive than the charms of novelty.
A traveller at last suggested to him the convenience
of a grotto: Bob immediately ordered the mount of
his garden to be excavated: and having laid out a
large sum in shells and minerals, was busy in regulating
the disposition of the colours and lustres, when
two gentlemen, who had asked permission to see
his gardens, presented him a writ, and led him off
to less elegant apartments.
I know not, Sir, whether among this fraternity
of sorrow you will think any much to be pitied; nor
indeed do many of them appear to solicit compassion,
for they generally applaud their own conduct,
and despise those whom want of taste or spirit suffers
to grow rich. It were happy if the prisons of the
kingdom were filled only with characters like these,
men whom prosperity could not make useful, and
whom ruin cannot make wise: but there are among us
many who raise different sensations, many that owe
their present misery to the seductions of treachery,
the strokes of casualty, or the tenderness of pity;
many whose sufferings disgrace society, and whose
virtues would adorn it: of these, when familiarity
shall have enabled me to recount their stories without
horrour, you may expect another narrative from
Sir, Your most humble servant,