To those readers who have seen the journals of the first Methodists,

or the extracts quoted from them by their opposers[31] in the early

times of this spiritual influenza, are sufficiently known all their

leading notions and peculiarities; so that I have no need to enter

into such unpleasant inquiries in this place. I have only to observe

that their tenets remain the same, and have still the former effect on

the minds of the converted. There is yet that imagined contention with

the powers of darkness, that is at once so lamentable and so

ludicrous; there is the same offensive familiarity with the Deity,

with a full trust and confidence both in the immediate efficacy of

their miserably delivered supplications, and in the reality of

numberless small miracles wrought at their request and for their

convenience; there still exists that delusion, by which some of the

most common diseases of the body are regarded as proofs of the

malignity of Satan contending for dominion over the soul; and there

still remains the same wretched jargon, composed of scriptural

language, debased by vulgar expressions, which has a kind of mystic

influence on the minds of the ignorant. It will be recollected that it

is the abuse of those scriptural terms which I conceive to be

improper: they are doubtless most significant and efficacious when

used with propriety; but it is painful to the mind of a soberly devout

person, when he hears every rise and fall of the animal spirits, every

whim and notion of enthusiastic ignorance, expressed in the venerable

language of the Apostles and Evangelists.

The success of these people is great, but not surprising: as the

powers they claim are given, and come not of education, many may, and

therefore do, fancy they are endowed with them; so that they who do

not venture to become preachers, yet exert the minor gifts, and gain

reputation for the faculty of prayer, as soon as they can address the

Creator in daring flights of unpremeditated absurdity. The less

indigent gain the praise of hospitality, and the more harmonious

become distinguished in their choirs; curiosity is kept alive by

succession of ministers, and self-love is flattered by the

consideration that they are the persons at whom the world wonders; add

to this, that, in many of them, pride is gratified by their

consequence as new members of a sect whom their conversion pleases,

and by the liberty, which as seceders they take, of speaking

contemptuously of the Church and ministers, whom they have

relinquished.

Of those denominated _Calvinistic Methodists_ I had principally one

sect in view, or, to adopt the term of its founder, _a church_. This

_church_ consists of several congregations in town and country,

unknown perhaps in many parts of the kingdom, but, where known, the

cause of much curiosity and some amusement. To such of my readers as

may judge an enthusiastic teacher and his peculiarities to be unworthy

any serious attention, I would observe that there is something

unusually daring in the boast of this man, who claims the authority of

a messenger sent from God, and declares without hesitation that his

call was immediate; that he is assisted by the sensible influence of

the Spirit, and that miracles are perpetually wrought in his favour

and for his convenience.

As it was and continues to be my desire to give proof that I had

advanced nothing respecting this extraordinary person, his operations

or assertions, which might not be readily justified by quotations from

his own writings, I had collected several of these and disposed them

under certain heads. But I found that by this means a very

disproportioned share of attention must be given to the subject, and

after some consideration, I have determined to relinquish the design;

and, should any have curiosity to search whether my representation of

the temper and disposition, the spirit and manners, the knowledge and

capacity, of a very popular teacher be correct, he is referred to

about fourscore pamphlets, whose titles will be found on the covers of

the late editions of the _Bank of Faith_, itself a wonderful

performance, which (according to the turn of mind in the reader) will

either highly excite, or totally extinguish, curiosity. In these works

will be abundantly seen, abuse and contempt of the Church of England

and its ministers; vengeance and virulent denunciation against all

offenders; scorn for morality and heathen virtue, with that kind of

learning which the author possesses, and his peculiar style of

composition. A few of the titles placed below will give some

information to the reader respecting the merit and design of those

performances[32].

As many of the preacher's subjects are controverted and nice questions

in divinity, he has sometimes allowed himself relaxation from the

severity of study, and favoured his admirers with the effects of an

humbler kind of inspiration, viz. that of the Muse. It must be

confessed that these flights of fancy are very humble, and have

nothing of that daring and mysterious nature which the prose of the

author leads us to expect. _The Dimensions of eternal_ LOVE is a title

of one of his more learned productions, with which might have been

expected (as a fit companion) _The Bounds of infinite Grace_; but no

such work appears, and possibly the author considered one attempt of

this kind was sufficient to prove the extent and direction of his

abilities.

Of the whole of this mass of inquiry and decision, of denunciation and

instruction (could we suppose it read by intelligent persons),

different opinions would probably be formed; the more indignant and

severe would condemn the whole as the produce of craft and hypocrisy,

while the more lenient would allow that such things might originate in

the wandering imagination of a dreaming enthusiast.

None of my readers will, I trust, do me so much injustice as to

suppose I have here any other motive than a vindication of what I have

advanced in the verses which describe this kind of character, or that

I had there any other purpose than to express (what I conceive to be)

justifiable indignation against the assurance, the malignity, and

(what is of more importance) the pernicious influence of such

sentiments on the minds of the simple and ignorant, who, if they give

credit to his relations, must be no more than tools and instruments

under the control and management of one _called to be their Apostle_.

Nothing would be more easy for me, as I have observed, than to bring

forward quotations such as would justify all I have advanced; but,

even had I room, I cannot tell whether there be not something

degrading in such kind of attack: the reader might smile at those

miraculous accounts, but he would consider them and the language of

the author as beneath his further attention: I therefore once more

refer him to those pamphlets, which will afford matter for pity and

for contempt by which some would be amused and others astonished--not

without sorrow, when they reflect that thousands look up to the writer

as a man literally inspired, to whose wants they administer with their

substance, and to whose guidance they prostrate their spirit and

understanding.

Having been so long detained by this Letter, I must not permit my

desire of elucidating what may seem obscure, or of defending what is

liable to misconstruction, any further to prevail over a wish for

brevity, and the fear of giving an air of importance to subjects which

have perhaps little in themselves.

The circumstance recorded in the fifth Letter is a fact; although it

may appear to many almost incredible, that, in this country, and but

few years since, a close and successful man should be a stranger to

the method of increasing money by the loan of it. The Minister of the

place where the honest Fisherman resided has related to me the

apprehension and suspicion he witnessed. With trembling hand and

dubious look, the careful man received and surveyed the bond given to

him; and, after a sigh or two of lingering mistrust, he placed it in

the coffer whence he had just before taken his cash; for which, and

for whose increase, he now indulged a belief that it was indeed both

promise and security.

If the Letter which treats of Inns should be found to contain nothing

interesting or uncommon; if it describe things which we behold every

day, and some which we do not wish to behold at any time: let it be

considered that this Letter is one of the shortest, and that from a

Poem whose subject was a Borough, populous and wealthy, these places

of public accommodation could not, without some impropriety, be

excluded.

I entertain the strongest, because the most reasonable, hope that no

liberal practitioner in the Law will be offended by the notice taken

of dishonourable and crafty attorneys. The increased difficulty of

entering into the profession will in time render it much more free

than it now is from those who disgrace it; at present such persons

remain, and it would not be difficult to give instances of neglect,

ignorance, cruelty, oppression, and chicanery; nor are they by any

means confined to one part of the country: quacks and impostors are

indeed in every profession, as well with a licence as without one. The

character and actions of _Swallow_ might doubtless be contrasted by

the delineation of an able and upright Solicitor; but this Letter is

of sufficient length, and such persons, without question, are already

known to my readers.

When I observe, under the article Physic, that the young and less

experienced physician will write rather with a view of making himself

known, than to investigate and publish some useful fact, I would not

be thought to extend this remark to all the publications of such men.

I could point out a work, containing experiments the most judicious,

and conclusions the most interesting, made by a gentleman, then young,

which would have given just celebrity to a man after long practice.

The observation is nevertheless generally true: many opinions have

been adopted and many books written, not that the theory might be well

defended, but that a young physician might be better known.

If I have in one Letter praised the good-humour of a man confessedly

too inattentive to business, and, in another, if I have written

somewhat sarcastically of "the brick-floored parlour which the butcher

lets:" be credit given to me, that in the one case I had no intention

to apologize for idleness, nor any design in the other to treat with

contempt the resources of the poor. The good-humour is considered as

the consolation of disappointment, and the room is so mentioned

because the lodger is vain. Most of my readers will perceive this; but

I shall be sorry if by any I am supposed to make pleas for the vices

of men, or treat their wants and infirmities with derision or with

disdain.

It is probable, that really polite people, with cultivated minds and

harmonious tempers, may judge my description of a Card-club

conversation to be highly exaggerated, if not totally fictitious; and

I acknowledge that the club must admit a particular kind of members to

afford such specimens of acrimony and objurgation. Yet, that such

language is spoken, and such manners exhibited, is most certain,

chiefly among those who, being successful in life, without previous

education, not very nice in their feelings, or very attentive to

improprieties, sit down to game with no other view than that of adding

the gain of the evening to the profits of the day; whom therefore

disappointment itself makes angry, and, when caused by another;

resentful and vindictive.

The Letter on Itinerant Players will to some appear too harshly

written, their profligacy exaggerated, and their distresses magnified;

but, though the respectability of a part of these people may give us a

more favourable view of the whole body, though some actors be sober,

and some managers prudent: still there is vice and misery left, more

than sufficient to justify my description. But, if I could find only

one woman who (passing forty years on many stages, and sustaining many

principal characters) laments in her unrespected old age, that there

was no workhouse to which she could legally sue for admission; if I

could produce only one female, seduced upon the boards, and starved in

her lodging, compelled by her poverty to sing, and by her sufferings

to weep, without any prospect but misery, or any consolation but

death; if I could exhibit only one youth who sought refuge from

parental authority in the licentious freedom of a wandering company:

yet, with three such examples, I should feel myself justified in the

account I have given.--But such characters and sufferings are common,

and there are few of these societies which could not show members of

this description. To some, indeed, the life has its satisfactions:

they never expected to be free from labour, and their present kind,

they think, is light; they have no delicate ideas of shame, and

therefore duns and hisses give them no other pain than what arises

from the fear of not being trusted, joined with the apprehension that

they may have nothing to subsist upon except their credit.

For the Alms-House itself, its Governors and Inhabitants, I have not

much to offer, in favour of the subject or of the characters. One of

these, _Sir Denys Brand_, may be considered as too highly placed for

an author (who seldom ventures above middle-life) to delineate; and

indeed I had some idea of reserving him for another occasion, where he

might have appeared with those in his own rank; but then it is most

uncertain whether he would ever appear, and he has been so many years

prepared for the public whenever opportunity might offer, that I have

at length given him place, and though with his inferiors, yet as a

ruler over them. Of these, one (_Benbow_) may be thought too low and

despicable to be admitted here; but he is a Borough-character, and,

however disgusting in some respects a picture may be, it will please

some, and be tolerated by many, if it can boast that one merit of

being a faithful likeness.

_Blaney_ and _Clelia_, a male and female inhabitant of this mansion,

are drawn at some length; and I may be thought to have given them

attention which they do not merit. I plead not for the originality,

but for the truth, of the character; and, though it may not be very

pleasing, it may be useful to delineate (for certain minds) these

mixtures of levity and vice; people who are thus incurably vain and

determinately worldly; thus devoted to enjoyment and insensible of

shame, and so miserably fond of their pleasures, that they court even

the remembrance with eager solicitation, by conjuring up the ghosts of

departed indulgences with all the aid that memory can afford them.

These characters demand some attention, because they hold out a

warning to that numerous class of young people who are too lively to

be discreet; to whom the purpose of life is amusement, and who are

always in danger of falling into vicious habits, because they have too

much activity to be quiet, and too little strength to be steady.

The characters of the Hospital-Directors were written many years

since, and, so far as I was capable of judging, are drawn with

_fidelity_. I mention this circumstance, that, if any reader should

find a difference in the versification or expression, he will be thus

enabled to account for it.

The Poor are here almost of necessity introduced, for they must be

considered, in every place, as a large and interesting portion of its

inhabitants. I am aware of the great difficulty of acquiring just

notions on the maintenance and management of this class of our

fellow-subjects, and I forbear to express any opinion of the various

modes which have been discussed or adopted: of one method only I

venture to give my sentiments, that of collecting the poor of a

hundred into one building. This admission of a vast number of persons,

of all ages and both sexes, of very different inclinations, habits,

and capacities, into a society, must, at a first view, I conceive, be

looked upon as a cause of both vice and misery; nor does anything

which I have heard or read invalidate the opinion; happily, it is not

a prevailing one, as these houses are, I believe, still confined to

that part of the kingdom where they originated.

To this subject follow several Letters describing the follies, and

crimes of persons in lower life, with one relation of a happier and

more consolatory kind. It has been a subject of greater vexation to me

than such trifle ought to be, that I could not, without destroying all

appearance of arrangement, separate these melancholy narratives, and

place the fallen Clerk in Office at a greater distance from the Clerk

of the Parish, especially as they resembled each other in several

particulars; both being tempted, seduced, and wretched. Yet are there,

I conceive, considerable marks of distinction: their guilt is of

different kind; nor would either have committed the offence of the

other. The Clerk of the Parish could break the commandment, but he

could not have been induced to have disowned an article of that creed

for which he had so bravely contended, and on which he fully relied;

and the upright mind of the Clerk in Office would have secured him

from being guilty of wrong and robbery, though his weak and

vacillating intellect could not preserve him from infidelity and

profaneness. Their melancholy is nearly alike, but not its

consequences. _Jachin_ retained his belief, and though he hated life,

he could never be induced to quit it voluntarily; but _Abel_ was

driven to terminate his misery in a way which the unfixedness of his

religious opinions rather accelerated than retarded. I am therefore

not without hope that the more observant of my readers will perceive

many marks of discrimination in these characters.

The Life of _Ellen Orford_, though sufficiently burthened with error

and misfortune, has in it little besides, which resembles those of the

above unhappy men, and is still more unlike that of _Grimes_, in a

subsequent Letter. There is in this character cheerfulness and

resignation, a more uniform piety, and an immovable trust in the aid

of religion: this, with the light texture of the introductory part,

will, I hope, take off from that idea of sameness which the repetition

of crimes and distresses is likely to create. The character of

_Grimes_, his obduracy and apparent want of feeling, his gloomy kind

of misanthropy, the progress of his madness, and the horrors of his

imagination, I must leave to the judgment and observation of my

readers. The mind here exhibited is one untouched by pity, unstung by

remorse, and uncorrected by shame: yet is this hardihood of temper and

spirit broken by want, disease, solitude, and disappointment; and he

becomes the victim of a distempered and horror-stricken fancy. It is

evident, therefore, that no feeble vision, no half-visible ghost, not

the momentary glance of an unbodied being, nor the half-audible voice

of an invisible one, would be created by the continual workings of

distress on a mind so depraved and flinty. The ruffian of Mr

_Scott_[33] has a mind of this nature: he has no shame or remorse: but

the corrosion of hopeless want, the wasting of unabating disease, and

the gloom of unvaried solitude, will have their effect on every

nature; and, the harder that nature is, and the longer time required

to work upon it, so much the more strong and indelible is the

impression. This is all the reason I am able to give, why a man of

feeling so dull should yet become insane, should be of so horrible a

nature.

That a Letter on Prisons should follow those narratives is

unfortunate, but not to be easily avoided. I confess it is not

pleasant to be detained so long by subjects so repulsive to the

feelings of many as the sufferings of mankind; but, though I assuredly

would have altered this arrangement, had I been able to have done it

by substituting a better, yet am I not of opinion that my verses, or

indeed the verses of any other person, can so represent the evils and

distresses of life as to make any material impression on the mind, and

much less any of injurious nature. Alas! sufferings real, evident,

continually before us, have not effects very serious or lasting, even

in the minds of the more reflecting and compassionate; nor indeed does

it seem right that the pain caused by sympathy should serve for more

than a stimulus to benevolence. If, then, the strength and solidity of

truth placed before our eyes have effect so feeble and transitory, I

need not be very apprehensive that my representations of Poor-houses

and Prisons, of wants and sufferings, however faithfully taken, will

excite any feelings which can be seriously lamented. It has always

been held as a salutary exercise of the mind, to contemplate the evils

and miseries of our nature. I am not, therefore, without hope, that

even this gloomy subject of Imprisonment, and more especially the

Dream of the condemned Highwayman, will excite in some minds that

mingled pity and abhorrence, which, while it is not unpleasant to the

feelings, is useful in its operation: it ties and binds us to all

mankind by sensations common to us all, and in some degree connects

us, without degradation, even to the most miserable and guilty of our

fellow-men.

Our concluding subject is Education; and some attempt is made to

describe its various seminaries, from that of the Poor Widow, who

pronounces the alphabet for infants, to seats whence the light of

learning is shed abroad on the world. If, in this Letter, I describe

the lives of literary men as embittered by much evil; if they be often

disappointed, and sometimes unfitted for the world they improve: let

it be considered that they are described as men who possess that great

pleasure, the exercise of their own talents, and the delight which

flows from their own exertions; they have joy in their pursuits, and

glory in their acquirements of knowledge. Their victory over

difficulties affords the most rational cause of triumph, and the

attainment of new ideas leads to incalculable riches, such as gratify

the glorious avarice of aspiring and comprehensive minds. Here, then,

I place the reward of learning.--Our Universities produce men of the

first scholastic attainments, who are heirs to large possessions, or

descendants from noble families. Now, to those so favoured, talents

and acquirements are, unquestionably, means of arriving at the most

elevated and important situations; but these must be the lot of a few.

In general, the diligence, acuteness, and perseverance of a youth at

the University, have no other reward than some College honours and

emoluments, which they desire to exchange, many of them, for very

moderate incomes in the obscurity of some distant village: so that, in

stating the reward of an ardent and powerful mind to consist

principally (I might have said entirely) in its own views, efforts,

and excursions, I place it upon a sure foundation, though not one so

elevated as the more ambitious aspire to. It is surely some

encouragement to a studious man to reflect, that if he be

disappointed, he cannot be without gratification; and that, if he gets

but a very humble portion of what the world can give, he has a

continual fruition of unwearying enjoyment, of which it has not power

to deprive him.

Long as I have detained the reader, I take leave to add a few words on

the subject of imitation, or, more plainly speaking, borrowing. In the

course of a long Poem, and more especially of two long ones, it is

very difficult to avoid a recurrence of the same thoughts, and of

similar expressions; and, however careful I have been myself in

detecting and removing these kinds of repetitions, my readers, I

question not, would, if disposed to seek them, find many remaining.

For these I can only plead that common excuse--they are the offences

of a bad memory, and not of voluntary inattention; to which I must add

the difficulty (I have already mentioned) of avoiding the error. This

kind of plagiarism will therefore, I conceive, be treated with lenity;

and of the more criminal kind, borrowing from others, I plead, with

much confidence, "not guilty." But while I claim exemption from guilt,

I do not affirm that much of sentiment and much of expression may not

be detected in the vast collection of English poetry: it is sufficient

for an author, that he uses not the words or ideas of another without

acknowledgment; and this, and no more than this, I mean, by

disclaiming debts of the kind. Yet resemblances are sometimes so very

striking, that it requires faith in a reader to admit they were

undesigned. A line in the second Letter,

"And monuments themselves memorials need,"

was written long before the author, in an accidental recourse to

Juvenal, read--

"Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris."

Sat. x. l. 146.

and for this I believe the reader will readily give me credit. But

there is another apparent imitation in the life of _Blaney_ (Letter

xiv), a simile of so particular a kind, that its occurrence to two

writers at the same time must appear as an extraordinary event. For

this reason I once determined to exclude it from the relation, but, as

it was truly unborrowed, and suited the place in which it stood, this

seemed, on after-consideration, to be an act of cowardice, and the

lines are therefore printed as they were written about two months

before the very same thought (prosaically drest) appeared in a

periodical work of the last summer. It is highly probable, in these

cases, that both may derive the idea from a forgotten but common

source; and in this way I must entreat the reader to do me justice, by

accounting for other such resemblances, should any be detected.

I know not whether to some readers the placing two or three Latin

quotations to a Letter may not appear pedantic and ostentatious, while

both they and the English ones may be thought unnecessary. For the

necessity I have not much to advance; but if they be allowable (and

certainly the best writers have adopted them), then, where two or

three different subjects occur, so many of these mottoes seem to be

required: nor will a charge of pedantry remain, when it is considered

that these things are generally taken from some books familiar to the

school-boy, and the selecting them is facilitated by the use of a book

of common-place. Yet, with this help, the task of motto-hunting has

been so unpleasant to me, that I have in various instances given up

the quotation I was in pursuit of, and substituted such English verse

or prose as I could find or invent for my purpose.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] Methodists and Papists compared; Treatise on Grace, by Bishop

Warburton, &c.

[32] Barbar, in two Parts; Bond-Child; Cry of Little Faith; Satan's

Lawsuit; Forty Stripes for Satan; Myrrh and Odour of Saints; the

Naked Bow of God: Rule and Riddle; Way and Fare for Wayfaring Men;

Utility of the Books and Excellency of the Parchments;

Correspondence between _Noctua_, _Aurita_ (the words so separated),

and _Philomela_, &c.

[33] Marmion.

CONTENTS.

LETTER PAGE

1. General Description 284

2. The Church 294

3. The Vicar--The Curate, &c. 303

4. Sects and Professions in Religion 313

5. Elections 329

6. Professions--Law 336

7. Professions--Physic 347

8. Trades 356

9. Amusements 364

10. Clubs and Social Meetings 374

11. Inns 386

12. Players 396

13. The Alms-House and Trustees 407

14. Inhabitants of the Alms-House--Blaney 417

15. Inhabitants of the Alms-House--Clelia 424

16. Inhabitants of the Alms-House--Benbow 431

17. The Hospital and Governors 439

18. The Poor and their Dwellings 448

19. The Poor of the Borough--The Parish Clerk 460

20. The Poor of the Borough--Ellen Orford 469

21. The Poor of the Borough--Abel Keene 480

22. The Poor of the Borough--Peter Grimes 491

23. Prisons 502

24. Schools 512

LETTER I.

_GENERAL DESCRIPTION._

These did the ruler of the deep ordain,

To build proud navies, and to rule the main.

_Pope's Homer's Iliad_, book vi. line 45. [?]

Such [place hath] Deptford, navy-building town,

Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;

Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,

And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich.

_Pope's Imitation of Spenser._

Et cum coelestibus undis

Æquoreæ miscentur aquæ; caret ignibus æther,

Cæcaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque;

[Discutiunt] tamen has, præbentque micantia lumen

Fulmina; fulmineis ardescunt ignibus undæ.

_Ovid. Metamorph._ lib. xi. [vv. 519-523].

The Difficulty of describing Town Scenery--A Comparison with certain

Views in the Country--The River and Quay--The Shipping and

Business--Ship-Building--Sea-Boys and Port-Views--Village and Town

Scenery again compared--Walks from Town--Cottage and adjoining

Heath, &c.--House of Sunday Entertainment--The Sea: a Summer and

Winter View--A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects on

Shore--Evening Amusements in the Borough--An Apology for the

imperfect View which can be given of these Subjects.

LETTER I.

_GENERAL DESCRIPTION._

"Describe the Borough."--Though our idle tribe

May love description, can we so describe,

That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,

And all that gives distinction to a place?

This cannot be; yet, moved by your request,

A part I paint--let fancy form the rest.

Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,

Require the pencil; they defy the pen.

Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet,

So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? 10

Can measured lines these various buildings show,

The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row?

Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,

And lengthen out my lays from door to door?

Then, let thy fancy aid me.--I repair

From this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor,

Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,

And these half-buried buildings next the beach;

Where hang at open doors the net and cork,

While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; 20

Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide,

The weary husband throws his freight aside--

A living mass, which now demands the wife,

Th' alternate labours of their humble life.

Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood,

Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood?

Seek, then, thy garden's shrubby bound, and look,

As it steals by, upon the bordering brook:

That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow,

Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow; 30

Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,

Sits the large lily[34] as the water's queen;

And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,

Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;

Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,

And our broad river will before thee seem.

With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide,

Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;

Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep

It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; 40

Here sampire-banks[35] and salt-wort[36] bound the flood;

There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the mud;

And, higher up, a ridge of all things base,

Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place.

Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat,

Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat;

While at her stern an angler takes his stand,

And marks the fish he purposes to land;

From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray

Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. 50

Far other craft our prouder river shows,

Hoys, pinks and sloops; brigs, brigantines and snows:

Nor angler we on our wide stream descry,

But one poor dredger where his oysters lie:

He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide,

Beats his weak arms against his tarry side,

Then drains the remnant of diluted gin,

To aid the warmth that languishes within;

Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat

His tingling fingers into gathering heat. 60

He shall again be seen when evening comes,

And social parties crowd their favourite rooms;

Where on the table pipes and papers lie,

The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by.

'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,

They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;

And few themselves the savoury boon deny,

The food that feeds, the living luxury.

Yon is our quay! those smaller hoys from town.

Its various wares, for country-use, bring down; 70

Those laden waggons, in return, impart

The country-produce to the city mart;

Hark to the clamour in that miry road,

Bounded and narrow'd by yon vessels' load;

The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,

Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case;

While the loud seaman and the angry hind,

Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.

Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks,

Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks: 80

See the long keel, which soon the waves must hide;

See the strong ribs which form the roomy side;

Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke,

And planks[37] which curve and crackle in the smoke.

Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far

Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.

Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd,

Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud;

Or, in a boat purloin'd, with paddles play,

And grow familiar with the watery way. 90

Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are;

They know what British seamen do and dare;

Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy

The rustic wonder of the village-boy.

Before you bid these busy scenes adieu,

Behold the wealth that lies in public view,

Those far-extended heaps of coal and coke,

Where fresh-fill'd lime-kilns breathe their stifling smoke.

This shall pass off, and you behold, instead,

The night-fire gleaming on its chalky bed; 100

When from the light-house brighter beams will rise,

To show the shipman where the shallow lies.

Thy walks are ever pleasant; every scene

Is rich in beauty, lively, or serene:

Rich--is that varied view with woods around,

Seen from the seat, within the shrubb'ry bound;

Where shines the distant lake, and where appear

From ruins bolting, unmolested deer;

Lively--the village-green, the inn, the place

Where the good widow schools her infant race; 110

Shops, whence are heard the hammer and the saw,

And village-pleasures unreproved by law.

Then, how serene--when in your favourite room,

Gales from your jasmines soothe the evening gloom;

When from your upland paddock you look down,

And just perceive the smoke which hides the town;

When weary peasants at the close of day

Walk to their cots, and part upon the way;

When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook,

And shepherds pen their folds, and rest upon their crook. 120

We prune our hedges, prime our slender trees,

And nothing looks untutor'd and at ease;

On the wide heath, or in the flow'ry vale,

We scent the vapours of the sea-born gale;

Broad-beaten paths lead on from stile to stile,

And sewers from streets the road-side banks defile;

Our guarded fields a sense of danger show,

Where garden-crops with corn and clover grow;

Fences are form'd of wreck and placed around

(With tenters tipp'd), a strong repulsive bound; 130

Wide and deep ditches by the gardens run,

And there in ambush lie the trap and gun;

Or yon broad board, which guards each tempting prize,

"Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies."

There stands a cottage with an open door,

Its garden undefended blooms before;

Her wheel is still, and overturn'd her stool,

While the lone widow seeks the neighb'ring pool.

This gives us hope all views of town to shun--

No! here are tokens of the sailor-son: 140

That old blue jacket, and that shirt of check,

And silken kerchief for the seaman's neck;

Sea-spoils and shells from many a distant shore,

And furry robe from frozen Labrador.

Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,

Fen, marshes, bog and heath all intervene;

Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,

To some enrich th' uncultivated space:

For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,

The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush, 150

Whose velvet leaf, with radiant beauty dress'd,

Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.

Not distant far, a house, commodious made,

Lonely yet public stands, for Sunday-trade;

Thither, for this day free, gay parties go,

Their tea-house walk, their tippling rendezvous;

There humble couples sit in corner-bowers,

Or gaily ramble for th' allotted hours;

Sailors and lasses from the town attend,

The servant-lover, the apprentice-friend; 160

With all the idle social tribes who seek

And find their humble pleasures once a week.

Turn to the watery world!--but who to thee

(A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint--the sea?

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,

When lull'd by zephyrs, or when roused by storms;

Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun

Shades after shades upon the surface run;

Embrown'd and horrid now, and now serene,

In limpid blue, and evanescent green; 170

And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,

Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye[38].

Be it the summer-noon: a sandy space

The ebbing tide has left upon its place;

Then, just the hot and stony beach above,

Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move

(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,

And with the cooler in its fall contends);

Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps

An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps, 180

Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,

Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,

Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,

And back return in silence, smooth and slow.

Ships in the calm seem anchored; for they glide

On the still sea, urged solely by the tide;

Art thou not present, this calm scene before, }

Where all beside is pebbly length of shore, }

And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more? }

Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud, to make 190

The quiet surface of the ocean shake;

As an awaken'd giant with a frown

Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down.

View now the winter-storm, above, one cloud,

Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud.

Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before

Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore;

And sometimes hid, and sometimes show'd, his form,

Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm.

All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam, 200

The breaking billows cast the flying foam

Upon the billows rising--all the deep

Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep,

Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells,

Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.

But, nearer land, you may the billows trace,

As if contending in their watery chase;

May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach,

Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch;

Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force, 210

And then, re-flowing, take their grating course,

Raking the rounded flints, which ages past

Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.

Far off, the petrel in the troubled way

Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray;

She rises often, often drops again,

And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach

Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks stretch;

Far as the eye can glance on either side, 220

In a broad space and level line they glide;

All in their wedge-like figures from the north,

Day after day, flight after flight, go forth.

In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge,

And drop for prey within the sweeping surge;

Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly }

Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, }

While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; }

Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast,

And in the restless ocean dip for rest. 230

Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind

Appals the weak and awes the firmer mind;

But frights not him, whom evening and the spray

In part conceal--yon prowler on his way.

Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,

As if he fear'd companion in the chase;

He sees his prize, and now he turns again,

Slowly and sorrowing--"Was your search in vain?"

Gruffly he answers, "'Tis a sorry sight!

A seaman's body; there'll be more to-night!" 240

Hark to those sounds! they're from distress at sea:

How quick they come! What terrors may there be!

Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern

Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern;

Others behold them too, and from the town

In various parties seamen hurry down;

Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by dread,

Lest men so dear be into danger led;

Their head the gown has hooded, and their call

In this sad night is piercing like the squall; 250

They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet,

Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.

See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,

Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;

"Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers "No!

I will not"--still she cries, "Thou shalt not go."

No need of this; not here the stoutest boat

Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float;

Yet may they view these lights upon the beach,

Which yield them hope, whom help can never reach. 260

From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws

On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;

But shows them beaming in her shining vest,

Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dress'd!

This for a moment, and then clouds again

Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.

But hear we now those sounds? Do lights appear?

I see them not! the storm alone I hear:

And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;

Man must endure--let us submit and pray. 270

Such are our winter-views; but night comes on--

Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone;

Now parties form, and some their friends assist

To waste the idle hours at sober whist;

The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm

Unnumber'd moments of their sting disarm;

Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite,

To pass off one dread portion of the night;

And show and song and luxury combined

Lift off from man this burthen of mankind. 280

Others advent'rous walk abroad and meet

Returning parties pacing through the street;

When various voices, in the dying day,

Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;

When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,

And guide the tippling sailor, staggering home:

There as we pass, the jingling bells betray

How business rises with the closing day:

Now walking silent, by the river's side,

The ear perceives the rippling of the tide; 290

Or measured cadence of the lads who tow

Some enter'd hoy, to fix her in her row;

Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell

To some departed spirit bids farewell!

Thus shall you something of our BOROUGH know,

Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show;

Of sea or river, of a quay or street,

The best description must be incomplete;

But when a happier theme [succeeds], and when

Men are our subjects and the deeds of men; 300

Then may we find the Muse in happier style,

And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.

NOTES TO LETTER I.

[34] Note 1, page 286, line 32.

_Sits the large lily as the water's queen._

The white water-lily. Nymphæa alba.

[35] Note 2, page 286, line 41.

_Sampire-banks._

The jointed glasswort _Salicornia_ is here meant, not the true

sampire, the _crithmum maritimum_.

[36] Note 3, page 286, line 41.

_Salt-wort._

The salsola of botanists.

[37] Note 4, page 287, line 84.

_And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke._

The curvature of planks for the sides of a ship, &c. is, I am

informed, now generally made by the power of steam. Fire is

nevertheless still used for boats and vessels of the smaller kind.

[38] Note 5, page 289, lines 171 and 172.

_And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,

Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye._

Of the effect of these mists, known by the name of fog-banks,

wonderful and indeed incredible relations are given; but their

property of appearing to elevate ships at sea, and to bring them in

view, is, I believe, generally acknowledged.

LETTER II.

_THE CHURCH._

... Festinat enim decurrere velox

Flosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæ

Portio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas

Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.

_Juvenal._ Satir. ix. lin. 126.

And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath?

Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death?

_Percy_ [?].

Several Meanings of the word _Church_--The Building so called, here

intended--Its Antiquity and Grandeur--Columns and Ailes--The

Tower: the Stains made by Time compared with the mock Antiquity of

the Artist--Progress of Vegetation on such

Buildings--Bells--Tombs: one in decay--Mural Monuments, and the

Nature of their Inscriptions--An Instance in a departed Burgess---

Churchyard Graves--Mourners for the Dead--A Story of a betrothed

Pair in humble Life, and Effects of Grief in the Survivor.

LETTER II.

_THE CHURCH._

"What is a Church?"--Let Truth and Reason speak,

They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;

From Christian folds the one selected race,

Of all professions, and in every place."

"What is a Church?"--"A flock," our vicar cries,

"Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;

Wherein are various states and due degrees,

The bench for honour, and the stall for ease;

That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,

The pious, peaceful prebendary shares." 10

"What is a Church?"--Our honest sexton tells,

"'Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;

Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive

To keep the ardour of their flock alive:

That, by his periods eloquent and grave;

This, by responses, and a well-set stave.

These for the living; but, when life be fled,

I toll myself the requiem for the dead."

'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place

Where slept our fathers, when they'd run their race. 20

We too shall rest, and then our children keep

Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;

Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,

And, like the builders, will in time decay.

The old foundation--but it is not clear

When it was laid--you care not for the year:

On this, as parts decay'd by time and storms,

Arose these various disproportion'd forms;

Yet Gothic, all the learn'd who visit us

(And our small wonders) have decided thus: 30

"Yon noble Gothic arch;" "That Gothic door;"

So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.

Here large plain columns rise in solemn style:

You'd love the gloom they make in either aile,

When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass

(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,

Faintly display the figures on the floor,

Which pleased distinctly in their place before.

But, ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,

Tall and entire, and venerably gray; 40

For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,

And now the stains are all of sober hue--

The living stains which Nature's hand alone,

Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone,

For ever growing; where the common eye

Can but the bare and rocky bed descry,

There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,

The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;

There she perceives them round the surface creep,

And, while they meet, their due distinction keep, 50

Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,

And these are Nature's ever-during stains.

And would'st thou, artist, with thy tints and brush,

Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?

In three short hours shall thy presuming hand

Th' effect of three slow centuries command[39]?

Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive:

They are not lichens, nor like aught alive.--

But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,

Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost; 60

When all thy work is done away as clean

As if thou never spread'st thy gray and green:

Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,

How slowly true she lays her colours on;

When her least speck upon the hardest flint

Has mark and form and is a living tint,

And so embodied with the rock, that few

Can the small germ upon the substance view[40].

Seeds, to our eye invisible, will find

On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind; 70

There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,

Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,

And spread th' enduring foliage;--then we trace

The freckled flower upon the flinty base;

These all increase, till in unnoticed years

The stony tower as gray with age appears;

With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,

Coat above coat, the living on the dead.

These then dissolve to dust, and make a way

For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay; 80

The long-enduring ferns in time will all

Die and depose their dust upon the wall,

Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower

Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.

But ours yet stands, and has its bells renown'd

For size magnificent and solemn sound.

Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,

In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell[41]--

Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring

From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing. 90

Enter'd the Church, we to a tomb proceed,

Whose names and titles few attempt to read;

Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,

Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt.

Our sons shall see its more degraded state;

The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;

That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,

With all those ruff'd and painted pairs below--

The noble lady and the lord who rest

Supine, as courtly dame and warrior dress'd-- 100

All are departed from their state sublime,

Mangled and wounded in their war with time,

Colleagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,

And lo! the baron with but half a head;

Midway is cleft the arch; the very base

Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.

Wonder not, mortal, at thy quick decay--

See! men of marble piece-meal melt away;

When whose the image we no longer read,

But monuments themselves memorials need[42]. 110

With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,

By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;

But we have mural tablets, every size,

That wo could wish, or vanity devise.

Death levels man,--the wicked and the just,

The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;

And by the honours dealt to every name,

The king of terrors seems to level fame.

--See here lamented wives, and every wife

The pride and comfort of her husband's life; 120

Here to her spouse, with every virtue graced,

His mournful widow has a trophy placed;

And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,

Or the good father, be in praise outdone.

This may be nature; when our friends we lose,

Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;

What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,

Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;

And much we grieve, no longer trial made,

For that impatience which we then display'd; 130

Now to their love and worth of every kind

A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;

Virtues, neglected then, adored become,

And graces slighted blossom on the tomb.

'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe

That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)

To all that praise which on the tomb is read,

To all that passion dictates for the dead;

But, more indignant, we the tomb deride,

Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride. 140

Read of this Burgess--on the stone appear,

How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!

What wailing was there when his spirit fled, }

How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead, }

And tears abundant through the town were shed; }

See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,

And free from all disgrace and all disguise;

His sterling worth, which words cannot express,

Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.

All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name, 150

He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?--shame!

What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;

He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;

He ruled the Borough when his year came on,

And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;

For never yet with shilling could he part,

But when it left his hand, it struck his heart.

Yet, here will love its last attentions pay,

And place memorials on these beds of clay.

Large level stones lie flat upon the grave, 160

And half a century's sun and tempest brave;

But many an honest tear and heart-felt sigh

Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;

Of these what numbers rest on every side!

Without one token left by grief or pride;

Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then

Will other hillocks rise o'er other men;

Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,

And generations follow, "dust to dust."

Yes! there are real mourners--I have seen 170

A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;

Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,

And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;

Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect

Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect.

But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,

She sought her place to meditate and weep:

Then to her mind was all the past display'd,

That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:

For then she thought on one regretted youth, 180

Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;

In ev'ry place she wander'd where they'd been,

And sadly-sacred held the parting-scene,

Where last for sea he took his leave--that place

With double interest would she nightly trace;

For long the courtship was, and he would say,

Each time he sail'd,--"This once, and then the day."

Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,

He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took, 190

That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;

White was his better linen, and his check

Was made more trim than any on the deck;

And every comfort men at sea can know

Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:

For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,

How he should guard against the climate's cold;

Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,

Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.

His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek, 200

And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;

For now he found the danger, felt the pain,

With grievous symptoms he could not explain;

Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,

But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.

He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh

A lover's message--"Thomas, I must die.

Would I could see my Sally, and could rest

My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,

And gazing go!--if not, this trifle take, 210

And say, till death I wore it for her sake.

Yes! I must die--blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!

Give me one look, before my life be gone,

Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,

One last fond look--and now repeat the prayer."

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint

The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint--

With tender fears she took a nearer view,

Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;

He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, 220

"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.

Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime

Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.

To her he came to die, and every day

She took some portion of the dread away;

With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,

Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head.

She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;

Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;

Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 230

Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot

The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;

They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,

Yet said not so--"Perhaps he will not sink."

A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,

A sudden vigour in his voice was heard;--

She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,

And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;

Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew, 240

The friendly many, and the favourite few;

Nor one that day did he to mind recall

But she has treasured, and she loves them all;

When in her way she meets them, they appear

Peculiar people--death has made them dear.

He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd,

And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;"

"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found

His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!

Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last, 250

A dying look of love--and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above,

Neatly engraved--an offering of her love;

For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,

Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare

The least assistance--'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,

Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;

But if observer pass, will take her round, 260

And careless seem, for she would not be found;

Then go again, and thus her hour employ,

While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led

To hold mysterious converse with the dead;

For sure at length thy [thoughts'], thy [spirit's] pain

In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain.

All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,

But short the time, and glorious the reward:

Thy patient spirit to thy duties give; 270

Regard the dead, but to the living live[43].

NOTES TO LETTER II.

[39] Note 1, page 296, lines 55 and 56.

_In three short hours shall thy presuming hand_

_Th' effect of three slow centuries command?_

If it should be objected, that centuries are not slower than hours,

because the speed of time must be uniform, I would answer, that I

understand so much, and mean that they are slower in no other sense,

than because they are not finished so soon.

[40] Note 2, page 296, line 68.

_Can the small germ upon the substance view._

This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very

thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the

flint. The byssus jolithus of Linnæus (lepraria jolithus of the

present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old

buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance

on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are

to be found in some parts of the coast, where the beach, formed of

stones of various kinds, is undisturbed, and exposed to every change

of weather; in this situation the different species of lichen, in

their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and

agreeable even to those who are ignorant of, and indifferent to, the

cause.

[41] Note 3, page 297, lines 87 and 88.

_Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,

In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell._

The several purposes for which bells are used are expressed in two

Latin verses of this kind.

[42] Note 4, page 297, line 110.

_But monuments themselves memorials need._

Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.

_Juvenal._ Sat. x. I. 146.

[43] Note 5, page 301, last line.

_Regard the dead, but to the living live._

It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the story I

have represented this young woman as resigned and attentive to her

duties; from which it should appear that the concluding advice is

unnecessary; but if the reader will construe the expression "to the

living live," into the sense--"live entirely for them, attend to

duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the

imagination," I shall have no need to alter the line which

terminates the story.

LETTER III.

_THE VICAR--THE CURATE, &c._

And telling me the sov'reign'st thing on earth

Was parmacity for an inward bruise.

_Shakspeare._-Henry IV. Part I. Act 1 [Sc. 3, v. 58].

So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,

So fit to prattle at a lady's feet.

_Churchill_[, _The Author_].

Much are the precious hours of youth mispent

In climbing learning's rugged, steep ascent:

When to the top the bold adventurer's got,

He reigns, vain monarch[, o'er] a barren spot;

[Whilst] in the vale of ignorance below

Folly and vice to rank luxuriance grow;

Honours and wealth pour in on every side,

And proud preferment rolls her golden tide.

_Churchill_[, _The Author_].

_VICAR._

The lately departed Minister of the Borough--His soothing and

supplicatory Manners--His cool and timid Affections--No Praise due

to such negative Virtue--Address to Characters of this Kind--The

Vicar's Employments--His Talents and moderate Ambition--His

Dislike of Innovation--His mild but ineffectual Benevolence--A

Summary of his Character.

_CURATE._

Mode of paying the Borough-Minister--The Curate has no such

Resources--His Learning and Poverty--Erroneous Idea of his

Parent--His Feelings as a Husband and Father--The dutiful

Regard of his numerous Family--His Pleasure as a Writer, how

interrupted--No Resource in the Press--Vulgar Insult--His

Account of a Literary Society, and a Fund for the Relief of

indigent Authors, &c.

LETTER III.

_THE VICAR--THE CURATE, &c._

Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space,

Sleep the departed vicars of the place;

Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past--

But take a slight memorial of the last.

To what famed college we our Vicar owe,

To what fair county, let historians show.

Few now remember when the mild young man,

Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began;

Few live to speak of that soft soothing look

He cast around, as he prepared his book; 10

It was a kind of supplicating smile,

But nothing hopeless of applause, the while;

And when he finish'd, his corrected pride

Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied.

Thus he his race began, and to the end

His constant care was, no man to offend;

No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind,

Nor urged the priest to leave the flock behind;

He was his Master's soldier, but not one

To lead an army of his martyrs on: 20

Fear was his ruling passion; yet was love,

Of timid kind, once known his heart to move;

It led his patient spirit where it paid

Its languid offerings to a listening maid;

She, with her widow'd mother, heard him speak,

And sought awhile to find what he would seek.

Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew,

And paid the same attention to the two;

Meeting and parting without joy or pain,

He seem'd to come that he might go again. 30

The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice,

At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice;

She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace,

That she must turn and meet him in the chase.

This not approving, she withdrew till one

Came who appeared with livelier hope to run;

Who sought a readier way the heart to move,

Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love.

Accuse me not that I approving paint

Impatient hope or love without restraint; 40

Or think the passions, a tumultuous throng,

Strong as they are, ungovernably strong:

But is the laurel to the soldier due,

Who cautious comes not into danger's view?

What worth has virtue by desire untried,

When Nature's self enlists on duty's side?

The married dame in vain assail'd the truth

And guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth;

But with the daughter of the Priest of On

The love was lawful, and the guard was gone; 50

But Joseph's fame had lessen'd in our view,

Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too.

Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired,

As once rejecting what his heart desired;

"I am escaped," he said, when none pursued;

When none attack'd him, "I am unsubdued;"

"Oh pleasing pangs of love," he sang again,

Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain.

Ev'n in his age would he address the young,

"I too have felt these fires, and they are strong;" 60

But from the time he left his favourite maid,

To ancient females his devoirs were paid;

And still they miss him after morning prayer;

Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair,

Where kindred spirits in his praise agree,

A happy few, as mild and cool as he--

The easy followers in the female train,

Led without love, and captives without chain.

Ye lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,

While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip; 70

Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps,

Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps)

If the vast world may not some scene produce,

Some state, where your small talents might have use.

Within seraglios you might harmless move,

'Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love;

There from too daring man the treasures guard,

An easy duty, and its own reward;

Nature's soft substitutes, you there might save

From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave. 80

But let applause be dealt in all we may:

Our priest was cheerful, and in season gay;

His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;

Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease.

To a small garden with delight he came,

And gave successive flowers a summer's fame;

These he presented with a grace his own

To his fair friends, and made their beauties known,

Not without moral compliment: how they

"Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay." 90

Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,

Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;

A cunning never to dishonour lent,

And rather for defence than conquest meant;

'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,

But not enough to make him enemies;

He ever aim'd to please; and to offend

Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend;

Yet for the friendship never much would pay, }

Content to bow, be silent, and obey, 100 }

And by a soothing suff'rance find his way. }

Fiddling and fishing were his arts; at times

He alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes;

And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,

Oft he amused with riddles and charades.

Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse

But gain'd in softness what it lost in force:

Kind his opinions; he would not receive

An ill report, nor evil act believe;

"If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or small 110

Have all mankind; yea, sinners are we all."

If ever fretful thought disturbed his breast,

If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd,

It sprang from innovation; it was then

He spake of mischief made by restless men,

Not by new doctrines: never in his life

Would he attend to controversial strife;

For sects he cared not; "They are not of us,

Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss;

But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel; 120

Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal:

Not at the altar our young brethren read

(Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed;

But at their duty, in their desks they stand,

With naked surplice, lacking hood and band:

Churches are now of holy song bereft,

And half our ancient customs changed or left;

Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen,

Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green;

Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain 130

Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain

[Comes] flying forth, from aile to aile about,

Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out."

These were to him essentials, all things new

He deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue;

To all beside indifferent, easy, cold,

Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told.

Habit with him was all the test of truth,

"It must be right: I've done it from my youth."

Questions he answer'd in as brief a way, 140

"It must be wrong--it was of yesterday."

Though mild benevolence our priest possess'd,

'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd:

Circles in water, as they wider flow,

The less conspicuous, in their progress grow;

And when at last they touch upon the shore,

Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more.

His love, like that last circle, all embraced,

But with effect that never could be traced.

Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best 150

Proclaim his life t' have been entirely rest--

Free from all evils which disturb his mind

Whom studies vex and controversies blind.

The rich approved--of them in awe he stood;

The poor admired--they all believed him good;

The old and serious of his habits spoke;

The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;

Mothers approved a safe contented guest,

And daughters one who back'd each small request:

In him his flock found nothing to condemn; 160

Him sectaries liked--he never troubled them;

No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,

And all his passions sunk in early ease;

Nor one so old has left this world of sin,

More like the being that he entered in.

_THE CURATE._

Ask you what lands our pastor tithes?--Alas!

But few our acres, and but short our grass:

In some fat pastures of the rich, indeed,

May roll the single cow or favourite steed,

Who, stable-fed, is here for pleasure seen, 170

His sleek sides bathing in the dewy green:

But these, our hilly heath and common wide,

Yield a slight portion for the parish-guide;

No crops luxuriant in our borders stand,

For here we plough the ocean, not the land;

Still reason wills that we our pastor pay,

And custom does it on a certain day.

Much is the duty, small the legal due,

And this with grateful minds we keep in view;

Each makes his off'ring, some by habit led, 180

Some by the thought, that all men must be fed;

Duty and love, and piety and pride,

have each their force, and for the priest provide.

Not thus our Curate, one whom all believe

Pious and just, and for whose fate they grieve;

All see him poor, but ev'n the vulgar know

He merits love, and their respect bestow.

A man so learn'd you shall but seldom see,

Nor one so honour'd, so aggrieved as he--

Not grieved by years alone; though his appear 190

Dark and more dark, severer on severe:

Not in his need,--and yet we all must grant

How painful 'tis for feeling age to want;

Nor in his body's sufferings--yet we know

Where time has plough'd, there misery loves to sow:

But in the wearied mind, that all in vain

Wars with distress, and struggles with its pain.

His father saw his powers--"I'll give," quoth he,

"My first-born learning; 'twill a portion be."

Unhappy gift! a portion for a son! 200

But all he had:--he learn'd, and was undone!

Better, apprenticed to an humble trade,

Had he the cassock for the priesthood made,

Or thrown the shuttle, or the saddle shaped,

And all these pangs of feeling souls escaped.

He once had hope--hope ardent, lively, light;

His feelings pleasant, and his prospects bright:

Eager of fame, he read, he thought, he wrote,

Weigh'd the Greek page, and added note on note;

At morn, at evening at his work was he, 210

And dream'd what his Euripides would be.

Then care began;--he loved, he woo'd, he wed;

Hope cheer'd him still, and Hymen bless'd his bed--

A Curate's bed! then came the woful years,

The husband's terrors, and the father's tears;

A wife grown feeble, mourning, pining, vex'd,

With wants and woes--by daily cares perplex'd;

No more a help, a smiling, soothing aid,

But boding, drooping, sickly, and afraid.

A kind physician and without a fee, 220

Gave his opinion--"Send her to the sea."

"Alas!" the good man answer'd, "can I send

A friendless woman? Can I find a friend?

No; I must with her, in her need, repair

To that new place; the poor lie everywhere;--

Some priest will pay me for my pious pains:"--

He said, he came, and here he yet remains.

Behold his dwelling; this poor hut he hires,

Where he from view, though not from want, retires;

Where four fair daughters, and five sorrowing sons, 230

Partake his sufferings, and dismiss his duns.

All join their efforts, and in patience learn

To want the comforts they aspire to earn;

For the sick mother something they'd obtain,

To soothe her grief and mitigate her pain;

For the sad father something they'd procure,

To ease the burthen they themselves endure.

Virtues like these at once delight and press

On the fond father with a proud distress;

On all around he looks with care and love, 240

Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.

Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,

And by himself an author's pleasure feels;

Each line detains him, he omits not one,

And all the sorrows of his state are gone.--

Alas! ev'n then, in that delicious hour,

He feels his fortune, and laments its power.

Some tradesman's bill his wandering eyes engage,

Some scrawl for payment, thrust 'twixt page and page;

Some bold, loud rapping at his humble door, 250 }

Some surly message he has heard before, }

Awake, alarm, and tell him he is poor. }

An angry dealer, vulgar, rich, and proud,

Thinks of his bill, and passing, raps aloud;

The elder daughter meekly makes him way--

"I want my money, and I cannot stay:

My mill is stopp'd; what, Miss! I cannot grind;

Go tell your father he must raise the wind."

Still trembling, troubled, the dejected maid

Says, "Sir! my father!--" and then steps afraid: 260

Ev'n his hard heart is soften'd, and he hears

Her voice with pity; he respects her tears;

His stubborn features half admit a smile,

And his tone softens--"Well! I'll wait awhile."

Pity, a man so good, so mild, so meek,

At such an age, should have his bread to seek;

And all those rude and fierce attacks to dread,

That are more harrowing than the want of bread;

Ah! who shall whisper to that misery peace,

And say that want and insolence shall cease? 270

"But why not publish?"--those who know too well,

Dealers in Greek, are fearful 'twill not sell;

Then he himself is timid, troubled, slow,

Nor likes his labours nor his griefs to show;

The hope of fame may in his heart have place,

But he has dread and horror of disgrace;

Nor has he that confiding, easy way,

That might his learning and himself display;

But to his work he from the world retreats,

And frets and glories o'er the favourite sheets. 280

But see the man himself; and sure I trace

Signs of new joy exulting in that face

O'er care that sleeps--we err, or we discern

Life in thy looks--the reason may we learn?

"Yes," he replied, "I'm happy, I confess,

To learn that some are pleased with happiness

Which others feel--there are who now combine }

The worthiest natures in the best design, }

To aid the letter'd poor, and soothe such ills as mine: }

We who more keenly feel the world's contempt, 290

And from its miseries are the least exempt;

Now hope shall whisper to the wounded breast,

And grief, in soothing expectation, rest.

Yes, I am taught that men who think, who feel,

Unite the pains of thoughtful men to heal;

Not with disdainful pride, whose bounties make

The needy curse the benefits they take;

Not with the idle vanity that knows

Only a selfish joy when it bestows;

Not with o'erbearing wealth, that, in disdain, 300

Hurls the superfluous bliss at groaning pain;

But these are men who yield such bless'd relief

That with the grievance they destroy the grief;

Their timely aid the needy sufferers find,

Their generous manner soothes the suffering mind;

Theirs is a gracious bounty, form'd to raise

Him whom it aids; their charity is praise;

A common bounty may relieve distress,

But whom the vulgar succour, they oppress;

This, though a favour, is an honour too; 310

Though mercy's duty, yet 'tis merit's due:

When our relief from such resources rise,

All painful sense of obligation dies;

And grateful feelings in the bosom wake,

For 'tis their offerings, not their alms, we take.

Long may these founts of charity remain,

And never shrink but to be fill'd again;

True! to the author they are now confined, }

To him who gave the treasure of his mind, }

His time, his health, and thankless found mankind: 320 }

But there is hope that from these founts may flow

A sideway stream, and equal good bestow--

Good that may reach us, whom the day's distress

Keeps from the fame and perils of the press;

Whom study beckons from the ills of life,

And they from study--melancholy strife!

Who then can say but bounty now so free,

And so diffused, may find its way to me?

Yes! I may see my decent table yet

Cheer'd with the meal that adds not to my debt; 330

May talk of those to whom so much we owe,

And guess their names whom yet we may not know;

Bless'd we shall say are those who thus can give,

And next who thus upon the bounty live;

Then shall I close with thanks my humble meal,

And feel so well--Oh! God! how I shall feel!"

LETTER IV.

_SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION._

... But cast your eyes again,

And view those errors which new sects maintain,

Or which of old disturb'd the [Church's] peaceful reign:

And we can point each period of the time

When they began and who begat the crime;

Can calculate how long th' eclipse endured;

Who interposed; what digits were obscured;

Of all which are already pass'd away,

We [know] the rise, the progress, and decay.

_Dryden.--Hind and Panther_, Part II.

[Ah!] said the Hind, how many sons have you

Who call you mother, whom you never knew?

But most of them who that relation plead

Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead;

They gape at rich revenues which you hold,

And fain would nibble at your grandame gold.

_Hind and Panther_ [Part III].

Sects and Professions in Religion are numerous and successive--General

Effect of false Zeal--Deists--Fanatical Idea of Church

Reformers--The Church of

Rome--Baptists--Swedenborgians--Universalists--Jews.

Methodists of two Kinds; Calvinistic and Arminian.

The Preaching of a Calvinistic Enthusiast--His Contempt of

Learning--Dislike to sound Morality: why--His Idea of

Conversion--His Success and Pretensions to Humility.

The Arminian Teacher of the older Flock--Their Notions of the

Operations and Power of Satan--Description of his Devices--Their

Opinion of regular Ministers--Comparison of these with the

Preacher himself--A Rebuke to his Hearers; introduces a

Description of the powerful Effects of the Word in the early and

awakening Days of Methodism.

LETTER IV.

_SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION._

"Sects in Religion?"--Yes, of every race

We nurse some portion in our favoured place;

Not one warm preacher of one growing sect

Can say our Borough treats him with neglect;

Frequent as fashions they with us appear,

And you might ask, "how think we for the year?"

They come to us as riders in a trade,

And with much art exhibit and persuade.

Minds are for sects of various kinds decreed,

As different soils are form'd for diff'rent seed; 10

Some, when converted, sigh in sore amaze,

And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;

Others again will change to each extreme,

They know not why--as hurried in a dream;

Unstable they, like water, take all forms,

Are quick and stagnant, have their calms and storms;

High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow; }

Then muddily they move debased and slow, }

Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow. }

Yet none the cool and prudent teacher prize; 20

On him they dote who wakes their ecstasies;

With passions ready primed such guide they meet,

And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;

'Tis he who wakes the nameless strong desire,

The melting rapture, and the glowing fire;

'Tis he who pierces deep the tortured breast,

And stirs the terrors, never more to rest.

Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,

Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;

These our _Glad Tidings_ unconcern'd peruse, 30

Search without awe, and without fear refuse;

The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,

Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;

Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain;

The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain;

And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,

Of that which must be tried, and doubtless--_may be true_.

Friends of our faith we have, whom doubts like these,

And keen remarks, and bold objections please;

They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd, 40

Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.

"But still," they cry, "let none their censures spare;

They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;

From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,

With five-fold triumph sacred truth shall rise."

Yes! I allow, so truth shall stand at last,

And gain fresh glory by the conflict past--

As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,

Death to the seed, and poison to the fold,)

The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid, 50

Choked the green sod, and kill'd the springing blade;

That, changed by culture, may in time be seen,

Enrich'd by golden grain, and pasture green;

And these fair acres, rented and enjoy'd,

May those excel by Solway-Moss destroyed[44].

Still must have mourn'd the tenant of the day,

For hopes destroy'd and harvests swept away;

To him the gain of future years unknown,

The instant grief and suffering were his own.

So must I grieve for many a wounded heart, 60

Chill'd by those doubts which bolder minds impart:

Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear,

But sad the darkness till those times appear;

Contests for truth, as wars for freedom, yield

Glory and joy to those who gain the field;

But still the Christian must in pity sigh

For all who suffer, and uncertain die.

Here are, who all the Church maintains approve,

But yet the Church herself they will not love;

In angry speech, they blame the carnal tie, 70

Which pure Religion lost her spirit by;

What time from prisons, flames, and tortures led,

She slumber'd careless in a royal bed;

To make, they add, the Churches' glory shine.

Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine.

"In pomp," they cry, "is England's Church array'd;

Her cool reformers wrought like men afraid.

We would have pull'd her gorgeous temples down,

And spurn'd her mitre, and defiled her gown;

We would have trodden low both bench and stall, 80

Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small."

Let us be serious.--Should such trials come,

Are they themselves prepared for martyrdom?

It seems to us that our reformers knew

Th' important work they undertook to do;

An equal priesthood they were loth to try,

Lest zeal and care should with ambition die;

To them it seem'd that, take the tenth away,

Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay:

Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn, 90

Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn?

Would they, all gratis, watch and tend the fold,

Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold?

Men are not equal, and 'tis meet and right

That robes and titles our respect excite;

Order requires it; 'tis by vulgar pride

That such regard is censured and denied,

Or by that false enthusiastic zeal,

That thinks the spirit will the priest reveal,

And show to all men, by their powerful speech, 100

Who are appointed and inspired to teach.

Alas! could we the dangerous rule believe,

Whom for their teacher should the crowd receive?

Since all the varying kinds demand respect,

All press you on to join their chosen sect,

Although but in this single point agreed,

"Desert your churches and adopt our creed."

We know full well how much our forms offend

The burthen'd Papist and the simple Friend--

Him who new robes for every service takes, 110

And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes.

He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn,

Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn;

But him I would not for my friend and guide,

Who views such things with spleen, or wears with pride.

See next our several sects--but first behold

The Church of Rome, who here is poor and old:

Use not triumphant rail'ry, or, at least,

Let not thy mother be a whore and beast.

Great was her pride indeed in ancient times; 120

Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes?

Exalted high above all earthly things,

She placed her foot upon the neck of kings;

But some have deeply since avenged the crown,

And thrown her glory and her honours down;

Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command,

Nor place a foot upon her own fair land.

Among her sons, with us a quiet few,

Obscure themselves, her ancient state review;

And fond and melancholy glances cast 130

On power insulted, and on triumph pass'd:

They look, they can but look, with many a sigh,

On sacred buildings doom'd in dust to lie;

"On seats," they tell, "where priests 'mid tapers dim

Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn;

Where trembling penitents their guilt confess'd;

Where want had succour, and contrition rest.

There weary men from trouble found relief,

There men in sorrow found repose from grief;

To scenes like these the fainting soul retired; 140

Revenge and anger in these cells expired;

By pity soothed, remorse lost half her fears,

And soften'd pride dropp'd penitential tears.

Then convent-walls and nunnery-spires arose,

In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose;

When counts and barons saints devoted fed,

And, making cheap exchange, had pray'r for bread.

Now all is lost; the earth where abbeys stood

Is layman's land, the glebe, the stream, the wood;

His oxen low where monks retired to eat; 150

His cows repose upon the prior's seat;

And wanton doves within the cloisters bill,

Where the chaste votary warr'd with wanton will."

Such is the change they mourn, but they restrain

The rage of grief, and passively complain.

We've Baptists old and new; forbear to ask

What the distinction--I decline the task.

This I perceive, that, when a sect grows old,

Converts are few, and the converted cold:

First comes the hot-bed heat, and, while it glows, 160

The plants spring up, and each with vigour grows;

Then comes the cooler day, and, though awhile

The verdure prospers and the blossoms smile,

Yet poor the fruit, and form'd by long delay,

Nor will the profits for the culture pay;

The skilful gard'ner then no longer stops,

But turns to other beds for bearing crops.

Some Swedenborgians in our streets are found,

Those wandering walkers on enchanted ground;

Who in our world can other worlds survey, 170

And speak with spirits, though confined in clay:

Of Bible-mysteries they the keys possess,

Assured themselves, where wiser men but guess:

'Tis theirs to see--around, about, above--

How spirits mingle thoughts, and angels move;

Those whom our grosser views from us exclude,

To them appear a heavenly multitude;

While the dark sayings, seal'd to men like us,

Their priests interpret, and their flocks discuss.

But while these gifted men, a favoured fold, 180

New powers exhibit and new worlds behold;

Is there not danger lest their minds confound

The pure above them with the gross around?

May not these Phaetons, who thus contrive

'Twixt heaven above and earth beneath to drive,

When from their flaming chariots they descend,

The worlds they visit in their fancies blend?

Alas! too sure on both they bring disgrace;

Their earth is crazy, and their heav'n is base.

We have, it seems, who treat, and doubtless well, 190

Of a chastising, not awarding hell;

Who are assured that an offended God

Will cease to use the thunder and the rod;

A soul on earth, by crime and folly stain'd,

When here corrected, has improvement gain'd--

In other state still more improved to grow,

And nobler powers in happier world to know;

New strength to use in each divine employ,

And, more enjoying, looking to more joy.

A pleasing vision! could we thus be sure 200

Polluted souls would be at length so pure;

The view is happy, we may think it just,

It may be true--but who shall add it must?

To the plain words and sense of sacred writ,

With all my heart I reverently submit;

But, where it leaves me doubtful, I'm afraid

To call conjecture to my reason's aid;

Thy thoughts, thy ways, great God! are not as mine,

And to thy mercy I my soul resign.

Jews are with us, but far unlike to those, 210

Who, led by David, warr'd with Israel's foes;

Unlike to those whom his imperial son

Taught truths divine--the preacher Solomon:

Nor war nor wisdom yield our Jews delight;

They will not study, and they dare not fight[45].

These are, with us, a slavish, knavish crew,

Shame and dishonour to the name of Jew;

The poorest masters of the meanest arts,

With cunning heads, and cold and cautious hearts;

They grope their dirty way to petty gains, 220

While poorly paid for their nefarious pains.

Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,

A general language, and a public cause;

With a religion none can now obey,

With a reproach that none can take away:

A people still, whose common ties are gone;

Who, mix'd with every race, are lost in none.

What said their prophet?--"Shouldst thou disobey,

The Lord shall take thee from thy land away;

Thou shalt a by-word and a proverb be, 230

And all shall wonder at thy woes and thee;

Daughter and son shalt thou, while captive, have,

And see them made the bond-maid and the slave;

He, whom thou leav'st, the Lord thy God, shall bring

War to thy country on an eagle-wing:

A people strong and dreadful to behold,

Stern to the young, remorseless to the old;

Masters, whose speech thou canst not understand,

By cruel signs shall give the harsh command;

Doubtful of life shalt thou by night, by day, 240

For grief, and dread, and trouble pine away;

Thy evening-wish,--'Would God I saw the sun!'

Thy morning-sigh,--'Would God the day were done!'

Thus shalt thou suffer, and to distant times

Regret thy misery, and lament thy crimes[46]."

A part there are, whom doubtless man might trust,

Worthy as wealthy, pure, religious, just;

They who with patience, yet with rapture look

On the strong promise of the sacred book:

As unfulfilled th' endearing words they view, 250

And blind to truth, yet own their prophets true;

Well pleased they look for Sion's coming state,

Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate[47].

More might I add; I might describe the flocks

Made by seceders from the ancient stocks;

Those who will not to any guide submit,

Nor find one creed to their conceptions fit,

Each sect, they judge, in something goes astray,

And every church has lost the certain way;

Then for themselves they carve out creed and laws, 260

And weigh their atoms, and divide their straws.

A sect remains, which though divided long }

In hostile parties, both are fierce and strong, }

And into each enlists a warm and zealous throng. }

Soon as they rose in fame, the strife arose, }

The Calvinistic these, th' Arminian those; }

With Wesley some remained, the remnant Whitfield chose. }

Now various leaders both the parties take,

And the divided hosts their new divisions make.

See yonder preacher to his people pass, 270

Borne up and swell'd by tabernacle-gas;

Much he discourses, and of various points,

All unconnected, void of limbs and joints;

He rails, persuades, explains, and moves the will,

By fierce bold words, and strong mechanic skill.

"That Gospel Paul with zeal and love maintain'd,

To others lost, to you is now explain'd;

No worldly learning can these points discuss,

Books teach them not as they are taught to us.

Illiterate call us! let their wisest man 280

Draw forth his thousands as your teacher can:

They give their moral precepts; so, they say,

Did Epictetus once, and Seneca;

One was a slave, and slaves we all must be,

Until the Spirit comes and sets us free,

Yet hear you nothing from such men but works;

They make the Christian service like the Turks'.

"Hark to the churchman: day by day he cries,--

'Children of men, be virtuous and be wise;

Seek patience, justice, temp'rance, meekness, truth; 290

In age be courteous, be sedate in youth.'--

So they advise, and when such things be read,

How can we wonder that their flocks are dead?

"The heathens wrote of virtue, they could dwell

On such light points--in them it might be well,

They might for virtue strive; but I maintain,

Our strife for virtue would be proud and vain.

When Samson carried Gaza's gates so far,

Lack'd he a helping hand to bear the bar?

Thus the most virtuous must in bondage groan: 300

Samson is grace, and carries all alone[48].

"Hear you not priests their feeble spirits spend

In bidding sinners turn to God, and mend;

To check their passions, and to walk aright;

To run the race, and fight the glorious fight?

Nay more--to pray, to study, to improve,

To grow in goodness, to advance in love?

"Oh! babes and sucklings, dull of heart and slow,

Can grace be gradual? Can conversion grow?

The work is done by instantaneous call; 310

Converts at once are made, or not at all;

Nothing is left to grow, reform, amend;

The first emotion is the movement's end:

If once forgiven, debt can be no more;

If once adopted, will the heir be poor?

The man who gains the twenty-thousand prize,

Does he by little and by little rise?

There can no fortune for the soul be made

By peddling cares and savings in her trade.

"Why are our sins forgiven?--Priests reply, 320

--'Because by faith on mercy we rely;

Because, believing, we repent and pray,'--

Is this their doctrine?--then, they go astray:

We're pardon'd neither for belief nor deed,

For faith nor practice, principle nor creed;

Nor for our sorrow for our former sin,

Nor for our fears when better thoughts begin;

Nor prayers nor penance in the cause avail;

All strong remorse, all soft contrition fail:--

It is the _call!_ till that proclaims us free, 330

In darkness, doubt, and bondage we must be;

Till that _assures_ us, we've in vain endured,

And all is over when we're once assured.

"This is conversion:--First, there comes a cry

Which utters, 'Sinner, thou'rt condemned to die;'

Then the struck soul to every aid repairs,

To church and altar, ministers and prayers;

In vain she strives--involved, ingulf'd in sin,

She looks for hell, and seems already in:

When in this travail, the new birth comes on, 340

And in an instant every pang is gone;

The mighty work is done without our pains--

Claim but a part, and not a part remains.

"All this experience tells the soul, and yet }

These moral men their pence and farthings set }

Against the terrors of the countless debt. }

But such compounders, when they come to jail,

Will find that virtues never serve as bail.

"So much to duties; now to learning look,

And see their priesthood piling book on book; 350

Yea, books of infidels, we're told, and plays,

Put out by heathens in the wink'd-on days;

The very letters are of crooked kind,

And show the strange perverseness of their mind.

Have I this learning? When the Lord would speak,

Think ye he needs the Latin or the Greek?

And lo! with all their learning, when they rise

To preach, in view the ready sermon lies;

Some low-prized stuff they purchased at the stalls,

And more like Seneca's than mine or Paul's. 360

Children of bondage, how should they explain

The spirit's freedom, while they wear a chain?

They study words, for meanings grow perplex'd,

And slowly hunt for truth, from text to text,

Through Greek and Hebrew--we the meaning seek

Of that within, who every tongue can speak.

This all can witness; yet the more I know,

The more a meek and humble mind I show.

"No; let the Pope, the high and mighty priest,

Lord to the poor, and servant to the Beast, 370

Let bishops, deans, and prebendaries swell

With pride and fatness till their hearts rebel:

I'm meek and modest.--If I could be proud,

This crowded meeting, lo! th' amazing crowd!

Your mute attention, and your meek respect,

My spirit's fervour, and my words' effect:

Might stir th' unguarded soul; and oft to me

The tempter speaks, whom I compel to flee;

He goes in fear, for he my force has tried--

Such is my power! but can you call it pride? 380

"No, fellow-pilgrims! of the things I've shown

I might be proud, were they indeed my own!

But they are lent; and well you know the source

Of all that's mine, and must confide of course;

Mine! no, I err; 'tis but consign'd to me,

And I am nought but steward and trustee."

FAR other doctrines yon Arminian speaks;

"Seek grace," he cries; "for he shall find who seeks."

This is the ancient stock by Wesley led--

They the pure body, he the reverend head; 390

All innovation they with dread decline;

Their John the elder was the John divine.

Hence still their moving prayer, the melting hymn,

The varied accent, and the active limb;

Hence that implicit faith in Satan's might,

And their own matchless prowess in the fight.

In every act they see that lurking foe,

Let loose awhile, about the world to go:--

A dragon, flying round the earth, to kill

The heavenly hope, and prompt the carnal will; 400

Whom sainted knights attack in sinners' cause,

And force the wounded victim from his paws;

Who but for them would man's whole race subdue;

For not a hireling will the foe pursue.

"Show me one Churchman who will rise and pray }

Through half the night, though lab'ring all the day, }

Always abounding--show me him, I say."-- }

Thus cries the preacher, and he adds, "their sheep

Satan devours at leisure as they sleep.

Not so with us; we drive him from the fold, 410

For ever barking and for ever bold;

While they securely slumber, all his schemes

Take full effect--the devil never dreams:

Watchful and changeful through the world he goes,

And few can trace this deadliest of their foes;

But I detect, and at his work surprise,

The subtle serpent under all disguise.

"Thus to man's soul the foe of souls will speak,

--'A saint elect, you can have nought to seek;

Why all this labour in so plain a case-- 420

Such care to run, when certain of the race?'

All this he urges to the carnal will;

He knows you're slothful, and would have you still.

Be this your answer,--'Satan, I will keep

Still on the watch till you are laid asleep.'

Thus too the Christian's progress he'll retard:--

'The gates of mercy are for ever barr'd,

And that with bolts so driven and so stout,

Ten thousand workmen cannot wrench them out,'

To this deceit you have but one reply-- 430

Give to the father of all lies, the lie.

"A sister's weakness he'll by fits surprise--

His her wild laughter, his her piteous cries;

And, should a pastor at her side attend,

He'll use her organs to abuse her friend.

These are possessions--unbelieving wits

Impute them all to nature: 'They're her fits,

Caused by commotions in the nerves and brains.'--

Vain talk! but they'll be fitted for their pains.

"These are in part the ills the foe has wrought, 440

And these the churchman thinks not worth his thought;

They bid the troubled try for peace and rest,

Compose their minds, and be no more distress'd;

As well might they command the passive shore

To keep secure, and be o'erflow'd no more;

To the wrong subject is their skill applied--

To act like workmen, they should stem the tide.

"These are the church-physicians; they are paid

With noble fees for their advice and aid;

Yet know they not the inward pulse to feel, 450

To ease the anguish, or the wound to heal.

With the sick sinner thus their work begins:

'Do you repent you of your former sins?

Will you amend if you revive and live,

And, pardon seeking, will you pardon give?

Have you belief in what your Lord has done,

And are you thankful?--all is well, my son.'

"A way far different ours--we thus surprise

A soul with questions, and demand replies;

"'How dropp'd you first,' I ask, 'the legal yoke? 460

What the first word the living Witness spoke?

Perceived you thunders roar and lightnings shine,

And tempests gathering ere the birth divine?

Did fire, and storm, and earthquake all appear

Before that still small voice, _What dost thou here?_

Hast thou by day and night, and soon and late,

Waited and watch'd before Admission-gate;

And so, a pilgrim and a soldier, pass'd

To Sion's hill through battle and through blast?

Then, in thy way didst thou thy foe attack, 470

And mad'st thou proud Apollyon turn his back?'

"Heart-searching things are these, and shake the mind,

Yea, like the rustling of a mighty wind.

"Thus would I ask:--'Nay, let me question now,

How sink my sayings in your bosoms? how?

Feel you a quickening? drops the subject deep?

Stupid and stony, no! you're all asleep;

Listless and lazy, waiting for a close,

As if at church--Do I allow repose?

Am I a legal minister? do I 480

With form or rubrick, rule or rite, comply?

Then, whence this quiet, tell me, I beseech?

One might believe you heard your rector preach,

Or his assistant dreamer;--Oh! return,

Ye times of burning, when the heart would burn.

Now hearts are ice, and you, my freezing fold,

Have spirits sunk and sad, and bosoms stony-cold,'

"Oh! now again for those prevailing powers,

Which once began this mighty work of ours;

When the wide field, God's temple, was the place, 490

And birds flew by to catch a breath of grace;

When 'mid his timid friends and threat'ning foes,

Our zealous chief as Paul at Athens rose:

When with infernal spite and knotty clubs

The ill-one arm'd his scoundrels and his scrubs;

And there were flying all around the spot

Brands at the preacher, but they touch'd him not;

Stakes brought to smite him, threaten'd in his cause,

And tongues, attuned to curses, roar'd applause;

Louder and louder grew his awful tones, 500

Sobbing and sighs were heard, and rueful groans;

Soft women fainted, prouder man express'd

Wonder and wo, and butchers smote the breast;

Eyes wept, ears tingled; stiff'ning on each head,

The hair drew back, and Satan howl'd and fled.

"In that soft season, when the gentle breeze

Rises all round, and swells by slow degrees;

Till tempests gather, when through all the sky

The thunders rattle, and the lightnings fly;

When rain in torrents wood and vale deform, 510

And all is horror, hurricane, and storm:

So, when the preacher in that glorious time,

Than clouds more melting, more than storm sublime,

Dropp'd the new word, there came a charm around;

Tremors and terrors rose upon the sound;

The stubborn spirits by his force he broke,

As the fork'd lightning rives the knotted oak.

Fear, hope, dismay, all signs of shame or grace,

Chain'd every foot, or featured every face;

Then took his sacred trump a louder swell, 520

And now they groan'd they sicken'd, and they fell;

Again he sounded, and we heard the cry

Of the word-wounded, as about to die;

Further and further spread the conquering word,

As loud he cried--'the battle of the Lord.'

Ev'n those apart who were the sound denied,

Fell down instinctive, and in spirit died.

Nor [stay'd] he yet--his eye, his frown, his speech,

His very gesture had a power to teach;

With outstretch'd arms, strong voice and piercing call, 530

He won the field, and made the Dagons fall;

And thus in triumph took his glorious way,

Through scenes of horror, terror, and dismay."

NOTES TO LETTER IV.

[44] Note 1, page 315, line 55.

_May those excel by Solway-Moss destroy'd._

For an account of this extraordinary and interesting event, I refer

my readers to the Journals of the year 1772.

[45] Note 2, page 319, line 315.

_They will not study, and they dare not fight._

Some may object to this assertion; to whom I beg leave to answer,

that I do not use the word _fight_ in the sense of the Jew Mendoza.

[46] Note 3, page 320, line 245.

_Regret thy misery, and lament they crimes._

See the Book of Deuteronomy, chapter [xxviii.] and various other

places.

[47] Note 4, page 320, line 253.

_Nor think of Julian's boast and Julian's fate._

His boast, that he would rebuild the Temple at Jerusalem; his fate

(whatever becomes of the miraculous part of the story), that he died

before the foundation was laid.

[48] Note 5, page 331, line 301

_Samson is grace, and carries all alone._

Whoever has attended to the books or preaching of these enthusiastic

people, must have observed much of this kind of absurd and foolish

application of scripture history; it seems to them as reasoning.

LETTER V.

_ELECTIONS._

Say then which class to greater folly stoop,

The great in promise, or the poor in hope?

Be brave, for your [captain] is brave, and vows reformation; there

shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the

three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops[; and] I will make it felony

to drink small beer[ ...] all shall eat and drink on my score, and

I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like

brothers, and worship me their lord.

_Shakspeare's Henry VI._ [Part I. Act IV. Sc. 2.]

The Evils of the Contest, and how in part to be avoided--The Miseries

endured by a Friend of the Candidate--The various Liberties taken

with him, who has no personal Interest in the Success--The

unreasonable Expectations of Voters--The Censures of the opposing

Party--The Vices as well as Follies shown in such Time of

Contest--Plans and Cunning of Electors--Evils which remain after

the Decision, opposed in vain by the Efforts of the Friendly, and

of the Successful; among whom is the Mayor--Story of his

Advancement till he was raised to the Government of the

Borough--These Evils not to be placed in Balance with the Liberty

of the People, but are yet Subjects of just Complaint.

LETTER V.

_THE ELECTION._

Yes, our Election's past, and we've been free,

Somewhat as madmen without keepers be;

And such desire of freedom has been shown,

That both the parties wish'd her all their own:

All our free smiths and cobblers in the town

Were loth to lay such pleasant freedom down--

To put the bludgeon and cockade aside,

And let us pass unhurt and undefied.

True! you might then your party's sign produce,

And so escape with only half th' abuse-- 10

With half the danger as you walk'd along,

With rage and threat'ning but from half the throng.

This you might do, and not your fortune mend;

For where you lost a foe, you gain'd a friend;

And, to distress you, vex you, and expose,

Election-friends are worse than any foes;

The party-curse is with the canvass past,

But party-friendship, for your grief, will last.

Friends of all kinds, the civil and the rude,

Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t' intrude: 20

These beg or take a liberty to come

(Friends should be free), and make your house their home;

They know that warmly you their cause espouse,

And come to make their boastings and their bows.

You scorn their manners, you their words mistrust;

But you must hear them, and they know you must.

One plainly sees a friendship firm and true

Between the noble candidate and you;

So humbly begs (and states at large the case),

"You'll think of Bobby and the little place." 30

Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come,

And prate your wife and daughter from the room:

In pain you hear him, and at heart despise,

Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise;

And still in patience to the sot attend,

To show what man can bear to serve a friend.

One enters hungry--not to be denied,

And takes his place and jokes--"We're of a side."

Yet worse, the proser who, upon the strength

Of his one vote, has tales of three hours' length-- 40

This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise

Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies.

Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way,

What the opponents in their anger say;

All that through life has vex'd you, all abuse,

Will this kind friend in pure regard produce;

And, having through your own offences run,

Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done.

Has any female cousin made a trip

To Gretna-Green, or more vexatious slip? 50

Has your wife's brother, or your uncle's son,

Done aught amiss, or is he thought t' have done?

Is there of all your kindred some who lack

Vision direct, or have a gibbous back?

From your unlucky name may quips and puns

Be made by these upbraiding Goths and Huns?

To some great public character have you

Assign'd the fame to worth and talents due,

Proud of your praise?--In this, in any case,

Where the brute-spirit may affix disgrace, 60

These friends will smiling bring it, and the while

You silent sit, and practise for a smile.

Vain of their power, and of their value sure,

They nearly guess the tortures you endure;

Nor spare one pang--for they perceive your heart

Goes with the cause; you'd die before you'd start;

Do what they may, they're sure you'll not offend

Men who have pledged their honours to your friend.

Those friends indeed, who start as in a race,

May love the sport, and laugh at this disgrace; 70

They have in view the glory and the prize,

Nor heed the dirty steps by which they rise:

But we, their poor associates, lose the fame,

Though more than partners in the toil and shame.

Were this the whole, and did the time produce

But shame and toil, but riot and abuse:

We might be then from serious griefs exempt,

And view the whole with pity and contempt,

Alas! but here the vilest passions rule;

It is Seduction's, is Temptation's school: 80

Where vices mingle in the oddest ways,

The grossest slander and the dirtiest praise;

Flattery enough to make the vainest sick,

And clumsy stratagem, and scoundrel trick.

Nay more, your anger and contempt to cause,

These, while they fish for profit, claim applause;

Bribed, bought and bound, they banish shame and fear;

Tell you they're stanch, and have a soul sincere;

Then talk of honour, and, if doubt's express'd,

Show where it lies, and smite upon the breast. 90

Among these worthies, some at first declare

For whom they vote; he then has most to spare.

Others hang off--when coming to the post

Is spurring time, and then he'll spare the most;

While some, demurring, wait, and find at last

The bidding languish, and the market pass'd;

These will affect all bribery to condemn,

And, be it Satan laughs, he laughs at them.

Some too are pious--one desired the Lord

To teach him where "to drop his little word; 100

To lend his vote, where it will profit best;

Promotion came not from the east or west;

But as their freedom had promoted some,

He should be glad to know which way 'twould come,

It was a naughty world, and, where to sell

His precious charge, was more than he could tell."

"But you succeeded?"--true, at mighty cost;

And our good friend, I fear, will think he's lost.

Inns, horses, chaises, dinners, balls and notes;

What fill'd their purses, and what drench'd their throats; 110

The private pension, and indulgent lease,

Have all been granted to these friends who fleece--

Friends who will hang like burs upon his coat,

And boundless judge the value of a vote.

And, though the terrors of the time be pass'd,

There still remain the scatterings of the blast.

The boughs are parted that entwined before,

And ancient harmony exists no more;

The gusts of wrath our peaceful seats deform,

And sadly flows the sighing of the storm: 120

Those who have gain'd are sorry for the gloom,

But they who lost unwilling peace should come;

There open envy, here suppress'd delight,

Yet live till time shall better thoughts excite,

And so prepare us, by a six-years' truce,

Again for riot, insult, and abuse.

Our worthy mayor, on the victorious part,

Cries out for peace, and cries with all his heart;

He, civil creature! ever does his best,

To banish wrath from every voter's breast; 130

"For where," says he, with reason strong and plain,

"Where is the profit? what will anger gain?"

His short stout person he is wont to brace

In good brown broad-cloth, edged with two-inch lace,

When in his seat; and still the coat seems new,

Preserved by common use of seaman's blue.

He was a fisher from his earliest day,

And placed his nets within the Borough's bay;

Where by his skates, his herrings, and his soles,

He lived, nor dream'd of corporation-doles[49]; 140

But, toiling, saved and, saving, never ceased

Till he had box'd up twelve score pounds at least.

He knew not money's power, but judged it best

Safe in his trunk to let his treasure rest;

Yet to a friend complain'd: "Sad charge, to keep

So many pounds, and then I cannot sleep."

"Then put it out," replied the friend.--"What, give

My money up? why, then I could not live."--

"Nay, but for interest place it in his hands,

Who'll give you mortgage on his house or lands."-- 150

"Oh but," said Daniel, "that's a dangerous plan;

He may be robb'd like any other man."--

"Still he is bound, and you may be at rest,

More safe the money than within your chest;

And you'll receive, from all deductions clear,

Five pounds for every hundred, every year."--

"What good in that?" quoth Daniel, "for 'tis plain,

If part I take, there can but part remain."--

"What! you, my friend, so skill'd in gainful things,

Have you to learn what interest money brings?"-- 160

"Not so," said Daniel, "perfectly I know,

He's the most interest who has most to show."--

"True! and he'll show the more, the more he lends;

Thus he his weight and consequence extends;

For they who borrow must restore each sum,

And pay for use--What, Daniel, art thou dumb?"

For much amazed was that good man--"Indeed!"

Said he, with glad'ning eye, "will money breed?

How have I lived? I grieve, with all my heart,

For my late knowledge in this precious art:-- 170

Five pounds for every hundred will he give?

And then the hundred?----I begin to live."--

So he began, and other means he found,

As he went on, to multiply a pound:

Though blind so long to interest, all allow

That no man better understands it now.

Him in our body-corporate we chose,

And, once among us, he above us rose;

Stepping from post to post, he reach'd the chair,

And there he now reposes--that's the mayor. 180

But 'tis not he, 'tis not the kinder few,

The mild, the good, who can our peace renew;

A peevish humour swells in every eye,

The warm are angry, and the cool are shy;

There is no more the social board at whist.

The good old partners are with scorn dismiss'd;

No more with dog and lantern comes the maid,

To guide the mistress when the rubber's play'd;

Sad shifts are made, lest ribbons blue and green

Should at one table, at one time be seen. 190

On care and merit none will now rely,

'Tis party sells what party-friends must buy;

The warmest burgess wears a bodger's coat,

And fashion gains less int'rest than a vote;

Uncheck'd, the vintner still his poison vends;

For he too votes, and can command his friends.

But, this admitted, be it still agreed,

These ill effects from noble cause proceed;

Though like some vile excrescences they be, }

The tree they spring from is a sacred tree, 200 }

And its true produce, strength and liberty. }

Yet if we could th' attendant ills suppress;

If we could make the sum of mischief less;

If we could warm and angry men persuade

No more man's common comforts to invade;

And that old ease and harmony re-seat

In all our meetings, so in joy to meet:

Much would of glory to the Muse ensue,

And our good vicar would have less to do.

NOTE TO LETTER V.

[49] Note 1, page 333, line 140.

_He lived, nor dreamed of corporation-doles._

I am informed that some explanation is here necessary, though I am

ignorant for what class of my readers it can be required. Some

corporate bodies have actual property, as appears by their receiving

rents; and they obtain money on the admission of members into their

society: this they may lawfully share perhaps. There are, moreover,

other doles, of still greater value, of which it is not necessary

for me to explain the nature, or to inquire into the legality.

LETTER VI.

_PROFESSIONS--LAW._

Quid leges sine moribus

Vanæ proficiunt?

_Horace_ [Lib. III. _Od._ XXIV. vv. 35-6].

Væ misero mihi!

Mea nunc facinora aperiuntur, clam quæ speravi fore.

[Plaut. _Trucul._ Act IV. Sc. 3, vv. 20-1].

Trades and Professions of every Kind to be found in the Borough--Its

Seamen and Soldiers--Law, the Danger of the Subject--Coddrington's

Offence--Attorneys increased; their splendid Appearance, how

supported--Some worthy Exceptions--Spirit of Litigation, how

stirred up--A Boy articled as a Clerk; his Ideas--How this

Profession perverts the Judgment--Actions appear through this

Medium in a false Light--Success from honest Application--Archer

a worthy Character--Swallow a Character of different Kind--His

Origin, Progress, Success, &c.

LETTER VI.

_PROFESSIONS--LAW._