_Phys_. Sir, Law, going without the playhouse passage,

was taken up by a lord chief-justice's warrant.

_Fireb_. Then we must go on without him.

_Fust_. No, no, stay a moment; I must get somebody

else to rehearse the part. Pox take all warrants for

me! if I had known this before I would have satirized

the law ten times more than I have.

ACT V.

SCENE I.--_Enter_ FUSTIAN, SNEERWELL, Prompter, FIREBRAND, LAW,

PHYSICK.

_Fust_. I am glad you have made your escape; but I hope you will

make the matter up before the day of action: come, Mr Firebrand, now

if you please go on; the moment Common Sense goes off the stage Law

and Physick enter.

_Fireb_. Oh! my good lords of Physick and of Law,

Had you been sooner here you would have heard

The haughty queen of Common Sense throw out

Abuses on us all.

_Law_. I am not now

To learn the hatred which she bears to me.

No more of that--for now the warlike queen

Of Ignorance, attended with a train

Of foreigners, all foes to Common Sense,

Arrives at Covent-garden; and we ought

To join her instantly with all our force.

At Temple-bar some regiments parade;

The colonels, Clifford, Thavies, and Furnival,

Through Holborn lead their powers to Drury-lane,

Attorneys all compleatly armed in brass:

These, bailiffs and their followers will join,

With justices, and constables, and watchmen.

_Phys_. In Warwick-lane my powers expect me now:

A hundred chariots with a chief in each,

Well-famed for slaughter, in his hand he bears

A feather'd dart that seldom errs in flight.

Next march a band of choice apothecaries,

Each arm'd with deadly pill; a regiment

Of surgeons terrible maintain the rear.

All ready first to kill, and then dissect.

_Fireb_. My lords, you merit greatly of the queen,

And Ignorance shall well repay your deeds;

For I foretel that by her influence

Men shall be brought (what scarce can be believed)

To bribe you with large fees to their undoing.

Success attend your glorious enterprize;

I'll go and beg it earnest of the Sun:

I, by my office, am from fight debarr'd,

But I'll be with you ere the booty's shared.

[_Exeunt_ FIREBRAND, LAW, _and_ PHYSICK

_Fust_. Now, Mr Sneerwell, we shall begin my third and last act;

and I believe I may defy all the poets who have ever writ, or ever

will write, to produce its equal: it is, sir, so crammed with drums

and trumpets, thunder and lightning, battles and ghosts, that I

believe the audience will want no entertainment after it: it is as

full of shew as Merlin's cave itself; and for wit--no rope-dancing or

tumbling can come near it. Come, begin.

[_A ridiculous march is played_.

_Enter_ Queen IGNORANCE, _attended with_ Singers,

Fidlers, Rope-dancers, Tumblers, &c.

_Q. Ign_. Here fix our standard; what is this place called?

1_Att_. Great madam, Covent-garden is its name.

_Q. Ign_. Ha! then methinks we have ventured too far,

Too near those theatres where Common Sense

Maintains her garrisons of mighty force;

Who, should they sally on us ere we're joined

By Law and Physick, may offend us much.

[_Drum beats within_.

But ha! what means this drum?

1_Att_. It beats a parley, not a point of war

_Enter_ HARLEQUIN.

_Harl_. To you, great queen of Ignorance, I come

Embassador from the two theatres;

Who both congratulate you on your arrival;

And to convince you with what hearty meaning

They sue for your alliance, they have sent

Their choicest treasure here as hostages,

To be detain'd till you are well convinced

They're not less foes to Common Sense than you.

_Q. Ign_. Where are the hostages?

_Harl_. Madam, I have brought

A catalogue, and all therein shall be

Deliver'd to your order; but consider,

Oh mighty queen! they offer you their all;

And gladly for the least of these would give

Their poets and their actors in exchange.

_Q. Ign_. Read the catalogue.

_Harl_. [_Reads_.] "A tall man, and a tall woman, hired at a

vast price. A strong man exceeding dear. Two dogs that walk on their

hind legs only, and personate human creatures so well, they might be

mistaken for them. A human creature that personates a dog so well that

he might almost be taken for one. Two human cats. A most curious set

of puppies. A pair of pigeons. A set of rope-dancers and tumblers from

Sadler's-wells."

_Q. Ign_. Enough, enough; and is it possible

That they can hold alliance with my friends

Of Sadler's-wells? then are they foes indeed

To Common Sense, and I'm indebted to 'em.

Take back their hostages, for they may need 'em;

And take this play, and bid 'em forthwith act it;

There is not in it either head or tail.

_Harl_. Madam, they will most gratefully receive it.

The character you give would recommend it,

Though it had come from a less powerful hand.

_Q. Ign_. The Modish Couple is its name; myself

Stood gossip to it, and I will support

This play against the town.

_I Att_. Madam, the queen

Of Common Sense advances with her powers.

_Q. Ign_. Draw up my men, I'll meet her as I ought;

This day shall end the long dispute between us.

_Enter_ Queen COMMON SENSE _with a_ Drummer.

_Fust_. Hey-day! where's Common Sense's army?

_Promp_. Sir, I have sent all over the town, and

could not get one soldier for her, except that poor

drummer, who was lately turned out of an Irish regiment.

_Drum_. Upon my shoul but I have been a drummer

these twenty years, master, and have seen no wars yet;

and I was willing to learn a little of my trade before I

died.

_Fust_. Hush, sirrah! don't you be witty; that is not

in your part.

_Drum_. I don't know what is in my part, sir; but T

desire to have something in it; for I have been tired

of doing nothing a great while.

_Fust_. Silence!

_Q. C. S_. What is the reason, madam, that you bring

These hostile arms into my peaceful realm?

_Q. Ign. To ease your subjects from that dire oppression

They groan beneath, which longer to support

Unable, they invited my redress.

_Q. C. S_. And can my subjects then complain of wrong?

Base and ungrateful! what is their complaint?

_Q. Ign_. They say you do impose a tax of thought

Upon their minds, which they're too weak to bear.

_Q. C. S_. Wouldst thou from thinking then absolve mankind?

_Q. Ign_. I would, for thinking only makes men wretched;

And happiness is still the lot of fools.

Why should a wise man wish to think, when thought

Still hurts his pride; in spite of all his art,

Malicious fortune, by a lucky train

Of accidents, shall still defeat his schemes,

And set the greatest blunderer above him.

_Q. C. S_. Urgest thou that against me, which thyself

Has been the wicked cause of? Which thy power,

Thy artifice, thy favourites have done?

Could Common Sense bear universal sway,

No fool could ever possibly be great.

_Q. Ign_. What is this folly, which you try to paint

In colours so detestable and black?

Is't not the general gift of fate to men?

And though some few may boast superior sense,

Are they not call'd odd fellows by the rest?

In any science, if this sense peep forth,

Shew men the truth, and strive to turn their steps

From ways wherein their gross forefathers err'd,

Is not the general cry against them straight?

_Sneer_. This Ignorance, Mr Fustian, seems to know

a great deal.

_Fust_. Yes, sir, she knows what she has seen so often; but you

find she mistakes the cause, and Common Sense can never beat it into

her.

_Q. Ign_. Sense is the parent still of fear; the fox,

Wise beast, who knows the treachery of men,

Flies their society, and skulks in woods,

While the poor goose, in happiness and ease,

Fearless grows fat within its narrow coop,

And thinks the hand that feeds it is its friend;

Then yield thee, Common Sense, nor rashly dare

Try a vain combat with superior force.

_Q. C. S_. Know, queen, I never will give up the cause

Of all these followers: when at the head

Of all these heroes I resign my right,

May my curst name be blotted from the earth!

_Sneer_. Methinks, Common Sense, though, ought to give it up,

when she has no more to defend it.

_Fust_. It does indeed look a little odd at present; but I'll get

her an army strong enough against its acted. Come, go on.

_Q. Ign_. Then thus I hurl defiance at thy head.

Draw all your swords.

_Q. C. S_. And, gentlemen, draw yours.

_Q. Ign_. Fall on; have at thy heart.

[_A fight_

_Q. C. S_. And have at thine.

_Fust_. Oh, fie upon't, fie upon't! I never saw a worse battle in

all my life upon any stage. Pray, gentlemen, come some of you over to

the other side.

_Sneer_. These are Swiss soldiers, I perceive, Mr Fustian; they

care not which side they fight of.

_Fust_. Now, begin again, if you please, and fight away; pray

fight as if you were in earnest, gentlemen. [_They fight_.]

Oons, Mr Prompter! I fancy you hired these soldiers out of the trained

bands--they are afraid to fight even in jest. [_They fight

again_.] There, there--pretty well. I think, Mr Sneerwell, we have

made a shift to make out a good sort of a battle at last.

_Sneer_. Indeed I cannot say I ever saw a better.

_Fust_. You don't seem, Mr Sneerwell, to relish this battle

greatly.

_Sneer_. I cannot profess myself the greatest admirer of this

part of tragedy; and I own my imagination can better conceive the idea

of a battle from a skilful relation of it than from such a

representation; for my mind is not able to enlarge the stage into a

vast plain, nor multiply half a score into several thousands.

_Fust_. Oh; your humble servant! but if we write to please you

and half a dozen others, who will pay the charges of the house? Sir,

if the audience will be contented with a battle or two, instead of all

the raree-fine shows exhibited to them in what they call

entertainments----

_Sneer_. Pray, Mr Fustian, how came they to give the name of

entertainments to their pantomimical farces?

_Fust_. Faith, sir, out of their peculiar modesty; intimating

that after the audience had been tired with the dull works of

Shakspeare, Jonson, Vanbrugh, and others, they are to be entertained

with one of these pantomimes, of which the master of the playhouse,

two or three painters, and half a score dancing-masters are the

compilers. What these entertainments are, I need not inform you, who

have seen 'em; but I have often wondered how it was possible for any

creature of human understanding, after having been diverted for three

hours with the production of a great genius, to sit for three more and

see a set of people running about the stage after one another, without

speaking one syllable, and playing several juggling tricks, which are

done at Fawks's after a much better manner; and for this, sir, the

town does not only pay additional prices, but loses several fine parts

of its best authors, which are cut out to make room for the said

farces.

_Sneer_. 'Tis very true; and I have heard a hundred say the same

thing, who never failed being present at them.

_Fust_. And while that happens, they will force any entertainment

upon the town they please, in spite of its teeth. [_Ghost of_

COMMON SENSE _rises_.] Oons, and the devil, madam! what's the

meaning of this? You have left out a scene. Was ever such an absurdity

as for your ghost to appear before you are killed.

_Q. C. S_. I ask pardon, sir; in the hurry of the battle I forgot

to come and kill myself.

_Fust_. Well, let me wipe the flour off your face then. And now,

if you please, rehearse the scene; take care you don't make this

mistake any more though, for it would inevitably damn the play if you

should. Go to the corner of the scene, and come in as if you had lost

the battle.

_Q. C. S_. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears.

_Fust_. 'Sdeath, madam, I tell you you are no ghost--you are not

killed.

_Q. C. S_. Deserted and forlorn, where shall I fly.

The battle's lost, and so are all my friends.

_Enter a_ Poet.

_Poet_. Madam, not so; still you have one friend left.

_Q. C. S_. Why, what art thou?

_Poet_. Madam, I am a poet.

_Q. C. S_. Whoe'er thou art, if thou'rt a friend to misery,

Know Common Sense disclaims thee.

_Poet_. I have been damn'd

Because I was your foe, and yet I still

Courted your friendship with my utmost art.

_Q. C. S_. Fool! thou wert damn'd because thou didst pretend

Thyself my friend; for hadst thou boldly dared,

Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite,

Or, like an opera or pantomime,

Profess'd the cause of Ignorance in publick,

Thou might'st have met with thy desired success;

But men can't bear even a pretence to me.

_Poet_. Then take a ticket for my benefit night.

_Q. C. S_. I will do more--for Common Sense will stay

Quite from your house, so may you not be damn'd.

_Poet_. Ha! say'st thou? By my soul, a better play

Ne'er came upon a stage; but, since you dare

Contemn me thus, I'll dedicate my play

To Ignorance, and call her Common Sense:

Yes, I will dress her in your pomp, and swear

That Ignorance knows more than all the world. [_Exit_.

_Enter_ FIREBRAND.

_Fireb_. Thanks to the Sun for this desired encounter.

_Q. C. S_. Oh, priest! all's lost; our forces are o'erthrown--

Some gasping lie, but most are run away.

_Fireb_. I knew it all before, and told you too

The Sun has long been out of humour with you.

_Q. C. S_. Dost thou, then, lay upon the Sun the faults

Of all those cowards who forsook my cause?

_Fireb_. Those cowards all were most religious men:

And I beseech thee, Sun, to shine upon them.

_Q. C. S_. Oh, impudence! and darest thou to my face?--

_Fireb_. Yes, I dare more; the Sun presents you this,

[_Stabs her_.

Which I, his faithful messenger, deliver.

_Q. C. S_. Oh, traytor! thou hast murder'd Common Sense.

Farewel, vain world! to Ignorance I give thee,

Her leaden sceptre shall henceforward rule.

Now, priest, indulge thy wild ambitious thoughts;

Men shall embrace thy schemes, till thou hast drawn

All worship from the Sun upon thyself:

Henceforth all things shall topsy-turvy turn;

Physick shall kill, and Law enslave the world;

Cits shall turn beaus, and taste Italian songs,

While courtiers are stock-jobbing in the city.

Places requiring learning and great parts

Henceforth shall all be hustled in a hat,

And drawn by men deficient in them both.

Statesmen--but oh! cold death will let me say

No more--and you must guess _et caetera_. [_Dies_.

_Fireb_. She's gone! but ha! it may beseem me ill

T' appear her murderer. I'll therefore lay

This dagger by her side; and that will be

Sufficient evidence, with a little money,

To make the coroner's inquest find self-murder.

I'll preach her funeral sermon, and deplore

Her loss with tears, praise her with all my art.

Good Ignorance will still believe it all. [_Exit_.

_Enter_ Queen IGNORANCE, &c.

_Q. Ign_. Beat a retreat; the day is now our own;

The powers of Common Sense are all destroy'd;

Those that remain are fled away with her.

I wish, Mr Fustian, this speech be common sense.

_Sneer_. How the devil should it, when she's dead?

_Fust_. One would think so, when a cavil is made against the best

thing in the whole play; and I would willingly part with anything else

but those two lines.

_Harl_. Behold! where welt'ring in her blood she lies.

I wish, sir, you would cut out that line, or alter it, if

you please.

_Fust_. That's another line that I won't part with;

I would consent to cut out anything but the chief beauties of my play.

_Harl_. Behold the bloody dagger by her side,

With which she did the deed.

_Q. Ign_. 'Twas nobly done!

I envy her her exit, and will pay

All honours to her dust. Bear hence her body,

And let her lie in state in Goodman's fields.

_Enter_ Messenger.

_Mess_. Madam, I come an envoy from Crane-court.

The great society that there assemble

Congratulate your victory, and request

That firm alliance henceforth may subsist

Between your majesty's society

Of Grub-street and themselves: they rather beg

That they may be united both in one.

They also hope your majesty's acceptance

Of certain curiosities, which in

That hamper are contain'd, wherein you'll find

A horse's tail, which has a hundred hairs

More than are usual in it; and a tooth

Of elephant full half an inch too long;

With turnpike-ticket like an ancient coin.

_Q. Ign_. We gratefully accept their bounteous gifts,

And order they be kept with proper care,

Till we do build a place most fit to hold

These precious toys: tell your society

We ever did esteem them of great worth,

And our firm friends: and tell 'em 'tis our pleasure

They do prepare to dance a jig before us.

[_Exit_ Messenger

My lords of Law and Physick, you shall find

I will not be ungrateful for your service:

To you, good Harlequin, and your allies,

And you, Squeekaronelly, I will be

A most propitious queen--But ha!

[_Music under the stage_.

What hideous music or what yell is this?

Sure 'tis the ghost of some poor opera tune.

_Sneer_. The ghost of a tune, Mr Fustian!

_Fust_. Ay, sir, did you never hear one before? I had once a mind

to have brought the apparition of Musick in person upon the stage, in

the shape of an English opera. Come, Mr Ghost of the Tune, if you

please to appear in the sound of soft musick, and let the ghost of

Common Sense rise to it.

[_Ghost of_ COMMON SENSE _rises to soft musick_.

_Ghost_. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears.

Caitiffs, avaunt! or I will sweep you off,

And clean the land from such infernal vermin.

_Q. Ign_. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! haste, scamper off,

My friends; we've kill'd the body, and I know

The ghost will have no mercy upon us.

_Omnes_. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! [_Run off_.

_Ghost_. The coast is clear, and to her native realms

Pale Ignorance with all her host is fled,

Whence she will never dare invade us more.

Here, though a ghost, I will my power maintain,

And all the friends of Ignorance shall find

My ghost, at least, they cannot banish hence;

And all henceforth, who murder Common Sense,

Learn from these scenes that, though success you boast.

You shall at last be haunted with her ghost.

_Sneer_. I am glad you make Common Sense get the better at last;

I was under terrible apprehensions for your moral.

_Fust_. Faith, sir, this is almost the only play where she has

got the better lately. But now for my epilogue: if you please to

begin, madam.

EPILOGUE

GHOST.

The play once done, the epilogue, by rule,

Should come and turn it all to ridicule;

Should tell the ladies that the tragic bards,

Who prate of Virtue and her vast rewards,

Are all in jest, and only fools should heed 'em;

For all wise women flock to mother Needham.

This is the method epilogues pursue,

But we to-night in everything are new.

Our author then, in jest throughout the play,

Now begs a serious word or two to say.

Banish all childish entertainments hence;

Let all that boast your favour have pretence,

If not to sparkling wit, at least to sense.

With soft Italian notes indulge your ear;

But let those singers, who are bought so dear,

Learn to be civil for their cheer at least,

Nor use like beggars those who give the feast.

And though while musick for herself may carve,

Poor Poetry, her sister-art, must starve;

Starve her at least with shew of approbation,

Nor slight her, while you search the whole creation

For all the tumbling-skum of every nation.

Can the whole world in science match our soil?

Have they a LOCKE, a NEWTON, or a BOYLE?

Or dare the greatest genius of their stage

With SHAKSPEARE or immortal BEN engage?

Content with nature's bounty, do not crave

The little which to other lands she gave;

Nor like the cock a barley corn prefer

To all the jewels which you owe to her.

* * * * *

AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION.

Man is generally represented as an animal formed for, and delighted

in, society; in this state alone, it is said, his various talents can

be exerted, his numberless necessities relieved, the dangers he is

exposed to can be avoided, and many of the pleasures he eagerly

affects enjoyed. If these assertions be, as I think they are,

undoubtedly and obviously certain, those few who have denied man to be

a social animal have left us these two solutions of their conduct;

either that there are men as bold in denial as can be found in

assertion--and as Cicero says there is no absurdity which some

philosopher or other hath not asserted, so we may say there is no

truth so glaring that some have not denied it;--or else that these

rejectors of society borrow all their information from their own

savage dispositions, and are, indeed, themselves, the only exceptions

to the above general rule.

But to leave such persons to those who have thought them more worthy

of an answer; there are others who are so seemingly fond of this

social state, that they are understood absolutely to confine it to

their own species; and entirely excluding the tamer and gentler, the

herding and flocking parts of the creation, from all benefits of it,

to set up this as one grand general distinction between the human and

the brute species.

Shall we conclude this denial of all society to the nature of brutes,

which seems to be in defiance of every day's observation, to be as

bold as the denial of it to the nature of men? or, may we not more

justly derive the error from an improper understanding of this word

society in too confined and special a sense? in a word, do those who

utterly deny it to the brutal nature mean any other by society than

conversation?

Now, if we comprehend them in this sense, as I think we very

reasonably may, the distinction appears to me to be truly just; for

though other animals are not without all use of society, yet this

noble branch of it seems, of all the inhabitants of this globe,

confined to man only; the narrow power of communicating some few ideas

of lust, or fear, or anger, which may be observable in brutes, falling

infinitely short of what is commonly meant by conversation, as may be

deduced from the origination of the word itself, the only accurate

guide to knowledge. The primitive and literal sense of this word is, I

apprehend, to turn round together; and in its more copious usage we

intend by it that reciprocal interchange of ideas by which truth is

examined, things are, in a manner, turned round and sifted, and all

our knowledge communicated to each other.

In this respect man stands, I conceive, distinguished from, and

superior to, all other earthly creatures; it is this privilege which,

while he is inferior in strength to some, in swiftness to others;

without horns or claws or tusks to attack them, or even to defend

himself against them, hath made him master of them all. Indeed, in

other views, however vain men may be of their abilities, they are

greatly inferior to their animal neighbours.

With what envy must a swine, or a much less voracious animal, be

surveyed by a glutton; and how contemptible must the talents of other

sensualists appear, when opposed, perhaps, to some of the lowest and

meanest of brutes! but in conversation man stands alone, at least in

this part of the creation; he leaves all others behind him at his

first start, and the greater progress he makes the greater distance is

between them.

Conversation is of three sorts. Men are said to converse with God,

with themselves, and with one another. The two first of these have

been so liberally and excellently spoken to by others, that I shall at

present pass them by and confine myself in this essay to the third

only; since it seems to me amazing that this grand business of our

lives, the foundation of everything either useful or pleasant, should

have been so slightly treated of, that, while there is scarce a

profession or handicraft in life, however mean and contemptible, which

is not abundantly furnished with proper rules to the attaining its

perfection, men should be left almost totally in the dark, and without

the least light to direct, or any guide to conduct them, in the proper

exerting of those talents which are the noblest privilege of human

nature and productive of all rational happiness; and the rather as

this power is by no means self-instructed, and in the possession of

the artless and ignorant is of so mean use that it raises them very

little above those animals who are void of it.

As conversation is a branch of society, it follows that it can be

proper to none who is not in his nature social. Now, society is

agreeable to no creatures who are not inoffensive to each other; and

we therefore observe in animals who are entirely guided by nature that

it is cultivated by such only, while those of more noxious disposition

addict themselves to solitude, and, unless when prompted by lust, or

that necessary instinct implanted in them by nature for the nurture of

their young, shun as much as possible the society of their own

species. If therefore there should be found some human individuals of

so savage a habit, it would seem they were not adapted to society,

and, consequently, not to conversation; nor would any inconvenience

ensue the admittance of such exceptions, since it would by no means

impeach the general rule of man's being a social animal; especially

when it appears (as is sufficiently and admirably proved by my friend

the author of An Enquiry into Happiness) that these men live in a

constant opposition to their own nature, and are no less monsters than

the most wanton abortions or extravagant births.

Again; if society requires that its members should be inoffensive, so

the more useful and beneficial they are to each other the more

suitable are they to the social nature, and more perfectly adapted to

its institution; for all creatures seek their own happiness, and

society is therefore natural to any, because it is naturally

productive of this happiness. To render therefore any animal social is

to render it inoffensive; an instance of which is to be seen in those

the ferocity of whose nature can be tamed by man. And here the reader

may observe a double distinction of man from the more savage animals

by society, and from the social by conversation.

But if men were merely inoffensive to each other, it seems as if

society and conversation would be merely indifferent; and that, in

order to make it desirable by a sensible being, it is necessary we

should go farther and propose some positive good to ourselves from it;

and this presupposes, not only negatively, our not receiving any hurt,

but positively, our receiving some good, some pleasure or advantage,

from each other in it, something which we could not find in an

unsocial and solitary state; otherwise we might cry out with the right

honourable poet--[Footnote: The Duke of Buckingham.]

Give us our wildness and our woods,

Our huts and caves again.

The art of pleasing or doing good to one another is therefore the art

of conversation. It is this habit which gives it all its value. And as

man's being a social animal (the truth of which is incontestably

proved by that excellent author of An Enquiry, &c., I have above

cited) presupposes a natural desire or tendency this way, it will

follow that we can fail in attaining this truly desirable end from

ignorance only in the means; and how general this ignorance is may be,

with some probability, inferred from our want of even a word to

express this art by; that which comes the nearest to it, and by which,

perhaps, we would sometimes intend it, being so horribly and

barbarously corrupted, that it contains at present scarce a simple

ingredient of what it seems originally to have been designed to

express.

The word I mean is good breeding; a word, I apprehend, not at first

confined to externals, much less to any particular dress or attitude

of the body; nor were the qualifications expressed by it to be

furnished by a milliner, a taylor, or a perriwig-maker; no, nor even

by a dancing-master himself. According to the idea I myself conceive

from this word, I should not have scrupled to call Socrates a

well-bred man, though, I believe, he was very little instructed by any

of the persons I have above enumerated. In short, by good-breeding

(notwithstanding the corrupt use of the word in a very different

sense) I mean the art of pleasing, or contributing as much as possible

to the ease and happiness of those with whom you converse. I shall

contend therefore no longer on this head; for, whilst my reader

clearly conceives the sense in which I use this word, it will not be

very material whether I am right or wrong in its original application.

Good-breeding then, or the art of pleasing in conversation, is

expressed two different ways, viz., in our actions and our words, and

our conduct in both may be reduced to that concise, comprehensive rule

in scripture--Do unto all men as you would they should do unto

you. Indeed, concise as this rule is, and plain as it appears, what

are all treatises on ethics but comments upon it? and whoever is well

read in the book of nature, and hath made much observation on the

actions of men, will perceive so few capable of judging or rightly

pursuing their own happiness, that he will be apt to conclude that

some attention is necessary (and more than is commonly used) to enable

men to know truly what they would have done unto them, or, at least,

what it would be their interest to have done.

If therefore men, through weakness or inattention, often err in their

conceptions of what would produce their own happiness, no wonder they

should miss in the application of what will contribute to that of

others; and thus we may, without too severe a censure on their

inclinations, account for that frequent failure in true good-breeding

which daily experience gives us instances of.

Besides, the commentators have well paraphrased on the above-mentioned

divine rule, that it is, to do unto men what you would they (if they

were in your situation and circumstances, and you in theirs) should do

unto you; and, as this comment is necessary to be observed in ethics,

so it is particularly useful in this our art, where the degree of the

person is always to be considered, as we shall explain more at large

hereafter.

We see then a possibility for a man well disposed to this golden rule,

without some precautions, to err in the practice; nay, even

good-nature itself, the very habit of mind most essential to furnish

us with true good-breeding, the latter so nearly resembling the

former, that it hath been called, and with the appearance at least of

propriety, artificial good-nature. This excellent quality itself

sometimes shoots us beyond the mark, and shews the truth of those

lines in Horace:

Insani sapiens nomen ferat, sequus iniqui,

Ultra quam satis est, Virtutem si petal ipsam.

Instances of this will be naturally produced where we shew the

deviations from those rules which we shall now attempt to lay down.

As this good-breeding is the art of pleasing, it will be first

necessary with the utmost caution to avoid hurting or giving any

offence to those with whom we converse. And here we are surely to shun

any kind of actual disrespect, or affront to their persons, by

insolence, which is the severest attack that can be made on the pride

of man, and of which Florus seems to have no inadequate opinion when,

speaking of the second Tarquin, he says; _in omnes superbid (qua

crudelitate gravior est BONIS) grassatus_; "He trod on all with

insolence, which sits heavier on men of great minds than cruelty

itself." If there is any temper in man which more than all others

disqualifies him for society, it is this insolence or haughtiness,

which, blinding a man to his own imperfections, and giving him a

hawk's quicksightedness to those of others, raises in him that

contempt for his species which inflates the cheeks, erects the head,

and stiffens the gaite of those strutting animals who sometimes stalk

in assemblies, for no other reason but to shew in their gesture and

behaviour the disregard they have for the company. Though to a truly

great and philosophical mind it is not easy to conceive a more

ridiculous exhibition than this puppet, yet to others he is little

less than a nuisance; for contempt is a murtherous weapon, and there

is this difference only between the greatest and weakest man when

attacked by it, that, in order to wound the former, it must be just;

whereas, without the shields of wisdom and philosophy, which God knows

are in the possession of very few, it wants no justice to point it,

but is certain to penetrate, from whatever corner it comes. It is this

disposition which inspires the empty Cacus to deny his acquaintance,

and overlook men of merit in distress; and the little silly, pretty

Phillida, or Foolida, to stare at the strange creatures round her. It

is this temper which constitutes the supercilious eye, the reserved

look, the distant bowe, the scornful leer, the affected astonishment,

the loud whisper, ending in a laugh directed full in the teeth of

another. Hence spring, in short, those numberless offences given too

frequently, in public and private assemblies, by persons of weak

understandings, indelicate habits, and so hungry and foul-feeding a

vanity that it wants to devour whatever comes in its way. Now, if

good-breeding be what we have endeavoured to prove it, how foreign,

and indeed how opposite to it, must such a behaviour be! and can any

man call a duke or a dutchess who wears it well-bred? or are they not

more justly entitled to those inhuman names which they themselves

allot to the lowest vulgar? But behold a more pleasing picture on the

reverse. See the earl of C----, noble in his birth, splendid in his

fortune, and embellished with every endowment of mind; how affable!

how condescending! himself the only one who seems ignorant that he is

every way the greatest person in the room.

But it is not sufficient to be inoffensive--we must be profitable

servants to each other: we are, in the second place, to proceed to the

utmost verge in paying the respect due to others. We had better go a

little too far than stop short in this particular. My lord Shaftesbury

hath a pretty observation, that the beggar, in addressing to a coach

with, My lord, is sure not to offend, even though there be no lord

there; but, on the contrary, should plain sir fly in the face of a

nobleman, what must be the consequence? And, indeed, whoever considers

the bustle and contention about precedence, the pains and labours

undertaken, and sometimes the prices given, for the smallest title or

mark of pre-eminence, and the visible satisfaction betrayed in its

enjoyment, may reasonably conclude this is a matter of no small

consequence. The truth is, we live in a world of common men, and not

of philosophers; for one of these, when he appears (which is very

seldom) among us, is distinguished, and very properly too, by the name

of an odd fellow; for what is it less than extreme oddity to despise

what the generality of the world think the labour of their whole lives

well employed in procuring? we are therefore to adapt our behaviour to

the opinion of the generality of mankind, and not to that of a few odd

fellows.

It would be tedious, and perhaps impossible, to specify every

instance, or to lay down exact rules for our conduct in every minute

particular. However, I shall mention some of the chief which most

ordinarily occur, after premising that the business of the whole is no

more than to convey to others an idea of your esteem of them, which is

indeed the substance of all the compliments, ceremonies, presents, and

whatever passes between well-bred people. And here I shall lay down

these positions:--

First, that all meer ceremonies exist in form only, and have in them

no substance at all; but, being imposed by the laws of custom, become

essential to good-breeding, from those high-flown compliments paid to

the Eastern monarchs, and which pass between Chinese mandarines, to

those coarser ceremonials in use between English farmers and Dutch

boors.

Secondly, that these ceremonies, poor as they are, are of more

consequence than they at first appear, and, in reality, constitute the

only external difference between man and man. Thus, His grace, Right

honourable, My lord, Right reverend, Reverend, Honourable, Sir,

Esquire, Mr, &c., have in a philosophical sense no meaning, yet are

perhaps politically essential, and must be preserved by good-breeding;

because,

Thirdly, they raise an expectation in the person by law and custom

entitled to them, and who will consequently be displeased with the

disappointment.

Now, in order to descend minutely into any rules for good-breeding, it

will be necessary to lay some scene, or to throw our disciple into

some particular circumstance. We will begin them with a visit in the

country; and as the principal actor on this occasion is the person who

receives it, we will, as briefly as possible, lay down some general

rules for his conduct; marking, at the same time, the principal

deviations we have observed on these occasions.

When an expected guest arrives to dinner at your house, if your equal,

or indeed not greatly your inferior, he should be sure to find your

family in some order, and yourself dressed and ready to receive him at

your gate with a smiling countenance. This infuses an immediate

chearfulness into your guest, and persuades him of your esteem and

desire of his company. Not so is the behaviour of Polysperchon, at

whose gate you are obliged to knock a considerable time before you

gain admittance. At length, the door being opened to you by a maid or

some improper servant, who wonders where the devil all the men are,

and, being asked if the gentleman is at home, answers she believes so,

you are conducted into a hall, or back-parlour, where you stay some

time before the gentleman, in a dishabille from his study or his

garden, waits upon you, asks pardon, and assures you he did not expect

you so soon.

Your guest, being introduced into a drawing-room, is, after the first

ceremonies, to be asked whether he will refresh himself after his

journey, before dinner (for which he is never to stay longer than the

usual or fixed hour). But this request is never to be repeated oftener

than twice, not in imitation of Calepus, who, as if hired by a

physician, crams wine in a morning down the throats of his most

temperate friends, their constitutions being not so dear to them as

their present quiet.

When dinner is on the table, and the ladies have taken their places,

the gentlemen are to be introduced into the eating-room, where they

are to be seated with as much seeming indifference as possible, unless

there be any present whose degrees claim an undoubted precedence. As

to the rest, the general rules of precedence are by marriage, age, and

profession. Lastly, in placing your guests, regard is rather to be had

to birth than fortune; for, though purse-pride is forward enough to

exalt itself, it bears a degradation with more secret comfort and ease

than the former, as being more inwardly satisfied with itself, and

less apprehensive of neglect or contempt.

The order in helping your guests is to be regulated by that of placing

them; but here I must, with great submission, recommend to the lady at

the upper end of the table to distribute her favours as equally and as

impartially as she can. I have sometimes seen a large dish of fish

extend no farther than to the fifth person, and a haunch of venison

lose all its fat before half the table had tasted it.

A single request to eat of any particular dish, how elegant soever, is

the utmost I allow. I strictly prohibit all earnest solicitations, all

complaints that you have no appetite, which are sometimes little less

than burlesque, and always impertinent and troublesome.

And here, however low it may appear to some readers, as I have known

omissions of this kind give offence, and sometimes make the offenders,

who have been very well-meaning persons, ridiculous, I cannot help

mentioning the ceremonial of drinking healths at table, which is

always to begin with the lady's and next the master's of the house.

When dinner is ended, and the ladies retired, though I do not hold the

master of the feast obliged to fuddle himself through complacence

(and, indeed, it is his own fault generally if his company be such as

would desire it), yet he is to see that the bottle circulate

sufficient to afford every person present a moderate quantity of wine

if he chuses it; at the same time permitting those who desire it

either to pass the bottle or to fill their glass as they

please. Indeed, the beastly custom of besotting, and ostentatious

contention for pre-eminence in their cups, seems at present pretty

well abolished among the better sort of people. Yet Methus still

remains, who measures the honesty and understanding of mankind by a

capaciousness of their swallow; who sings forth the praises of a

bumper, and complains of the light in your glass; and at whose table

it is as difficult to preserve your senses as to preserve your purse

at a gaming-table or your health at a b--y-house. On the other side,

Sophronus eyes you carefully whilst you are filling out his

liquor. The bottle as surely stops when it comes to him as your

chariot at Temple-bar; and it is almost as impossible to carry a pint

of wine from his house as to gain the love of a reigning beauty, or

borrow a shilling of P---- W----.

But to proceed. After a reasonable time, if your guest intends staying

with you the whole evening, and declines the bottle, you may propose

play, walking, or any other amusement; but these are to be but barely

mentioned, and offered to his choice with all indifference on your

part. What person can be so dull as not to perceive in Agyrtes a

longing to pick your pockets, or in Alazon a desire to satisfy his own

vanity in shewing you the rarities of his house and gardens? When your

guest offers to go, there should be no solicitations to stay, unless

for the whole night, and that no farther than to give him a moral

assurance of his being welcome so to do; no assertions that he shan't

go yet; no laying on violent hands; no private orders to servants to

delay providing the horses or vehicles--like Desmophylax, who never

suffers any one to depart from his house without entitling him to an

action of false imprisonment.

Let us now consider a little the part which the visitor himself is to

act. And first, he is to avoid the two extremes of being too early or

too late, so as neither to surprise his friend unawares or unprovided,

nor detain him too long in expectation. Orthrius, who hath nothing to

do, disturbs your rest in a morning; and the frugal Chronophidus, lest

he should waste some minutes of his precious time, is sure to spoil

your dinner.

The address at your arrival should be as short as possible, especially

when you visit a superior; not imitating Phlenaphius, who would stop

his friend in the rain rather than omit a single bowe.

Be not too observant of trifling ceremonies, such as rising, sitting,

walking first in or out of the room, except with one greatly your

superior; but when such a one offers you precedence it is uncivil to

refuse it; of which I will give you the following instance: An English

nobleman, being in France, was bid by Louis XIV. to enter the coach

before him, which he excused himself from. The king then immediately

mounted, and, ordering the door to be shut, drove on, leaving the

nobleman behind him.

Never refuse anything offered you out of civility, unless in

preference of a lady, and that no oftener than once; for nothing is

more truly good breeding than to avoid being troublesome. Though the

taste and humour of the visitor is to be chiefly considered, yet is

some regard likewise to be had to that of the master of the house; for

otherwise your company will be rather a penance than a

pleasure. Methusus plainly discovers his visit to be paid to his sober

friend's bottle; nor will Philopasus abstain from cards, though he is

certain they are agreeable only to himself; whilst the slender

Leptines gives his fat entertainer a sweat, and makes him run the

hazard of breaking his wind up his own mounts.

If conveniency allows your staying longer than the time proposed, it

may be civil to offer to depart, lest your stay may be incommodious to

your friend; but if you perceive the contrary, by his solicitations,

they should be readily accepted, without tempting him to break these

rules we have above laid down for him--causing a confusion in his

family and among his servants, by preparations for your

departure. Lastly, when you are resolved to go, the same method is to

be observed which I have prescribed at your arrival. No tedious

ceremonies of taking leave--not like Hyperphylus, who bows and kisses

and squeezes by the hand as heartily, and wishes you as much health

and happiness, when he is going a journey home of ten miles, from a

common acquaintance, as if he was leaving his nearest friend or

relation on a voyage to the East Indies.

Having thus briefly considered our reader in the circumstance of a

private visit, let us now take him into a public assembly, where, as

more eyes will be on his behaviour, it cannot be less his interest to

be instructed. We have, indeed, already formed a general picture of

the chief enormities committed on these occasions: we shall here

endeavour to explain more particularly the rules of an opposite

demeanour, which we may divide into three sorts, viz., our behaviour

to our superiors, to our equals, and to our inferiors.

In our behaviour to our superiors two extremes are to be avoided;

namely, an abject and base servility, and an impudent and encroaching

freedom. When the well-bred Hyperdulus approaches a nobleman in any

public place, you would be persuaded he was one of the meanest of his

domestics; his cringes fall little short of prostration; and his whole

behaviour is so mean and servile that an Eastern monarch would not

require more humiliation from his vassals. On the other side,

Anaischyntus, whom fortunate accidents, without any pretensions from

his birth, have raised to associate with his betters, shakes my lord

duke by the hand with a familiarity savouring not only of the most

perfect intimacy but the closest alliance. The former behaviour

properly raises our contempt, the latter our disgust. Hyperdulus seems

worthy of wearing his lordship's livery; Anaischyntus deserves to be

turned out of his service for his impudence. Between these two is that

golden mean which declares a man ready to acquiesce in allowing the

respect due to a title by the laws and customs of his country, but

impatient of any insult, and disdaining to purchase the intimacy with

and favour of a superior at the expence of conscience or honour. As to

the question, who are our superiors? I shall endeavour to ascertain

them when I come, in the second place, to mention our behaviour to our

equals: the first instruction on this head being carefully to consider

who are such; every little superiority of fortune or profession being

too apt to intoxicate men's minds, and elevate them in their own

opinion beyond their merit or pretensions. Men are superior to each

other in this our country by title, by birth, by rank in profession,

and by age; very little, if any, being to be allowed to fortune,

though so much is generally exacted by it and commonly paid to

it. Mankind never appear to me in a more despicable light than when I

see them, by a simple as well as mean servility, voluntarily

concurring in the adoration of riches, without the least benefit or

prospect from them. Respect and deference are perhaps justly

demandable of the obliged, and may be, with some reason at least, from

expectation, paid to the rich and liberal from the necessitous; but

that men should be allured by the glittering of wealth only to feed

the insolent pride of those who will not in return feed their

hunger--that the sordid niggard should find any sacrifices on the

altar of his vanity--seems to arise from a blinder idolatry, and a

more bigoted and senseless superstition, than any which the sharp eyes

of priests have discovered in the human mind.

All gentlemen, therefore, who are not raised above each other by

title, birth, rank in profession, age, or actual obligation, being to

be considered as equals, let us take some lessons for their behaviour

to each other in public from the following examples; in which we shall

discern as well what we are to elect as what we are to avoid. Authades

is so absolutely abandoned to his own humour that he never gives it up

on any occasion. If Seraphina herself, whose charms one would imagine

should infuse alacrity into the limbs of a cripple sooner than the

Bath waters, was to offer herself for his partner, he would answer he

never danced, even though the ladies lost their ball by it. Nor doth

this denial arise from incapacity, for he was in his youth an

excellent dancer, and still retains sufficient knowledge of the art,

and sufficient abilities in his limbs to practise it, but from an

affectation of gravity which he will not sacrifice to the eagerest

desire of others. Dyskolus hath the same aversion to cards; and though

competently skilled in all games, is by no importunities to be

prevailed on to make a third at ombre, or a fourth at whisk and

quadrille. He will suffer any company to be disappointed of their

amusement rather than submit to pass an hour or two a little

disagreeably to himself. The refusal of Philautus is not so general;

he is very ready to engage, provided you will indulge him in his

favourite game, but it is impossible to persuade him to any other. I

should add both these are men of fortune, and the consequences of loss

or gain, at the rate they are desired to engage, very trifling and

inconsiderable to them.

The rebukes these people sometimes meet with are no more equal to

their deserts than the honour paid to Charistus, the benevolence of

whose mind scarce permits him to indulge his own will, unless by

accident. Though neither his age nor understanding incline him to

dance, nor will admit his receiving any pleasure from it, yet would he

caper a whole evening, rather than a fine young lady should lose an

opportunity of displaying her charms by the several genteel and

amiable attitudes which this exercise affords the skilful of that

sex. And though cards are not adapted to his temper, he never once

baulked the inclinations of others on that account.

But, as there are many who will not in the least instance mortify

their own humour to purchase the satisfaction of all mankind, so there

are some who make no scruple of satisfying their own pride and vanity

at the expence of the most cruel mortification of others. Of this kind

is Agroicus, who seldom goes to an assembly but he affronts half his

acquaintance by overlooking or disregarding them.

As this is a very common offence, and indeed much more criminal, both

in its cause and effect, than is generally imagined, I shall examine

it very minutely, and I doubt not but to make it appear that there is

no behaviour (to speak like a philosopher) more contemptible, nor, in

a civil sense, more detestable, than this.

The first ingredient in this composition is pride, which, according to

the doctrine of some, is the universal passion. There are others who

consider it as the foible of great minds; and others again who will

have it to be the very foundation of greatness; and perhaps it may of

that greatness which we have endeavoured to expose in many parts of

these works; but to real greatness, which is the union of a good heart

with a good head, it is almost diametrically opposite, as it generally

proceeds from the depravity of both, and almost certainly from the

badness of the latter. Indeed, a little observation will shew us that

fools are the most addicted to this vice; and a little reflexion will

teach us that it is incompatible with true understanding. Accordingly

we see that, while the wisest of men have constantly lamented the

imbecility and imperfection of their own nature, the meanest and

weakest have been trumpeting forth their own excellencies and

triumphing in their own sufficiency.

Pride may, I think, be properly defined, the pleasure we feel in

contemplating our own superior merit, on comparing it with that of

others. That it arises from this supposed superiority is evident; for,

however great you admit a man's merit to be, if all men were equal to

him, there would be no room for pride. Now if it stop here, perhaps

there is no enormous harm in it, or at least no more than is common to

all other folly; every species of which is always liable to produce

every species of mischief: folly I fear it is; for, should the man

estimate rightly on this occasion, and the ballance should fairly turn

on his side in this particular instance; should he be indeed a greater

orator, poet, general; should he be more wise, witty, learned, young,

rich, healthy, or in whatever instance he may excel one, or many, or

all; yet, if he examine himself thoroughly, will he find no reason to

abate his pride? is the quality in which he is so eminent, so

generally or justly esteemed? is it so entirely his own? doth he not

rather owe his superiority to the defects of others than to his own

perfection? or, lastly, can he find in no part of his character a

weakness which may counterpoise this merit, and which as justly at

least, threatens him with shame as this entices him to pride? I fancy,

if such a scrutiny was made (and nothing so ready as good sense to

make it), a proud man would be as rare as in reality he is a

ridiculous monster. But suppose a man, on this comparison, is, as may

sometimes happen, a little partial to himself, the harm is to himself,

and he becomes only ridiculous from it. If I prefer my excellence in

poetry to Pope or Young; if an inferior actor should, in his opinion,

exceed Quin or Garrick; or a sign-post painter set himself above the

inimitable Hogarth, we become only ridiculous by our vanity: and the

persons themselves who are thus humbled in the comparison, would laugh

with more reason than any other. Pride, therefore, hitherto seems an

inoffensive weakness only, and entitles a man to no worse an

appellation than that of a fool; but it will not stop here: though

fool be perhaps no desirable term, the proud man will deserve worse;

he is not contented with the admiration he pays himself, he now

becomes arrogant, and requires the same respect and preference from

the world; for pride, though the greatest of flatterers, is by no

means a profitable servant to itself; it resembles the parson of the

parish more than the squire, and lives rather on the tithes,

oblations, and contributions it collects from others than on its own

demesne. As pride therefore is seldom without arrogance, so is this

never to be found without insolence. The arrogant man must be insolent

in order to attain his own ends; and, to convince and remind men of

the superiority he affects, will naturally, by ill-words, actions, and

gestures, endeavour to throw the despised person at as much distance

as possible from him.

Hence proceeds that supercilious look and all those visible

indignities with which men behave in public to those whom they fancy

their inferiors. Hence the very notable custom of deriding and often

denying the nearest relations, friends, and acquaintance, in poverty

and distress, lest we should anywise be levelled with the wretches we

despise, either in their own imagination or in the conceit of any who

should behold familiarities pass between us.

But besides pride, folly, arrogance, and insolence, there is another

simple, which vice never willingly leaves out of any composition--and

this is ill-nature. A good-natured man may indeed (provided he is a

fool) be proud, but arrogant and insolent he cannot be, unless we will

allow to such a still greater degree of folly and ignorance of human

nature; which may indeed entitle them to forgiveness in the benign

language of scripture, because they know not what they do.

For, when we come to consider the effect of this behaviour on the

person who suffers it, we may perhaps have reason to conclude that

murder is not a much more cruel injury. What is the consequence of

this contempt? or, indeed, what is the design of it but to expose the

object of it to shame? a sensation as uneasy and almost intolerable as

those which arise from the severest pains inflicted on the body; a

convulsion of the mind (if I may so call it) which immediately

produces symptoms of universal disorder in the whole man; which hath

sometimes been attended with death itself, and to which death hath, by

great multitudes, been with much alacrity preferred. Now, what less

than the highest degree of ill-nature can permit a man to pamper his

own vanity at the price of another's shame? Is the glutton, who, to

raise the flavour of his dish, puts some birds or beasts to exquisite

torment, more cruel to the animal than this our proud man to his own

species?

This character then is a composition made up of those odious,

contemptible qualities, pride, folly, arrogance, insolence, and

ill-nature. I shall dismiss it with some general observations, which

will place it in so ridiculous a light, that a man must hereafter be

possessed of a very considerable portion either of folly or impudence

to assume it.

First, it proceeds on one grand fallacy; for, whereas this wretch is

endeavouring by a supercilious conduct to lead the beholder into an

opinion of his superiority to the despised person, he inwardly

flatters his own vanity with a deceitful presumption that this his

conduct is founded on a general preconceived opinion of this

superiority.

Secondly, this caution to preserve it plainly indicates a doubt that

the superiority of our own character is very slightly established; for

which reason we see it chiefly practised by men who have the weakest

pretensions to the reputation they aim at; and, indeed, none was ever

freer from it than that noble person whom we have already mentioned in

this essay, and who can never be mentioned but with honour by those

who know him.

Thirdly, this opinion of our superiority is commonly very

erroneous. Who hath not seen a general behave in this supercilious

manner to an officer of lower rank, who hath been greatly his superior

in that very art to his excellence in which the general ascribes all

his merit? Parallel instances occur in every other art, science, or

profession.

Fourthly, men who excel others in trifling instances frequently cast a

supercilious eye on their superiors in the highest. Thus the least

pretensions to preeminence in title, birth, riches, equipages, dress,

&c., constantly overlook the most noble endowments of virtue, honour,

wisdom, sense, wit, and every other quality which can truly dignify

and adorn a man.

Lastly, the lowest and meanest of our species are the most strongly

addicted to this vice--men who are a scandal to their sex, and women

who disgrace human nature; for the basest mechanic is so far from

being exempt that he is generally the most guilty of it. It visits

ale-houses and gin-shops, and whistles in the empty heads of fidlers,

mountebanks, and dancing-masters.

To conclude a character on which we have already dwelt longer than is

consistent with the intended measure of this essay, this contempt of

others is the truest symptom of a base and a bad heart. While it

suggests itself to the mean and the vile, and tickles their little

fancy on every occasion, it never enters the great and good mind but

on the strongest motives; nor is it then a welcome guest, affording

only an uneasy sensation, and brings always with it a mixture of

concern and compassion.

We will now proceed to inferior criminals in society. Theoretus,

conceiving that the assembly is only met to see and admire him, is

uneasy unless he engrosses the eyes of the whole company. The giant

doth not take more pains to be viewed; and, as he is unfortunately not

so tall, he carefully deposits himself in the most conspicuous place;

nor will that suffice--he must walk about the room, though to the

great disturbance of the company; and, if he can purchase general

observation at no less rate, will condescend to be ridiculous; for he

prefers being laughed at to being taken little notice of.

On the other side, Dusopius is so bashful that he hides himself in a

corner; he hardly bears being looked at, and never quits the first

chair he lights upon, lest he should expose himself to public view. He

trembles when you bowe to him at a distance, is shocked at hearing his

own voice, and would almost swoon at the repetition of his name.

The audacious Anedes, who is extremely amorous in his inclinations,

never likes a woman but his eyes ask her the question, without

considering the confusion he often occasions to the object; he ogles

and languishes at every pretty woman in the room. As there is no law

of morality which he would not break to satisfy his desires, so is

there no form of civility which he doth not violate to communicate

them. When he gets possession of a woman's hand, which those of

stricter decency never give him but with reluctance, he considers

himself as its master. Indeed, there is scarce a familiarity which he

will abstain from on the slightest acquaintance, and in the most

public place. Seraphina herself can make no impression on the rough

temper of Agroicus; neither her quality nor her beauty can exact the

least complacence from him; and he would let her lovely limbs ach

rather than offer her his chair: while the gentle Lyperus tumbles over

benches and overthrows tea-tables to take up a fan or a glove; he

forces you, as a good parent doth his child, for your own good; he is

absolute master of a lady's will, nor will allow her the election of

standing or sitting in his company. In short, the impertinent civility

of Lyperus is as troublesome, though perhaps not so offensive, as the

brutish rudeness of Agroicus.

Thus we have hinted at most of the common enormities committed in

public assemblies to our equals; for it would be tedious and difficult

to enumerate all: nor is it needful; since from this sketch we may

trace all others, most of which, I believe, will be found to branch

out from some of the particulars here specified.

I am now, in the last place, to consider our behaviour to our

inferiors, in which condescension can never be too strongly

recommended; for, as a deviation on this side is much more innocent

than on the other, so the pride of man renders us much less liable to

it. For, besides that we are apt to overrate our own perfections, and

undervalue the qualifications of our neighbours, we likewise set too

high an esteem on the things themselves, and consider them as

constituting a more essential difference between us than they really

do. The qualities of the mind do, in reality, establish the truest

superiority over one another: yet should not these so far elevate our

pride as to inflate us with contempt, and make us look down on our

fellow-creatures as on animals of an inferior order; but that the

fortuitous accident of birth, the acquisition of wealth, with some

outward ornaments of dress, should inspire men with an insolence

capable of treating the rest of mankind with disdain, is so

preposterous that nothing less than daily experience could give it

credit. If men were to be rightly estimated, and divided into

subordinate classes according to the superior excellence of their

several natures, perhaps the lowest class of either sex would be

properly assigned to those two disgraces of the human species,

commonly called a beau and a fine lady; for, if we rate men by the

faculties of the mind, in what degree must these stand? nay, admitting

the qualities of the body were to give the pre-eminence, how many of

those whom fortune hath placed in the lowest station must be ranked

above them? If dress is their only title, sure even the monkey, if as

well dressed, is on as high a footing as the beau. But perhaps I shall

be told they challenge their dignity from birth; that is a poor and

mean pretence to honour when supported with no other. Persons who have

no better claim to superiority should be ashamed of this; they are

really a disgrace to those very ancestors from whom they would derive

their pride, and are chiefly happy in this, that they want the very

moderate portion of understanding which would enable them to despise

themselves.

And yet who so prone to a contemptuous carriage as these? I have

myself seen a little female thing which they have called "my lady," of

no greater dignity in the order of beings than a cat, and of no more

use in society than a butterfly; whose mien would not give even the

idea of a gentlewoman, and whose face would cool the loosest

libertine; with a mind as empty of ideas as an opera, and a body

fuller of diseases than an hospital--I have seen this thing express

contempt to a woman who was an honour to her sex and an ornament to

the creation.

To confess the truth, there is little danger of the possessor's ever

undervaluing this titular excellence. Not that I would withdraw from

it that deference which the policy of government hath assigned it. On

the contrary, I have laid down the most exact compliance with this

respect, as a fundamental in good-breeding; nay, I insist only that we

may be admitted to pay it, and not treated with a disdain even beyond

what the eastern monarchs shew to their slaves. Surely it is too high

an elevation when, instead of treating the lowest human creature, in a

Christian sense, as our brethren, we look down on such as are but one

rank in the civil order removed from us as unworthy to breathe even

the same air, and regard the most distant communication with them as

an indignity and disgrace offered to ourselves. This is considering

the difference not in the individual, but in the very species; a

height of insolence impious in a Christian society, and most absurd

and ridiculous in a trading nation.

I have now done with my first head, in which I have treated of

good-breeding, as it regards our actions. I shall, in the next place,

consider it with respect to our words, and shall endeavour to lay down

some rules, by observing which our well-bred man may, in his discourse

as well as actions, contribute to the happiness and well-being of

society.

Certain it is, that the highest pleasure which we are capable of

enjoying in conversation is to be met with only in the society of

persons whose understanding is pretty near on an equality with our

own; nor is this equality only necessary to enable men of exalted

genius and extensive knowledge to taste the sublimer pleasures of

communicating their refined ideas to each other; but it is likewise

necessary to the inferior happiness of every subordinate degree of

society, down to the very lowest. For instance; we will suppose a

conversation between Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and three

dancing-masters. It will be acknowledged, I believe, that the heel

sophists would be as little pleased with the company of the

philosophers as the philosophers with theirs.

It would be greatly, therefore, for the improvement and happiness of

conversation, if society could be formed on this equality; but, as men

are not ranked in this world by the different degrees of their

understanding, but by other methods, and consequently all degrees of

understanding often meet in the same class, and must _ex

necessitate_ frequently converse together, the impossibility of

accomplishing any such Utopian scheme very plainly appears. Here

therefore is a visible but unavoidable imperfection in society itself.

But, as we have laid it down as a fundamental that the essence of

good-breeding is to contribute as much as possible to the ease and

happiness of mankind, so will it be the business of our well-bred man

to endeavour to lessen this imperfection to his utmost, and to bring

society as near to a level at least as he is able.

Now there are but two ways to compass this, viz., by raising the

lower, and by lowering what is higher.

Let us suppose, then, that very unequal company I have before

mentioned met; the former of these is apparently impracticable. Let

Socrates, for instance, institute a discourse on the nature of the

soul, or Plato reason on the native beauty of virtue, and Aristotle on

his occult qualities--What must become of our dancing-masters? Would

they not stare at one another with surprise, and, most probably, at

our philosophers with contempt? Would they have any pleasure in such

society? or would they not rather wish themselves in a dancing-school,

or a green-room at the playhouse? What, therefore, have our

philosophers to do but to lower themselves to those who cannot rise to

them?

And surely there are subjects on which both can converse. Hath not

Socrates heard of harmony? Hath not Plato, who draws virtue in the

person of a fine woman, any idea of the gracefulness of attitude? and

hath not Aristotle himself written a book on motion?

In short, to be a little serious, there are many topics on which they

can at least be intelligible to each other.

How absurd, then, must appear the conduct of Cenodoxus, who, having

had the advantage of a liberal education, and having made a pretty

good progress in literature, is constantly advancing learned subjects

in common conversation? He talks of the classics before the ladies,

and of Greek criticisms among fine gentlemen. What is this less than

an insult on the company over whom he thus affects a superiority, and

whose time he sacrifices to his vanity?

Wisely different is the amiable conduct of Sophronus; who, though he

exceeds the former in knowledge, can submit to discourse on the most

trivial matters, rather than introduce such as his company are utter

strangers to. He can talk of fashions and diversions among the ladies;

nay, can even condescend to horses and dogs with country

gentlemen. This gentleman, who is equal to dispute on the highest and

abstrusest points, can likewise talk on a fan or a horse-race; nor had

ever any one who was not himself a man of learning, the least reason

to conceive the vast knowledge of Sophronus, unless from the report of

others.

Let us compare these together. Cenodoxus proposes the satisfaction of

his own pride from the admiration of others; Sophronus thinks of

nothing but their amusement. In the company of Cenodoxus every one is

rendered uneasy, laments his own want of knowledge, and longs for the

end of the dull assembly; with Sophronus all are pleased, and

contented with themselves in their knowledge of matters which they

find worthy the consideration of a man of sense. Admiration is

involuntarily paid the former: to the latter it is given joyfully. The

former receives it with envy and hatred; the latter enjoys it as the

sweet fruit of goodwill. The former is shunned; the latter courted by

all.

This behaviour in Cenodoxus may, in some measure, account for an

observation we must have frequent occasion to make; that the

conversation of men of very moderate capacities is often preferred to

that of men of superior talents; in which the world act more wisely

than at first they may seem; for, besides that backwardness in mankind

to give their admiration, what can be duller or more void of pleasure

than discourses on subjects above our comprehension? It is like

listening to an unknown language; and, if such company is ever desired

by us, it is a sacrifice to our vanity, which imposes on us to believe

that we may by these means raise the general opinion of our own parts

and knowledge, and not from that cheerful delight which is the natural

result of an agreeable conversation.

There is another very common fault, equally destructive of this

delight, by much the same means, though it is far from owing its

original to any real superiority of parts and knowledge; this is

discoursing on the mysteries of a particular profession, to which all

the rest of the company, except one or two, are utter

strangers. Lawyers are generally guilty of this fault, as they are

more confined to the conversation of one another; and I have known a

very agreeable company spoilt, where there have been two of these

gentlemen present, who have seemed rather to think themselves in a

court of justice than in a mixed assembly of persons met only for the

entertainment of each other.

But it is not sufficient that the whole company understand the topic

of their conversation; they should be likewise equally interested in

every subject not tending to their general information or amusement;

for these are not to be postponed to the relation of private affairs,

much less of the particular grievance or misfortune of a single

person. To bear a share in the afflictions of another is a degree of

friendship not to be expected in a common acquaintance; nor hath any

man a right to indulge the satisfaction of a weak and mean mind by the

comfort of pity at the expence of the whole company's diversion. The

inferior and unsuccessful members of the several professions are

generally guilty of this fault; for, as they fail of the reward due to

their great merit, they can seldom refrain from reviling their

superiors, and complaining of their own hard and unjust fate.

Farther, as a man is not to make himself the subject of the

conversation, so neither is he to engross the whole to himself. As

every man had rather please others by what he says than be himself

pleased by what they say; or, in other words, as every man is best

pleased with the consciousness of pleasing, so should all have an

equal opportunity of aiming at it. This is a right which we are so

offended at being deprived of, that, though I remember to have known a

man reputed a good companion, who seldom opened his mouth in company,

unless to swallow his liquor, yet I have scarce ever heard that

appellation given to a very talkative person, even when he hath been

capable of entertaining, unless he hath done this with buffoonery, and

made the rest amends by partaking of their scorn together with their

admiration and applause.

A well-bred man, therefore, will not take more of the discourse than

falls to his share; nor in this will he shew any violent impetuosity

of temper, or exert any loudness of voice, even in arguing; for the

information of the company, and the conviction of his antagonist, are

to be his apparent motives; not the indulgence of his own pride, or an

ambitious desire of victory; which latter, if a wise man should

entertain, he will be sure to conceal with his utmost endeavour; since

he must know that to lay open his vanity in public is no less absurd

than to lay open his bosom to an enemy whose drawn sword is pointed

against it; for every man hath a dagger in his hand ready to stab the

vanity of another wherever he perceives it.

Having now shewn that the pleasure of conversation must arise from the

discourse being on subjects levelled to the capacity of the whole

company; from being on such in which every person is equally

interested; from every one's being admitted to his share in the

discourse; and, lastly, from carefully avoiding all noise, violence,

and impetuosity; it might seem proper to lay down some particular

rules for the choice of those subjects which are most likely to

conduce to the cheerful delights proposed from this social

communication; but, as such an attempt might appear absurd, from the

infinite variety, and perhaps too dictatorial in its nature, I shall

confine myself to rejecting those topics only which seem most foreign

to this delight, and which are most likely to be attended with

consequences rather tending to make society an evil than to procure us

any good from it.

And, first, I shall mention that which I have hitherto only

endeavoured to restrain within certain bounds, namely, arguments; but

which, if they were entirely banished out of company, especially from

mixed assemblies, and where ladies make part of the society, it would,

I believe, promote their happiness; they have been sometimes attended

with bloodshed, generally with hatred from the conquered party towards

his victor; and scarce ever with conviction. Here I except jocose

arguments, which often produce much mirth; and serious disputes

between men of learning (when none but such are present), which tend

to the propagation of knowledge and the edification of the company.

Secondly, slander; which, however frequently used, or however savoury

to the palate of ill-nature, is extremely pernicious, as it is often

unjust and highly injurious to the person slandered, and always

dangerous, especially in large and mixed companies, where sometimes an

undesigned offence is given to an innocent relation or friend of such

person, who is thus exposed to shame and confusion, without having any

right to resent the affront. Of this there have been very tragical

instances; and I have myself seen some very ridiculous ones, but which

have given great pain, as well to the person offended, as to him who

hath been the innocent occasion of giving the offence.

Thirdly, all general reflections on countries, religions, and

professions, which are always unjust. If these are ever tolerable,

they are only from the persons who with some pleasantry ridicule their

own country. It is very common among us to cast sarcasms on a

neighbouring nation, to which we have no other reason to bear an

antipathy than what is more usual than justifiable, because we have

injured it; but sure such general satire is not founded on truth; for

I have known gentlemen of that nation possessed with every good

quality which is to be wished in a man or required in a friend. I

remember a repartee made by a gentleman of this country, which, though

it was full of the severest wit, the person to whom it was directed

could not resent, as he so plainly deserved it. He had with great

bitterness inveighed against this whole people; upon which one of them

who was present very coolly answered, "I don't know, sir, whether I

have not more reason to be pleased with the compliment you pay my

country than to be angry with what you say against it; since, by your

abusing us all so heavily, you have plainly implied you are not of

it." This exposed the other to so much laughter, especially as he was

not unexceptionable in his character, that I believe he was

sufficiently punished for his ill-mannered satire.

Fourthly, blasphemy, and irreverent mention of religion. I will not

here debate what compliment a man pays to his own understanding by the

profession of infidelity; it is sufficient to my purpose that he runs

the risque of giving the cruelest offence to persons of a different

temper; for, if a loyalist would be greatly affronted by hearing any

indecencies offered to the person of a temporal prince, how much more

bitterly must a man who sincerely believes in such a being as the

Almighty, feel any irreverence or insult shewn to His name, His

honour, or His institution? And, notwithstanding the impious character

of the present age, and especially of many among those whose more

immediate business it is to lead men, as well by example as precept,

into the ways of piety, there are still sufficient numbers left who

pay so honest and sincere a reverence to religion, as may give us a

reasonable expectation of finding one at least of this stamp in every

large company.

A fifth particular to be avoided is indecency. We are not only to

forbear the repeating of such words as would give an immediate affront

to a lady of reputation, but the raising of any loose ideas tending to

the offence of that modesty which, if a young woman hath not something

more than the affectation of, she is not worthy the regard even of a

man of pleasure, provided he hath any delicacy in his

constitution. How inconsistent with good-breeding it is to give pain

and confusion to such, is sufficiently apparent; all

_double-entendres_ and obscene jests are therefore carefully to

be avoided before them. But suppose no ladies present, nothing can be

meaner, lower, and less productive of rational mirth, than this loose

conversation. For my own part, I cannot conceive how the idea of jest

or pleasantry came ever to be annexed to one of our highest and most

serious pleasures. Nor can I help observing, to the discredit of such

merriment, that it is commonly the last resource of impotent wit, the

weak strainings of the lowest, silliest, and dullest fellows in the

world.

Sixthly, you are to avoid knowingly mentioning anything which may

revive in any person the remembrance of some past accident, or raise

an uneasy reflection on a present misfortune or corporal blemish. To

maintain this rule nicely, perhaps, requires great delicacy; but it is

absolutely necessary to a well-bred man. I have observed numberless

breaches of it; many, I believe, proceeding from negligence and

inadvertency; yet I am afraid some may be too justly imputed to a

malicious desire of triumphing in our own superior happiness and

perfections; now, when it proceeds from this motive it is not easy to

imagine anything more criminal.

Under this head I shall caution my well-bred reader against a common

fault, much of the same nature; which is, mentioning any particular

quality as absolutely essential to either man or woman, and exploding

all those who want it. This renders every one uneasy who is in the

least self-conscious of the defect. I have heard a boor of fashion

declare in the presence of women remarkably plain, that beauty was the

chief perfection of that sex, and an essential without which no woman

was worth regarding; a certain method of putting all those in the

room, who are but suspicious of their defect that way, out of

countenance.

I shall mention one fault more, which is, not paying a proper regard

to the present temper of the company, or the occasion of their

meeting, in introducing a topic of conversation, by which as great an

absurdity is sometimes committed, as it would be to sing a dirge at a

wedding, or an epithalamium at a funeral.

Thus I have, I think, enumerated most of the principal errors which we

are apt to fall into in conversation; and though, perhaps, some

particulars worthy of remark may have escaped me, yet an attention to

what I have here said may enable the reader to discover them. At least

I am persuaded that, if the rules I have now laid down were strictly

observed, our conversation would be more perfect, and the pleasure

resulting from it purer and more unsullied, than at present it is.

But I must not dismiss this subject without some animadversions on a

particular species of pleasantry, which, though I am far from being

desirous of banishing from conversation, requires, most certainly,

some reins to govern, and some rule to direct it. The reader may

perhaps guess I mean raillery; to which I may apply the fable of the

lap-dog and the ass; for, while in some hands it diverts and delights

us with its dexterity and gentleness, in others, it paws, daubs,

offends, and hurts.

The end of conversation being the happiness of mankind, and the chief

means to procure their delight and pleasure, it follows, I think, that

nothing can conduce to this end which tends to make a man uneasy and

dissatisfied with himself, or which exposes him to the scorn and

contempt of others. I here except that kind of raillery, therefore,

which is concerned in tossing men out of their chairs, tumbling them

into water, or any of those handicraft jokes which are exercised on

those notable persons commonly known by the name of buffoons; who are

contented to feed their belly at the price of their br--ch, and to

carry off the wine and the p--ss of a great man together. This I pass

by, as well as all remarks on the genius of the great men themselves,

who are (to fetch a phrase from school, a phrase not improperly

mentioned on this occasion) great dabs at this kind of facetiousness.

But, leaving all such persons to expose human nature among themselves,

I shall recommend to my well-bred man, who aims at raillery, the

excellent character given of Horace by Persius:--

Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico

Tangit, et admissus circum praecordia ludit,

Callidus excusso populum suspendere naso.

Thus excellently rendered by the late ingenious translator of that

obscure author:--

Yet could shrewd Horace, with disportive wit,

Rally his friend, and tickle while he bit;

Winning access, he play'd around the heart,

And, gently touching, prick'd the tainted part.

The crowd he sneer'd; but sneer'd with such a grace,

It pass'd for downright innocence of face.

The raillery which is consistent with good-breeding is a gentle

animadversion on some foible; which, while it raises a laugh in the

rest of the company, doth not put the person rallied out of

countenance, or expose him to shame and contempt. On the contrary, the

jest should be so delicate that the object of it should be capable of

joining in the mirth it occasions.

All great vices therefore, misfortunes, and notorious blemishes of

mind or body, are improper subjects of raillery. Indeed, a hint at

such is an abuse and an affront which is sure to give the person

(unless he be one shameless and abandoned) pain and uneasiness, and

should be received with contempt, instead of applause, by all the rest

of the company.

Again; the nature and quality of the person are to be considered. As

to the first, some men will not bear any raillery at all. I remember a

gentleman who declared he never made a jest, nor would ever take

one. I do not, indeed, greatly recommend such a person for a

companion; but at the same time, a well-bred man, who is to consult

the pleasure and happiness of the whole, is not at liberty to make any

one present uneasy. By the quality, I mean the sex, degree,

profession, and circumstances; on which head I need not be very

particular. With regard to the two former, all raillery on ladies and

superiors should be extremely fine and gentle; and with respect to the

latter, any of the rules I have above laid down, most of which are to

be applied to it, will afford sufficient caution.

Lastly, a consideration is to be had of the persons before whom we

rally. A man will be justly uneasy at being reminded of those

railleries in one company which he would very patiently bear the

imputation of in another. Instances on this head are so obvious that

they need not be mentioned. In short, the whole doctrine of raillery

is comprized in this famous line:--

"_Quid_ de _quoque_ viro, et _cui_ dicas, saepe

caveto."

"Be cautious _what_ you say, _of whom_ and _to whom_"

And now, methinks, I hear some one cry out that such restrictions are,

in effect, to exclude all raillery from conversation; and, to confess

the truth, it is a weapon from which many persons will do wisely in

totally abstaining; for it is a weapon which doth the more mischief by

how much the blunter it is. The sharpest wit therefore is only to be

indulged the free use of it, for no more than a very slight touch is

to be allowed; no hacking, nor bruising, as if they were to hew a

carcase for hounds, as Shakspeare phrases it.

Nor is it sufficient that it be sharp, it must be used likewise with

the utmost tenderness and good-nature; and, as the nicest dexterity of

a gladiator is shewn in being able to hit without cutting deep, so is

this of our railler, who is rather to tickle than wound.

True raillery indeed consists either in playing on peccadilloes,

which, however they may be censured by some, are not esteemed as

really blemishes in a character in the company where they are made the

subject of mirth; as too much freedom with the bottle, or too much

indulgence with women, &c.

Or, secondly, in pleasantly representing real good qualities in a

false light of shame, and bantering them as ill ones. So generosity

may be treated as prodigality; oeconomy as avarice; true courage as

foolhardiness; and so of the rest.

Lastly, in ridiculing men for vices and faults which they are known to

be free from. Thus the cowardice of A--le, the dulness of Ch--d, the

unpoliteness of D--ton, may be attacked without danger of offence; and

thus Lyt--n may be censured for whatever vice or folly you please to

impute to him.

And, however limited these bounds may appear to some, yet, in skilful

and witty hands, I have known raillery, thus confined, afford a very

diverting, as well as inoffensive, entertainment to the whole company.

I shall conclude this essay with these two observations, which I think

may be clearly deduced from what hath been said.

First, that every person who indulges his ill-nature or vanity at the

expense of others, and in introducing uneasiness, vexation, and

confusion into society, however exalted or high-titled he may be, is

thoroughly ill-bred.

Secondly, that whoever, from the goodness of his disposition or

understanding, endeavours to his utmost to cultivate the good-humour

and happiness of others, and to contribute to the ease and comfort of

all his acquaintance, however low in rank fortune may have placed him,

or however clumsy he may be in his figure or demeanour, hath, in the

truest sense of the word, a claim to good-breeding.

* * * * *

THE TRUE PATRIOT

No. 13.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 28, 1746.

Qui non recte instituunt atque erudiunt liberos, non solum liberis sed

et reipublicae faciunt injuriam.--CICERO.

MR ADAMS having favoured me with a second letter, I shall give it the

public without any apology. If anything in it should at first a little

shock those readers who know the world better, I hope they will make

allowances for the ignorance and simplicity of the writer.

TO THE TRUE PATRIOT.

MY WORTHY FRIEND,--I am concerned to find, by all our public accounts,

that the rebels still continue in the land. In my last I evidently

proved that their successes were owing to a judgment denounced against

our sins, and concluded with some exhortations for averting the Divine

anger by the only methods which suggested themselves to my mind. These

exhortations, by the event, I perceive have not had that regard paid

to them I had reason to expect. Indeed, I am the more confirmed in

this conjecture, by a lad whom I lately met at a neighbouring

baronet's, where I sojourned the two last days of the year, with my

good friend Mr Wilson.

This lad, whom I imagined to have been come from school to visit his

friends for the holidays (for though he is perhaps of sufficient age,

I found, on examination, he was not yet qualified for the university),

is, it seems, a man _sui juris_; and is, as I gather from the

young damsels, Sir John's daughters, a member of the society of

_bowes_. I know not whether I spell the word right; for I am not

ashamed to say I neither understand its etymology nor true import, as

it hath never once occurred in any lexicon or dictionary which I have

yet perused.

Whatever this society may be, either the lad with whom I communed is

an unworthy member, or it would become the government to put it down

by authority; for he uttered many things during our discourse for

which I would have well scourged any of the youth under my care.

He had not long entered the chamber before he acquainted the damsels

that he and his companions had carried the opera, in opposition to the

puts; by which I afterwards learnt he meant all sober and discreet

persons. "And fags!" says he (I am afraid, though, he made use of a

worse word), "we expected the bishops would have interfered; but if

they had we should have silenced them." I then thought to myself,

Strippling, if I had you well horsed on the back of another lad, I

would teach you more reverence to their lordships.

This opera, I am informed, is a diversion in which a prodigious sum of

money, more than is to be collected out of twenty parishes, is

lavished away on foreign eunuchs and papists, very scandalous to be

suffered at any time, especially at a season when both war and famine

hang over our heads.

[Illustration: "He acquainted the damsels that he and his companions

had carried the opera."]

During the whole time of our repast at dinner the young gentleman

entertained us with an account of several drums and routs at which he

had been present. These are, it seems, large congregations of men and

women, who, instead of assembling together to hear something that is

good, nay, or to divert themselves with gambols, which might be

allowed now and then in holiday times, meet for no other purpose but

that of gaming, for a whole guinea and much more at a stake. At this

married women sit up all night, nay, sometimes till one or two in the

morning, neglect their families, lose their money, and some, Mr Wilson

says, have been suspected of doing even worse than that. Yet this is

suffered in a Christian kingdom; nay (_quod prorsus incredibile

est_), the holy sabbath is, it seems, prostituted to these wicked

revellings; and card-playing goes on as publickly then as on any other

day; nor is this only among the young lads and damsels, who might be

supposed to know no better, but men advanced in years, and grave

matrons, are not ashamed of being caught at the same pastime. _O

tempora! O mores!_

When grace was said after meat, and the damsels departed, the lad

began to grow more wicked. Sir John, who is an honest Englishman, hath

no other wine but that of Portugal. This our _bowe_ could not

drink; and when Sir John very nobly declared he scorned to indulge his

palate with rarities, for which he must furnish the foe with money to

carry on a war with the nation, the stripling replied, "Rat the

nation!" (God forgive me for repeating such words) "I had rather live

under French government than be debarred from French wine." Oho, my

youth! if I had you horsed, thinks I again.--But, indeed, Sir John

well scourged him with his tongue for that expression, and I should

have hoped he had made him ashamed, had not his subsequent behaviour

shewn him totally void of grace. For when Sir John asked him for a

toast, which you know is another word for drinking the health of one's

friend or wife, or some person of public eminence, he named the health

of a married woman, filled out a bumper of wine, swore he would drink

her health in vinegar, and at last openly profest he would commit

adultery with her if he could. _Proh pudor!_ Nay, and if such a

sin might admit of any aggravation, she is it seems a lady of very

high degree, _et quidem_, the wife of a lord.

_Et dies et charta deficerent si omnia vellem percurrere, multa

quldem impura et impudica quae memorare nefas, recitavit_. Nor is

this youth, it seems, a monster or prodigy in the age he lives; on the

contrary, I am told he is an exemplar only of all the rest.

But I now proceed to what must surprize you. After he had spent an

hour in rehearsing all the vices to which youth have been ever too

much addicted, and shewn us that he was possessed of them all--_Ut

qui impudicus, adulter, ganeo, alea, manu, ventre, pene, bona patria

laceraverat_, he began to enter upon politics:

O proceres censore opus an haruspice nobis!

This stripling, this _bowe_, this rake, discovered likewise all

the wickedness peculiar to age, and that he had not, with those vices

which proceed from the warmth of youth, one of the virtues which we

should naturally expect from the same sanguine disposition. He shewed

us that grey hairs could add nothing but hypocrisy to him; for he

avowed public prostitution, laughed at all honour, public spirit, and

patriotism; and gave convincing proofs that the most phlegmatic old

miser upon earth could not be sooner tempted with gold to perpetrate

the most horrid iniquities than himself.

Whether this youth be (_quod vix credo_) concerned himself in the

public weal, or whether he have his information from others, I hope he

greatly exceeded the truth in what he delivered on this subject; for

was he to be believed, the conclusion we must draw would be, that the

only concern of our great men, even at this time, was for places and

pensions; that, instead of applying themselves to renovate and restore

our sick and drooping commonweal, they were struggling to get closest

to her heart, and, like leeches, to suck her last drop of vital blood.

I hope, however, better things, and that this lad deserves a good rod

as well for lying as for all his other iniquity; and if his parents do

not take care to have it well laid on, I can assure them they have

much to answer for.

Mr Wilson now found me grow very uneasy, as, indeed, I had been from

the beginning, nor could anything but respect to the company have

prevented me from correcting the boy long before; he therefore

endeavoured to turn the discourse, and asked our spark when he left

London? To which he answered, the Wednesday before. "How, sir?" said

I; "travel on Christmas Day?" "Was it so?" says he; "fags! that's

more than I knew; but why not travel on Christmas Day as well as any

other?" "Why not?" said I, lifting my voice, for I had lost all

patience; "was you not brought up in the Christian religion? Did you

never learn your catechism?" He then burst out into an unmannerly

laugh, and so provoked me, that I should certainly have smote him, had

I not laid my crabstick down in the window, and had not Mr Wilson been

fortunately placed between us. "Odso! Mr Parson," says he, "are you

there? I wonder I had not smoked you before." "Smoke me!" answered I,

and at the same time leaped from my chair, my wrath being highly

kindled. At which instant a jackanapes, who sat on my left hand,

whipped my peruke from my head, which I no sooner perceived than I

porrected him a remembrance over the face, which laid him sprawling on

the floor. I was afterwards concerned at the blow, though the

consequence was only a bloody nose, and the lad, who was a companion

of the other's, and had uttered many wicked things, which I

pretermitted in my narrative, very well deserved correction.

A bustle now arose, not worth recounting, which ended in my departure

with Mr Wilson, though we had purposed to tarry there that night.

In our way home we both lamented the peculiar hardiness of this

country, which seems bent on its own destruction, nor will take

warning by any visitation, till the utmost wrath of Divine vengeance

overtakes it.

In discoursing upon this subject, we imputed much of the present

profligacy to the notorious want of care in parents in the education

of youth, who, as my friend informs me, with very little

school-learning, and not at all instructed (_ne minime quidem

imbuti_) in any principles of religion, virtue, and morality, are

brought to the great city, or sent to travel to other great cities

abroad, before they are twenty years of age, where they become their

own masters, and enervate both their bodies and minds with all sorts

of diseases and vices before they are adult.

I shall conclude with a passage in Aristotle's Politics,

lib. viii. cap. I. "[Greek text]" Which, for the sake of women, and

those few gentlemen who do not understand Greek, I have rendered

somewhat paraphrastically in the vernacular:--"No man can doubt but

that the education of youth ought to be the principal care of every

legislator; by the neglect of which, great mischief accrues to the

civil polity in every city."

I am, while you write like an honest man and a good Christian, your

hearty friend and well-wisher,

ABRAHAM ADAMS.

* * * * *

THE COVENT-GARDEN JOURNAL.

No. 10.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1752.

At nostri proavi Plautinos et numeros, et

Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque,

Ne dicam stulte, mirati.

MODERNISED.

In former times this tasteless, silly town

Too fondly prais'd Tom D'Urfey and Tom Brown.

THE present age seems pretty well agreed in an opinion, that the

utmost scope and end of reading is amusement only; and such, indeed,

are now the fashionable books, that a reader can propose no more than

mere entertainment, and it is sometimes very well for him if he finds

even this, in his studies.

Letters, however, were surely intended for a much more noble and

profitable purpose than this. Writers are not, I presume, to be

considered as mere jack-puddings, whose business it is only to excite

laughter: this, indeed, may sometimes be intermixed and served up with

graver matters, in order to titillate the palate, and to recommend

wholesome food to the mind; and for this purpose it hath been used by

many excellent authors: "for why," as Horace says, "should not any one

promulgate truth with a smile on his countenance?" Ridicule indeed, as

he again intimates, is commonly a stronger and better method of

attacking vice than the severer kind of satire.

When wit and humour are introduced for such good purposes, when the

agreeable is blended with the useful, then is the writer said to have

succeeded in every point. Pleasantry (as the ingenious author of

Clarissa says of a story) should be made only the vehicle of

instruction; and thus romances themselves, as well as epic poems, may

become worthy the perusal of the greatest of men: but when no moral,

no lesson, no instruction, is conveyed to the reader, where the whole

design of the composition is no more than to make us laugh, the writer

comes very near to the character of a buffoon; and his admirers, if an

old Latin proverb be true, deserve no great compliments to be paid to

their wisdom.

After what I have here advanced I cannot fairly, I think, be

represented as an enemy to laughter, or to all those kinds of writing

that are apt to promote it. On the contrary, few men, I believe, do

more admire the works of those great masters who have sent their

satire (if I may use the expression) laughing into the world. Such are

the great triumvirate, Lucian, Cervantes, and Swift. These authors I

shall ever hold in the highest degree of esteem; not indeed for that

wit and humour alone which they all so eminently possest, but because

they all endeavoured, with the utmost force of their wit and humour,

to expose and extirpate those follies and vices which chiefly

prevailed in their several countries. I would not be thought to

confine wit and humour to these writers. Shakspeare, Moliere, and some

other authors, have been blessed with the same talents, and have

employed them to the same purposes. There are some, however, who,

though not void of these talents, have made so wretched a use of them,

that, had the consecration of their labours been committed to the

hands of the hangman, no good man would have regretted their loss; nor

am I afraid to mention Rabelais, and Aristophanes himself, in this

number. For, if I may speak my opinion freely of these two last

writers, and of their works, their design appears to me very plainly

to have been to ridicule all sobriety, modesty, decency, virtue, and

religion, out of the world. Now, whoever reads over the five great

writers first mentioned in this paragraph, must either have a very bad

head or a very bad heart if he doth not become both a wiser and a

better man.

In the exercise of the mind, as well as in the exercise of the body,

diversion is a secondary consideration, and designed only to make that

agreeable which is at the same time useful, to such noble purposes as

health and wisdom. But what should we say to a man who mounted his

chamber-hobby, or fought with his own shadow, for his amusement only?

how much more absurd and weak would he appear who swallowed poison

because it was sweet?

How differently did Horace think of study from our modern readers!

Quid verum atque decens curo et rogo, et omnis in hoc sum:

Condo et compono, quae mox depromere possim.

"Truth and decency are my whole care and enquiry. In this study I am

entirely occupied; these I am always laying up, and so disposing that

I can at any time draw forth my stores for my immediate use." The

whole epistle, indeed, from which I have paraphrased this passage, is

a comment upon it, and affords many useful lessons of philosophy.

When we are employed in reading a great and good author, we ought to

consider ourselves as searching after treasures, which, if well and

regularly laid up in the mind, will be of use to us on sundry

occasions in our lives. If a man, for instance, should be overloaded

with prosperity or adversity (both of which cases are liable to happen

to us), who is there so very wise, or so very foolish, that, if he was

a master of Seneca and Plutarch, could not find great matter of

comfort and utility from their doctrines? I mention these rather than

Plato and Aristotle, as the works of the latter are not, I think, yet

completely made English, and, consequently, are less within the reach

of most of my countrymen.

But perhaps it may be asked, will Seneca or Plutarch make us laugh?

Perhaps not; but if you are not a fool, my worthy friend, which I can

hardly with civility suspect, they will both (the latter especially)

please you more than if they did. For my own part, I declare, I have

not read even Lucian himself with more delight than I have Plutarch;

but surely it is astonishing that such scribblers as Tom Brown, Tom

D'Urfey, and the wits of our age, should find readers, while the

writings of so excellent, so entertaining, and so voluminous an author

as Plutarch remain in the world, and, as I apprehend, are very little

known.

The truth I am afraid is, that real taste is a quality with which

human nature is very slenderly gifted. It is indeed so very rare, and

so little known, that scarce two authors have agreed in their notions

of it; and those who have endeavoured to explain it to others seem to

have succeeded only in shewing us that they know it not themselves. If

I might be allowed to give my own sentiments, I should derive it from

a nice harmony between the imagination and the judgment; and hence

perhaps it is that so few have ever possessed this talent in any

eminent degree. Neither of these will alone bestow it; nothing is

indeed more common than to see men of very bright imaginations, and of

very accurate learning (which can hardly be acquired without

judgment), who are entirely devoid of taste; and Longinus, who of all

men seems most exquisitely to have possessed it, will puzzle his

reader very much if he should attempt to decide whether imagination or

judgment shine the brighter in that inimitable critic.

But as for the bulk of mankind, they are clearly void of any degree of

taste. It is a quality in which they advance very little beyond a

state of infancy. The first thing a child is fond of in a book is a

picture, the second is a story, and the third a jest. Here then is the

true Pons Asinorum, which very few readers ever get over.

From what I have said it may perhaps be thought to appear that true

taste is the real gift of nature only; and if so, some may ask to what

purpose have I endeavoured to show men that they are without a

blessing which it is impossible for them to attain?

Now, though it is certain that to the highest consummation of taste,

as well as of every other excellence, nature must lend much

assistance, yet great is the power of art, almost of itself, or at

best with only slender aids from nature; and, to say the truth, there

are very few who have not in their minds some small seeds of

taste. "All men," says Cicero, "have a sort of tacit sense of what is

right or wrong in arts and sciences, even without the help of arts."

This surely it is in the power of art very greatly to improve. That

most men, therefore, proceed no farther than as I have above declared,

is owing either to the want of any, or (which is perhaps yet worse) to

an improper education.

I shall probably, therefore, in a future paper, endeavour to lay down

some rules by which all men may acquire at least some degree of

taste. In the meanwhile, I shall (according to the method observed in

inoculation) recommend to my readers, as a preparative for their

receiving my instructions, a total abstinence from all bad books. I do

therefore most earnestly intreat all my young readers that they would

cautiously avoid the perusal of any modern book till it hath first had

the sanction of some wise and learned man; and the same caution I

propose to all fathers, mothers, and guardians.

"Evil communications corrupt good manners," is a quotation of St Paul

from Menander. _Evil books corrupt at once both our manners and our

taste_.

* * * * *

No. 33.

SATURDAY, APRIL 23, 1752.

Odi profanum vulgas.--HOR.

I hate profane rascals.

SIR,--In this very learned and enlightened age, in which authors are

almost as numerous as booksellers, I doubt not but your correspondents

furnish you with a sufficient quantity of waste paper. I perhaps may

add to the heap; for, as men do not always know the motive of their

own actions, I may possibly be induced, by the same sort of vanity as

other puny authors have been, to desire to be in print. But I am very

well satisfied with you for my judge, and if you should not think

proper to take any notice of the hint I have here sent you, I shall

conclude that I am an impertinent correspondent, but that you are a

judicious and impartial critic. In my own defence, however, I must say

that I am never better pleased than when I see extraordinary abilities

employed in the support of His honour and religion, who has so

bountifully bestowed them. It is for this reason that I wish you would

take some notice of the character, or rather story, here sent you. In

my travels westward last summer I lay at an inn in Somersetshire,

remarkable for its pleasant situation and the obliging behaviour of

the landlord, who, though a downright rustic, had an awkward sort of

politeness arising from his good-nature that was very pleasing, and,

if I may be allowed the expression, was a sort of good-breeding

undrest. As I intended to make a pretty long journey the next day, I

rose time enough to behold that glorious luminary the sun set out on

his course, which, by-the-by, is one of the finest sights the eye can

behold; and, as it is a thing seldom seen by people of fashion, unless

it be at the theatre at Covent-garden, I could not help laying some

stress upon it here. The kitchen in this inn was a very pleasant room;

I therefore called for some tea, sat me in the window that I might

enjoy the prospect which the country afforded, and a more beautiful

one is not in the power of imagination to frame. This house was

situated on the top of a hill; and for two miles below it meadows,

enlivened with variety of cattle, and adorned with a greater variety

of flowers, first caught my sight. At the bottom of this vale ran a

river which seemed to promise coolness and refreshment to the thirsty

cattle. The eye was next presented with fields of corn that made a

kind of an ascent which was terminated by a wood, at the top of which

appeared a verdant hill situate as it were in the clouds where the sun

was just arrived, and, peeping o'er the summit, which was at this time

covered with dew, gilded it over with his rays and terminated my view

in the most agreeable manner in the world. In a word, the elegant

simplicity of every object round me filled my heart with such

gratitude, and furnished my mind with such pleasing meditations, as

made me thank Heaven I was born. But this state of joyous tranquillity

was not of long duration: I had scarce begun my breakfast, when my

ears were saluted with a genteel whistle, and the noise of a pair of

slippers descending the staircase; and soon after I beheld a contrast

to my former prospect, being a very beauish gentleman, with a huge

laced hat on, as big as Pistol's in the play; a wig somewhat

dishevelled, and a face which at once gave you a perfect idea of

emptiness, assurance, and intemperance. His eyes, which before were

scarce open, he fixt on me with a stare which testified surprise, and

his coat was immediately thrown open to display a very handsome

second-hand gold-laced waistcoat. In one hand he had a pair of

saddlebags, and in the other a hanger of mighty size, both of which,

with a graceful G--d d--n you, he placed upon a chair. Then, advancing

towards the landlord, who was standing by me, he said, "By G--d,

landlord, your wine is damnable strong." "I don't know," replied the

landlord; "it is generally reckoned pretty good, for I have it all

from London."--"Pray, who is your wine merchant?" says the man of

importance. "A very great man," says the landlord, "in his way;

perhaps you may know him, sir; his name is Kirby." "Ah, what! honest

Tom? he and I have cracked many a bottle of claret together; he is one

of the most considerable merchants in the city; the dog is hellish

poor, damnable poor, for I don't suppose he is worth a farthing more

than a hundred thousand pound; only a plum, that's all; he is to be

our lord-mayor next year." "I ask pardon, sir, that is not the man,

for our Mr Kirby's name is not Thomas but Richard." "Ay!" says the

gentleman, "that's his brother; they are partners together." "I

believe," says the landlord, "you are out, sir, for that gentleman has

no brother." "D--n your nonsense, with you and your outs!" says the

beau; "as if I should not know better than you country puts; I who

have lived in London all my lifetime." "I ask a thousand pardons,"

says the landlord; "I hope no offence, sir." "No, no," cries the

other; "we gentlemen know how to make allowance for your country

breeding." Then stepping to the kitchen door, with an audible voice he

called the ostler, and in a very graceful accent said, "D--n your

blood, you cock-eyed son of a bitch, bring me my boots! did not you

hear me call?" Then turning to the landlord said, "Faith! that Mr

What-de-callum, the exciseman, is a damned jolly fellow." "Yes, sir,"

says the landlord, "he is a merryish sort of a man." "But," says the

gentleman, "as for that schoolmaster, he is the queerest bitch I ever

saw; he looks as if he could not say boh to a goose." "I don't know,

sir," says the landlord; "he is reckoned to be a desperate good

schollard about us, and the gentry likes him vastly, for he

understands the measurement of land and timber, knows how to make

dials and such things; and for ciphering few can outdo 'en." "Ay!"

says the gentleman, "he does look like a cipher indeed, for he did not

speak three words all last night." The ostler now produced the boots,

which the gentleman taking in his hand, and having placed himself in

the chair, addressed in the following speech: "My good friends, Mr

Boots, I tell you plainly that, if you plague me so damnably as you

did yesterday morning, by G-- I'll commit you to the flames; stap my

vituals! as my lord Huntingdon says in the play." He then looked full

in my face, and asked the landlord if he had ever been at Drury-lane

playhouse; which he answered in the negative. "What!" says he, "did

you never hear talk of Mr Garrick and king Richard?" "No, sir," says

the landlord." By G--," says the gentleman, "he is the cleverest

fellow in England." He then spouted a speech out of King Richard,

which begins, "Give me an horse," &c. "There," says he, "that, that is

just like Mr Garrick." Having pleased himself vastly with this

performance, he shook the landlord by the hand with great good-humour,

and said," By G-- you seem to be an honest fellow, and good blood; if

you'll come and see me in London, I'll give you your skinful of wine,

and treat you with a play and a whore every night you stay. I'll show

you how it is to live, my boy. But here, bring me some paper, my girl;

come, let us have one of your love-letters to air my boots." Upon

which the landlord presented him with a piece of an old

newspaper. "D--n you!" says the gent, "this is not half enough; have

you never a Bible or Common Prayer-book in the house? Half a dozen

chapters of Genesis, with a few prayers, make an excellent fire in a

pair of boots." "Oh! Lord forgive you!" says the landlord; "sure you

would not burn such books as those?" "No!" cries the spark; "where was

you born? Go into a shop of London and buy some butter or a quartern

of tea, and then you'll see what use is made of these books." "Ay!"

says the landlord, "we have a saying here in our country that 'tis as

sure as the devil is in London, and if he was not there they could not

be so wicked as they be." Here a country fellow who had been standing

up in one corner of the kitchen eating of cold bacon and beans, and

who, I observed, trembled at every oath this spark swore, took his

dish and pot, and marched out of the kitchen, fearing, as I afterwards

learnt, that the house would fall down about his ears, for he was

sure, he said, "That man in the gold-laced hat was the devil." The

young spark, having now displayed all his wit and humour, and exerted

his talents to the utmost, thought he had sufficiently recommended

himself to my favour and convinced me he was a gentleman. He therefore

with an air addressed himself to me, and asked me which way I was

travelling? To which I gave him no answer. He then exalted his voice;

but, at my continuing silent, he asked the landlord if I was

deaf. Upon which the landlord told him he did not believe the

gentleman was dunch, for that he talked very well just now. The man

of wit whispered in the landlord's ear, and said, "I suppose he is

either a parson or a fool." He then drank a dram, observing that a man

should not cool too fast; paid sixpence more than his reckoning,

called for his horse, gave the ostler a shilling, and galloped out of

the inn, thoroughly satisfied that we all agreed with him in thinking

him a clever fellow and a man of great importance. The landlord,

smiling, took up his money, and said he was a comical gentleman, but

that it was a thousand pities he swore so much; if it was not for

that, he was a very good customer, and as generous as a prince, for

that the night before he had treated everybody in the house. I then

asked him if he knew that comical gentleman, as he called him? "No,

really, sir," said the landlord, "though a gentleman was saying last

night that he was a sort of rider or rideout to a linendraper at

London." This, Mr Censor, I have since found to be true; for, having

occasion to buy some cloth, I went last week into a linendraper's

shop, in which I found a young fellow whose decent behaviour and plain

dress shewed he was a tradesman. Upon looking full in his face I

thought I had seen it before; nor was it long before I recollected

where it was, and that this was the same beau I had met with in

Somersetshire. The difference in the same man in London, where he was

known, and in the country, where he was a stranger, was beyond

expression; and, was it not impertinent to make observations to you, I

could inlarge upon this sort of behaviour; for I am firmly of opinion

that there is neither spirit nor good sense in oaths, nor any wit or

humour in blasphemy. But as vulgar errors require an abler pen than

mine to correct them, I shall leave that task to you, and am, sir,

your humble servant, R. S.

* * * * *

FAMILIAR LETTERS.

NOTE.

(See _Introduction_.)

The following five letters were given me by the Author of the

preface. I should have thought this hint unnecessary, had not much

nonsense and scurrility been unjustly imputed to him by the _good

judgment_ or _good-nature_ of the age. They can know but

little of his writings, who want to have them pointed out; but they

know much less of him, who impute any such base and scandalous

productions to his pen.

Letter cli.

_A letter from a French gentleman to his friend in Paris; in

imitation of Horace, Addison, and all other writers of travelling

letters.

Done into English_.

MONSIEUR,--

AT Whitehall we took a pair of oars for Putney. These we had indeed

some difficulty to procure; for many refused to go with us farther

than Foxhall or Ranelagh Gardens. At last we prevailed with two

fellows for three half-crowns to take us on board.

I have been told there was formerly a law regulating the fares of

these people; but that is to be sure obsolete. I think it pity it was

not revived.

As the weather was extremely fine, we did not regret the tide's

running against us, since by that means we had more opportunity of

making observations on the finest river in the world except the Seine.

After taking a survey of the New Bridge, which must be greatly admired

by all who have not seen the Pontneuf, we past by a row of buildings,

not very remarkable for their elegance, being chiefly built of wood,

and irregular. Many of them are supported by pillars; but of what

order we could not plainly discern.

We came now to Lambeth, where is a palace of the Archbishop of

Canterbury, the metropolitan of England. This is a vast pile of

building, not very beautiful indeed in its structure, but wonderfully

well calculated, as well to signify, as to answer the use for which it

was, I suppose, originally intended; containing a great number of

little apartments for the reception of travelling and distressed

Christians.

Lambeth is perhaps so called from Lamb, which is the type of meekness.

The next place of note, as we ascend the river, is Fox-Hall, or rather

Fox-Hole, the first syllable of which is corrupted into Vaux by the

vulgar, who tell a foolish story of one Vaux who resided here, and

attempted to blow up the Thames. But the true reading is Fox-Hole, as

appears by an ancient piece of painting, representing that animal

whence it takes its name, and which is now to be seen on a high wooden

pillar, _Anglice_ a sign-post, not far from the landing-place.

A very little farther stands Marble-Hall, of which we had a full view

from the water. This is a most august edifice, built all of a rich

marble, which, reflecting the sun-beams, creates an object too

dazzling for the sight.

Having passed this, we were entertained with a most superb piece of

architecture of white, or rather yellow brick. This belongs to one of

the _bourgeois_, as do indeed most of the villas which border on

both sides this river, and they tend to give as magnificent an idea of

the riches which flow in to these people by trade, as the shipping

doth, which is to be seen below the bridge of London.

Hence a range of most delicious meadows begins to open, which, being

richly enamelled with flowers of all kinds, seem to contend whether

they shall convey most pleasure to your sight or to your smell. Our

contemplation was however diverted from this scene by a boat, in which

were two young ladies extremely handsome, who accosted us in some

phrase which we, who thought ourselves pretty good masters of the

English tongue, did not understand. They were answered however by our

watermen, who afterwards told us, that this is called water-language;

and consequently, I suppose, not to be learned on shore.

The next place which presents itself on the Surry side (for I reserve

the other shore for my return) is the pleasant village of Battersea;

the true reading of which we conjectured to be Bettersee; and that it

was formerly a bishoprick, and had the preference to Shelsee, of which

we shall speak anon. It is chiefly famous at present for affording a

retreat to one of the greatest statesmen of his time, who hath here a

magnificent palace.

From Bettersee, verging to the south-west, stands Wanser, as it is

vulgarly called; but its true name was undoubtedly Windmill-Shore,

from whence it is a very easy corruption; and several windmills are

yet to be found in its neighbourhood. Here are to be seen a parish

church, and some houses; but it is otherwise little worth the

curiosity of travellers.

As you sail from hence, two lofty towers at once salute your eyes from

opposite shores of the river, divided by a magnificent wooden

bridge. That on the Surry shore is called Putney or Putnigh, a fair

and beautiful town, consisting principally of one vast street, which

extends from north to south, and is adorned with most beautiful

buildings.

Here we went ashore, in order to regale ourselves in one of their

houses of entertainment, as they are called; but in reality there is

no entertainment at them. Here were no tarts nor cheesecakes, nor any

sort of food but an English dish called _bread and cheese_, and

some raw flesh.

But if it be difficult to find anything to allay hunger, it is still

more so to quench your thirst. There is a liquor sold in this country

which they call wine (most of the inhabitants indeed call it

_wind_). Of what ingredients it is composed I cannot tell; but

you are not to conceive, as the word seems to import, that this is a

translation of our French word _vin_, a liquor made of the juice

of the grape; for I am very well assured there is not a drop of any

such juice in it. There must be many ingredients in this liquor, from

the many different tastes; some of which are sweet, others sour, and

others bitter; but though it appeared so nauseous to me and my friend,

that we could not swallow it, the English relish it very well; nay,

they will often drink a gallon of it at a sitting; and sometimes in

their cups (for it intoxicates) will wantonly give it the names of all

our best wines.

However, though we found nothing to eat or drink, we found something

to pay. I send you a copy of the bill produced us on this occasion, as

I think it a curiosity:

_s. d_.

For Bred and Bear 0 8

Eating 2 0

Wind 5 0

Watermen's Eating and Lickor 1 6

----

9 2

So that, with the drawer, we were at the expence of ten shillings;

though no Catholic ever kept an Ash-Wednesday better.

The drawers here may want some explanation. You must know then, that

in this country, in whatever house you eat or drink, whether private

or public, you are obliged to pay the servants a fee at your

departure, otherwise they certainly affront you.

These fees are called vails; and they serve instead of wages: for

though in private houses the master generally contracts with his

servant to give him wages, yet these are seldom or never paid; and

indeed the vails commonly amount to much more.

From Putnigh we crossed over to the other shore, where stands the fair

and beautiful town of Fullhome, vulgarly called Fulham. It is

principally remarkable for being the residence of a bishop; but a

large grove of trees prevented our seeing his palace from the water.

These two towns were founded by two sisters; and they received their

names from the following occasion. These ladies being on the Surry

shore, called for a boat to convey them across the water. The watermen

being somewhat lazy, and not coming near enough to the land, the lady

who had founded the town which stands in Surry, bid them _put

nigh;_ upon which her sister immediately cried out, "A good omen;

let _Putnigh_ be the name of the place." When they came to the

other side, she who had founded the other town, ordered the watermen

to push the boat _full home;_ her sister then returned the

favour, and gave the name of _Fullhome_ to the place.

Here stands a most stately and magnificent bridge. We enquired of the

watermen by whose benefaction this was built. "Benefaction, do you

call it?" says one of them with a sneer; "I heartily wish it had been

by mine; there hath been a fine parcel of money got by that

_job_;" a name which the English give to all works of a public

nature: for so grateful are these people, that nobody ever doth

anything for the public, but he is certain to make his fortune by it.

We now returned by the shore of Middlesex, and passed by several

beautiful meadows, where the new-mowed hay would have wonderfully

delighted our smell, had it not been for a great variety of dead dogs,

cats, and other animals, which being plentifully bestrewed along this

shore, a good deal abated the sweetness which must have otherwise

impregnated the air.

We at length arrived at Shelsee, a corruption of Shallowsee; for the

word shallow signifies empty, worthless. Thus a shallow purse and a

shallow fellow are words of contempt. This, formerly, was doubtless a

small bishoprick, and inferior to that on the other side of the water,

which was called Bettersee.

Here are many things worthy the curiosity of travellers. This place is

famous for the residence of Don Saltero, a Spanish nobleman, who hath

a vast collection of all sorts of rarities; but we had no time to see

them.

Here is likewise a walk called Paradise Row, from the delightful

situation, and the magnificent buildings with which it is adorned. We

had certainly gone on shore to admire the beauty of this walk; but

here being no landing-place, we must have spoiled our stockings by

stepping into the mud; and were besides informed that the road was so

abominably dirty that it would be difficult to cross, the rather, as

it seemed entirely stopped up by a great number of dust-carts.

A little farther stands an hospital, or rather a palace, for the

reception of old and wounded soldiers. A benefaction of so noble a

kind, that it really doth honour to the English nation. Here are some

very beautiful apartments, which they told us belonged to the

officers; a word which led us into a mistake, as we afterwards

discovered: for we imagined that these apartments were allotted to

those gentlemen who had borne commissions in the army, and who had, by

being disabled in the service, entitled themselves to the public

favour; but on farther enquiry, we were surprized to find there was no

provision at all for any such; and that these officers were a certain

number of placemen, who had never borne arms, nor had any military

merit whatever.

Beyond this stands Ranelagh, of which we shall say no more than that

it is a very large round room, and will contain abundance of

people. This is indeed a sufficient recommendation to the English, who

never inquire farther into the merit of any diversion, when they hear

it is very much frequented. A humour, of which we saw many instances:

all their publick places being either quite empty of company, or so

crouded, that we could hardly get to them.

Hence sailing by a shore where we saw little very remarkable, save

only the carcases of animals, which were here in much greater quantity

than we had before found them, we arrived at a place called Mill-Bank,

or Mile-Bank; and soon after we passed, as we were informed, by the

Senate-houses; but though we went within a few yards of them, we could

not discern with any certainty which were they.

Having again shot (as they call it) the New Bridge, we saw the palace

of a nobleman, who hath the honour to be a Duke of France as well as

of England, and the happiness to be greatly esteemed in both

countries.

Near this palace stands that of another Duke, who, among other great

and good qualities, is reputed the most benevolent man in the world.

A little further we saw the palace of an Earl, of a very high

character likewise among his countrymen; and who, in times of

corruption, hath maintained the integrity of an old Roman.

The palaces of these three noblemen, who do a real honour to their

high rank, and who are greatly beloved and respected by their country,

are extremely elegant in their buildings, as well as delightful in

their situation; and, to be sincere, are the only edifices that

discover any true taste which we saw in all our voyage.

We now approached to Hungerford-Stairs, the place destined for our

landing; where we were entertained with a sight very common, it seems,

in this country: this was the ducking of a pickpocket. When we were

first told this, we imagined it might be the execution of some legal

sentence: but we were informed, that his executioners had been

likewise his judges.

To give you some idea of this (for it is impossible for any one who

doth not live in what they call a free country, to have an adequate

notion of a mob) whenever a pickpocket is taken in the fact, the

person who takes him calls out "pickpocket." Upon which word, the mob,

who are always at hand in the street, assemble; and having heard the

accusation, and sometimes the defence (though they are not always very

strict as to the latter, judging a good deal by appearances), if they

believe the accuser, the prisoner is sentenced to be ducked; and this

sentence is immediately executed with such rigour, that he hardly

escapes with his life.

The mob take cognizance of all other misdemeanours which happen in the

streets, and they are a court, which generally endeavours to do

justice, though they sometimes err, by the hastiness of their

decisions. Perhaps it is the only court in the world, where there is

no partiality arising from respect of persons.

They are great enemies to the use of swords, as they are weapons with

which they are not intrusted. If a gentleman draws a sword, though it

be only _in terrorem_ to defend himself, he is certain to be very

severely treated by them; but they give great encouragement to their

superiors, who will condescend to shew their courage in the way which

the mob themselves use, by boxing, of which we shall presently shew

you an instance.

Our boat was now with some difficulty close to the landing-place; for

there was a great croud of boats, every one of which, instead of

making way for us, served to endeavour to keep us out. Upon this

occasion many hundred curses passed between our watermen and their

fellows, and not a few affronts were cast on us, especially as we were

drest after the manner of our country.

At last we arrived safe on shore, where we payed our watermen, who

grumbled at our not giving them something to drink (for all the

labouring people in this country apply their hire only to eatables,

for which reason they expect something over and above to drink).

As we walked towards the Strand, a drayman ran his whip directly into

my friend's face, perhaps with no design of doing this, but at the

same time, without any design of avoiding it. My friend, who is

impatient of an affront, immediately struck the carter with his fist,

who attempted to return the favour with his whip; but Monsieur

Bellair, who is extremely strong and active, and who hath learnt to

box in this country, presently closed in with him, and tript up his

heels.

The mob now assembled round us, and being pleased with my friend for

not having drawn his sword, inclined visibly to his side, and

commended many blows which he gave his adversary, and other feats of

activity, which he displayed during the combat, that lasted some

minutes; at the end of which, the drayman yielded up the victory,

crying with a sneer--"D---n you, you have been on the stage, or I am

mistaken."

The mob now gave a huzza in my friend's favour, and sufficiently

upbraided his antagonist, who, they said, was well enough served for

affronting a gentleman.

Monsieur Bellair had on the beginning of the scuffle, while the enemy

lay on the ground, delivered his sword to one of the bystanders; which

person had unluckily walked off in the croud, without remembering to

restore it.

Upon this the mob raged violently, and swore vengeance against the

thief, if he could be discovered; but as this could not be done, he

was obliged at length to submit to the loss.

When we began to depart, several of our friends demanded of us

something to drink; but as we were more out of humour with the loss,

than pleased with the glory obtained, we could not be prevailed upon

to open our purses.

The company were incensed with this. We were saluted with the titles

of _Mounshire_, and other contemptuous appellations; several

missile weapons, such as dirt, &c., began likewise to play on us, and

we were both challenged to fight by several, who told my friend,

though he beat the drayman, he was not above half a man.

We then made the best of our way, and soon escaped into a

Hackney-coach.

Thus I have sent you a particular account of this voyage, from some

parts of which you may perhaps conclude, that the meanest rank of

people are in this country better provided for than their superiors;

and that the gentry, at least those of the lower class of that order,

fare full as well in other places: for, to say the truth, it appears

to me, that an Englishman in that station is liable to be opprest by

all above him, and insulted by all below him.

I am, &c.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Miscellanies, Volume 2, by Henry Fielding