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Title: The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

Author: T. Smollett

Release date: April 1, 2000 [eBook #2160]
Most recently updated: October 15, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2160

Credits: Produced by Martin Adamson, Andreas Philipp, and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER ***

THE EXPEDITION OF
HUMPHRY CLINKER

by Tobias Smollett

CONTENTS

To Mr HENRY DAVIS, Bookseller, in London.
To the Revd. Mr JONATHAN DUSTWICH, at—
THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER
To Dr LEWIS.
To Mrs GWYLLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-hall.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Mrs JERMYN at her house in Gloucester.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Miss LYDIA MELFORD.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Miss LETTY WILLIS, at Gloucester
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.

To Dr LEWIS. BATH, April 23. DEAR DOCTOR,
To Miss WILLIS at Gloucester. BATH, April 26. MY DEAREST
COMPANION,
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Mrs GWYLLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-hall.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.

To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall, &c.
To Mrs GWYLLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-hall. MRS
GWYLLIM,
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. at Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.

To Dr LEWIS.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. at Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Mrs GWILLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-hall.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. at Oxon.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college, Oxon.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. at Oxon.
To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
To Mrs JERMYN, at her house in Gloucester.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
To Dr LEWIS.
To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. at Oxon.

To Dr LEWIS.
To Mrs GWYLLIM, at Brambleton-hall.
To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.

To Mr HENRY DAVIS, Bookseller, in London.
ABERGAVENNY, Aug. 4.

RESPECTED SIR,
I have received your esteemed favour of the 13th ultimo, whereby it
appeareth, that you have perused those same Letters, the which were
delivered unto you by my friend, the reverend Mr Hugo Behn; and I am
pleased to find you think they may be printed with a good prospect of
success; in as much as the objections you mention, I humbly conceive, are
such as may be redargued, if not entirely removed—And, first, in the first
place, as touching what prosecutions may arise from printing the private
correspondence of persons still living, give me leave, with all due
submission, to observe, that the Letters in question were not written and
sent under the seal of secrecy; that they have no tendency to the mala fama,
or prejudice of any person whatsoever; but rather to the information and
edification of mankind: so that it becometh a sort of duty to promulgate
them in usum publicum. Besides, I have consulted Mr Davy Higgins, an
eminent attorney of this place, who, after due inspection and consideration,
declareth, That he doth not think the said Letters contain any matter which
will be held actionable in the eye of the law. Finally, if you and I should
come to a right understanding, I do declare in verbo sacerdotis, that, in case
of any such prosecution, I will take the whole upon my own shoulders, even
quoad fine and imprisonment, though, I must confess, I should not care to
undergo flagellation: Tam ad turpitudinem, quam ad amaritudinem poenoe
spectans—Secondly, concerning the personal resentment of Mr Justice
Lismahago, I may say, non flocci facio—I would not willingly vilipend any
Christian, if, peradventure, he deserveth that epithet: albeit, I am much
surprised that more care is not taken to exclude from the commission all
such vagrant foreigners as may be justly suspected of disaffection to our
happy constitution, in church and state—God forbid that I should be so
uncharitable, as to affirm, positively, that the said Lismahago is no better
than a Jesuit in disguise; but this I will assert and maintain, totis viribus,

that, from the day he qualified, he has never been once seen intra templi
parietes, that is to say, within the parish church.
Thirdly, with respect to what passed at Mr Kendal’s table, when the said
Lismahago was so brutal in his reprehensions, I must inform you, my good
Sir, that I was obliged to retire, not by fear arising from his minatory
reproaches, which, as I said above, I value not of a rush; but from the
sudden effect produced, by a barbel’s row, which I had eaten at dinner, not
knowing, that the said row is at certain seasons violently cathartic, as Galen
observeth in his chapter Peri ichtos.
Fourthly, and lastly, with reference to the manner in which I got
possession of these Letters, it is a circumstance that concerns my own
conscience only; sufficeth it to say, I have fully satisfied the parties in
whose custody they were; and, by this time, I hope I have also satisfied you
in such ways, that the last hand may be put to our agreement, and the work
proceed with all convenient expedition; in which I hope I rest,
Respected Sir, Your very humble servant,
JONATHAN DUSTWICH.
P.S. I propose, Deo volente, to have the pleasure of seeing you in the
great city, towards All-hallowtide, when I shall be glad to treat with you
concerning a parcel of MS. sermons, of a certain clergyman deceased; a
cake of the right leaven, for the present taste of the public. Verbum sapienti,
&c.
J.D.

To the Revd. Mr JONATHAN DUSTWICH, at—
SIR,

I received yours in course of post, and shall be glad to treat with you for
the M.S. which I have delivered to your friend Mr Behn; but can by no
means comply with the terms proposed. Those things are so uncertain—
Writing is all a lottery—I have been a loser by the works of the greatest
men of the age—I could mention particulars, and name names; but don’t
choose it—The taste of the town is so changeable. Then there have been so
many letters upon travels lately published—What between Smollett’s,
Sharp’s, Derrick’s, Thicknesse’s, Baltimore’s, and Baretti’s, together with
Shandy’s Sentimental Travels, the public seems to be cloyed with that kind
of entertainment—Nevertheless, I will, if you please, run the risque of
printing and publishing, and you shall have half the profits of the
impression—You need not take the trouble to bring up your sermons on my
account—No body reads sermons but Methodists and Dissenters—Besides,
for my own part, I am quite a stranger to that sort of reading; and the two
persons, whose judgment I depended upon in those matters, are out of the
way; one is gone abroad, carpenter of a man of war; and the other, has been
silly enough to abscond, in order to avoid a prosecution for blasphemy—
I’m a great loser by his going off—He has left a manual of devotion half
finished on my hands, after having received money for the whole copy—He
was the soundest divine, and had the most orthodox pen of all my people;
and I never knew his judgment fail, but in flying from his bread and butter
on this occasion.
By owning you was not put in bodily fear by Lismahago, you preclude
yourself from the benefit of a good plea, over and above the advantage of
binding him over. In the late war, I inserted in my evening paper, a
paragraph that came by the post, reflecting upon the behaviour of a certain
regiment in battle. An officer of said regiment came to my shop, and, in the
presence of my wife and journeyman, threatened to cut off my ears—As I
exhibited marks of bodily fear more ways than one, to the conviction of the
byestanders, I bound him over; my action lay, and I recovered. As for

flagellation, you have nothing to fear, and nothing to hope, on that head—
There has been but one printer flogged at the cart’s tail these thirty years;
that was Charles Watson; and he assured me it was no more than a flea-bite.
C— S— has been threatened several times by the House of L—; but it
came to nothing. If an information should be moved for, and granted against
you, as the editor of those Letters, I hope you will have honesty and wit
enough to appear and take your trial—If you should be sentenced to the
pillory, your fortune is made—As times go, that’s a sure step to honour and
preferment. I shall think myself happy if I can lend you a lift; and am, very
sincerely,
Yours,
HENRY DAVIS. LONDON, Aug. 10th.
Please my kind service to your neighbour, my cousin Madoc—I have
sent an Almanack and Court-kalendar, directed for him at Mr Sutton’s,
bookseller, in Gloucester, carriage paid, which he will please to accept as a
small token of my regard. My wife, who is very fond of toasted cheese,
presents her compliments to him, and begs to know if there’s any of that
kind, which he was so good as to send us last Christmas, to be sold in
London.
H. D.

THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER

To Dr LEWIS.
DOCTOR,

The pills are good for nothing—I might as well swallow snowballs to
cool my reins—I have told you over and over how hard I am to move; and
at this time of day, I ought to know something of my own constitution. Why
will you be so positive? Prithee send me another prescription—I am as lame
and as much tortured in all my limbs as if I was broke upon the wheel:
indeed, I am equally distressed in mind and body—As if I had not plagues
enough of my own, those children of my sister are left me for a perpetual
source of vexation—what business have people to get children to plague
their neighbours? A ridiculous incident that happened yesterday to my niece
Liddy, has disordered me in such a manner, that I expect to be laid up with
another fit of the gout—perhaps, I may explain myself in my next. I shall
set out tomorrow morning for the Hot Well at Bristol, where I am afraid I
shall stay longer than I could wish. On the receipt of this send Williams
thither with my saddle-horse and the demi pique. Tell Barns to thresh out
the two old ricks, and send the corn to market, and sell it off to the poor at a
shilling a bushel under market price.—I have received a snivelling letter
from Griffin, offering to make a public submission and pay costs. I want
none of his submissions, neither will I pocket any of his money. The fellow
is a bad neighbour, and I desire, to have nothing to do with him: but as he is
purse-proud, he shall pay for his insolence: let him give five pounds to the
poor of the parish, and I will withdraw my action; and in the mean time you
may tell Prig to stop proceedings.—Let Morgan’s widow have the Alderney
cow, and forty shillings to clothe her children: but don’t say a syllable of the
matter to any living soul—I’ll make her pay when she is able. I desire you
will lock up all my drawers, and keep the keys till meeting; and be sure you
take the iron chest with my papers into your own custody—Forgive all, this
trouble from,
Dear Lewis, Your affectionate M. BRAMBLE GLOUCESTER, April 2.

To Mrs GWYLLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-
hall.
MRS GWILLIM,

When this cums to hand, be sure to pack up in the trunk male that stands
in my closet; to be sent me in the Bristol waggon without loss of time, the
following articles, viz. my rose collard neglejay with green robins, my
yellow damask, and my black velvets with the short hoop; my bloo quilted
petticot, my green mantel, my laced apron, my French commode, Macklin
head and lappets and the litel box with my jowls. Williams may bring over
my bum-daffee, and the viol with the easings of Dr Hill’s dockwater and
Chowder’s lacksitif. The poor creature has been terribly stuprated ever since
we left huom. Pray take particular care of the house while the family is
absent. Let there be a fire constantly kept in my brother’s chamber and
mine. The maids, having nothing to do, may be sat a spinning. I desire
you’ll clap a pad-luck on the wind-seller, and let none of the men have
excess to the strong bear—don’t forget to have the gate shit every evening
be dark—The gardnir and the hind may lie below in the landry, to partake
the house, with the blunderbuss and the great dog; and hope you’ll have a
watchful eye over the maids. I know that hussy Mary Jones, loves to be
rumping with the men. Let me know Alderney’s calf be sould yet, and what
he fought—if the ould goose be sitting; and if the cobler has cut Dicky, and
how pore anemil bore the operation. No more at present, but rests,
Yours, TABITHA BRAMBLE GLOSTAR, April 2.
TO Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
DEAR MOLLY,
Heaving this importunity, I send, my love to you and Saul, being in good
health, and hoping to hear the same from you; and that you and Saul will
take my poor kitten to bed with you this cold weather. We have been all in,
a sad taking here at Glostar—Miss Liddy had like to have run away with a
player-man, and young master and he would adone themselves a mischief;
but the squire applied to the mare, and they were, bound over.—Mistress

bid me not speak a word of the matter to any Christian soul—no more I
shall; for, we servints should see all and say nothing— But what was worse
than all this, Chowder has had the misfortune to be worried by a butcher’s
dog, and came home in a terrible pickle—Mistress was taken with the
asterisks, but they soon went off. The doctor was sent for to Chowder, and
he subscribed a repository which did him great service—thank God he’s
now in a fair way to do well—pray take care of my box and the pillyber and
put them under your own bed; for, I do suppose madam, Gwyllim will be a
prying into my secrets, now my back is turned. John Thomas is in good
health, but sulky. The squire gave away an ould coat to a poor man; and
John says as, how ‘tis robbing him of his perquisites.—I told him, by his
agreement he was to receive no vails; but he says as how there’s a
difference betwixt vails and perquisites; and so there is for sartain. We are
all going to the Hot Well, where I shall drink your health in a glass of water,
being,
Dear Molly, Your humble servant to command, W. JENKINS GLOSTAR,
April 2nd.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

As I have nothing more at heart than to convince you I am incapable of
forgetting, or neglecting the friendship I made at college, now begin that
correspondence by letters, which you and I agreed, at parting, to cultivate. I
begin it sooner than I intended, that you may have it in your power to refute
any idle reports which may be circulated to my prejudice at Oxford,
touching a foolish quarrel, in which I have been involved on account of my
sister, who had been some time settled here in a boarding-school. When I
came hither with my uncle and aunt (who are our guardians) to fetch her
away, I found her a fine tall girl, of seventeen, with an agreeable person; but
remarkably simple, and quite ignorant of the world. This disposition, and
want of experience, had exposed her to the addresses of a person—I know
not what to call him, who had seen her at a play; and, with a confidence and
dexterity peculiar to himself, found means to be recommended to her
acquaintance. It was by the greatest accident I intercepted one of his letters;
as it was my duty to stifle this correspondence in its birth, I made it my
business to find him out, and tell him very freely my sentiments of the
matter. The spark did not like the stile I used, and behaved with abundance
of mettle. Though his rank in life (which, by the bye, I am ashamed to
declare) did not entitle him to much deference; yet as his behaviour was
remarkably spirited, I admitted him to the privilege of a gentleman, and
something might have happened, had not we been prevented.—In short, the
business took air, I know not how, and made abundance of noise—recourse
was had to justice—I was obliged to give my word and honour, &c. and to-
morrow morning we set out for Bristol Wells, where I expect to hear from
you by the return of the post.—I have got into a family of originals, whom I
may one day attempt to describe for your amusement. My aunt, Mrs Tabitha
Bramble, is a maiden of forty-five, exceedingly starched, vain, and
ridiculous.—My uncle is an odd kind of humorist, always on the fret, and
so unpleasant in his manner, that rather than be obliged to keep him

company, I’d resign all claim to the inheritance of his estate. Indeed his
being tortured by the gout may have soured his temper, and, perhaps, I may
like him better on further acquaintance; certain it is, all his servants and
neighbours in the country are fond of him, even to a degree of enthusiasm,
the reason of which I cannot as yet comprehend. Remember me to Griffy
Price, Gwyn, Mansel, Basset, and all the rest of my old Cambrian
companions.—Salute the bedmaker in my name—give my service to the
cook, and pray take care of poor Ponto, for the sake of his old master, who
is, and ever will be,
Dear Phillips, Your affectionate friend, and humble servant, JER.
MELFORD GLOUCESTER, April 2.

To Mrs JERMYN at her house in Gloucester.
DEAR MADAM,

Having no mother of my own, I hope you will give me leave to disburden
my poor heart to you, who have always acted the part of a kind parent to
me, ever since I was put under your care. Indeed, and indeed, my worthy
governess may believe me, when I assure her, that I never harboured a
thought that was otherwise than virtuous; and, if God will give me grace, I
shall never behave so as to cast a reflection on the care you have taken in
my education. I confess I have given just cause of offence by my want of
prudence and experience. I ought not to have listened to what the young
man said; and it was my duty to have told you all that passed, but I was
ashamed to mention it; and then he behaved so modest and respectful, and
seemed to be so melancholy and timorous, that I could not find in my heart
to do any thing that should make him miserable and desperate. As for
familiarities, I do declare, I never once allowed him the favour of a: salute;
and as to the few letters that passed between us, they are all in my uncle’s
hands, and I hope they contain nothing contrary to innocence and honour.—
I am still persuaded that he is not what he appears to be: but time will
discover—mean while I will endeavour to forget a connexion, which is so
displeasing to my family. I have cried without ceasing, and have not tasted
any thing but tea, since I was hurried away from you; nor did I once close
my eyes for three nights running.—My aunt continues to chide me severely
when we are by ourselves; but I hope to soften her in time, by humility and
submission.—My uncle, who was so dreadfully passionate in the beginning,
has been moved by my tears and distress; and is now all tenderness and
compassion; and my brother is reconciled to me on my promise to break off
all correspondence with that unfortunate youth; but, notwithstanding all
their indulgence, I shall have no peace of mind till I know my dear and ever
honoured governess has forgiven her poor, disconsolate, forlorn,
Affectionate humble servant, till death, LYDIA MELFORD CLIFTON,
April 6.

To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
MY DEAREST LETTY,

I am in such a fright, lest this should not come safe to hand by the
conveyance of Jarvis the carrier, that I beg you will write me, on the receipt
of it, directing to me, under cover, to Mrs Winifred Jenkins, my aunt’s maid,
who is a good girl, and has been so kind to me in my affliction, that I have
made her my confidant; as for Jarvis, he was very shy of taking charge of
my letter and the little parcel, because his sister Sally had like to have lost
her place on my account: indeed I cannot blame the man for his caution; but
I have made it worth his while.—My dear companion and bed-fellow, it is a
grievous addition to my other misfortunes, that I am deprived of your
agreeable company and conversation, at a time when I need so much the
comfort of your good humour and good sense; but, I hope, the friendship
we contracted at boarding-school, will last for life—I doubt not but on my
side it will daily increase and improve, as I gain experience, and learn to
know the value of a true friend. O, my dear Letty! what shall I say about
poor Mr Wilson? I have promised to break off all correspondence, and, if
possible, to forget him: but, alas! I begin to perceive that will not be in my
power. As it is by no means proper that the picture should remain in my
hands, lest it should be the occasion of more mischief, I have sent it to you
by this opportunity, begging you will either keep it safe till better times, or
return it to Mr Wilson himself, who, I suppose, will make it his business to
see you at the usual place. If he should be low-spirited at my sending back
his picture, you may tell him I have no occasion for a picture, while the
original continues engraved on my—But no; I would not have you tell him
that neither; because there must be an end of our correspondence—I wish
he may forget me, for the sake of his own peace; and yet if he should, he
must be a barbarous—But it is impossible—poor Wilson cannot be false
and inconstant: I beseech him not to write to me, nor attempt to see me for
some time; for, considering the resentment and passionate temper of my
brother Jery, such an attempt might be attended with consequences which
would make us all miserable for life—let us trust to time and the chapter of

accidents; or rather to that Providence which will not fail, sooner or later, to
reward those that walk in the paths of honour and virtue. I would offer my
love to the young ladies; but it is not fit that any of them should know you
have received this letter.—If we go to Bath, I shall send you my simple
remarks upon that famous center of polite amusement, and every other
place we may chance to visit; and I flatter myself that my dear Miss Willis
will be punctual in answering the letters of her affectionate,
LYDIA MELFORD CLIFTON, April 6.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR LEWIS,

I have followed your directions with some success, and might have been
upon my legs by this time, had the weather permitted me to use my saddle-
horse. I rode out upon the Downs last Tuesday, in the forenoon, when the
sky, as far as the visible horizon, was without a cloud; but before I had gone
a full mile, I was overtaken instantaneously by a storm of rain that wet me
to the skin in three minutes—whence it came the devil knows; but it has
laid me up (I suppose) for one fortnight. It makes me sick to hear people
talk of the fine air upon Clifton-downs: How can the air be either agreeable
or salutary, where the demon of vapours descends in a perpetual drizzle?
My confinement is the more intolerable, as I am surrounded with domestic
vexations. My niece has had a dangerous fit of illness, occasioned by that
cursed incident at Gloucester, which I mentioned in my last.—She is a poor
good-natured simpleton, as soft as butter, and as easily melted—not that
she’s a fool—the girl’s parts are not despicable, and her education has not
been neglected; that is to say, she can write and spell, and speak French, and
play upon the harpsichord; then she dances finely, has a good figure, and is
very well inclined; but, she’s deficient in spirit, and so susceptible—and so
tender forsooth!—truly, she has got a languishing eye, and reads romances.
—Then there’s her brother, ‘squire Jery, a pert jackanapes, full of college-
petulance and self-conceit; proud as a German count, and as hot and hasty
as a Welch mountaineer. As for that fantastical animal, my sister Tabby, you
are no stranger to her qualifications—I vow to God, she is sometimes so
intolerable, that I almost think she’s the devil incarnate come to torment me
for my sins; and yet I am conscious of no sins that ought to entail such
family-plagues upon me—why the devil should not I shake off these
torments at once? I an’t married to Tabby, thank Heaven! nor did I beget the
other two: let them choose another guardian: for my part I an’t in a
condition to take care of myself; much less to superintend the conduct of
giddy-headed boys and girls. You earnestly desire to know the particulars of
our adventure at Gloucester, which are briefly these, and I hope they will go

no further:—Liddy had been so long copped up in a boarding-school,
which, next to a nunnery, is the worst kind of seminary that ever was
contrived for young women, that she became as inflammable as touch-
wood; and going to a play in holiday-time,—‘sdeath, I’m ashamed to tell
you! she fell in love with one of the actors—a handsome young fellow that
goes by the name of Wilson. The rascal soon perceived the impression he
had made, and managed matters so as to see her at a house where she went
to drink tea with her governess.—This was the beginning of a
correspondence, which they kept up by means of a jade of a milliner, who
made and dressed caps for the girls at the boarding-school. When we
arrived at Gloucester, Liddy came to stay at lodgings with her aunt, and
Wilson bribed the maid to deliver a letter into her own hands; but it seems
Jery had already acquired so much credit with the maid (by what means he
best knows) that she carried the letter to him, and so the whole plot was
discovered. The rash boy, without saying a word of the matter to me, went
immediately in search of Wilson; and, I suppose, treated him with insolence
enough. The theatrical hero was too far gone in romance to brook such
usage: he replied in blank verse, and a formal challenge ensued. They
agreed to meet early next morning and decide the dispute with sword and
pistol. I heard nothing at all of the affair, till Mr Morley came to my bed-
side in the morning, and told me he was afraid my nephew was going to
fight, as he had been overheard talking very loud and vehement with Wilson
at the young man’s lodgings the night before, and afterwards went and
bought powder and ball at a shop in the neighbourhood. I got up
immediately, and upon inquiry found he was just going out. I begged
Morley to knock up the mayor, that he might interpose as a magistrate, and
in the mean time I hobbled after the squire, whom I saw at a distance
walking at a great pace towards the city gate—in spite of all my efforts, I
could not come up till our two combatants had taken their ground, and were
priming their pistols. An old house luckily screened me from their view; so
that I rushed upon them at once, before I was perceived. They were both
confounded, and attempted to make their escape different ways; but Morley
coming up with constables, at that instant, took Wilson into custody, and
Jery followed him quietly to the mayor’s house. All this time I was ignorant
of what had passed the preceding day; and neither of the parties would
discover a tittle of the matter. The mayor observed that it was great
presumption in Wilson, who was a stroller, to proceed to such extremities

with a gentleman of family and fortune; and threatened to commit him on
the vagrant act.—The young fellow bustled up with great spirit, declaring
he was a gentleman, and would be treated as such; but he refused to explain
himself further. The master of the company being sent for, and examined,
touching the said Wilson, said the young man had engaged with him at
Birmingham about six months ago; but never would take his salary; that he
had behaved so well in his private character, as to acquire the respect and
good-will of all his acquaintance, and that the public owned his merit as an
actor was altogether extraordinary.—After all, I fancy, he will turn out to be
a run-away prentice from London.—The manager offered to bail him for
any sum, provided he would give his word and honour that he would keep
the peace; but the young gentleman was on his high ropes, and would by no
means lay himself under any restrictions: on the other hand, Hopeful was
equally obstinate; till at length the mayor declared, that if they both refused
to be bound over, he would immediately commit Wilson as a vagrant to
hard labour. I own I was much pleased with Jery’s behaviour on this
occasion: he said, that rather than Mr Wilson should be treated in such an
ignominious manner, he would give his word and honour to prosecute the
affair no further while they remained at Gloucester—Wilson thanked him
for his generous manner of proceeding, and was discharged. On our return
to our lodgings, my nephew explained the whole mystery; and I own I was
exceedingly incensed—Liddy being questioned on the subject, and very
severely reproached by that wildcat my sister Tabby, first swooned away,
then dissolving in a flood of tears, confessed all the particulars of the
correspondence, at the same time giving up three letters, which was all she
had received from her admirer. The last, which Jery intercepted, I send you
inclosed, and when you have read it, I dare say you won’t wonder at the
progress the writer had made in the heart of a simple girl, utterly
unacquainted with the characters of mankind. Thinking it was high time to
remove her from such a dangerous connexion, I carried her off the very next
day to Bristol; but the poor creature was so frightened and fluttered, by our
threats and expostulations, that she fell sick the fourth day after our arrival
at Clifton, and continued so ill for a whole week, that her life was despaired
of. It was not till yesterday that Dr Rigge declared her out of danger. You
cannot imagine what I have suffered, partly from the indiscretion of this
poor child, but much more from the fear of losing her entirely. This air is
intolerably cold, and the place quite solitary—I never go down to the Well

without returning low-spirited; for there I meet with half a dozen poor
emaciated creatures, with ghostly looks, in the last stage of a consumption,
who have made shift to linger through the winter like so many exotic plants
languishing in a hot-house; but in all appearance, will drop into their graves
before the sun has warmth enough to mitigate the rigour of this ungenial
spring.—If you think the Bath-water will be of any service to me, I will go
thither so soon as my niece can bear the motion of the coach. Tell Barns I
am obliged to him for his advice; but don’t choose to follow it. If Davis
voluntarily offers to give up the farm, the other shall have it; but I will not
begin at this time of day to distress my tenants, because they are
unfortunate, and cannot make regular payments: I wonder that Barns should
think me capable of such oppression—As for Higgins, the fellow is a
notorious poacher, to be sure; and an impudent rascal to set his snares in my
own paddock; but, I suppose, he thought he had some right (especially in
my absence) to partake of what nature seems to have intended for common
use—you may threaten him in my name, as much as you please, and if he
repeats the offence, let me know it before you have recourse to justice.—I
know you are a great sportsman, and oblige many of your friends: I need
not tell you to make use of my grounds; but it may be necessary to hint, that
I am more afraid of my fowling-piece than of my game. When you can
spare two or three brace of partridges, send them over by the stagecoach,
and tell Gwyllim that she forgot to pack up my flannel and wide shoes in
the trunk-mail—I shall trouble you as usual, from time to time, till at last I
suppose you will be tired of corresponding with
Your assured friend, M. BRAMBLE CLIFTON, April 17.

To Miss LYDIA MELFORD.
Miss Willis has pronounced my doom—you are going away, dear Miss
Melford!—you are going to be removed, I know not whither! what shall I
do? which way shall I turn for consolation? I know not what I say—all
night long have I been tossed in a sea of doubts and fears, uncertainty and
distraction, without being able to connect my thoughts, much less to form
any consistent plan of conduct—I was even tempted to wish that I had
never seen you; or that you had been less amiable, or less compassionate to
your poor Wilson; and yet it would be detestable ingratitude in me to form
such a wish, considering how much I am indebted to your goodness, and the
ineffable pleasure I have derived from your indulgence and approbation—
Good God! I never heard your name mentioned without emotion! the most
distant prospect of being admitted to your company, filled my whole soul
with a kind of pleasing alarm! as the time approached, my heart beat with
redoubled force, and every nerve thrilled with a transport of expectation;
but, when I found myself actually in your presence;—when I heard you
speak;—when I saw you smile; when I beheld your charming eyes turned
favourably upon me; my breast was filled with such tumults of delight, as
wholly deprived me of the power of utterance, and wrapt me in a delirium
of joy!—encouraged by your sweetness of temper and affability, I ventured
to describe the feelings of my heart—even then you did not check my
presumption—you pitied my sufferings and gave me leave to hope you put
a favourable—perhaps too favourable a construction, on my appearance—
certain it is, I am no player in love—I speak the language of my own heart;
and have no prompter but nature. Yet there is something in this heart, which
I have not yet disclosed.—I flattered myself—But, I will not—I must not
proceed. Dear Miss Liddy! for Heaven’s sake, contrive, if possible, some
means of letting me speak to you before you leave Gloucester; otherwise, I
know not what will—But I begin to rave again.—I will endeavour to bear
this trial with fortitude—while I am capable of reflecting upon your
tenderness and truth, I surely have no cause to despair—a cloud hangs over
me, and there is a dreadful weight upon my spirits! While you stay in this
place, I shall continually hover about your lodgings, as the parted soul is

said to linger about the grave where its mortal comfort lies.—I know, if it is
in your power, you will task your humanity—your compassion—shall I
add, your affection?—in order to assuage the almost intolerable disquiet
that torments the heart of your afflicted,
WILSON GLOUCESTER, March 31.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
HOT WELL, April 18.

DEAR PHILLIPS,
I give Mansel credit for his invention, in propagating the report that I had
a quarrel with a mountebank’s merry Andrew at Gloucester: but I have too
much respect for every appendage of wit, to quarrel even with the lowest
buffoonery; and therefore I hope Mansel and I shall always be good friends.
I cannot, however, approve of his drowning my poor dog Ponto, on purpose
to convert Ovid’s pleonasm into a punning epitaph,—deerant quoque
Littora Ponto: for, that he threw him into the Isis, when it was so high and
impetuous, with no other view than to kill the fleas, is an excuse that will
not hold water—But I leave poor Ponto to his fate, and hope Providence
will take care to accommodate Mansel with a drier death.
As there is nothing that can be called company at the Well, I am here in a
state of absolute rustication: This, however, gives me leisure to observe the
singularities in my uncle’s character, which seems to have interested your
curiosity. The truth is, his disposition and mine, which, like oil and vinegar,
repelled one another at first, have now begun to mix by dint of being beat
up together. I was once apt to believe him a complete Cynic; and that
nothing but the necessity of his occasions could compel him to get within
the pale of society—I am now of another opinion. I think his peevishness
arises partly from bodily pain, and partly from a natural excess of mental
sensibility; for, I suppose, the mind as well as the body, is in some cases
endued with a morbid excess of sensation.
I was t’other day much diverted with a conversation that passed in the
Pump-room, betwixt him and the famous Dr L—n, who is come to ply at
the Well for patients. My uncle was complaining of the stink, occasioned by
the vast quantity of mud and slime which the river leaves at low ebb under
the windows of the Pumproom. He observed, that the exhalations arising
from such a nuisance, could not but be prejudicial to the weak lungs of

many consumptive patients, who came to drink the water. The Doctor
overhearing this remark, made up to him, and assured him he was mistaken.
He said, people in general were so misled by vulgar prejudices that
philosophy was hardly sufficient to undeceive them. Then humming thrice,
he assumed a most ridiculous solemnity of aspect, and entered into a
learned investigation of the nature of stink. He observed, that stink, or
stench, meant no more than a strong impression on the olfactory nerves; and
might be applied to substances of the most opposite qualities; that in the
Dutch language, stinken signifies the most agreeable perfume, as well as the
most fetid odour, as appears in Van Vloudel’s translation of Horace, in that
beautiful ode, Quis multa gracilis, &c.—The words fiquidis perfusus
odoribus, he translates van civet & moschata gestinken: that individuals
differed toto coelo in their opinion of smells, which, indeed, was altogether
as arbitrary as the opinion of beauty; that the French were pleased with the
putrid effluvia of animal food; and so were the Hottentots in Africa, and the
Savages in Greenland; and that the Negroes on the coast of Senegal would
not touch fish till it was rotten; strong presumptions in favour of what is
generally called stink, as those nations are in a state of nature, undebauched
by luxury, unseduced by whim and caprice: that he had reason to believe
the stercoraceous flavour, condemned by prejudice as a stink, was, in fact,
most agreeable to the organs of smelling; for, that every person who
pretended to nauseate the smell of another’s excretions, snuffed up his own
with particular complacency; for the truth of which he appealed to all the
ladies and gentlemen then present: he said, the inhabitants of Madrid and
Edinburgh found particular satisfaction in breathing their own atmosphere,
which was always impregnated with stercoraceous effluvia: that the learned
Dr B—, in his treatise on the Four Digestions, explains in what manner the
volatile effluvia from the intestines stimulate and promote the operations of
the animal economy: he affirmed, the last Grand Duke of Tuscany, of the
Medicis family, who refined upon sensuality with the spirit of a
philosopher, was so delighted with that odour, that he caused the essence of
ordure to be extracted, and used it as the most delicious perfume: that he
himself (the doctor) when he happened to be low-spirited, or fatigued with
business, found immediate relief and uncommon satisfaction from hanging
over the stale contents of a close-stool, while his servant stirred it about
under his nose; nor was this effect to be wondered at, when we consider that
this substance abounds with the self-same volatile salts that are so greedily

smelled to by the most delicate invalids, after they have been extracted and
sublimed by the chemists.—By this time the company began to hold their
noses; but the doctor, without taking the least notice of this signal,
proceeded to shew, that many fetid substances were not only agreeable but
salutary; such as assa foetida, and other medicinal gums, resins, roots, and
vegetables, over and above burnt feathers, tan-pits, candle-snuffs, &c. In
short, he used many learned arguments to persuade his audience out of their
senses; and from stench made a transition to filth, which he affirmed was
also a mistaken idea, in as much as objects so called, were no other than
certain modifications of matter, consisting of the same principles that enter
into the composition of all created essences, whatever they may be: that in
the filthiest production of nature, a philosopher considered nothing but the
earth, water, salt and air, of which it was compounded; that, for his own
part, he had no more objections to drinking the dirtiest ditch-water, than he
had to a glass of water from the Hot Well, provided he was assured there
was nothing poisonous in the concrete. Then addressing himself to my
uncle, ‘Sir (said he) you seem to be of a dropsical habit, and probably will
soon have a confirmed ascites: if I should be present when you are tapped, I
will give you a convincing proof of what I assert, by drinking without
hesitation the water that comes out of your abdomen.’—The ladies made
wry faces at this declaration, and my uncle, changing colour, told him he
did not desire any such proof of his philosophy: ‘But I should be glad to
know (said he) what makes you think I am of a dropsical habit?’ ‘Sir, I beg
pardon (replied the Doctor) I perceive your ancles are swelled, and you
seem to have the facies leucophlegmatica. Perhaps, indeed, your disorder
may be oedematous, or gouty, or it may be the lues venerea: If you have any
reason to flatter yourself it is this last, sir, I will undertake to cure you with
three small pills, even if the disease should have attained its utmost
inveteracy. Sir, it is an arcanum, which I have discovered, and prepared
with infinite labour.—Sir, I have lately cured a woman in Bristol—a
common prostitute, sir, who had got all the worst symptoms of the disorder;
such as nodi, tophi, and gummata, verruca, cristoe Galli, and a serpiginous
eruption, or rather a pocky itch all over her body. By the time she had taken
the second pill, sir, by Heaven! she was as smooth as my hand, and the third
made her sound and as fresh as a new born infant.’ ‘Sir (cried my uncle
peevishly) I have no reason to flatter myself that my disorder comes within
the efficacy of your nostrum. But this patient you talk of may not be so

sound at bottom as you imagine.’ ‘I can’t possibly be mistaken (rejoined the
philosopher) for I have had communication with her three times—I always
ascertain my cures in that manner.’ At this remark, all the ladies retired to
another corner of the room, and some of them began to spit.—As to my
uncle, though he was ruffled at first by the doctor’s saying he was dropsical,
he could not help smiling at this ridiculous confession and, I suppose, with
a view to punish this original, told him there was a wart upon his nose, that
looked a little suspicious. ‘I don’t pretend to be a judge of those matters
(said he) but I understand that warts are often produced by the distemper;
and that one upon your nose seems to have taken possession of the very
keystone of the bridge, which I hope is in no danger of falling.’ L—n
seemed a little confounded at this remark, and assured him it was nothing
but a common excrescence of the cuticula, but that the bones were all sound
below; for the truth of this assertion he appealed to the touch, desiring he
would feel the part. My uncle said it was a matter of such delicacy to
meddle with a gentleman’s nose, that he declined the office—upon which,
the Doctor turning to me, intreated me to do him that favour. I complied
with his request, and handled it so roughly, that he sneezed, and the tears
ran down his cheeks, to the no small entertainment of the company, and
particularly of my uncle, who burst out a-laughing for the first time since I
have been with him; and took notice, that the part seemed to be very tender.
‘Sir (cried the Doctor) it is naturally a tender part; but to remove all
possibility of doubt, I will take off the wart this very night.’
So saying, he bowed, with great solemnity all round, and retired to his
own lodgings, where he applied a caustic to the wart; but it spread in such a
manner as to produce a considerable inflammation, attended with an
enormous swelling; so that when he next appeared, his whole face was
overshadowed by this tremendous nozzle; and the rueful eagerness with
which he explained this unlucky accident, was ludicrous beyond all
description.—I was much pleased with meeting the original of a character,
which you and I have often laughed at in description; and what surprises me
very much, I find the features in the picture, which has been drawn for him,
rather softened than over-charged.
As I have something else to say; and this letter has run to an
unconscionable length, I shall now give you a little respite, and trouble you
again by the very first post. I wish you would take it in your head to
retaliate these double strokes upon

Yours always, J. MELFORD

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
HOT WELL, April 20.

DEAR KNIGHT,
I now sit down to execute the threat in the tail of my last. The truth is, I
am big with the secret, and long to be delivered. It relates to my guardian,
who, you know, is at present our principal object in view.
T’other day, I thought I had detected him in such a state of frailty, as
would but ill become his years and character. There is a decent sort of
woman, not disagreeable in her person, that comes to the Well, with a poor
emaciated child, far gone in a consumption. I had caught my uncle’s eyes
several times directed to this person, with a very suspicious expression in
them, and every time he saw himself observed, he hastily withdrew them,
with evident marks of confusion—I resolved to watch him more narrowly,
and saw him speaking to her privately in a corner of the walk. At length,
going down to the Well one day, I met her half way up the hill to Clifton,
and could not help suspecting she was going to our lodgings by
appointment, as it was about one o’clock, the hour when my sister and I are
generally at the Pump-room.—This notion exciting my curiosity, I returned
by a back-way, and got unperceived into my own chamber, which is
contiguous to my uncle’s apartment. Sure enough, the woman was
introduced but not into his bedchamber; he gave her audience in a parlour;
so that I was obliged to shift my station to another room, where, however,
there was a small chink in the partition, through which I could perceive
what passed. My uncle, though a little lame, rose up when she came in, and
setting a chair for her, desired she would sit down: then he asked if she
would take a dish of chocolate, which she declined, with much
acknowledgment. After a short pause, he said, in a croaking tone of voice,
which confounded me not a little, ‘Madam, I am truly concerned for your
misfortunes; and if this trifle can be of any service to you, I beg you will
accept it without ceremony.’ So saying, he put a bit of paper into her hand,

which she opening with great trepidation, exclaimed in an extacy, ‘Twenty
pounds! Oh, sir!’ and sinking down upon a settee, fainted away—
Frightened at this fit, and, I suppose, afraid of calling for assistance, lest her
situation should give rise to unfavourable conjectures, he ran about the
room in distraction, making frightful grimaces; and, at length, had
recollection enough to throw a little water in her face; by which application
she was brought to herself: but, then her feeling took another turn. She shed
a flood of tears, and cried aloud, ‘I know not who you are: but, sure—
worthy sir—generous sir!—the distress of me and my poor dying child—
Oh! if the widow’s prayers—if the orphan’s tears of gratitude can ought
avail—gracious Providence—Blessings!—shower down eternal
blessings.’—Here she was interrupted by my uncle, who muttered in a
voice still more and more discordant, ‘For Heaven’s sake be quiet, madam
—consider—the people of the house—‘sdeath! can’t you.’—All this time
she was struggling to throw herself on her knees, while he seizing her by
the wrists, endeavoured to seat her upon the settee, saying, ‘Prithee—good
now—hold your tongue’—At that instant, who should burst into—the room
but our aunt Tabby! of all antiquated maidens the most diabolically
capricious—Ever prying into other people’s affairs, she had seen the
woman enter, and followed her to the door, where she stood listening, but
probably could hear nothing distinctly, except my uncle’s, last exclamation;
at which she bounded into the parlour in a violent rage, that dyed the tip of
her nose of a purple hue,—‘Fy upon you, Matt! (cried she) what doings are
these, to disgrace your own character, and disparage your family?’—Then,
snatching the bank note out of the stranger’s hand, she went on—‘How
now, twenty pounds!—here is temptation with a witness!—Good-woman,
go about your business—Brother, brother, I know not which most to
admire; your concupissins, or your extravagance!’—‘Good God (exclaimed
the poor woman) shall a worthy gentleman’s character suffer for an action
that does honour to humanity?’ By this time, uncle’s indignation was
effectually roused. His face grew pale, his teeth chattered, and his eyes
flashed—‘Sister (cried he, in a voice like thunder) I vow to God, your
impertinence is exceedingly provoking.’ With these words, he took her by
the hand, and, opening the door of communication, thrust her into the
chamber where I stood, so affected by the scene, that the tears ran down my
cheeks. Observing these marks of emotion, ‘I don’t wonder (said she) to see
you concerned at the back-slidings of so near a relation; a man of his years

and infirmities: These are fine doings, truly—This is a rare example, set by
a guardian, for the benefit of his pupils—Monstrous! incongruous!
sophistical!’—I thought it was but an act of justice to set her to rights; and
therefore explained the mystery. But she would not be undeceived, ‘What
(said she) would you go for to offer for to arguefy me out of my senses?
Did’n’t I hear him whispering to her to hold her tongue? Did’n’t I see her in
tears? Did’n’t I see him struggling to throw her upon the couch? 0 filthy!
hideous! abominable! Child, child, talk not to me of charity.—Who gives
twenty pounds in charity?—But you are a stripling—You know nothing of
the world. Besides, charity begins at home—Twenty pounds would buy me
a complete suit of flowered silk, trimmings and all—’ In short, I quitted the
room, my contempt for her, and my respect for her brother, being increased
in the same proportion. I have since been informed, that the person, whom
my uncle so generously relieved, is the widow of an ensign, who has
nothing to depend upon but the pension of fifteen pounds a year. The people
of the Well-house give her an excellent character. She lodges in a garret,
and works very hard at plain work, to support her daughter, who is dying of
a consumption. I must own, to my shame, I feel a strong inclination to
follow my uncle’s example, in relieving this poor widow; but, betwixt
friends, I am afraid of being detected in a weakness, that might entail the
ridicule of the company, upon,
Dear Phillips, Yours always, J. MELFORD
Direct your next to me at Bath; and remember me to all our fellow-
jesuits.

To Dr LEWIS.
HOT WELL, April 20.

I understand your hint. There are mysteries in physic, as well as in
religion; which we of the profane have no right to investigate—A man must
not presume to use his reason, unless he has studied the categories, and can
chop logic by mode and figure—Between friends, I think every man of
tolerable parts ought, at my time of day, to be both physician and lawyer, as
far as his own constitution and property are concerned. For my own part, I
have had an hospital these fourteen years within myself, and studied my
own case with the most painful attention; consequently may be supposed to
know something of the matter, although I have not taken regular courses of
physiology et cetera et cetera.— In short, I have for some time been of
opinion (no offence, dear Doctor) that the sum of all your medical
discoveries amounts to this, that the more you study the less you know.—I
have read all that has been written on the Hot Wells, and what I can collect
from the whole, is, that the water contains nothing but a little salt, and
calcarious earth, mixed in such inconsiderable proportion, as can have very
little, if any, effect on the animal economy. This being the case, I think the
man deserves to be fitted with a cap and bells, who for such a paultry
advantage as this spring affords, sacrifices his precious time, which might
be employed in taking more effectual remedies, and exposes himself to the
dirt, the stench, the chilling blasts, and perpetual rains, that render this place
to me intolerable. If these waters, from a small degree of astringency, are of
some service in the diabetes, diarrhoea, and night sweats, when the
secretions are too much increased, must not they do harm in the same
proportion, where the humours are obstructed, as in the asthma, scurvy,
gout and dropsy?—Now we talk of the dropsy, here is a strange fantastical
oddity, one of your brethren, who harangues every day in the Pump-room,
as if he was hired to give lectures on all subjects whatsoever—I know not
what to make of him—Sometimes he makes shrewd remarks; at other times
he talks like the greatest simpleton in nature—He has read a great deal; but
without method or judgment, and digested nothing. He believes every thing

he has read; especially if it has any thing of the marvellous in it and his
conversation is a surprizing hotch-potch of erudition and extravagance. He
told me t’other day, with great confidence, that my case was dropsical; or,
as he called it, leucophlegmatic: A sure sign, that his want of experience is
equal to his presumption—for, you know, there is nothing analogous to the
dropsy in my disorder—I wish those impertinent fellows, with their ricketty
understandings, would keep their advice for those that ask it. Dropsy,
indeed! Sure I have not lived to the age of fifty-five, and had such
experience of my own disorder, and consulted you and other eminent
physicians, so often, and so long, to be undeceived by such a—But, without
all doubt, the man is mad; and, therefore, what he says is of no
consequence. I had, yesterday, a visit from Higgins, who came hither under
the terror of your threats, and brought me in a present a brace of hares,
which he owned he took in my ground; and I could not persuade the fellow
that he did wrong, or that I would ever prosecute him for poaching—I must
desire you will wink hard at the practices of this rascallion, otherwise I shall
be plagued with his presents, which cost me more than they are worth.—If I
could wonder at any thing Fitzowen does, I should be surprized at his
assurance in desiring you to solicit my vote for him at the next election for
the county: for him, who opposed me, on the like occasion, with the most
illiberal competition. You may tell him civilly, that I beg to be excused.
Direct your next for me at Bath, whither I propose to remove to-morrow;
not only on my own account, but for the sake of my niece, Liddy, who is
like to relapse. The poor creature fell into a fit yesterday, while I was
cheapening a pair of spectacles, with a Jew-pedlar. I am afraid there is
something still lurking in that little heart of hers, which I hope a change of
objects will remove. Let me know what you think of this half-witted
Doctor’s impertinent, ridiculous, and absurd notion of my disorder—So far
from being dropsical, I am as lank in the belly as a grey-hound; and, by
measuring my ancle with a pack-thread, I find the swelling subsides every
day. From such doctors, good Lord deliver us!—I have not yet taken any
lodgings in Bath; because there we can be accommodated at a minute’s
warning, and I shall choose for myself—I need not say your directions for
drinking and bathing will be agreeable to,
Dear Lewis, Yours ever, MAT. BRAMBLE
P.S. I forgot to tell you, that my right ancle pits, a symptom, as I take it,
of its being oedematous, not leucophlegmatic.

To Miss LETTY WILLIS, at Gloucester
HOT WELL, April 21.

MY DEAR LETTY,
I did not intend to trouble you again, till we should be settled at Bath; but
having the occasion of Jarvis, I could not let it slip, especially as I have
something extraordinary to communicate. O, my dear companion! What
shall I tell you? for several days past there was a Jew-looking man, that
plied at the Wells with a box of spectacles; and he always eyed me so
earnestly, that I began to be very uneasy. At last, he came to our lodgings at
Clifton, and lingered about the door, as if he wanted to speak to somebody
—I was seized with an odd kind of fluttering, and begged Win to throw
herself in his way: but the poor girl has weak nerves, and was afraid of his
beard. My uncle, having occasion for new glasses, called him up stairs, and
was trying a pair of spectacles, when the man, advancing to me, said in a
whisper—O gracious! what d’ye think he said?—‘I am Wilson!’ His
features struck me that very moment it was Wilson, sure enough! but so
disguised, that it would have been impossible to know him, if my heart had
not assisted in the discovery. I was so surprised, and so frightened that I
fainted away, but soon recovered; and found myself supported by him on
the chair, while my uncle was running about the room, with the spectacles
on his nose, calling for help. I had no opportunity to speak to him; but looks
were sufficiently expressive. He was payed for his glasses, and went away.
Then I told Win who he was, and sent her after him to the Pump-room;
where she spoke to him, and begged him in my name to withdraw from the
place, that he might not incur the suspicion of my uncle or my brother, if he
did not want to see me die of terror and vexation. The poor youth declared,
with tears in his eyes, that he had something extraordinary to communicate;
and asked, if she would deliver a letter to me: but this she absolutely
refused, by my order.—Finding her obstinate in her refusal, he desired she
would tell me that he was no longer a player, but a gentleman; in which
character he would very soon avow his passion for me, without fear of
censure or reproach—Nay, he even discovered his name and family, which,

to my great grief, the simple girl forgot, in the confusion occasioned by her
being seen talking to him by my brother, who stopt her on the road, and
asked what business she had with that rascally Jew. She pretended she was
cheapening a stay-hook, but was thrown into such a quandary, that she
forgot the most material part of the information; and when she came home,
went into an hysteric fit of laughing. This transaction happened three days
ago, during which he has not appeared, so that I suppose he has gone. Dear
Letty! you see how Fortune takes pleasure in persecuting your poor friend.
If you should see him at Gloucester—or if you have seen him, and know his
real name and family, pray keep me no longer in suspence—And yet, if he
is under no obligation to keep himself longer concealed, and has a real
affection for me, I should hope he will, in a little time, declare himself to
my relations. Sure, if there is nothing unsuitable in the match, they won’t be
so cruel as to thwart my inclinations—O what happiness would then be my
portion! I can’t help indulging the thought, and pleasing my fancy with such
agreeable ideas; which after all, perhaps, will never be realized—But, why
should I despair? who knows what will happen?—We set out for Bath to-
morrow, and I am almost sorry for it; as I begin to be in love with solitude,
and this is a charming romantic place. The air is so pure; the Downs are so
agreeable; the furz in full blossom; the ground enamelled with daisies, and
primroses, and cowslips; all the trees bursting into leaves, and the hedges
already clothed with their vernal livery; the mountains covered with flocks
of sheep and tender bleating wanton lambkins playing, frisking, and
skipping from side to side; the groves resound with the notes of blackbird,
thrush, and linnet; and all night long sweet Philomel pours forth her
ravishingly delightful song. Then, for variety, we go down to the nymph of
Bristol spring, where the company is assembled before dinner; so good
natured, so free, so easy; and there we drink the water so clear, so pure, so
mild, so charmingly maukish. There the fun is so chearful and reviving; the
weather so soft; the walk so agreeable; the prospect so amusing; and the
ships and boats going up and down the river, close under the windows of
the Pump-room, afford such an enchanting variety of Moving Pictures, as
require a much abler pen than mine to describe. To make this place a perfect
paradise to me, nothing is wanting but an agreeable companion and sincere
friend; such as my dear miss Willis hath been, and I hope still will be, to her
ever faithful.
LYDIA MELFORD

Direct for me, still under cover, to Win; and Jarvis will take care to
convey it safe. Adieu.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
BATH, April 24.

DEAR PHILLIPS,
You have, indeed, reason to be surprised, that I should have concealed
my correspondence with miss Blackerby from you, to whom I disclosed all
my other connexions of that nature; but the truth is, I never dreamed of any
such commerce, till your last informed me, that it had produced something
which could not be much longer concealed. It is a lucky circumstance,
however, that her reputation will not suffer any detriment, but rather derive
advantage from the discovery; which will prove, at least, that it is not quite
so rotten as most people imagined—For my own part, I declare to you, in
all the sincerity of friendship, that, far from having any amorous intercourse
with the object in question, I never had the least acquaintance with her
person; but, if she is really in the condition you describe, I suspect Mansel
to be at the bottom of the whole. His visits to that shrine were no secret; and
this attachment, added to some good offices, which you know he has done
me, since I left Alma-mater, give me a right to believe him capable of
saddling me with this scandal, when my back was turned—Nevertheless, if
my name can be of any service to him, he is welcome to make use of it; and
if the woman should be abandoned enough to swear his banding to me, I
must beg the favour of you to compound with the parish: I shall pay the
penalty without repining; and you will be so good as to draw upon me
immediately for the sum required—On this occasion, I act by the advice of
my uncle; who says I shall have good-luck if I pass through life without
being obliged to make many more compositions of the same kind. The old
gentleman told me last night, with great good-humour, that betwixt the age
of twenty and forty, he had been obliged to provide for nine bastards, sworn
to him by women whom he never saw—Mr Bramble’s character, which
seems to interest you greatly, opens and improves upon me every day. His
singularities afford a rich mine of entertainment; his understanding, so far

as I can judge, is well cultivated; his observations on life are equally just,
pertinent, and uncommon. He affects misanthropy, in order to conceal the
sensibility of a heart, which is tender, even to a degree of weakness. This
delicacy of feeling, or soreness of the mind, makes him timorous and
fearful; but then he is afraid of nothing so much as of dishonour; and
although he is exceedingly cautious of giving offence, he will fire at the
least hint of insolence or ill-breeding.—Respectable as he is, upon the
whole, I can’t help being sometimes diverted by his little distresses; which
provoke him to let fly the shafts of his satire, keen and penetrating as the
arrows of Teucer—Our aunt, Tabitha, acts upon him as a perpetual grind-
stone—She is, in all respects, a striking contrast to her brother—But I
reserve her portrait for another occasion.
Three days ago we came hither from the Hot Well, and took possession
of the first floor of a lodging-house, on the South Parade; a situation which
my uncle chose, for its being near the Bath, and remote from the noise of
carriages. He was scarce warm in the lodgings when he called for his night-
cap, his wide shoes, and flannel; and declared himself invested with the
gout in his right foot; though, I believe it had as yet reached no farther than
his imagination. It was not long before he had reason to repent his
premature declaration; for our aunt Tabitha found means to make such a
clamour and confusion, before the flannels could be produced from the
trunk, that one would have imagined the house was on fire. All this time,
uncle sat boiling with impatience, biting his fingers, throwing up his eyes,
and muttering ejaculations; at length he burst into a kind of convulsive
laugh, after which he hummed a song; and when the hurricane was over,
exclaimed ‘Blessed be God for all things!’ This, however, was but the
beginning of his troubles. Mrs Tabitha’s favourite dog Chowder, having
paid his compliments to a female turnspit of his own species, in the kitchen,
involved himself in a quarrel with no fewer than five rivals, who set upon
him at once, and drove him up stairs to the dining room door, with hideous
noise: there our aunt and her woman, taking arms in his defence, joined the
concert; which became truly diabolical. This fray being with difficulty
suppressed, by the intervention of our own footman and the cook-maid of
the house, the squire had just opened his mouth, to expostulate with Tabby,
when the town-waits, in the passage below, struck up their music (if music
it may be called) with such a sudden burst of sound, as made him start and
stare, with marks of indignation and disquiet. He had recollection enough to

send his servant with some money to silence those noisy intruders; and they
were immediately dismissed, though not without some opposition on the
part of Tabitha, who thought it but reasonable that he should have more
music for his money. Scarce had he settled this knotty point, when a strange
kind of thumping and bouncing was heard right over-head, in the second
story, so loud and violent, as to shake the whole building. I own I was
exceedingly provoked at this new alarm; and before my uncle had time to
express himself on the subject, I ran up stairs, to see what was the matter.
Finding the room-door open, I entered without ceremony, and perceived an
object, which I can not now recollect without laughing to excess—It was a
dancing master, with his scholar, in the act of teaching. The master was
blind of one eye, and lame of one foot, and led about the room his pupil;
who seemed to be about the age of threescore, stooped mortally, was tall,
raw-boned, hard-favoured, with a woollen night-cap on his head; and he
had stript off his coat, that he might be more nimble in his motions—
Finding himself intruded upon, by a person he did not know, he forthwith
girded himself with a long iron sword, and advancing to me, with a
peremptory air, pronounced, in a true Hibernian accent, ‘Mister What d’ye
callum, by my saoul and conscience, I am very glad to sea you, if you are
after coming in the way of friendship; and indeed, and indeed now, I believe
you are my friend sure enough, gra; though I never had the honour to sea
your face before, my dear; for becaase you come like a friend, without any
ceremony at all, at all’—I told him the nature of my visit would not admit
of ceremony; that I was come to desire he would make less noise, as there
was a sick gentleman below, whom he had no right to disturb with such
preposterous doings. ‘Why, look-ye now, young gentleman (replied this
original) perhaps, upon another occasion, I might shivilly request you to
explain the maining of that hard word, prepasterous: but there’s a time for
all things, honey’—So saying, he passed me with great agility, and, running
down stairs, found our foot-man at the dining-room door, of whom he
demanded admittance, to pay his respects to the stranger. As the fellow did
not think proper to refuse the request of such a formidable figure, he was
immediately introduced, and addressed himself to my uncle in these words:
‘Your humble servant, good sir,—I’m not so prepasterous, as your son calls
it, but I know the rules of shivility—I’m a poor knight of Ireland, my name
is sir Ulic Mackilligut, of the county of Galway; being your fellow-lodger,
I’m come to pay my respects, and to welcome you to the South Parade, and

to offer my best services to you, and your good lady, and your pretty
daughter; and even to the young gentleman your son, though he thinks me a
prepasterous fellow—You must know I am to have the honour to open a
ball next door to-morrow with lady Mac Manus; and being rusted in my
dancing, I was refreshing my memory with a little exercise; but if I had
known there was a sick person below, by Christ! I would have sooner
danced a hornpipe upon my own head, than walk the softest minuet over
yours.’—My uncle, who was not a little startled at his first appearance,
received his compliment with great complacency, insisted upon his being
seated, thanked him for the honour of his visit, and reprimanded me for my
abrupt expostulation with a gentleman of his rank and character. Thus
tutored, I asked pardon of the knight, who, forthwith starting up, embraced
me so close, that I could hardly breathe; and assured me, he loved me as his
own soul. At length, recollecting his night-cap, he pulled it off in some
confusion; and, with his bald-pate uncovered, made a thousand apologies to
the ladies, as he retired—At that instant, the Abbey bells, began to ring so
loud, that we could not hear one another speak; and this peal, as we
afterwards learned, was for the honour of Mr Bullock, an eminent
cowkeeper of Tottenham, who had just arrived at Bath, to drink the waters
for indigestion. Mr Bramble had not time to make his remarks upon the
agreeable nature of this serenade, before his ears were saluted with another
concert that interested him more nearly. Two negroes, belonging to a Creole
gentleman, who lodged in the same house, taking their station at a window
in the stair-case, about ten feet from our dining-room door, began to
practise upon the French-horn; and being in the very first rudiments of
execution, produced such discordant sounds, as might have discomposed
the organs of an ass. You may guess what effect they had upon the irritable
nerves of uncle; who, with the most admirable expression of splenetic
surprize in his countenance, sent his man to silence these dreadful blasts,
and desire the musicians to practise in some other place, as they had no
right to stand there and disturb all the lodgers in the house. Those sable
performers, far from taking the hint, and withdrawing, treated the
messenger with great insolence; bidding him carry his compliments to their
master, colonel Rigworm, who would give him a proper answer, and a good
drubbing into the bargain; in the mean time they continued their noise, and
even endeavoured to make it more disagreeable; laughing between whiles,
at the thoughts of being able to torment their betters with impunity. Our

‘squire, incensed at the additional insult, immediately dispatched the
servant, with his compliments to colonel Rigworm, requesting that he
would order his blacks to be quiet, as the noise they made was altogether
intolerable—To this message, the Creole colonel replied, that his horns had
a right to sound on a common staircase; that there they should play for his
diversion; and that those who did not like the noise, might look for lodgings
elsewhere. Mr Bramble no sooner received this reply, than his eyes began to
glisten, his face grew pale, and his teeth chattered. After a moment’s pause,
he slipt on his shoes, without speaking a word, or seeming to feel any
further disturbance from the gout in his toes. Then snatching his cane, he
opened the door and proceeded to the place where the black trumpeters
were posted. There, without further hesitation, he began to belabour them
both; and exerted himself with such astonishing vigour and agility, that both
their heads and horns were broken in a twinkling, and they ran howling
down stairs to their master’s parlour-door. The squire, following them half
way, called aloud, that the colonel might hear him, ‘Go, rascals, and tell
your master what I have done; if he thinks himself injured, he knows where
to come for satisfaction. As for you, this is but an earnest of what you shall
receive, if ever you presume to blow a horn again here, while I stay in the
house.’ So saying, he retired to his apartment, in expectation of hearing
from the West Indian; but the colonel prudently declined any farther
prosecution of the dispute. My sister Liddy was frighted into a fit, from
which she was no sooner recovered, than Mrs Tabitha began a lecture upon
patience; which her brother interrupted with a most significant grin, ‘True,
sister, God increase my patience and your discretion. I wonder (added he)
what sort of sonata we are to expect from this overture, in which the devil,
that presides over horrid sounds, hath given us such variations of discord—
The trampling of porters, the creaking and crashing of trunks, the snarling
of curs, the scolding of women, the squeaking and squalling of fiddles and
hautboys out of tune, the bouncing of the Irish baronet over-head, and the
bursting, belching, and brattling of the French-horns in the passage (not to
mention the harmonious peal that still thunders from the Abbey steeple)
succeeding one another without interruption, like the different parts of the
same concert, have given me such an idea of what a poor invalid has to
expect in this temple, dedicated to Silence and Repose, that I shall certainly
shift my quarters to-morrow, and endeavour to effectuate my retreat before
Sir Ulic opens the ball with my lady Mac Manus; a conjunction that bodes

me no good.’ This intimation was by no means agreeable to Mrs Tabitha,
whose ears were not quite so delicate as those of her brother—She said it
would be great folly to move from such agreeable lodgings, the moment
they were comfortably settled. She wondered he should be such an enemy
to music and mirth. She heard no noise but of his own making: it was
impossible to manage a family in dumb-shew. He might harp as long as he
pleased upon her scolding; but she never scolded, except for his advantage;
but he would never be satisfied, even tho’f she should sweat blood and
water in his service—I have a great notion that our aunt, who is now
declining into the most desperate state of celibacy, had formed some design
upon the heart of Sir Ulic Mackilligut, which she feared might be frustrated
by our abrupt departure from these lodgings. Her brother, eyeing her
askance, ‘Pardon me, sister (said he) I should be a savage, indeed, were I
insensible of my own felicity, in having such a mild, complaisant, good-
humoured, and considerate companion and housekeeper; but as I have got a
weak head, and my sense of hearing is painfully acute, before I have
recourse to plugs of wool and cotton, I’ll try whether I can’t find another
lodging, where I shall have more quiet and less music.’ He accordingly
dispatched his man upon this service; and next day he found a small house
in Milsham-street, which he hires by the week. Here, at least, we enjoy
convenience and quiet within doors, as much as Tabby’s temper will allow;
but the squire still complains of flying pains in the stomach and head, for
which he bathes and drinks the waters. He is not so bad, however, but that
he goes in person to the pump, the rooms, and the coffeehouses; where he
picks up continual food for ridicule and satire. If I can glean any thing for
your amusement, either from his observation or my own, you shall have it
freely, though I am afraid it will poorly compensate the trouble of reading
these tedious insipid letters of,
Dear Phillips, Yours always, J. MELFORD

To Dr LEWIS. BATH, April 23. DEAR DOCTOR,
If I did not know that the exercise of your profession has habituated you
to the hearing of complaints, I should make a conscience of troubling you
with my correspondence, which may be truly called the lamentations of
Matthew Bramble. Yet I cannot help thinking I have some right to discharge
the overflowings of my spleen upon you, whose province it is to remove
those disorders that occasioned it; and let me tell you, it is no small
alleviation of my grievances, that I have a sensible friend, to whom I can
communicate my crusty humours, which, by retention, would grow
intolerably acrimonious.
You must know, I find nothing but disappointment at Bath; which is so
altered, that I can scarce believe it is the same place that I frequented about
thirty years ago. Methinks I hear you say, ‘Altered it is, without all doubt:
but then it is altered for the better; a truth which, perhaps, you would own
without hesitation, if you yourself was not altered for the worse.’ The
reflection may, for aught I know, be just. The inconveniences which I
overlooked in the high-day of health, will naturally strike with exaggerated
impression on the irritable nerves of an invalid, surprised by premature old
age, and shattered with long-suffering—But, I believe, you will not deny,
that this place, which Nature and Providence seem to have intended as a
resource from distemper and disquiet, is become the very centre of racket
and dissipation. Instead of that peace, tranquillity, and ease, so necessary to
those who labour under bad health, weak nerves, and irregular spirits; here
we have nothing but noise, tumult, and hurry; with the fatigue and slavery
of maintaining a ceremonial, more stiff, formal, and oppressive, than the
etiquette of a German elector. A national hospital it may be, but one would
imagine that none but lunatics are admitted; and truly, I will give you leave
to call me so, if I stay much longer at Bath.—But I shall take another
opportunity to explain my sentiments at greater length on this subject—I
was impatient to see the boasted improvements in architecture, for which
the upper parts of the town have been so much celebrated and t’other day I
made a circuit of all the new buildings. The Square, though irregular, is, on
the whole, pretty well laid out, spacious, open, and airy; and, in my opinion,

by far the most wholesome and agreeable situation in Bath, especially the
upper side of it; but the avenues to it are mean, dirty, dangerous, and
indirect. Its communication with the Baths, is through the yard of an inn,
where the poor trembling valetudinarian is carried in a chair, betwixt the
heels of a double row of horses, wincing under the curry-combs of grooms
and postilions, over and above the hazard of being obstructed, or overturned
by the carriages which are continually making their exit or their entrance—I
suppose after some chairmen shall have been maimed, and a few lives lost
by those accidents, the corporation will think, in earnest, about providing a
more safe and commodious passage. The Circus is a pretty bauble,
contrived for shew, and looks like Vespasian’s amphitheatre turned outside
in. If we consider it in point of magnificence, the great number of small
doors belonging to the separate houses, the inconsiderable height of the
different orders, the affected ornaments of the architrave, which are both
childish and misplaced, and the areas projecting into the street, surrounded
with iron rails, destroy a good part of its effect upon the eye; and, perhaps,
we shall find it still more defective, if we view it in the light of
convenience. The figure of each separate dwelling-house, being the
segment of a circle, must spoil the symmetry of the rooms, by contracting
them towards the street windows, and leaving a larger sweep in the space
behind. If, instead of the areas and iron rails, which seem to be of very little
use, there had been a corridore with arcades all round, as in Covent-garden,
the appearance of the whole would have been more magnificent and
striking; those arcades would have afforded an agreeable covered walk, and
sheltered the poor chairmen and their carriages from the rain, which is here
almost perpetual. At present, the chairs stand soaking in the open street,
from morning to night, till they become so many boxes of wet leather, for
the benefit of the gouty and rheumatic, who are transported in them from
place to place. Indeed this is a shocking inconvenience that extends over the
whole city; and, I am persuaded, it produces infinite mischief to the delicate
and infirm; even the close chairs, contrived for the sick, by standing in the
open air, have their frize linings impregnated like so many spunges, with
the moisture of the atmosphere, and those cases of cold vapour must give a
charming check to the perspiration of a patient, piping hot from the Bath,
with all his pores wide open.
But, to return to the Circus; it is inconvenient from its situation, at so
great a distance from all the markets, baths, and places of public

entertainment. The only entrance to it, through Gay-street, is so difficult,
steep, and slippery, that in wet weather, it must be exceedingly dangerous,
both for those that ride in carriages, and those that walk a-foot; and when
the street is covered with snow, as it was for fifteen days successively this
very winter, I don’t see how any individual could go either up or down,
without the most imminent hazard of broken bones. In blowing weather, I
am told, most of the houses in this hill are smothered with smoke, forced
down the chimneys, by the gusts of wind reverberated from the hill behind,
which (I apprehend likewise) must render the atmosphere here more humid
and unwholesome than it is in the square below; for the clouds, formed by
the constant evaporation from the baths and rivers in the bottom, will, in
their ascent this way, be first attracted and detained by the hill that rises
close behind the Circus, and load the air with a perpetual succession of
vapours: this point, however, may be easily ascertained by means of an
hygrometer, or a paper of salt of tartar exposed to the action of the
atmosphere. The same artist who planned the Circus, has likewise projected
a Crescent; when that is finished, we shall probably have a Star; and those
who are living thirty years hence, may, perhaps, see all the signs of the
Zodiac exhibited in architecture at Bath. These, however fantastical, are still
designs that denote some ingenuity and knowledge in the architect; but the
rage of building has laid hold on such a number of adventurers, that one
sees new houses starting up in every out-let and every corner of Bath;
contrived without judgment, executed without solidity, and stuck together
with so little regard to plan and propriety, that the different lines of the new
rows and buildings interfere with, and intersect one another in every
different angle of conjunction. They look like the wreck of streets and
squares disjointed by an earthquake, which hath broken the ground into a
variety of holes and hillocks; or as if some Gothic devil had stuffed them
altogether in a bag, and left them to stand higgledy piggledy, just as chance
directed. What sort of a monster Bath will become in a few years, with
those growing excrescences, may be easily conceived: but the want of
beauty and proportion is not the worst effect of these new mansions; they
are built so slight, with the soft crumbling stone found in this
neighbourhood, that I shall never sleep quietly in one of them, when it
blowed (as the sailors say) a cap-full of wind; and, I am persuaded, that my
hind, Roger Williams, or any man of equal strength, would be able to push
his foot through the strongest part of their walls, without any great exertion

of his muscles. All these absurdities arise from the general tide of luxury,
which hath overspread the nation, and swept away all, even the very dregs
of the people. Every upstart of fortune, harnessed in the trappings of the
mode, presents himself at Bath, as in the very focus of observation—Clerks
and factors from the East Indies, loaded with the spoil of plundered
provinces; planters, negro-drivers, and hucksters from our American
plantations, enriched they know not how; agents, commissaries, and
contractors, who have fattened, in two successive wars, on the blood of the
nation; usurers, brokers, and jobbers of every kind; men of low birth, and
no breeding, have found themselves suddenly translated into a state of
affluence, unknown to former ages; and no wonder that their brains should
be intoxicated with pride, vanity, and presumption. Knowing no other
criterion of greatness, but the ostentation of wealth, they discharge their
affluence without taste or conduct, through every channel of the most
absurd extravagance; and all of them hurry to Bath, because here, without
any further qualification, they can mingle with the princes and nobles of the
land. Even the wives and daughters of low tradesmen, who, like shovel-
nosed sharks, prey upon the blubber of those uncouth whales of fortune, are
infected with the same rage of displaying their importance; and the slightest
indisposition serves them for a pretext to insist upon being conveyed to
Bath, where they may hobble country-dances and cotillons among lordlings,
squires, counsellors, and clergy. These delicate creatures from Bedfordbury,
Butcher-row, Crutched-friers, and Botolph-lane, cannot breathe in the gross
air of the Lower Town, or conform to the vulgar rules of a common
lodging-house; the husband, therefore, must provide an entire house, or
elegant apartments in the new buildings. Such is the composition of what is
called the fashionable company at Bath; where a very inconsiderable
proportion of genteel people are lost in a mob of impudent plebeians, who
have neither understanding nor judgment, nor the least idea of propriety and
decorum; and seem to enjoy nothing so much as an opportunity of insulting
their betters.
Thus the number of people, and the number of houses continue to
increase; and this will ever be the case, till the streams that swell this
irresistible torrent of folly and extravagance, shall either be exhausted, or
turned into other channels, by incidents and events which I do not pretend
to foresee. This, I own, is a subject on which I cannot write with any degree
of patience; for the mob is a monster I never could abide, either in its head,

tail, midriff, or members; I detest the whole of it, as a mass of ignorance,
presumption, malice and brutality; and, in this term of reprobation, I
include, without respect of rank, station, or quality, all those of both sexes,
who affect its manners, and court its society.
But I have written till my fingers are crampt, and my nausea begins to
return—By your advice, I sent to London a few days ago for half a pound
of Gengzeng; though I doubt much, whether that which comes from
America is equally efficacious with what is brought from the East Indies.
Some years ago a friend of mine paid sixteen guineas for two ounces of it;
and, in six months after, it was sold in the same shop for five shillings the
pound. In short, we live in a vile world of fraud and sophistication; so that I
know nothing of equal value with the genuine friendship of a sensible man;
a rare jewel! which I cannot help thinking myself in possession of, while I
repeat the old declaration, that I am, as usual,
Dear Lewis, Your affectionate M. BRAMBLE,
After having been agitated in a short hurricane, on my first arrival, I have
taken a small house in Milsham-street, where I am tolerably well lodged,
for five guineas a week. I was yesterday at the Pump-room, and drank about
a pint of water, which seems to agree with my stomach; and to-morrow
morning I shall bathe, for the first time; so that in a few posts you may
expect farther trouble; mean while, I am glad to find that the inoculation has
succeeded so well with poor Joyce, and that her face will be but little
marked. If my friend Sir Thomas was a single man, I would not trust such a
handsome wench in his family; but as I have recommended her, in a
particular manner, to the protection of lady G—, who is one of the best
women in the world, she may go thither without hesitation as soon as she is
quite recovered and fit for service—Let her mother have money to provide
her with necessaries, and she may ride behind her brother on Bucks; but
you must lay strong injunctions on Jack, to take particular care of the trusty
old veteran, who has faithfully earned his present ease by his past services.

To Miss WILLIS at Gloucester. BATH, April 26.
MY DEAREST COMPANION,
The pleasure I received from yours, which came to hand yesterday, is not
to be expressed. Love and friendship are, without doubt, charming passions;
which absence serves only to heighten and improve. Your kind present of
the garnet bracelets, I shall keep as carefully as I preserve my own life; and
I beg you will accept, in return, my heart-housewife, with the tortoise-shell
memorandum-book, as a trifling pledge of my unalterable affection.
Bath is to me a new world—All is gayety, good-humour, and diversion.
The eye is continually entertained with the splendour of dress and equipage;
and the ear with the sound of coaches, chairs, and other carriages. The
merry bells ring round, from morn till night. Then we are welcomed by the
city-waits in our own lodgings; we have music in the Pump-room every
morning, cotillons every forenoon in the rooms, balls twice a week, and
concerts every other night, besides private assemblies and parties without
number—As soon as we were settled in lodgings, we were visited by the
Master of the Ceremonies; a pretty little gentleman, so sweet, so fine, so
civil, and polite, that in our country he might pass for the prince of Wales;
then he talks so charmingly, both in verse and prose, that you would be
delighted to hear him discourse; for you must know he is a great writer, and
has got five tragedies ready for the stage. He did us the favour to dine with
us, by my uncle’s invitation; and next day squired my aunt and me to every
part of Bath; which, to be sure, is an earthly paradise. The Square, the
Circus, and the Parades, put you in mind of the sumptuous palaces
represented in prints and pictures; and the new buildings, such as Princes-
row, Harlequin’s-row, Bladud’s-row, and twenty other rows, look like so
many enchanted castles, raised on hanging terraces.
At eight in the morning, we go in dishabille to the Pump-room which is
crowded like a Welsh fair; and there you see the highest quality, and the
lowest trades folks, jostling each other, without ceremony, hail-fellow well-
met. The noise of the music playing in the gallery, the heat and flavour of
such a crowd, and the hum and buz of their conversation, gave me the head-

ach and vertigo the first day; but, afterwards, all these things became
familiar, and even agreeable.—Right under the Pump-room windows is the
King’s Bath; a huge cistern, where you see the patients up to their necks in
hot water. The ladies wear jackets and petticoats of brown linen with chip
hats, in which they fix their handkerchiefs to wipe the sweat from their
faces; but, truly, whether it is owing to the steam that surrounds them, or the
heat of the water, or the nature of the dress, or to all these causes together,
they look so flushed, and so frightful, that I always turn my eyes another
way—My aunt, who says every person of fashion should make her
appearance in the bath, as well as in the abbey church, contrived a cap with
cherry-coloured ribbons to suit her complexion, and obliged Win to attend
her yesterday morning in the water. But, really, her eyes were so red, that
they made mine water as I viewed her from the Pump-room; and as for poor
Win, who wore a hat trimmed with blue, what betwixt her wan complexion
and her fear, she looked like the ghost of some pale maiden, who had
drowned herself for love. When she came out of the bath, she took
assafoetida drops, and was fluttered all day; so that we could hardly keep
her from going into hysterics: but her mistress says it will do her good; and
poor Win curtsies, with the tears in her eyes. For my part, I content myself
with drinking about half a pint of the water every morning.
The pumper, with his wife and servant, attend within a bar; and the
glasses, of different sizes, stand ranged in order before them, so you have
nothing to do but to point at that which you choose, and it is filled
immediately, hot and sparkling from the pump. It is the only hot water I
could ever drink, without being sick—Far from having that effect, it is
rather agreeable to the taste, grateful to the stomach, and reviving to the
spirits. You cannot imagine what wonderful cures it performs—My uncle
began with it the other day; but he made wry faces in drinking, and I’m
afraid he will leave it off—The first day we came to Bath, he fell into a
violent passion; beat two black-a-moors, and I was afraid he would have
fought with their master; but the stranger proved a peaceable man. To be
sure, the gout had got into his head, as my aunt observed; but, I believe, his
passion drove it away; for he has been remarkably well ever since. It is a
thousand pities he should ever be troubled with that ugly distemper; for,
when he is free from pain, he is the best tempered man upon earth; so
gentle, so generous, so charitable, that every body loves him; and so good

to me, in particular, that I shall never be able to shew the deep sense I have
of his tenderness and affection.
Hard by the Pump-room, is a coffee-house for the ladies; but my aunt
says, young girls are not admitted, insomuch as the conversation turns upon
politics, scandal, philosophy, and other subjects above our capacity; but we
are allowed to accompany them to the booksellers’ shops, which are
charming places of resort; where we read novels, plays, pamphlets, and
newspapers, for so small a subscription as a crown a quarter; and in these
offices of intelligence (as my brother calls them) all the reports of the day,
and all the private transactions of the Bath, are first entered and discussed.
From the bookseller’s shop, we make a tour through the milliners and
toymen; and commonly stop at Mr Gill’s, the pastry-cook, to take a jelly, a
tart, or a small bason of vermicelli. There is, moreover, another place of
entertainment on the other side of the water, opposite to the Grove, to which
the company cross over in a boat—It is called Spring-garden; a sweet
retreat, laid out in walks and ponds, and parterres of flowers; and there is a
long-room for breakfasting and dancing. As the situation is low and damp,
and the season has been remarkably wet, my uncle won’t suffer me to go
thither, lest I should catch cold: but my aunt says it is all a vulgar prejudice;
and, to be sure, a great many gentlemen and ladies of Ireland frequent the
place, without seeming to be the worse for it. They say, dancing at Spring-
gardens, when the air is moist, is recommended to them as an excellent cure
for the rheumatism. I have been twice at the play; where, notwithstanding
the excellence of the performers, the gayety of the company, and the
decorations of the theatre, which are very fine, I could not help reflecting,
with a sigh, upon our poor homely representations at Gloucester—But this,
in confidence to my dear Willis—You know my heart, and will excuse its
weakness.
After all, the great scenes of entertainment at Bath, are the two public
rooms; where the company meet alternately every evening. They are
spacious, lofty, and, when lighted up, appear very striking. They are
generally crowded with well-dressed people, who drink tea in separate
parties, play at cards, walk, or sit and chat together, just as they are
disposed. Twice a-week there is a ball; the expence of which is defrayed by
a voluntary subscription among the gentlemen; and every subscriber has
three tickets. I was there Friday last with my aunt, under the care of my
brother, who is a subscriber; and Sir Ulic Mackilligut recommended his

nephew, captain O Donaghan, to me as a partner; but Jery excused himself,
by saying I had got the head-ach; and, indeed, it was really so, though I
can’t imagine how he knew it. The place was so hot, and the smell so
different from what we are used to in the country, that I was quite feverish
when we came away. Aunt says it is the effect of a vulgar constitution,
reared among woods and mountains; and, that as I become accustomed to
genteel company, it will wear off.—Sir Ulic was very complaisant, made
her a great many high-flown compliments; and, when we retired, handed
her with great ceremony to her chair. The captain, I believe, would have
done me the same favour; but my brother seeing him advance, took me
under his arm, and wished him good night. The Captain is a pretty man, to
be sure; tall and strait, and well made; with light-grey eyes, and a Roman
nose; but there is a certain boldness in his look and manner, that puts one
out of countenance—But I am afraid I have put you out of all patience with
this long unconnected scrawl; which I shall therefore conclude, with
assuring you, that neither Bath, nor London, nor all the diversions of life,
shall ever be able to efface the idea of my dear Letty, from the heart of her
ever affectionate
LYDIA MELFORD

To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
DEAR MOLLY JONES,

Heaving got a frank, I now return your fever, which I received by Mr
Higgins, at the Hot Well, together with the stockings, which his wife footed
for me; but now they are of no survice. No body wears such things in this
place—O Molly! you that live in the country have no deception of our
doings at Bath. Here is such dressing, and fidling, and dancing, and
gadding, and courting and plotting—O gracious! if God had not given me a
good stock of discretion, what a power of things might not I reveal,
consarning old mistress and young mistress; Jews with beards that were no
Jews; but handsome Christians, without a hair upon their sin, strolling with
spectacles, to get speech of Miss Liddy. But she’s a dear sweet soul, as
innocent as the child unborn. She has tould me all her inward thoughts, and
disclosed her passion for Mr Wilson; and that’s not his name neither; and
thof he acted among the player-men, he is meat for their masters; and she
has gi’en me her yallow trollopea; which Mrs Drab, the mantymaker, says
will look very well when it is scowred and smoaked with silfur—You
knows as how, yallow fitts my fizzogmony. God he knows what havock I
shall make among the mail sex, when I make my first appearance in this
killing collar, with a full soot of gaze, as good as new, that I bought last
Friday of madam Friponeau, the French mullaner—Dear girl, I have seen
all the fine shews of Bath; the Prades, the Squires, and the Circlis, the
Crashit, the Hottogon, and Bloody Buildings, and Harry King’s row; and I
have been twice in the Bath with mistress, and na’r a smoak upon our
backs, hussy. The first time I was mortally afraid, and flustered all day; and
afterwards made believe that I had got the heddick; but mistress said, if I
didn’t go I should take a dose of bumtaffy; and so remembering how it
worked Mrs Gwyllim a pennorth, I chose rather to go again with her into
the Bath, and then I met with an axident. I dropt my petticoat, and could not
get it up from the bottom.—But what did that signify; they mought laff but
they could see nothing; for I was up to the sin in water. To be sure, it threw
me into such a gumbustion, that I know not what I said, nor what I did, nor

how they got me out, and rapt me in a blanket—Mrs Tabitha scoulded a
little when we got home; but she knows as I know what’s what Ah Laud
help you!—There is Sir Yury Micligut, of Balnaclinch, in the cunty of
Kalloway—I took down the name from his gentleman, Mr 0 Frizzle, and he
has got an estate of fifteen hundred a year—I am sure he is both rich and
generous—But you nose, Molly, I was always famous for keeping secrets;
and so he was very safe in trusting me with his flegm for mistress; which, to
be sure is very honourable; for Mr O Frizzle assures me, he values not her
portion a brass varthing—And, indeed, what’s poor ten thousand pounds to
a Baron Knight of his fortune? and, truly, I told Mr 0 Frizzle that was all
she had trust to—As for John Thomas, he’s a morass fellor—I vow, I
thought he would a fit with Mr 0 Frizzle, because he axed me to dance with
him at Spring Garden—But God he knows I have no thoughts eyther of wan
or t’other.
As for house news, the worst is, Chowder has fallen off greatly from his
stomick—He eats nothing but white meats, and not much of that; and
wheezes, and seems to be much bloated. The doctors think he is threatened
with a dropsy—Parson Marrofat, who has got the same disorder, finds great
benefit from the waters; but Chowder seems to like them no better than the
squire; and mistress says, if his case don’t take a favourable turn, she will
sartinly carry him to Aberga’ny, to drink goat’s whey—To be sure, the poor
dear honymil is lost for want of axercise; for which reason, she intends to
give him an airing once a-day upon the Downs, in a post-chaise—I have
already made very creditable connexions in this here place; where, to be
sure, we have the very squintasense of satiety—Mrs Patcher, my lady
Kilmacullock’s woman, and I are sworn sisters. She has shewn me all her
secrets, and learned me to wash gaze, and refrash rusty silks and
bumbeseens, by boiling them with winegar, chamberlye, and stale beer. My
short sack and apron luck as good as new from the shop, and my
pumpydoor as fresh as a rose, by the help of turtle-water—But this is all
Greek and Latten to you, Molly—If we should come to Aberga’ny, you’ll
be within a day’s ride of us; and then we shall see wan another, please God
—If not, remember me in your prayers, as I shall do by you in mine; and
take care of my kitten, and give my kind sarvice to Sall; and this is all at
present, from your beloved friend and sarvent,
W. JENKINS BATH, April 26.

To Mrs GWYLLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-
hall.
I am astonished that Dr Lewis should take upon him to give away
Alderney, without my privity and concurrants—What signifies my brother’s
order? My brother is little better than Noncompush. He would give away
the shirt off his back, and the teeth out of his head; nay, as for that matter;
he would have ruinated the family with his ridiculous charities, if it had not
been for my four quarters—What between his willfullness and his waste,
his trumps, and his frenzy, I lead the life of an indented slave. Alderney
gave four gallons a-day, ever since the calf was sent to market. There is so
much milk out of my dairy, and the press must stand still: but I won’t loose
a cheese pairing; and the milk shall be made good, if the sarvents should go
without butter. If they must needs have butter, let them make it of sheep’s
milk; but then my wool will suffer for want of grace; so that I must be a
loser on all sides. Well, patience is like a stout Welsh poney; it bears a great
deal, and trots a great way; but it will tire at the long run. Before its long,
perhaps I may shew Matt, that I was not born to be the household drudge to
my dying day—Gwyn rites from Crickhowel, that the price of flannel is
fallen three-farthings an ell; and that’s another good penny out of my
pocket. When I go to market to sell, my commodity stinks; but when I want
to buy the commonest thing, the owner pricks it up under my nose; and it
can’t be had for love nor money—I think everything runs cross at
Brambleton-hall—You say the gander has broke the eggs; which is a
phinumenon I don’t understand: for when the fox carried off the old goose
last year, he took her place, and hatched the eggs, and partected the goslings
like a tender parent—Then you tell me the thunder has soured two barrels
of beer in the seller. But how the thunder should get there, when the seller
was double-locked, I can’t comprehend. Howsomever, I won’t have the
beer thrown out, till I see it with my own eyes. Perhaps, it will recover—At
least it will serve for vinegar to the servants.—You may leave off the fires
in my brother’s chamber and mine, as it is unsartain when we return.—I
hope, Gwyllim, you’ll take care there is no waste; and have an eye to the
maids, and keep them to their spinning. I think they may go very well

without beer in hot weather—it serves only to inflame the blood, and set
them a-gog after the men. Water will make them fair and keep them cool
and tamperit. Don’t forget to put up in the portmantel, that cums with
Williams, along with my riding-habit, hat, and feather, the viol of purl
water, and the tincktur for my stomach; being as how I am much troubled
with flutterencies. This is all at present, from
Yours, TABITHA BRAMBLE BATH, April 26.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR DICK,

I have done with the waters; therefore your advice comes a day too late I
grant that physic is no mystery of your making. I know it is a mystery in its
own nature; and, like other mysteries, requires a strong gulp of faith to
make it go down—Two days ago, I went into the King’s Bath, by the advice
of our friend Ch—, in order to clear the strainer of the skin, for the benefit
of a free perspiration; and the first object that saluted my eye, was a child
full of scrophulous ulcers, carried in the arms of one of the guides, under
the very noses of the bathers. I was so shocked at the sight, that I retired
immediately with indignation and disgust—Suppose the matter of those
ulcers, floating on the water, comes in contact with my skin, when the pores
are all open, I would ask you what must be the consequence?—Good
Heaven, the very thought makes my blood run cold! we know not what
sores may be running into the water while we are bathing, and what sort of
matter we may thus imbibe; the king’s-evil, the scurvy, the cancer, and the
pox; and, no doubt, the heat will render the virus the more volatile and
penetrating. To purify myself from all such contamination, I went to the
duke of Kingston’s private Bath, and there I was almost suffocated for want
of free air; the place was so small, and the steam so stifling.
After all, if the intention is no more than to wash the skin, I am
convinced that simple element is more effectual than any water impregnated
with salt and iron; which, being astringent, will certainly contract the pores,
and leave a kind of crust upon the surface of the body. But I am now as
much afraid of drinking, as of bathing; for, after a long conversation with
the Doctor, about the construction of the pump and the cistern, it is very far
from being clear with me, that the patients in the Pump-room don’t swallow
the scourings of the bathers. I can’t help suspecting, that there is, or may be,
some regurgitation from the bath into the cistern of the pump. In that case,
what a delicate beveridge is every day quaffed by the drinkers; medicated
with the sweat and dirt, and dandriff; and the abominable discharges of
various kinds, from twenty different diseased bodies, parboiling in the kettle

below. In order to avoid this filthy composition, I had recourse to the spring
that supplies the private baths on the Abbey-green; but I at once perceived
something extraordinary in the taste and smell; and, upon inquiry, I find that
the Roman baths in this quarter, were found covered by an old burying
ground, belonging to the Abbey; through which, in all probability, the water
drains in its passage; so that as we drink the decoction of living bodies at
the Pump-room, we swallow the strainings of rotten bones and carcasses at
the private bath. I vow to God, the very idea turns my stomach!
Determined, as I am, against any farther use of the Bath waters, this
consideration would give me little disturbance, if I could find any thing
more pure, or less pernicious, to quench my thirst; but, although the natural
springs of excellent water are seen gushing spontaneous on every side, from
the hills that surround us, the inhabitants, in general, make use of well-
water, so impregnated with nitre, or alum, or some other villainous mineral,
that it is equally ungrateful to the taste, and mischievous to the constitution.
It must be owned, indeed, that here, in Milsham-street, we have a
precarious and scanty supply from the hill; which is collected in an open
bason in the Circus, liable to be defiled with dead dogs, cats, rats, and every
species of nastiness, which the rascally populace may throw into it, from
mere wantonness and brutality. Well, there is no nation that drinks so
hoggishly as the English.
What passes for wine among us, is not the juice of the grape. It is an
adulterous mixture, brewed up of nauseous ingredients, by dunces, who are
bunglers in the art of poison-making; and yet we, and our forefathers, are
and have been poisoned by this cursed drench, without taste or flavour—
The only genuine and wholesome beveridge in England, is London porter,
and Dorchester table-beer; but as for your ale and your gin, your cyder and
your perry, and all the trashy family of made wines, I detest them as
infernal compositions, contrived for the destruction of the human species—
But what have I to do with the human species? except a very few friends, I
care not if the whole was—.
Heark ye, Lewis, my misanthropy increases every day—The longer I
live, I find the folly and the fraud of mankind grow more and more
intolerable—I wish I had not come from Brambletonhall; after having lived
in solitude so long, I cannot bear the hurry and impertinence of the
multitude; besides, every thing is sophisticated in these crowded places.
Snares are laid for our lives in every thing we eat or drink: the very air we

breathe, is loaded with contagion. We cannot even sleep, without risque of
infection. I say, infection—This place is the rendezvous of the diseased—
You won’t deny, that many diseases are infectious; even the consumption
itself, is highly infectious. When a person dies of it in Italy, the bed and
bedding are destroyed; the other furniture is exposed to the weather and the
apartment white-washed, before it is occupied by any other living soul.
You’ll allow, that nothing receives infection sooner, or retains it longer, than
blankets, feather-beds, and matrasses—‘Sdeath! how do I know what
miserable objects have been stewing in the bed where I now lie!—I wonder,
Dick, you did not put me in mind of sending for my own matrasses—But, if
I had not been an ass, I should not have needed a remembrancer—There is
always some plaguy reflection that rises up in judgment against me, and
ruffles my spirits—Therefore, let us change the subject.
I have other reasons for abridging my stay at Bath—You know sister
Tabby’s complexion—If Mrs Tabitha Bramble had been of any other race, I
should certainly have considered her as the most—. But, the truth is, she
has found means to interest my affection; or, rather, she is beholden to the
force of prejudice, commonly called the ties of blood. Well, this amiable
maiden has actually commenced a flirting correspondence with an Irish
baronet of sixty-five. His name is Sir Ulic Mackilligut. He is said to be
much out at elbows; and, I believe, has received false intelligence with
respect to her fortune. Be that as it may, the connexion is exceedingly
ridiculous, and begins already to excite whispers. For my part, I have no
intention to dispute her free-agency; though I shall fall upon some
expedient to undeceive her paramour, as to the point which he has
principally in view. But I don’t think her conduct is a proper example for
Liddy, who has also attracted the notice of some coxcombs in the Rooms;
and Jery tells me, he suspects a strapping fellow, the knight’s nephew, of
some design upon the girl’s heart. I shall, therefore, keep a strict eye over
her aunt and her, and even shift the scene, if I find the matter grow more
serious—You perceive what an agreeable task it must be, to a man of my
kidney, to have the cure of such souls as these.—But, hold, You shall not
have another peevish word (till the next occasion) from
Yours, MATT. BRAMBLE BATH, April 28.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR KNIGHT,

I think those people are unreasonable, who complain that Bath is a
contracted circle, in which the same dull scenes perpetually revolve,
without variation—I am, on the contrary, amazed to find so small a place so
crowded with entertainment and variety. London itself can hardly exhibit
one species of diversion, to which we have not something analogous at
Bath, over and above those singular advantages that are peculiar to the
place. Here, for example, a man has daily opportunities of seeing the most
remarkable characters of the community. He sees them in their natural
attitudes and true colours; descended from their pedestals, and divested of
their formal draperies, undisguised by art and affectation—Here we have
ministers of state, judges, generals, bishops, projectors, philosophers, wits,
poets, players, chemists, fiddlers, and buffoons. If he makes any
considerable stay in the place, he is sure of meeting with some particular
friend, whom he did not expect to see; and to me there is nothing more
agreeable than such casual reencounters. Another entertainment, peculiar to
Bath, arises from the general mixture of all degrees assembled in our public
rooms, without distinction of rank or fortune. This is what my uncle
reprobates, as a monstrous jumble of heterogeneous principles; a vile mob
of noise and impertinence, without decency or subordination. But this chaos
is to me a source of infinite amusement.
I was extremely diverted last ball-night to see the Master of the
Ceremonies leading, with great solemnity, to the upper end of the room, an
antiquated Abigail, dressed in her lady’s cast-clothes; whom he (I suppose)
mistook for some countess just arrived at the Bath. The ball was opened by
a Scotch lord, with a mulatto heiress from St Christopher’s; and the gay
colonel Tinsel danced all the evening with the daughter of an eminent
tinman from the borough of Southwark. Yesterday morning, at the Pump-
room, I saw a broken-winded Wapping landlady squeeze through a circle of

peers, to salute her brandy-merchant, who stood by the window, propped
upon crutches; and a paralytic attorney of Shoe-lane, in shuffling up to the
bar, kicked the shins of the chancellor of England, while his lordship, in a
cut bob, drank a glass of water at the pump. I cannot account for my being
pleased with these incidents, any other way, than by saying they are truly
ridiculous in their own nature, and serve to heighten the humour in the farce
of life, which I am determined to enjoy as long as I can.
Those follies, that move my uncle’s spleen, excite my laughter. He is as
tender as a man without a skin; who cannot bear the slightest touch without
flinching. What tickles another would give him torment; and yet he has
what we may call lucid intervals, when he is remarkably facetious—Indeed,
I never knew a hypochondriac so apt to be infected with good-humour. He
is the most risible misanthrope I ever met with. A lucky joke, or any
ludicrous incident, will set him a-laughing immoderately, even in one of his
most gloomy paroxysms; and, when the laugh is over, he will curse his own
imbecility. In conversing with strangers, he betrays no marks of disquiet—
He is splenetic with his familiars only; and not even with them, while they
keep his attention employed; but when his spirits are not exerted externally,
they seem to recoil and prey upon himself—He has renounced the waters
with execration; but he begins to find a more efficacious, and, certainly, a
much more palatable remedy in the pleasures of society. He has discovered
some old friends, among the invalids of Bath; and, in particular, renewed
his acquaintance with the celebrated James Quin, who certainly did not
come here to drink water. You cannot doubt, but that I had the strongest
curiosity to know this original; and it was gratified by Mr Bramble, who has
had him twice at our house to dinner.
So far as I am able to judge, Quin’s character is rather more respectable
than it has been generally represented. His bon mots are in every witling’s
mouth; but many of them have a rank flavour, which one would be apt to
think was derived from a natural grossness of idea. I suspect, however, that
justice has not been done the author, by the collectors of those Quiniana;
who have let the best of them slip through their fingers, and only retained
such as were suited to the taste and organs of the multitude. How far he may
relax in his hours of jollity, I cannot pretend to say; but his general
conversation is conducted by the nicest rules of Propriety; and Mr James
Quin is, certainly, one of the best bred men in the kingdom. He is not only a
most agreeable companion but (as I am credibly informed) a very honest

man; highly susceptible of friendship, warm, steady, and even generous in
his attachments, disdaining flattery, and incapable of meanness and
dissimulation. Were I to judge, however, from Quin’s eye alone, I should
take him to be proud, insolent, and cruel. There is something remarkably
severe and forbidding in his aspect; and, I have been told, he was ever
disposed to insult his inferiors and dependants.—Perhaps that report has
influenced my opinion of his looks—You know we are the fools of
prejudice. Howsoever that may be, I have as yet seen nothing but his
favourable side, and my uncle, who frequently confers with him, in a
corner, declares he is one of the most sensible men he ever knew—He
seems to have a reciprocal regard for old Squaretoes, whom he calls by the
familiar name of Matthew, and often reminds of their old tavern-adventures:
on the other hand, Matthew’s eyes sparkle whenever Quin makes his
appearance—Let him be never so jarring and discordant, Quin puts him in
tune; and, like treble and bass in the same concert, they make excellent
music together—. T’other day, the conversation turning upon Shakespeare,
I could not help saying, with some emotion, that I would give an hundred
guineas to see Mr Quin act the part of Falstaff; upon which, turning to me
with a smile, ‘And I would give a thousand, young gentleman (said he) that
I could gratify your longing.’ My uncle and he are perfectly agreed in their
estimate of life; which Quin says, would stink in his nostrils, if he did not
steep it in claret.
I want to see this phenomenon in his cups; and have almost prevailed
upon uncle to give him a small turtle at the Bear. In the mean time, I must
entertain you with an incident, that seems to confirm the judgment of those
two cynic philosophers. I took the liberty to differ in opinion from Mr
Bramble, when he observed, that the mixture of people in the
entertainments of this place was destructive of all order and urbanity; that it
rendered the plebeians insufferably arrogant and troublesome, and
vulgarized the deportment and sentiments of those who moved in the upper
spheres of life. He said such a preposterous coalition would bring us into
contempt with all our neighbours; and was worse, in fact, than debasing the
gold coin of the nation. I argued, on the contrary, that those plebeians who
discovered such eagerness to imitate the dress and equipage of their
superiors, would likewise, in time, adopt their maxims and their manners,
be polished by their conversation, and refined by their example; but when I
appealed to Mr Quin, and asked if he did not think that such an unreserved

mixture would improve the whole mass? ‘Yes (said he) as a plate of
marmalade would improve a pan of sirreverence.’
I owned I was not much conversant in high-life, but I had seen what were
called polite assemblies in London and elsewhere; that those of Bath
seemed to be as decent as any; and that, upon the whole, the individuals that
composed it, would not be found deficient in good manners and decorum.
‘But let us have recourse to experience (said I)—Jack Holder, who was
intended for a parson, has succeeded to an estate of two thousand a year, by
the death of his elder brother. He is now at the Bath, driving about in a
phaeton and four, with French horns. He has treated with turtle and claret at
all the taverns in Bath and Bristol, till his guests are gorged with good
chear: he has bought a dozen suits of fine clothes, by the advice of the
Master of the Ceremonies, under whose tuition he has entered himself. He
has lost hundreds at billiards to sharpers, and taken one of the nymphs of
Avon-street into keeping; but, finding all these channels insufficient to drain
him of his current cash, his counsellor has engaged him to give a general
tea-drinking to-morrow at Wiltshire’s room. In order to give it the more
eclat, every table is to be furnished with sweet-meats and nosegays; which,
however, are not to be touched till notice is given by the ringing of a bell,
and then the ladies may help themselves without restriction. This will be no
bad way of trying the company’s breeding.’
‘I will abide by that experiment (cried my uncle) and if I could find a
place to stand secure, without the vortex of the tumult, which I know will
ensue, I would certainly go thither and enjoy the scene.’ Quin proposed that
we should take our station in the music-gallery, and we took his advice.
Holder had got thither before us, with his horns perdue, but we were
admitted. The tea-drinking passed as usual, and the company having risen
from the tables, were sauntering in groupes, in expectation of the signal for
attack, when the bell beginning to ring, they flew with eagerness to the
dessert, and the whole place was instantly in commotion. There was nothing
but justling, scrambling, pulling, snatching, struggling, scolding, and
screaming. The nosegays were torn from one another’s hands and bosoms;
the glasses and china went to wreck; the tables and floors were strewed with
comfits. Some cried; some swore; and the tropes and figures of Billingsgate
were used without reserve in all their native zest and flavour; nor were
those flowers of rhetoric unattended with significant gesticulation. Some
snapped their fingers; some forked them out; some clapped their hands, and

some their back-sides; at length, they fairly proceeded to pulling caps, and
every thing seemed to presage a general battle; when Holder ordered his
horns to sound a charge, with a view to animate the combatants, and
inflame the contest; but this manoeuvre produced an effect quite contrary to
what he expected. It was a note of reproach that roused them to an
immediate sense of their disgraceful situation. They were ashamed of their
absurd deportment, and suddenly desisted. They gathered up their caps,
ruffles, and handkerchiefs; and great part of them retired in silent
mortification.
Quin laughed at this adventure; but my uncle’s delicacy was hurt. He
hung his head in manifest chagrin, and seemed to repine at the triumph of
his judgment—Indeed, his victory was more complete than he imagined;
for, as we afterwards learned, the two amazons who singularized
themselves most in the action, did not come from the purlieus of Puddle-
dock, but from the courtly neighbourhood of St James’s palace. One was a
baroness, and the other, a wealthy knight’s dowager—My uncle spoke not a
word, till we had made our retreat good to the coffee-house; where, taking
off his hat and wiping his forehead, ‘I bless God (said he) that Mrs Tabitha
Bramble did not take the field today!’ ‘I would pit her for a cool hundred
(cried Quin) against the best shake-bag of the whole main.’ The truth is,
nothing could have kept her at home but the accident of her having taken
physic before she knew the nature of the entertainment. She has been for
some days furbishing up an old suit of black velvet, to make her appearance
as Sir Ulic’s partner at the next ball.
I have much to say of this amiable kinswoman; but she has not been
properly introduced to your acquaintance. She is remarkably civil to Mr
Quin; of whose sarcastic humour she seems to stand in awe; but her caution
is no match for her impertinence. ‘Mr Gwynn (said she the other day) I was
once vastly entertained with your playing the Ghost of Gimlet at Drury-
lane, when you rose up through the stage, with a white face and red eyes,
and spoke of quails upon the frightful porcofine—Do, pray, spout a little the
Ghost of Gimlet.’ ‘Madam (said Quin, with a glance of ineffable disdain)
the Ghost of Gimlet is laid, never to rise again’— Insensible of this check,
she proceeded: ‘Well, to be sure, you looked and talked so like a real ghost;
and then the cock crowed so natural. I wonder how you could teach him to
crow so exact, in the very nick of time; but, I suppose, he’s game—An’t he
game, Mr Gwynn?’ ‘Dunghill, madam.’—‘Well, dunghill, or not dunghill,

he has got such a clear counter-tenor, that I wish I had such another at
Brambleton-hall, to wake the maids of a morning. Do you know where I
could find one of his brood?’ ‘Probably in the work-house at St Giles’s
parish, madam; but I protest I know not his particular mew!’ My uncle,
frying with vexation, cried, ‘Good God, sister, how you talk! I have told
you twenty times, that this gentleman’s name is not Gwynn.’—‘Hoity toity,
brother mine (she replied) no offence, I hope—Gwynn is an honorable
name, of true old British extraction—I thought the gentleman had been
come of Mrs Helen Gwynn, who was of his own profession; and if so be
that were the case, he might be of king Charles’s breed, and have royal
blood in his veins.’—‘No, madam (answered Quin, with great solemnity)
my mother was not a whore of such distinction—True it is, I am sometimes
tempted to believe myself of royal descent; for my inclinations are often
arbitrary—If I was an absolute prince, at this instant, I believe I should send
for the head of your cook in a charger—She has committed felony, on the
person of that John Dory, which is mangled in a cruel manner, and even
presented without sauce—O tempora! O mores!’
This good-humoured sally turned the conversation into a less
disagreeable channel—But, lest you should think my scribble as tedious as
Mrs Tabby’s clack, I shall not add another word, but that I am as usual
Yours, J. MELFORD BATH, April 30.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR LEWIS,

I received your bill upon Wiltshire, which was punctually honoured; but
as I don’t choose to keep so much cash by me, in a common lodging house,
I have deposited 250l. in the bank of Bath, and shall take their bills for it in
London, when I leave this place, where the season draws to an end—You
must know, that now being a-foot, I am resolved to give Liddy a glimpse of
London. She is one of the best hearted creatures I ever knew, and gains
upon my affection every day—As for Tabby, I have dropt such hints to the
Irish baronet, concerning her fortune, as, I make no doubt, will cool the
ardour of his addresses. Then her pride will take the alarm; and the rancour
of stale maidenhood being chafed, we shall hear nothing but slander and
abuse of Sir Ulic Mackilligut—This rupture, I foresee, will facilitate our
departure from Bath; where, at present, Tabby seems to enjoy herself with
peculiar satisfaction. For my part, I detest it so much, that I should not have
been able to stay so long in the place if I had not discovered some old
friends; whose conversation alleviates my disgust—Going to the
coffeehouse one forenoon, I could not help contemplating the company,
with equal surprize and compassion—We consisted of thirteen individuals;
seven lamed by the gout, rheumatism, or palsy; three maimed by accident;
and the rest either deaf or blind. One hobbled, another hopped, a third
dragged his legs after him like a wounded snake, a fourth straddled betwixt
a pair of long crutches, like the mummy of a felon hanging in chains; a fifth
was bent into a horizontal position, like a mounted telescope, shoved in by a
couple of chairmen; and a sixth was the bust of a man, set upright in a
wheel machine, which the waiter moved from place to place.
Being struck with some of their faces, I consulted the subscription-book;
and, perceiving the names of several old friends, began to consider the
groupe with more attention. At length I discovered rear-admiral Balderick,
the companion of my youth, whom I had not seen since he was appointed
lieutenant of the Severn. He was metamorphosed into an old man, with a
wooden leg and a weatherbeaten face, which appeared the more ancient

from his grey locks, that were truly venerable—Sitting down at the table,
where he was reading a news-paper, I gazed at him for some minutes, with
a mixture of pleasure and regret, which made my heart gush with
tenderness; then, taking him by the hand, ‘Ah, Sam (said I) forty years ago I
little thought’—I was too much moved to proceed. ‘An old friend, sure
enough! (cried he, squeezing my hand, and surveying me eagerly through
his glasses) I know the looming of the vessel, though she has been hard
strained since we parted; but I can’t heave up the name’—The moment I
told him who I was, he exclaimed, ‘Ha! Matt, my old fellow cruizer, still
afloat!’ And, starting up, hugged me in his arms. His transport, however,
boded me no good; for, in saluting me, he thrust the spring of his spectacles
into my eye, and, at the same time, set his wooden stump upon my gouty
toe; an attack that made me shed tears in sad earnest—After the hurry of
our recognition was over, he pointed out two of our common friends in the
room: the bust was what remained of colonel Cockril, who had lost the use
of his limbs in making an American campaign; and the telescope proved to
be my college chum, sir Reginald Bently; who, with his new title, and
unexpected inheritance, commenced fox-hunter, without having served his
apprenticeship to the mystery; and, in consequence of following the hounds
through a river, was seized with an inflammation of his bowels, which has
contracted him into his present attitude.
Our former correspondence was forthwith renewed, with the most hearty
expressions of mutual good-will, and as we had met so unexpectedly, we
agreed to dine together that very day at the tavern. My friend Quin, being
luckily unengaged, obliged us with his company; and, truly, this the most
happy day I have passed these twenty years. You and I, Lewis, having been
always together, never tasted friendship in this high gout, contracted from
long absence. I cannot express the half of what I felt at this casual meeting
of three or four companions, who had been so long separated, and so
roughly treated by the storms of life. It was a renovation of youth; a kind of
resuscitation of the dead, that realized those interesting dreams, in which we
sometimes retrieve our ancient friends from the grave. Perhaps my
enjoyment was not the less pleasing for being mixed with a strain of
melancholy, produced by the remembrance of past scenes, that conjured up
the ideas of some endearing connexions, which the hand of Death has
actually dissolved.

The spirits and good humour of the company seemed to triumph over the
wreck of their constitutions. They had even philosophy enough to joke upon
their own calamities; such is the power of friendship, the sovereign cordial
of life—I afterwards found, however, that they were not without their
moments, and even hours of disquiet. Each of them apart, in succeeding
conferences, expatiated upon his own particular grievances; and they were
all malcontents at bottom—Over and above their personal disasters, they
thought themselves unfortunate in the lottery of life. Balderick complained,
that all the recompence he had received for his long and hard service, was
the half-pay of a rear-admiral. The colonel was mortified to see himself
over-topped by upstart generals, some of whom he had once commanded;
and, being a man of a liberal turn, could ill put up with a moderate annuity,
for which he had sold his commission. As for the baronet, having run
himself considerably in debt, on a contested election, he has been obliged to
relinquish his seat in parliament, and his seat in the country at the same
time, and put his estate to nurse; but his chagrin, which is the effect of his
own misconduct, does not affect me half so much as that of the other two,
who have acted honourable and distinguished parts on the great theatre, and
are now reduced to lead a weary life in this stew-pan of idleness and
insignificance. They have long left off using the waters, after having
experienced their inefficacy. The diversions of the place they are not in a
condition to enjoy. How then do they make shift to pass their time? In the
forenoon they crawl out to the Rooms or the coffeehouse, where they take a
hand at whist, or descant upon the General Advertiser; and their evenings
they murder in private parties, among peevish invalids, and insipid old
women—This is the case with a good number of individuals, whom nature
seems to have intended for better purposes.
About a dozen years ago, many decent families, restricted to small
fortunes, besides those that came hither on the score of health, were
tempted to settle at Bath, where they could then live comfortably, and even
make a genteel appearance, at a small expence: but the madness of the
times has made the place too hot for them, and they are now obliged to
think of other migrations—Some have already fled to the mountains of
Wales, and others have retired to Exeter. Thither, no doubt, they will be
followed by the flood of luxury and extravagance, which will drive them
from place to place to the very Land’s End; and there, I suppose, they will
be obliged to ship themselves to some other country. Bath is become a mere

sink of profligacy and extortion. Every article of house-keeping is raised to
an enormous price; a circumstance no longer to be wondered at, when we
know that every petty retainer of fortune piques himself upon keeping a
table, and thinks it is for the honour of his character to wink at the knavery
of his servants, who are in a confederacy with the market-people; and, of
consequence, pay whatever they demand. Here is now a mushroom of
opulence, who pays a cook seventy guineas a week for furnishing him with
one meal a day. This portentous frenzy is become so contagious, that the
very rabble and refuse of mankind are infected. I have known a negro-
driver, from Jamaica, pay over-night, to the master of one of the rooms,
sixty-five guineas for tea and coffee to the company, and leave Bath next
morning, in such obscurity, that not one of his guests had the slightest idea
of his person, or even made the least inquiry about his name. Incidents of
this kind are frequent; and every day teems with fresh absurdities, which are
too gross to make a thinking man merry.
—But I feel the spleen creeping on me apace; and therefore will indulge
you with a cessation, that you may have no unnecessary cause to curse your
correspondence with,
Dear Dick, Yours ever, MAT. BRAMBLE BATH, May 5.

To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
MY DEAR LETTY,

I wrote you at great length by the post, the twenty-sixth of last month, to
which I refer you for an account of our proceedings at Bath; and I expect
your answer with impatience. But, having this opportunity of a private
hand, I send you two dozen of Bath rings; six of the best of which I desire
you will keep for yourself, and distribute the rest among the young ladies,
our common friends, as you shall think proper—I don’t know how you will
approve of the mottoes; some of them are not much to my own liking; but I
was obliged to take such as I could find ready manufactured—I am vexed,
that neither you nor I have received any further information of a certain
person—Sure it cannot be wilful neglect!—O my dear Willis! I begin to be
visited by strange fancies, and to have some melancholy doubts; which,
however, it would be ungenerous to harbour without further inquiry—My
uncle, who has made me a present of a very fine set of garnets, talks of
treating us with a jaunt to London; which, you may imagine, will be highly
agreeable; but I like Bath so well, that I hope he won’t think of leaving it till
the season is quite over; and yet, betwixt friends, something has happened
to my aunt, which will probably shorten our stay in this place.
Yesterday, in the forenoon, she went by herself to a breakfasting in one of
the rooms; and, in half an hour, returned in great agitation, having Chowder
along with her in the chair. I believe some accident must have happened to
that unlucky animal, which is the great source of all her troubles. Dear
Letty! what a pity it is, that a woman of her years and discretion, should
place her affection upon such an ugly, ill-conditioned cur, that snarls and
snaps at every body. I asked John Thomas, the footman who attended her,
what was the matter? and he did nothing but grin. A famous dog-doctor was
sent for, and undertook to cure the patient, provided he might carry him
home to his own house; but his mistress would not part with him out of her
own sight—She ordered the cook to warm cloths, which she applied to his
bowels, with her own hand. She gave up all thoughts of going to the ball in
the evening; and when Sir Ulic came to drink tea, refused to be seen; so that

he went away to look for another partner. My brother Jery whistles and
dances. My uncle sometimes shrugs up his shoulders, and sometimes bursts
out a-laughing. My aunt sobs and scolds by turns; and her woman, Win.
Jenkins, stares and wonders with a foolish face of curiosity; and, for my
part, I am as curious as she, but ashamed to ask questions.
Perhaps time will discover the mystery; for if it was any thing that
happened in the Rooms, it cannot be long concealed—All I know is, that
last night at supper, miss Bramble spoke very disdainfully of Sir Ulic
Mackilligut, and asked her brother if he intended to keep us sweltering all
the summer at Bath? ‘No, sister Tabitha (said he, with an arch smile) we
shall retreat before the Dog-days begin; though I make no doubt, that with a
little temperance and discretion, our constitutions might be kept cool
enough all the year, even at Bath.’ As I don’t know the meaning of this
insinuation, I won’t pretend to make any remarks upon it at present:
hereafter, perhaps, I may be able to explain it more to your satisfaction—In
the mean time, I beg you will be punctual in your correspondence, and
continue to love your ever faithful
LYDIA MELFORD BATH, May 6.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
So then Mrs Blackerby’s affair has proved a false alarm, and I have saved
my money? I wish, however, her declaration had not been so premature; for
though my being thought capable of making her a mother, might have given
me some credit, the reputation of an intrigue with such a cracked pitcher
does me no honour at all In my last I told you I had hopes of seeing Quin, in
his hours of elevation at the tavern which is the temple of mirth and good
fellowship; where he, as priest of Comus, utters the inspirations of wit and
humour—I have had that satisfaction. I have dined with his club at the
Three Tuns, and had the honour to sit him out. At half an hour past eight in
the evening, he was carried home with six good bottles of claret under his
belt; and it being then Friday, he gave orders that he should not be disturbed
till Sunday at noon—You must not imagine that this dose had any other
effect upon his conversation, but that of making it more extravagantly
entertaining—He had lost the use of his limbs, indeed, several hours before
we parted, but he retained all his other faculties in perfection; and as he
gave vent to every whimsical idea as it rose, I was really astonished at the
brilliancy of his thoughts, and the force of his expression. Quin is a real
voluptuary in the articles of eating and drinking; and so confirmed an
epicure, in the common acceptation of the term, that he cannot put up with
ordinary fare. This is a point of such importance with him, that he always
takes upon himself the charge of catering; and a man admitted to his mess,
is always sure of eating delicate victuals, and drinking excellent wine—He
owns himself addicted to the delights of the stomach, and often jokes upon
his own sensuality; but there is nothing selfish in this appetite—He finds
that good chear unites good company, exhilerates the spirits, opens the
heart, banishes all restraint from conversation, and promotes the happiest
purposes of social life. But Mr James Quin is not a subject to be discussed
in the compass of one letter; I shall therefore, at present, leave him to his
repose, and call another of a very different complexion.
You desire to have further acquaintance with the person of our aunt, and
promise yourself much entertainment from her connexion with Sir Ulic

Mackilligut: but in this hope you are baulked already; that connexion is
dissolved. The Irish baronet is an old hound, that, finding her carrion, has
quitted the scent—I have already told you, that Mrs Tabitha Bramble is a
maiden of forty-five. In her person, she is tall, raw-boned, aukward, flat-
chested, and stooping; her complexion is sallow and freckled; her eyes are
not grey, but greenish, like those of a cat, and generally inflamed; her hair is
of a sandy, or rather dusty hue; her forehead low; her nose long, sharp, and,
towards the extremity, always red in cool weather; her lips skinny, her
mouth extensive, her teeth straggling and loose, of various colours and
conformation; and her long neck shrivelled into a thousand wrinkles—In
her temper, she is proud, stiff, vain, imperious, prying, malicious, greedy,
and uncharitable. In all likelihood, her natural austerity has been soured by
disappointment in love; for her long celibacy is by no means owing to her
dislike of matrimony: on the contrary, she has left no stone unturned to
avoid the reproachful epithet of old maid.
Before I was born, she had gone such lengths in the way of flirting with a
recruiting officer, that her reputation was a little singed. She afterwards
made advances to the curate of the parish, who dropped some distant hints
about the next presentation to the living, which was in her brother’s gift; but
finding that was already promised to another, he flew off at a tangent; and
Mrs Tabby, in revenge, found means to deprive him of his cure. Her next
lover was lieutenant of a man of war, a relation of the family, who did not
understand the refinements of the passion, and expressed no aversion to
grapple with cousin Tabby in the way of marriage; but before matters could
be properly adjusted, he went out on a cruise, and was killed in an
engagement with a French frigate. Our aunt, though baffled so often, did
not yet despair. She layed all her snares for Dr Lewis, who is the fidus
Achates of my uncle. She even fell sick upon the occasion, and prevailed
with Matt to interpose in her behalf with his friend; but the Doctor, being a
shy cock, would not be caught with chaff, and flatly rejected the proposal:
so that Mrs Tabitha was content to exert her patience once more, after
having endeavoured in vain to effect a rupture betwixt the two friends; and
now she thinks proper to be very civil to Lewis, who is become necessary to
her in the way of his profession.
These, however, are not the only efforts she has made towards a nearer
conjunction with our sex. Her fortune was originally no more than a
thousand pounds; but she gained an accession of five hundred by the death

of a sister, and the lieutenant left her three hundred in his will. These sums
she has more than doubled, by living free of all expence, in her brother’s
house; and dealing in cheese and Welsh flannel, the produce of his flocks
and dairy. At present her capital is increased to about four thousand pounds;
and her avarice seems to grow every day more and more rapacious: but
even this is not so intolerable as the perverseness of her nature, which keeps
the whole family in disquiet and uproar. She is one of those geniuses who
find some diabolical enjoyment in being dreaded and detested by their
fellow-creatures.
I once told my uncle, I was surprised that a man of his disposition could
bear such a domestic plague, when it could be so easily removed. The
remark made him sore, because it seemed to tax him with want of
resolution—Wrinkling up his nose, and drawing down his eye-brows, ‘A
young fellow (said he) when he first thrusts his snout into the world, is apt
to be surprised at many things which a man of experience knows to be
ordinary and unavoidable—This precious aunt of yours is become
insensibly a part of my constitution—Damn her! She’s a noli me tangere in
my flesh, which I cannot bear to be touched or tampered with.’ I made no
reply; but shifted the conversation. He really has an affection for this
original; which maintains its ground in defiance of common sense, and in
despite of that contempt which he must certainly feel for her character and
understanding. Nay, I am convinced, that she has likewise a most virulent
attachment to his person; though her love never shews itself but in the shape
of discontent; and she persists in tormenting him out of pure tenderness—
The only object within doors upon which she bestows any marks of
affection, in the usual stile, is her dog Chowder; a filthy cur from
Newfoundland, which she had in a present from the wife of a skipper in
Swansey. One would imagine she had distinguished this beast with her
favour on account of his ugliness and ill-nature, if it was not, indeed, an
instinctive sympathy, between his disposition and her own. Certain it is, she
caresses him without ceasing; and even harasses the family in the service of
this cursed animal, which, indeed, has proved the proximate cause of her
breach with Sir Ulic Mackilligut.
You must know, she yesterday wanted to steal a march of poor Liddy, and
went to breakfast in the Room without any other companion than her dog,
in expectation of meeting with the Baronet, who had agreed to dance with
her in the evening—Chowder no sooner made his appearance in the Room,

than the Master of the Ceremonies, incensed at his presumption, ran up to
drive him away, and threatened him with his foot; but the other seemed to
despise his authority, and displaying a formidable case of long, white, sharp
teeth, kept the puny monarch at bay—While he stood under some
trepidation, fronting his antagonist, and bawling to the waiter, Sir Ulic
Mackilligut came to his assistance; and seeming ignorant of the connexion
between this intruder and his mistress, gave the former such a kick in the
jaws, as sent him howling to the door—Mrs Tabitha, incensed at this
outrage, ran after him, squalling in a tone equally disagreeable; while the
Baronet followed her on one side, making apologies for his mistake; and
Derrick on the other, making remonstrances upon the rules and regulations
of the place.
Far from being satisfied with the Knight’s excuses, she said she was sure
he was no gentleman; and when the Master of the Ceremonies offered to
hand her into the chair, she rapped him over the knuckles with her fan. My
uncle’s footman being still at the door, she and Chowder got into the same
vehicle, and were carried off amidst the jokes of the chairmen and other
populace—I had been riding out on Clerkendown, and happened to enter
just as the fracas was over—The Baronet, coming up to me with an affected
air of chagrin, recounted the adventure; at which I laughed heartily, and
then his countenance cleared up. ‘My dear soul (said he) when I saw a sort
of a wild baist, snarling with open mouth at the Master of the Ceremonies,
like the red cow going to devour Tom Thumb, I could do no less than go to
the assistance of the little man; but I never dreamt the baist was one of Mrs
Bramble’s attendants—O! if I had, he might have made his breakfast upon
Derrick and welcome—But you know, my dear friend, how natural it is for
us Irishmen to blunder, and to take the wrong sow by the ear—However, I
will confess judgment, and cry her mercy; and it is to be hoped, a penitent
sinner may be forgiven.’ I told him, that as the offence was not voluntary of
his side, it was to be hoped he would not find her implacable.
But, in truth, all this concern was dissembled. In his approaches of
gallantry to Mrs Tabitha, he had been misled by a mistake of at least six
thousand pounds, in the calculation of her fortune; and in this particular he
was just undeceived. He, therefore, seized the first opportunity of incurring
her displeasure decently, in such a manner as would certainly annihilate the
correspondence; and he could not have taken a more effectual method, than
that of beating her dog. When he presented himself at our door, to pay his

respects to the offended fair, he was refused admittance, and given to
understand that he should never find her at home for the future. She was not
so inaccessible to Derrick, who came to demand satisfaction for the insult
she had offered to him, even in the verge of his own court. She knew it was
convenient to be well with the Master of the Ceremonies, while she
continued to frequent the Rooms; and, having heard he was a poet, began to
be afraid of making her appearance in a ballad or lampoon.—She therefore
made excuses for what she had done, imputing it to the flutter of her spirits;
and subscribed handsomely for his poems: so that he was perfectly
appeased, and overwhelmed her with a profusion of compliment. He even
solicited a reconciliation with Chowder; which, however, the latter
declined; and he declared, that if he could find a precedent in the annals of
the Bath, which he would carefully examine for that purpose, her favourite
should be admitted to the next public breakfasting—But, I, believe, she will
not expose herself or him to the risque of a second disgrace—Who will
supply the place of Mackilligut in her affections, I cannot foresee; but
nothing in the shape of man can come amiss. Though she is a violent
church-woman, of the most intolerant zeal, I believe in my conscience she
would have no objection, at present, to treat on the score of matrimony with
an Anabaptist, Quaker, or Jew; and even ratify the treaty at the expense of
her own conversion. But, perhaps, I think too hardly of this kinswoman;
who, I must own, is very little beholden to the good opinion of
Yours, J. MELFORD BATH, May 6.

To Dr LEWIS.
You ask me, why I don’t take the air a-horseback, during this fine
weather?—In which of the avenues of this paradise would you have me
take that exercise? Shall I commit myself to the high-roads of London or
Bristol, to be stifled with dust, or pressed to death in the midst of post-
chaises, flying-machines, waggons, and coal-horses; besides the troops of
fine gentlemen that take to the highway, to shew their horsemanship; and
the coaches of fine ladies, who go thither to shew their equipages? Shall I
attempt the Downs, and fatigue myself to death in climbing up an eternal
ascent, without any hopes of reaching the summit? Know then, I have made
divers desperate leaps at those upper regions; but always fell backward into
this vapour-pit, exhausted and dispirited by those ineffectual efforts; and
here we poor valetudinarians pant and struggle, like so many Chinese
gudgeons, gasping in the bottom of a punch-bowl. By Heaven it is a kind of
enchantment! If I do not speedily break the spell, and escape, I may chance
to give up the ghost in this nauseous stew of corruption—It was but two
nights ago, that I had like to have made my public exit, at a minute’s
warning. One of my greatest weaknesses is that of suffering myself to be
over-ruled by the opinion of people, whose judgment I despise—I own,
with shame and confusion of face, that importunity of any kind I cannot
resist. This want of courage and constancy is an original flaw in my nature,
which you must have often observed with compassion, if not with
contempt. I am afraid some of our boasted virtues maybe traced up to this
defect.
Without further preamble, I was persuaded to go to a ball, on purpose to
see Liddy dance a minuet with a young petulant jackanapes, the only son of
a wealthy undertaker from London, whose mother lodges in our
neighbourhood, and has contracted an acquaintance with Tabby. I sat a
couple of long hours, half stifled, in the midst of a noisome crowd; and
could not help wondering that so many hundreds of those that rank as
rational creatures, could find entertainment in seeing a succession of insipid
animals, describing the same dull figure for a whole evening, on an area,
not much bigger than a taylor’s shop-board. If there had been any beauty,

grace, activity, magnificent dress, or variety of any kind howsoever absurd,
to engage the attention, and amuse the fancy, I should not have been
surprised; but there was no such object: it was a tiresome repetition of the
same languid, frivolous scene, performed by actors that seemed to sleep in
all their motions. The continual swimming of these phantoms before my
eyes, gave me a swimming of the head; which was also affected by the
fouled air, circulating through such a number of rotten human bellows. I
therefore retreated towards the door, and stood in the passage to the next
room, talking to my friend Quin; when an end being put to the minuets, the
benches were removed to make way for the country-dances; and the
multitude rising at once, the whole atmosphere was put in commotion.
Then, all of a sudden, came rushing upon me an Egyptian gale, so
impregnated with pestilential vapours, that my nerves were overpowered,
and I dropt senseless upon the floor.
You may easily conceive what a clamour and confusion this accident
must have produced, in such an assembly—I soon recovered, however, and
found myself in an easy chair, supported by my own people—Sister Tabby,
in her great tenderness, had put me to the torture, squeezing my hand under
her arm, and stuffing my nose with spirit of hartshorn, till the whole inside
was excoriated. I no sooner got home, than I sent for Doctor Ch—, who
assured me I needed not be alarmed, for my swooning was entirely
occasioned by an accidental impression of fetid effluvia upon nerves of
uncommon sensibility. I know not how other people’s nerves are
constructed; but one would imagine they must be made of very coarse
materials, to stand the shock of such a torrid assault. It was, indeed, a
compound of villainous smells, in which the most violent stinks, and the
most powerful perfumes, contended for the mastery. Imagine to yourself a
high exalted essence of mingled odours, arising from putrid gums,
imposthumated lungs, sour flatulencies, rank armpits, sweating feet,
running sores and issues, plasters, ointments, and embrocations, hungary-
water, spirit of lavender, assafoetida drops, musk, hartshorn, and sal
volatile; besides a thousand frowzy steams, which I could not analyse.
Such, O Dick! is the fragrant aether we breathe in the polite assemblies of
Bath—Such is the atmosphere I have exchanged for the pure, elastic,
animating air of the Welsh mountains—O Rus, quando te aspiciam!—-I
wonder what the devil possessed me—

But few words are best: I have taken my resolution—You may well
suppose I don’t intend to entertain the company with a second exhibition—I
have promised, in an evil hour, to proceed to London, and that promise shall
be performed, but my stay in the metropolis shall be brief. I have, for the
benefit of my health, projected an expedition to the North, which, I hope,
will afford some agreeable pastime. I have never travelled farther that way
than Scarborough; and, I think, it is a reproach upon me, as a British
freeholder, to have lived so long without making an excursion to the other
side of the Tweed. Besides, I have some relations settled in Yorkshire, to
whom it may not be improper to introduce my nephew and his sister—At
present, I have nothing to add, but that Tabby is happily disentangled from
the Irish Baronet; and that I will not fail to make you acquainted, from time
to time, with the sequel of our adventures: a mark of consideration, which,
perhaps, you would willingly dispense with in
Your humble servant, M. BRAMBLE BATH, May 8.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

A few days ago we were terribly alarmed by my uncle’s fainting at the
ball—He has been ever since cursing his own folly, for going thither at the
request of an impertinent woman. He declares, he will sooner visit a house
infected with the plague, than trust himself in such a nauseous spital for the
future, for he swears the accident was occasioned by the stench of the
crowd; and that he would never desire a stronger proof of our being made
of very gross materials, than our having withstood the annoyance, by which
he was so much discomposed. For my part, I am very thankful for the
coarseness of my organs, being in no danger of ever falling a sacrifice to the
delicacy of my nose. Mr Bramble is extravagantly delicate in all his
sensations, both of soul and body. I was informed by Dr Lewis, that he once
fought a duel with an officer of the horseguards, for turning aside to the
Park-wall, on a necessary occasion, when he was passing with a lady under
his protection. His blood rises at every instance of insolence and cruelty,
even where he himself is no way concerned; and ingratitude makes his teeth
chatter. On the other hand, the recital of a generous, humane, or grateful
action, never fails to draw from him tears of approbation, which he is often
greatly distressed to conceal.
Yesterday, one Paunceford gave tea, on particular invitation—This man,
after having been long buffetted by adversity, went abroad; and Fortune,
resolved to make him amends for her former coyness, set him all at once up
to the very ears in affluence. He has now emerged from obscurity, and
blazes out in all the tinsel of the times. I don’t find that he is charged with
any practices that the law deems dishonest, or that his wealth has made him
arrogant and inaccessible; on the contrary, he takes great pains to appear
affable and gracious. But, they say, he is remarkable for shrinking from his
former friendships, which were generally too plain and home-spun to
appear amidst his present brilliant connexions; and that he seems uneasy at

sight of some old benefactors, whom a man of honour would take pleasure
to acknowledge—Be that as it may, he had so effectually engaged the
company at Bath, that when I went with my uncle to the coffeehouse in the
evening, there was not a soul in the room but one person, seemingly in
years, who sat by the fire, reading one of the papers. Mr Bramble, taking his
station close by him, ‘There is such a crowd and confusion of chairs in the
passage to Simpson’s (said he) that we could hardly get along—I wish those
minions of fortune would fall upon more laudable ways of spending their
money.—I suppose, Sir, you like this kind of entertainment as little as I do?’
‘I cannot say I have any great relish for such entertainments,’ answered the
other, without taking his eyes off the paper—‘Mr Serle (resumed my uncle)
I beg pardon for interrupting you; but I can’t resist the curiosity I have to
know if you received a card on this occasion?’
The man seemed surprised at this address, and made some pause, as
doubtful what answer he should make. ‘I know my curiosity is impertinent
(added my uncle) but I have a particular reason for asking the favour.’ ‘If
that be the case (replied Mr Serle) I shall gratify you without hesitation, by
owning that I have had no card. But, give me leave, Sir, to ask in my turn,
what reason you think I have to expect such an invitation from the
gentleman who gives tea?’ ‘I have my own reasons (cried Mr Bramble, with
some emotion) and am convinced, more than ever, that this Paunceford is a
contemptible fellow.’ ‘Sir (said the other, laying down the paper) I have not
the honour to know you; but your discourse is a little mysterious, and seems
to require some explanation. The person you are pleased to treat so
cavalierly, is a gentleman of some consequence in the community; and, for
aught you know, I may also have my particular reasons for defending his
character’—‘If I was not convinced of the contrary (observed the other) I
should not have gone so far’—‘Let me tell you, Sir (said the stranger,
raising his voice) you have gone too far, in hazarding such reflections’.
Here he was interrupted by my uncle; who asked peevishly if he was Don
Quixote enough, at this time of day, to throw down his gauntlet as
champion for a man who had treated him with such ungrateful neglect. ‘For
my part (added he) I shall never quarrel with you again upon this subject;
and what I have said now, has been suggested as much by my regard for
you, as by my contempt of him’—Mr Serle, then pulling off his spectacles,
eyed uncle very earnestly, saying, in a mitigated tone, ‘Surely I am much
obliged—Ah, Mr Bramble! I now recollect your features, though I have not

seen you these many years.’ ‘We might have been less strangers to one
another (answered the squire) if our correspondence had not been
interrupted, in consequence of a misunderstanding, occasioned by this very
—, but no matter—Mr Serle, I esteem your character; and my friendship,
such as it is, you may freely command.’ ‘The offer is too agreeable to be
declined (said he); I embrace it very cordially; and, as the first fruits of it,
request that you will change this subject, which, with me, is a matter of
peculiar delicacy.’
My uncle owned he was in the right, and the discourse took a more
general turn. Mr Serle passed the evening with us at our lodgings; and
appeared to be intelligent, and even entertaining; but his disposition was
rather of a melancholy hue. My uncle says he is a man of uncommon parts,
and unquestioned probity: that his fortune, which was originally small, has
been greatly hurt by a romantic spirit of generosity, which he has often
displayed, even at the expence of his discretion, in favour of worthless
individuals—That he had rescued Paunceford from the lowest distress,
when he was bankrupt, both in means and reputation—That he had
espoused his interests with a degree of enthusiasm, broke with several
friends, and even drawn his sword against my uncle, who had particular
reasons for questioning the moral character of the said Paunceford: that,
without Serle’s countenance and assistance, the other never could have
embraced the opportunity, which has raised him to this pinnacle of wealth:
that Paunceford, in the first transports of his success, had written, from
abroad, letters to different correspondents, owning his obligations to Mr
Serle, in the warmest terms of acknowledgement, and declared he
considered himself only as a factor for the occasions of his best friend: that,
without doubt, he had made declarations of the same nature to his
benefactor himself, though this last was always silent and reserved on the
subject; but for some years, those tropes and figures of rhetoric had been
disused; that, upon his return to England, he had been lavish in his caresses
to Mr Serle, invited him to his house, and pressed him to make it his own:
that he had overwhelmed him with general professions, and affected to
express the warmest regard for him, in company of their common
acquaintance; so that every body believed his gratitude was liberal as his
fortune; and some went so far as to congratulate Mr Serle on both.
All this time Paunceford carefully and artfully avoided particular
discussions with his old patron, who had too much spirit to drop the most

distant hint of balancing the account of obligation: that, nevertheless, a man
of his feelings could not but resent this shocking return for all his kindness:
and, therefore, he withdrew himself from the connexion, without coming to
the least explanation or speaking a syllable on the subject to any living soul;
so that now their correspondence is reduced to a slight salute with the hat,
when they chance to meet in any public place; an accident that rarely
happens, for their walks lie different ways. Mr Paunceford lives in a palace,
feeds upon dainties, is arrayed in sumptuous apparel, appears in all the
pomp of equipage, and passes his time among the nobles of the land. Serle
lodges in Stall-street, up two pair of stairs backwards, walks a-foot in a
Bath-rug, eats for twelve shillings a-week, and drinks water as preservative
against the gout and gravel—Mark the vicissitude. Paunceford once resided
in a garret; where he subsisted upon sheep’s-trotters and cow-heel, from
which commons he was translated to the table of Serle, that ever abounded
with good-chear; until want of economy and retention reduced him to a
slender annuity in his decline of years, that scarce affords the bare
necessaries of life.—Paunceford, however, does him the honour to speak of
him still, with uncommon regard; and to declare what pleasure it would
give him to contribute in any shape to his convenience: ‘But you know (he
never fails to add) he’s a shy kind of a man—And then such a perfect
philosopher, that he looks upon all superfluities with the most sovereign
contempt. Having given you this sketch of squire Paunceford, I need not
make any comment on his character, but leave it at the mercy of your own
reflection; from which I dare say, it will meet with as little quarter as it has
found with
Yours always, J. MELFORD BATH, May 10.

To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
DEAR MOLLY,

We are all upon the ving—Hey for London, girl!—Fecks! we have been
long enough here; for we’re all turned tipsy turvy—Mistress has excarded
Sir Ulic for kicking of Chowder; and I have sent O Frizzle away, with a flea
in his ear—I’ve shewn him how little I minded his tinsy and his long tail—
A fellor, who would think for to go, for to offer, to take up with a dirty
trollop under my nose—I ketched him in the very feet, coming out of the
housemaids garret.—But I have gi’en the dirty slut a siserary. O Molly! the
sarvants at Bath are devils in garnet. They lite the candle at both ends—
Here’s nothing but ginketting, and wasting, and thieving and tricking, and
trigging; and then they are never content—They won’t suffer the ‘squire
and mistress to stay any longer; because they have been already above three
weeks in the house; and they look for a couple of ginneys a-piece at our
going away; and this is a parquisite they expect every month in the season;
being as how no family has a right to stay longer than four weeks in the
same lodgings; and so the cuck swears she will pin the dish-clout to
mistress’s tail; and the house-maid vows, she’ll put cowitch in master’s bed,
if so be he don’t discamp without furder ado—I don’t blame them for
making the most of their market, in the way of vails and parquisites; and I
defy the devil to say I am a tail-carrier, or ever brought a poor sarvant into
trouble—But then they oft to have some conscience, in vronging those that
be sarvants like themselves—For you must no, Molly, I missed three-
quarters of blond lace, and a remnant of muslin, and my silver thimble;
which was the gift of true love; they were all in my workbasket, that I left
upon the table in the sarvants-hall, when mistresses bell rung; but if they
had been under lock and kay, ‘twould have been all the same; for there are
double keys to all the locks in Bath; and they say as how the very teeth an’t
safe in your head, if you sleep with your mouth open—And so says I to
myself, them things could not go without hands; and so I’ll watch their
waters: and so I did with a vitness; for then it was I found Bett consarned
with O Frizzle. And as the cuck had thrown her slush at me, because I had

taken part with Chowder, when he fit, with the turnspit, I resolved to make
a clear kitchen, and throw some of her fat into the fire. I ketched the chare-
woman going out with her load in the morning, before she thought I was up,
and brought her to mistress with her whole cargo—Marry, what do’st think
she had got in the name of God? Her buckets were foaming full of our best
bear, and her lap was stuffed with a cold tongue, part of a buttock of beef,
half a turkey, and a swinging lump of butter, and the matter of ten mould
kandles, that had scarce ever been lit. The cuck brazened it out, and said it
was her rite to rummage the pantry; and she was ready for to go before the
mare: that he had been her potticary many years, and would never think of
hurting a poor sarvant, for giving away the scraps of the kitchen. I went
another way to work with madam Betty, because she had been saucy, and
called me skandelus names; and said O Frizzle couldn’t abide me, and
twenty other odorous falsehoods. I got a varrant from the mare, and her box
being sarched by the constable, my things came out sure enuff; besides a
full pound of vax candles, and a nite-cap of mistress, that I could sware to
on my cruperal oaf—O! then madam Mopstick came upon her merry bones;
and as the squire wouldn’t hare of a pursecution, she scaped a skewering:
but the longest day she has to live, she’ll remember your
Humble sarvant, W. JENKINS BATH, May 15.
If the hind should come again, before we be gone, pray send me the shift
and apron, with the vite gallow manky shoes; which you’ll find in my
pillowber—Sarvice to Saul—

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college,
Oxon.
You are in the right, dear Phillips; I don’t expect regular answers to every
letter—I know a college-life is too circumscribed to afford materials for
such quick returns of communication. For my part, I am continually shifting
the scene, and surrounded with new objects; some of which are striking
enough. I shall therefore conclude my journal for your amusement; and,
though, in all appearance, it will not treat of very important or interesting
particulars, it may prove, perhaps, not altogether uninstructive and
unentertaining.
The music and entertainments of Bath are over for this season; and all
our gay birds of passage have taken their flight to Bristolwell, Tunbridge,
Brighthelmstone, Scarborough, Harrowgate, &c. Not a soul is seen in this
place, but a few broken-winded parsons, waddling like so many crows
along the North Parade. There is always a great shew of the clergy at Bath:
none of your thin, puny, yellow, hectic figures, exhausted with abstinence,
and hardy study, labouring under the morbi eruditorum, but great
overgrown dignitaries and rectors, with rubicund noses and gouty ancles, or
broad bloated faces, dragging along great swag bellies; the emblems of
sloth and indigestion.
Now we are upon the subject of parsons, I must tell you a ludicrous
adventure, which was achieved the other day by Tom Eastgate, whom you
may remember on the foundation of Queen’s. He had been very assiduous
to pin himself upon George Prankley, who was a gentleman-commoner of
Christchurch, knowing the said Prankley was heir to a considerable estate,
and would have the advowson of a good living, the incumbent of which was
very old and infirm. He studied his passions, and flattered them so
effectually, as to become his companion and counsellor; and, at last,
obtained of him a promise of the presentation, when the living should fall.
Prankley, on his uncle’s death, quitted Oxford, and made his first
appearance in the fashionable world at London; from whence he came
lately to Bath, where he has been exhibiting himself among the bucks and

gamesters of the place. Eastgate followed him hither; but he should not
have quitted him for a moment, at his first emerging into life. He ought to
have known he was a fantastic, foolish, fickle fellow, who would forget his
college-attachments the moment they ceased appealing to his senses. Tom
met with a cold reception from his old friend; and was, moreover, informed,
that he had promised the living to another man, who had a vote in the
county, where he proposed to offer himself a candidate at the next general
election. He now remembered nothing of Eastgate, but the freedoms he had
used to take with him, while Tom had quietly stood his butt, with an eye to
the benefice; and those freedoms he began to repeat in common-place
sarcasms on his person and his cloth, which he uttered in the public
coffeehouse, for the entertainment of the company. But he was egregiously
mistaken in giving his own wit credit for that tameness of Eastgate, which
had been entirely owing to prudential considerations. These being now
removed, he retorted his repartee with interest, and found no great difficulty
in turning the laugh upon the aggressor; who, losing his temper, called him
names, and asked, If he knew whom he talked to? After much altercation,
Prankley, shaking his cane, bid him hold his tongue, otherwise he could
dust his cassock for him. ‘I have no pretensions to such a valet (said Tom)
but if you should do me that office, and overheat yourself, I have here a
good oaken towel at your service.’
Prankley was equally incensed and confounded at this reply. After a
moment’s pause, he took him aside towards die window; and, pointing to
the clump of firs, on Clerken-down, asked in a whisper, if he had spirit
enough to meet him there, with a case of pistols, at six o’clock tomorrow
morning. Eastgate answered in the affirmative; and, with a steady
countenance, assured him, he would not fail to give him the rendezvous at
the hour he mentioned. So saying, he retired; and the challenger stayed
some time in manifest agitation. In the morning, Eastgate, who knew his
man, and had taken his resolution, went to Prankley’s lodgings, and roused
him by five o’clock.
The squire, in all probability, cursed his punctuality in his heart, but he
affected to talk big; and having prepared his artillery overnight, they
crossed the water at the end of the South Parade. In their progress up the
hill, Prankley often eyed the parson, in hopes of perceiving some reluctance
in his countenance; but as no such marks appeared, he attempted to
intimidate him by word of mouth. ‘If these flints do their office (said he) I’ll

do thy business in a few minutes.’ ‘I desire you will do your best (replied
the other); for my part, I come not here to trifle. Our lives are in the hands
of God; and one of us already totters on the brink of eternity’ This remark
seemed to make some impression upon the squire, who changed
countenance, and with a faultering accent observed, ‘That it ill became a
clergyman to be concerned in quarrels and bloodshed’—‘Your insolence to
me (said Eastgate) I should have bore with patience, had not you cast the
most infamous reflections upon my order, the honour of which I think
myself in duty bound to maintain, even at the expence of my heart’s blood;
and surely it can be no crime to put out of the world a profligate wretch,
without any sense of principle, morality, or religion’—‘Thou may’st take
away my life (cried Prankley, in great perturbation) but don’t go to murder
my character. What! has’t got no conscience?’ ‘My conscience is perfectly
quiet (replied the other); and now, Sir, we are upon the spot—Take your
ground as near as you please; prime your pistol; and the Lord, of his infinite
mercy, have compassion upon your miserable soul!’
This ejaculation he pronounced in a loud solemn tone, with his hat off,
and his eyes lifted up; then drawing a large horse-pistol, he presented, and
put himself in a posture of action. Prankley took his distance, and
endeavoured to prime, but his hand shook with such violence, that he found
this operation impracticable—His antagonist, seeing how it was with him,
offered his assistance, and advanced for that purpose; when the poor squire,
exceedingly alarmed at what he had heard and seen, desired the action
might be deferred till next day, as he had not settled his affairs. ‘I ha’n’t
made my will (said he); my sisters are not provided for; and I just now
recollect an old promise, which my conscience tells me I ought to perform
—I’ll first convince thee, that I’m not a wretch without principle, and then
thou shalt have an opportunity to take my life, which thou seem’st to thirst
after so eagerly.’
Eastgate understood the hint; and told him, that one day should break no
squares: adding, ‘God forbid that I should be the means of hindering you
from acting the part of an honest man, and a dutiful brother’—By virtue of
this cessation, they returned peaceably together. Prankley forthwith made
out the presentation of the living, and delivered it to Eastgate, telling him at
the same time, he had now settled his affairs, and was ready to attend him to
the Fir-grove; but Tom declared he could not think of lifting his hand
against the life of so great a benefactor—He did more: when they next met

at the coffeehouse, he asked pardon of Mr Prankley, if in his passion he had
said any thing to give him offence; and the squire was so gracious as to
forgive him with a cordial shake of the hand, declaring, that he did not like
to be at variance with an old college companion—Next day, however, he
left Bath abruptly; and then Eastgate told me all these particulars, not a little
pleased with the effects of his own sagacity, by which he has secured a
living worth 160l. per annum.
Of my uncle, I have nothing at present to say; but that we set out
tomorrow for London en famille. He and the ladies, with the maid and
Chowder in a coach; I and the man-servant a-horseback. The particulars of
our journey you shall have in my next, provided no accident happens to
prevent,
Yours ever, J. MELFORD BATH May 17.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR DICK,

I shall to-morrow set out for London, where I have bespoke lodgings, at
Mrs Norton’s in Golden-square. Although I am no admirer of Bath, I shall
leave it with regret; because I must part with some old friends, whom, in all
probability, I shall never see again. In the course of coffeehouse
conversation, I had often heard very extraordinary encomiums passed on
the performances of Mr T—, a gentleman residing in this place, who paints
landscapes for his amusement. As I have no great confidence in the taste
and judgment of coffeehouse connoisseurs, and never received much
pleasure from this branch of the art, those general praises made no
impression at all on my curiosity; but, at the request of a particular friend, I
went yesterday to see the pieces, which had been so warmly commended—I
must own I am no judge of painting, though very fond of pictures. I don’t
imagine that my senses would play me so false, as to betray me into
admiration of any thing that was very bad; but, true it is, I have often
overlooked capital beauties, in pieces of extraordinary merit.—If I am not
totally devoid of taste, however, this young gentleman of Bath is the best
landscape-painter now living: I was struck with his performances in such a
manner, as I had never been by painting before. His trees not only have a
richness of foliage and warmth of colouring, which delights the view; but
also a certain magnificence in the disposition and spirit in the expression,
which I cannot describe. His management of the chiaro oscuro, or light and
shadow, especially gleams of sunshine, is altogether wonderful, both in the
contrivance and execution; and he is so happy in his perspective, and
marking his distances at sea, by a progressive series of ships, vessels, capes,
and promontories, that I could not help thinking, I had a distant view of
thirty leagues upon the back-ground of the picture. If there is any taste for
ingenuity left in a degenerate age, fast sinking into barbarism, this artist, I
apprehend, will make a capital figure, as soon as his works are known.
Two days ago, I was favoured with a visit by Mr Fitzowen; who, with
great formality, solicited my vote and interest at the general election. I

ought not to have been shocked at the confidence of this man; though it was
remarkable, considering what had passed between him and me on a former
occasion—These visits are mere matter of form, which a candidate makes
to every elector; even to those who, he knows, are engaged in the interest of
his competitor, lest he should expose himself to the imputation of pride, at a
time when it is expected he should appear humble. Indeed, I know nothing
so abject as the behaviour of a man canvassing for a seat in parliament—
This mean prostration (to borough-electors, especially) has, I imagine,
contributed in a great measure to raise that spirit of insolence among the
vulgar; which, like the devil, will be found very difficult to lay. Be that as it
may, I was in some confusion at the effrontery of Fitzowen; but I soon
recollected myself, and told him, I had not yet determined for whom I
should give my vote, nor whether I should give it for any.—The truth is, I
look upon both candidates in the same light; and should think myself a
traitor to the constitution of my country, if I voted for either. If every elector
would bring the same consideration home to his conscience, we should not
have such reason to exclaim against the venality of p—ts. But we all are a
pack of venal and corrupted rascals; so lost to all sense of honesty, and all
tenderness of character, that, in a little time, I am fully persuaded, nothing
will be infamous but virtue and public-spirit.
G. H—, who is really an enthusiast in patriotism, and represented the
capital in several successive parliaments, declared to me t’other day, with
the tears in his eyes, that he had lived above thirty years in the city of
London, and dealt in the way of commerce with all the citizens of note in
their turns; but that, as he should answer to God, he had never, in the whole
course of his life, found above three or four whom he could call thoroughly
honest: a declaration which was rather mortifying than surprising to me;
who have found so few men of worth in the course of my acquaintance, that
they serve only as exceptions; which, in the grammarian’s phrase, confirm
and prove a general canon—I know you will say, G. H— saw imperfectly
through the mist of prejudice, and I am rankled by the spleen—Perhaps,
you are partly in the right; for I have perceived that my opinion of mankind,
like mercury in the thermometer, rises and falls according to the variations
of the weather.
Pray settle accompts with Barnes; take what money of mine is in his
hands, and give him acquittance. If you think Davis has stock or credit
enough to do justice to the farm, give him a discharge for the rent that is

due, this will animate his industry; for I know that nothing is so
discouraging to a farmer as the thoughts of being in arrears with his
landlord. He becomes dispirited, and neglects his labour; and so the farm
goes to wreck. Tabby has been clamouring for some days about the lamb’s
skin, which Williams, the hind, begged of me, when he was last at Bath.
Prithee take it back, paying the fellow the full value of it, that I may have
some peace in my own house; and let him keep his own counsel, if he
means to keep his place—O! I shall never presume to despise or censure
any poor man, for suffering himself to be henpecked; conscious how I
myself am obliged to truckle to a domestic demon; even though (blessed be
God) she is not yoked with me for life, in the matrimonial waggon—She
has quarrelled with the servants of the house about vails; and such
intolerable scolding ensued on both sides, that I have been fain to appease
the cook and chambermaid by stealth. Can’t you find some poor gentleman
of Wales, to take this precious commodity off the hands of
Yours, MATT. BRAMBLE BATH, May 19.

To Dr LEWIS.
DOCTER LEWS,

Give me leaf to tell you, methinks you mought employ your talons better,
than to encourage servants to pillage their masters. I find by Gwyllim, that
Villiams has got my skin; for which he is an impotent rascal. He has not
only got my skin, but, moreover, my butter-milk to fatten his pigs; and, I
suppose, the next thing he gets, will be my pad to carry his daughter to
church and fair: Roger gets this, and Roger gets that; but I’d have you to
know, I won’t be rogered at this rate by any ragmatical fellow in the
kingdom—And I am surprised, docter Lews, you would offer to put my
affairs in composition with the refuge and skim of the hearth. I have toiled
and moyled to a good purpuss, for the advantage of Matt’s family, if I can’t
safe as much owl as will make me an under petticoat. As for the butter-milk,
ne’er a pig in the parish shall thrust his snout in it, with my good-will.
There’s a famous physician at the Hot Well, that prescribes it to his
patience, when the case is consumptive; and the Scots and Irish have begun
to drink it already, in such quantities, that there is not a drop left for the
hogs in the whole neighbourhood of Bristol. I’ll have our butter-milk
barrelled up, and sent twice a-week to Aberginny, where it may be sold for a
half-penny the quart; and so Roger may carry his pigs to another market—I
hope, Docter, you will not go to put any more such phims in my brother’s
head, to the prejudice of my pockat; but rather give me some raisins (which
hitherto you have not done) to subscribe myself
Your humble servant, TAB. BRAMBLE BATH, May 19.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

Without waiting for your answer to my last, I proceed to give you an
account of our journey to London, which has not been wholly barren of
adventure. Tuesday last the ‘squire took his place in a hired coach and four,
accompanied by his sister and mine, and Mrs Tabby’s maid, Winifrid
Jenkins, whose province it was to support Chowder on a cushion in her lap.
I could scarce refrain from laughing when I looked into the vehicle, and
saw that animal sitting opposite to my uncle, like any other passenger. The
squire, ashamed of his situation, blushed to the eyes: and, calling to the
postilions to drive on, pulled the glass up in my face. I, and his servant,
John Thomas, attended them on horseback.
Nothing worth mentioning occurred, till we arrived on the edge of
Marlborough Downs. There one of the four horses fell, in going down hill
at a round trot; and the postilion behind, endeavouring to stop the carriage,
pulled it on one side into a deep rut, where it was fairly overturned. I had
rode on about two hundred yards before; but, hearing a loud scream,
galloped back and dismounted, to give what assistance was in my power.
When I looked into the coach, I could see nothing distinctly, but the nether
end of Jenkins, who was kicking her heels and squalling with great
vociferation. All of a sudden, my uncle thrust up his bare pate, and bolted
through the window, as nimble as a grasshopper, having made use of poor
Win’s posteriors as a step to rise in his ascent—The man (who had likewise
quitted his horse) dragged this forlorn damsel, more dead than alive,
through the same opening. Then Mr Bramble, pulling the door off its hinges
with a jerk, laid hold on Liddy’s arm, and brought her to the light; very
much frighted, but little hurt. It fell to my share to deliver our aunt Tabitha,
who had lost her cap in the struggle, and being rather more than half frantic,
with rage and terror, was no bad representation of one of the sister Furies
that guard the gates of hell—She expressed no sort of concern for her

brother, who ran about in the cold, without his periwig, and worked with the
most astonishing agility, in helping to disentangle the horses from the
carriage: but she cried, in a tone of distraction, ‘Chowder! Chowder! my
dear Chowder! my poor Chowder is certainly killed!’
This was not the case—Chowder, after having tore my uncle’s leg in the
confusion of the fall, had retreated under the scat, and from thence the
footman drew him by the neck; for which good office, he bit his fingers to
the bone. The fellow, who is naturally surly, was so provoked at this assault,
that he saluted his ribs with a hearty kick, exclaiming, ‘Damn the nasty son
of a bitch, and them he belongs to!’ A benediction, which was by no means
lost upon the implacable virago his mistress—Her brother, however,
prevailed upon her to retire into a peasant’s house, near the scene of action,
where his head and hers were covered, and poor Jenkins had a fit. Our next
care was to apply some sticking plaister to the wound in his leg, which
exhibited the impression of Chowder’s teeth; but he never opened his lips
against the delinquent—Mrs Tabby, alarmed at this scene, ‘You say nothing,
Matt (cried she); but I know your mind—I know the spite you have to that
poor unfortunate animal! I know you intend to take his life away!’ ‘You are
mistaken, upon my honour! (replied the squire, with a sarcastic smile) I
should be incapable of harbouring any such cruel design against an object
so amiable and inoffensive; even if he had not the happiness to be your
favourite.’
John Thomas was not so delicate. The fellow, whether really alarmed for
his life, or instigated by the desire of revenge, came in, and bluntly
demanded, that the dog should be put to death; on the supposition, that if
ever he should run mad hereafter, he, who had been bit by him, would be
infected—My uncle calmly argued upon the absurdity of his opinion,
observing, that he himself was in the same predicament, and would
certainly take the precaution he proposed, if he was not sure he ran no
risque of infection. Nevertheless, Thomas continued obstinate; and, at
length declared, that if the dog was not shot immediately, he himself would
be his executioner—This declaration opened the flood-gates of Tabby’s
eloquence, which would have shamed the first-rate oratress of Billingsgate.
The footman retorted in the same stile; and the squire dismissed him from
his service, after having prevented me from giving him a good horse-
whipping for his insolence.

The coach being adjusted, another difficulty occurred—Mrs Tabitha
absolutely refused to enter it again, unless another driver could be found to
take the place of the postilion; who, she affirmed, had overturned the
carriage from malice aforethought—After much dispute, the man resigned
his place to a shabby country fellow, who undertook to go as far as
Marlborough, where they could be better provided; and at that place we
arrived about one O’clock, without farther impediment. Mrs Bramble,
however, found new matter of offence; which, indeed, she has a particular
genius for extracting at will from almost every incident in life. We had
scarce entered the room at Marlborough, where we stayed to dine, when she
exhibited a formal complaint against the poor fellow who had superseded
the postilion. She said he was such a beggarly rascal that he had ne’er a
shirt to his back, and had the impudence to shock her sight by shewing his
bare posteriors, for which act of indelicacy he deserved to be set in the
stocks. Mrs Winifred Jenkins confirmed the assertion, with respect to his
nakedness, observing, at the same time, that he had a skin as fair as
alabaster.
‘This is a heinous offence, indeed (cried my uncle) let us hear what the
fellow has to say in his own vindication.’ He was accordingly summoned,
and made his appearance, which was equally queer and pathetic. He seemed
to be about twenty years of age, of a middling size, with bandy legs,
stooping shoulders, high forehead, sandy locks, pinking eyes, flat nose, and
long chin—but his complexion was of a sickly yellow; his looks denoted
famine, and the rags that he wore could hardly conceal what decency
requires to be covered—My uncle, having surveyed him attentively, said,
with an ironical expression in his countenance, ‘An’t you ashamed, fellow,
to ride postilion without a shirt to cover your backside from the view of the
ladies in the coach?’ ‘Yes, I am, an please your noble honour (answered the
man) but necessity has no law, as the saying is—And more than that, it was
an accident. My breeches cracked behind, after I had got into the saddle’
‘You’re an impudent varlet (cried Mrs Tabby) for presuming to ride before
persons of fashion without a shirt’—‘I am so, an please your worthy
ladyship (said he) but I am a poor Wiltshire lad—I ha’n’t a shirt in the
world, that I can call my own, nor a rag of clothes, and please your
ladyship, but what you see—I have no friend nor relation upon earth to help
me out—I have had the fever and ague these six months, and spent all I had
in the world upon doctors, and to keep soul and body together; and, saving

your ladyship’s good presence, I han’t broke bread these four and twenty
hours.’
Mrs Bramble, turning from him, said, she had never seen such a filthy
tatterdemalion, and bid him begone; observing, that he would fill the room
full of vermin—Her brother darted a significant glance at her, as she retired
with Liddy into another apartment, and then asked the man if he was known
to any person in Marlborough?—When he answered, that the landlord of
the inn had known him from his infancy; mine host was immediately called,
and being interrogated on the subject, declared that the young fellow’s
name was Humphry Clinker. That he had been a love begotten babe,
brought up in the work-house, and put out apprentice by the parish to a
country black-smith, who died before the boy’s time was out: that he had
for some time worked under his ostler, as a helper and extra postilion, till he
was taken ill of the ague, which disabled him from getting his bread: that,
having sold or pawned every thing he had in the world for his cure and
subsistence, he became so miserable and shabby, that he disgraced the
stable, and was dismissed; but that he never heard any thing to the prejudice
of his character in other respects. ‘So that the fellow being sick and
destitute (said my uncle) you turned him out to die in the streets.’ ‘I pay the
poor’s rate (replied the other) and I have no right to maintain idle vagrants,
either in sickness or health; besides, such a miserable object would have
brought a discredit upon my house.’
‘You perceive (said the ‘squire, turning to me) our landlord is a Christian
of bowels—Who shall presume to censure the morals of the age, when the
very publicans exhibit such examples of humanity?—Heark ye, Clinker,
you are a most notorious offender—You stand convicted of sickness,
hunger, wretchedness, and want—But, as it does not belong to me to punish
criminals, I will only take upon me the task of giving you a word of advice.
Get a shirt with all convenient dispatch, that your nakedness may not
henceforward give offence to travelling gentlewomen, especially maidens
in years.’
So saying, he put a guinea into the hand of the poor fellow, who stood
staring at him in silence, with his mouth wide open, till the landlord pushed
him out of the room.
In the afternoon, as our aunt stept into the coach, she observed, with
some marks of satisfaction, that the postilion, who rode next to her, was not

a shabby wretch like the ragamuffin who had them into Marlborough.
Indeed, the difference was very conspicuous: this was a smart fellow, with a
narrow brimmed hat, with gold cording, a cut bob, a decent blue jacket,
leather-breaches, and a clean linen shirt, puffed above the waist-band. When
we arrived at the Castle, on Spin-hill, where we lay, this new postilion was
remarkably assiduous in bringing in the loose parcels; and, at length,
displayed the individual countenance of Humphry Clinker, who had
metamorphosed himself in this manner, by relieving from pawn part of his
own clothes, with the money he had received from Mr Bramble.
Howsoever pleased the rest of the company were with such a favourable
change in the appearance of this poor creature it soured on the stomach of
Mrs Tabby, who had not yet digested the affront of his naked skin—She
tossed her nose in disdain, saying, she supposed her brother had taken him
into favour, because he had insulted her with his obscenity: that a fool and
his money were soon parted; but that if Matt intended to take the fellow
with him to London, she would not go a foot further that way—My uncle
said nothing with his tongue, though his looks were sufficiently expressive;
and next morning Clinker did not appear, so that we proceeded without
further altercation to Salthill, where we proposed to dine—There, the first
person that came to the side of the coach, and began to adjust the footboard,
was no other than Humphry Clinker—When I handed out Mrs Bramble, she
eyed him with a furious look, and passed into the house—My uncle was
embarrassed, and asked him peevishly, what had brought him hither? The
fellow said, his honour had been so good to him, that he had not the heart to
part with him; that he would follow him to the world’s end, and serve him
all the days of his life, without fee or reward.
Mr Bramble did not know whether to chide or laugh at this declaration—
He foresaw much contradiction on the side of Tabby; and on the other hand,
he could not but be pleased with the gratitude of Clinker, as well as with the
simplicity of his character—‘Suppose I was inclined to take you into my
service (said he) what are your qualifications? what are you good for?’ ‘An
please your honour (answered this original) I can read and write, and do the
business of the stable indifferent well—I can dress a horse, and shoe him,
and bleed and rowel him; and, as for the practice of sow-gelding, I won’t
turn my back on e’er a he in the county of Wilts—Then I can make hog’s
puddings and hob-nails, mend kettles and tin sauce-pans.’—Here uncle
burst out a-laughing; and inquired what other accomplishments he was

master of—‘I know something of single-stick, and psalmody (proceeded
Clinker); I can play upon the jew’s-harp, sing Black-ey’d Susan, Arthur-
o’Bradley, and divers other songs; I can dance a Welsh jig, and Nancy
Dawson; wrestle a fall with any lad of my inches, when I’m in heart; and,
under correction I can find a hare when your honour wants a bit of game.’
‘Foregad! thou are a complete fellow (cried my uncle, still laughing) I have
a good mind to take thee into my family—Prithee, go and try if thou can’st
make peace with my sister—Thou ha’st given her much offence by shewing
her thy naked tail.’
Clinker accordingly followed us into the room, cap in hand, where,
addressing himself to Mrs Tabitha, ‘May it please your ladyship’s worship
(cried he) to pardon and forgive my offences, and, with God’s assistance, I
shall take care that my tail shall never rise up in judgment against me, to
offend your ladyship again. Do, pray, good, sweet, beautiful lady, take
compassion on a poor sinner—God bless your noble countenance; I am sure
you are too handsome and generous to bear malice—I will serve you on my
bended knees, by night and by day, by land and by water; and all for the
love and pleasure of serving such an excellent lady.’
This compliment and humiliation had some effect upon Tabby; but she
made no reply; and Clinker, taking silence for consent, gave his attendance
at dinner. The fellow’s natural aukwardness and the flutter of his spirits
were productive of repeated blunders in the course of his attendance—At
length, he spilt part of a custard upon her right shoulder; and, starting back,
trod upon Chowder, who set up a dismal howl—Poor Humphry was so
disconcerted at this double mistake, that he dropt the china dish, which
broke into a thousand pieces; then, falling down upon his knees, remained
in that posture gaping, with a most ludicrous aspect of distress. Mrs
Bramble flew to the dog, and, snatching him in her arms, presented him to
her brother saying, ‘This is all a concerted scheme against this unfortunate
animal, whose only crime is its regard for me—Here it is, kill it at once, and
then you’ll be satisfied.’
Clinker, hearing these words, and taking them in the literal acceptation,
got up in some hurry, and seizing a knife from the side-board, cried, ‘Not
here, an please your ladyship—It will daub the room—Give him to me, and
I’ll carry him to the ditch by the roadside’ To this proposal he received no
other answer, than a hearty box on the ear, that made him stagger to the

other side of the room. ‘What! (said she to her brother) am I to be affronted
by every mangy hound that you pick up on the highway? I insist upon your
sending this rascallion about his business immediately’ ‘For God’s sake,
sister, compose yourself (said my uncle) and consider that the poor fellow is
innocent of any intention to give you offence’ ‘Innocent as the babe unborn’
(cried Humphry). ‘I see it plainly (exclaimed this implacable maiden), he
acts by your direction; and you are resolved to support him in his
impudence This is a bad return for all the services I have done you; for
nursing you in your sickness, managing your family, and keeping you from
ruining yourself by your own imprudence—But now you shall part with
that rascal or me, upon the spot, without farther loss of time; and the world
shall see whether you have more regard for your own flesh and blood, or for
a beggarly foundling taken from the dunghill.’
Mr Bramble’s eyes began to glisten, and his teeth to chatter. ‘If stated
fairly (said he, raising his voice) the question is, whether I have spirit to
shake off an intolerable yoke, by one effort of resolution, or meanness
enough to do an act of cruelty and injustice, to gratify the rancour of a
capricious woman—Heark ye, Mrs Tabitha Bramble, I will now propose an
alternative in my turn. Either discard your four-footed favourite, or give me
leave to bid you eternally adieu—For I am determined that he and I shall
live no longer under the same roof; and to dinner with what appetite you
may’—Thunderstruck at this declaration, she sat down in a corner; and,
after a pause of some minutes, ‘Sure I don’t understand you, Matt! (said
she)’ ‘And yet I spoke in plain English’ answered the ‘squire, with a
peremptory look. ‘Sir (resumed this virago, effectually humbled), it is your
prerogative to command, and my duty to obey. I can’t dispose of the dog in
this place; but if you’ll allow him to go in the coach to London, I give you
my word, he shall never trouble you again.’
Her brother, entirely disarmed by this mild reply, declared, she could ask
him nothing in reason that he would refuse; adding, ‘I hope, sister, you have
never found me deficient in natural affection.’
Mrs Tabitha immediately rose, and, throwing her arms about his neck,
kissed him on the cheek: he returned her embrace with great emotion. Liddy
sobbed, Win. Jenkins cackled, Chowder capered, and Clinker skipped
about, rubbing his hands for joy of this reconciliation.

Concord being thus restored, we finished our meal with comfort; and in
the evening arrived at London, without having met with any other
adventure. My aunt seems to be much mended by the hint she received
from her brother. She has been graciously pleased to remove her displeasure
from Clinker, who is now retained as a footman; and in a day or two will
make his appearance in a new suit of livery; but as he is little acquainted
with London, we have taken an occasional valet, whom I intend hereafter to
hire as my own servant. We lodge in Goldensquare, at the house of one Mrs
Notion, a decent sort of a woman, who takes great pains to make us all easy.
My uncle proposes to make a circuit of all the remarkable scenes of this
metropolis, for the entertainment of his pupils; but as both you and I are
already acquainted with most of those he will visit, and with some others he
little dreams of, I shall only communicate what will be in some measure
new to your observation. Remember me to our Jesuitical friends, and
believe me ever,
Dear knight, Yours affectionately, J. MELFORD LONDON, May 24.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR DOCTOR,

London is literally new to me; new in its streets, houses, and even in its
situation; as the Irishman said, ‘London is now gone out of town.’ What I
left open fields, producing hay and corn, I now find covered with streets
and squares, and palaces, and churches. I am credibly informed, that in the
space of seven years, eleven thousand new houses have been built in one
quarter of Westminster, exclusive of what is daily added to other parts of
this unwieldy metropolis. Pimlico and Knightsbridge are now almost joined
to Chelsea and Kensington; and if this infatuation continues for half a
century, I suppose the whole county of Middlesex will be covered with
brick.
It must be allowed, indeed, for the credit of the present age, that London
and Westminster are much better paved and lighted than they were
formerly. The new streets are spacious, regular, and airy; and the houses
generally convenient. The bridge at Blackfriars is a noble monument of
taste and public-spirit.—I wonder how they stumbled upon a work of such
magnificence and utility. But, notwithstanding these improvements, the
capital is become an overgrown monster; which, like a dropsical head, will
in time leave the body and extremities without nourishment and support.
The absurdity will appear in its full force, when we consider that one sixth
part of the natives of this whole extensive kingdom is crowded within the
bills of mortality. What wonder that our villages are depopulated, and our
farms in want of day-labourers? The abolition of small farms is but one
cause of the decrease of population. Indeed, the incredible increase of
horses and black cattle, to answer the purposes of luxury, requires a
prodigious quantity of hay and grass, which are raised and managed without
much labour; but a number of hands will always be wanted for the different
branches of agriculture, whether the farms be large or small. The tide of
luxury has swept all the inhabitants from the open country—The poorest
squire, as well as the richest peer, must have his house in town, and make a
figure with an extraordinary number of domestics. The plough-boys, cow-

herds, and lower hinds are debauched and seduced by the appearance and
discourse of those coxcombs in livery, when they make their summer
excursions. They desert their dirt and drudgery, and swarm up to London, in
hopes of getting into service, where they can live luxuriously and wear fine
clothes, without being obliged to work; for idleness is natural to man—
Great numbers of these, being disappointed in their expectation, become
thieves and sharpers; and London being an immense wilderness, in which
there is neither watch nor ward of any signification, nor any order or police,
affords them lurking-places as well as prey.
There are many causes that contribute to the daily increase of this
enormous mass; but they may be all resolved into the grand source of
luxury and corruption—About five and twenty years ago, very few, even of
the most opulent citizens of London, kept any equipage, or even any
servants in livery. Their tables produced nothing but plain boiled and
roasted, with a bottle of port and a tankard of beer. At present, every trader
in any degree of credit, every broker and attorney, maintains a couple of
footmen, a coachman, and postilion. He has his town-house, and his
country-house, his coach, and his post-chaise. His wife and daughters
appear in the richest stuffs, bespangled with diamonds. They frequent the
court, the opera, the theatre, and the masquerade. They hold assemblies at
their own houses: they make sumptuous entertainments, and treat with the
richest wines of Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Champagne. The substantial
tradesman, who wont to pass his evenings at the ale-house for fourpence
half-penny, now spends three shillings at the tavern, while his wife keeps
card-tables at home; she must likewise have fine clothes, her chaise, or pad,
with country lodgings, and go three times a week to public diversions.
Every clerk, apprentice, and even waiter of tavern or coffeehouse, maintains
a gelding by himself, or in partnership, and assumes the air and apparel of a
petit maitre—The gayest places of public entertainment are filled with
fashionable figures; which, upon inquiry, will be found to be journeymen
taylors, serving-men, and abigails, disguised like their betters.
In short, there is no distinction or subordination left—The different
departments of life are jumbled together—The hod-carrier, the low
mechanic, the tapster, the publican, the shopkeeper, the pettifogger, the
citizen, and courtier, all tread upon the kibes of one another: actuated by the
demons of profligacy and licentiousness, they are seen every where
rambling, riding, rolling, rushing, justling, mixing, bouncing, cracking, and

crashing in one vile ferment of stupidity and corruption—All is tumult and
hurry; one would imagine they were impelled by some disorder of the brain,
that will not suffer them to be at rest. The foot-passengers run along as if
they were pursued by bailiffs. The porters and chairmen trot with their
burthens. People, who keep their own equipages, drive through the streets at
full speed. Even citizens, physicians, and apothecaries, glide in their
chariots like lightening. The hackney-coachmen make their horses smoke,
and the pavement shakes under them; and I have actually seen a waggon
pass through Piccadilly at the hand-gallop. In a word, the whole nation
seems to be running out of their wits.
The diversions of the times are not ill suited to the genius of this
incongruous monster, called the public. Give it noise, confusion, glare, and
glitter; it has no idea of elegance and propriety—What are the amusements
of Ranelagh? One half of the company are following at the other’s tails, in
an eternal circle; like so many blind asses in an olive-mill, where they can
neither discourse, distinguish, nor be distinguished; while the other half are
drinking hot water, under the denomination of tea, till nine or ten o’clock at
night, to keep them awake for the rest of the evening. As for the orchestra,
the vocal music especially, it is well for the performers that they cannot be
heard distinctly. Vauxhall is a composition of baubles, overcharged with
paltry ornaments, ill conceived, and poorly executed; without any unity of
design, or propriety of disposition. It is an unnatural assembly of objects,
fantastically illuminated in broken masses; seemingly contrived to dazzle
the eyes and divert the imagination of the vulgar—Here a wooden lion,
there a stone statue; in one place, a range of things like coffeehouse boxes,
covered a-top; in another, a parcel of ale-house benches; in a third, a
puppet-show representation of a tin cascade; in a fourth, a gloomy cave of a
circular form, like a sepulchral vault half lighted; in a fifth, a scanty flip of
grass-plat, that would not afford pasture sufficient for an ass’s colt. The
walks, which nature seems to have intended for solitude, shade, and silence,
are filled with crowds of noisy people, sucking up the nocturnal rheums of
an aguish climate; and through these gay scenes, a few lamps glimmer like
so many farthing candles.
When I see a number of well dressed people, of both sexes, sitting on the
covered benches, exposed to the eyes of the mob; and, which is worse, to
the cold, raw, night-air, devouring sliced beef, and swilling port, and punch,
and cyder, I can’t help compassionating their temerity; while I despise their

want of taste and decorum; but, when they course along those damp and
gloomy walks, or crowd together upon the wet gravel, without any other
cover than the cope of Heaven, listening to a song, which one half of them
cannot possibly hear, how can I help supposing they are actually possessed
by a spirit, more absurd and pernicious than any thing we meet with in the
precincts of Bedlam? In all probability, the proprietors of this, and other
public gardens of inferior note, in the skirts of the metropolis, are, in some
shape, connected with the faculty of physic, and the company of
undertakers; for, considering that eagerness in the pursuit of what is called
pleasure, which now predominates through every rank and denomination of
life, I am persuaded that more gouts, rheumatisms, catarrhs, and
consumptions are caught in these nocturnal pastimes, sub dio, than from all
the risques and accidents to which a life of toil and danger is exposed.
These, and other observations, which I have made in this excursion, will
shorten my stay at London, and send me back with a double relish to my
solitude and mountains; but I shall return by a different route from that
which brought me to town. I have seen some old friends, who constantly
resided in this virtuous metropolis, but they are so changed in manners and
disposition, that we hardly know or care for one another—In our journey
from Bath, my sister Tabby provoked me into a transport of passion; during
which, like a man who has drank himself pot-valiant, I talked to her in such
a stile of authority and resolution, as produced a most blessed effect. She
and her dog have been remarkably quiet and orderly ever since this
expostulation. How long this agreeable calm will last, Heaven above knows
—I flatter myself, the exercise of travelling has been of service to my
health; a circumstance which encourages me to-proceed in my projected
expedition to the North. But I must, in the mean time, for the benefit and
amusement of my pupils, explore the depths of this chaos; this misshapen
and monstrous capital, without head or tail, members or proportion.
Thomas was so insolent to my sister on the road, that I was obliged to
turn him off abruptly, betwixt Chippenham and Marlborough, where our
coach was overturned. The fellow was always sullen and selfish; but, if he
should return to the country, you may give him a character for honesty and
sobriety; and, provided he behaves with proper respect to the family, let him
have a couple of guineas in the name of
Yours always, MATT. BRAMBLE LONDON, May 20.

To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
MY DEAR LETTY,

Inexpressible was the pleasure I received from yours of the 25th, which
was last night put into my hands by Mrs Brentford, the milliner, from
Gloucester—I rejoice to hear that my worthy governess is in good health,
and, still more, that she no longer retains any displeasure towards her poor
Liddy. I am sorry you have lost the society of the agreeable Miss Vaughn;
but, I hope you won’t have cause much longer to regret the departure of
your school companions, as I make no doubt but your parents will, in a little
time, bring you into the world, where you are so well qualified to make a
distinguished figure. When that is the case, I flatter myself you and I shall
meet again, and be happy together; and even improve the friendship which
we contracted in our tender years. This at least I can promise—It shall not
be for the want of my utmost endeavours, if our intimacy does not continue
for life.
About five days ago we arrived in London, after an easy journey from
Bath; during which, however, we were overturned, and met with some other
little incidents, which, had like to have occasioned a misunderstanding
betwixt my uncle and aunt; but now, thank God, they are happily
reconciled: we live in harmony together, and every day make parties to see
the wonders of this vast metropolis, which, however, I cannot pretend to
describe; for I have not as yet seen one hundredth part of its curiosities, and
I am quite in a maze of admiration.
The cities of London and Westminster are spread out into an incredible
extent. The streets, squares, rows, lanes, and alleys, are innumerable.
Palaces, public buildings, and churches rise in every quarter; and, among
these last, St Paul’s appears with the most astonishing pre-eminence. They
say it is not so large as, St Peter’s at Rome; but, for my own part, I can have
no idea of any earthly temple more grand and magnificent.
But even these superb objects are not so striking as the crowds of people
that swarm in the streets. I at first imagined that some great assembly was
just dismissed, and wanted to stand aside till the multitude should pass; but

this human tide continues to flow, without interruption or abatement, from
morn till night. Then there is such an infinity of gay equipages, coaches,
chariots, chaises, and other carriages, continually rolling and shifting before
your eyes, that one’s head grows giddy looking at them; and the
imagination is quite confounded with splendour and variety. Nor is the
prospect by water less grand and astonishing than that by land: you see
three stupendous bridges, joining the opposite banks of a broad, deep, and
rapid river; so vast, so stately, so elegant, that they seem to be the work of
the giants; betwixt them, the whole surface of the Thames is covered with
small vessels, barges, boats, and wherries, passing to and fro; and below the
three bridges, such a prodigious forest of masts, for miles together, that you
would think all the ships in the universe were here assembled. All that you
read of wealth and grandeur in the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, and the
Persian Tales, concerning Bagdad, Diarbekir, Damascus, Ispahan, and
Samarkand, is here realized.
Ranelagh looks like the inchanted palace of a genie, adorned with the
most exquisite performances of painting, carving, and gilding, enlightened
with a thousand golden lamps, that emulate the noon-day sun; crowded with
the great, the rich, the gay, the happy, and the fair; glittering with cloth of
gold and silver, lace, embroidery, and precious stones. While these exulting
sons and daughters of felicity tread this round of pleasure, or regale in
different parties, and separate lodges, with fine imperial tea and other
delicious refreshments, their ears are entertained with the most ravishing
delights of music, both instrumental and vocal. There I heard the famous
Tenducci, a thing from Italy—It looks for all the world like a man, though
they say it is not. The voice, to be sure, is neither man’s nor woman’s; but it
is more melodious than either; and it warbled so divinely, that, while I
listened, I really thought myself in paradise.
At nine o’clock, in a charming moonlight evening, we embarked at
Ranelagh for Vauxhall, in a wherry so light and slender that we looked like
so many fairies sailing in a nutshell. My uncle, being apprehensive of
catching cold upon the water, went round in the coach, and my aunt would
have accompanied him, but he would not suffer me to go by water if she
went by land; and therefore she favoured us with her company, as she
perceived I had a curiosity to make this agreeable voyage—After all, the
vessel was sufficiently loaded; for, besides the waterman, there was my
brother Jery, and a friend of his, one Mr Barton, a country gentleman, of a

good fortune, who had dined at our house—The pleasure of this little
excursion was, however, damped, by my being sadly frighted at our
landing; where there was a terrible confusion of wherries and a crowd of
people bawling, and swearing, and quarrelling, nay, a parcel of ugly-
looking fellows came running into the water, and laid hold of our boat with
great violence, to pull it a-shore; nor would they quit their hold till my
brother struck one of them over the head with his cane. But this flutter was
fully recompensed by the pleasures of Vauxhall; which I no sooner entered,
than I was dazzled and confounded with the variety of beauties that rushed
all at once upon my eye. Image to yourself, my dear Letty, a spacious
garden, part laid out in delightful walks, bounded with high hedges and
trees, and paved with gravel; part exhibiting a wonderful assemblage of the
most picturesque and striking objects’ pavilions, lodges, groves, grottoes,
lawns, temples and cascades; porticoes, colonades, and rotundos; adorned
with pillars, statues, and painting: the whole illuminated with an infinite
number of lamps, disposed in different figures of suns, stars, and
constellations; the place crowded with the gayest company, ranging through
those blissful shades, or supping in different lodges on cold collations,
enlivened with mirth, freedom, and good humour, and animated by an
excellent band of music. Among the vocal performers I had the happiness to
hear the celebrated Mrs—, whose voice was loud and shrill, that it made my
head ake through excess of pleasure.
In about half an hour after we arrived we were joined by my uncle, who
did not seem to relish the place. People of experience and infirmity, my dear
Letty, see with very different eyes from those that such as you and I make
use of—Our evening’s entertainment was interrupted by an unlucky
accident. In one of the remotest walks we were surprised with a sudden
shower, that set the whole company a-running, and drove us in heaps, one
upon another, into the rotunda; where my uncle, finding himself wet, began
to be very peevish and urgent to be gone. My brother went to look for the
coach, and found it with much difficulty; but as it could not hold us all, Mr
Barton stayed behind. It was some time before the carriage could be
brought up to the gate, in the confusion, notwithstanding the utmost
endeavours of our new footman, Humphry Clinker, who lost his scratch
periwig, and got a broken head in the scuffle. The moment we were seated,
my aunt pulled off my uncle’s shoes, and carefully wrapped his poor feet in
her capuchin; then she gave him a mouth-ful of cordial, which she always

keeps in her pocket, and his clothes were shifted as soon as we arrived at
lodgings; so that, blessed be God, he escaped a severe cold, of which he
was in great terror.
As for Mr Barton, I must tell you in confidence, he was a little particular;
but, perhaps, I mistake his complaisance; and I wish I may, for his sake—
You know the condition of my poor heart: which, in spite of hard usage—
And yet I ought not to complain: nor will I, till farther information.
Besides Ranelagh and Vauxhall, I have been at Mrs Cornelys’ assembly,
which, for the rooms, the company, the dresses, and decorations, surpasses
all description; but as I have no great turn for card playing, I have not yet
entered thoroughly into the spirit of the place: indeed I am still such a
country hoyden, that I could hardly find patience to be put in a condition to
appear, yet, as I was not above six hours under the hands of the hair-dresser,
who stuffed my head with as much black wool as would have made a
quilted petticoat; and, after all, it was the smallest head in the assembly,
except my aunt’s—She, to be sure, was so particular with her rumpt gown
and petticoat, her scanty curls, her lappethead, deep triple ruffles, and high
stays, that every body looked at her with surprise: some whispered, and
some tittered; and lady Griskin, by whom we were introduced, flatly told
her, she was twenty good years behind the fashion.
Lady Griskin is a person of fashion, to whom we have the honour to be
related. She keeps a small rout at her own house, never exceeding ten or a
dozen card-tables, but these are frequented by the best company in town—
She has been so obliging as to introduce my aunt and me to some of her
particular friends of quality, who treat us with the most familiar good-
humour: we have once dined with her, and she takes the trouble to direct us
in all our motions. I am so happy as to have gained her goodwill to such a
degree, that she sometimes adjusts my cap with her own hands; and she has
given me a kind invitation to stay with her all the winter. This, however, has
been cruelly declined by my uncle who seems to be (I know not how)
prejudiced against the good lady; for, whenever my aunt happens to speak
in her commendation, I observe that he makes wry faces, though he says
nothing—Perhaps, indeed, these grimaces may be the effect of pain arising
from the gout and rheumatism, with which he is sadly distressed—To me,
however, he is always good-natured and generous, even beyond my wish.
Since we came hither, he has made me a present of a suit of clothes, with

trimmings and laces, which cost more money than I shall mention; and Jery,
at his desire, has given me my mother’s diamond crops, which are ordered
to be set a-new; so that it won’t be his fault if I do not glitter among the
stars of the fourth or fifth magnitude. I wish my weak head may not grow
giddy in the midst of all this gallantry and dissipation; though, as yet, I can
safely declare, I could gladly give up all these tumultuous pleasures, for
country solitude, and a happy retreat with those we love; among whom, my
dear Willis will always possess the first place in the breast of her
Ever affectionate, LYDIA MELFORD LONDON, May 31.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

I send you this letter, franked by our old friend Barton; who is as much
altered as it was possible for a man of his kidney to be. Instead of the
careless, indolent sloven we knew at Oxford, I found him a busy talkative
politician; a petit-maitre in his dress, and a ceremonious courtier in his
manners. He has not gall enough in his constitution to be enflamed with the
rancour of party, so as to deal in scurrilous invectives; but, since he
obtained a place, he is become a warm partizan of the ministry, and sees
every thing through such an exaggerating medium, as to me, who am
happily of no party, is altogether incomprehensible—Without all doubt, the
fumes of faction not only disturb the faculty of reason, but also pervert the
organs of sense; and I would lay a hundred guineas to ten, that if Barton on
one side, and the most conscientious patriot in the opposition on the other,
were to draw, upon honour, the picture of the k[ing] or m[inisters], you and
I, who are still uninfected, and unbiased, would find both painters equally
distant from the truth. One thing, however, must be allowed for the honour
of Barton, he never breaks out into illiberal abuse, far less endeavours, by
infamous calumnies, to blast the moral character of any individual on the
other side.
Ever since we came hither, he has been remarkably assiduous in his
attention to our family; an attention, which, in a man of his indolence and
avocations, I should have thought altogether odd, and even unnatural, had
not I perceived that my sister Liddy had made some impression upon his
heart. I cannot say that I have any objection to his trying his fortune in this
pursuit: if an opulent estate and a great flock of good-nature are sufficient
qualifications in a husband, to render the marriage-state happy for life, she
may be happy with Barton; but, I imagine, there is something else required
to engage and secure the affection of a woman of sense and delicacy:
something which nature has denied our friend—Liddy seems to be of the

same opinion. When he addresses himself to her in discourse, she seems to
listen with reluctance, and industriously avoids all particular
communication; but in proportion to her coyness, our aunt is coming. Mrs
Tabitha goes more than half way to meet his advances; she mistakes, or
affects to mistake, the meaning of his courtesy, which is rather formal and
fulsome; she returns his compliments with hyperbolical interest, she
persecutes him with her civilities at table, she appeals to him for ever in
conversation, she sighs, and flirts, and ogles, and by her hideous affectation
and impertinence, drives the poor courtier to the very extremity of his
complaisance; in short, she seems to have undertaken the siege of Barton’s
heart, and carries on her approaches in such a desperate manner, that I don’t
know whether he will not be obliged to capitulate. In the mean time, his
aversion to this inamorata struggling with his acquired affability, and his
natural fear of giving offence, throws him into a kind of distress which is
extremely ridiculous.
Two days ago, he persuaded my uncle and me to accompany him to St
James’s, where he undertook to make us acquainted with the persons of all
the great men in the kingdom; and, indeed, there was a great assemblage of
distinguished characters, for it was a high festival at court. Our conductor
performed his promise with great punctuality. He pointed out almost every
individual of both sexes, and generally introduced them to our notice, with
a flourish of panegyrick—Seeing the king approach, ‘There comes (said he)
the most amiable sovereign that ever swayed the sceptre of England: the
delicioe humani generis; Augustus, in patronizing merit; Titus Vespasian in
generosity; Trajan in beneficence; and Marcus Aurelius in philosophy.’ ‘A
very honest kind hearted gentleman (added my uncle) he’s too good for the
times. A king of England should have a spice of the devil in his
composition.’ Barton, then turning to the duke of C[umberland], proceeded,
—‘You know the duke, that illustrious hero, who trode rebellion under his
feet, and secured us in possession of every thing we ought to hold dear, as
English men and Christians. Mark what an eye, how penetrating, yet
pacific! what dignity in his mien! what humanity in his aspect—Even
malice must own, that he is one of the greatest officers in Christendom.’ ‘I
think he is (said Mr Bramble) but who are these young gentlemen that stand
beside him?’ ‘Those! (cried our friend) those are his royal nephews; the
princes of the blood. Sweet young princes! the sacred pledges of the
Protestant line; so spirited, so sensible, so princely’—‘Yes; very sensible!

very spirited! (said my uncle, interrupting him) but see the queen! ha,
there’s the queen!—There’s the queen! let me see—Let me see—Where are
my glasses? ha! there’s meaning in that eye—There’s sentiment—There’s
expression—Well, Mr Barton, what figure do you call next?’ The next
person he pointed out, was the favourite yearl; who stood solitary by one of
the windows—‘Behold yon northern star (said he) shorn of his
beams’—‘What! the Caledonian luminary, that lately blazed so bright in our
hemisphere! methinks, at present, it glimmers through a fog; like Saturn
without his ring, bleak, and dim, and distant—Ha, there’s the other great
phenomenon, the grand pensionary, that weathercock of patriotism that
veers about in every point of the political compass, and still feels the wind
of popularity in his tail. He too, like a portentous comet, has risen again
above the court-horizon; but how long he will continue to ascend, it is not
easy to foretell, considering his great eccentricity—Who are those two
satellites that attend his motions?’ When Barton told him their names, ‘To
their characters (said Mr Bramble) I am no stranger. One of them, without a
drop of red blood in his veins, has a cold intoxicating vapour in his head;
and rancour enough in his heart to inoculate and affect a whole nation. The
other is (I hear) intended for a share in the ad[ministratio]n, and the
pensionary vouches for his being duly qualified—The only instance I ever
heard of his sagacity, was his deserting his former patron, when he found
him declining in power, and in disgrace with the people. Without principle,
talent, or intelligence, he is ungracious as a hog, greedy as a vulture, and
thievish as a jackdaw; but, it must be owned, he is no hypocrite. He
pretends to no virtue, and takes no pains to disguise his character—His
ministry will be attended with one advantage, no man will be disappointed
by his breach of promise, as no mortal ever trusted to his word. I wonder
how lord—first discovered this happy genius, and for what purpose lord—
has now adopted him: but one would think, that as amber has a power to
attract dirt, and straws, and chaff, a minister is endued with the same kind
of faculty, to lick up every knave and blockhead in his way’—His eulogium
was interrupted by the arrival of the old duke of N—; who, squeezing into
the circle with a busy face of importance, thrust his head into every
countenance, as if he had been in search of somebody, to whom he wanted
to impart something of great consequence—My uncle, who had been
formerly known to him, bowed as he passed; and the duke seeing himself
saluted so respectfully by a well-dressed person, was not slow in returning

the courtesy—He even came up, and, taking him cordially by the hand, ‘My
dear friend, Mr A— (said he) I am rejoiced to see you— How long have
you been come from abroad?—How did you leave our good friends the
Dutch? The king of Prussia don’t think of another war, ah?—He’s a great
king! a great conqueror! a very great conqueror! Your Alexanders and
Hannibals were nothing, at all to him, sir—Corporals! drummers! dross!
mere trash—Damned trash, heh?’—His grace being by this time out of
breath, my uncle took the opportunity to tell him he had not been out of
England, that his name was Bramble, and that he had the honour to sit in the
last parliament but one of the late king, as representative for the borough of
Dymkymraig. ‘Odso! (cried the duke) I remember you perfectly well, my
dear Mr Bramble—You was always a good and loyal subject—a stanch
friend to administration—I made your brother an Irish bishop’—‘Pardon
me, my lord (said the squire) I once had a brother, but he was a captain in
the army’—‘Ha! (said his grace) he was so—He was, indeed! But who was
the Bishop then! Bishop Blackberry—Sure it was bishop Blackberry.
Perhaps some relation of yours’—‘Very likely, my lord (replied my uncle);
the Blackberry is the fruit of the Bramble—But, I believe, the bishop is not
a berry of our bush’—‘No more he is—No more he is, ha, ha, ha!
(exclaimed the duke) there you gave me a scratch, good Mr Bramble, ha,
ha, ha!—Well, I shall be glad to see you at Lincoln’s inn-fields—You know
the way—Times are altered. Though I have lost the power, I retain the
inclination—Your very humble servant, good Mr Blackberry’—So saying,
he shoved to another corner of the room. ‘What a fine old gentleman! (cried
Mr Barton) what spirits! what a memory! He never forgets an old friend.’
‘He does me too much honour (observed our squire) to rank me among the
number—Whilst I sat in parliament, I never voted with the ministry but
three times, when my conscience told me they were in the right: however, if
he still keeps levee, I will carry my nephew thither, that he may see, and
learn to avoid the scene; for, I think, an English gentleman never appears to
such disadvantage, as at the levee of a minister—Of his grace I shall say
nothing at present, but that for thirty years he was the constant and common
butt of ridicule and execration. He was generally laughed at as an ape in
politics, whose office and influence served only to render his folly the more
notorious; and the opposition cursed him, as the indefatigable drudge of a
first-mover, who was justly stiled and stigmatized as the father of
corruption: but this ridiculous ape, this venal drudge, no sooner lost the

places he was so ill qualified to fill, and unfurled the banners of faction,
than he was metamorphosed into a pattern of public virtue; the very people
who reviled him before, now extolled him to the skies, as a wise,
experienced statesman, chief pillar of the Protestant succession, and corner
stone of English liberty. I should be glad to know how Mr Barton reconciles
these contradictions, without obliging us to resign all title to the privilege of
common sense.’ ‘My dear sir (answered Barton) I don’t pretend to justify
the extravagations of the multitude; who, I suppose, were as wild in their
former censure, as in the present praise: but I shall be very glad to attend
you on Thursday next to his grace’s levee; where, I’m afraid, we shall not
be crowded with company; for, you know, there’s a wide difference
between his present office of president of the council, and his former post of
first lord commissioner of the treasury.’
This communicative friend having announced all the remarkable
characters of both sexes, that appeared at court, we resolved to adjourn, and
retired. At the foot of the stair-case, there was a crowd of lacqueys and
chairmen, and in the midst of them stood Humphry Clinker, exalted upon a
stool, with his hat in one hand, and a paper in the other, in the act of holding
forth to the people—Before we could inquire into the meaning of this
exhibition, he perceived his master, thrust the paper into his pocket,
descended from his elevation, bolted through the crowd, and brought up the
carriage to the gate.
My uncle said nothing till we were seated, when, after having looked at
me earnestly for some time, he burst out a-laughing, and asked if I knew
upon what subject Clinker was holding forth to the mob—‘If (said he) the
fellow is turned mountebank, I must turn him out of my service, otherwise
he’ll make Merry Andrews of us all’—I observed, that, in all probability, he
had studied medicine under his master, who was a farrier.
At dinner, the squire asked him, if he had ever practised physic? ‘Yes,
and please your honour (said he) among brute beasts; but I never meddle
with rational creatures.’ ‘I know not whether you rank in that class the
audience you was haranguing in the court at St. James’s, but I should be
glad to know what kind of powders you was distributing; and whether you
had a good sale’—‘Sale, sir! (cried Clinker) I hope I shall never be base
enough to sell for gold and silver, what freely comes of God’s grace. I
distributed nothing, an like your honour, but a word of advice to my fellows

in servitude and sin.’ ‘Advice! concerning what?’ ‘Concerning profane
swearing, an please your honour; so horrid and shocking, that it made my
hair stand on end.’ ‘Nay, if thou can’st cure them Of that disease, I shall
think thee a wonderful doctor indeed’ ‘Why not cure them, my good
master? the hearts of those poor people are not so stubborn as your honour
seems to think—Make them first sensible that you have nothing in view but
their good, then they will listen with patience, and easily be convinced of
the sin and folly of a practice that affords neither profit nor pleasure—At
this remark, our uncle changed colour, and looked round the company,
conscious that his own withers were not altogether unwrung. ‘But, Clinker
(said he) if you should have eloquence enough to persuade the vulgar to
resign those tropes and figures of rhetoric, there will be little or nothing left
to distinguish their conversation from that of their betters.’ ‘But then your
honour knows, their conversation will be void of offence; and, at the day of
judgment, there will be no distinction of persons.’
Humphry going down stairs to fetch up a bottle of wine, my uncle
congratulated his sister upon having such a reformer in the family; when
Mrs Tabitha declared, he was a sober civilized fellow; very respectful, and
very industrious; and, she believed, a good Christian into the bargain. One
would think, Clinker must really have some very extraordinary talent, to
ingratiate himself in this manner with a virago of her character, so fortified
against him with prejudice and resentment; but the truth is, since the
adventure of Salt-hill, Mrs Tabby seems to be entirely changed. She has left
off scolding the servants, an exercise which was grown habitual, and even
seemed necessary to her constitution; and is become so indifferent to
Chowder, as to part with him in a present to lady Griskin, who proposes to
bring the breed of him into fashion. Her ladyship is the widow of Sir
Timothy Griskin, a distant relation of our family. She enjoys a jointure of
five hundred pounds a-year, and makes shift to spend three times that sum.
Her character before marriage was a little equivocal; but at present she lives
in the bon ton, keeps card-tables, gives private suppers to select friends, and
is visited by persons of the first fashion—She has been remarkably civil to
us all, and cultivates my uncle with the most particular regard; but the more
she strokes him, the more his bristles seem to rise—To her compliments he
makes very laconic and dry returns—T’other day she sent us a pottle of fine
strawberries, which he did not receive without signs of disgust, muttering
from the Aeneid, timeo Danaos et Dona ferentes. She has twice called for

Liddy, of a forenoon, to take an airing in the coach; but Mrs Tabby was
always so alert (I suppose by his direction) that she never could have the
niece without her aunt’s company. I have endeavoured to sound Square-toes
on this subject; but he carefully avoids all explanation.
I have now, dear Phillips, filled a whole sheet, and if you have read it to
an end, I dare say, you are as tired as
Your humble servant, J. MELFORD LONDON, June 2.

To Dr LEWIS.
Yes, Doctor, I have seen the British Museum; which is a noble collection,
and even stupendous, if we consider it was made by a private man, a
physician, who was obliged to make his own fortune at the same time: but
great as the collection is, it would appear more striking if it was arranged in
one spacious saloon, instead of being divided into different apartments,
which it does not entirely fill—I could wish the series of medals was
connected, and the whole of the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms
completed, by adding to each, at the public expence, those articles that are
wanting. It would likewise be a great improvement, with respect to the
library, if the deficiencies were made up, by purchasing all the books of
character that are not to be found already in the collection—They might be
classed in centuries, according to the dates of their publication, and
catalogues printed of them and the manuscripts, for the information of those
that want to consult, or compile from such authorities. I could also wish, for
the honour of the nation, that there was a complete apparatus for a course of
mathematics, mechanics, and experimental philosophy; and a good salary
settled upon an able professor, who should give regular lectures on these
subjects.
But this is all idle speculation, which will never be reduced to practice—
Considering the temper of the times, it is a wonder to see any institution
whatsoever established for the benefit of the Public. The spirit of party is
risen to a kind of phrenzy, unknown to former ages, or rather degenerated to
a total extinction of honesty and candour—You know I have observed, for
some time, that the public papers are become the infamous vehicles of the
most cruel and perfidious defamation: every rancorous knave every
desperate incendiary, that can afford to spend half a crown or three
shillings, may skulk behind the press of a newsmonger, and have a stab at
the first character in the kingdom, without running the least hazard of
detection or punishment.
I have made acquaintance with a Mr Barton, whom Jery knew at Oxford;
a good sort of a man, though most ridiculously warped in his political
principles; but his partiality is the less offensive, as it never appears in the

stile of scurrility and abuse. He is a member of parliament, and a retainer to
the court; and his whole conversation turns upon the virtues and perfections
of the ministers, who are his patrons. T’other day, when he was bedaubing
one of those worthies, with the most fulsome praise, I told him I had seen
the same nobleman characterised very differently, in one of the daily-
papers; indeed, so stigmatized, that if one half of what was said of him was
true, he must be not only unfit to rule, but even unfit to live: that those
impeachments had been repeated again and again, with the addition of fresh
matter; and that as he had taken no steps towards his own vindication, I
began to think there was some foundation for the charge. ‘And pray, Sir
(said Mr Barton), what steps would you have him take? Suppose he should
prosecute the publisher, who screens the anonymous accuser, and bring him
to the pillory for a libel; this is so far from being counted a punishment, in
terrorem, that it will probably make his fortune. The multitude immediately
take him into their protection, as a martyr to the cause of defamation, which
they have always espoused. They pay his fine, they contribute to the
increase of his stock, his shop is crowded with customers, and the sale of
his paper rises in proportion to the scandal it contains. All this time the
prosecutor is inveighed against as a tyrant and oppressor, for having chosen
to proceed by the way of information, which is deemed a grievance; but if
he lays an action for damages, he must prove the damage, and I leave you to
judge, whether a gentleman’s character may not be brought into contempt,
and all his views in life blasted by calumny, without his being able to
specify the particulars of the damage he has sustained.
‘This spirit of defamation is a kind of heresy, that thrives under
persecution. The liberty of the press is a term of great efficacy; and like that
of the Protestant religion, has often served the purposes of sedition—A
minister, therefore, must arm himself with patience, and bear those attacks
without repining—Whatever mischief they may do in other respects, they
certainly contribute, in one particular, to the advantages of government; for
those defamatory articles have multiplied papers in such a manner, and
augmented their sale to such a degree, that the duty upon stamps and
advertisements has made a very considerable addition to the revenue.’
Certain it is, a gentleman’s honour is a very delicate subject to be handled
by a jury, composed of men, who cannot be supposed remarkable either for
sentiment or impartiality—In such a case, indeed, the defendant is tried, not
only by his peers, but also by his party; and I really think, that of all

patriots, he is the most resolute who exposes himself to such detraction, for
the sake of his country—If, from the ignorance or partiality of juries, a
gentleman can have no redress from law, for being defamed in a pamphlet
or newspaper, I know but one other method of proceeding against the
publisher, which is attended with some risque, but has been practised
successfully, more than once, in my remembrance—A regiment of horse
was represented, in one of the newspapers, as having misbehaved at
Dettingen; a captain of that regiment broke the publisher’s bones, telling
him, at the same time, if he went to law, he should certainly have the like
salutation from every officer of the corps. Governor—took the same
satisfaction on the ribs of an author, who traduced him by name in a
periodical paper—I know a low fellow of the same class, who, being turned
out of Venice for his impudence and scurrility, retired to Lugano, a town of
the Grisons (a free people, God wot) where he found a printing press, from
whence he squirted his filth at some respectable characters in the republic,
which he had been obliged to abandon. Some of these, finding him out of
the reach of legal chastisement, employed certain useful instruments, such
as may be found in all countries, to give him the bastinado; which, being
repeated more than once, effectually stopt the current of his abuse.
As for the liberty of the press, like every other privilege, it must be
restrained within certain bounds; for if it is carried to a branch of law,
religion, and charity, it becomes one of the greatest evils that ever annoyed
the community. If the lowest ruffian may stab your good name with
impunity in England, will you be so uncandid as to exclaim against Italy for
the practice of common assassination? To what purpose is our property
secured, if our moral character is left defenceless? People thus baited, grow
desperate; and the despair of being able to preserve one’s character,
untainted by such vermin, produces a total neglect of fame; so that one of
the chief incitements to the practice of virtue is effectually destroyed.
Mr Barton’s last consideration, respecting the stamp-duty, is equally wise
and laudable with another maxim which has been long adopted by our
financiers, namely, to connive at drunkenness, riot, and dissipation, because
they inhance the receipt of the excise; not reflecting, that in providing this
temporary convenience, they are destroying the morals, health, and industry
of the people—Notwithstanding my contempt for those who flatter a
minister, I think there is something still more despicable in flattering a mob.
When I see a man of birth, education, and fortune, put himself on a level

with the dregs of the people, mingle with low mechanics, feed with them at
the same board, and drink with them in the same cup, flatter their
prejudices, harangue in praise of their virtues, expose themselves to the
belchings of their beer, the fumes of their tobacco, the grossness of their
familiarity, and the impertinence of their conversation, I cannot help
despising him, as a man guilty of the vilest prostitution, in order to effect a
purpose equally selfish and illiberal.
I should renounce politics the more willingly, if I could find other topics
of conversation discussed with more modesty and candour; but the daemon
of party seems to have usurped every department of life. Even the world of
literature and taste is divided into the most virulent factions, which revile,
decry, and traduce the works of one another. Yesterday, I went to return an
afternoon’s visit to a gentleman of my acquaintance, at whose house I found
one of the authors of the present age, who has written with some success—
As I had read one or two of his performances, which gave me pleasure, I
was glad of this opportunity to know his person; but his discourse and
deportment destroyed all the impressions which his writings had made in
his favour. He took upon him to decide dogmatically upon every subject,
without deigning to shew the least cause for his differing from the general
opinions of mankind, as if it had been our duty to acquiesce in the ipse dixit
of this new Pythagoras. He rejudged the characters of all the principal
authors, who had died within a century of the present time; and, in this
revision, paid no sort of regard to the reputation they had acquired—Milton
was harsh and prosaic; Dryden, languid and verbose; Butler and Swift
without humour; Congreve, without wit; and Pope destitute of any sort of
poetical merit—As for his contemporaries, he could not bear to hear one of
them mentioned with any degree of applause—They were all dunces,
pedants, plagiaries, quacks, and impostors; and you could not name a single
performance, but what was tame, stupid, and insipid. It must be owned, that
this writer had nothing to charge his conscience with, on the side of flattery;
for I understand, he was never known to praise one line that was written,
even by those with whom he lived on terms of good fellowship. This
arrogance and presumption, in depreciating authors, for whose reputation
the company may be interested, is such an insult upon the understanding, as
I could not bear without wincing.
I desired to know his reasons for decrying some works, which had
afforded me uncommon pleasure; and, as demonstration did not seem to be

his talent, I dissented from his opinion with great freedom. Having been
spoiled by the deference and humility of his hearers, he did not bear
contradiction with much temper; and the dispute might have grown warm,
had it not been interrupted by the entrance of a rival bard, at whose
appearance he always quits the place—They are of different cabals, and
have been at open war these twenty years—If the other was dogmatical, this
genius was declamatory: he did not discourse, but harangue; and his
orations were equally tedious and turgid. He too pronounces ex cathedra
upon the characters of his contemporaries; and though he scruples not to
deal out praise, even lavishly, to the lowest reptile in Grubstreet who will
either flatter him in private, or mount the public rostrum as his panegyrist,
he damns all the other writers of the age, with the utmost insolence and
rancour—One is a blunderbuss, as being a native of Ireland; another, a half-
starved louse of literature, from the banks of the Tweed; a third, an ass,
because he enjoys a pension from the government; a fourth, the very angel
of dulness, because he succeeded in a species of writing in which this
Aristarchus had failed; a fifth, who presumed to make strictures upon one of
his performances, he holds as a bug in criticism, whose stench is more
offensive than his sting—In short, except himself and his myrmidons, there
is not a man of genius or learning in the three kingdoms. As for the success
of those, who have written without the pale of this confederacy, he imputes
it entirely to want of taste in the public; not considering, that to the
approbation of that very tasteless public, he himself owes all the
consequence he has in life.
Those originals are not fit for conversation. If they would maintain the
advantage they have gained by their writing, they should never appear but
upon paper—For my part, I am shocked to find a man have sublime ideas in
his head, and nothing but illiberal sentiments in his heart—The human soul
will be generally found most defective in the article of candour—I am
inclined to think, no mind was ever wholly exempt from envy; which,
perhaps, may have been implanted, as an instinct essential to our nature. I
am afraid we sometimes palliate this vice, under the spacious name of
emulation. I have known a person remarkably generous, humane, moderate,
and apparently self-denying, who could not hear even a friend commended,
without betraying marks of uneasiness; as if that commendation had
implied an odious comparison to his prejudice, and every wreath of praise
added to the other’s character, was a garland plucked from his own temples.

This is a malignant species of jealousy, of which I stand acquitted in my
own conscience.
Whether it is a vice, or an infirmity, I leave you to inquire.
There is another point, which I would much rather see determined;
whether the world was always as contemptible, as it appears to me at
present?—If the morals of mankind have not contracted an extraordinary
degree of depravity, within these thirty years, then must I be infected with
the common vice of old men, difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti; or,
which is more probable, the impetuous pursuits and avocations of youth
have formerly hindered me from observing those rotten parts of human
nature, which now appear so offensively to my observation.
We have been at court, and ‘change, and every where; and every where
we find food for spleen, and subject for ridicule—My new servant,
Humphry Clinker, turns out a great original: and Tabby is a changed
creature—She has parted with Chowder; and does nothing but smile, like
Malvolio in the play—I’ll be hanged if she is not acting a part which is not
natural to her disposition, for some purpose which I have not yet
discovered.
With respect to the characters of mankind, my curiosity is quite satisfied:
I have done with the science of men, and must now endeavour to amuse
myself with the novelty of things. I am, at present, by a violent effort of the
mind, forced from my natural bias; but this power ceasing to act, I shall
return to my solitude with redoubled velocity. Every thing I see, and hear,
and feel, in this great reservoir of folly, knavery, and sophistication,
contributes to inhance the value of a country life, in the sentiments of
Yours always, MATT. BRAMBLE LONDON, June 2.

To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall.
DEAR MARY JONES,

Lady Griskin’s botler, Mr Crumb, having got ‘squire Barton to frank me
a kiver, I would not neglect to let you know how it is with me, and the rest
of the family.
I could not rite by John Thomas, for because he went away in a huff, at a
minutes’ warning. He and Chowder could not agree, and so they fitt upon
the road, and Chowder bitt his thumb, and he swore he would do him a
mischief, and he spoke saucy to mistress, whereby the squire turned him off
in gudgeon; and by God’s providence we picked up another footman, called
Umphry Klinker; a good sole as ever broke bread; which shews that a
scalded cat may prove a good mouser, and a hound be staunch, thof he has
got narro hare on his buttocks; but the proudest nose may be bro’t to the
grinestone, by sickness and misfortunes.
0 Molly! what shall I say of London? All the towns that ever I beheld in
my born-days, are no more than Welsh barrows and crumlecks to this
wonderful sitty! Even Bath itself is but a fillitch, in the naam of God—One
would think there’s no end of the streets, but the land’s end. Then there’s
such a power of people, going hurry skurry! Such a racket of coxes! Such a
noise, and haliballoo! So many strange sites to be seen! O gracious! my
poor Welsh brain has been spinning like a top ever since I came hither! And
I have seen the Park, and the paleass of Saint Gimses, and the king’s and the
queen’s magisterial pursing, and the sweet young princes, and the hillyfents,
and pye bald ass, and all the rest of the royal family.
Last week I went with mistress to the Tower, to see the crowns and wild
beastis; and there was a monstracious lion, with teeth half a quarter long;
and a gentleman bid me not go near him, if I wasn’t a maid; being as how
he would roar, and tear, and play the dickens—Now I had no mind to go
near him; for I cannot abide such dangerous honeymils, not I—but, mistress
would go; and the beast kept such a roaring and bouncing, that I tho’t he
would have broke his cage and devoured us all; and the gentleman tittered
forsooth; but I’ll go to death upon it, I will, that my lady is as good a

firchin, as the child unborn; and, therefore, either the gentleman told a fib,
or the lion oft to be set in the stocks for bearing false witness agin his
neighbour; for the commandment sayeth, Thou shalt not bear false witness
against thy neighbour.
I was afterwards of a party at Sadler’s-wells, where I saw such tumbling
and dancing upon ropes and wires, that I was frightened and ready to go
into a fit—I tho’t it was all inchantment; and, believing myself bewitched,
began for to cry—You knows as how the witches in Wales fly upon broom-
sticks: but here was flying without any broom-stick, or thing in the varsal
world, and firing of pistols in the air, and blowing of trumpets, and
swinging, and rolling of wheel-barrows upon a wire (God bless us!) no
thicker than a sewing-thread; that, to be sure, they must deal with the devil!
—A fine gentleman, with a pig’s-tail, and a golden sord by his side, come to
comfit me, and offered for to treat me with a pint of wind; but I would not
stay; and so, in going through the dark passage, he began to shew his cloven
futt, and went for to be rude: my fellow-sarvant, Umphry Klinker, bid him
be sivil, and he gave the young man a dowse in the chops; but, I fackins, Mr
Klinker wa’n’t long in his debt—with a good oaken sapling he dusted his
doublet, for all his golden cheese toaster; and, fipping me under his arm,
carried me huom, I nose not how, being I was in such a flustration—But,
thank God! I’m now vaned from all such vanities; for what are all those
rarities and vagaries to the glory that shall be revealed hereafter? O Molly!
let not your poor heart be puffed up with vanity.
I had almost forgot to tell you, that I have had my hair cut and pippered,
and singed, and bolstered, and buckled, in the newest fashion, by a French
freezer—Parley vow Francey—Vee madmansell—I now carries my head
higher than arrow private gentlewoman of Vales. Last night, coming huom
from the meeting, I was taken by lamp-light for an iminent poulterer’s
daughter, a great beauty—But as I was saying, this is all vanity and
vexation of spirit—The pleasures of London are no better than sower whey
and stale cyder, when compared to the joys of the new Gerusalem.
Dear Mary Jones! An please God when I return, I’ll bring you a new cap,
with a turkey-shell coom, and a pyehouse sermon, that was preached in the
Tabernacle; and I pray of all love, you will mind your vriting and your
spilling; for, craving your pardon, Molly, it made me suet to disseyffer your
last scrabble, which was delivered by the hind at Bath—0, voman! voman!

if thou had’st but the least consumption of what pleasure we scullers have,
when we can cunster the crabbidst buck off hand, and spell the ethnitch
vords without lucking at the primmer. As for Mr Klinker, he is qualified to
be a clerk to a parish—But I’ll say no more—Remember me to Saul—poor
sole! it goes to my hart to think she don’t yet know her letters—But all in
God’s good time—It shall go hard, but I will bring her the A B C in
gingerbread; and that, you nose, will be learning to her taste.
Mistress says, we are going a long gurney to the North; but go where we
will, I shall ever be,
Dear Mary Jones, Yours with true infection WIN. JENKINS LONDON,
June 3.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR WAT,

I mentioned in my last, my uncle’s design of going to the duke of N—‘s
levee; which design has been executed accordingly. His grace has been so
long accustomed to this kind of homage, that though the place he now fills
does not imply the tenth part of the influence, which he exerted in his
former office, he has given his friends to understand, that they cannot oblige
him in any thing more, than in contributing to support the shadow of that
power, which he no longer retains in substance; and therefore he has still
public days, on which they appear at his levee.
My uncle and I went thither with Mr Barton, who, being one of the
duke’s adherents, undertook to be our introducer—The room was pretty
well filled with people, in a great variety of dress; but there was no more
than one gown and cassock, though I was told his grace had, while he was
minister, preferred almost every individual that now filled the bench of
bishops in the house of lords; but in all probability, the gratitude of the
clergy is like their charity, which shuns the light—Mr Barton was
immediately accosted by a person well stricken in years, tall, and raw-
boned, with a hook-nose, and an arch leer, that indicated, at least, as much
cunning as sagacity. Our conductor saluted him, by the name of captain C
—, and afterwards informed us he was a man of shrewd parts, whom the
government occasionally employed in secret services. But I have had the
history of him more at large, from another quarter. He had been, many years
ago, concerned in fraudulent practices, as a merchant, in France; and being
convicted of some of them, was sent to the gallies, from whence he was
delivered by the interest of the late duke of Ormond, to whom he had
recommended himself in letter, as his name-sake and relation—He was in
the sequel, employed by our ministry as a spy; and in the war of 1740,
traversed all Spain, as well as France, in the disguise of a capuchin, at the
extreme hazard of his life, in as much as the court of Madrid had actually

got scent of him, and given orders to apprehend him at St Sebastian’s, from
whence he had fortunately retired but a few hours before the order arrived.
This and other hair-breadth ‘scapes he pleaded so effectually as a merit with
the English ministry, that they allowed him a comfortable pension, which he
now enjoys in his old age—He has still access to all the ministers, and is
said to be consulted by them on many subjects, as a man of uncommon
understanding and great experience—He is, in fact, a fellow of some parts,
and invincible assurance; and, in his discourse, he assumes such an air of
self-sufficiency, as may very well impose upon some of the shallow
politicians, who now labour at the helm of administration. But, if he is not
belied, this is not the only imposture of which he is guilty—They say, he is
at bottom not only a Roman-catholic, but really a priest; and while he
pretends to disclose to our state-pilots all the springs that move the cabinet
of Versailles, he is actually picking up intelligence for the service of the
French minister. Be that as it may, captain C— entered into conversation
with us in the most familiar manner, and treated the duke’s character
without any ceremony—‘This wiseacre (said he) is still a-bed; and, I think,
the best thing he can do, is to sleep on till Christmas; for, when he gets up,
he does nothing but expose his own folly.—Since Grenville was turned out,
there has been no minister in this nation worth the meal that whitened his
peri-wig—They are so ignorant, they scarce know a crab from a
cauliflower; and then they are such dunces, that there’s no making them
comprehend the plainest proposition—In the beginning of the war, this poor
half-witted creature told me, in a great fright, that thirty thousand French
had marched from Acadie to Cape Breton—“Where did they find
transports? (said I)” “Transports (cried he) I tell you they marched by
land”—“By land to the island of Cape Breton?” “What! is Cape Breton an
island?” “Certainly.” “Ha! are you sure of that?” When I pointed it out in
the map, he examined it earnestly with his spectacles; then, taking me in his
arms, “My dear C—! (cried he) you always bring us good news—Egad! I’ll
go directly, and tell the king that Cape Breton is an island.”’
He seemed disposed to entertain us with more anecdotes of this nature, at
the expense of his grace, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the
Algerine ambassador; a venerable Turk, with a long white beard, attended
by his dragoman, or interpreter, and another officer of his household, who
had got no stockings to his legs—Captain C— immediately spoke with an
air of authority to a servant in waiting, bidding him go and tell the duke to

rise, as there was a great deal of company come, and, among others, the
ambassador from Algiers. Then, turning to us, ‘This poor Turk (said he)
notwithstanding his grey beard, is a green-horn—He has been several years
resident in London, and still is ignorant of our political revolutions. This
visit is intended for the prime minister of England; but you’ll see how this
wise duke will receive it as a mark of attachment to his own person’—
Certain it is, the duke seemed eager to acknowledge the compliment—A
door opened, he suddenly bolted out; with a shaving-cloth under his chin,
his face frothed up to the eyes with soap lather; and running up to the
ambassador, grinned hideous in his face—‘My dear Mahomet! (said he)
God love your long beard, I hope the dey will make you a horsetail at the
next promotion, ha, ha, ha! Have but a moment’s patience, and I’ll send to
you in a twinkling,’—So saying, he retired into his den, leaving the Turk in
some confusion. After a short pause, however, he said something to his
interpreter, the meaning of which I had great curiosity to know, as he turned
up his eyes while he spoke, expressing astonishment, mixed with devotion.
We were gratified by means of the communicative captain C—, who
conversed with the dragoman, as an old acquaintance. Ibrahim, the
ambassador, who had mistaken his grace for the minister’s fool, was no
sooner undeceived by the interpreter, than he exclaimed to this effect ‘Holy
prophet! I don’t wonder that this nation prospers, seeing it is governed by
the counsel of ideots; a series of men, whom all good mussulmen revere as
the organs of immediate inspiration!’ Ibrahim was favoured with a
particular audience of short duration; after which the duke conducted him to
the door, and then returned to diffuse his gracious looks among the crowd
of his worshippers.
As Mr Barton advanced to present me to his grace, it was my fortune to
attract his notice, before I was announced—He forthwith met me more than
half way, and, seizing me by the hand, ‘My dear Sir Francis! (cried he) this
is so kind—I vow to God! I am so obliged—Such attention to a poor broken
minister. Well—Pray when does your excellency set sail?—For God’s sake
have a care of your health, and eat stewed prunes in the passage. Next to
your own precious health, pray, my dear excellency, take care of the Five
Nations—Our good friends the Five Nations. The Toryrories, the
Maccolmacks, the Out-o’the-ways, the Crickets, and the Kickshaws—Let
‘em have plenty of blankets, and stinkubus, and wampum; and your
excellency won’t fail to scour the kettle, and boil the chain, and bury the

tree, and plant the hatchet—Ha, ha, ha!’ When he had uttered this rhapsody,
with his usual precipitation, Mr Barton gave him to understand, that I was
neither Sir Francis, nor St Francis, but simply Mr Melford, nephew to Mr
Bramble; who, stepping forward, made his bow at the same time. ‘Odso! no
more it is Sir Francis—(said this wise statesman) Mr Melford, I’m glad to
see you—I sent you an engineer to fortify your dock—Mr Bramble—your
servant, Mr Bramble—How d’ye, good Mr Bramble? Your nephew is a
pretty young fellow—Faith and troth, a very pretty fellow!—His father is
my old friend—How does he hold it? Still troubled with that damned
disorder, ha?’ ‘No, my lord (replied my uncle), all his troubles are over—He
has been dead these fifteen years.’ ‘Dead! how—Yes faith! now I
remember: he is dead sure enough—Well, and how—does the young
gentleman stand for Haverford West? or—a what d’ye. My dear Mr
Milfordhaven, I’ll do you all the service in my power I hope I have some
credit left’—My uncle then gave him to understand, that I was still a minor;
and that we had no intention to trouble him at present, for any favour
whatsoever—‘I came hither with my nephew (added he) to pay our respects
to your grace; and I may venture to say, that his views and mine are at least
as disinterested as those of any individual in this assembly.’ ‘My dear Mr
Brambleberry! you do me infinite honour—I shall always rejoice to see you
and your hopeful nephew, Mr Milfordhaven—My credit, such as it is, you
may command—I wish we had more friends of your kidney.’
Then, turning to captain C—, ‘Ha, C—! (said he) what news, C—? How
does the world wag? ha!’ ‘The world wags much after the old fashion, my
lord (answered the captain): the politicians of London and Westminster
have begun again to wag their tongues against your grace; and your short-
lived popularity wags like a feather, which the next puff of antiministerial
calumny will blow away’—‘A pack of rascals (cried the duke)—Tories,
Jacobites, rebels; one half of them would wag their heels at Tyburn, if they
had their deserts’—So saying, he wheeled about; and going round the levee,
spoke to every individual, with the most courteous familiarity; but he scarce
ever opened his mouth without making some blunder, in relation to the
person or business of the party with whom he conversed; so that he really
looked like a comedian, hired to burlesque the character of a minister—At
length, a person of a very prepossessing appearance coming in, his grace
ran up, and, hugging him in his arms, with the appellation of ‘My dear Ch
—s!’ led him forthwith into the inner apartment, or Sanctum Sanctorum of

this political temple. ‘That (said captain C—) is my friend C— T—, almost
the only man of parts who has any concern in the present administration—
Indeed, he would have no concern at all in the matter, if the ministry did not
find it absolutely necessary to make use of his talents upon some particular
occasions—As for the common business of the nation, it is carried on in a
constant routine by the clerks of the different offices, otherwise the wheels
of government would be wholly stopt amidst the abrupt succession of
ministers, every one more ignorant than his predecessor—I am thinking
what a fine hovel we should be in, if all the clerks of the treasury, the
secretaries, of the war-office, and the admiralty, should take it in their heads
to throw up their places in imitation of the great pensioner—But, to return
to C— T—; he certainly knows more than all the ministry and all the
opposition, if their heads were laid together, and talks like an angel on a
vast variety of subjects. He would really be a great man, if he had any
consistency or stability of character—Then, it must be owned, he wants
courage, otherwise he would never allow himself to be cowed by the great
political bully, for whose understanding he has justly a very great contempt.
I have seen him as much afraid of that overbearing Hector, as ever
schoolboy was of his pedagogue; and yet this Hector, I shrewdly suspect, is
no more than a craven at bottom—Besides this defect, C— has another,
which he is at too little pains to hide—There’s no faith to be given to his
assertions, and no trust to be put in his promises—However, to give the
devil his due, he’s very good-natured; and even friendly, when close urged
in the way of solicitation—As for principle, that’s out of the question—In a
word, he is a wit and an orator, extremely entertaining, and he shines very
often at the expence even of those ministers to whom he is a retainer. This is
a mark of great imprudence, by which he has made them all his enemies,
whatever face they may put upon the matter; and sooner or later he’ll have
cause to wish he had been able to keep his own counsel. I have several
times cautioned him on this subject; but ‘tis all preaching to the desert—His
vanity runs away with his discretion’—I could not help thinking the captain
himself might have been the better for some hints of the same nature—His
panegyric, excluding principle and veracity, puts me in mind of a contest I
once overheard, in the way of altercation, betwixt two apple-women in
Spring-garden—One of those viragos having hinted something to the
prejudice of the other’s moral character, her antagonist, setting her hands in
her sides, replied—‘Speak out, hussy—I scorn your malice—I own I’m

both a whore and a thief; and what more have you to say?—Damn you,
what more have you to say? baiting that, which all the world knows, I
challenge you to say black is the white of my eye’—We did not wait for Mr
T—‘s coming forth; but after captain C— had characterised all the originals
in waiting, we adjourned to a coffeehouse, where we had buttered muffins
and tea to breakfast, the said captain still favouring us with his company—
Nay, my uncle was so diverted with his anecdotes, that he asked him to
dinner, and treated him with a fine turbot, to which he did ample justice—
That same evening I spent at the tavern with some friends, one of whom let
me into C—‘s character, which Mr Bramble no sooner understood, than he
expressed some concern for the connexion he had made, and resolved to
disengage himself from it without ceremony.
We are become members of the Society for the Encouragement of the
Arts, and have assisted at some of their deliberations, which were
conducted with equal spirit and sagacity—My uncle is extremely fond of
the institution, which will certainly be productive of great advantages to the
public, if, from its democratical form, it does not degenerate into cabal and
corruption—You are already acquainted with his aversion to the influence
of the multitude, which, he affirms, is incompatible with excellence, and
subversive of order—Indeed his detestation of the mob has been heightened
by fear, ever since he fainted in the room at Bath; and this apprehension has
prevented him from going to the Little Theatre in the Hay-market, and other
places of entertainment, to which, however, I have had the honour to attend
the ladies.
It grates old Square-toes to reflect, that it is not in his power to enjoy
even the most elegant diversions of the capital, without the participation of
the vulgar; for they now thrust themselves into all assemblies, from a
ridotto at St James’s, to a hop at Rotherhithe. I have lately seen our old
acquaintance Dick Ivy, who we imagined had died of dram-drinking; but he
is lately emerged from the Fleet, by means of a pamphlet which he wrote
and published against the government with some success. The sale of this
performance enabled him to appear in clean linen, and he is now going
about soliciting subscriptions for his Poems; but his breeches are not yet in
the most decent order.
Dick certainly deserves some countenance for his intrepidity and
perseverance—It is not in the power of disappointment, nor even of

damnation, to drive him to despair—After some unsuccessful essays in the
way of poetry, he commenced brandy-merchant, and I believe his whole
stock ran out through his own bowels; then he consorted with a milk-
woman, who kept a cellar in Petty France: but he could not make his
quarters good; he was dislodged and driven up stairs into the kennel by a
corporal in the second regiment of foot-guards—He was afterwards the
laureat of Blackfriars, from whence there was a natural transition to the
Fleet—As he had formerly miscarried in panegyric, he now turned his
thoughts to satire, and really seems to have some talent for abuse. If he can
hold out till the meeting of the parliament, and be prepared for another
charge, in all probability Dick will mount the pillory, or obtain a pension, in
either of which events his fortune will be made—Mean while he has
acquired some degree of consideration with the respectable writers of the
age; and as I have subscribed for his works, he did me the favour t’other
night to introduce me to a society of those geniuses; but I found them
exceedingly formal and reserved—They seemed afraid and jealous of one
another, and sat in a state of mutual repulsion, like so many particles of
vapour, each surrounded by its own electrified atmosphere. Dick, who has
more vivacity than judgment, tried more than once to enliven the
conversation; sometimes making an effort at wit, sometimes letting off a
pun, and sometimes discharging a conundrum; nay, at length he started a
dispute upon the hackneyed comparison betwixt blank verse and rhyme,
and the professors opened with great clamour; but, instead of keeping to the
subject, they launched out into tedious dissertations on the poetry of the
ancients; and one of them, who had been a school-master, displayed his
whole knowledge of prosody, gleaned from Disputer and Ruddiman. At last,
I ventured to say, I did not see how the subject in question could be at all
elucidated by the practice of the ancients, who certainly had neither blank
verse nor rhyme in their poems, which were measured by feet, whereas ours
are reckoned by the number of syllables—This remark seemed to give
umbrage to the pedant, who forthwith involved himself in a cloud of Greek
and Latin quotations, which nobody attempted to dispel—A confused hum
of insipid observations and comments ensued; and, upon the whole, I never
passed a duller evening in my life—Yet, without all doubt, some of them
were men of learning, wit, and ingenuity. As they are afraid of making free
with one another, they should bring each his butt, or whet-stone, along with
him, for the entertainment of the company—My uncle says, he never

desires to meet with more than one wit at a time—One wit, like a knuckle
of ham in soup, gives a zest and flavour to the dish; but more than one
serves only to spoil the pottage—And now I’m afraid I have given you an
unconscionable mess, without any flavour at all; for which, I suppose, you
will bestow your benedictions upon
Your friend, and servant J. MELFORD LONDON, June 5

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR LEWIS

Your fable of the monkey and the pig, is what the Italians call ben
trovata: but I shall not repeat it to my apothecary, who is a proud
Scotchman, very thin skinned, and, for aught I know, may have his degree
in his pocket—A right Scotchman has always two strings to his bow, and is
in utrumque paratus—Certain it is, I have not ‘scaped a scouring; but, I
believe, by means of that scouring, I have ‘scaped something worse,
perhaps a tedious fit of the gout or rheumatism; for my appetite began to
flag, and I had certain croakings in the bowels, which boded me no good—
Nay, I am not yet quite free of these remembrances, which warn me to be
gone from this centre of infection—
What temptation can a man of my turn and temperament have, to live in a
place where every corner teems with fresh objects of detestation and
disgust? What kind of taste and organs must those people have, who really
prefer the adulterate enjoyments of the town to the genuine pleasures of a
country retreat? Most people, I know, are originally seduced by vanity,
ambition, and childish curiosity; which cannot be gratified, but in the busy
haunts of men: but, in the course of this gratification, their very organs of
sense are perverted, and they become habitually lost to every relish of what
is genuine and excellent in its own nature.
Shall I state the difference between my town grievances, and my country
comforts? At Brambleton-hall, I have elbow-room within doors, and breathe
a clear, elastic, salutary air—I enjoy refreshing sleep, which is never
disturbed by horrid noise, nor interrupted, but in a-morning, by the sweet
twitter of the martlet at my window—I drink the virgin lymph, pure and
chrystalline as it gushes from the rock, or the sparkling beveridge, home-
brewed from malt of my own making; or I indulge with cyder, which my
own orchard affords; or with claret of the best growth, imported for my own
use, by a correspondent on whose integrity I can depend; my bread is sweet
and nourishing, made from my own wheat, ground in my own mill, and
baked in my own oven; my table is, in a great measure, furnished from my

own ground; my five-year old mutton, fed on the fragrant herbage of the
mountains, that might vie with venison in juice and flavour; my delicious
veal, fattened with nothing but the mother’s milk, that fills the dish with
gravy; my poultry from the barn-door, that never knew confinement, but
when they were at roost; my rabbits panting from the warren; my game
fresh from the moors; my trout and salmon struggling from the stream;
oysters from their native banks; and herrings, with other sea fish, I can eat
in four hours after they are taken—My sallads, roots, and potherbs, my own
garden yields in plenty and perfection; the produce of the natural soil,
prepared by moderate cultivation. The same soil affords all the different
fruits which England may call her own, so that my dessert is every day
fresh-gathered from the tree; my dairy flows with nectarious tildes of milk
and cream, from whence we derive abundance of excellent butter, curds,
and cheese; and the refuse fattens my pigs, that are destined for hams and
bacon—I go to bed betimes, and rise with the sun—I make shift to pass the
hours without weariness or regret, and am not destitute of amusements
within doors, when the weather will not permit me to go abroad—I read,
and chat, and play at billiards, cards or back-gammon—Without doors, I
superintend my farm, and execute plans of improvements, the effects of
which I enjoy with unspeakable delight—Nor do I take less pleasure in
seeing my tenants thrive under my auspices, and the poor live comfortably
by the employment which I provide—You know I have one or two sensible
friends, to whom I can open all my heart; a blessing which, perhaps, I might
have sought in vain among the crowded scenes of life: there are a few
others of more humble parts, whom I esteem for their integrity; and their
conversation I find inoffensive, though not very entertaining. Finally, I live
in the midst of honest men, and trusty dependents, who, I flatter myself,
have a disinterested attachment to my person. You, yourself, my dear
Doctor, can vouch for the truth of these assertions.
Now, mark the contrast at London—I am pent up in frowzy lodgings,
where there is not room enough to swing a cat; and I breathe the steams of
endless putrefaction; and these would, undoubtedly, produce a pestilence, if
they were not qualified by the gross acid of sea-coal, which is itself a
pernicious nuisance to lungs of any delicacy of texture: but even this
boasted corrector cannot prevent those languid, sallow looks, that
distinguish the inhabitants of London from those ruddy swains that lead a
country-life—I go to bed after midnight, jaded and restless from the

dissipations of the day—I start every hour from my sleep, at the horrid
noise of the watchmen bawling the hour through every street, and
thundering at every door; a set of useless fellows, who serve no other
purpose but that of disturbing the repose of the inhabitants; and by five
o’clock I start out of bed, in consequence of the still more dreadful alarm
made by the country carts, and noisy rustics bellowing green pease under
my window. If I would drink water, I must quaff the maukish contents of an
open aqueduct, exposed to all manner of defilement; or swallow that which
comes from the river Thames, impregnated with all the filth of London and
Westminster—Human excrement is the least offensive part of the concrete,
which is composed of all the drugs, minerals, and poisons, used in
mechanics and manufacture, enriched with the putrefying carcasses of
beasts and men; and mixed with the scourings of all the wash-tubs, kennels,
and common sewers, within the bills of mortality.
This is the agreeable potation, extolled by the Londoners, as the finest
water in the universe—As to the intoxicating potion, sold for wine, it is a
vile, unpalatable, and pernicious sophistication, balderdashed with cyder,
corn-spirit, and the juice of sloes. In an action at law, laid against a carman
for having staved a cask of port, it appeared from the evidence of the
cooper, that there were not above five gallons of real wine in the whole
pipe, which held above a hundred, and even that had been brewed and
adulterated by the merchant at Oporto. The bread I eat in London, is a
deleterious paste, mixed up with chalk, alum, and bone-ashes; insipid to the
taste, and destructive to the constitution. The good people are not ignorant
of this adulteration—but they prefer it to wholesome bread, because it is
whiter than the meal of corn: thus they sacrifice their taste and their health,
and the lives of their tender infants, to a most absurd gratification of a mis-
judging eye; and the miller, or the baker, is obliged to poison them and their
families, in order to live by his profession. The same monstrous depravity
appears in their veal, which is bleached by repeated bleedings, and other
villainous arts, till there is not a drop of juice left in the body, and the poor
animal is paralytic before it dies; so void of all taste, nourishment, and
savour, that a man might dine as comfortably on a white fricassee of kid-
skin gloves; or chip hats from Leghorn.
As they have discharged the natural colour from their bread, their
butchers-meat, and poultry, their cutlets, ragouts, fricassees and sauces of
all kinds; so they insist upon having the complexion of their potherbs

mended, even at the hazard of their lives. Perhaps, you will hardly believe
they can be so mad as to boil their greens with brass halfpence, in order to
improve their colour; and yet nothing is more true—Indeed, without this
improvement in the colour, they have no personal merit. They are produced
in an artificial soil, and taste of nothing but the dunghills, from whence they
spring. My cabbage, cauliflower, and ‘sparagus in the country, are as much
superior in flavour to those that are sold in Covent-garden, as my heath-
mutton is to that of St James’s-market; which in fact, is neither lamb nor
mutton, but something betwixt the two, gorged in the rank fens of Lincoln
and Essex, pale, coarse, and frowzy—As for the pork, it is an abominable
carnivorous animal, fed with horse-flesh and distillers’ grains; and the
poultry is all rotten, in consequence of a fever, occasioned by the infamous
practice of sewing up the gut, that they may be the sooner fattened in coops,
in consequence of this cruel retention.
Of the fish, I need say nothing in this hot weather, but that it comes sixty,
seventy, fourscore, and a hundred miles by land-carriage; a circumstance
sufficient without any comment, to turn a Dutchman’s stomach, even if his
nose was not saluted in every alley with the sweet flavour of fresh
mackarel, selling by retail. This is not the season for oysters; nevertheless, it
may not be amiss to mention, that the right Colchester are kept in slime-
pits, occasionally overflowed by the sea; and that the green colour, so much
admired by the voluptuaries of this metropolis, is occasioned by the vitriolic
scum, which rises on the surface of the stagnant and stinking water—Our
rabbits are bred and fed in the poulterer’s cellar, where they have neither air
nor exercise, consequently they must be firm in flesh, and delicious in
flavour; and there is no game to be had for love or money.
It must be owned, the Covent-garden affords some good fruit; which,
however, is always engrossed by a few individuals of overgrown fortune, at
an exorbitant price; so that little else than the refuse of the market falls to
the share of the community; and that is distributed by such filthy hands, as I
cannot look at without loathing. It was but yesterday that I saw a dirty
barrow-bunter in the street, cleaning her dusty fruit with her own spittle;
and, who knows but some fine lady of St James’s parish might admit into
her delicate mouth those very cherries, which had been rolled and
moistened between the filthy, and, perhaps, ulcerated chops of a St Giles’s
huckster—I need not dwell upon the pallid, contaminated mash, which they
call strawberries; soiled and tossed by greasy paws through twenty baskets

crusted with dirt; and then presented with the worst milk, thickened with the
worst flour, into a bad likeness of cream: but the milk itself should not pass
unanalysed, the produce of faded cabbage-leaves and sour draff, lowered
with hot water, frothed with bruised snails, carried through the streets in
open pails, exposed to foul rinsings, discharged from doors and windows,
spittle, snot, and tobacco-quids from foot passengers, overflowings from
mud carts, spatterings from coach wheels, dirt and trash chucked into it by
roguish boys for the joke’s sake, the spewings of infants, who have
slabbered in the tin-measure, which is thrown back in that condition among
the milk, for the benefit of the next customer; and, finally, the vermin that
drops from the rags of the nasty drab that vends this precious mixture,
under the respectable denomination of milk-maid.
I shall conclude this catalogue of London dainties, with that table-beer,
guiltless of hops and malt, vapid and nauseous; much fitter to facilitate the
operation of a vomit, than to quench thirst and promote digestion; the
tallowy rancid mass, called butter, manufactured with candle grease and
kitchen stuff; and their fresh eggs, imported from France and Scotland.—
Now, all these enormities might be remedied with a very little attention to
the article of police, or civil regulation; but the wise patriots of London
have taken it into their heads, that all regulation is inconsistent with liberty;
and that every man ought to live in his own way, without restraint—Nay, as
there is not sense enough left among them, to be discomposed by the
nuisance I have mentioned, they may, for aught I care, wallow in the mire
of their own pollution.
A companionable man will, undoubtedly put up with many
inconveniences for the sake of enjoying agreeable society. A facetious
friend of mine used to say, the wine could not be bad, where the company
was agreeable; a maxim which, however, ought to be taken cum grano salis:
but what is the society of London, that I should be tempted, for its sake, to
mortify my senses, and compound with such uncleanness as my soul
abhors? All the people I see, are too much engrossed by schemes of interest
or ambition, to have any room left for sentiment or friendship. Even in
some of my old acquaintance, those schemes and pursuits have obliterated
all traces of our former connexion—Conversation is reduced to party
disputes, and illiberal altercation—Social commerce, to formal visits and
card-playing—If you pick up a diverting original by accident, it may be
dangerous to amuse yourself with his oddities—He is generally a tartar at

bottom; a sharper, a spy, or a lunatic. Every person you deal with
endeavours to overreach you in the way of business; you are preyed upon
by idle mendicants, who beg in the phrase of borrowing, and live upon the
spoils of the stranger—Your tradesmen are without conscience, your friends
without affection, and your dependents without fidelity.—
My letter would swell into a treatise, were I to particularize every cause
of offence that fills up the measure of my aversion to this, and every other
crowded city—Thank Heaven! I am not so far sucked into the vortex, but
that I can disengage myself without any great effort of philosophy—From
this wild uproar of knavery, folly, and impertinence, I shall fly with double
relish to the serenity of retirement, the cordial effusions of unreserved
friendship, the hospitality and protection of the rural gods; in a word, the
jucunda oblivia Vitae, which Horace himself had not taste enough to enjoy.
—
I have agreed for a good travelling-coach and four, at a guinea a day, for
three months certain; and next week we intend to begin our journey to the
North, hoping still to be with you by the latter end of October—I shall
continue to write from every stage where we make any considerable halt, as
often as anything occurs, which I think can afford you the least amusement.
In the mean time, I must beg you will superintend the oeconomy of Barns,
with respect to my hay and corn harvests; assured that my ground produces
nothing but what you may freely call your own—On any other terms I
should be ashamed to subscribe myself
Your unvariable friend, MATT. BRAMBLE LONDON, June 8.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

In my last, I mentioned my having spent an evening with a society of
authors, who seemed to be jealous and afraid of one another. My uncle was
not at all surprised to hear me say I was disappointed in their conversation.
‘A man may be very entertaining and instructive upon paper (said he), and
exceedingly dull in common discourse. I have observed, that those who
shine most in private company, are but secondary stars in the constellation
of genius—A small stock of ideas is more easily managed, and sooner
displayed, than a great quantity crowded together. There is very seldom any
thing extraordinary in the appearance and address of a good writer; whereas
a dull author generally distinguishes himself by some oddity or
extravagance. For this reason, I fancy, that an assembly of Grubs must be
very diverting.’
My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend Dick Ivy,
who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which was Sunday last. He
carried me to dine with S—, whom you and I have long known by his
writings.—He lives in the skirts of the town, and every Sunday his house is
opened to all unfortunate brothers of the quill, whom he treats with beef,
pudding, and potatoes, port, punch, and Calvert’s entire butt beer. He has
fixed upon the first day of the week for the exercise of his hospitality,
because some of his guests could not enjoy it on any other, for reasons that I
need not explain. I was civilly received in a plain, yet decent habitation,
which opened backwards into a very pleasant garden, kept in excellent
order; and, indeed, I saw none of the outward signs of authorship, either in
the house or the landlord, who is one of those few writers of the age that
stand upon their own foundation, without patronage, and above
dependence. If there was nothing characteristic in the entertainer, the
company made ample amends for his want of singularity.

At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten messmates seated at
table; and, I question, if the whole kingdom could produce such another
assemblage of originals. Among their peculiarities, I do not mention those
of dress, which may be purely accidental. What struck me were oddities
originally produced by affectation, and afterwards confirmed by habit. One
of them wore spectacles at dinner, and another his hat flapped; though (as
Ivy told me) the first was noted for having a seaman’s eye, when a bailiff
was in the wind; and the other was never known to labour under any
weakness or defect of vision, except about five years ago, when he was
complimented with a couple of black eyes by a player, with whom he had
quarrelled in his drink. A third wore a laced stocking, and made use of
crutches, because, once in his life, he had been laid up with a broken leg,
though no man could leap over a stick with more agility. A fourth had
contracted such an antipathy to the country, that he insisted upon sitting
with his back towards the window that looked into the garden, and when a
dish of cauliflower was set upon the table, he snuffed up volatile salts to
keep him from fainting; yet this delicate person was the son of a cottager,
born under a hedge, and had many years run wild among asses on a
common. A fifth affected distraction. When spoke to, he always answered
from the purpose sometimes he suddenly started up, and rapped out a
dreadful oath sometimes he burst out a-laughing—then he folded his arms,
and sighed and then, he hissed like fifty serpents.
At first I really thought he was mad, and, as he sat near me, began to be
under some apprehensions for my own safety, when our landlord,
perceiving me alarmed, assured me aloud that I had nothing to fear. ‘The
gentleman (said he) is trying to act a part for which he is by no means
qualified—if he had all the inclination in the world, it is not in his power to
be mad. His spirits are too flat to be kindled into frenzy.’ ‘‘Tis no bad p-p-
puff, however (observed a person in a tarnished laced coat): aff-ffected in-
madness w-will p-pass for w-wit w-with nine-ninet-teen out of t-
twenty.’—‘And affected stuttering for humour: replied our landlord, tho’,
God knows, there is an affinity betwixt them.’ It seems, this wag, after
having made some abortive attempts in plain speaking, had recourse to this
defect, by means of which he frequently extorted the laugh of the company,
without the least expence of genius; and that imperfection, which he had at
first counterfeited, was now become so habitual, that he could not lay it
aside.

A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner, had, on his
first introduction, taken such offence at S—, because he looked and talked,
and ate and drank like any other man, that he spoke contemptuously of his
understanding ever after, and never would repeat his visit, until he had
exhibited the following proof of his caprice. Wat Wyvil, the poet, having
made some unsuccessful advances towards an intimacy with S—, at last
gave him to understand, by a third person, that he had written a poem in his
praise, and a satire against his person; that if he would admit him to his
house, the first should be immediately sent to press; but that if he persisted
in declining his friendship, he would publish his satire without delay. S—
replied, that he looked upon Wyvil’s panegyrick, as in effect, a species of
infamy, and would resent it accordingly with a good cudgel; but if he
published the satire, he might deserve his compassion, and had nothing to
fear from his revenge. Wyvil having considered the alternative, resolved to
mortify S— by printing the panegyrick, for which he received a sound
drubbing. Then he swore the peace against the aggressor, who, in order to
avoid a prosecution at law, admitted him to his good graces. It was the
singularity in S—‘s conduct, on this occasion, that reconciled him to the
yellow-gloved philosopher, who owned he had some genius, and from that
period cultivated his acquaintance.
Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of my fellow-
guests were employed, I applied to my communicative friend Dick Ivy, who
gave me to understand, that most of them were, or had been,
understrappers, or journeymen, to more creditable authors, for whom they
translated, collated, and compiled, in the business of bookmaking; and that
all of them had, at different times, laboured in the service of our landlord,
though they had now set up for themselves in various departments of
literature. Not only their talents, but also their nations and dialects were so
various, that our conversation resembled the confusion of tongues at Babel.
We had the Irish brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom, twanged off
by the most discordant vociferation; for, as they all spoke together, no man
had any chance to be heard, unless he could bawl louder than his fellows. It
must be owned, however, there was nothing pedantic in their discourse;
they carefully avoided all learned disquisitions, and endeavoured to be
facetious; nor did their endeavours always miscarry—some droll repartee
passed, and much laughter was excited; and if any individual lost his temper
so far as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he was effectually checked

by the master of the feast, who exerted a sort of paternal authority over this
irritable tribe.
The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who had been
expelled the university for atheism, has made great progress in a refutation
of lord Bolingbroke’s metaphysical works, which is said to be equally
ingenious, and orthodox; but, in the mean time, he has been presented to the
grand jury as a public nuisance, for having blasphemed in an ale-house on
the Lord’s day. The Scotchman gives lectures on the pronunciation of the
English language, which he is now publishing by subscription.
The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name of my Lord
Potatoe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a minister, hoping his zeal
would be rewarded with some place or pension; but, finding himself
neglected in that quarter, he whispered about, that the pamphlet was written
by the minister himself, and he published an answer to his own production.
In this, he addressed the author under the title of your lordship with such
solemnity, that the public swallowed the deceit, and bought up the whole
impression. The wise politicians of the metropolis declared they were both
masterly performances, and chuckled over the flimsy reveries of an ignorant
garretteer, as the profound speculations of a veteran statesman, acquainted
with all the secrets of the cabinet. The imposture was detected in the sequel,
and our Hibernian pamphleteer retains no part of his assumed importance,
but the bare title of my lord, and the upper part of the table at the potatoe-
ordinary in Shoelane.
Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the public with a
humorous satire, intituled, The Ballance of the English Poets, a
performance which evinced the great modesty and taste of the author, and,
in particular, his intimacy with the elegancies of the English language. The
sage, who laboured under the agrophobia, or horror of green fields, had just
finished a treatise on practical agriculture, though, in fact, he had never seen
corn growing in his life, and was so ignorant of grain, that our entertainer,
in the face of the whole company, made him own, that a plate of hominy
was the best rice pudding he had ever eat.
The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe and part of
Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of the King’s Bench, except
in term-time, with a tipstaff for his companion; and as for little Tim
Cropdale, the most facetious member of the whole society, he had happily

wound up the catastrophe of a virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which
he promised himself a large fund of profit and reputation. Tim had made
shift to live many years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a
volume; but that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors,
who publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much ease and
spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart, and all in the serene
tranquillity of high life, that the reader is not only inchanted by their genius,
but reformed by their morality.
After dinner, we adjourned into the garden, where, I observed, Mr S—
gave a short separate audience to every individual in a small remote filbert
walk, from whence most of them dropt off one after another, without further
ceremony; but they were replaced by fresh recruits of the same clan, who
came to make an afternoon’s visit; and, among others, a spruce bookseller,
called Birkin, who rode his own gelding, and made his appearance in a pair
of new jemmy boots, with massy spurs of plate. It was not without reason,
that this midwife of the Muses used exercise a-horseback, for he was too fat
to walk a-foot, and he underwent some sarcasms from Tim Cropdale, on his
unwieldy size and inaptitude for motion. Birkin, who took umbrage at this
poor author’s petulance in presuming to joke upon a man so much richer
than himself, told him, he was not so unwieldy but that he could move the
Marshalsea court for a writ, and even overtake him with it, if he did not
very speedily come and settle accounts with him, respecting the expence of
publishing his last ode to the king of Prussia, of which he had sold but
three, and one of them was to Whitfield the methodist. Tim affected to
receive this intimation with good humour, saying, he expected in a post or
two, from Potsdam, a poem of thanks from his Prussian majesty, who knew
very well how to pay poets in their own coin; but, in the mean time, he
proposed, that Mr Birkin and he should run three times round the garden for
a bowl of punch, to be drank at Ashley’s in the evening, and he would run
boots against stockings. The bookseller, who valued himself upon his
mettle, was persuaded to accept the challenge, and he forthwith resigned his
boots to Cropdale, who, when he had put them on, was no bad
representation of captain Pistol in the play.
Every thing being adjusted, they started together with great impetuosity,
and, in the second round, Birkin had clearly the advantage, larding the lean
earth as he puff’d along. Cropdale had no mind to contest the victory
further; but, in a twinkling, disappeared through the back-door of the

garden, which opened into a private lane, that had communication with the
high road.—The spectators immediately began to hollow, ‘Stole away!’ and
Birkin set off in pursuit of him with great eagerness; but he had not
advanced twenty yards in the lane, when a thorn running into his foot, sent
him hopping back into the garden, roaring with pain, and swearing with
vexation. When he was delivered from this annoyance by the Scotchman,
who had been bred to surgery, he looked about him wildly, exclaiming,
‘Sure, the fellow won’t be such a rogue as to run clear away with my
boots!’ Our landlord, having reconnoitered the shoes he had left, which,
indeed, hardly deserved that name, ‘Pray (said he), Mr Birkin, wa’n’t your
boots made of calf-skin?’ ‘Calf-skin or cow-skin (replied the other) I’ll find
a slip of sheep-skin that will do his business—I lost twenty pounds by his
farce which you persuaded me to buy—I am out of pocket five pounds by
his damn’d ode; and now this pair of boots, bran new, cost me thirty
shillings, as per receipt—But this affair of the boots is felony—
transportation.—I’ll have the dog indicted at the Old Bailey—I will, Mr S
— I will be reveng’d, even though I should lose my debt in consequence of
his conviction.’
Mr S— said nothing at present, but accommodated him with a pair of
shoes; then ordered his servant to rub him down, and comfort him with a
glass of rum-punch, which seemed, in a great measure, to cool the rage of
his indignation. ‘After all (said our landlord) this is no more than a humbug
in the way of wit, though it deserves a more respectable epithet, when
considered as an effort of invention. Tim, being (I suppose) out of credit
with the cordwainer, fell upon this ingenious expedient to supply the want
of shoes, knowing that Mr Birkin, who loves humour, would himself relish
the joke upon a little recollection. Cropdale literally lives by his wit, which
he has exercised upon all his friends in their turns. He once borrowed my
poney for five or six days to go to Salisbury, and sold him in Smithfield at
his return. This was a joke of such a serious nature, that, in the first
transports of my passion, I had some thoughts of prosecuting him for horse-
stealing; and even when my resentment had in some measure subsided, as
he industriously avoided me, I vowed, I would take satisfaction on his ribs
with the first opportunity. One day, seeing him at some distance in the
street, coming towards me, I began to prepare my cane for action, and
walked in the shadow of a porter, that he might not perceive me soon
enough to make his escape; but, in the very instant I had lifted up the

instrument of correction, I found Tim Cropdale metamorphosed into a
miserable blind wretch, feeling his way with a long stick from post to post,
and rolling about two bald unlighted orbs instead of eyes. I was exceedingly
shocked at having so narrowly escaped the concern and disgrace that would
have attended such a misapplication of vengeance: but, next day, Tim
prevailed upon a friend of mine to come and solicit my forgiveness, and
offer his note, payable in six weeks, for the price of the poney. This
gentleman gave me to understand, that the blind man was no other than
Cropdale, who having seen me advancing, and guessing my intent, had
immediately converted himself into the object aforesaid—I was so diverted
at the ingenuity of the evasion, that I agreed to pardon his offence, refusing
his note, however, that I might keep a prosecution for felony hanging over
his head, as a security for his future good behaviour—But Timothy would
by no means trust himself in my hands till the note was accepted—then he
made his appearance at my door as a blind beggar, and imposed in such a
manner upon my man, who had been his old acquaintance and pot-
companion, that the fellow threw the door in his face, and even threatened
to give him the bastinado. Hearing a noise in the hall, I went thither, and
immediately recollecting the figure I had passed in the street, accosted him
by his own name, to the unspeakable astonishment of the footman.’
Birkin declared he loved a joke as well as another; but asked if any of the
company could tell where Mr Cropdale lodged, that he might send him a
proposal about restitution, before the boots should be made away with. ‘I
would willingly give him a pair of new shoes (said he), and half a guinea
into the bargain’ for the boots, which fitted me like a glove; and I shan’t be
able to get the fellows of them ‘till the good weather for riding is over. The
stuttering wit declared, that the only secret which Cropdale ever kept, was
the place of his lodgings; but he believed, that, during the heats of summer,
he commonly took his repose upon a bulk, or indulged himself, in fresco,
with one of the kennel-nymphs, under the portico of St Martin’s church.
‘Pox on him! (cried the bookseller) he might as well have taken my whip
and spurs. In that case, he might have been tempted to steal another horse,
and then he would have rid to the devil of course.’
After coffee, I took my leave of Mr S—, with proper acknowledgments
of his civility, and was extremely well pleased with the entertainment of the
day, though not yet satisfied, with respect to the nature of this connexion,
betwixt a man of character in the literary world, and a parcel of authorlings,

who, in all probability, would never be able to acquire any degree of
reputation by their labours. On this head I interrogated my conductor, Dick
Ivy, who answered me to this effect—‘One would imagine S— had some
view to his own interest, in giving countenance and assistance to those
people, whom he knows to be bad men, as well as bad writers; but, if he has
any such view, he will find himself disappointed; for if he is so vain as to
imagine he can make them, subservient to his schemes of profit or
ambition, they are cunning enough to make him their property in the mean
time. There is not one of the company you have seen to-day (myself
excepted) who does not owe him particular obligations—One of them he
bailed out of a spunging-house, and afterwards paid the debt—another he
translated into his family, and clothed, when he was turned out half naked
from jail in consequence of an act for the relief of insolvent debtors—a
third, who was reduced to a woollen night cap, and lived upon sheeps
trotters, up three pair of stairs backward in Butcher-row, he took into
present pay and free quarters, and enabled him to appear as a gentleman,
without having the fear of sheriff’s officers before his eyes. Those who are
in distress he supplies with money when he has it, and with his credit when
he is out of cash. When they want business, he either finds employment for
them in his own service, or recommends them to booksellers to execute
some project he has formed for their subsistence. They are always welcome
to his table (which though plain, is plentiful) and to his good offices as far
as they will go, and when they see Occasion, they make use of his name
with the most petulant familiarity; nay, they do not even scruple to arrogate
to themselves the merit of some of his performances, and have been known
to sell their own lucubrations as the produce of his brain. The Scotchman
you saw at dinner once personated him at an alehouse in West-Smithfield
and, in the character of S—, had his head broke by a cow-keeper, for having
spoke disrespectfully of the Christian religion; but he took the law of him in
his own person, and the assailant was fain to give him ten pounds to
withdraw his action.’
I observed, that all this appearance of liberality on the side of Mr S—
was easily accounted for, on the supposition that they flattered him in
private, and engaged his adversaries in public; and yet I was astonished,
when I recollected that I often had seen this writer virulently abused in
papers, poems, and pamphlets, and not a pen was drawn in his defence ‘But
you will be more astonished (said he) when I assure you, those very guests

whom you saw at his table to-day, were the authors of great part of that
abuse; and he himself is well aware of their particular favours, for they are
all eager to detect and betray one another.’ ‘But this is doing the devil’s
work for nothing (cried I). What should induce them to revile their
benefactor without provocation?’ ‘Envy (answered Dick) is the general
incitement; but they are galled by an additional scourge of provocation. S—
directs a literary journal, in which their productions are necessarily brought
to trial; and though many of them have been treated with such lenity and
favour as they little deserved, yet the slightest censure, such as, perhaps,
could not be avoided with any pretensions to candour and impartiality, has
rankled in the hearts of those authors to such a degree, that they have taken
immediate vengeance on the critic in anonymous libels, letters, and
lampoons. Indeed, all the writers of the age, good, bad, and indifferent,
from the moment he assumed this office, became his enemies, either
professed or in petto, except those of his friends who knew they had
nothing to fear from his strictures; and he must be a wiser man than me who
can tell what advantage or satisfaction he derives from having brought such
a nest of hornets about his ears.’
I owned, that was a point which might deserve consideration; but still I
expressed a desire to know his real motives for continuing his friendship to
a set of rascals equally ungrateful and insignificant.—He said, he did not
pretend to assign any reasonable motive; that, if the truth must be told, the
man was, in point of conduct, a most incorrigible fool; that, though he
pretended to have a knack at hitting off characters, he blundered strangely
in the distribution of his favours, which were generally bestowed on the
most undeserving of those who had recourse to his assistance; that, indeed,
this preference was not so much owing to want of discernment as to want of
resolution, for he had not fortitude enough to resist the importunity even of
the most worthless; and, as he did not know the value of money, there was
very little merit in parting with it so easily; that his pride was gratified in
seeing himself courted by such a number of literary dependents; that,
probably, he delighted in hearing them expose and traduce one another; and,
finally, from their information, he became acquainted with all the
transactions of Grubstreet, which he had some thoughts of compiling for the
entertainment of the public.
I could not help suspecting, from Dick’s discourse, that he had some
particular grudge against S—, upon whose conduct he had put the worst

construction it would bear; and, by dint of cross-examination, I found he
was not at all satisfied with the character which had been given in the
Review of his last performance, though it had been treated civilly in
consequence of the author’s application to the critic. By all accounts, S— is
not without weakness and caprice; but he is certainly good-humoured and
civilized; nor do I find that there is any thing overbearing, cruel, or
implacable in his disposition.
I have dwelt so long upon authors, that you will perhaps suspect I intend
to enroll myself among the fraternity; but, if I were actually qualified for
the profession, it is at best but a desperate resource against starving, as it
affords no provision for old age and infirmity. Salmon, at the age of
fourscore, is now in a garret, compiling matter, at a guinea a sheet, for a
modern historian, who, in point of age, might be his grandchild; and
Psalmonazar, after having drudged half a century in the literary mill, in all
the simplicity and abstinence of an Asiatic, subsists upon the charity of a
few booksellers, just sufficient to keep him from the parish, I think Guy,
who was himself a bookseller, ought to have appropriated one wing or ward
of his hospital to the use of decayed authors; though indeed, there is neither
hospital, college, nor workhouse, within the bills of mortality, large enough
to contain the poor of this society, composed, as it is, from the refuse of
every other profession.
I know not whether you will find any amusement in this account of an
odd race of mortals, whose constitution had, I own, greatly interested the
curiosity of
Yours, J. MELFORD LONDON, June 10.

To Miss LAETITIA WILLIS, at Gloucester.
MY DEAR LETTY,

There is something on my spirits, which I should not venture to
communicate by the post, but having the opportunity of Mrs Brentwood’s
return, I seize it eagerly, to disburthen my poor heart, which is oppressed
with fear and vexation.—O Letty! what a miserable situation it is, to be
without a friend to whom one can apply for counsel and consolation in
distress! I hinted in my last, that one Mr Barton had been very particular in
his civilities: I can no longer mistake his meaning—he has formally
professed himself my admirer; and, after a thousand assiduities, perceiving
I made but a cold return to his addresses, he had recourse to the mediation
of lady Griskin, who has acted the part of a very warm advocate in his
behalf:—but, my dear Willis, her ladyship over acts her part—she not only
expatiates on the ample fortune, the great connexions, and the unblemished
character of Mr Barton, but she takes the trouble to catechise me; and, two
days ago, peremptorily told me, that a girl of my age could not possibly
resist so many considerations, if her heart was not pre-engaged.
This insinuation threw me into such a flutter, that she could not but
observe my disorder; and, presuming upon the discovery, insisted upon my
making her the confidante of my passion. But, although I had not such
command of myself as to conceal the emotion of my heart, I am not such a
child as to disclose its secret to a person who would certainly use them to its
prejudice. I told her, it was no wonder if I was out of countenance at her
introducing a subject of conversation so unsuitable to my years and
inexperience; that I believed Mr Barton was a very worthy gentleman, and I
was much obliged to him for his good opinion; but the affections were
involuntary, and mine, in particular, had as yet made no concessions in his
favour. She shook her head with an air of distrust that made me tremble;
and observed, that if my affections were free, they would submit to the
decision of prudence, especially when enforced by the authority of those
who had a right to direct my conduct. This remark implied a design to
interest my uncle or my aunt, perhaps my brother, in behalf of Mr Barton’s

passion; and I am sadly afraid that my aunt is already gained over.
Yesterday in the forenoon, he had been walking with us in the Park, and
stopping in our return at a toy-shop, he presented her with a very fine snuff-
box, and me with a gold etuis, which I resolutely refused, till she
commanded me to accept it on pain of her displeasure: nevertheless, being
still unsatisfied with respect to the propriety of receiving this toy, I signified
my doubts to my brother, who said he would consult my uncle on the
subject, and seemed to think Mr Barton had been rather premature in his
presents.
What will be the result of this consultation, Heaven knows; but I am
afraid it will produce an explanation with Mr Barton, who will, no doubt,
avow his passion, and solicit their consent to a connexion which my soul
abhors; for, my dearest Letty, it is not in my power to love Mr Barton, even
if my heart was untouched by any other tenderness. Not that there is any
thing disagreeable about his person, but there is a total want of that
nameless charm which captivates and controuls the inchanted spirit at least,
he appears to me to have this defect; but if he had all the engaging
qualifications which a man can possess, they would be excited in vain
against that constancy, which, I flatter myself, is the characteristic of my
nature. No, my dear Willis, I may be involved in fresh troubles, and I
believe I shall, from the importunities of this gentleman and the violence of
my relations; but my heart is incapable of change.
You know I put no faith in dreams; and yet I have been much disturbed
by one that visited me last night.—I thought I was in a church, where a
certain person, whom you know, was on the point of being married to my
aunt; that the clergyman was Mr Barton, and that poor forlorn I, stood
weeping in a corner, half naked, and without shoes or stockings.—Now, I
know there is nothing so childish as to be moved by those vain illusions;
but, nevertheless, in spite of all my reason, this hath made a strong
impression upon my mind, which begins to be very gloomy. Indeed, I have
another more substantial cause of affliction—I have some religious
scruples, my dear friend, which lie heavy on my conscience.—I was
persuaded to go to the Tabernacle, where I heard a discourse that affected
me deeply.—I have prayed fervently to be enlightened, but as yet I am not
sensible of these inward motions, those operations of grace, which are the
signs of a regenerated spirit; and therefore I begin to be in terrible
apprehensions about the state of my poor soul. Some of our family have had

very uncommon accessions, particularly my aunt and Mrs Jenkins, who
sometimes speak as if they were really inspired; so that I am not like to
want for either exhortation or example, to purify my thoughts, and recall
them from the vanities of this world, which, indeed, I would willingly
resign, if it was in my power; but to make this sacrifice, I must be enabled
by such assistance from above as hath not yet been indulged to
Your unfortunate friend, LYDIA MELFORD June 10.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

The moment I received your letter, I began to execute your commission
—With the assistance of mine host at the Bull and Gate, I discovered the
place to which your fugitive valet had retreated, and taxed him with his
dishonesty—The fellow was in manifest confusion at sight of me, but he
denied the charge with great confidence, till I told him, that if he would give
up the watch, which was a family piece, he might keep the money and the
clothes, and go to the devil his own way, at his leisure; but if he rejected
this proposal, I would deliver him forthwith to the constable, whom I had
provided for that purpose, and he would carry him before the justice
without further delay. After some hesitation, he desired to speak with me in
the next room, where he produced the watch, with all its appendages, and I
have delivered it to our landlord, to be sent you by the first safe
conveyance.
So much for business.
I shall grow vain, upon your saying you find entertainment in my letters;
barren, as they certainly are, of incident and importance, because your
amusement must arise, not from the matter, but from the manner, which you
know is all my own—Animated, therefore, by the approbation of a person,
whose nice taste and consummate judgment I can no longer doubt, I will
chearfully proceed with our memoirs—As it is determined we shall set out
next week for Yorkshire, I went to-day in the forenoon with my uncle to see
a carriage, belonging to a coachmaker in our neighbourhood—Turning
down a narrow lane, behind Longacre, we perceived a crowd of people
standing at a door; which, it seems, opened into a kind of a methodist
meeting, and were informed, that a footman was then holding forth to the
congregation within. Curious to see this phoenomenon, we squeezed into
the place with much difficulty; and who should this preacher be, but the
identical Humphry Clinker. He had finished his sermon, and given out a

psalm, the first stave of which he sung with peculiar graces—But if we
were astonished to see Clinker in the pulpit, we were altogether confounded
at finding all the females of our family among the audience—There was
lady Griskin, Mrs Tabitha Bramble, Mrs Winifred Jenkins, my sister Liddy,
and Mr Barton, and all of them joined in the psalmody, with strong marks
of devotion.
I could hardly keep my gravity on this ludicrous occasion; but old
Square-toes was differently affected—The first thing that struck him, was
the presumption of his lacquey, whom he commanded to come down, with
such an air of authority as Humphry did not think proper to disregard. He
descended immediately, and all the people were in commotion. Barton
looked exceedingly sheepish, lady Griskin flirted her fan, Mrs Tabby
groaned in spirit, Liddy changed countenance, and Mrs Jenkins sobbed as if
her heart was breaking—My uncle, with a sneer, asked pardon of the ladies,
for having interrupted their devotion, saying, he had particular business
with the preacher, whom he ordered to call a hackney-coach. This being
immediately brought up to the end of the lane, he handed Liddy into it, and
my aunt and I following him, we drove home, without taking any further
notice of the rest of the company, who still remained in silent astonishment.
Mr Bramble, perceiving Liddy in great trepidation, assumed a milder
aspect, bidding her be under no concern, for he was not at all displeased at
any thing she had done—‘I have no objection (said he) to your being
religiously inclined; but I don’t think my servant is a proper ghostly director
for a devotee of your sex and character—if, in fact (as I rather believe) your
aunt is not the sole conductress of, this machine’—Mrs Tabitha made no
answer, but threw up the whites of her eyes, as if in the act of ejaculation—
Poor Liddy, said, she had no right to the title of a devotee; that she thought
there was no harm in hearing a pious discourse, even if it came from a
footman, especially as her aunt was present; but that if she had erred from
ignorance, she hoped he would excuse it, as she could not bear the thoughts
of living under his displeasure. The old gentleman, pressing her hand with a
tender smile, said she was a good girl, and that he did not believe her
capable of doing any thing that could give him the least umbrage or disgust.
When we arrived at our lodgings, he commanded Mr Clinker to attend
him up stairs, and spoke to him in these words—‘Since you are called upon
by the spirit to preach and to teach, it is high time to lay aside the livery of

an earthly master; and for my part, I am unworthy to have an apostle in my
service’—‘I hope (said Humphry) I have not failed in my duty to your
honour—I should be a vile wretch if I did, considering the misery from
which your charity and compassion relieved me—but having an inward
admonition of the spirit—’ ‘An admonition of the devil (cried the squire, in
a passion) What admonition, you blockhead? What right has such a fellow
as you to set up for a reformer?’ ‘Begging your honour’s pardon (replied
Clinker) may not the new light of God’s grace shine upon the poor and the
ignorant in their humility, as well as upon the wealthy, and the philosopher
in all his pride of human learning?’ ‘What you imagine to be the new light
of grace (said his master) I take to be a deceitful vapour, glimmering
through a crack in your upper story—In a word, Mr Clinker, I will have no
light in my family but what pays the king’s taxes, unless it be the light of
reason, which you don’t pretend to follow.’
‘Ah, sir! (cried Humphry) the light of reason, is no more in comparison
to the light I mean, than a farthing candle to the sun at noon’—‘Very true
(said uncle), the one will serve to shew you your way, and the other to
dazzle and confound your weak brain. Heark ye, Clinker, you are either an
hypocritical knave, or a wrong-headed enthusiast; and in either case, unfit
for my service. If you are a quack in sanctity and devotion, you will find it
an easy matter to impose upon silly women, and others of crazed
understanding, who will contribute lavishly for your support. If you are
really seduced by the reveries of a disturbed imagination, the sooner you
lose your senses entirely, the better for yourself and the community. In that
case, some charitable person might provide you with a dark room and clean
straw in Bedlam, where it would not be in your power to infect others with
your fanaticism; whereas, if you have just reflection enough left to maintain
the character of a chosen vessel in the meetings of the godly, you and your
hearers will be misled by a Will-i’the-wisp, from one error into another, till
you are plunged into religious frenzy; and then, perhaps, you will hang
yourself in despair’ ‘Which the Lord of his infinite mercy forbid!
(exclaimed the affrighted Clinker) It is very possible I may be under the
temptation of the devil, who wants to wreck me on the rocks of spiritual
pride—Your honour says, I am either a knave or a madman; now, as I’ll
assure your honour, I am no knave, it follows that I must be mad; therefore,
I beseech your honour, upon my knees, to take my case into consideration,
that means may be used for my recovery’

The ‘squire could not help smiling at the poor fellow’s simplicity, and
promised to take care of him, provided he would mind the business of his
place, without running after the new light of methodism: but Mrs Tabitha
took offence at his humility, which she interpreted into poorness of spirit
and worldly mindedness. She upbraided him with the want of courage to
suffer for conscience sake—She observed, that if he should lose his place
for bearing testimony to the truth, Providence would not fail to find him
another, perhaps more advantageous; and, declaring that it could not be very
agreeable to live in a family where an inquisition was established, retired to
another room in great agitation.
My uncle followed her with a significant look, then, turning to the
preacher, ‘You hear what my sister says—If you cannot live with me upon
such terms as I have prescribed, the vineyard of methodism lies before you,
and she seems very well disposed to reward your labour’—‘I would not
willingly give offence to any soul upon earth (answered Humphry); her
ladyship has been very good to me, ever since we came to London; and
surely she has a heart turned for religious exercises; and both she and lady
Griskin sing psalms and hymns like two cherubims—But, at the same time,
I’m bound to love and obey your honour—It becometh not such a poor
ignorant fellow as me, to hold dispute with gentlemen of rank and learning
—As for the matter of knowledge, I am no more than a beast in comparison
of your honour; therefore I submit; and, with God’s grace, I will follow you
to the world’s end, if you don’t think me too far gone to be out of
confinement’.
His master promised to keep him for some time longer on trial; then
desired to know in what manner lady Griskin and Mr Barton came to join
their religious society, he told him, that her ladyship was the person who
first carried my aunt and sister to the Tabernacle, whither he attended them,
and had his devotion kindled by Mr W—‘s preaching: that he was
confirmed in this new way, by the preacher’s sermons, which he had bought
and studied with great attention: that his discourse and prayers had brought
over Mrs Jenkins and the house-maid to the same way of thinking; but as
for Mr Barton, he had never seen him at service before this day, when he
came in company with lady Griskin. Humphry, moreover, owned that he
had been encouraged to mount the rostrum, by the example and success of a
weaver, who was much followed as a powerful minister: that on his first
trial he found himself under such strong impulsions, as made him believe he

was certainly moved by the spirit; and that he had assisted in lady Griskin’s,
and several private houses, at exercises of devotion.
Mr Bramble was no sooner informed, that her ladyship had acted as the
primum mobile of this confederacy, than he concluded she had only made
use of Clinker as a tool, subservient to the execution of some design, to the
true secret of which he was an utter stranger—He observed, that her
ladyship’s brain was a perfect mill for projects; and that she and Tabby had
certainly engaged in some secret treaty, the nature of which he could not
comprehend. I told him I thought it was no difficult matter to perceive the
drift of Mrs Tabitha, which was to ensnare the heart of Barton, and that in
all likelihood my lady Griskin acted as her auxiliary: that this supposition
would account for their endeavours to convert him to methodism; an event
which would occasion a connexion of souls that might be easily improved
into a matrimonial union.
My uncle seemed to be much diverted by the thoughts of this Scheme’s
succeeding; but I gave him to understand, that Barton was pre-engaged: that
he had the day before made a present of an etuis to Liddy, which her aunt
had obliged her to receive, with a view, no doubt, to countenance her own
accepting of a snuff-box at the same time; that my sister having made me
acquainted with this incident, I had desired an explanation of Mr Barton,
who declared his intentions were honourable, and expressed his hope that I
would have no objections to his alliance; that I had thanked him for the
honour he intended our family; but told him, it would be necessary to
consult her uncle and aunt, who were her guardians; and their approbation
being obtained, I could have no objection to his proposal; though I was
persuaded that no violence would be offered to my sister’s inclinations, in a
transaction that so nearly interested the happiness of her future life: that he
had assured me, he should never think of availing himself of a guardian’s
authority, unless he could render his addresses agreeable to the young lady
herself; and that he would immediately demand permission of Mr and Mrs
Bramble, to make Liddy a tender of his hand and fortune.
The squire was not insensible to the advantages of such a match, and
declared he would promote it with all his influence; but when I took notice
that there seemed to be an aversion on the side of Liddy, he said he would
sound her on the subject; and if her reluctance was such as would not be
easily overcome, he would civilly decline the proposal of Mr Barton; for he

thought that, in the choice of a husband a young woman ought not to
sacrifice the feelings of her heart for any consideration upon earth—‘Liddy
is not so desperate (said he) as to worship fortune at such an expence.’
I take it for granted, this whole affair will end in smoke; though there
seems to be a storm brewing in the quarter of Mrs Tabby, who sat with all
the sullen dignity of silence at dinner, seemingly pregnant with complaint
and expostulation. As she had certainly marked Barton for her own prey,
she cannot possibly favour his suit to Liddy; and therefore I expect
something extraordinary will attend his declaring himself my sister’s
admirer. This declaration will certainly be made in form, as soon as the
lover can pick up resolution enough to stand the brunt of Mrs Tabby’s
disappointment; for he is, without doubt, aware of her designs upon his
person—The particulars of the denouement you shall know in due season:
mean while I am
Always yours, J. MELFORD LONDON, June 10.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR LEWIS,

The deceitful calm was of short duration. I am plunged again in a sea of
vexation, and the complaints in my stomach and bowels are returned; so
that I suppose I shall be disabled from prosecuting the excursion I had
planned—What the devil had I to do, to come a plague hunting with a leash
of females in my train? Yesterday my precious sister (who, by the bye, has
been for some time a professed methodist) came into my apartment,
attended by Mr Barton, and desired an audience with a very stately air
—‘Brother (said she), this gentleman has something to propose, which I
flatter myself will be the more acceptable, as it will rid you of a
troublesome companion.’ Then Mr Barton proceeded to this effect—‘I am,
indeed, extremely ambitious of being allied to your family, Mr Bramble,
and I hope you will see no cause to interpose your authority.’ ‘As for
authority (said Tabby, interrupting him with some warmth), I know of none
that he has a right to use on this occasion—If I pay him the compliment of
making him acquainted with the step I intend to take, it is all he can expect
in reason—This is as much as I believe he would do by me, if he intended
to change his own situation in life—In a word, brother, I am so sensible of
Mr Barton’s extra ordinary merit, that I have been prevailed upon to alter
my resolution of living a single life, and to put my happiness in his hands,
by vesting him with a legal title to my person and fortune, such as they are.
The business at present, is to have the writings drawn; and I shall be obliged
to you, if you will recommend a lawyer to me for that purpose’
You may guess what an effect this overture had upon me; who, from the
information of my nephew, expected that Barton was to make a formal
declaration of his passion for Liddy; I could not help gazing in silent
astonishment, alternately at Tabby, and her supposed admirer, who last hung
his head in the most aukward confusion for a few minutes, and then retired
on pretence of being suddenly seized with a vertigo—Mrs Tabitha affected
much concern, and would have had him make use of a bed in the house; but
he insisted upon going home, that he might have recourse of some drops,

which he kept for such emergencies, and his innamorata acquiesced—In the
mean time I was exceedingly puzzled at this adventure (though I suspected
the truth) and did not know in what manner to demean myself towards Mrs
Tabitha, when Jery came in and told me, he had just seen Mr Barton alight
from his chariot at lady Griskin’s door—This incident seemed to threaten a
visit from her ladyship, with which we were honoured accordingly, in less
than half an hour—‘I find (said she) there has been a match of cross
purposes among you good folks; and I’m come to set you to rights’—So
saying, she presented me with the following billet
‘DEAR SIR,
I no sooner recollected myself from the extreme confusion I was thrown
into, by that unlucky mistake of your sister, than I thought it my duty to
assure you, that my devoirs to Mrs Bramble never exceeded the bounds of
ordinary civility; and that my heart is unalterably fixed upon Miss Liddy
Melford, as I had the honour to declare to her brother, when he questioned
me upon that subject—Lady Griskin has been so good as to charge herself,
not only with the delivery of this note, but also with the task of undeceiving
Mrs Bramble, for whom I have the most profound respect and veneration,
though my affection being otherwise engaged is no longer in the power of
Sir, Your very humble servant, RALPH BARTON.’
Having cast my eyes over this billet, I told her ladyship, that I would no
longer retard the friendly office she had undertaken: and I and Jery
forthwith retired into another room. There we soon perceived the
conversation grow very warm betwixt the two ladies; and, at length, could
distinctly hear certain terms of altercation, which we could no longer delay
interrupting, with any regard to decorum. When we entered the scene of
contention, we found Liddy had joined the disputants, and stood trembling
betwixt them, as if she had been afraid they would have proceeded to
something more practical than words. Lady Griskin’s face was like the full
moon in a storm of wind, glaring, fiery, and portentous; while Tabby looked
grim and ghastly, with an aspect breathing discord and dismay.—Our
appearance put a stop to their mutual revilings; but her ladyship turning to
me, ‘Cousin (said she) I can’t help saying I have met with a very ungrateful
return from this lady, for the pains I have taken to serve her family’—‘My
family is much obliged to your ladyship (cried Tabby, with a kind of
hysterical giggle); but we have no right to the good offices of such an

honourable go-between.’ ‘But, for all that, good Mrs Tabitha Bramble
(resumed the other), I shall be content with the reflection, That virtue is its
own reward; and it shall not be my fault, if you continue to make yourself
ridiculous—Mr Bramble, who has no little interest of his own to serve, will,
no doubt, contribute all in his power to promote a match betwixt Mr Barton
and his niece, which will be equally honourable and advantageous; and, I
dare say, Miss Liddy herself will have no objection to a measure so well
calculated to make her happy in life’—‘I beg your ladyship’s pardon
(exclaimed Liddy, with great vivacity) I have nothing but misery to expect
from such a measure; and I hope my guardians will have too much
compassion, to barter my peace of mind for any consideration of interest or
fortune’—‘Upon my word, Miss Liddy! (said she) you have profited by the
example of your good aunt—I comprehend your meaning, and will explain
it when I have a proper opportunity—In the mean time, I shall take my
leave—Madam, your most obedient, and devoted humble servant,’ said she,
advancing close up to my sister, and curtsying so low, that I thought she
intended to squat herself down on the floor—This salutation Tabby returned
with equal solemnity; and the expression of the two faces, while they
continued in this attitude, would be no bad subject for a pencil like that of
the incomparable Hogarth, if any such should ever appear again, in these
times of dullness and degeneracy.
Jery accompanied her ladyship to her house, that he might have an
opportunity to restore the etuis to Barton, and advise him to give up his suit,
which was so disagreeable to his sister, against whom, however, he returned
much irritated—Lady Griskin had assured him that Liddy’s heart was pre-
occupied; and immediately the idea of Wilson recurring to his imagination,
his family-pride took the alarm. He denounced vengeance against the
adventurer, and was disposed to be very peremptory with his sister; but I
desired he would suppress his resentment, until I should have talked with
her in private.
The poor girl, when I earnestly pressed her on this head, owned with a
flood of tears, that Wilson had actually come to the Hot Well at Bristol, and
even introduced himself into our lodgings as a Jew pedlar; but that nothing
had passed betwixt them, further than her begging him to withdraw
immediately, if he had any regard for her peace of mind: that he had
disappeared accordingly, after having attempted to prevail upon my sister’s
maid, to deliver a letter; which, however, she refused to receive, though she

had consented to carry a message, importing that he was a gentleman of a
good family; and that, in a very little time, he would avow his passion in
that character—She confessed, that although he had not kept his word in
this particular, he was not yet altogether indifferent to her affection; but
solemnly promised, she would never carry on any correspondence with
him, or any other admirer, for the future, without the privity and
approbation of her brother and me.
By this declaration, she made her own peace with Jery; but the hot-
headed boy is more than ever incensed against Wilson, whom he now
considers as an impostor, that harbours some infamous design upon the
honour of his family—As for Barton he was not a little mortified to find his
present returned, and his addresses so unfavourably received; but he is not a
man to be deeply affected by such disappointments; and I know not whether
he is not as well pleased with being discarded by Liddy, as he would have
been with a permission to prosecute his pretensions, at the risque of being
every day exposed to the revenge or machinations of Tabby, who is not to
be slighted with impunity.—I had not much time to moralize on these
occurrences; for the house was visited by a constable and his gang, with a
warrant from Justice Buzzard, to search the box of Humphry Clinker, my
footman,—who was just apprehended as a highwayman. This incident
threw the whole family into confusion. My sister scolded the constable for
presuming to enter the lodgings of a gentleman on such an errand, without
having first asked, and obtained permission; her maid was frightened into
fits, and Liddy shed tears of compassion for the unfortunate Clinker, in
whose box, however, nothing was found to confirm the suspicion of
robbery.
For my own part, I made no doubt of the fellow’s being mistaken for
some other person, and I went directly to the justice, in order to procure his
discharge; but there I found the matter much more serious than I expected—
Poor Clinker stood trembling at the bar, surrounded by thief-takers; and at a
little distance, a thick, squat fellow, a postilion, his accuser, who had seized
him on the street, and swore positively to his person, that the said Clinker
had, on the 15th day of March last, on Blackheath, robbed a gentleman in a
post-chaise, which he (the postilion) drove—This deposition was sufficient
to justify his commitment; and he was sent accordingly to Clerkenwell
prison, whither Jery accompanied him in the coach, in order to recommend

him properly to the keeper, that he may want for no convenience which the
place affords.
The spectators, who assembled to see this highwayman, were sagacious
enough to discern something very villainous in his aspect; which (begging
their pardon) is the very picture of simplicity; and the justice himself put a
very unfavourable construction upon some of his answers, which, he said,
savoured of the ambiguity and equivocation of an old offender; but, in my
opinion, it would have been more just and humane to impute them to the
confusion into which we may suppose a poor country lad to be thrown on
such an occasion. I am still persuaded he is innocent; and, in this
persuasion, I can do no less than use my utmost endeavours that he may not
be oppressed—I shall, to-morrow, send my nephew to wait on the
gentleman who was robbed, and beg; he will have the humanity to go and
see the prisoner; that, in case he should find him quite different from the
person of the highwayman, he may bear testimony in his behalf—
Howsoever it may fare with Clinker, this cursed affair will be to me
productive of intolerable chagrin—I have already caught a dreadful cold, by
rushing into the open air from the justice’s parlour, where I had been
stewing in the crowd; and though I should not be laid up with the gout, as I
believe I shall, I must stay at London for some weeks, till this poor devil
comes to his trial at Rochester; so that, in all probability, my northern
expedition is blown up.
If you can find any thing in your philosophical budget, to console me in
the midst of these distresses and apprehensions, pray let it be communicated
to
Your unfortunate friend, MATT. BRAMBLE LONDON, June 12.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR WAT,

The farce is finished, and another piece of a graver cast brought upon the
stage.—Our aunt made a desperate attack upon Barton, who had no other
way of saving himself, but by leaving her in possession of the field, and
avowing his pretensions to Liddy, by whom he has been rejected in his turn.
—Lady Griskin acted as his advocate and agent on this occasion, with such
zeal as embroiled her with Mrs Tabitha, and a high scene of altercation
passed betwixt these two religionists, which might have come to action, had
not my uncle interposed. They are however reconciled, in consequence of
an event which hath involved us all in trouble and disquiet. You must know,
the poor preacher, Humphry Clinker, is now exercising his ministry among
the felons in Clerkenwell prison—A postilion having sworn a robbery
against him, no bail could be taken, and he was committed to jail,
notwithstanding all the remonstrances and interest my uncle could make in
his behalf.
All things considered, the poor fellow cannot possibly be guilty, and yet,
I believe, he runs some risque of being hanged. Upon his examination, he
answered with such hesitation and reserve as persuaded most of the people,
who crowded the place, that he was really a knave, and the justice’s remarks
confirmed their opinion. Exclusive of my uncle and myself, there was only
one person who seemed inclined to favour the culprit.—He was a young
man, well dressed, and, from the manner in which he cross-examined the
evidence, we took it for granted, that he was a student in one of the inns of
court.—He freely checked the justice for some uncharitable inferences he
made to the prejudice of the prisoner, and even ventured to dispute with his
worship on certain points of law.
My uncle, provoked at the unconnected and dubious answers of Clinker,
who seemed in danger of falling a sacrifice to his own simplicity,
exclaimed, ‘In the name of God, if you are innocent, say so.’ ‘No (cried he)

God forbid that I should call myself innocent, while my conscience is
burthened with sin.’ ‘What then, you did commit this robbery?’ resumed his
master. ‘No, sure (said he) blessed be the Lord, I’m free of that guilt.’
Here the justice interposed, observing, that the man seemed inclined to
make a discovery by turning king’s evidence, and desired the clerk to take
his confession; upon which Humphry declared, that he looked upon
confession to be a popish fraud, invented by the whore of Babylon. The
Templar affirmed, that the poor fellow was non compos; and exhorted the
justice to discharge him as a lunatic.—‘You know very well (added he) that
the robbery in question was not committed by the prisoner.’
The thief-takers grinned at one another; and Mr Justice Buzzard replied
with great emotion, ‘Mr Martin, I desire you will mind your own business; I
shall convince you one of these days that I understand mine.’ In short, there
was no remedy; the mittimus was made out, and poor Clinker sent to prison
in a hackney-coach, guarded by the constable, and accompanied by your
humble servant. By the way, I was not a little surprised to hear this retainer
to justice bid the prisoner to keep up his spirits, for that he did not at all
doubt but that he would get off for a few weeks confinement—He said, his
worship knew very well that Clinker was innocent of the fact, and that the
real highwayman who robbed the chaise, was no other than that very
individual Mr Martin, who had pleaded so strenuously for honest Humphry.
Confounded at this information, I asked, ‘Why then is he suffered to go
about at his liberty, and this poor innocent fellow treated as a malefactor?’
‘We have exact intelligence of all Mr Martin’s transactions (said he); but as
yet there is not evidence sufficient for his conviction; and as for this young
man, the justice could do no less than commit him, as the postilion swore
point-blank to his identity.’ ‘So if this rascally postilion should persist in the
falsity to which he is sworn (said I), this innocent lad may be brought to the
gallows.’
The constable observed, that he would have time enough to prepare for
his trial, and might prove an alibi; or, perhaps, Martin might be
apprehended and convicted for another fact; in which case, he might be
prevailed upon to take this affair upon himself; or, finally, if these chances
should fail, and the evidence stand good against Clinker, the jury might
recommend him to mercy, in consideration of his youth, especially if this
should appear to be the first fact of which he had been guilty.

Humphry owned he could not pretend to recollect where he had been on
the day when the robbery was committed, much less prove a circumstance
of that kind so far back as six months, though he knew he had been sick of
the fever and ague, which, however, did not prevent him from going about
—then, turning up his eyes, he ejaculated, ‘The Lord’s will be done! if it be
my fate to suffer, I hope I shall not disgrace the faith of which, though
unworthy, I make profession.’
When I expressed my surprize that the accuser should persist in charging
Clinker, without taking the least notice of the real robber who stood before
him, and to whom, indeed, Humphry bore not the smallest resemblance; the
constable (who was himself a thief-taker) gave me to understand, that Mr
Martin was the best qualified for business of all the gentlemen on the road
he had ever known; that he had always acted on his own bottom, without
partner or correspondent, and never went to work but when he was cool and
sober; that his courage and presence of mind never failed him; that his
address was genteel, and his behaviour void of all cruelty and insolence;
that he never encumbered himself with watches or trinkets, nor even with
bank-notes, but always dealt for ready money, and that in the current coin of
the kingdom; and that he could disguise himself and his horse in such a
manner, that, after the action, it was impossible to recognize either the one
or the other—‘This great man (said he) has reigned paramount in all the
roads within fifty miles of London above fifteen months, and has done more
business in that time, than all the rest of the profession put together; for
those who pass through his hands are so delicately dealt with, that they have
no desire to give him the least disturbance; but for all that, his race is almost
run—he is now fluttering about justice, like a moth about a candle—there
are so many lime-twigs laid in his way, that I’ll bet a cool hundred, he
swings before Christmas.’
Shall I own to you, that this portrait, drawn by a ruffian, heightened by
what I myself had observed in his deportment, has interested me warmly in
the fate of poor Martin, whom nature seems to have intended for a useful
and honourable member of that community upon which he now preys for
subsistence? It seems, he lived some time as a clerk to a timber-merchant,
whose daughter Martin having privately married, was discarded, and his
wife turned out of doors. She did not long survive her marriage; and Martin,
turning fortune-hunter, could not supply his occasions any other way, than
by taking to the road, in which he has travelled hitherto with uncommon

success.—He pays his respects regularly to Mr Justice Buzzard, the thief-
catcher-general of this metropolis, and sometimes they smoke a pipe
together very lovingly, when the conversation generally turns upon the
nature of evidence.—The justice has given him fair warning to take care of
himself, and he has received his caution in good part.—Hitherto he has
baffled all the vigilance, art, and activity of Buzzard and his emissaries,
with such conduct as would have done honour to the genius of a Caesar or a
Turenne; but he has one weakness, which has proved fatal to all the heroes
of his tribe, namely, an indiscreet devotion to the fair sex, and in all
probability, he will be attacked on this defenceless quarter.
Be that as it may, I saw the body of poor Clinker consigned to the gaoler
of Clerkenwell, to whose indulgence I recommended him so effectually,
that he received him in the most hospitable manner, though there was a
necessity for equipping him with a suit of irons, in which he made a very
rueful appearance. The poor creature seemed as much affected by my
uncle’s kindness, as by his own misfortune. When I assured him, that
nothing should be left undone for procuring his enlargement, and making
his confinement easy in the mean time, he fell down on his knees, and
kissing my hand, which he bathed with his tears, ‘0 ‘squire! (cried he,
sobbing) what shall I say?—I can’t—no, I can’t speak—my poor heart is
bursting with gratitude to you and my dear—dear generous—noble
benefactor.’
I protest, the scene became so pathetic, that I was fain to force myself
away, and returned to my uncle, who sent me in the afternoon with a
compliment to one Mr Mead, the person who had been robbed on Black-
heath. As I did not find him at home, I left a message, in consequence of
which he called at our lodgings this morning, and very humanely agreed to
visit the prisoner. By this time, lady Griskin had come to make her formal
compliments of condolance to Mrs Tabitha, on this domestic calamity; and
that prudent maiden, whose passion was now cooled, thought proper to
receive her ladyship so civilly, that a reconciliation immediately ensued.
These two ladies resolved to comfort the poor prisoner in their own persons,
and Mr Mead and I ‘squired them to Clerkenwell, my uncle being detained
at home by some slight complaints in his stomach and bowels.
The turnkey, who received us at Clerkenwell, looked remarkably sullen;
and when we enquired for Clinker, ‘I don’t care, if the devil had him (said

he); here has been nothing but canting and praying since the fellow entered
the place.—Rabbit him! the tap will be ruined—we han’t sold a cask of
beer, nor a dozen of wine, since he paid his garnish—the gentlemen get
drunk with nothing but your damned religion.—For my part, I believe as
how your man deals with the devil.—Two or three as bold hearts as ever
took the air upon Hounslow have been blubbering all night; and if the
fellow an’t speedily removed by Habeas Corpus, or otherwise, I’ll be
damn’d if there’s a grain of true spirit left within these walls we shan’t have
a soul to do credit to the place, or make his exit like a true born Englishman
—damn my eyes! there will be nothing but snivelling in the cart—we shall
all die like so many psalm-singing weavers.’
In short, we found that Humphry was, at that very instant, haranguing the
felons in the chapel; and that the gaoler’s wife and daughter, together with
my aunt’s woman, Win Jenkins, and our house-maid, were among the
audience, which we immediately joined. I never saw any thing so strongly
picturesque as this congregation of felons clanking their chains, in the midst
of whom stood orator Clinker, expatiating in a transport of fervor, on the
torments of hell, denounced in scripture against evil-doers, comprehending
murderers, robbers, thieves, and whore mongers. The variety of attention
exhibited in the faces of those ragamuffins, formed a groupe that would not
have disgraced the pencil of a Raphael. In one, it denoted admiration; in
another, doubt; in a third, disdain; in a fourth, contempt; in a fifth, terror; in
a sixth, derision; and in a seventh, indignation.—As for Mrs Winifred
Jenkins, she was in tears, overwhelmed with sorrow; but whether for her
own sins, or the misfortune of Clinker, I cannot pretend to say. The other
females seemed to listen with a mixture of wonder and devotion. The
gaoler’s wife declared he was a saint in trouble, saying, she wished from
her heart there was such another good soul, like him, in every gaol in
England.
Mr Mead, having earnestly surveyed the preacher, declared his
appearance was so different from that of the person who robbed him on
Black-heath, that he could freely make oath he was not the man: but
Humphry himself was by this time pretty well rid of all apprehensions of
being hanged; for he had been the night before solemnly tried and acquitted
by his fellow prisoners, some of whom he had already converted to
methodism. He now made proper acknowledgments for the honour of our
visit, and was permitted to kiss the hands of the ladies, who assured him, he

might depend upon their friendship and protection. Lady Griskin, in her
great zeal, exhorted his fellow-prisoners to profit by the precious
opportunity of having such a saint in bonds among them, and turn over a
new leaf for the benefit of their poor souls; and, that her admonition might
have the greater effect, she reinforced it with her bounty.
While she and Mrs Tabby returned in the coach with the two
maidservants, I waited on Mr Mead to the house of justice Buzzard, who,
having heard his declaration, said his oath could be of no use at present, but
that he would be a material evidence for the prisoner at his trial; so that
there seems to be no remedy but patience for poor Clinker; and, indeed, the
same virtue, or medicine, will be necessary for us all, the squire in
particular, who had set his heart upon his excursion to the northward.
While we were visiting honest Humphry in Clerkenwell prison, my uncle
received a much more extraordinary visit at his own lodgings. Mr Martin,
of whom I have made such honourable mention, desired permission to pay
him his respects, and was admitted accordingly. He told him, that having
observed him, at Mr Buzzard’s, a good deal disturbed by what had
happened to his servant, he had come to assure him he had nothing to
apprehend for Clinker’s life; for, if it was possible that any jury could find
him guilty upon such evidence, he, Martin himself, would produce in court
a person, whose deposition would bring him off clear as the sun at noon.—
Sure, the fellow would not be so romantic as to take the robbery upon
himself!—He said, the postilion was an infamous fellow, who had been a
dabbler in the same profession, and saved his life at the Old Bailey by
impeaching his companions; that being now reduced to great poverty, he
had made this desperate push, to swear away the life of an innocent man, in
hopes of having the reward upon his conviction; but that he would find
himself miserably disappointed, for the justice and his myrmidons were
determined to admit of no interloper in this branch of business; and that he
did not at all doubt but that they would find matter enough to shop the
evidence himself before the next gaol-delivery. He affirmed, that all these
circumstances were well known to the justice; and that his severity to
Clinker was no other than a hint to his master to make him a present in
private, as an acknowledgment of his candour and humanity.
This hint, however, was so unpalatable to Mr Bramble, that he declared,
with great warmth, he would rather confine himself for life to London,

which he detested, than be at liberty to leave it tomorrow, in consequence of
encouraging corruption in a magistrate. Hearing, however, how favourable
Mr Mead’s report had been for the prisoner, he is resolved to take the advice
of counsel in what manner to proceed for his immediate enlargement. I
make no doubt, but that in a day or two this troublesome business may be
discussed; and in this hope we are preparing for our journey. If our
endeavours do not miscarry, we shall have taken the field before you hear
again from
Yours, J. MELFORD LONDON, June 11

To Dr LEWIS.
Thank Heaven! dear Lewis, the clouds are dispersed, and I have now the
clearest prospect of my summer campaign, which, I hope, I shall be able to
begin to-morrow. I took the advice of counsel with respect to the case of
Clinker, in whose favour a lucky incident has intervened. The fellow who
accused him, has had his own battery turned upon himself.—Two days ago
he was apprehended for a robbery on the highway, and committed, on the
evidence of an accomplice. Clinker, having moved for a writ of habeas
corpus, was brought before the lord chief justice, who, in consequence of an
affidavit of the gentleman who had been robbed, importing that the said
Clinker was not the person who stopped him on the highway, as well as in
consideration of the postilion’s character and present circumstances, was
pleased to order, that my servant should be admitted to bail, and he has been
discharged accordingly, to the unspeakable satisfaction of our whole family,
to which he has recommended himself in an extraordinary manner, not only
by his obliging deportment, but by his talents of preaching, praying, and
singing psalms, which he has exercised with such effect, that even Tabby
respects him as a chosen vessel. If there was any thing like affectation or
hypocrisy in this excess of religion, I would not keep him in my service,
but, so far as I can observe, the fellow’s character is downright simplicity,
warmed with a kind of enthusiasm, which renders him very susceptible of
gratitude and attachment to his benefactors.
As he is an excellent horseman, and understands farriery, I have bought a
stout gelding for his use, that he may attend us on the road, and have an eye
to our cattle, in case the coachman should not mind his business. My
nephew, who is to ride his own saddle-horse, has taken, upon trial, a servant
just come from abroad with his former master, Sir William Strollop, who
vouches for his honesty. The fellow, whose name is Dutton, seems to be a
petit maitre.—He has got a smattering of French, bows, and grins, and
shrugs, and takes snuff a la mode de France, but values himself chiefly
upon his skill and dexterity in hair-dressing.—If I am not much deceived by
appearance, he is, in all respects, the very contrast of Humphry Clinker.

My sister has made up matters with lady Griskin; though, I must own, I
should not have been sorry to see that connexion entirely destroyed: but
Tabby is not of a disposition to forgive Barton, who, I understand, is gone
to his seat in Berkshire for the summer season. I cannot help suspecting,
that in the treaty of peace, which has been lately ratified betwixt those two
females, it is stipulated, that her ladyship shall use her best endeavours to
provide an agreeable help-mate for our sister Tabitha, who seems to be
quite desperate in her matrimonial designs. Perhaps, the match-maker is to
have a valuable consideration in the way of brokerage, which she will most
certainly deserve, if she can find any man in his senses, who will yoke with
Mrs Bramble from motives of affection or interest.
I find my spirits and my health affect each other reciprocally that is to
say, every thing that discomposes my mind, produces a correspondent
disorder in my body; and my bodily complaints are remarkably mitigated
by those considerations that dissipate the clouds of mental chagrin.—The
imprisonment of Clinker brought on those symptoms which I mentioned in
my last, and now they are vanished at his discharge.—It must be owned,
indeed, I took some of the tincture of ginseng, prepared according to your
prescription, and found it exceedingly grateful to the stomach; but the pain
and sickness continued to return, after short intervals, till the anxiety of my
mind was entirely removed, and then I found myself perfectly at ease. We
have had fair weather these ten days, to the astonishment of the Londoners,
who think it portentous. If you enjoy the same indulgence in Wales, I hope
Barns has got my hay made, and safe cocked by this time. As we shall be in
motion for some weeks, I cannot expect to hear from you as usual; but I
shall continue to write from every place at which we make any halt, that
you may know our track, in case it should be necessary to communicate any
thing to
Your assured friend, MATT. BRAMBLE LONDON, June 14.

To Mrs MARY JONES, at Brambleton-hall, &c.
DEAR MARY,

Having the occasion of my cousin Jenkins of Aberga’ny, I send you, as a
token, a turkey-shell comb, a kiple of yards of green ribbon, and a sarment
upon the nothingness of good works, which was preached in the Tabernacle;
and you will also receive a horn-buck for Saul, whereby she may learn her
letters; for Fin much consarned about the state of her poor sole—and what
are all the pursuits of this life to the consarns of that immortal part?—What
is life but a veil of affliction? O Mary! the whole family have been in such a
constipation!—Mr Clinker has been in trouble, but the gates of hell have
not been able to prevail again him. His virtue is like poor gould, seven
times tried in the fire. He was tuck up for a rubbery, and had before gustass
Busshard, who made his mittamouse; and the pore youth was sent to prison
upon the false oaf of a willian, that wanted to sware his life away for the
looker of cain.
The ‘squire did all in his power, but could not prevent his being put in
chains, and confined among common manufactors, where he stood like an
innocent sheep in the midst of wolves and tygers.—Lord knows what
mought have happened to this pyehouse young man, if master had not
applied to Apias Korkus, who lives with the ould bailiff, and is, they say,
five hundred years old (God bless us!), and a congeror: but, if he be, sure I
am he don’t deal with the devil, otherwise he couldn’t have fought out Mr
Clinker, as he did, in spite of stone walls, iron bolts, and double locks, that
flew open at his command; for ould Scratch has not a greater enemy upon
hearth than Mr Clinker, who is, indeed, a very powerful labourer in the
Lord’s vineyard. I do no more than yuse the words of my good lady, who
has got the infectual calling; and, I trust, that even myself, though
unworthy, shall find grease to be excepted.—Miss Liddy has been touch’d
to the quick, but is a little timorsome: howsomever, I make no doubt, but
she, and all of us, will be brought, by the endeavours of Mr Clinker, to
produce blessed fruit of generation and repentance.—As for master and the
young ‘squire, they have as yet had narro glimpse of the new light.—I

doubt as how their harts are hardened by worldly wisdom, which, as the
pyebill saith, is foolishness in the sight of God.
O Mary Jones, pray without seizing for grease to prepare you for the
operations of this wonderful instrument, which, I hope, will be exorcised
this winter upon you and others at Brambleton-hall.— Tomorrow, we are to
set out in a cox and four for Yorkshire; and, I believe, we shall travel that
way far, and far, and farther than I can tell; but I shan’t go so far as to forget
my friends; and Mary Jones will always be remembered as one of them by
her
Humble sarvant, WIN. JENKINS LONDON, June 14.

To Mrs GWYLLIM, house-keeper at Brambleton-
hall. MRS GWYLLIM,
I can’t help thinking it very strange, that I never had an answer to the
letter I wrote you some weeks ago from Bath, concerning the sour bear, the
gander, and the maids eating butter, which I won’t allow to be wasted.—We
are now going upon a long journey to the north, whereby I desire you will
redouble your care and circumflexion, that the family may be well managed
in our absence; for, you know, you must render account, not only to your
earthly master, but also to him that is above; and if you are found a good
and faithful sarvant, great will be your reward in haven. I hope there will be
twenty stun of cheese ready for market—by the time I get huom, and as
much owl spun, as will make half a dozen pair of blankets; and that the
savings of the butter-milk will fetch me a good penny before Martinmass,
as the two pigs are to be fed for baking with bitchmast and acrons.
I wrote to doctor Lews for the same porpuss, but he never had the good
manners to take the least notice of my letter; for which reason, I shall never
favour him with another, though he beshits me on his bended knees. You
will do well to keep a watchful eye over the hind Villiams, who is one of his
amissories, and, I believe, no better than he should be at bottom. God forbid
that I should lack christian charity; but charity begins at huom, and sure
nothing can be a more charitable work than to rid the family of such
vermine. I do suppose, that the bindled cow has been had to the parson’s
bull, that old Moll has had another litter of pigs, and that Dick is become a
mighty mouser. Pray order every thing for the best, and be frugal, and keep
the maids to their labour—If I had a private opportunity, I would send them
some hymns to sing instead of profane ballads; but, as I can’t, they and you
must be contented with the prayers of
Your assured friend, T. BRAMBLE LONDON, June 14.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

The very day after I wrote my last, Clinker was set at liberty. As Martin
had foretold, the accuser was himself committed for a robbery, upon
unquestionable evidence. He had been for some time in the snares of the
thief-taking society; who, resenting his presumption in attempting to
incroach upon their monopoly of impeachment, had him taken up and
committed to Newgate, on the deposition of an accomplice, who has been
admitted as evidence for the king. The postilion being upon record as an old
offender, the chief justice made no scruple of admitting Clinker to bail,
when he perused the affidavit of Mr Mead, importing that the said Clinker
was not the person that robbed him on Blackheath; and honest Humphry
was discharged. When he came home, he expressed great eagerness to pay
his respects to his master, and here his elocution failed him, but his silence
was pathetic; he fell down at his feet and embraced his knees, shedding a
flood of tears, which my uncle did not see without emotion. He took snuff
in some confusion; and, putting his hand in his pocket, gave him his
blessing in something more substantial than words—‘Clinker (said he), I
am so well convinced, both of your honesty and courage, that I am resolved
to make you my life-guardman on the highway.’
He was accordingly provided with a case of pistols, and a carbine to be
flung a-cross his shoulders; and every other preparation being made, we set
out last Thursday, at seven in the morning; my uncle, with the three women
in the coach; Humphry, well mounted on a black gelding bought for his use;
myself a-horseback, attended by my new valet, Mr Dutton, an exceeding
coxcomb, fresh from his travels, whom I have taken upon trial—The fellow
wears a solitaire, uses paint, and takes rappee with all the grimace of a
French marquis. At present, however, he is in a ridingdress, jack-boots,
leather breeches, a scarlet waistcoat, with gold binding, a laced hat, a
hanger, a French posting-whip in his hand, and his hair en queue.

Before we had gone nine miles, my horse lost one of his shoes; so that I
was obliged to stop at Barnet to have another, while the coach proceeded at
an easy pace over the common. About a mile short of Hatfield, the
postilions, stopping the carriage, gave notice to Clinker that there were two
suspicious fellows a-horseback, at the end of a lane, who semed waiting to
attack the coach. Humphry forthwith apprised my uncle, declaring he would
stand by him to the last drop of his blood; and unflinging his carbine,
prepared for action. The ‘squire had pistols in the pockets of the coach, and
resolved to make use of them directly; but he was effectually prevented by
his female companions, who flung themselves about his neck, and screamed
in concert—At that instant, who should come up at a hand-gallop, but
Martin, the highway-man, who, advancing to the coach, begged the ladies
would compose themselves for a moment then, desiring Clinker to follow
him to the charge, he pulled a pistol out of his bosom, and they rode up
together to give battle to the rogues, who, having fired at a great distance,
fled across the common. They were in pursuit of the fugitives when I came
up, not a little alarmed at the shrieks in the coach, where I found my uncle
in a violent rage, without his periwig, struggling to disentangle himself
from Tabby and the other two, and swearing with great vociferation. Before
I had time to interpose, Martin and Clinker returned from the pursuit, and
the former payed his compliments with great politeness, giving us to
understand, that the fellows had scampered off, and that he believed they
were a couple of raw ‘prentices from London. He commended Clinker for
his courage, and said, if we would give him leave, he would have the
honour to accompany us as far as Stevenage, where he had some business.
The ‘squire, having recollected and adjusted himself, was the first to
laugh at his own situation: but it was not without difficulty, that Tabby’s
arms could be untwisted from his neck; Liddy’s teeth chattered, and Jenkins
was threatened with a fit as usual. I had communicated to my uncle the
character of Martin, as it was described by the constable, and he was much
struck with its singularity—He could not suppose the fellow had any design
on our company, which was so numerous and well armed; he therefore
thanked him, for the service he had just done them, said he would be glad of
his company, and asked him to dine with us at Hatfield. This invitation
might not have been agreeable to the ladies, had they known the real
profession of our guest, but this was a secret to all, except my uncle and
myself. Mrs Tabitha, however, would by no means consent to proceed with

a case of loaded pistols in the coach, and they were forthwith discharged in
complaisance to her and the rest of the women.
Being gratified in this particular, she became remarkably goodhumoured,
and at dinner behaved in the most affable manner to Mr Martin, with whose
polite address and agreeable conversation she seemed to be much taken.
After dinner, the landlord accosting me in the yard, asked with a significant
look, if the gentleman that rode the sorrel belonged to our company?—I
understand his meaning, but answered no; that he had come up with us on
the common, and helped us to drive away two fellows, that looked like
highwaymen—He nodded three times distinctly, as much as to say, he
knows his cue. Then he inquired, if one of those men was mounted on a bay
mare, and the other on a chestnut gelding with a white streak down his
forehead? and being answered in the affirmative, he assured me they had
robbed three post-chaises this very morning—I inquired, in my turn, if Mr
Martin was of his acquaintance; and, nodding thrice again, he answered,
that he had seen the gentleman.
Before we left Hatfield, my uncle, fixing his eyes on Martin with such
expression as is more easily conceived than described, asked, if he often
travelled that road? and he replied with a look which denoted his
understanding the question, that he very seldom did business in that part of
the country. In a word, this adventurer favoured us with his company to the
neighbourhood of Stevenage, where he took his leave of the coach and me,
in very polite terms, and turned off upon a crossroad, that led to a village on
the left—At supper, Mrs Tabby was very full in the praise of Mr Martin’s
good-sense and good-breeding, and seemed to regret that she had not a
further opportunity to make some experiment upon his affection. In the
morning, my uncle was not a little surprised to receive, from the waiter a
billet couched in these words—
‘SIR,
I could easily perceive from your looks, when I had the honour to
converse with you at Hatfield, that my character is not unknown to you;
and, I dare say you won’t think it strange, that I should be glad to change
my present way of life, for any other honest occupation, let it be ever so
humble, that will afford me bread in moderation, and sleep in safety—
Perhaps you may think I flatter, when I say, that from the moment I was
witness to your generous concern in the cause of your servant, I conceived a

particular esteem and veneration for your person; and yet what I say is true.
I should think myself happy, if I could be admitted into your protection and
service, as house-steward, clerk, butler, or bailiff, for either of which places
I think myself tolerably well qualified; and, sure I am, I should not be found
deficient in gratitude and fidelity—At the same time, I am very sensible
how much you must deviate from the common maxims of discretion, even
in putting my professions to the trial; but I don’t look upon you as a person
that thinks in the ordinary stile; and the delicacy of my situation, will, I
know, justify this address to a heart warmed with beneficence and
compassion—Understanding you are going pretty far north, I shall take an
opportunity to throw myself in your way again, before you reach the
borders of Scotland; and, I hope, by that time, you will have taken into
consideration, the truly distressful case of,
honoured sir, your very humble, and devoted servant, EDWARD
MARTIN’
The ‘squire, having perused this letter, put it into my hand, without
saying a syllable; and when I had read it we looked at each other in silence.
From a certain sparkling in his eyes, I discovered there was more in his
heart, than he cared to express with his tongue, in favour of poor Martin;
and this was precisely my own feeling, which he did not fail to discern, by
the same means of communication—‘What shall we do (said he) to save
this poor sinner from the gallows, and make him a useful member of the
commonwealth; and yet the proverb says, Save a thief from the gallows,
and he’ll cut your throat.’ I told him I really believed Martin was capable of
giving the proverb the lie; and that I should heartily concur in any step he
might take in favour of his solicitation. We mutually resolved to deliberate
upon the subject, and, in the mean time, proceeded on our journey. The
roads, having been broken up by the heavy rains in the spring, were so
rough, that although we travelled very slowly, the jolting occasioned such
pain, to my uncle, that he was become exceedingly peevish when we
arrived at this place, which lies about eight miles from the postroad,
between Wetherby and Boroughbridge.
Harrigate-water, so celebrated for its efficacy in the scurvy and other
distempers, is supplied from a copious spring, in the hollow of a wild
common, round which, a good many houses have been built for the
convenience of the drinkers, though few of them are inhabited. Most of the

company lodge at some distance, in five separate inns, situated in different
parts of the commons, from whence they go every morning to the well, in
their own carriages. The lodgers of each inn form a distinct society, that eat
together; and there is a commodious public room, where they breakfast in
disabille, at separate tables, from eight o’clock till eleven, as they chance or
chuse to come in—Here also they drink tea in the afternoon, and play at
cards or dance in the evening. One custom, however, prevails, which I
looked upon as a solecism in politeness. The ladies treat with tea in their
turns; and even girls of sixteen are not exempted from this shameful
imposition—There is a public ball by subscription every night at one of the
houses, to which all the company from the others are admitted by tickets;
and, indeed, Harrigate treads upon the heels of Bath, in the articles of gaiety
and dissipation—with this difference, however, that here we are more
sociable and familiar. One of the inns is already full up to the very garrets,
having no less than fifty lodgers, and as many servants. Our family does not
exceed thirty-six; and I should be sorry to see the number augmented, as
our accommodations won’t admit of much increase.
At present, the company is more agreeable than one could expect from an
accidental assemblage of persons, who are utter strangers to one another—
There seems to be a general disposition among us to maintain good-
fellowship, and promote the purposes of humanity, in favour of those who
come hither on the score of health. I see several faces which we left at Bath,
although the majority are of the Northern counties, and many come from
Scotland for the benefit of these waters—In such a variety, there must be
some originals, among whom Mrs Tabitha Bramble is not the most
inconsiderable—No place where there is such an intercourse between the
sexes, can be disagreeable to a lady of her views and temperament—She
has had some warm disputes at table, with a lame parson from
Northumberland, on the new birth, and the insignificance of moral virtue;
and her arguments have been reinforced by an old Scotch lawyer, in a rye
periwig, who, though he has lost his teeth, and the use of his limbs, can still
wag his tongue with great volubility. He has paid her such fulsome
compliments, upon her piety and learning, as seem to have won her heart;
and she, in her turn, treats him with such attention as indicates a design
upon his person; but, by all accounts, he is too much of a fox to be
inveigled into any snare that she can lay for his affection.

We do not propose to stay long at Harrigate, though, at present, it is our
headquarters, from whence we shall make some excursions, to visit two or
three of our rich relations, who are settled in this country.—Pray, remember
me to all our friends of Jesus, and allow me to be still
Yours affectionately, J. MELFORD HARRIGATE, June 23.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR DOCTOR,

Considering the tax we pay for turnpikes, the roads of this county
constitute a most intolerable grievance. Between Newark and Weatherby, I
have suffered more from jolting and swinging than ever I felt in the whole
course of my life, although the carriage is remarkably commodious and
well hung, and the postilions were very careful in driving. I am now safely
housed at the New Inn, at Harrigate, whither I came to satisfy my curiosity,
rather than with any view of advantage to my health; and, truly, after having
considered all the parts and particulars of the place, I cannot account for the
concourse of people one finds here, upon any other principle but that of
caprice, which seems to be the character of our nation.
Harrigate is a wild common, bare and bleak, without tree or shrub, or the
least signs of cultivation; and the people who come to drink the water, are
crowded together in paltry inns, where the few tolerable rooms are
monopolized by the friends and favourites of the house, and all the rest of
the lodgers are obliged to put up with dirty holes, where there is neither
space, air, nor convenience. My apartment is about ten feet square; and
when the folding bed is down, there is just room sufficient to pass between
it and the fire. One might expect, indeed, that there would be no occasion
for a fire at Midsummer; but here the climate is so backward, that an ash
tree, which our landlord has planted before my window, is just beginning to
put forth its leaves; and I am fain to have my bed warmed every night.
As for the water, which is said to have effected so many surprising cures,
I have drank it once, and the first draught has cured me of all desire to
repeat the medicine.—Some people say it smells of rotten eggs, and others
compare it to the scourings of a foul gun.—It is generally supposed to be
strongly impregnated with sulphur; and Dr Shaw, in his book upon mineral
water, says, he has seen flakes of sulphur floating in the well—Pace tanti
viri; I, for my part, have never observed any thing like sulphur, either in or
about the well, neither do I find that any brimstone has ever been extracted
from the water. As for the smell, if I may be allowed to judge from my own

organs, it is exactly that of bilge-water; and the saline taste of it seems to
declare that it is nothing else than salt water putrified in the bowels of the
earth. I was obliged to hold my nose with one hand, while I advanced the
glass to my mouth with the other; and after I had made shift to swallow it,
my stomach could hardly retain what it had received.—The only effects it
produced were sickness, griping, and insurmountable disgust.—I can hardly
mention it without puking.—The world is strangely misled by the
affectation of singularity. I cannot help suspecting, that this water owes its
reputation in a great measure to its being so strikingly offensive.—On the
same kind of analogy, a German doctor has introduced hemlock and other
poisons, as specifics, into the materia medica.—I am persuaded, that all the
cures ascribed to the Harrigate water, would have been as efficaciously, and
infinitely more agreeably performed, by the internal and external use of
seawater. Sure I am, this last is much less nauseous to the taste and smell,
and much more gentle in its operation as a purge, as well as more extensive
in its medical qualities.
Two days ago we went across the country to visit ‘squire Burdock, who
married a first cousin of my father, an heiress, who brought him an estate of
a thousand a-year. This gentleman is a declared opponent of the ministry in
parliament; and having an opulent fortune, piques himself upon living in the
country, and maintaining old English hospitality—By the bye, this is a
phrase very much used by the English themselves both in words and
writing; but I never heard of it out of the island, except by way of irony and
sarcasm. What the hospitality of our forefathers has been I should be glad to
see recorded, rather in the memoirs of strangers who have visited our
country, and were the proper objects and judges of such hospitality, than in
the discourse and lucubrations of the modern English, who seem to describe
it from theory and conjecture. Certain it is, we are generally looked upon by
foreigners, as a people totally destitute of this virtue; and I never was in any
country abroad, where I did not meet with persons of distinction, who
complained of having been inhospitably used in Great Britain. A gentleman
of France, Italy, or Germany, who has entertained and lodged an
Englishman at his house, when he afterwards meets with his guest at
London, is asked to dinner at the Saracen’s-head, the Turk’s-head, the
Boar’s-head, or the Bear, eats raw beef and butter, drinks execrable port,
and is allowed to pay his share of the reckoning.

But to return from this digression, which my feeling for the honour of my
country obliged me to make—our Yorkshire cousin has been a mighty fox-
hunter before the Lord; but now he is too fat and unwieldy to leap ditches
and five-bar gates; nevertheless, he still keeps a pack of hounds, which are
well exercised; and his huntsman every night entertains him with the
adventures of the day’s chace, which he recites in a tone and terms that are
extremely curious and significant. In the mean time, his broad brawn is
scratched by one of his grooms.—This fellow, it seems, having no
inclination to curry any beast out of the stable, was at great pains to scollop
his nails in such a manner that the blood followed at every stroke.—He was
in hopes that he would be dismissed from this disagreeable office, but the
event turned out contrary to his expectation.—His master declared he was
the best scratcher in the family; and now he will not suffer any other servant
to draw a nail upon his carcase.
The ‘squire’s lady is very proud, without being stiff or inaccessible. She
receives even her inferiors in point of fortune with a kind of arrogant
civility; but then she thinks she has a right to treat them with the most
ungracious freedoms of speech, and never fails to let them know she is
sensible of her own superior affluence. In a word, she speaks well of no
living soul, and has not one single friend in the world. Her husband hates
her mortally; but, although the brute is sometimes so very powerful in him
that he will have his own way, he generally truckles to her dominion, and
dreads, like a school-boy, the lash of her tongue. On the other hand, she is
afraid of provoking him too far, lest he should make some desperate effort
to shake off her yoke.—She, therefore, acquiesces in the proofs he daily
gives of his attachment to the liberty of an English freeholder, by saying
and doing, at his own table, whatever gratifies the brutality of his
disposition, or contributes to the ease of his person. The house, though
large, is neither elegant nor comfortable.—It looks like a great inn, crowded
with travellers, who dine at the landlord’s ordinary, where there is a great
profusion of victuals and drink, but mine host seems to be misplaced; and I
would rather dine upon filberts with a hermit, than feed upon venison with a
hog. The footmen might be aptly compared to the waiters of a tavern, if
they were more serviceable and less rapacious; but they are generally
insolent and inattentive, and so greedy, that, I think, I can dine better, and
for less expence, at the Star and Garter in Pall mall, than at our cousin’s
castle in Yorkshire. The ‘squire is not only accommodated with a wife, but

he is also blessed with an only son, about two and twenty, just returned
from Italy, a complete fidler and dillettante; and he slips no opportunity of
manifesting the most perfect contempt for his own father.
When we arrived, there was a family of foreigners at the house, on a visit
to this virtuoso, with whom they had been acquainted at the Spa; it was the
count de Melville, with his lady, on their way to Scotland. Mr Burdock had
met with an accident, in consequence of which both the count and I would
have retired but the young gentleman and his mother insisted upon our
staying dinner; and their serenity seemed to be so little ruffled by what had
happened, that we complied with their invitation. The ‘squire had been
brought home over night in his post-chaise, so terribly belaboured about the
pate, that he seemed to be in a state of stupefaction, and had ever since
remained speechless. A country apothecary, called Grieve, who lived in a
neighbouring village, having been called to his assistance, had let him
blood, and applied a poultice to his head, declaring, that he had no fever,
nor any other bad symptom but the loss of speech, if he really had lost that
faculty. But the young ‘squire said this practitioner was an ignorantaccio,
that there was a fracture in the cranium, and that there was a necessity for
having him trepanned without loss of time. His mother, espousing this
opinion, had sent an express to York for a surgeon to perform the operation,
and he was already come with his ‘prentice and instruments. Having
examined the patient’s head, he began to prepare his dressings; though
Grieve still retained his first opinion that there was no fracture, and was the
more confirmed in it as the ‘squire had passed the night in profound sleep,
uninterrupted by any catching or convulsion. The York surgeon said he
could not tell whether there was a fracture, until he should take off the
scalp; but, at any rate, the operation might be of service in giving vent to
any blood that might be extravasated, either above or below the dura mater.
The lady and her son were clear for trying the experiment; and Grieve was
dismissed with some marks of contempt, which, perhaps, he owed to the
plainness of his appearance. He seemed to be about the middle age, wore
his own black hair without any sort of dressing; by his garb, one would
have taken him for a quaker, but he had none of the stiffness of that sect, on
the contrary he was very submissive, respectful, and remarkably taciturn.
Leaving the ladies in an apartment by themselves, we adjourned to the
patient’s chamber, where the dressings and instruments were displayed in
order upon a pewter dish. The operator, laying aside his coat and periwig,

equipped himself with a night-cap, apron, and sleeves, while his ‘prentice
and footman, seizing the ‘squire’s head, began to place it in a proper
posture.—But mark what followed.—The patient, bolting upright in the
bed, collared each of these assistants with the grasp of Hercules,
exclaiming, in a bellowing tone, ‘I ha’n’t lived so long in Yorkshire to be
trepanned by such vermin as you;’ and leaping on the floor, put on his
breeches quietly, to the astonishment of us all. The Surgeon still insisted
upon the operation, alleging it was now plain that the brain was injured, and
desiring the servants put him into bed again; but nobody would venture to
execute his orders, or even to interpose: when the ‘squire turned him and
his assistants out of doors, and threw his apparatus out at the window.
Having thus asserted his prerogative, and put on his cloaths with the help of
a valet, the count, with my nephew and me, were introduced by his son, and
received with his usual stile of rustic civility; then turning to signor
Macaroni, with a sarcastic grin, ‘I tell thee what, Dick (said he), a man’s
scull is not to be bored every time his head is broken; and I’ll convince thee
and thy mother, that I know as many tricks as e’er an old fox in the West
Riding.’
We afterwards understood he had quarrelled at a public house with an
exciseman, whom he challenged to a bout at single stick, in which he had
been worsted; and that the shame of this defeat had tied up his tongue. As
for madam, she had shewn no concern for his disaster, and now heard of his
recovery without emotion—She had taken some little notice of my sister
and niece, though rather with a view to indulge her own petulance, than out
of any sentiment of regard to our family.—She said Liddy was a fright, and
ordered her woman to adjust her head before dinner; but she would not
meddle with Tabby, whose spirit, she soon perceived, was not to be irritated
with impunity. At table, she acknowledged me so far as to say she had heard
of my father; though she hinted, that he had disobliged her family by
making a poor match in Wales. She was disagreeably familiar in her
enquiries about our circumstances; and asked, if I intended to bring up my
nephew to the law. I told her, that, as he had an independent fortune, he
should follow no profession but that of a country gentleman; and that I was
not without hopes of procuring for him a seat in parliament—‘Pray cousin
(said she), what may his fortune be?’ When I answered, that, with what I
should be able to give him, he would have better than two thousand a year,

she replied, with a disdainful toss of her head, that it would be impossible
for him to preserve his independence on such a paultry provision.
Not a little nettled at this arrogant remark, I told her, I had the honour to
sit in parliament with her father, when he had little more than half that
income; and I believed there was not a more independent and incorruptible
member in the house. ‘Ay; but times are changed (cried the ‘squire)—
Country gentlemen now-a-days live after another fashion. My table alone
stands me in a cool thousand a quarter, though I raise my own stock, import
my own liquors, and have every thing at the first hand.—True it is, I keep
open house, and receive all comers, for the honour of Old England.’ ‘If that
be the case (said I), ‘tis a wonder you can maintain it at so small an
expence; but every private gentleman is not expected to keep a caravanserai
for the accommodation of travellers: indeed, if every individual lived in the
same stile, you would not have such a number of guests at your table, of
consequence your hospitality would not shine so bright for the glory of the
West Riding.’ The young ‘squire, tickled by this ironical observation,
exclaimed, ‘O che burla!’—his mother eyed me in silence with a
supercilious air; and the father of the feast, taking a bumper of October,
‘My service to you, cousin Bramble (said he), I have always heard there
was something keen and biting in the air of the Welch mountains.’
I was much pleased with the count de Melville, who is sensible, easy, and
polite; and the countess is the most amiable woman I ever beheld. In the
afternoon they took leave of their entertainers, and the young gentleman,
mounting his horse, undertook to conduct their coach through the park,
while one of their servants rode round to give notice to the rest, whom they
had left at a public house on the road. The moment their backs were turned,
the censorious daemon took possession of our Yorkshire landlady and our
sister Tabitha—The former observed, that the countess was a good sort of a
body, but totally ignorant of good breeding, consequently aukward in her
address. The squire said, he did not pretend to the breeding of any thing but
colts; but that the jade would be very handsome, if she was a little more in
flesh. ‘Handsome! (cried Tabby) she has indeed a pair of black eyes without
any meaning; but then there is not a good feature in her face.’ ‘I know not
what you call good features in Wales (replied our landlord); but they’ll pass
in Yorkshire.’ Then turning to Liddy, he added, ‘What say you, my pretty
Redstreak?—what is your opinion of the countess?’ ‘I think (cried Liddy,
with great emotion), she’s an angel.’ Tabby chid her for talking with such

freedom in company; and the lady of the house said, in a contemptuous
tone, she supposed miss had been brought up at some country boarding-
school.
Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by the young gentleman, who
galloped into the yard all aghast, exclaiming, that the coach was attacked by
a great number of highwaymen. My nephew and I rushed out, found his
own and his servant’s horse ready saddled in the stable, with pistols in the
caps—We mounted instantly, ordering Clinker and Dutton to follow with all
possible expedition; but notwithstanding all the speed we could make, the
action was over before we arrived, and the count with his lady, safe lodged
at the house of Grieve, who had signalized himself in a very remarkable
manner on this occasion. At the turning of a lane, that led to the village
where the count’s servants remained, a couple of robbers a-horseback
suddenly appeared, with their pistols advanced: one kept the coachman in
awe, and the other demanded the count’s money, while the young ‘squire
went off at full speed, without ever casting a look behind. The count
desiring the thief to withdraw his pistol, as the lady was in great terror,
delivered his purse without making the least resistance; but not satisfied
with this booty, which was pretty considerable, the rascal insisted upon
rifling her of her car-rings and necklace, and the countess screamed with
affright. Her husband, exasperated at the violence with which she was
threatened, wrested the pistol out of the fellow’s hand, and turning it upon
him, snapped it in his face; but the robber knowing there was no charge in
it, drew another from his bosom, and in all probability would have killed
him on the spot, had not his life been saved by a wonderful interposition.
Grieve, the apothecary, chancing to pass that very instant, ran up to the
coach, and with a crab-stick, which was all the weapon he had, brought the
fellow to the ground with the first blow; then seizing his pistol, presented it
at his colleague, who fired his piece at random, and fled without further
opposition. The other was secured by the assistance of the count and the
coachman; and his legs being tied under the belly of his own horse, Grieve
conducted him to the village, whither also the carriage proceeded. It was
with great difficulty the countess could be kept from swooning; but at last
she was happily conveyed to the house of the apothecary, who went into the
shop to prepare some drops for her, while his wife and daughter
administered to her in another apartment.

I found the count standing in the kitchen with the parson of the parish,
and expressing much impatience to see his protector, whom as yet he had
scarce found time to thank for the essential service he had done him and the
countess.—The daughter passing at the same time with a glass of water,
monsieur de Melville could not help taking notice of her figure, which was
strikingly engaging.—‘Ay (said the parson), she is the prettiest girl, and the
best girl in all my parish: and if I could give my son an estate of ten
thousand a year, he should have my consent to lay it at her feet. If Mr
Grieve had been as solicitious about getting money, as he has been in
performing all the duties of a primitive Christian, he would not have hung
so long upon his hands.’ ‘What is her name?’ said I. ‘Sixteen years ago
(answered the vicar) I christened her by the names of Seraphina Melvilia.’
‘Ha! what! how! (cried the count eagerly) sure, you said Seraphina
Melvilia.’ ‘I did (said he); Mr Grieve told me those were the names of two
noble persons abroad, to whom he had been obliged for more than life.’
The count, without speaking another syllable, rushed into the parlour,
crying, ‘This is your god-daughter, my dear.’ Mrs Grieve, then seizing the
countess by the hand, exclaimed with great agitation, ‘O madam! O sir!—I
am—I am your poor Elinor.—This is my Seraphina Melvilia O child! these
are the count and countess of Melville, the generous the glorious
benefactors of thy once unhappy parents.’
The countess rising from her scat threw her arms about the neck of the
amiable Seraphina, and clasped her to her breast with great tenderness,
while she herself was embraced by the weeping mother. This moving scene
was completed by the entrance of Grieve himself, who falling on his knees
before the count, ‘Behold (said he) a penitent, who at length can look upon
his patron without shrinking.’ ‘Ah, Ferdinand! (cried he, raising and folding
him in his arms) the playfellow of my infancy—the companion of my
youth!—Is it to you then I am indebted for my life?’ ‘Heaven has heard my
prayer (said the other), and given me an opportunity to prove myself not
altogether unworthy of your clemency and protection.’ He then kissed the
hand of the countess, while monsieur de Melville saluted his wife and
lovely daughter, and all of us were greatly affected by this pathetic
recognition.
In a word, Grieve was no other than Ferdinand count Fathom, whose
adventures were printed many years ago. Being a sincere convert to virtue,

he had changed his name, that he might elude the enquiries of the count,
whose generous allowance he determined to forego, that he might have no
dependence but upon his own industry and moderation. He had accordingly
settled in this village as a practitioner in surgery and physic, and for some
years wrestled with all the miseries of indigence, which, however, he and
his wife had borne with the most exemplary resignation. At length, by dint
of unwearied attention to the duties of his profession, which he exercised
with equal humanity and success, he had acquired tolerable share of
business among the farmers and common people, which enabled him to live
in a decent manner. He had been scarce ever seen to smile; was unaffectedly
pious; and all the time he could spare from the avocations of his
employment, he spent in educating his daughter, and in studying for his
own improvement. In short, the adventurer Fathom was, under the name of
Grieve, universally respected among the commonalty of this district, as a
prodigy of learning and virtue. These particulars I learned from the vicar,
when we quitted the room, that they might be under no restraint in their
mutual effusions. I make no doubt that Grieve will be pressed to leave off
business, and re-unite himself to the count’s family; and as the countess
seemed extremely fond of his daughter, she will, in all probability, insist
upon Seraphina’s accompanying her to Scotland.
Having paid our compliments to these noble persons, we returned to the
‘squire’s, where we expected an invitation to pass the night, which was wet
and raw; but it seems, ‘squire Burdock’s hospitality reached not so far for
the honour of Yorkshire; we therefore departed in the evening, and lay at an
inn, where I caught cold.
In hope of riding it down before it could take fast hold on my
constitution, I resolved to visit another relation, one Mr Pimpernel, who
lived about a dozen miles from the place where we lodged. Pimpernel being
the youngest of four sons, was bred an attorney at Furnival’s inn; but all his
elder brothers dying, he got himself called to the bar for the honour of his
family, and soon after this preferment, succeeded to his father’s estate
which was very considerable. He carried home with him all the knavish
chicanery of the lowest pettifogger, together with a wife whom he had
purchased of a drayman for twenty pounds; and he soon found means to
obtain a dedimus as an acting justice of peace. He is not only a sordid miser
in his disposition, but his avarice is mingled with a spirit of despotism,
which is truly diabolical.—He is a brutal husband, an unnatural parent, a

harsh master, an oppressive landlord, a litigious neighbour, and a partial
magistrate. Friends he has none; and in point of hospitality and good
breeding, our cousin Burdock is a prince in comparison of this ungracious
miscreant, whose house is the lively representation of a gaol. Our reception
was suitable to the character I have sketched. Had it depended upon the
wife, we should have been kindly treated.—She is really a good sort of a
woman, in spite of her low original, and well respected in the country; but
she has not interest enough in her own house to command a draught of table
beer, far less to bestow any kind of education on her children, who run
about, like tagged colts, in a state of nature.—Pox on him! he is such a dirty
fellow, that I have not patience to prosecute the subject.
By that time we reached Harrigate, I began to be visited by certain
rheumatic symptoms. The Scotch lawyer, Mr Micklewhimmen,
recommended a hot bath of these waters so earnestly, that I was over-
persuaded to try the experiment.—He had used it often with success and
always stayed an hour in the bath, which was a tub filled with Harrigate
water, heated for the purpose. If I could hardly bear the smell of a single
tumbler when cold, you may guess how my nose was regaled by the
streams arising from a hot bath of the same fluid. At night, I was conducted
into a dark hole on the ground floor, where the tub smoaked and stunk like
the pot of Acheron, in one corner, and in another stood a dirty bed provided
with thick blankets, in which I was to sweat after coming out of the bath.
My heart seemed to die within me when I entered this dismal bagnio, and
found my brain assaulted by such insufferable effluvia. I cursed
Micklewhimmen for not considering that my organs were formed on this
side of the Tweed; but being ashamed to recoil upon the threshold, I
submitted to the process.
After having endured all but real suffocation for above a quarter of an
hour in the tub, I was moved to the bed and wrapped in blankets.—There I
lay a full hour panting with intolerable heat; but not the least moisture
appearing on my skin, I was carried to my own chamber, and passed the
night without closing an eye, in such a flutter of spirits as rendered me the
most miserable wretch in being. I should certainly have run distracted, if the
rarefaction of my blood, occasioned by that Stygian bath, had not burst the
vessels, and produced a violent haemorrhage, which, though dreadful and
alarming, removed the horrible disquiet—I lost two pounds of blood, and
more, on this occasion; and find myself still weak and languid; but, I

believe, a little exercise will forward my recovery, and therefore I am
resolved to set out to-morrow for York, in my way to Scarborough, where I
propose to brace up my fibres by sea-bathing, which, I know, is one of your
favourite specificks. There is, however, one disease, for which you have
found as yet no specific, and that is old age, of which this tedious
unconnected epistle is an infallible symptom: what, therefore, cannot be
cured, must be endured, by you, as well as by
Yours, MATT. BRAMBLE HARRIGATE, June 26.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR KNIGHT,

The manner of living at Harrigate was so agreeable to my disposition,
that I left the place with some regret—Our aunt Tabby would have probably
made some objection to our departing so soon, had not an accident
embroiled her with Mr Micklewhimmen, the Scotch advocate, on whose
heart she had been practising, from the second day after our arrival—That
original, though seemingly precluded from the use of his limbs, had turned
his genius to good account—In short, by dint of groaning, and whining, he
had excited the compassion of the company so effectually, that an old lady,
who occupied the very best apartment in the house, gave it up for his ease
and convenience. When his man led him into the Long Room, all the
females were immediately in commotion—One set an elbow-chair; another
shook up the cushion; a third brought a stool; and a fourth a pillow, for the
accommodation of his feet— Two ladies (of whom Tabby was always one)
supported him into the dining-room, and placed him properly at the table;
and his taste was indulged with a succession of delicacies, culled by their
fair hands. All this attention he repaid with a profusion of compliments and
benedictions, which were not the less agreeable for being delivered in the
Scottish dialect. As for Mrs Tabitha, his respects were particularly
addressed to her, and he did not fail to mingle them with religious
reflections, touching free grace, knowing her bias to methodism, which he
also professed upon a calvinistical model.
For my part, I could not help thinking this lawyer was not such an invalid
as he pretended to be. I observed he ate very heartily three times a day; and
though his bottle was marked stomachic tincture, he had recourse to it so
often, and seemed to swallow it with such peculiar relish, that I suspected it
was not compounded in the apothecary’s shop, or the chemist’s laboratory.
One day, while he was earnest in discourse with Mrs Tabitha, and his
servant had gone out on some occasion or other, I dexterously exchanged

the labels, and situation of his bottle and mine; and having tasted his
tincture, found it was excellent claret. I forthwith handed it about me to
some of my neighbours, and it was quite emptied before Mr
Micklewhimmen had occasion to repeat his draught. At length, turning
about, he took hold of my bottle, instead of his own, and, filling a large
glass, drank to the health of Mrs Tabitha. It had scarce touched his lips,
when he perceived the change which had been put upon him, and was at
first a little out of countenance. He seemed to retire within himself, in order
to deliberate, and in half a minute his resolution was taken; addressing
himself to our quarter, ‘I give the gentleman credit for his wit (said he); it
was a gude practical joke; but sometimes hi joci in seria ducunt mala—I
hope for his own sake he has na drank all the liccor; for it was a vara
poorful infusion of jallap in Bourdeaux wine; at its possable he may ha
ta’en sic a dose as will produce a terrible catastrophe in his ain booels—’
By far the greater part of the contents had fallen to the share of a young
clothier from Leeds, who had come to make a figure at Harrigate, and was,
in effect a great coxcomb in his way. It was with a view to laugh at his
fellow-guests, as well as to mortify the lawyer, that he had emptied the
bottle, when it came to his turn, and he had laughed accordingly: but now
his mirth gave way to his apprehension—He began to spit, to make wry
faces, and writhe himself into various contorsions—‘Damn the stuff! (cried
he) I thought it had a villainous twang—pah! He that would cozen a Scot,
mun get oope betimes, and take Old Scratch for his counsellor—’ ‘In troth
mester what d’ye ca’um (replied the lawyer), your wit has run you into a
filthy puddle—I’m truly consarned for your waeful case—The best advice I
can give you, in sic a delemma, is to send an express to Rippon for doctor
Waugh, without delay, and, in the mean time, swallow all the oil and butter
you can find in the hoose, to defend your poor stomach and intastines from
the villication of the particles of the jallap, which is vara violent, even when
taken in moderation.’
The poor clothier’s torments had already begun: he retired, roaring with
pain, to his own chamber; the oil was swallowed, and the doctor sent for;
but before he arrived, the miserable patient had made such discharges
upwards and downwards, that nothing remained to give him further offence;
and this double evacuation, was produced by imagination alone; for what he
had drank was genuine wine of Bourdeaux, which the lawyer had brought
from Scotland for his own private use. The clothier, finding the joke turn

out so expensive and disagreeable, quitted the house next morning, leaving
the triumph to Micklewhimmen, who enjoyed it internally without any
outward signs of exultation—on the contrary, he affected to pity the young
man for what he had suffered; and acquired fresh credit from this shew of
moderation.
It was about the middle of the night, which succeeded this adventure, that
the vent of the kitchen chimney being foul, the soot took fire, and the alarm
was given in a dreadful manner. Every body leaped naked out of bed, and in
a minute the whole house was filled with cries and confusion—There was
two stairs in the house, and to these we naturally ran; but they were both so
blocked up, by the people pressing one upon another, that it seemed
impossible to pass, without throwing down and trampling upon the women.
In the midst of this anarchy, Mr Micklewhimmen, with a leathern
portmanteau on his back, came running as nimble as a buck along the
passage; and Tabby in her underpetticoat, endeavouring to hook him under
the arm, that she might escape through his protection, he very fairly pushed
her down, crying, ‘Na, na, gude faith, charity begins at hame!’ Without
paying the least respect to the shrieks and intreaties of his female friends, he
charged through the midst of the crowd, overturning every thing that
opposed him; and actually fought his way to the bottom of the Stair-case—
By this time Clinker had found a ladder by which he entered the window of
my uncle’s chamber, where our family was assembled, and proposed that
we should make our exit successively by that conveyance. The ‘squire
exhorted his sister to begin the descent; but, before she could resolve, her
woman, Mrs Winifred Jenkins, in a transport of terror, threw herself out at
the window upon the ladder, while Humphry dropped upon the ground, that
he might receive her in her descent—This maiden was just as she had
started out of bed, the moon shone very bright, and a fresh breeze of wind
blowing, none of Mrs Winifred’s beauties could possibly escape the view of
the fortunate Clinker, whose heart was not able to withstand the united force
of so many charms; at least I am much mistaken, if he has not been her
humble slave from that moment—He received her in his arms, and, giving
her his coat to protect her from the weather, ascended again with admirable
dexterity.
At that instant, the landlord of the house called out with an audible voice,
that the fire was extinguished, and the ladies had nothing further to fear:
this was a welcome note to the audience, and produced an immediate effect;

the shrieking ceased, and a confused sound of expostulation ensued. I
conducted Mrs Tabitha and my sister to their own chamber, where Liddy
fainted away; but was soon brought to herself. Then I went to offer my
services to the other ladies, who might want assistance—They were all
scudding through the passage to their several apartments; and as the
thoroughfair was lighted by two lamps, I had a pretty good observation of
them in their transit; but as most of them were naked to the smock, and all
their heads shrowded in huge nightcaps, I could not distinguish one face
from another, though I recognized some of their voices—These were
generally plaintive; some wept, some scolded, and some prayed—I lifted up
one poor old gentlewoman, who had been overturned and sore bruised by a
multitude of feet; and this was also the case with the lame person from
Northumberland, whom Micklewhimmen had in his passage overthrown,
though not with impunity, for the cripple, in falling, gave him such a good
pelt on the head with his crutch, that the blood followed.
As for this lawyer, he waited below till the hurly burly was over, and then
stole softly to his own chamber, from whence he did not venture to make a
second sally till eleven in the forenoon, when he was led into the Public
Room, by his own servant and another assistant, groaning most woefully,
with a bloody napkin round his head. But things were greatly altered—The
selfish brutality of his behaviour on the stairs had steeled their hearts
against all his arts and address—Not a soul offered to accommodate him
with a chair, cushion, or footstool; so that he was obliged to sit down on a
hard bench—In that position, he looked around with a rueful aspect, and,
bowing very low, said in a whining tone, ‘Your most humble servant, ladies
—Fire is a dreadful calamity’—‘Fire purifies gold, and it ties friendship,’
cried Mrs Tabitha, bridling. ‘Yea, madam (replied Micklewhimmen); and it
trieth discretion also’—‘If discretion consists in forsaking a friend in
adversity, you are eminently possessed of that virtue’ (resumed our aunt).
—‘Na, madam (rejoined the advocate), well I wot, I cannot claim any merit
from the mode of my retreat—Ye’ll please to observe, ladies, there are twa
independent principles that actuate our nature—One is instinct, which we
have in common with the brute creation, and the other is reason—Noo, in
certain great emergencies, when the faculty of reason is suspended, instinct
taks the lead, and when this predominates, having no affinity with reason, it
pays no sort of regard to its connections; it only operates for the
preservation of the individual, and that by the most expeditious and

effectual means; therefore, begging your pardon, ladies, I’m no accountable
in foro conscientioe for what I did, while under the influence of this
irresistible pooer.’
Here my uncle interposing, ‘I should be glad to know (said he), whether
it was instinct that prompted you to retreat with bag and baggage; for, I
think, you had a portmanteau on your shoulder’ The lawyer answered,
without hesitation, ‘Gif I might tell my mind freely, withoot incuring the
suspicion of presumption, I should think it was something superior to either
reason or instinct which suggested that measure, and this on a twafold
accoont: in the first place, the portmanteau contained the writings of a
worthy nobleman’s estate; and their being burnt would have occasioned a
loss that could not be repaired; secondly, my good angel seems to have laid
the portmanteau on my shoulders, by way of defence, to sustain the
violence of a most inhuman blow, from the crutch of a reverend clergyman,
which, even in spite of that medium, hath wounded me sorely, even unto the
pericranium.’ ‘By your own doctrine (cried the parson, who chanced to be
present), I am not accountable for the blow, which was the effect of
instinct.’ ‘I crave your pardon, reverend sir (said the other), instinct never
acts but for the preservation of the individual; but your preservation was out
of the case—you had already received the damage, and therefore the blow
must be imputed to revenge, which is a sinful passion, that ill becomes any
Christian, especially a protestant divine; and let me tell you, most reverend
doctor, gin I had a mind to plea, the law would hauld my libel relevant.’
‘Why, the damage is pretty equal on both sides (cried the parson); your
head is broke, and my crutch is snapt in the middle. Now, if you will repair
the one, I will be at the expence of curing the other.’
This sally raised the laugh against Micklewhimmen, who began to look
grave; when my uncle, in order to change the discourse, observed, that
instinct had been very kind to him in another respect; for it had restored to
him the use of his limbs, which, in his exit, he had moved with surprising
agility.—He replied, that it was the nature of fear to brace up the nerves;
and mentioned some surprising feats of strength and activity performed by
persons under the impulse of terror; but he complained that in his own
particular, the effects had ceased when the cause was taken away—The
‘squire said, he would lay a tea-drinking on his head, that he should dance a
Scotch measure, without making a false step; and the advocate grinning,
called for the piper—A fidler being at hand, this original started up, with his

bloody napkin over his black tye-periwig, and acquitted himself in such a
manner as excited the mirth of the whole company; but he could not regain
the good graces of Mrs Tabby, who did not understand the principle of
instinct; and the lawyer did not think it worth his while to proceed to further
demonstration.
From Harrigate, we came hither, by the way of York, and here we shall
tarry some days, as my uncle and Tabitha are both resolved to make use of
the waters. Scarborough, though a paltry town, is romantic from its
situation along a cliff that over-hangs the sea. The harbour is formed by a
small elbow of land that runs out as a natural mole, directly opposite to the
town; and on that side is the castle, which stands very high, of considerable
extent, and, before the invention of gun-powder, was counted impregnable.
At the other end of Scarborough are two public rooms for the use of the
company, who resort to this place in the summer to drink the waters and
bathe in the sea; and the diversions are pretty much on the same footing
here as at Bath. The Spa is a little way beyond the town, on this side, under
a cliff, within a few paces of the sea, and thither the drinkers go every
morning in dishabille; but the descent is by a great number of steps, which
invalids find very inconvenient. Betwixt the well and the harbour, the
bathing machines are ranged along the beach, with all their proper utensils
and attendants. You have never seen one of these machines—Image to
yourself a small, snug, wooden chamber, fixed upon a wheel-carriage,
having a door at each end, and on each side a little window above, a bench
below—The bather, ascending into this apartment by wooden steps, shuts
himself in, and begins to undress, while the attendant yokes a horse to the
end next the sea, and draws the carriage forwards, till the surface of the
water is on a level with the floor of the dressing-room, then he moves and
fixes the horse to the other end—The person within being stripped, opens
the door to the sea-ward, where he finds the guide ready, and plunges
headlong into the water—After having bathed, he re-ascends into the
apartment, by the steps which had been shifted for that purpose, and puts on
his clothes at his leisure, while the carriage is drawn back again upon the
dry land; so that he has nothing further to do, but to open the door, and
come down as he went up—Should he be so weak or ill as to require a
servant to put off and on his clothes, there is room enough in the apartment
for half a dozen people. The guides who attend the ladies in the water, are
of their own sex, and they and the female bathers have a dress of flannel for

the sea; nay, they are provided with other conveniences for the support of
decorum. A certain number of the machines are fitted with tilts, that project
from the sea-ward ends of them, so as to screen the bathers from the view
of all persons whatsoever—The beach is admirably adapted for this
practice, the descent being gently gradual, and the sand soft as velvet; but
then the machines can be used only at a certain time of the tide, which
varies every day; so that sometimes the bathers are obliged to rise very
early in the morning—For my part, I love swimming as an exercise, and can
enjoy it at all times of the tide, without the formality of an apparatus—You
and I have often plunged together into the Isis; but the sea is a much more
noble bath, for health as well as pleasure. You cannot conceive what a flow
of spirits it gives, and how it braces every sinew of the human frame. Were I
to enumerate half the diseases which are every day cured by sea-bathing,
you might justly say you had received a treatise, instead of a letter, from
Your affectionate friend and servant, J. MELFORD SCARBOROUGH,
July 1.

To Dr LEWIS.
I have not found all the benefit I expected at Scarborough, where I have
been these eight days—From Harrigate we came hither by the way of York,
where we stayed only one day to visit the Castle, the Minster and the
Assembly-room. The first, which was heretofore a fortress, is now
converted to a prison, and is the best, in all respects, I ever saw, at home or
abroad—It stands in a high situation, extremely well ventilated; and has a
spacious area within the walls, for the health and convenience of all the
prisoners except those whom it is necessary to secure in close confinement.
Even these last have all the comforts that the nature of their situation can
admit. Here the assizes are held, in a range of buildings erected for that
purpose.
As for the Minster, I know not how to distinguish it, except by its great
size and the height of its spire, from those other ancient churches in
different parts of the kingdom, which used to be called monuments of
Gothic architecture; but it is now agreed, that this stile is Saracen rather
than Gothic; and, I suppose, it was first imported into England from Spain,
great part of which was under the dominion of the Moors. Those British
architects who adopted this stile, don’t seem to have considered the
propriety of their adoption. The climate of the country, possessed by the
Moors or Saracens, both in Africa and Spain, was so exceedingly hot and
dry, that those who built places of worship for the multitude, employed their
talents in contriving edifices that should be cool; and, for this purpose,
nothing could be better adopted than those buildings, vast, narrow, dark,
and lofty, impervious to the sun-beams, and having little communication
with the scorched external atmosphere; but ever affording a refreshing
coolness, like subterranean cellars in the heats of summer, or natural
caverns in the bowels of huge mountains. But nothing could be more
preposterous, than to imitate such a mode of architecture in a country like
England, where the climate is cold, and the air eternally loaded with
vapours; and where, of consequence, the builder’s intention should be to
keep the people dry and warm—For my part, I never entered the Abbey
church at Bath but once, and the moment I stept over the threshold, I found

myself chilled to the very marrow of my bones. When we consider, that in
our churches, in general, we breathe a gross stagnated air, surcharged with
damps from vaults, tombs, and charnel-houses, may we not term them so
many magazines of rheums, created for the benefit of the medical faculty?
and safely aver, that more bodies are lost, than souls saved, by going to
church, in the winter especially, which may be said to engross eight months
in the year. I should be glad to know, what offence it would give to tender
consciences, if the house of God was made more comfortable, or less
dangerous to the health of valetudinarians; and whether it would not be an
encouragement to piety, as well as the salvation of many lives, if the place
of worship was well floored, wainscotted, warmed, and ventilated, and its
area kept sacred from the pollution of the dead. The practice of burying in
churches was the effect of ignorant superstition, influenced by knavish
priests, who pretended that the devil could have no power over the defunct
if he was interred in holy ground; and this indeed, is the only reason that
can be given for consecrating all cemeteries, even at this day.
The external appearance of an old cathedral cannot be but displeasing to
the eye of every man, who has any idea of propriety or proportion, even
though he may be ignorant of architecture as a science; and the long slender
spire puts one in mind of a criminal impaled with a sharp stake rising up
through his shoulder—These towers, or steeples, were likewise borrowed
from the Mahometans; who, having no bells, used such minarets for the
purpose of calling the people to prayers—They may be of further use,
however, for making observations and signals; but I would vote for their
being distinct from the body of the church, because they serve only to make
the pile more barbarous, or Saracenical.
There is nothing of this Arabic architecture in the Assembly Room,
which seems to me to have been built upon a design of Palladio, and might
be converted into an elegant place of worship; but it is indifferently
contrived for that sort of idolatry which is performed in it at present: the
grandeur of the fane gives a diminutive effect to the little painted divinities
that are adorned in it, and the company, on a ball-night, must look like an
assembly of fantastic fairies, revelling by moonlight among the columns of
a Grecian temple.
Scarborough seems to be falling off, in point of reputation. All these
places (Bath excepted) have their vogue, and then the fashion changes. I am

persuaded, there are fifty spaws in England as efficacious and salutary as
that of Scarborough, though they have not yet risen to fame; and, perhaps,
never will, unless some medical encomiast should find an interest in
displaying their virtues to the public view—Be that as it may, recourse will
always be had to this place for the convenience of sea bathing, while this
practice prevails; but it were to be wished, they would make the beach more
accessible to invalids.
I have here met with my old acquaintance, H[ewet]t, whom you have
often heard me mention as one of the most original characters upon earth—
I first knew him at Venice, and afterwards saw him in different parts of
Italy, where he was well known by the nick-name of Cavallo Bianco, from
his appearing always mounted on a pale horse, like Death in the
Revelations. You must remember the account I once gave you of a curious
dispute he had at Constantinople, with a couple of Turks, in defence of the
Christian religion; a dispute from which he acquired the epithet of
Demonstrator—The truth is, H—owns no religion but that of nature; but, on
this occasion, he was stimulated to shew his parts, for the honour of his
country—Some years ago, being in the Campidoglio at Rome, he made up
to the bust of Jupiter, and, bowing very low, exclaimed in the Italian
language, ‘I hope, sir, if ever you get your head above water again, you will
remember that I paid my respects to you in your adversity.’ This sally was
reported to the cardinal Camerlengo, and by him laid before pope Benedict
XIV, who could not help laughing at the extravagance of the address, and
said to the cardinal, ‘Those English heretics think they have a right to go to
the devil in their own way.’
Indeed H— was the only Englishman I ever knew, who had resolution
enough to live in his own way, in the midst of foreigners; for, neither in
dress, diet, customs, or conversation, did he deviate one tittle from the
manner in which he had been brought up. About twelve years ago, he began
a Giro or circuit, which he thus performed—At Naples, where he fixed his
headquarters, he embarked for Marseilles, from whence he travelled with a
Voiturin to Antibes—There he took his passage to Genoa and Lerici; from
which last place he proceeded, by the way of Cambratina, to Pisa and
Florence—After having halted some time in this metropolis, he set out with
a Vetturino for Rome, where he reposed himself a few weeks, and then
continued his route for Naples, in order to wait for the next opportunity of
embarkation—After having twelve times described this circle, he lately

flew off at a tangent to visit some trees at his country-house in England,
which he had planted above twenty years ago, after the plan of the double
colonnade in the piazza of St Peter’s at Rome—He came hither to
Scarborough, to pay his respects to his noble friend and former pupil, the M
— of G—, and, forgetting that he is now turned of seventy, sacrificed so
liberally to Bacchus, that next day he was seized with a fit of the apoplexy,
which has a little impaired his memory; but he retains all the oddity of his
character in perfection, and is going back to Italy by the way of Geneva,
that he may have a conference with his friend Voltaire, about giving the last
blow to the Christian superstition—He intends to take shipping here for
Holland or Hamburgh; for it is a matter of great indifference to him at what
part of the continent he first lands.
When he was going abroad the last time, he took his passage in a ship
bound for Leghorn, and his baggage was actually embarked. In going down
the river by water, he was by mistake put on board of another vessel under
sail; and, upon inquiry understood she was bound to Petersburgh
—‘Petersburgh,—Petersburgh (said he) I don’t care if I go along with you.’
He forthwith struck a bargain with the captain; bought a couple of shirts of
the mate, and was safe conveyed to the court of Muscovy, from whence he
travelled by land to receive his baggage at Leghorn—He is now more likely
than ever to execute a whim of the same nature; and I will hold any wager,
that as he cannot be supposed to live much longer, according to the course
of nature, his exit will be as odd as his life has been extravagant.
[This gentleman crossed the sea to France, visited and conferred with Mr
de Voltaire at Fernay, resumed his old circuit at Genoa, and died in 1767, at
the house of Vanini in Florence. Being taken with a suppression of urine, he
resolved, in imitation of Pomponius Atticus, to take himself off by
abstinence; and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw
company to the last, cracked his jokes, conversed freely, and entertained his
guests with music. On the third day of his fast, he found himself entirely
freed of his complaint; but refused taking sustenance. He said the most
disagreeable part of the voyage was past, and he should be a cursed fool
indeed, to put about ship, when he was just entering the harbour. In these
sentiments he persisted, without any marks of affectation, and thus finished
his course with such ease and serenity, as would have done honour to the
firmest Stoic of antiquity.]

But, to return from one humourist to another, you must know I have
received benefit, both from the chalybeate and the sea, and would have used
them longer, had not a most ridiculous adventure, by making me the town-
talk, obliged me to leave the place; for I can’t bear the thoughts of affording
a spectacle to the multitude. Yesterday morning, at six o’clock, I went down
to the bathing-place, attended by my servant Clinker, who waited on the
beach as usual—The wind blowing from the north, and the weather being
hazy, the water proved so chill, that when I rose from my first plunge, I
could not help sobbing and bawling out, from the effects of the cold.
Clinker, who heard me cry, and saw me indistinctly a good way without the
guide, buffetting the waves, took it for granted I was drowning, and rushing
into the sea, clothes and all, overturned the guide in his hurry to save his
master. I had swam out a few strokes, when hearing a noise, I turned about
and saw Clinker, already up to his neck, advancing towards me, with all the
wildness of terror in his aspect—Afraid he would get out of his depth, I
made haste to meet him, when, all of a sudden, he seized me by one ear,
dragged me bellowing with pain upon the dry beach, to the astonishment of
all the people, men, and women, and children there assembled.
I was so exasperated by the pain of my ear, and the disgrace of being
exposed in such an attitude, that, in the first transport I struck him down;
then, running back into the sea, took shelter in the machine where my
clothes had been deposited. I soon recollected myself so far as to do justice
to the poor fellow, who, in great simplicity of heart, had acted from motives
of fidelity and affection—Opening the door of the machine, which was
immediately drawn on shore, I saw him standing by the wheel, dropping
like a water-work, and trembling from head to foot; partly from cold, and
partly from the dread of having offended his master—I made my
acknowledgments for the blow he had received, assured him I was not
angry, and insisted upon his going home immediately, to shift his clothes; a
command which he could hardly find in his heart to execute, so well
disposed was he to furnish the mob with further entertainment at my
expence. Clinker’s intention was laudable without all doubt, but,
nevertheless, I am a sufferer by his simplicity—I have had a burning heat,
and a strange buzzing noise in that ear, ever since it was so roughly treated;
and I cannot walk the street without being pointed at; as the monster that
was hauled naked a-shore upon the beach—Well, I affirm that folly is often
more provoking than knavery, aye and more mischievous too; and whether

a man had not better choose a sensible rogue, than an honest simpleton for
his servant, is no matter of doubt with
Yours, MATT. BRAMBLE SCARBOROUGH, July 4.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR WAT,

We made a precipitate retreat from Scarborough, owing to the excessive
delicacy of our ‘squire, who cannot bear the thoughts of being
proetereuntium digito monstratus.
One morning, while he was bathing in the sea, his man Clinker took it in
his head that his master was in danger of drowning; and, in this conceit,
plunging into the water, he lugged him out naked on the beach, and almost
pulled off his ear in the operation. You may guess how this atchievement
was relished by Mr Bramble, who is impatient, irascible, and has the most
extravagant ideas of decency and decorum in the oeconomy of his own
person—In the first ebullition of his choler, he knocked Clinker down with
his fist; but he afterwards made him amends for his outrage, and, in order to
avoid further notice of the people, among whom this incident had made him
remarkable, he resolved to leave Scarborough next day.
We set out accordingly over the moors, by the way of Whitby, and began
our journey betimes, in hopes of reaching Stockton that night; but in this
hope we were disappointed—In the afternoon, crossing a deep gutter, made
by a torrent, the coach was so hard strained, that one of the irons, which
connect the frame, snapt, and the leather sling on the same side, cracked in
the middle. The shock was so great, that my sister Liddy struck her head
against Mrs Tabitha’s nose with such violence that the blood flowed; and
Win. Jenkins was darted through a small window in that part of the carriage
next the horses, where she stuck like a bawd in the pillory, till she was
released by the hand of Mr Bramble. We were eight miles distant from any
place where we could be supplied with chaises, and it was impossible to
proceed with the coach, until the damage should be repaired—in this
dilemma, we discovered a blacksmith’s forge on the edge of a small
common, about half a mile from the scene of our disaster, and thither the
postilions made shift to draw the carriage, slowly, while the company

walked a-foot; but we found the black-smith had been dead some days; and
his wife, who had been lately delivered, was deprived of her senses, under
the care of a nurse, hired by the parish. We were exceedingly mortified at
this disappointment, which, however, was surmounted by the help of
Humphry Clinker, who is a surprising compound of genius and simplicity.
Finding the tools of the defunct, together with some coals in the smithy, he
unscrewed the damaged iron in a twinkling, and, kindling a fire, united the
broken pieces with equal dexterity and dispatch—While he was at work
upon this operation, the poor woman in the straw, struck with the well-
known sound of the hammer and anvil, started up, and, notwithstanding all
the nurse’s efforts, came running into the smithy, where, throwing her arms
about Clinker’s neck, ‘Ah, Jacob (cried she) how could you leave me in
such a condition?’
This incident was too pathetic to occasion mirth—it brought tears into the
eyes of all present. The poor widow was put to bed again; and we did not
leave the village without doing something for her benefit—Even Tabitha’s
charity was awakened on this occasion. As for the tender-hearted Humphry
Clinker, he hammered the iron and wept at the same time—But his
ingenuity was not confined to his own province of farrier and black-smith—
It was necessary to join the leather sling, which had been broke; and this
service he likewise performed, by means of a broken awl, which he new-
pointed and ground, a little hemp, which he spun into lingels, and a few
tacks which he made for the purpose. Upon the whole, we were in a
condition to proceed in little more than an hour; but even this delay obliged
us to pass the night at Gisborough—Next day we crossed the Tees at
Stockton, which is a neat agreeable town; and there we resolved to dine,
with purpose to lie at Durham.
Whom should we meet in the yard, when we alighted, but Martin the
adventurer? Having handed out the ladies, and conducted them into an
apartment, where he payed his compliments to Mrs Tabby, with his usual
address, he begged leave to speak to my uncle in another room; and there,
in some confusion, he made an apology for having taken the liberty to
trouble him with a letter at Stevenage. He expressed his hope, that Mr
Bramble had bestowed some consideration on his unhappy case, and
repeated his desire of being taken into his service.

My uncle, calling me into the room, told him, that we were both very
well inclined to rescue him from a way of life that was equally dangerous
and dishonourable; and that he should have no scruples in trusting to his
gratitude and fidelity, if he had any employment for him, which he thought
would suit his qualifications and his circumstances; but that all the
departments he had mentioned in his letter, were filled up by persons of
whose conduct he had no reason to complain; of consequence he could not,
without injustice, deprive any one of them of his bread. Nevertheless, he
declared himself ready to assist him in any feasible project, either with his
purse or credit.
Martin seemed deeply touched at this declaration—The tear started in his
eye, while he said, in a faultering accent—‘Worthy sir—your generosity
oppresses me—I never dreamed of troubling you for any pecuniary
assistance—indeed I have no occasion—I have been so lucky at billiards
and betting in different places, at Buxton, Harrigate, Scarborough, and
Newcastle races, that my stock in ready-money amounts to three hundred
pounds, which I would willingly employ, in prosecuting some honest
scheme of life; but my friend, justice Buzzard, has set so many springs for
my life, that I am under the necessity of either retiring immediately to a
remote part of the country, where I can enjoy the protection of some
generous patron, or of quitting the kingdom altogether. It is upon this
alternative that I now beg leave to ask your advice. I have had information
of all your route, since I had the honour to see you at Stevenage; and,
supposing you would come this way from Scarborough, I came hither last
night from Darlington, to pay you my respects.’
‘It would be no difficult matter to provide you with an asylum in the
country (replied my uncle); but a life of indolence and obscurity would not
suit with your active and enterprizing disposition—I would therefore advise
you to try your fortune in the East Indies—I will give you a letter to a friend
in London, who will recommend you to the direction, for a commission in
the company’s service; and if that cannot be obtained, you will at least be
received as a volunteer—in which case, you may pay for your passage, and
I shall undertake to procure you such credentials, that you will not be long
without a commission.’
Martin embraced the proposal with great eagerness; it was therefore
resolved, that he should sell his horse, and take a passage by sea for

London, to execute the project without delay—In the mean time he
accompanied us to Durham, were we took up our quarters for the night.
Here, being furnished with letters from my uncle, he took his leave of us,
with strong symptoms of gratitude and attachment, and set out for
Sunderland, in order to embark in the first collier, bound for the river
Thames. He had not been gone half an hour, when we were joined by
another character, which promised something extraordinary—A tall, meagre
figure, answering, with his horse, the description of Don Quixote mounted
on Rozinante, appeared in the twilight at the inn door, while my aunt and
Liddy stood at a window in the dining-room—He wore a coat, the cloth of
which had once been scarlet, trimmed with Brandenburgs, now totally
deprived of their metal, and he had holstercaps and housing of the same
stuff and same antiquity. Perceiving ladies at the window above, he
endeavoured to dismount with the most graceful air he could assume; but
the ostler neglecting to hold the stirrup when he wheeled off his right foot,
and stood with his whole weight on the other, the girth unfortunately gave
way, the saddle turned, down came the cavalier to the ground, and his hat
and perriwig falling off, displayed a head-piece of various colours, patched
and plaistered in a woeful condition—The ladies, at the window above,
shrieked with affright, on the supposition that the stranger had received
some notable damages in his fall; but the greatest injury he had sustained
arose from the dishonour of his descent, aggravated by the disgrace of
exposing the condition of his cranium; for certain plebeians that were about
the door, laughed aloud, in the belief that the captain had got either a scald
head, or a broken head, both equally opprobrious.
He forthwith leaped up in a fury, and snatching one of his pistols,
threatened to put the ostler to death, when another squall from the women
checked his resentment. He then bowed to the window, while he kissed the
butt-end of his pistol, which he replaced; adjusted his wig in great
confusion, and led his horse into the stable—By this time I had come to the
door, and could not help gazing at the strange figure that presented itself to
my view. He would have measured above six feet in height had he stood
upright; but he stooped very much; was very narrow in the shoulders, and
very thick in the calves of his legs, which were cased in black spatterdashes
—As for his thighs, they were long and slender, like those of a grasshopper;
his face was, at least, half a yard in length, brown and shrivelled, with
projecting cheek-bones, little grey eyes on the greenish hue, a large hook-

nose, a pointed chin, a mouth from ear to ear, very ill furnished with teeth,
and a high, narrow fore-head, well furrowed with wrinkles. His horse was
exactly in the stile of its rider; a resurrection of dry bones, which (as we
afterwards learned) he valued exceedingly, as the only present he had ever
received in his life.
Having seen this favourite steed properly accommodated in the stable, he
sent up his compliments to the ladies, begging permission to thank them in
person for the marks of concern they had shewn at his disaster in the court
yard—As the ‘squire said they could not decently decline his visit, he was
shewn up stairs and paid his respects in the Scotch dialect, with much
formality ‘Leddies (said he), perhaps ye may be scandaleezed at the
appearance of my heed made, when it was uncovered by accident; but I can
assure you, the condition you saw it in, is neither the effects of diseases, nor
of drunkenness: but an honest scar received in the service of my country.’
He then gave us to understand, that having been wounded at Ticonderoga,
in America, a party of Indians rifled him, scalped him, broke his scull with
the blow of a tomahawk, and left him for dead on the field of battle; but that
being afterwards found with signs of life, he had been cured in the French
hospital, though the loss of substance could not be repaired; so that the scull
was left naked in several places, and these he covered with patches.
There is no hold by which an Englishman is sooner taken than that of
compassion—We were immediately interested in behalf of this veteran.
Even Tabby’s heart was melted; but our pity was warmed with indignation,
when we learned, that in the course of two sanguinary wars, he had been
wounded, maimed, mutilated, taken, and enslaved, without ever having
attained a higher rank than that of lieutenant—My uncle’s eyes gleamed,
and his nether lip quivered, while he exclaimed, ‘I vow to God, sir, your
case is a reproach to the service—The injustice you have met with is so
flagrant’—‘I must crave your pardon, sir (cried the other, interrupting him),
I complain of no injustice—I purchased an ensigncy thirty years ago; and,
in the course of service rose to a lieutenant, according to my
seniority’—‘But in such a length of time (resumed the ‘squire), you must
have seen a great many young officers put over your head’—‘Nevertheless
(said he), I have no cause to murmur—They bought their preferment with
their money—I had no money to carry to market that was my misfortune;
but no body was to blame’—‘What! no friend to advance a sum of money?’
(said Mr Bramble) ‘Perhaps, I might have borrowed money for the purchase

of a company (answered the other); but that loan must have been refunded;
and I did not chuse to incumber myself with a debt of a thousand pounds, to
be payed from an income of ten shillings a-day.’ ‘So you have spent the best
part of your life (cried Mr Bramble), your youth, your blood, and your
constitution, amidst the dangers, the difficulties, the horrors and hardships
of a war, for the consideration of three or four shillings a-day a
consideration—’ ‘Sir (replied the Scot, with great warmth), you are the man
that does me injustice, if you say or think I have been actuated by any such
paltry consideration—I am a gentleman; and entered the service as other
gentlemen do, with such hopes and sentiments as honourable ambition
inspires—If I have not been lucky in the lottery of life, so neither do I think
myself unfortunate—I owe to no man a farthing; I can always command a
clean shirt, a mutton-chop, and a truss of straw; and when I die, I shall leave
effects sufficient to defray the expence of my burial.’
My uncle assured him, he had no intention to give him the least offence,
by the observations he had made; but, on the contrary, spoke from a
sentiment of friendly regard to his interest—The lieutenant thanked him
with a stiffness of civility, which nettled our old gentleman, who perceived
that his moderation was all affected; for, whatsoever his tongue might
declare, his whole appearance denoted dissatisfaction—In short, without
pretending to judge of his military merit, I think I may affirm, that this
Caledonian is a self-conceited pedant, aukward, rude, and disputacious—He
has had the benefit of a school-education, seems to have read a good
number of books, his memory is tenacious, and he pretends to speak several
different languages; but he is so addicted to wrangling, that he will cavil at
the clearest truths, and, in the pride of argumentation, attempt to reconcile
contradictions—Whether his address and qualifications are really of that
stamp which is agreeable to the taste of our aunt, Mrs Tabitha, or that
indefatigable maiden is determined to shoot at every sort of game, certain it
is she has begun to practice upon the heart of the lieutenant, who favoured
us with his company to supper.
I have many other things to say of this man of war, which I shall
communicate in a post or two; mean while, it is but reasonable that you
should be indulged with some respite from those weary lucubrations of
Yours, J. MELFORD NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE, July 10.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS Bart. of Jesus college,
Oxon.
DEAR PHILLIPS,

In my last I treated you with a high flavoured dish, in the character of the
Scotch lieutenant, and I must present him once more for your entertainment.
It was our fortune to feed upon him the best part of three days; and I do not
doubt that he will start again in our way before we shall have finished our
northern excursion. The day after our meeting with him at Durham proved
so tempestuous that we did not choose to proceed on our journey; and my
uncle persuaded him to stay till the weather should clear up, giving him, at
the same time, a general invitation to our mess. The man has certainly
gathered a whole budget of shrewd observations, but he brings them forth in
such an ungracious manner as would be extremely disgusting, if it was not
marked by that characteristic oddity which never fails to attract the attention
—He and Mr Bramble discoursed, and even disputed, on different subjects
in war, policy, the belles lettres, law, and metaphysics; and sometimes they
were warmed into such altercation as seemed to threaten an abrupt
dissolution of their society; but Mr Bramble set a guard over his own
irascibility, the more vigilantly as the officer was his guest; and when, in
spite of all his efforts, he began to wax warm, the other prudently cooled in
the same proportion.
Mrs Tabitha chancing to accost her brother by the familiar diminutive of
Matt, ‘Pray, sir (said the lieutenant), ‘is your name Matthias?’ You must
know it is one of our uncle’s foibles to be ashamed of his name Matthew,
because it is puritanical; and this question chagrined him so much, that he
answered, ‘No, by G-d!’ in a very abrupt tone of displeasure.—The Scot
took umbrage at the manner of his reply, and bristling up, ‘If I had known
(said he) that you did not care to tell your name, I should not have asked the
question—The leddy called you Matt, and I naturally thought it was
Matthias:—perhaps, it may be Methuselah, or Metrodorus, or Metellus, or
Mathurinus, or Malthinnus, or Matamorus, or—’ ‘No (cried my uncle

laughing), it is neither of those, captain: my name is Matthew Bramble, at,
your service.—The truth is, have a foolish pique at the name of Matthew,
because it favours of those canting hypocrites, who, in Cromwell’s time,
christened all their children by names taken from the scripture.’ ‘A foolish
pique indeed. (cried Mrs Tabby), and even sinful, to fall out with your name
because it is taken from holy writ.—I would have you to know, you was
called after great-uncle Matthew ap Madoc ap Meredith, esquire, of
Llanwysthin, in Montgomeryshire, justice of the quorum, and crusty
ruttleorum, a gentleman of great worth and property, descended in a strait
line, by the female side, from Llewellyn, prince of Wales.’
This genealogical anecdote seemed to make some impression upon the
North-Briton, who bowed very low to the descendant of Llewellyn, and
observed that he himself had the honour of a scriptural nomination. The
lady expressing a desire of knowing his address, he said, he designed
himself Lieutenant Obadiah Lismahago; and in order to assist her memory,
he presented her with a slip of paper inscribed with these three words,
which she repeated with great emphasis, declaring, it was one of the most
noble and sonorous names she had ever heard. He observed that Obadiah
was an adventitious appellation, derived from his great-grandfather, who
had been one of the original covenanters; but Lismahago was the family
surname, taken from a place in Scotland so called. He likewise dropped
some hints about the antiquity of his pedigree, adding, with a smile of self-
denial, Sed genus et proavos, et quoe non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco,
which quotation he explained in deference to the ladies; and Mrs Tabitha
did not fail to compliment him on his modesty in waving the merit of his
ancestry, adding, that it was the less necessary to him, as he had such a
considerable fund of his own. She now began to glew herself to his favour
with the grossest adulation.—She expatiated upon the antiquity and virtues
of the Scottish nation, upon their valour, probity, learning, and politeness.
She even descended to encomiums on his own personal address, his
gallantry, good sense, and erudition.—She appealed to her brother, whether
the captain was not the very image of our cousin governor Griffith. She
discovered a surprising eagerness to know the particulars of his life, and
asked a thousand questions concerning his atchievements in war; all which
Mr Lismahago answered with a sort of jesuitical reserve, affecting a
reluctance to satisfy her curiosity on a subject that concerned his own
exploits.

By dint of her interrogations, however, we learned, that he and ensign
Murphy had made their escape from the French hospital at Montreal, and
taken to the woods, in hope of reaching some English settlement; but
mistaking their route, they fell in with a party of Miamis, who carried them
away in captivity. The intention of these Indians was to give one of them as
an adopted son to a venerable sachem, who had lost his own in the course
of the war, and to sacrifice the other according to the custom of the country.
Murphy, as being the younger and handsomer of the two, was designed to
fill the place of the deceased, not only as the son of the sachem, but as the
spouse of a beautiful squaw, to whom his predecessor had been betrothed;
but in passing through the different whigwhams or villages of the Miamis,
poor Murphy was so mangled by the women and children, who have the
privilege of torturing all prisoners in their passage, that, by the time they
arrived at the place of the sachem’s residence, he was rendered altogether
unfit for the purposes of marriage: it was determined therefore, in the
assembly of the warriors, that ensign Murphy should be brought to the
stake, and that the lady should be given to lieutenant Lismahago, who had
likewise received his share of torments, though they had not produced
emasculation.—A joint of one finger had been cut, or rather sawed off with
a rusty knife; one of his great toes was crushed into a mash betwixt two
stones; some of his teeth were drawn, or dug out with a crooked nail;
splintered reeds had been thrust up his nostrils and other tender parts; and
the calves of his legs had been blown up with mines of gunpowder dug in
the flesh with the sharp point of the tomahawk.
The Indians themselves allowed that Murphy died with great heroism,
singing, as his death song, the Drimmendoo, in concert with Mr Lismahago,
who was present at the solemnity. After the warriors and the matrons had
made a hearty meal upon the muscular flesh which they pared from the
victim, and had applied a great variety of tortures, which he bore without
flinching, an old lady, with a sharp knife, scooped out one of his eyes, and
put a burning coal in the socket. The pain of this operation was so exquisite
that he could not help bellowing, upon which the audience raised a shout of
exultation, and one of the warriors stealing behind him, gave him the coup
de grace with a hatchet.
Lismahago’s bride, the squaw Squinkinacoosta, distinguished herself on
this occasion.—She shewed a great superiority of genius in the tortures
which she contrived and executed with her own hands.—She vied with the

stoutest warrior in eating the flesh of the sacrifice; and after all the other
females were fuddled with dram-drinking, she was not so intoxicated but
that she was able to play the game of the platter with the conjuring sachem,
and afterwards go through the ceremony of her own wedding, which was
consummated that same evening. The captain had lived very happily with
this accomplished squaw for two years, during which she bore him a son,
who is now the representative of his mother’s tribe; but, at length, to his
unspeakable grief, she had died of a fever, occasioned by eating too much
raw bear, which they had killed in a hunting excursion.
By this time, Mr Lismahago was elected sachem, acknowledged first
warrior of the Badger tribe, and dignified with the name or epithet of
Occacanastaogarora, which signifies nimble as a weasel; but all these
advantages and honours he was obliged to resign, in consequence of being
exchanged for the orator of the community, who had been taken prisoner by
the Indians that were in alliance with the English. At the peace, he had sold
out upon half pay, and was returned to Britain, with a view to pass the rest
of his life in his own country, where he hoped to find some retreat where his
slender finances would afford him a decent subsistence. Such are the
outlines of Mr Lismahago’s history, to which Tabitha did seriously incline
her ear;—indeed, she seemed to be taken with the same charms that
captivated the heart of Desdemona, who loved the Moor for the dangers he
had past.
The description of poor Murphy’s sufferings, which threw my sister
Liddy into a swoon, extracted some sighs from the breast of Mrs Tabby:
when she understood he had been rendered unfit for marriage, she began to
spit, and ejaculated, ‘Jesus, what cruel barbarians!’ and she made wry faces
at the lady’s nuptial repast; but she was eagerly curious to know the
particulars of her marriage-dress; whether she wore high-breasted stays or
bodice, a robe of silk or velvet, and laces of Mechlin or minionette—she
supposed, as they were connected with the French, she used rouge, and had
her hair dressed in the Parisian fashion. The captain would have declined
giving a catagorical explanation of all these particulars, observing, in
general, that the Indians were too tenacious of their own customs to adopt
the modes of any nation whatsoever; he said, moreover, that neither the
simplicity of their manners nor the commerce of their country, would admit
of those articles of luxury which are deemed magnificence in Europe; and

that they were too virtuous and sensible to encourage the introduction of
any fashion which might help to render them corrupt and effeminate.
These observations served only to inflame her desire of knowing the
particulars about which she had enquired; and, with all his evasion, he
could not help discovering the following circumstances—that his princess
had neither shoes, stockings, shift, nor any kind of linen—that her bridal
dress consisted of a petticoat of red bays, and a fringed blanket, fastened
about her shoulders with a copper skewer; but of ornaments she had great
plenty.—Her hair was curiously plaited, and interwoven with bobbins of
human bone—one eye-lid was painted green, and the other yellow; the
cheeks were blue, the lips white, the teeth red, and there was a black list
drawn down the middle of the forehead as far as the tip of the nose—a
couple of gaudy parrot’s feathers were stuck through the division of the
nostrils—there was a blue stone set in the chin, her ear-rings consisted of
two pieces of hickery, of the size and shape of drum-sticks—her arms and
legs were adorned with bracelets of wampum—her breast glittered with
numerous strings of glass beads—she wore a curious pouch, or pocket of
woven grass, elegantly painted with various colours—about her neck was
hung the fresh scalp of a Mohawk warrior, whom her deceased lover had
lately slain in battle—and, finally, she was anointed from head to foot with
bear’s grease, which sent forth a most agreeable odour.
One would imagine that these paraphernalia would not have been much
admired by a modern fine lady; but Mrs Tabitha was resolved to approve of
all the captains connexions.—She wished, indeed, the squaw had been
better provided with linen; but she owned there was much taste and fancy in
her ornaments; she made no doubt, therefore, that madam Squinkinacoosta
was a young lady of good sense and rare accomplishments, and a good
christian at bottom. Then she asked whether his consort had been high
church or low-church, presbyterian or anabaptist, or had been favoured with
any glimmering of the new light of the gospel? When he confessed that she
and her whole nation were utter strangers to the christian faith, she gazed at
him with signs of astonishment, and Humphry Clinker, who chanced to be
in the room, uttered a hollow groan.
After some pause, ‘In the name of God, captain Lismahago (cried she),
what religion do they profess?’ ‘As to religion, madam (answered the
lieutenant), it is among those Indians a matter of great simplicity—they

never heard of any Alliance between Church and State.—They, in general,
worship two contending principles; one the Fountain of all Good, the other
the source of all evil. The common people there, as in other countries, run
into the absurdities of superstition; but sensible men pay adoration to a
Supreme Being, who created and sustains the universe.’ ‘O! what pity
(exclaimed the pious Tabby), that some holy man has not been inspired to
go and convert these poor heathens!’
The lieutenant told her, that while he resided among them, two French
missionaries arrived, in order to convert them to the catholic religion; but
when they talked of mysteries and revelations, which they could neither
explain nor authenticate, and called in the evidence of miracles which they
believed upon hearsay; when they taught that the Supreme Creator of
Heaven and Earth had allowed his only Son, his own equal in power and
glory, to enter the bowels of a woman, to be born as a human creature, to be
insulted, flagellated, and even executed as a malefactor; when they
pretended to create God himself, to swallow, digest, revive, and multiply
him ad infinitum, by the help of a little flour and water, the Indians were
shocked at the impiety of their presumption.—They were examined by the
assembly of the sachems who desired them to prove the divinity of their
mission by some miracle.—They answered, that it was not in their power.
—‘If you were really sent by Heaven for our conversion (said one of the
sachems), you would certainly have some supernatural endowments, at least
you would have the gift of tongues, in order to explain your doctrine to the
different nations among which you are employed; but you are so ignorant of
our language, that you cannot express yourselves even on the most trifling
subjects.’ In a word, the assembly were convinced of their being cheats, and
even suspected them of being spies: they ordered them a bag of Indian corn
apiece, and appointed a guide to conduct them to the frontiers; but the
missionaries having more zeal than discretion, refused to quit the vineyard.
—They persisted in saying mass, in preaching, baptizing, and squabbling
with the conjurers, or priests of the country, till they had thrown the whole
community into confusion.—Then the assembly proceeded to try them as
impious impostors, who represented the Almighty as a trifling, weak,
capricious being, and pretended to make, unmake, and reproduce him at
pleasure; they were, therefore, convicted of blasphemy and sedition, and
condemned to the stake, where they died singing Salve regina, in a rapture
of joy, for the crown of martyrdom which they had thus obtained.

In the course of this conversation, lieutenant Lismahago dropt some hints
by which it appeared he himself was a free-thinker. Our aunt seemed to be
startled at certain sarcasms he threw out against the creed of saint
Athanasius—He dwelt much upon the words, reason, philosophy, and
contradiction in terms—he bid defiance to the eternity of hell-fire; and even
threw such squibs at the immortality of the soul, as singed a little the
whiskers of Mrs Tabitha’s faith; for, by this time she began to look upon
Lismahago as a prodigy of learning and sagacity.—In short, he could be no
longer insensible to the advances she made towards his affection; and
although there was something repulsive in his nature, he overcame it so far
as to make some return to her civilities.—Perhaps, he thought it would be
no bad scheme, in a superannuated lieutenant on half-pay, to effect a
conjunction with an old maid, who, in all probability, had fortune enough to
keep him easy and comfortable in the fag-end of his days—An ogling
correspondence forthwith commenced between this amiable pair of
originals—He began to sweeten the natural acidity of his discourse with the
treacle of compliment and commendation—He from time to time offered
her snuff, of which he himself took great quantities, and even made her a
present of a purse of silk grass, woven by the hands of the amiable
Squinkinacoosta, who had used it as a shot-pouch in her hunting
expeditions.
From Doncaster northwards, all the windows of all the inns are scrawled
with doggeral rhimes, in abuse of the Scotch nation; and what surprised me
very much, I did not perceive one line written in the way of recrimination—
Curious to hear what Lismahago would say on this subject, I pointed out to
him a very scurrilous epigram against his countrymen, which was engraved
on one of the windows of the parlour where we sat.—He read it with the
most starched composure; and when I asked his opinion of the poetry, ‘It is
vara terse and vara poignant (said he); but with the help of a wat dish-clout,
it might be rendered more clear and parspicuous.—I marvel much that some
modern wit has not published a collection of these essays under the title of
the Glaziers Triumph over Sawney the Scot—I’m persuaded it would be a
vara agreeable offering to the patriots of London and Westminster.’ When I
expressed some surprize that the natives of Scotland, who travel this way,
had not broke all the windows upon the road, ‘With submission (replied the
lieutenant), that were but shallow policy—it would only serve to make the

satire more cutting and severe; and I think it is much better to let it stand in
the window, than have it presented in the reckoning.’
My uncle’s jaws began to quiver with indignation.—He said, the
scribblers of such infamous stuff deserved to be scourged at the cart’s tail
for disgracing their country with such monuments of malice and stupidity.
—‘These vermin (said he) do not consider, that they are affording their
fellow subjects, whom they abuse, continual matter of self-gratulation, as
well as the means of executing the most manly vengeance that can be taken
for such low, illiberal attacks. For my part, I admire the philosophic
forbearance of the Scots, as much as I despise the insolence of those
wretched libellers, which is akin to the arrogance of the village cock, who
never crows but upon his own dunghill.’ The captain, with an affectation of
candour, observed, that men of illiberal minds were produced in every soil;
that in supposing those were the sentiments of the English in general, he
should pay too great a compliment to is own country, which was not of
consequence enough to attract the envy of such a flourishing and powerful
people.
Mrs Tabby broke forth again in praise of his moderation, and declared
that Scotland was the soil which produced every virtue under heaven. When
Lismahago took his leave for the night, she asked her brother if the captain
was not the prettiest gentleman he had ever seen; and whether there was not
something wonderfully engaging in his aspect?—Mr Bramble having eyed
her sometime in silence, ‘Sister (said he), the lieutenant is, for aught I know,
an honest man and a good officer—he has a considerable share of
understanding, and a title to more encouragement than he seems to have
met with in life; but I cannot, with a safe conscience, affirm, that he is the
prettiest gentleman I ever saw; neither can I descern any engaging charm in
his countenance, which, I vow to God, is, on the contrary, very hard-
favoured and forbidding.’
I have endeavoured to ingratiate myself with this North-Briton, who is
really a curiosity; but he has been very shy of my conversation ever since I
laughed at his asserting that the English tongue was spoke with more
propriety at Edinburgh than at London. Looking at me with a double
squeeze of souring in his aspect, ‘If the old definition be true (said he), that
risibility is the distinguishing characteristic of a rational creature, the
English are the most distinguished for rationality of any people I ever

knew.’ I owned, that the English were easily struck with any thing that
appeared ludicrous, and apt to laugh accordingly; but it did not follow, that,
because they were more given to laughter, they had more rationality than
their neighbours: I said, such an inference would be an injury to the Scots,
who were by no means defective in rationality, though generally supposed
little subject to the impressions of humour.
The captain answered, that this supposition must have been deduced
either from their conversation or their compositions, of which the English
could not possibly judge with precision, as they did not understand the
dialect used by the Scots in common discourse, as well as in their works of
humour. When I desired to know what those works of humour were, he
mentioned a considerable number of pieces, which he insisted were equal in
point of humour to any thing extant in any language dead or living—He, in
particular, recommended a collection of detached poems, in two small
volumes, intituled, The Ever-Green, and the works of Allan Ramsay, which
I intend to provide myself with at Edinburgh.—He observed, that a North-
Briton is seen to a disadvantage in an English company, because he speaks
in a dialect that they can’t relish, and in a phraseology which they don’t
understand.—He therefore finds himself under a restraint, which is a great
enemy to wit and humour.—These are faculties which never appear in full
lustre, but when the mind is perfectly at ease, and, as an excellent writer
says, enjoys her elbow-room.
He proceeded to explain his assertion that the English language was
spoken with greater propriety at Edinburgh than in London. He said, what
we generally called the Scottish dialect was, in fact, true, genuine old
English, with a mixture of some French terms and idioms, adopted in a long
intercourse betwixt the French and Scotch nations; that the modern English,
from affectation and false refinement, had weakened, and even corrupted
their language, by throwing out the guttural sounds, altering the
pronunciation and the quantity, and disusing many words and terms of great
significance. In consequence of these innovations, the works of our best
poets, such as Chaucer, Spenser, and even Shakespeare, were become, in
many parts, unintelligible to the natives of South Britain, whereas the Scots,
who retain the antient language, understand them without the help of a
glossary. ‘For instance (said he), how have your commentators been
puzzled by the following expression in the Tempest—He’s gentle and not
fearful: as if it was a paralogism to say, that being gentle, he must of course

be courageous: but the truth is, one of the original meanings, if not the sole
meaning, of that word was, noble, high-minded; and to this day, a Scotch
woman, in the situation of the young lady in the Tempest, would express
herself nearly in the same terms—Don’t provoke him; for being gentle, that
is, high-spirited, he won’t tamely bear an insult. Spenser, in the very first
stanza of his Fairy Queen, says,
A gentle knight was pricking on the plain;
Which knight, far from being tame and fearful, was so stout that
Nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

To prove that we had impaired the energy of our language by false
refinement, he mentioned the following words, which, though widely
different in signification, are pronounced exactly in the same manner
wright, write, right, rite; but among the Scots, these words are as different
in pronunciation, as they are in meaning and orthography; and this is the
case with many others which he mentioned by way of illustration.—He,
moreover, took notice, that we had (for what reason he could never learn)
altered the sound of our vowels from that which is retained by all the
nations in Europe; an alteration which rendered the language extremely
difficult to foreigners, and made it almost impracticable to lay down general
rules for orthography and pronunciation. Besides, the vowels were no
longer simple sounds in the mouth of an Englishman, who pronounced both
i and u as dipthongs. Finally, he affirmed, that we mumbled our speech with
our lips and teeth, and ran the words together without pause or distinction,
in such a manner, that a foreigner, though he understood English tolerably
well, was often obliged to have recourse to a Scotchman to explain what a
native of England had said in his own language.
The truth of this remark was confirmed by Mr Bramble from his own
experience; but he accounted for it on another principle. He said, the same
observation would hold in all languages; that a Swiss talking French was
more easily understood than a Parisian, by a foreigner who had not made
himself master of the language; because every language had its peculiar
recitative, and it would always require more pains, attention, and practice,
to acquire both the words and the music, than to learn the words only; and
yet no body would deny, that the one was imperfect without the other: he
therefore apprehended, that the Scotchman and the Swiss were better
understood by learners, because they spoke the words only, without the
music, which they could not rehearse. One would imagine this check might

have damped the North Briton; but it served only to agitate his humour for
disputation.—He said, if every nation had its own recitative or music, the
Scots had theirs, and the Scotchman who had not yet acquired the cadence
of the English, would naturally use his own in speaking their language;
therefore, if he was better understood than the native, his recitative must be
more intelligible than that of the English; of consequence, the dialect of the
Scots had an advantage over that of their fellow-subjects, and this was
another strong presumption that the modern English had corrupted their
language in the article of pronunciation.
The lieutenant was, by this time, become so polemical, that every time he
opened his mouth out flew a paradox, which he maintained with all the
enthusiasm of altercation; but all his paradoxes favoured strong of a
partiality for his own country. He undertook to prove that poverty was a
blessing to a nation; that oatmeal was preferable to wheat-flour; and that the
worship of Cloacina, in temples which admitted both sexes, and every rank
of votaries promiscuously, was a filthy species of idolatry that outraged
every idea of delicacy and decorum. I did not so much wonder at his
broaching these doctrines, as at the arguments, equally whimsical and
ingenious, which he adduced in support of them.
In fine, lieutenant Lismahago is a curiosity which I have not yet
sufficiently perused; and therefore I shall be sorry when we lose his
company, though, God knows, there is nothing very amiable in his manner
or disposition.—As he goes directly to the south-west division of Scotland,
and we proceed in the road to Berwick, we shall part tomorrow at a place
called Feltonbridge; and, I dare say, this separation will be very grievous to
our aunt Mrs Tabitha, unless she has received some flattering assurance of
his meeting her again. If I fail in my purpose of entertaining you with these
unimportant occurrences, they will at least serve as exercises of patience,
for which you are indebted to
Yours always, J. MELFORD MORPETH, July 13.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR DOCTOR,

I have now reached the northern extremity of England, and see, close to
my chamber-window, the Tweed gliding through the arches of that bridge
which connects this suburb to the town of Berwick.—Yorkshire you have
seen, and therefore I shall say nothing of that opulent province. The city of
Durham appears like a confused heap of stones and brick, accumulated so
as to cover a mountain, round which a river winds its brawling course. The
Streets are generally narrow, dark, and unpleasant, and many of them
almost impassible in consequence of their declivity. The cathedral is a huge
gloomy pile; but the clergy are well lodged.— The bishop lives in a
princely manner—the golden prebends keep plentiful tables—and, I am
told, there is some good sociable company in the place; but the country,
when viewed from the top of Gateshead-Fell, which extends to Newcastle,
exhibits the highest scene of cultivation that ever I beheld. As for
Newcastle, it lies mostly in a bottom, on the banks of the Tyne, and makes
an appearance still more disagreeable than that of Durham; but it is
rendered populous and rich by industry and commerce; and the country
lying on both sides the river, above the town, yields a delightful prospect of
agriculture and plantation. Morpeth and Alnwick are neat, pretty towns, and
this last is famous for the castle which has belonged so many ages to the
noble house of Piercy, earls of Northumberland.—It is, doubtless, a large
edifice, containing a great number of apartments, and stands in a
commanding situation; but the strength of it seems to have consisted not so
much in its site, or the manner in which it is fortified, as in the valour of its
defendants.
Our adventures since we left Scarborough, are scarce worth reciting; and
yet I must make you acquainted with my sister Tabby’s progress in
husband-hunting, after her disappointments at Bath and London. She had
actually begun to practise upon a certain adventurer, who was in fact a
highwayman by profession; but he had been used to snares much more
dangerous than any she could lay, and escaped accordingly. Then she

opened her batteries upon an old weather-beaten Scotch lieutenant, called
Lismahago, who joined us at Durham, and is, I think, one of the most
singular personages I ever encountered—His manner is as harsh as his
countenance; but his peculiar turn of thinking, and his pack of knowledge
made up of the remnants of rarities, rendered his conversation desirable, in
spite of his pedantry and ungracious address. I have often met with a crab-
apple in a hedge, which I have been tempted to eat for its flavour, even
while I was disgusted by its austerity. The spirit of contradiction is naturally
so strong in Lismahago, that I believe in my conscience he has rummaged,
and read, and studied with indefatigable attention, in order to qualify
himself to refute established maxims, and thus raise trophies for the
gratification of polemical pride.—Such is the asperity of his self-conceit,
that he will not even acquiesce in a transient compliment made to his own
individual in particular, or to his country in general.
When I observed, that he must have read a vast number of books to be
able to discourse on such a variety of subjects, he declared he had read little
or nothing, and asked how he should find books among the woods of
America, where he had spent the greatest part of his life. My nephew
remarking that the Scots in general were famous for their learning, he
denied the imputation, and defied him to prove it from their works—‘The
Scots (said he) have a slight tincture of letters, with which they make a
parade among people who are more illiterate than themselves; but they may
be said to float on the surface of science, and they have made very small
advances in the useful arts.’ ‘At least (cried Tabby), all the world allows that
the Scots behaved gloriously in fighting and conquering the savages of
America.’ ‘I can assure you, madam, you have been misinformed (replied
the lieutenant); in that continent the Scots did nothing more than their duty,
nor was there one corps in his majesty’s service that distinguished itself
more than another.—Those who affected to extol the Scots for superior
merit, were no friends to that nation.’
Though he himself made free with his countrymen, he would not suffer
any other person to glance a sarcasm at them with impunity. One of the
company chancing to mention lord B—‘s inglorious peace, the lieutenant
immediately took up the cudgels in his lordship’s favour, and argued very
strenuously to prove that it was the most honourable and advantageous
peace that England had ever made since the foundation of the monarchy.—
Nay, between friends, he offered such reasons on this subject, that I was

really confounded, if not convinced.—He would not allow that the Scots
abounded above their proportion in the army and navy of Great-Britain, or
that the English had any reason to say his countrymen had met with
extraordinary encouragement in the service. ‘When a South and North-
Briton (said he) are competitors for a place or commission, which is in the
disposal of an English minister or an English general, it would be absurd to
suppose that the preference will not be given to the native of England, who
has so many advantages over his rival.—First and foremost, he has in his
favour that laudable partiality, which, Mr Addison says, never fails to
cleave to the heart of an Englishman; secondly, he has more powerful
connexions, and a greater share of parliamentary interest, by which those
contests are generally decided; and lastly, he has a greater command of
money to smooth the way to his success. For my own part (said he), I know
no Scotch officer, who has risen in the army above the rank of a subaltern,
without purchasing every degree of preferment either with money or
recruits; but I know many gentlemen of that country, who, for want of
money and interest, have grown grey in the rank of lieutenants; whereas
very few instances of this ill-fortune are to be found among the natives of
South-Britain.—Not that I would insinuate that my countrymen have the
least reason to complain. Preferment in the service, like success in any other
branch of traffic, will naturally favour those who have the greatest stock of
cash and credit, merit and capacity being supposed equal on all sides.’
But the most hardy of all this original’s positions were these: That
commerce would, sooner or later, prove the ruin of every nation, where it
flourishes to any extent—that the parliament was the rotten part of the
British constitution—that the liberty of the press was a national evil—and
that the boasted institution of juries, as managed in England, was productive
of shameful perjury and flagrant injustice. He observed, that traffick was an
enemy to all the liberal passions of the soul, founded on the thirst of lucre, a
sordid disposition to take advantage of the necessities of our fellow
creatures.—He affirmed, the nature of commerce was such, that it could not
be fixed or perpetuated, but, having flowed to a certain height, would
immediately begin to ebb, and so continue till the channels should be left
almost dry; but there was no instance of the tide’s rising a second time to
any considerable influx in the same nation. Mean while the sudden
affluence occasioned by trade, forced open all the sluices of luxury and
overflowed the land with every species of profligacy and corruption; a total

pravity of manners would ensue, and this must be attended with bankruptcy
and ruin. He observed of the parliament, that the practice of buying
boroughs, and canvassing for votes, was an avowed system of venality,
already established on the ruins of principle, integrity, faith, and good order,
in consequence of which the elected and the elector, and, in short, the whole
body of the people, were equally and universally contaminated and
corrupted. He affirmed, that of a parliament thus constituted, the crown
would always have influence enough to secure a great majority in its
dependence, from the great number of posts, places, and pensions it had to
bestow; that such a parliament would (as it had already done) lengthen the
term of its sitting and authority, whenever the prince should think it for his
interest to continue the representatives, for, without doubt, they had the
same right to protect their authority ad infinitum, as they had to extend it
from three to seven years.—With a parliament, therefore, dependent upon
the crown, devoted to the prince, and supported by a standing army, garbled
and modelled for the purpose, any king of England may, and probably some
ambitious sovereign will, totally overthrow all the bulwarks of the
constitution; for it is not to be supposed that a prince of high spirit will
tamely submit to be thwarted in all his measures, abused and insulted by a
populace of unbridled ferocity, when he has it in his power to crush all
opposition under his feet with the concurrence of the legislature. He said, he
should always consider the liberty of the press as a national evil, while it
enabled the vilest reptile to soil the lustre of the most shining merit, and
furnished the most infamous incendiary with the means of disturbing the
peace and destroying the good order of the community. He owned,
however, that under due restrictions, it would be a valuable privilege; but
affirmed, that at present there was no law in England sufficient to restrain it
within proper bounds.
With respect to juries, he expressed himself to this effect:—juries are
generally composed of illiterate plebeians, apt to be mistaken, easily misled,
and open to sinister influence; for if either of the parties to be tried, can gain
over one of the twelve jurors, he has secured the verdict in his favour; the
juryman thus brought over will, in despight of all evidence and conviction,
generally hold out till his fellows are fatigued, and harassed, and starved
into concurrence; in which case the verdict is unjust, and the jurors are all
perjured: but cases will often occur, when the jurors are really divided in
opinion, and each side is convinced in opposition to the other; but no

verdict will be received, unless they are unanimous, and they are all bound,
not only in conscience, but by oath, to judge and declare according to their
conviction.—What then will be the consequence?—They must either starve
in company, or one side must sacrifice their conscience to their
convenience, and join in a verdict which they believe to be false. This
absurdity is avoided in Sweden, where a bare majority is sufficient; and in
Scotland, where two thirds of the jury are required to concur in the verdict.
You must not imagine that all these deductions were made on his part,
without contradictions on mine.—No—the truth is, I found myself piqued
in point of honour, at his pretending to be so much wiser than his
neighbours.—I questioned all his assertions, started innumerable objections,
argued and wrangled with uncommon perseverance, and grew very warm,
and even violent, in the debate.—Sometimes he was puzzled, and once or
twice, I think, fairly refuted; but from those falls he rose again, like
Antaeus, with redoubled vigour, till at length I was tired, exhausted, and
really did not know how to proceed, when luckily he dropped a hint, by
which he discovered he had been bred to the law; a confession which
enabled me to retire from the dispute with a good grace, as it could not be
supposed that a man like me, who had been bred to nothing, should be able
to cope with a veteran in his own profession. I believe, however, that I shall
for some time continue to chew the cud of reflection upon many
observations which this original discharged.
Whether our sister Tabby was really struck with his conversation, or is
resolved to throw at every thing she meets in the shape of a man, till she can
fasten the matrimonial noose, certain it is, she has taken desperate strides
towards the affection of Lismahago, who cannot be said to have met her
half way, though he does not seem altogether insensible to her civilities.—
She insinuated more than once how happy we should be to have his
company through that part of Scotland which we proposed to visit, till at
length he plainly told us, that his road was totally different from that which
we intended to take; that, for his part, his company would be of very little
service to us in our progress, as he was utterly unacquainted with the
country, which he had left in his early youth, consequently, he could neither
direct us in our enquiries, nor introduce us to any family of distinction. He
said, he was stimulated by an irresistible impulse to revisit the paternus lar,
or patria domus, though he expected little satisfaction, inasmuch as he
understood that his nephew, the present possessor, was but ill qualified to

support the honour of the family.—He assured us, however, as we design to
return by the west road, that he will watch our motions, and endeavour to
pay his respects to us at Dumfries.—Accordingly he took his leave of us at
a place half way betwixt Morpeth and Alnwick, and pranced away in great
state, mounted on a tall, meagre, raw-boned, shambling grey gelding,
without e’er a tooth in his head, the very counter-part of the rider; and,
indeed, the appearance of the two was so picturesque, that I would give
twenty guineas to have them tolerably presented on canvas.
Northumberland is a fine county, extending to the Tweed, which is a
pleasant pastoral stream; but you will be surprised when I tell you that the
English side of that river is neither so well cultivated nor so populous as the
other.—The farms are thinly scattered, the lands uninclosed, and scarce a
gentleman’s seat is to be seen in some miles from the Tweed; whereas the
Scots are advanced in crowds to the very brink of the river, so that you may
reckon above thirty good houses, in the compass of a few miles, belonging
to proprietors whose ancestors had fortified castles in the same situations, a
circumstance that shews what dangerous neighbours the Scots must have
formerly been to the northern counties of England.
Our domestic oeconomy continues on the old footing.—My sister Tabby
still adheres to methodism, and had the benefit of a sermon at Wesley’s
meeting in Newcastle; but I believe the Passion of love has in some
measure abated the fervour of devotion both in her and her woman, Mrs
Jenkins, about whose good graces there has been a violent contest betwixt
my nephew’s valet, Mr Dutton, and my man, Humphry Clinker.—Jery has
been obliged to interpose his authority to keep the peace, and to him I have
left the discussion of that important affair, which had like to have kindled
the flames of discord in the family of
Yours always, MATT. BRAMBLE TWEEDMOUTH, July 15.

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, Bart. at Oxon.
DEAR WAT,

In my two last you had so much of Lismahago, that I suppose you are
glad he is gone off the stage for the present.—I must now descend to
domestic occurrences.—Love, it seems, is resolved to assert his dominion
over all the females of our family.—After having practised upon poor
Liddy’s heart, and played strange vagaries with our aunt Mrs Tabitha, he
began to run riot in the affections of her woman, Mrs Winifred Jenkins,
whom I have had occasion to mention more than once in the course of our
memoirs. Nature intended Jenkins for something very different from the
character of her mistress; yet custom and habit have effected a wonderful
resemblance betwixt them in many particulars. Win, to be sure, is much
younger and more agreeable in her person; she is likewise tender-hearted
and benevolent, qualities for which her mistress is by no means remarkable,
no more than she is for being of a timorous disposition, and much subject to
fits of the mother, which are the infirmities of Win’s constitution: but then
she seems to have adopted Mrs Tabby’s manner with her cast cloaths.—She
dresses and endeavours to look like her mistress, although her own looks
are much more engaging.—She enters into her scheme of oeconomy, learns
her phrases, repeats her remarks, imitates her stile in scolding the inferior
servants, and, finally, subscribes implicitly to her system of devotion.—
This, indeed, she found the more agreeable, as it was in a great measure
introduced and confirmed by the ministry of Clinker, with whose personal
merit she seems to have been struck ever since he exhibited the pattern of
his naked skin at Marlborough.
Nevertheless, though Humphry had this double hank upon her
inclinations, and exerted all his power to maintain the conquest he had
made, he found it impossible to guard it on the side of vanity, where poor
Win was as frail as any female in the kingdom. In short, my rascal Dutton
professed himself her admirer, and, by dint of his outlandish qualifications,
threw his rival Clinker out of the saddle of her heart. Humphry may be
compared to an English pudding, composed of good wholesome flour and

suet, and Dutton to a syllabub or iced froth, which, though agreeable to the
taste, has nothing solid or substantial. The traitor not only dazzled her, with
his second-hand finery, but he fawned, and flattered, and cringed—he
taught her to take rappee, and presented her with a snuff-box of papier
mache—he supplied her with a powder for her teeth—he mended her
complexion, and he dressed her hair in the Paris fashion—he undertook to
be her French master and her dancing-master, as well as friseur, and thus
imperceptibly wound himself into her good graces. Clinker perceived the
progress he had made, and repined in secret.—He attempted to open her
eyes in the way of exhortation, and finding it produced no effect had
recourse to prayer. At Newcastle, while he attended Mrs Tabby to the
methodist meeting his rival accompanied Mrs Jenkins to the play. He was
dressed in a silk coat, made at Paris for his former master, with a tawdry
waistcoat of tarnished brocade; he wore his hair in a great bag with a huge
solitaire, and a long sword dangled from his thigh. The lady was all of a
flutter with faded lutestring, washed gauze, and ribbons three times
refreshed; but she was most remarkable for the frisure of her head, which
rose, like a pyramid, seven inches above the scalp, and her face was primed
and patched from the chin up to the eyes; nay, the gallant himself had
spared neither red nor white in improving the nature of his own
complexion. In this attire, they walked together through the high street to
the theatre, and as they passed for players ready dressed for acting, they
reached it unmolested; but as it was still light when they returned, and by
that time the people had got information of their real character and
condition, they hissed and hooted all the way, and Mrs Jenkins was all
bespattered with dirt, as well as insulted with the opprobrious name of
painted Jezabel, so that her fright and mortification threw her into an
hysteric fit the moment she came home.
Clinker was so incensed at Dutton, whom he considered as the cause of
her disgrace, that he upbraided him severely for having turned the poor
woman’s brain. The other affected to treat him with contempt, and
mistaking his forbearance for want of courage, threatened to horse-whip
him into good manners. Humphry then came to me, humbly begging I
would give him leave to chastise my servant for his insolence—‘He has
challenged me to fight him at sword’s point (said he); but I might as well
challenge him to make a horse-shoe, or a plough iron; for I know no more
of the one than he does of the other.—Besides, it doth not become servants

to use those weapons, or to claim the privilege of gentlemen to kill one
another when they fall out; moreover, I would not have his blood upon my
conscience for ten thousand times the profit or satisfaction I should get by
his death; but if your honour won’t be angry, I’ll engage to gee ‘en a good
drubbing, that, may hap, will do ‘en service, and I’ll take care it shall do ‘en
no harm.’ I said, I had no objection to what he proposed, provided he could
manage matters so as not to be found the aggressor, in case Dutton should
prosecute him for an assault and battery.
Thus licensed, he retired; and that same evening easily provoked his rival
to strike the first blow, which Clinker returned with such interest that he
was obliged to call for quarter, declaring, at the same time, that he would
exact severe and bloody satisfaction the moment we should pass the border,
when he could run him through the body without fear of the consequence.
—This scene passed in presence of lieutenant Lismahago, who encouraged
Clinker to hazard a thrust of cold iron with his antagonist. ‘Cold iron (cried
Humphry) I shall never use against the life of any human creature; but I am
so far from being afraid of his cold iron, that I shall use nothing in my
defence but a good cudgel, which shall always be at his service.’ In the
mean time, the fair cause of this contest, Mrs Winifred Jenkins, seemed
overwhelmed with affliction, and Mr Clinker acted much on the reserve,
though he did not presume to find fault with her conduct.
The dispute between the two rivals was soon brought to a very
unexpected issue. Among our fellow-lodgers at Berwick, was a couple from
London, bound to Edinburgh, on the voyage of matrimony. The female was
the daughter and heiress of a pawnbroker deceased, who had given her
guardians the slip, and put herself under the tuition of a tall Hibernian, who
had conducted her thus far in quest of a clergyman to unite them in
marriage, without the formalities required by the law of England. I know
not how the lover had behaved on the road, so as to decline in the favour of
his inamorata; but, in all probability, Dutton perceived a coldness on her
side, which encouraged him to whisper, it was a pity she should have cast
affections upon a taylor, which he affirmed the Irishman to be. This
discovery completed her disgust, of which my man taking the advantage,
began to recommend himself to her good graces, and the smooth-tongued
rascal found no difficulty to insinuate himself into the place of her heart,
from which the other had been discarded—Their resolution was
immediately taken. In the morning, before day, while poor Teague lay

snoring a-bed, his indefatigable rival ordered a post-chaise, and set out with
the lady for Coldstream, a few miles up the Tweed, where there was a
parson who dealt in this branch of commerce, and there they were noosed,
before the Irishman ever dreamt of the matter. But when he got up at six
o’clock, and found the bird was flown, he made such a noise as alarmed the
whole house. One of the first persons he encountered, was the postilion
returned from Coldstream, where he had been witness to the marriage, and
over and above an handsome gratuity, had received a bride’s favour, which
he now wore in his cap—When the forsaken lover understood they were
actually married, and set out for London; and that Dutton had discovered to
the lady, that he (the Hibernian) was a taylor, he had like to have run
distracted. He tore the ribbon from the fellow’s cap, and beat it about his
ears. He swore he would pursue him to the gates of hell, and ordered a post-
chaise and four to be got ready as soon as possible; but, recollecting that his
finances would not admit of this way of travelling, he was obliged to
countermand this order.
For my part, I knew nothing at all of what had happened, till the postilion
brought me the keys of my trunk and portmanteau, which he had received
from Dutton, who sent me his respects, hoping I would excuse him for his
abrupt departure, as it was a step upon which his fortune depended. Before I
had time to make my uncle acquainted with this event, the Irishman burst
into my chamber, without any introduction, exclaiming,—‘By my soul,
your sarvant has robbed me of five thousand pounds, and I’ll have
satisfaction, if I should be hanged tomorrow.’—When I asked him who he
was, ‘My name (said he) is Master Macloughlin but it should be Leighlin
Oneale, for I am come from Tir-Owen the Great; and so I am as good a
gentleman as any in Ireland; and that rogue, your sarvant, said I was a
taylor, which was as big a lie as if he had called me the pope—I’m a man of
fortune, and have spent all I had; and so being in distress, Mr Coshgrave,
the fashioner in Shuffolk-street, tuck me out, and made me his own private
shecretary: by the same token, I was the last he bailed; for his friends
obliged him to tie himself up, that he would bail no more above ten pounds;
for why, becaase as how, he could not refuse any body that asked, and
therefore in time would have robbed himself of his whole fortune, and, if he
had lived long at that rate, must have died bankrupt very soon and so I
made my addresses to Miss Skinner, a young lady of five thousand pounds
fortune, who agreed to take me for better nor worse; and, to be sure, this

day would have put me in possession, if it had not been for that rogue, your
sarvant, who came like a tief, and stole away my property, and made her
believe I was a taylor; and that she was going to marry the ninth part of a
man: but the devil burn my soul, if ever I catch him on the mountains of
Tulloghobegly, if I don’t shew him that I’m nine times as good a man as he,
or e’er a bug of his country.’
When he had rung out his first alarm, I told him I was sorry he had
allowed himself to be so jockied; but it was no business of mine; and that
the fellow who robbed him of his bride, had likewise robbed me of my
servant—‘Didn’t I tell you then (cried he) that Rogue was his true Christian
name.—Oh if I had but one fair trust with him upon the sod, I’d give him
lave to brag all the rest of his life.’
My uncle hearing the noise, came in, and being informed of this
adventure, began to comfort Mr Oneale for the lady’s elopement; observing
that he seemed to have had a lucky escape, that it was better she should
elope before, than after marriage—The Hibernian was of a very different
opinion. He said, ‘If he had been once married, she might have eloped as
soon as she pleased; he would have taken care that she should not have
carried her fortune along with her—Ah (said he) she’s a Judas Iscariot, and
has betrayed me with a kiss; and, like Judas, she carried the bag, and has
not left me money enough to bear my expences back to London; and so I’m
come to this pass, and the rogue that was the occasion of it has left you
without a sarvant, you may put me in his place; and by Jasus, it is the best
thing you can do.’—I begged to be excused, declaring I could put up with
any inconvenience, rather than treat as a footman the descendant of Tir-
Owen the Great. I advised him to return to his friend, Mr Cosgrave, and
take his passage from Newcastle by sea, towards which I made him a small
present, and he retired, seemingly resigned to his evil fortune. I have taken
upon trial a Scotchman, called Archy M’Alpin, an old soldier, whose last
master, a colonel, lately died at Berwick. The fellow is old and withered;
but he has been recommended to me for his fidelity, by Mrs Humphreys, a
very good sort of a woman, who keeps the inn at Tweedmouth, and is much
respected by all the travellers on this road.
Clinker, without doubt, thinks himself happy in the removal of a
dangerous rival, and he is too good a Christian, to repine at Dutton’s
success. Even Mrs Jenkins will have reason to congratulate herself upon

this event, when she cooly reflects upon the matter; for, howsoever she was
forced from her poise for a season, by snares laid for her vanity, Humphry
is certainly the north-star to which the needle of her affection would have
pointed at the long run. At present, the same vanity is exceedingly
mortified, upon finding herself abandoned by her new admirer, in favour of
another inamorata. She received the news with a violent burst of laughter,
which soon brought on a fit of crying; and this gave the finishing blow to
the patience of her mistress, which had held out beyond all expectation. She
now opened all those floodgates of reprehension, which had been shut so
long. She not only reproached her with her levity and indiscretion, but
attacked her on the score of religion, declaring roundly that she was in a
state of apostacy and reprobation; and finally, threatened to send her a
packing at this extremity of the kingdom. All the family interceded for poor
Winifred, not even excepting her slighted swain, Mr Clinker, who, on his
knees, implored and obtained her pardon.
There was, however, another consideration that gave Mrs Tabitha some
disturbance. At Newcastle, the servants had been informed by some wag,
that there was nothing to eat in Scotland, but oat-meal and sheep’s-heads;
and lieutenant Lismahago being consulted, what he said served rather to
confirm than to refute the report. Our aunt being apprised of this
circumstance, very gravely advised her brother to provide a sumpter horse
with store of hams, tongues, bread, biscuit, and other articles for our
subsistence, in the course of our peregrination, and Mr Bramble as gravely
replied, that he would take the hint into consideration: but, finding no such
provision was made, she now revived the proposal, observing that there was
a tolerable market at Berwick, where we might be supplied; and that my
man’s horse would serve as a beast of burthen—The ‘squire, shrugging his
shoulders, eyed her askance with a look of ineffable contempt: and, after
some pause, ‘Sister (said he), I can hardly persuade myself you are serious.’
She was so little acquainted with the geography of the island, that she
imagined we could not go to Scotland but by sea; and, after we had passed
through the town of Berwick, when he told her we were upon Scottish
ground, she could hardly believe the assertion—If the truth must be told,
the South Britons in general are woefully ignorant in this particular. What,
between want of curiosity, and traditional sarcasms, the effect of ancient
animosity, the people at the other end of the island know as little of
Scotland as of Japan.

If I had never been in Wales, I should have been more struck with the
manifest difference in appearance betwixt the peasants and commonalty on
different sides of the Tweed. The boors of Northumberland are lusty
fellows, fresh complexioned, cleanly, and well cloathed; but the labourers in
Scotland are generally lank, lean, hard-featured, sallow, soiled, and shabby,
and their little pinched blue caps have a beggarly effect. The cattle are much
in the same stile with their drivers, meagre, stunted, and ill equipt. When I
talked to my uncle on this subject, he said, ‘Though all the Scottish hinds
would not bear to be compared with those of the rich counties of South
Britain, they would stand very well in competition with the peasants of
France, Italy, and Savoy—not to mention the mountaineers of Wales, and
the red-shanks of Ireland.’
We entered Scotland by a frightful moor of sixteen miles, which promises
very little for the interior parts of the kingdom; but the prospect mended as
we advanced. Passing through Dunbar, which is a neat little town, situated
on the sea-side, we lay at a country inn, where our entertainment far
exceeded our expectation; but for this we cannot give the Scots credit, as
the landlord is a native of England. Yesterday we dined at Haddington,
which has been a place of some consideration, but is now gone to decay;
and in the evening arrived at this metropolis, of which I can say very little.
It is very romantic, from its situation on the declivity of a hill, having a
fortified castle at the top, and a royal palace at the bottom. The first thing
that strikes the nose of a stranger, shall be nameless; but what first strikes
the eye, is the unconscionable height of the houses, which generally rise to
five, six, seven, and eight stories, and, in some places (as I am assured), to
twelve. This manner of building, attended with numberless inconveniences,
must have been originally owing to want of room. Certain it is, the town
seems to be full of people: but their looks, their language, and their
customs, are so different from ours, that I can hardly believe myself in
Great-Britain.
The inn at which we put up (if it may be so called) was so filthy and
disagreeable in all respects, that my uncle began to fret, and his gouty
symptoms to recur—Recollecting, however, that he had a letter of
recommendation to one Mr Mitchelson, a lawyer, he sent it by his servant,
with a compliment, importing that we would wait upon him next day in
person; but that gentleman visited us immediately, and insisted upon our
going to his own house, until he could provide lodgings for our

accommodation. We gladly accepted, of his invitation, and repaired to his
house, where we were treated with equal elegance and hospitality, to the
utter confusion of our aunt, whose prejudices, though beginning to give
way, were not yet entirely removed. To-day, by the assistance of our friend,
we are settled in convenient lodgings, up four pair of stairs, in the High-
street, the fourth story being, in this city, reckoned more genteel than the
first. The air is, in all probability, the better; but it requires good lungs to
breathe it at this distance above the surface of the earth.—While I do
remain above it, whether higher or lower, provided I breathe at all,
I shall ever be, Dear Phillips, yours, J. MELFORD July 18.

To Dr LEWIS.
DEAR LEWIS,

That part of Scotland contiguous to Berwick, nature seems to have
intended as a barrier between two hostile nations. It is a brown desert of
considerable extent, that produces nothing but heath and fern; and what
rendered it the more dreary when we passed, there was a thick fog that
hindered us from seeing above twenty yards from the carriage—My sister
began to make wry faces, and use her smelling-bottle; Liddy looked blank,
and Mrs Jenkins dejected; but in a few hours these clouds were dissipated;
the sea appeared upon our right, and on the left the mountains retired a
little, leaving an agreeable plain betwixt them and the beach; but, what
surprised us all, this plain, to the extent of several miles, was covered with
as fine wheat as ever I saw in the most fertile parts of South Britain—This
plentiful crop is raised in the open field, without any inclosure, or other
manure than the alga marina, or seaweed, which abounds on this coast; a
circumstance which shews that the soil and climate are favourable; but that
agriculture in this country is not yet brought to that perfection which it has
attained in England. Inclosures would not only keep the grounds warm, and
the several fields distinct, but would also protect the crop from the high
winds, which are so frequent in this part of the island.
Dunbar is well situated for trade, and has a curious bason, where ships of
small burthen may be perfectly secure; but there is little appearance of
business in the place—From thence, all the way to Edinburgh, there is a
continual succession of fine seats, belonging to noblemen and gentlemen;
and as each is surrounded by its own parks and plantation, they produce a
very pleasing effect in a country which lies otherwise open and exposed. At
Dunbar there is a noble park, with a lodge, belonging to the Duke of
Roxburgh, where Oliver Cromwell had his head-quarters, when Lesley, at
the head of a Scotch army, took possession of the mountains in the
neighbourhood, and hampered him in such a manner, that he would have
been obliged to embark and get away by sea, had not the fanaticism of the
enemy forfeited the advantage which they had obtained by their general’s