CHAP. I. A morning's adventure in passing over the river Tyne—The floating chariot—Has­slet's ghost, or the spirit of Gateshead-Fell.

IT is a disagreeable consideration when a person is enjoying sweet repose in his bed, to be suddenly awakened by the rude blustering noise of a vociferous hostler. There is no help for it, provided a man [Page] intends to travel in a stage-coach; this evil, like many others, must be suffered with patience. Patience renders all bur­dens three fourths lighter than they would be without it.

The morning was very fine when we entered the coach; nature smiled around us. It is a pity, thought I, that we are not to ride on horseback; we should then enjoy the pleasures of the morning, snuff the perfumes of the fields, hear the mu­sic of the groves, and the concert of the woods.

In crossing the river Tyne from New­castle to London, there is one inconveni­ency: you must wait the pleasure of a lit­tle arbitrary Bashaw, who will not move one foot beyond the rules of his own au­thority, or mitigate the sentence passed upon those who are condemned to travel in a stage-coach within a ferry-boat ^*.

As I hate every idea of slavery and op­pression, [Page 11] I was not a little offended at the expressions of authority which were ex­ercised upon this occasion, by the legisla­tor of the ferry. We were now in the boat, and obliged to sit till this little ty­rant gave orders for our departure. The vehicle for carrying passengers across the river, is the most tiresome and heavy me­thod that ever was invented. Four row­ers in a small boat drag the ponderous fer­ry across the river very slowly.

From the time we entered the boat, before we landed on the opposite side, an hour was almost spent. We had time to reflect upon what might happen to us by the way, and an opportunity to put up a few ejaculations to heaven, to pre­serve us from the danger of ferry-boats and tyrants. This was the best use we could make of our time, while we conti­nued in this floating chariot; some of the ladies who were in the coach, were so hurried in the morning, that they scarce­ly had time to say their prayers—This was a good opportunity.

[Page 12]As soon as we landed on the south side of the river Tyne, we were saluted by a black-bird, which welcomed us to the county of Durham. It seemed to take pleasure to see us fairly out of the do­mains of Charon, and whistled chearfully upon our arrival. Nature, said I to my­self, is the mistress of real pleasure; this same black-bird cannot suffer us to pass by without contributing to our happiness. It is more blessed to give than receive. I wish that all men understood this maxim as well by reason and tutorage, as this whistler in a hedge does by instinct.— The black-bird is free, and sings from a sense of liberty—it is under no controul— were it in a cage it might sing, but not half so sweetly.

Liberty appears to be the first principle of music. Slaves can never sing from the heart. The capons of Italy, which sla­very, by the instruments of castration, hath formed to sing for the entertainment of arbitrary masters, can never give such musical expressions, as a free citizen, and [Page 13] and a son of liberty. They may be fit to please slaves or tyrants, but can never give true entertainment to a soul that knows and values liberty.

After we had passed Gateshead, and as­cended the Fell, the pleasures of the morning increased upon us;—the whins and brier sent forth a fragrance exceed­ingly delightful. On every side of the coach, peerless droops of dew dangling upon the blossoms of the thorns, helped to add to the presume. Aurora began now to streak the western sky, and the spangled heavens announced the approach of the king of day.—The finest touch­es of the most curious artists, are but mean imitations of those various colours which adorn the heavens at the approach of the sun. Sol at last appeared, and spread his healthful beams over hills and valleys. The wild beasts now were retired to their dens; and those timorous animals which go abroad in the night, to seek their food, were also withdrawn to the thickets. The hares were skipping across the lawn, [Page 14] tasting the dewy glade for their morning's repast. The sky-lark mounted on high, and serenaded his dame with mirthful glee and pleasure.

How pure are the feelings of nature? How strong the power of instinct! These are not warped by the bias of false educa­tion, custom, or private interest. That same lark does all that is in his power to render his mate happy.—He sings to make her toil easy, while she is employed about their mutual concerns. Ah! little do those about the courts of monarchs know, the power of these unmixed feel­ings. They are strangers to the chaste pleasures which fill the soul with unmix­ed joy. Instead of nourishing and che­rishing their own flesh, they imitate the vilest of animals, in drinking stolen wa­ters to gratify their lusts. Say, ye libidi­nous children of licentiousness, did your maker implant these desires in your na­ture? or have ye not rather by pursuing evil practices acquired another nature than the Almighty endowed you with? For [Page 15] shame! do not blame your Maker for those unnatural desires; he never implan­ted them in your constitution. The lust remains in your mind—and you your­selves have created it, by tasting too fre­quently of forbidden pleasures. Blame not your flesh, but your vile dispositions which you have acquired by the practice of vice, and formed into a habit. Say, if you have not the same desires to licentiousness▪ when nature revolts against the practice? Then, yourselves, and not nature are to be blamed.—Go to the lark, ye slaves of pollution, consider his ways and be wise. —He cherishes his dame with all the soft endearments of affection—He does not stroll through the grove or the thicket, to search for some new amour, but keeps strictly to the ties of conjugal affection, and cherishes the partner of his natural concerns. Who but must frown, to see a D—ke, L—d, or K—t, pursuing a strange woman, embellished with a few trappings of foreign silk and lace, to a house of pleasure, where he receives with [Page 16] his forbidden enjoyment, a stain on his character a sting for his conscience, and rottenness to his bones—While she to whom he swore to be faithful, pines away at home in discontent and fretful sorrow.

Nature has provided for men all those pleasures which she has formed dispositi­ons for the enjoyment of;—but the loose desires which libidinous mortals attribute to their natures, proceed from other causes—from a neglect of pursuing the principles of nature, and from behaving unnaturally.

In the midst of these contemplations, a grave and solemn scene opened to our view. Hasslet that robbed the mail a­bout two years ago, hangs on a gibbet at our left hand—Unfortunate and infatu­ated Hasslet! hadst thou robbed the na­tion of millions, instead of robbing the mail, and pilfering a few shillings from a testy old maid; thou hadst not been hanging a spectacle to passengers, and a prey to crows. Thy case was pitiable— [Page 17] but there was no mercy—thou wast poor! and thy sin unpardonable. Hadst thou robbed to support the Crown, and mur­dered for the Ministry, thou mightst have been yet alive. Were all the robbers of the nation hanging in the same situation, there would be some appearance of justice and impartiality. But the poor only can com­mit crimes worthy of death,—and those also must be enemies to the Court, or lukewarm in its interests.

The place where Hasslet hangs, is the finest place in the world for the walk of a ghost.—At the foot of a wild romantic mountain, near the side of a small lake are his remains; his shadow appears in the water, and suggests the idea of two male­factors.—The imagination may easily con­jure up his ghost. Many spirits have been seen in wilds not so fit for the purpose. This robber is now perhaps the genius of the Fell, and walks in the gloomy shades of night by the side of this little lake. This is all supposition,—and is perhaps as good a supposition as any that has yet [Page 18] given for ghosts and goblins becoming visible.

This dreary place is well calculated for raising gloomy ideas, which tend to craze the imagination.—It would not be won­derful to hear some visionary mortals re­lating that they saw Hasslet walking by the side of the water. The imagination is capable of creating things which are not, and can upon some occasions quick­en the dead. Many travellers have seen things that are invisible, and affirmed what is as improbable, as that Hasslet was seen walking upon the top of Gates­head Fell.

CHAP. II. A description of the city of Durham—The Abbey—The Choir—The Clock—Rural Pleasures—The female Antipodes—The Arbor—The Cascade—Inscriptions up­on Grave-stones.

THE city of Durham is very pleasant­ly situated. The river Ware, almost encompasses it round, and forms a penin­sula. The banks of the river from Old Elvet Bridge to Framwell-gate, form a fine amphitheatre. The cathedral church of St. Cuthbert, and the Bishop's palace, which stand upon the opposite bank, af­ford a very grand prospect. The pleasant banks on the west side, adorned with stately trees, mingled with shrubs of vari­ous kinds, bring to one's mind the roman­tic ideas of ancient story, when swains and nymphs sung their loves amongst trees, near the side of some inchanting river. The abbey and castle call to remembrance those inchanted places where knights errant [Page 20] were confined for many years, till deliver­ed by some friend, who knew how to dis­solve the chains and charms of necro­mancy.

Durham would be a very fine place, were it not for the swarms of priests that are in it,—who devour very extensive livings without being of any real service to the public. The common people are here very ignorant, and great profaners of the sabbath-day. It is customary for the idle people to play at the long bowl on the Sunday when the weather is fair. In­deed, almost over all England, the great­est ignorance and vice is under the noses of the Bishops. The reason hereof I will not pretend to say, but the fact is appa­rent.

This city is a very healthy place, the the soil is dry, and the air wholesome.— It is built upon a rising ground, and the fields around it are pleasant both in win­ter and summer. The sagacity of the monks appears conspicuous in the situati­on [Page 21] of Durham Abbey. It is placed in the neighbourhood of as fine land as any in England, and the greatest part thereof now belongs to the dean and chapter. Were I to refer the choice of an estate to any persons whatsover, it would be to the clergy;—they know the soil of this world better than any denomination of mankind. Wherever they have taken up their residence, there is sure to be found a fine situation, and a good soil. The air in and about Durham being very whole­some, the inhabitants live to a good old age. It is a place of little trade or busi­ness, being far from the sea, having no port nearer than Newcastle or Sunderland. Here are some manufactories, but they have not yet been carried to any great per­fection.

One thing which travellers admire most in Durham, is the Cathedral, a grand and ancient building. In this church there is a very fine organ, and an excel­lent choir of singers; but devotion is per­formed here with great lukewarmness and [Page 22] indifference. The persons who are prin­cipally concerned in the acts of religious worship, perform their parts rather as a grievous task than a matter of choice.

This antient building is supported by two rows of Gothic pillars, of which, scarcely any two of them are exactly alike. The architecture is very noble and ex­ceedingly delightful to the eye of any per­son who has a taste for antiquity, or Go­thic magnificence. The font for bap­tizing children, stands at the west end of the abbey, as in other churches, for which I know no other reason than sic voluerunt Romani.

On the south side of the abbey near the choir, stands a very famous clock, said to be the workmanship of a man who was convicted of counterfeiting the King's coin: he had no other method to screen himself from justice, than to throw him­self into the arms of the church, and do something meritorious to work out his own salvation. He made this clock to the [Page 23] holy church, that he might obtain the pardon of his iniquity. He would have been as surely hanged as ever Hasslet was for robbing the mail, had he not taken shelter in this city of refuge. In those days no power could touch an offender who fled for protection to the clergy;— whatever crime he might have commit­ted, if the church once received him un­der her protection, no other power durst interfere. Accordingly, this coiner made this clock for the good of the church; and it appears to be of more real service to the abbey, than the bishop and the whole college of doctors. The clock is not only a mechanical oracle, but a kind of moral machine; for in the first in­stance it directs the eyes of a traveller to the things which are above; it exhibits a view of the planets and their motions, and shews the variations of the moon; it points out the day of the month, and the moon's age, with several other curious exhibitions.

[Page 24]The maker had certainly been a very ingenious person, and any good-natured man would almost forgive him the sin of coining, on account of the merit he has displayed in performing this noble piece of machinery. When we entered into the church, the moon had not finished her first quarter. I thought to myself, that this clock was certainly intended by the artist to teach the doctors the change­ableness of all created enjoyments, and to put them in mind of laying up their trea­sure in heaven, where all fluctuation will cease, and all things continue in a state of permanency.

On the opposite side of the cathedral, over against the clock, there is a monu­ment placed in the wall, with an inscrip­tion upon one Mr. Hartwell, who was once a clergyman in this church. Upon the top of the tomb-stone these words are inscribed, ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’ [Page 25] This inscription, upon the very top of mortality, affords a noble reason of hope to those who believe the New Testament, of a blessed resurrection to eternal life.

The tomb of St. Cuthbert is a curiosity which is shewn to strangers. An old wo­man shewed us where the pilgrims were wont to pay their homage to the same,— and if there is any truth in the History of St. Cuthbert, they have left the marks of their feet behind them; the flag is worn hollow with the ceremony of obeisance. I observed to the old woman, that when this saint rose, it would make a strange catastrophe, and spoil the devotion of the doctors; she had no notion of a resurrec­tion, but stared with wild surprize; I en­deavoured to instruct her a little in this important point of religion, but to no manner of purpose;—for she neither un­derstood, nor was willing to understand, any thing of the matter.

It would be uncharitable to impute the ignorance of this old woman to the neg­ligence [Page 26] of the college of doctors;—for they are all very learned men, and preach many learned sermons, which this good woman might hear if she had a mind. The reason why this female door-keeper of the house of God, was so ignorant of the doctrine of the resurrection of the dead, appeared to me to be, that she did not think herself obliged to believe it, be­cause it is not in the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church,—which is all that a member of the church of England is con­cerned to believe.

After we were wearied with sauntering in this old Gothic abbey, we went down to the river side, to view the curiosities in the fields. The large and extensive banks of the river are all planted with trees, at the foot of which is a fine gravel walk, where the ladies and gentlemen amuse themselves in the forenoon before dinner, and in the afternoon before tea. Here a person who is fond of rural pleasures, may riot at large. The river glides plea­santly by the side of the banks, and in va­rious [Page 27] parts forms delightful water-pieces of a great extent. Stately oak and ash-trees, intermized with firs and shrubs, form a prospect very agreeable to the eye. In summer, birds of various kinds make a rural concert, more entertaining to a sentimental traveller, than all the music of the cathedral which stands on the opposite side of the river. These choristers of the grove sing from the heart, and express the feelings of nature in a pure manner; —while the hirelings in the abbey, wea­ried with their task, perform their parts by the assistance of art, without feeling the power of the music they express. Were it not for the perquisites of St. Cuth­bert, they would never tune an organ, nor chant an hymn. But the singers upon the other side of the river sing from prin­ciples of love, without fee or reward. Say, ye learned men in the college, which of the two are the best singers? Lay aside prejudice, and tell the truth. Is not the song of a thrush, or a black-bird, infinitely preferable to human music, [Page 28] where the soul hath no part in it? Per­haps these singers in the wood are as ac­ceptable to him who made them, as any minor canon or prebendary in any cathe­dral in England. Presumptive man! wants to make a monopoly of the divine favour, and to exclude all other creatures from a share thereof.

As we were walking on the side of the river, we had a conspicuous view of the Antipodes. I had often heard of them in books of geography, but never saw them before. It was just a little before dinner, that we walked along the foot of the bank towards Old Elvet church, when we spied three young ladies walking up­on their feet, with their heads downmost. They were Antipodes to us, and appeared to be taking a little fresh air before din­ner. They had all the appearance of English ladies, but walked in a quite dif­ferent direction from those who travel on our hemisphere. It seemed natural to conclude, that the Antipodes in all parts [Page 29] of the globe are like to one another; for the Antipode Ladies at Durham are as like those in the city of London, as la­dies possibly can be like to each other. Whether there is a chink in the globe in this place, by which the opposite people become visible to one another, or that we saw only some phantoms, I shall leave for a guess to my readers,—but one thing I am sure of, that a worthy surgeon, and a captain of a ship, were witnesses of this phenomenon. I was ready at first to imagine, that the three ladies were some of the remains of the antient fairies, who in days of yore are said to have played many droll pranks,—by frisking spee­dily from one place to another, and fre­quently turning themselves into strange attitudes;—but as none of them were dressed in green, I concluded they were the Antipodes, and totally gave up the last hypothesis. I was afraid lest the sur­geon, a young man, and unmarried, should have made a precipitate descent into the river, and gone down to the re­gion [Page 30] of Antipodes; for the captain, who is a judge of fine women, spoke so much in their praise, that he would have kind­led the flames of love in the heart of our fellow traveller, had not a cloud spee­dily removed them out of our sight, and delivered the surgeon from any fur­ther temptation. I would advise the pub­lishers of courants, chronicles, and jour­nals, to set this down among the rarities of the county of Durham, instead of pa­ragraphs from Polidore Virgil, Speed or Stow.

Near to the place where we were fa­voured with this beatific vision, there is one of the most pleasant natural arbours that the eye can behold. Five stately ash trees formed into a sort of semicircle, twisted round with ivy, make a very de­lightful arbor;—and to add to the plea­sure of this retreat, from the scorching beams of the sun, there is a cascade at a small distance, where the water tumbling down a huge precipice, breaks into foam [Page 31] at the foot of the bank, and makes a so­lemn sound. In ancient times this would have been an excellent place of abode for the water nymphs, or the goddesses of the rivers; of which number some might have been ready to suppose were the a­bove mentioned Antipodes.

We came at last to Old Elvet church­yard, and walked a short while among the dead. I read over some of the in­scriptions upon the tomb-stones; several of them had the marks of popery upon them, with a common motto in Latin, frequently wrong spelled.— Requiescat in pace, or Requiescant in pace, is some­times written Requiese-at in pace;—and upon one stone, there is an improvement made in the Latin orthography by substi­tuting a g for a q, and then it stands Re­guiese-at in pace. It would be for the honour of the curate of the parish to have these blunders corrected, lest travel­lers should conclude that this ill spelled Latin was engraved upon the tomb-stones [Page 32] by his authority; however this shall be left to his own discretion.

Our landlord in the New Inn at Dur­ham, is a jolly honest man—the house is a very fine spacious building, and might serve the bishop. All things are clean, cheap, and good, in this inn. If a person comes in well pleased, he will find no­thing to offend him, provided he does not create some offence to himself. While I was marking down some observations which I had made in taking a walk through the town, the orders were given for our departure—so I conclude this chapter.

CHAP. III. An account of the characters in the coach— A dispute concerning a standing army— The theory of mobs—The eclaircissement.

WHEN we left Newcastle the coach was full;—four ladies, a gentle­man of the sword, and your humble serv­ant, [Page 33] made up the principal contents of this stage vehicle. We sat in silence for a short time, till we were jolted into good humour by the motion of the coach,— when the several social faculties began to open. One of our female companions, who was a North Briton, a jolly middle aged matron, and a lady of abundance of good sense and humour, entertained us for a quarter of an hour, with the history of her travels. She had made the tour of Europe, and had visited the most remark­able places in Christendom, in quality of a dutiful wife attending her valetudinary husband, who was travelling for the re­covery of his health. Her easy unaffect­ed manner in telling a story, made her ex­ceeding good company, and none of us had the least inclination to interrupt her, till she pleased to cease. She knew how to time her discourse, and never, like ma­ny of her sex, degenerated into tedious­ness or insipidity. At every stage she was a conformist to all the measures of the company, and went into every social pro­posal [Page 34] that was made. As she is the mo­ther of four fine daughters, in giving us the outlines of their history, she puzzled us with a sort of enigma, which she was obliged to explain before we could under­stand her meaning. They were married, she said, in four different kingdoms, all belonging to King George the Third, and yet there were none of them either in Hanover, Wales, or in any of the colo­nies. There was one of them, she said, in England, whom she was going to see; another in Ireland, two in Scotland— These last appeared to us to be in one and the same kingdom, and we could not de­vise a third;—but by holding to an old distinction, and division of Scotland, she made out two kingdoms in that part of the island. One of those ladies was mar­ried in the kingdom of Fife,—so the enigma was explained.

Another of our companions was a wi­dow lady in Newcastle, quite as agreeable as the former. She understood how to [Page 35] make us laugh, and could tell a story as well as most of her six;—yet far from being troublesome or tedious, she rather excited our inclination to have her conti­nue, than end her discourse. She only went with us for one stage, and then we lost the pleasure of her company.

The third was a Newcastle lady, well known in the literary world for her use­ful performances for the benefit of youth. This female triumvirate would have been much upon par, had they been all tra­vellers, for their gifts of communication were much alike; but the lady who had taken the tour of Europe, had made seve­ral useful observations upon foreign places, which the others were not acquainted with;—these rather gave her an advant­age, which must be attributed to circum­stances, and not to the want of abilities in her companions.

The last female was the Scotch lady's servant,—and as she said nothing the whole way, I shall say nothing of her.

[Page 36]The fifth of our companions was an officer in the army, who in the morning appeared very drowsy, and came forth of his chamber with a sort of reluctance. His hair was dishevelled, and quite out of queu, and he seemed to be as ready for a sleep as if he had not been in bed. He was for a time as dumb as a quaker, when not moved by the spirit, and by continu­ing in silence, at last fell asleep, till we had proceeded near the half of our first stage. During this time he said no ill.

We finished our first stage, without ex­changing many words with this son of Mars, except some of those flimsy com­pliments which the gentlemen of the sword pay frequently to the ladies, when they mean nothing. After a dish of warm tea had warmed his bowels, and suppled the fibres of his tongue, he began to let us know that he was an officer in the ar­my, and a man of some consequence. He seemed to be fond of war, and spoke in high terms upon the usefulness of a stand­ing [Page 37] army. When he had exhausted his whole fund of military arguments, in be­half of slavery and oppression; I observed to him, that a standing army had a bad appearance in a free country, and put it in the power of the crown to enslave the nation;—that instead of being under a civil government a nation was under a military one, when soldiers were let loose upon the subjects for every small discord which happened between oppressors and those whom they oppressed;—and that I thought the militia was sufficient to an­swer all the purposes of a standing army. I likewise observed, that instead of en­couraging a standing army, I would ad­vise all my friends against being soldiers, because that as soon as they commenced soldiers they became slaves for life.

At these words, the spirit of Mars be­gan to stir in him, and he threatened, that if he was near a justice of the peace he would have me fined for hindering him from getting recruits;—adding that he once had a man fined five pounds for per­suading [Page 38] others not to enlist in his Majes­ty's service. I told him, he certainly had a right to say all the fine things he could to recommend the service of his master; and when he had done all that he could to recommend his service, he had no more to do:—but, that any man had al­so a right to tell his friends whom he saw ready to be seduced into bondage, that they were born free, and ought to take care how they give up their liberty.— However, if any persons were disposed to be slaves, I should not hinder them, other­wise than by shewing them the rights of human nature, and the evils which at­tended bondage. I affirmed, that all sys­tems of government where a man was not tried by his peers, were no better than tyranny and oppression, and contrary to the principles of the English constitution; that the military government was of that sort, because a court of officers pretended to have authority to dispose of a private man's life and liberty, when he was not guilty of any crime, that the laws of his country would condemn him for; and [Page 39] which in other persons was not accounted criminal.—That court martials were no­thing but arbitrary tribunals, oftentimes composed of officers, who, if they were private men, would receive the same sen­tence which they passed upon others, and deserve it better than the poor helpless culprits who fall a sacrifice to their pride and caprice. I further told him, that Blackstone had affirmed in his Commenta­ries upon the Laws of England, ‘That the laws and constitution of these king­doms know no such state as that of a perpetual standing soldier, bred to no other profession than that of war;— and that it was not till the reign of king Henry VII. that the kings of England had so much as a guard about their persons.’

To convince this son of Mars, that a standing army, as distinct from the peo­ple, is inconsistent with liberty and the English constitution, I told him that Blackstone had observed from Montesquieu, ‘ [Page 40]That to prevent the executing power from being able to oppress, it is requi­site that the army with which it is en­trusted should consist of the people, and have the same spirit with the people; as was the case of Rome, till Marius new modelled the legions by enlisting the rabble of Italy, and laid the foun­dation of the military tyranny which ensued. Nothing then, according to these principles, ought to be more guarded against in a free state, than making the military, when such a one is necessary to be kept on foot, a body distinct from the people. It should wholly be composed of natural subjects; it ought only to be enlisted for a short and limited time; no separate camps, no barrack, no inland fortress should be allowed.—And perhaps it might still be better, if by diminishing a stated number, and enlisting others, at every renewal of their term, a circulation would be kept up between the army and the people, and the citizen and [Page 41] soldier be more intimately connected together.’

It is not easy to make a military man understand any thing without the limits of his own system; all laws, except what belong to a court martial are nothing to him. Our companion understood not a single word of either Montesquieu or Blackstone; all his laws were connected with the sword, and may properly be call­ed club laws.

I did not find, however, that our mili­tary protector was a blood-thirsty man, for by his own confession, he and another brother officer, had a few months before surrendered their purses to an highway­man between London and Highgate, for fear of bloodshed. This shews that some officers are abundantly peaceable in time of danger, and declare no inclination for taking away mens lives. Our gentleman of the sword had a great many solid rea­sons why men should not venture their lives for a little money: he said there was no courage in fighting an highwayman, [Page 42] nor any honour to be had in the victory; that soldiers should preserve their lives for the service of their country in case of war, and not run the risk of losing them by foolish adventures.

These reasons did not altogether satisfy the ladies;—for one of them observed, that robbers were at war with both laws and government, and that the king's serv­ants were hired to keep the peace, and to defend the subjects from violence; and that officers in the army are as much obliged by their office and character to fight robbers, as they are bound to fight the French, or any other enemy. That foot pads were invaders of other people's rights and properties, and ought to be re­sisted by men whose profession it was to fight, and who were well paid for so do­ing; that it was for money all the officers in the army served the King, and fought his battles, and why should they not as well fight for money in a stage-coach, as in a castle or in a field? She insisted that only one of them could have been killed by the highwayman, or perhaps but [Page 43] wounded, and there were several chances that he might have missed them both.— But supposing the worst, that one had been shot, it was only the chance of war, and the other might have secured the robber,—which would have been of more service to the community than the life of the officer. In short, she observed, that it had more the appearance of cowardice than disregard for money, for two officers to surrender their purses to a single high­wayman, who had nothing but one pistol.

The lady's reflections were severely felt by our young swordman, and pro­duced a solemn silence in the coach for a quarter of an hour,—during which time some of us fell asleep, and continued in that state till we came to the inn where we were to change horses. Two or three glasses of port restored the officer's cou­rage, and he was determined, in case we were attacked, to defend us from the as­saults of all highwaymen whatsoever;— and to shew that it was not for want of courage that he suffered the highwayman to escape, he told us a pretty diffusive sto­ry [Page 44] of his own valour in quelling a mob at Dumfries.

Some hungry people in the town of Dumfries, who were not disposed to starve, when there was plenty of provisions in the hands of the farmers and corn-factors, assembled in a body to do themselves jus­tice, and to endeavour to have something to eat. The magistrates who thought that the people had a right to starve, and were not disposed to assist them in re­lieving their necessities, sent for a party of military men to oblige them either to fast discreetly, or to be shot, to ease them from the cravings of nature and the pains of hunger. Our hero was sent upon this expedition, and had the command of the party;—where he performed wonders, all which we received upon the authority of his own testimony. The poor people were shot at like woodcocks, and those who could get away with safety, were glad to return home to wrestle with hun­ger, and the hard demands of their appe­tites, till heaven should think fit to pro­vide [Page 45] for them. This was a hard case, but there was no help for it; authority enforced by powder and ball, is not easi­ly resisted. The mob, to be sure, are ca­pital transgressors, when they will not live without food, which they have no right to taste, unless they are able to pay for it, according to the price that mono­polizers and ingrossers set upon it.—And it is, to be sure, the duty of magistrates to protect traders in the possession of whatsoever they can obtain, but they have no concern with the necessities of the poor, who are no benefit to society. The modern meaning of authority, is to protect the rich, and to keep the poor in subjection; for every body knows, that those who have no money can have no law; and without an exorbitant expence, no poor man can secure his right when oppressors are diposed to dispute it.

Our young officer was very liberal in abusing those whom he called the mob, and said they were ignorant, obstinate, and wicked; and added, that he thought it no crime to destroy hundreds of them. [Page 46] The lady who before had given him a lecture, began to put him in mind of the foot-pad whom he and his brother offi­cers had suffered to escape with their purses, and asked him how he would quell a mob of highwaymen? He was off his guard, and the mentioning of the foot-pad made him stare with a sort of wildness, as if the robber had been at the coach door. The conversation ended, and I made the following remarks upon it.

That all tyrants are either cowards, or under the influence of the spirit of mad­ness. Those who are disposed to enslave or tyrannize over others of their fellow-creatures, will always behave meanly un­der a reverse of fortune: Such as shew any degree of bravery, do it more from the influence of madness, than from any true principle. Tyrants who oppress others, have more reason to dread those whom they oppress, than the oppressed have to dread them; and they who are in perpetual fear, are perpetual cowards. Such as do not fear them whom they op­press, must be in a state of lunacy.

[Page 47]Secondly, the condition of the subjects is very miserable, when they are not able to purchase the provisions which are ne­cessary for life, and dare not take them without danger of the gallows. It is a great grievance to hungry people, to be­hold a number of large stacks of corn, and yet cannot obtain as much as is ne­cessary to support life. It is a terrible al­ternative to fast and starve, or eat and be hanged. What are mobs and riots in times of scarcity? but hungry people fighting for their meat. The full, the rich, and wealthy, whose interest it is to have the prices of the necessaries of life high, may call them rebels, or by what names they please; but if they would change circumstances for a small season, they would soon alter their opinion.

Rebellion, is not a principle which rules in the hearts of the poor, it is to be found chiefly among the rich.—There are not any among the poor tribes of mankind who do not pay the greatest regard to their sovereign, and would, if there were occasion, venture their lives in his service; [Page 48] but they are not able to endure hunger, for the belly has no ears. Is there no other way of pacifying hungry people, than to cram powder and ball down their throats? Ah ye who riot in the midst of plenty, little do ye know how hard it is to endure hunger. There would be nei­ther mobs nor riots, provided those who have more than they have occasion for, would dispose of their superfluities to those who are in distress. They are rebels a­gainst his Majesty's government who seek to starve his people. The principal re­bels are nearest the purlieus of the court. His Majesty has not better subjects than the manufacturing and labouring part of the people, and these are now obliged to suffer hunger—and also to endure the reproach of bad names. It is easy for a glutton of a minister to call his betters the scum of the earth, and to hire scrib­blers to abuse them; but what justice or mercy in this practice? Such behaviour to his Majesty's best subjects, must cer­tainly happen without his knowledge!

Thirdly, all nations are near their down­fall, [Page 49] when their internal peace is to be kept by a standing army. Mutual love is the only thing that can support a com­munity; when the one half distresses the other, and endeavours to keep them in subjection by force and compulsion, a dis­solution must inevitably follow.

Fourthly, when the army, under the authority of the crown, is composed of the worthless part of the community, they become a distinct society by themselves, and will be ready to do any service to en­slave the nation; being destitute of all principles of honour or honesty, for a small hire, they will perform as many ar­bitrary and oppressive acts as they expect to be rewarded for; and will consider the injuries which they do the nation, as no­thing more than advantages taken of a­nother community. Wherever such an army is, they will always consider them­selves as in an enemy's country, and pay no regard to the inhabitants. They know that they are hated, and for that reason act towards all men as if they were ene­mies. Rome was first enslaved by an ar­my [Page 50] of Banditti, and so will Great-Britain, without some new regulations. Our ar­mies at present are composed of the dregs of the people, and the greatest part of the common soldiers are made up of the re­fuse of gaols, and the scourings of the kennels of cities; they are fit therefore for any dirty work that their officers may employ them in.—And a great number of the officers are dissolute and profligate, waiting for perferment; and for that rea­son, are ready to do any thing that a prime minister may order, without so much as paying the smallest regard to the welfare of their country.

When we had ended our altercation, the officer and the rest of the company came to an eclaircissement, and instead of repeating grievances or finding fault with one another's profession, we agreed for the rest of the journey to admit of non­conformity, and suffer every one to dissent when they pleased.

We saw nothing after we left Durham that was worthy of notice, till we came [Page 51] to Grantham, except fine fields of grass and corn, which were exceedingly de­lightful.—We came into Grantham a­bout seven o'clock at night—but what we saw there, shall be the subject of ano­ther chapter.

CHAP. IV. The Doctrine of Steeples—The West Indian —Reflections upon it.

THE first thing which travellers see in approaching to large towns, is ge­nerally speaking, the church steeples. As they are ordinarily higher than the rest of the buildings, they are on that account more conspicuous. There is a pretty high steeple at Grantham, which salutes your eyes at a great distance before you ap­proach the town. It seems to be of the pyramidical kind; when we first perceiv­ed it, a question was suggested to me,— and perhaps as necessary to be resolved as many in the Athenian oracle.—But [Page 52] as it belongs chiefly to the bishops and their clergy, I will not undertake to an­swer it. It is neither mathematical, phy­sical, mechanical, logical, nor moral: it appears to me to be entirely ecclesiastical. For the benefit of the clergy I shall just propose it. What is the reason that the greatest part of church steeples are for the most part built at the west end of churches?

If I was to build a church, but I hope I never shall, I should certainly rear the steeple upon the east end hereof.—For as the highest winds in this island gene­rally blow from the west, in case the stee­ple should be blown down, the church would be safe:—while those churches which have their steeples upon the west end, if they should chance to fall by the violence of the west wind, would endan­ger the whole fabric, and perhaps spoil the devotion of the congregation, if it should fall upon a Sunday or an holy day. For this reason it would be right, when there is some mention of reforming the [Page 53] church, to begin with reforming the steeples.

It must undoubtedly have been an ar­ticle of the church in antient times with regard to steeples, that they should be all built upon the west end of the edifice. If this is really the case, it removes all dif­ficulties, and affords a sufficient reason for the practice; for as the judgment of the clergy determines the sense of all things ecclesiastical, if it was their will to have steeples built in that manner, it is reason sufficient. Sic voluerunt Clerici, is as good a reason as can be given for any article of the church. I shall leave the full discus­sion of this material part of church disci­pline to the bishops and their clergy.

As the sun was a good way up when we came to Grantham, we had some time to take a view of it. The captain and I went sauntering through the town. 'Tis a pleasant place, but the houses are indif­ferently built.—We saw nothing of any consequence to mention in this journal. After we had wandered through the town, [Page 54] we came in to supper, when the captain took care to say some civil things to our landladyes sister, who is a very handsome young woman. It was easy to perceive that she was acquainted with those civi­lities, and could distinguish between truth and falshood. She made the captain keep his distance in such a manner, as put an end to his civilities. The fine­ness of her person, and the beauty of her complexion, were joined with a modest se­verity, that protected her from the rude­ness and insults which gentlemen think themselves entitled to use towards a cham­bermaid, which was the character she acted in.

After supper, we were informed, that some of Mr. Garrick's servants were that night to exhibit in an old thatched house in a corner of the town. They had come abroad during the summer vacation, to see if they could find any thing to keep their grinders going till the opening of Drury-lane Theatre. They were that night to play the West-Indian, with the [Page 55] Jubilee, and we determined to see them perform. The actors played their parts very indifferently, but one could perceive as much meaning in their performance, as to be able to distinguish between an honest man and a rogue. I should be very much afraid in personating the old rascal, of a solicitor too often, of becoming some­thing more than an imitation. It is not good to try experiments of this sort often, lest the habits of roguery should become predominant. But the generality of play­ers have little morality to lose.

The scenes were tolerably good, tho' the house was extremely bad;—and the actors made a shift to go through with the play as well as could be expected. The finest sight that we saw in this house, which was very crouded that night, was a fine collection of ladies and gentlemen. I question if any town of the same size in England can produce such a number of fine women. They were all in general both stately and beautiful;—not tawdry and tarnished like some fine ladies in the metropolis; nature had given them com­plexions [Page 56] which needed no assistance from art, and their native simplicity greatly ad­ded to their beauty. I was exceedingly well pleased to see such a number of young men and women in good health and good spirits. There was no clapping during the time of the play, though I am persuaded, had it been performed in Lon­don, the actors would have been clapped continually;—but the people of Gran­tham follow nature, and only clap when they feel. The whole of this night's work was over by eleven, and the compa­ny dismissed; when we returned to our lodging. Our time and that of the au­dience, might have been better employed, than in seeing a few stupid rogues endea­vour to imitate what some of them real­ly were.

After our return I began to reflect up- the characters in the play, and the per­formance of the several actors; as I had not a play-bill, I did not know the names of the players.—He who performed the part of old Varland the solicitor, seem­ed to act most naturally. It is more easy to [Page 57] imitate vice than virtue, thought I; and one of the company suggested, that the player who acted old Varland must have been a rogue himself, otherwise he could not have entered so well into the spirit of the character.

The play itself has some good charac­ters in it, which are tolerably well drawn; though I could wish for the sake of Old England, that Fulmer and his wife had not been in it. Major O Flarherty is an excellent character, and was tolerably well supported, but those who pretend to know the players say, that he who sustained this character, was only an imitator of Mr. Moody.

The writer of the West-Indian has un­doubtedly drawn his characters with judgment, but it is not so easy to find ac­tors. Loose, abandoned, dissolute per­sons, will never be able to support the characters of Stockwell and O'Flaherty; and yet the greatest part of our players are both loose in their sentiments, and immo­ral in their lives. Lady Rusport is such [Page 58] a character as is fit to create abhorrence in the mind of every tender hearted per­son; to act such a character is a task fit for the Devil, for no woman who de­serves the name of a human being, is a­ble to act it properly, or make a good imitation. If there are any such old la­dies in England, I heartily wish for the honour of the nation, that they were all out of it.

Nothing pleased me more in the whole play, than the discovery which Major O'Flaherty made concering the will in fa­vour of Charles Dudley. The characters of Miss Rusport and Miss Dudley are well supported in the play, but I was not able to say so much in behalf of the actors.

The farce was intolerable, and notwith­standing all the travelling to the Jubilee by persons of all ranks, the performance can never afford entertainment to men of understanding. But it is now time to conclude this chapter, and proceed on our journey.

CHAP. V. A new theory of sleep—The cause thereof— The anatomy of the brain—The necessity of taking breakfast—Doctor Law's opi­um.

WE left Grantham at two o'clock in the morning, which was much too soon, considering how little sleep we had got the preceding night.—But there was no help for it,—we were under authority, and were obliged to obey. A person who has paid three pounds eight shillings and six pence at Newcastle for a seat in the stage-coach, will be a fool to lose it if he can help it—But if he cannot rise early in the morning, no one will wait upon him, or return him his money.

We were all in the coach at two,—and the driver went off as fast as if he would have driven us to Stamford in the twink­ling of an eye. As soon as we were fair­ly out of the town, I fell asleep.—And perhaps you will say, what is that to us? what indeed.—It is nothing but what [Page 60] every person does every night,—and sometimes every day—unless when your lordships are at a masquerade, or some such like godly employment; and then you are obliged to turn the day into night. So far the argument is in my favour. Ar­gument! what have arguments to do with sleep? More than sleep has to do with arguments,—for it will hear none, when it comes upon a person,—but takes pos­session of all his sensations at once, and renders him an imitation of death.

I dare venture to lay an equal wager, that there is not one who ever travelled in a stage-coach can tell what I am go­ing to say next concerning sleep. For all what Rohault and Boerhaave have said up­on this subject, it will be easy to prove that they knew no more about the mat­ter, than one of the seven sleepers.—

For in the first place, they never saw it,—in the second place, they never smel­led it,—and in the next place, they never heard it.—Now without the assistance of some of these senses, how could they [Page 61] know what it is? It is impossible they could see it,—for it closes the eyes, and shuts the windows of the human frame. It is impossible they could hear it, for it makes no noise, and comes silently upon a person unawares.—It is impossible they could smell it, for it is no body;—and it is a very improper way of speaking to say, that they could taste or feel it,—for it seems chiefly to consist of negatives. It is a sort of want of feeling and sensation; for no sooner does a man see, hear, feel, taste, and smell, than he is awake.

If an anatomist were to try an experi­ment, to find out the cause or residence of sleep, he would as surely waken a man as ever he was wakened in his life;—and this would spoil the whole experiment. Now Doctors Monro, Hunter, Hewson, and all the lecturers upon anatomy, know no more about sleep, than a sleeping man does.—And the reason is, they never ana­tomized the brain of a sleeping man,— till they do this, without awakening or killing him, I will not esteem them any better judges than other people.—

[Page 62]All we have to proceed upon is hypo­thesis, and the most probable hypothesis must certainly be best.—

When a man is searching after an hy­pothesis, he is like one who is in search of the philosophers stone.—He tries this experiment, and the other experiment,— forms this proposition, and the other pro­position, and pursues them through all the modes and figures of logic; and when he can find nothing to say against it himself, he concludes that nobody else can, and so determines it to be right.

Rohault says, ‘That sleep consists in a scarity of the animal spirits which flow into the nerves, whereby the nerves are shut up, and bring on sleep.’

Boerhaave defines sleep, ‘to be that state of the medulla of the brain, where­in the nerves do not receive so copious, nor so forcible an influx of spirits upon the brain, as is required to enable the organs of sense and voluntary motion to perform their functions.’ Now neither [Page 63] of these hypotheses are certainly true.—It is all guess work;—and by considering the attributes of spirits, we may form ano­ther hypothesis entirely new.

It is the motion of the animal spirits which keeps us awake, by playing tricks with our nerves,—whether we consider them as tubes or strings.—If they are tubes, those little spirits must blow in them like a trumpet or a pipe, and then we are kept awake by wind music;— if they are cords or strings, then we are kept awake by vibration, by the spirits playing upon our nerves as upon a fiddle. As long as these invisible beings are dis­posed to play upon our nerves, we are kept awake; but when they cease, then we fall asleep. Is it not then a very na­tural inference, that sleep is no more than the spirits taking a rest.

The next thing to be considered in a stage-coach, is the cause of sleep; and it is a very natural inference from what has been observed, that the cause of sleep is [Page 64] the weariness of the animal spirits. To play constantly upon the finest of musical instruments whatsoever, will produce weariness at last. It is a labour which cannot always be sustained without some relaxation;—for which cause the spirits must rest occasionally.

Whether these invisible beings rest voluntarily or involuntarily, I will not pretend to say. And indeed, as I am only speaking by hypothesis, I may be said to determine nothing. Nor can any person determine certainly how the spirits behave in time of sleep, till some of the adepts in anatomy dissect a sleeping subject, and then we shall have an experiment which will afford the best and strongest evi­dence, and the highest degree of certainty.

It is an uneasy circumstance in the way of sleep, when the foot falls asleep first; for this disgusts the rest of the spirits which are performing their functions, and makes them fall foul upon the lazy ones, which give over their employment;—and in the struggle between the lazy ones and [Page 65] those which are at work, a man's leg is like to be torn to pieces.

The shortest definition of sleep is, that "it is a God;" this was the Romans opinion of sleep, who generally deified those powers which they could not ac­count for.—The French and the English take the contrary method; for they will not admit of any invisible power to be di­vine, unless they can perfectly account for it. Whether the Romans were wiser than the French and English, or not, I shall not say, but it is manifest they were more pious.

Be sleep what it will, it is so powerful, that no person can resist its energy;— there is a sort of omnipotence in sleep. It can bind philosophers, fools, giants, he­roes, and cowards, so fast with its chains, that they will lie as still as if they were dead.

As some physiologists have affirmed, that sleep lodges principally in the brain, it will be necessary to consider the inside [Page 66] of the human scull, on purpose to find where this deity takes up his residence.—

As Doctor Wallis is too tedious, and Winslow and the rest of anatomists, are too prolix to copy, I shall take a way of mine own, in developing the contents of the human brain-case.—I promise to make no use of Latin or Greek words, but shall endeavour to reduce the brain to pure English; for, with the leave of the fa­culty, I see no reason in the world why an Englishman's brain should always be rendered into Greek or Latin. When a­natomists dissect the brain of a Roman or a Greek, they may use the language which that brain has been accustomed to, but when they touch an Englishman's scull, they ought to speak and write plain En­glish.

It will be only necessary to consider the brain as far as sleep is concerned with it.

There are in the brain two mothers; a pious, and a hard mother. These take care of the small vessels, and serve as guardians [Page 67] to the veins and arteries. The pious mo­ther embraces her children in her bosom, and kindly supports them.—The hard or strong mother, which is so called, because she defends the brain from the severe pressure of the scull, and preserves it from violence, is likewise of great service to the brain in some other respects. This may be called the grand mother of the brain, —the other the true mother.

Between these two mothers, there is a membrane, which is called the spider's web.—This is designed for catching in­telligences, in the same manner that cob­webs catch flies. When once an idea is entangled in this subtil net, unless it is as strong as a bee or a wasp, it is impossible it can get away again.—It must remain there to add to the food of the brain, till it be digested into a proposition.—When two ideas are catched here, they make a a proposition, but if three happen to be apprehended, then they form a syllogism in the brain.

Were it not for this spider's web, ideas [Page 68] would fly as fast out of the brain as they come into it, and then the human scull would be as void of understanding, as when the brain is taken out.—Anatomists tell us, that this spider's web is situated at the back part of the forehead, upon the hinder part of the head.

This intellectual trap is not in all per­sons the same,—for in some brains it catches the ideas, of points, lines, super­ficies, triangles, squares, circles, cones, and cylinders. In others it lays hold up­on ideas, of spirits, and all things which are invisible.—The first collection of ideas constitutes a Mathematician, the latter a Metaphysician.

In some, this brain-trap catches no­thing but ideas of verses, and articles of poetry:—Gods and Goddesses, flames and darts, are stowed so thick, that scarce­ly one idea of common sense can get li­berty to enter. A brain filled with this sort of materials, makes the brain of a poet.

[Page 69]When the idea of gain is catched in this cob-web, it infallibly makes a man a Merchant, and renders him covetous: from hence proceed flattery, dissimulati­on, and deceit.

In some, the ideas of places and pensi­ons are crouded thick in this spider's web, which make them betray their country, and take sides with every dirty adminis­tration.

To explain the human brain more par­ticularly till we come to the residence of sleep.—Consider, it is divided into the upper and lower, or the fore and hinder part.—These two are separated by the second protuberance of the hard mother. The upper side of the fore part of the brain is divided into two hemispheres; and its lower side into four lobes, two be­fore and two behind—the latter are the largest. Where these four meet, there is a funnel, which reaches from the bel­lies of the brain into the spitting gland,— which gland is seated upon the Turk's chair. Behind the funnel two small bo­dies [Page 70] appear, called the two white protu­berances. Between the two hemispheres of the fore part of the brain, somewhat lower than the windings about, there is a white body called the callous body. Un­der this callous body lie the superior and side bellies, which are divided into right and left by a thin membrane, called the bright enclosure, which reaches between the callous body and the arch. This arch is a marrowy body; it has its rise from the fore part of these little bellies, with two roots which join together, and run­ning towards the back part, they divide into parts called the legs of the arch. In the basis of these two little bellies, are four heights;—the two foremost are called the furrowed bodies, the other two go by the name of the beds of the eye nerves. Beyond these, there are two pro­jections called the buttocks, and under them, two called the witnesses. Above the buttocks, there is a gland called the pine-apple, where some have alledged the soul resides.—But this I leave to the learned.

[Page 71]Upon the beds of the eye nerves, there are a number of blood vessels, glands and water ducts, called the work in form of a chorus. Under the beginning of the arch, is a small hole, called the bore, or passage to the feet of the arch, or the way to the funnel; and under the middle of the arch there is one called the back-hole, which is covered with a valve, called the great val­ve. The space under the two foremost bellies, between the holes and the hinder part of the brain, is the third belly.—So much for the fore part of the brain.

The hinder part, is situated under the second process of the hard mother, and the fourth little belly is discovered by divid­ing this part of the brain lengthways.— The extremity of this, goes by the name of the writer's quill. Here are two mar­row bodies, called little feet, which are the basis of the under part of the brain. The marrowy part in this corner of the brain, branches out like a plant.

The substance of the brain is distin­guished into the outer and inner,—the [Page 72] one barky, ashy, or gland-like—the other marrowy, white, or nervous. There is likewise in the brain, the marrow which is longer than it is broad, or the oblong marrow;—it appears in two bodies, from the former part of the hindermost lobes of the brain. These two bodies are called the legs of the oblong marrow. When they are joined, they form an isthmus, and be­yond this is an eminence, which has re­ceived the name of the ring process.

The spinal marrow is another thing contained within the human brain-case. It is a production of the oblong marrow, and passes through the great bore of the scull, and the channel of the spine; it enlarges about the last joint of the back bone, and the first of the neck, where the large nerves branch off to the arms; it enlarges in the loins, where the leg nerves begin.—The lower end thereof, with those and other nerves, is called the horse's tail.

I shall not proceed any farther in the description of the brain, but enquire whe­ther [Page 73] sleep resides in any of these parts al­ready mentioned,—or whether it may not take up its residence in any other part of the body.

The most probable conjecture that I can think of, is, that as all the spirits seem to originate in the oblong marrow, and pass through the great bore of the scull into the spinal marrow, whereby all the nerves are supplied with spirits, either to blow in them like tubes, or to beat upon them like fiddle-strings; so sleep takes pos­session of this sally-port, and stops these little invisible beings from issuing forth; and on this account the body ceases to perform its usual functions.—If any per­son knows more concerning this subject, they are welcome to the discovery.

After a person in perfect health has travelled two stages in a stage-coach, even suppose he should take a nap, he will find himself disposed for his breakfast at the end of the second stage.—This is ne­cessary for the purpose of keeping the spi­rits strong, to beat off sleep from his quar­ters;—if [Page 74] a traveller desire to keep awake, he must take his breakfast to strengthen his spirits.

There are only two ways to keep a per­son awake, when he sees no visible dan­ger;—either to make him very hungry, and then the spirits will turn frantic and fight sleep,—or to take all the reasonable supplies which nature requires to support them in a regular manner.

As the animal spirits are restrained from their usual exercise by sleep,—and as these invisible beings have been discovered to act in matter, so Dr. Law and others have conjectured that the rational spirit must also fall into a state of inactivity, as soon as the organs of sensation are unfitted for the soul to act upon. When therefore the system of sensation fails, the action of the soul (which they consider to depend as much upon the senses, as waking de­pends upon the free exercise of the ani­mal spirits) ceases, till a new system of sensations be restored to it.—And there is no certainty from any principles of phi­losophy, [Page 75] that ever there shall be any more cogitation, if the soul fall asleep at death.

This is but a dreary idea, and philoso­phy cannot help us out of this gloomy difficulty. If the human soul falls asleep at death, and Dr. Law has assured us that it will; there is no certainty that ever it shall wake again.—Be thankful ye children of wickedness! there is no pain or punishment in the next state. Ye shall all sleep as sound as a top through all eternity, when all former actions shall be quite forgotten. This is Dr. Law's spiritual opium, of which I shall say no­thing more in this chapter.

CHAP. VI. A peep at London—A conjecture—The so­cial interview.

IN a fine summer afternoon, when you come over Highgate-Hill, you may see London.—In a stage-coach you have on­ly [Page 76] a peep at it. There is, said I, a nation of steeples in London.—It must be a won­derful holy place, there are so many churches in it.—The sun shone upon the windows, and what we saw appeared to advantage.—It is a very fine place to be sure, otherwise there would not so many go to it.

The fields between Highgate and Lon­don, are naturally pleasant, but they were now parched for want of rain, not a sin­gle shower had fallen around London for six weeks—the fields were burnt up, and there did not appear to be a morsel of grass for either horse or cow. It brought the days of Elisha the prophet to my mind, and the case of Samaria.

The officer said, "the rain came down where it pleased."—Nay, said one of the ladies—"where God pleases."—The la­dy was right—I expected that there would have been a dispute about Providence— but the officer yielded.—

The lady had the better of the argu­ment.—What [Page 77] place is London, thought I to myself—It is a large place—a rich place—and a wicked place; it was all conjecture, for I never saw it before. "What sort of a place is St. James's?" It is the King's palace—"Do we see it yet" said I to our companions? they an­swered, no.

I proceeded in my conjectures.— ‘Perhaps London is four times as large as Newcastle’ —it is ten times as large— it is far too large. ‘Is it a walled town? are the walls high?’ There are no walls at all.

In the midst of my conjectures we reached London—We are in the city now, said I,—not yet replied the offi­cer, who had a mind to contradict me. This is only the west part of the town— you must pass Temple-bar before you en­ter the city. I did not mind that distinc­tion—it is all city, said I to myself— The coach stopped—we are in Holborn now, says the ladies—we must get out, said the officer. And so we did.

[Page 78]The rest of the company in the coach, went each their own way to their friends; but I being a stranger, continued all night in the inn where we alighted.

I had not been two minutes out of the coach, when I was surrounded by sixteen intimate acquaintance. When a person is in a strange place, the sight of a friend has more effect, than on other occasions. I thought myself at home, and sat down. After enquiring concerning one another's welfare, all my acquaintance went away, except four. Our company now consist­ed of a clergyman, two sons of clergymen, and a doctor of physic. We called for some London beer, and drank the health of our friends in the north.—People may be happy any where, provided they do not make themselves miserable. We part­ed in good time.—My friends went to their lodgings, and I went to bed.

CHAP. VII. General observations upon London—Me­lancholy—The cause thereof in London— Banking the way to Heaven.

THE people in London are vastly dis­creet to those who bring money with them, and ask nothing from them.— They naturally suppose, that those who come only for a few weeks, have no fa­vours to ask, and are very glad to see them. They are sometimes mistaken, for those who come from the country have their own ends in visiting the metropolis; and more come with a view to advantage, than merely for pleasure. Pure and re­fined pleasures are not to be met with in large cities. They may be enjoyed in greater perfection in the country.

When a stranger comes into such a ci­ty as London, he will naturally consider the characters of the inhabitants; but if he was as wise as Solomon, he could not describe the character of the Londoners. [Page 80] They are not of one, but a thousand cha­racters. Some are civil and kind; some are rude and uncivil;—others are haugh­ty, and some are humble.— London is an abridgment of the world—whatever is said of the world, may be said of it.— I wish there was no reason to say, that it lies in wickedness.

London is a place of trade; the inhabi­tants are chiefly engaged in business; but if it was not supplied from the country, in half a century it would be very thin of people. Those that are born in London, are generally weak and puny, and those who come to reside in it, grow every day weaker than they were when they came to it.—It is the same in all large towns.

Compliments are carried to great per­fection in this great city; I wish honesty was carried as far; but it is impossible for honesty to stay where there is much busi­ness.—This is no reproach to London, for Babylon, Tyre, and Rome, were so be­fore it, and company takes away the edge of reproach.—Mankind seldom are a­shamed, [Page 81] while they have multitudes to keep them in countenance.

The Coachmen in London are honest, and the reason is, they dare not be other­wise; there is a law which enjoins punish­ment for them, if they fail in point of honesty.—Forced honesty is better than none; for though it does no good to such as are honest for fear of punishment, yet it does good to the community—The gallows is good for some purposes.

In London, as in all great towns, noble actions are oftner done through ostentati­on, than from a principle of truth; but as this city is composed of a great variety of characters, this motive is stronger or weaker, according to the habits which individuals have acquired before they came there, or the influence which cus­tom has upon the tempers of particular characters.

The merchants in London have the art of setting off all things to the best advant­age; the goods in their shops are full as [Page 82] good as those in their warehouses. If they are not better, nobody can blame them.—A trader always makes the best of his window; and if it were not for the fine windows, the Printsellers might shut up their shops. It is not safe, however, to stop to look at their windows; for they are too often crouded with thieves,— and you are in danger of having your pockets picked.

The Bookseller's shop is the bank of au­thors; for none else in London pay the least regard to genius. They endeavour, however, to serve themselves first, by making a good bargain,—and they may be said to live upon the brains of authors.

Cheapside is one of the finest places in the city, but if there were fewer shops in it, there would be more trade; it seems to be over-stocked, which impoverishes the merchants; the business of the linen draper seems to be past its meridian.

The Barbers in London are all sabbath breakers; they shave and dress upon the [Page 83] Sunday, when the people will let them, which is generally as often as they come. The shop-keepers have adopted the Ma­caroni heads, and are at as much pains with their heads, as with their shops. If they endeavoured to mend their hearts, they would find the advantage of it; for it would be a means of keeping them from cheating, to which they have many temptations.

The west end of the town consists chiefly of idle people, who have nothing to do, and on that account are prone to do ill. The principal manufacturers of vices lodge there; and it would be hap­py for London if nobody had any com­munication with them.—But then the superfluities would not sell; they are therefore obliged to encourage sin for the sake of trade.

St. James's Park is a very fine place, but I have seen an hundred as fine places in the country. Remove the King's pa­lace and the court twenty miles from it, and it would be no better than many other fields about London.

[Page 84]When I came to London, I thought the plague had been in the city, or the King was dead; for all the people had distress in their countenances. Melancholy had overspread the town, but raged most a­bout the Exchange. The bulls and bears, like the dogs in Homer, were first seized with this plague, which began in Change Alley.

So strong was the force of this melan­choly, that it was fit to bristle the beard of a Jew. One would have thought that the whole town had just come from the tabernacle, or had been within a few paces of purgatory; the muscles of their faces were so severely distorted, that they looked as if they had seen an apparition, or had been frightened by the Devil. The poor rogues who were going to Ty­burn, did not seem more concerned than the Gentry upon the Exchange.

The reason of this appeared to be, that they had not laid up their treasure in heaven, but had given it into the hands of the banker; who instead of returning [Page 85] them their own with usury, had hidden their talents in the earth, so that none of them could find their money, but lost both stock and interest.—

This was the cause of their melancho­ly; the banker had run off with their God, and what had they more? In Lon­don the fall of the stocks, or the failure of a banking-house, is more severely felt than the stings of an ill conscience, or the pangs of remorse. Where one man hangs or drown himself from a religious consi­deration, ten jump into the Thames for fear of poverty, or from grief through the loss of money.

Of all persons and classes whatsoever, there are probably the fewest bankers that go to heaven; and yet banking is the only way to it.

Our Saviour commands all his disciples to "lay up their treasure in heaven;" this is their true bank; and ‘where their treasure is, there will their hearts be also.’ Therefore the only way to dis­pose [Page 86] mens minds to the things that are a­bove, is to lay up their treasure in hea­ven. I was lead to this reflection, by ob­serving on the Exchange almost all the people in the country, who had intrusted their money in the hands of city bankers, closely attending to look after their trea­sure.—How hard is it for rich men to be saved? It is impossible—Impossible to every created power—It is a mercy it is not impossible to God!—It is a maxim which will hold in general, though there are some exceptions against it, that those who have most money, have least mercy.— If it were not so, there would be few poor and distressed people.—Those who give to the poor, lay up their treasure in hea­ven, and can never loose their money, if the Scriptures are true.—But what have the Scriptures to do in observations upon London? what indeed! Scripture will not sell; it is a stale commodity, and does not answer to the booksellers.—We shall pass it over then, and conclude this chap­ter.

CHAP. VIII. Observations upon windows—Remarks up­on the police of London.

WHAT a great number of fine win­dows is there in London?—but they are as well paid for—the tax upon window-light comes high. The poor as well as rich feel this imposition. We talk of Liberty, but when we have not the free use of light, it does not look as if we were very free. The wisdom of the le­gislature is not to be questioned, but it is hard to lay such a heavy tax upon what nobody can want. It smells rank of either distress in the government, or a design to oppress. We must charitably suppose the first, for to suppose the latter would be to blame the ministry, which must not be allowed.—It is, and it please your high­nesses, very hard for poor people not to have liberty to peep at the Sun, the moon, or the stars, without a prodigious expence. But how can it be helped? If it pleased his Majesty and his Ministers, to lay the tax [Page 88] upon painted ladies and loose women— There are perhaps as many in London as there are windows,—or if there are fewer, advance the taxation.

But this would be still hard upon the town—The shop-keepers would not be able to keep mistresses, and the minis­try would have to pay as well as the rest, which would not be fair. However, there is no fairness in taxing light—for it is ab­solutely necessary, and no person can want it who have eyes to see.—Suppose a person was to chuse to live in a house without windows, there is reason to fear they would tax his door, or lay an impo­sition upon his darkness, for his candles are taxed already. There is something unjust also in the mode of taxing win­dows,—the quantity of light, and not the number of windows should be taxed. There are some windows as large as ten, why is not the tax in proportion? Op­pression advances by a gradual motion.— Ovid tells us that the world was once a common.—

The ground was as free as the sun and the air.—But now the world is divided, and the light and the air taxed;—and the divisions are not very equal, nor the taxes very light.

Cheapside, in a fine summer day, is a place of great concourse;—a great num­ber of heads are to be seen in the streets, and they are all taxed.—They must un­doubtedly bring a great sum of money to some place or other, and fill some peoples purses.

Perhaps there are seven hundred thou­sand heads in London, which pay two-pence a piece; this will amount to five thousand eight hundred and twenty three pounds.—A goodly sum for liberty for men to use their heads. This to be sure is for the good church, which ought not to be grudged.—But then there is also two-pence for smoke, and fourpence for [Page 90] bread and wine at Easter.—All this will make near eleven thousand nine hundred and sixty-six pounds; for which the peo­ple have no satisfaction, and the govern­ment no real advantage.

Some will be ready to smell Atheism from this reflection, and cry ‘the church is in danger.’ —And she ought to be in danger, when she devours so much money which might be better applied. Ah! these petitioners will never rest till they bring in a root and branch petition; and where is the harm of that? People in these dear times are obliged to take all methods to save money. And if it please your reverences, you would do the same thing yourselves, provided the Lord would turn it to your interest.

The Police in London is very good, and the government of the watermen on the river Thames is also tolerable.—No person will impose upon you, provided you know the rules, and put them in mind of the laws. The coach-hire is all settled, and so exactly, that a few yards will bring you [Page 91] in for one six-pence more.—There is no free grace among coachmen—you must pay for every inch of your way.

The city of London is full of lamps at night, and the watch is set at eight o'clock, and continues till the morning light. The watch-men in London are the most insig­nificant creatures I ever saw.—Some of them are scarcely able to walk—a great number of them are old superannuated persons, who can only sit in a box, and look at those who pass by.—And if there is any truth in reports, there are a num­ber of them kept in pay by the ladies of the town. Those who keep good hours in London, are in no danger; as for others they must abide the consequences. Con­sidering the largeness of the place, and the great concourse of people, London is better than could be well expected. Any per­son may live very happy in London, pro­vided they have money, and are disposed to live peaceably—and if they are inclined to do business, they may have wherewith to live upon.

CHAP. IX. A visit to St. Paul's—A trip to the court—Observations upon it—the ad­vantages of London porter—A journey to Hackney—The hospitable clergyman.

FOR a person to be in London, and not see St. Paul's, is next to impossible. He may see the steeple before he comes near it;—and he hears so many extra­ordinary stories of its height and great­ness, that his curiosity is wonderfully ex­cited before ever he approaches it.

It is needless to say, that St. Paul's church is five hundred feet in length, and from the marble pavement to the cross on the top of the cupola, three hundred and forty feet high.—It is both high enough, and long enough, in all conscience.

What is very remarkable in this large consecrated pile of building, there is but a small part of it devoted for public worship. The rest is a lobby for people to divert [Page 93] themselves in, and for loose people to make assignations. There is a good or­gan in this church, and a choir of singers, who sing tolerably well, but not extraor­dinary. Public worship is performed here in such a manner, as any sober per­son would believe that the worshippers were infidels. The persons concerned, appear either no way interested in their acts of devotion, or divert themselves during the time in a scandalous manner. They would play a comedy better than perform religious worship—Indeed their whole performance has more the appear­ance of a farce, than devotion. Public worship is also but ill attended here;— except those whose livings depend upon their religion.—Scarcely any else ap­pear, except strangers who come out of curiosity. If strangers were to judge of the truth of religion, from the behaviour of those who profess it in this place, they would certainly conclude, that it was a fiction, and of no real service to mankind.

There are a few door-keepers who ex­pose St. Paul's church to sale every day in [Page 94] the year.—You cannot have the privilege of seeing the gallery or the steeple, with­out paying at every door you approach. What one sees, is well worth the money; but it appears mean for christians to pros­titute their church for gain. In the very time of divine service, you may have the attendance of a church officer, to shew you all the curiosities about the cathedral.

Upon the top of the steeple, you have a fine view of London.—I know no place where it is so well seen at one view. The houses appear from hence to be small in­significant huts, and the people like pig­mies. The whispering gallery is a great curiosity,—you can hear a man who is so kind as to give you an abstract of the his­tory of this church in whispers, at a great distance, when you would think that he was speaking very loud.—But those who have read Maitland's history of London will need no information concerning this building.

This cathedral is a grand piece of ar­chitecture, and Christopher Wren deserved a patent for building churches.

[Page 95]It is reckoned a great meanness for a person to be in London, and not to visit the court, and see the King.—I was under a necessity to avoid this imputation, to take a trip to the court to see their majesties. The ideas of those who have never seen a court, nor have had the op­portunity of seeing crowned heads, are ready to make them too sanguine in their expectations.—The stories which they read in news-papers concerning his sacred Majesty, their Highnesses the Princes of the blood,—and the honourable Secretaries of State, make them expect to see some­thing very extraordinary.—They are rea­dy to imagine, that kings and queens are not like other men and women, but of an higher rank of beings.

His Majesty and the Queen came from Kew about half past one o'clock, and I watched carefully to have a peep at them in their coming out of the coach. I was in as good a situation as could be wished for.—I no sooner saw his Majesty, than the old maxim in the law of England came to my remembrance, that the King [Page 96] can do no wrong.—I am sure, said I to myself, if the King cannot, the Queen will not do any wrong. She seemed ex­ceedingly well pleased, and appeared to smile upon the spectators with a great de­gree of affability.—I wished that his Ma­jesty had done the same. Whether the little wag the Prince of Wales had been calling Wilkes and Liberty that morning or not, and had displeased our gracious Sovereign, I will not pretend to say,— but I thought he seemed not to be pleas­ed. I wished him his health, and a long prosperous reign—but he did not hear me, for I said it inwardly. Vive le Roi, thought I again, and may his Majesty have cause to be better pleased the next time I come to see him.

There were none there, that wished him greater prosperity than I did.—First, I wished, that he might be preserved from the bad advice of all selfish ministers.— Secondly, that he might always live and reign in the esteem of his people.—Third­ly, that he might always be, and seem well pleased, when his subjects came to [Page 97] see him.—And, lastly, that his Queen and his family might prosper, and that Great-Britain might never want a prince of the Brunswick line, who was both able and willing to rule the nation according to the laws of the constitution. If these are bad wishes, I am ready to beg his Majesty's pardon.

Having stood a little at the door, we at last went up to the lobby, to see the great people pass along to pay their respects to their Majesties, where we saw the ambas­sadors of France, Denmark, and Portugal. They were just like other men, only they had more servants, and assumed a great deal of state.

There were some poor noblemen, and a number of pensioners, who came also to make their court to his Majesty, pro­bably to have their salaries enlarged, or at least continued.—By all means let them have some small matters.—I cannot en­dure the thought of sending away beg­gars without giving them something.— But if it please your Majesty, thought I [Page 98] to myself, keep them out of the House of Commons, and do not lead them into temp­tation to betray the interests of their country.—Seeing they are beggars, do not place them upon horseback, lest they ride to the —. If beggars have wherewith to live upon—there is no reason why they should rule a nation.

The next thing which I was fond to observe, was the ladies of the court.— What a falling off was here! except her Majesty, there was not one that was worth the looking at. The famous Miss Ver­non was there, the sister of the chaste la­dy Grosvenor. I had heard of her being the toast of the town, and the star of the court.—But one of the ladies of Grant­ham would outshine a regiment of such beauties. People indeed differ in their opinion; courtiers do not follow nature, but plain people do. A painted woman may please a courtier, which a clown would despise. A fine woman will ne­ver improve at court, unless she imitate the Queen.—There was more of nature [Page 99] and plain simplicity in her Majesty, than about any woman I saw in London.

There was a very droll sort of a crea­ture which had come to court among the rest, I could not learn her name, but she had all the appearance of a London Doll, with a death's head upon it: Her eyes were sunk in her head, her nose was pro­minent, and inclined at the end like the bill of a kite; her cheeks were sticking to the bone, her teeth were too large for her lips, her chin was peaked like the snout of a pig, and her brow was furrow­ed with wrinkles.—She had, however, a very large fardingal, and was dressed like a girl of eighteen,—for which cause I took her for an old maid. My compa­nion and I thought that we had enough of the court for one day, and so we came away.

After walking four or five miles in Lon­don in a hot summer's day, thirst is ready to scorch a man's jaws.—A draught of porter is of great service on such an occa­sion.—We left the King, the Queen, [Page 100] and the court, and went into the first beer-house we could see. A draught of beer had a good effect upon us; it refreshed our spirits, and put us in trim for walk­ing. We were as happy with our porter, as any of the court could possibly be with Madeira or Champaigne. It was very good, and we were very thirsty, which made us relish it the better.

We proceeded in our way together.— My friend would have called a coach, but I was determined to have none.—Two shillings in London is as well in a man's own pocket, as in that of a coachman. Money is always necessary, and ‘two shillings may be of service another time,’ said I to my companion.

We parted and I went on to Hackney. It was by this time three o'clock, and I began to wish earnestly for my dinner. I had no occasion to wish when I came there; it was as ready as I could have wished it. I was engaged to dine with a clergyman there, who entertained me very kindly, and with a great deal of hospita­lity.

[Page 101]Mr. S—ns is a person who loves his friend, and is altogether undisguised in his friendship. Without that needless ceremony, which is often substituted in the room of sincerity, you receive a kind welcome, which you cannot miss to per­ceive to be real. Mrs. S—ns at first sight, insures you of a good welcome, and without using a number of needless com­pliments, expresses the best breeding with the best of hearts.—Here you may per­ceive dignity without pride, hospitality without vanity, joy without levity, and sincerity without disguise.

I had not been ten minutes in this house, before I forgot that I was from home, and behaved with as much free­dom as if I had been seven years acquaint­ed. There is something in real friend­ship which is irresistible, and gains the heart insensibly. Any person who pos­sesses the feelings of friendship, will soon feel its sympathy, and perceive its influ­ence.

Hackney, in summer, is a sort of para­dise, [Page 102] and I am very glad of it, for the sake of this worthy family, which I ne­ver saw before. There are pleasant fields, fine walks, and pure air. May the sun shine with his benign beams, and the rain fall in its proper season upon this plea­sant place! And may my hospitable cler­gyman be never worse, but always better, than the last time I saw him!

CHAP. X. A meeting of the Clergy at the King's-head Tavern in the Poultry—The first of August, a great Entertainment.

THERE happened to be an assem­bly of ministers met for prayer at Founders-hall, upon a very special occasi­on. The intention of this meeting, was, to ask the favour of Heaven for a bless­ing upon a seminary for training up young men for the ministry. This is a sort of a monthly solemnity, and is ordinarily con­cluded with a good dinner. I was in­vited [Page 103] by a friend to attend this meeting, which I did, both as to the praying and the dining part. We had abundance of both.

The prayers were begun before I came, but I was in time to hear three long prayers, and a tedious dull sermon. There are some ministers in London, pretend to have a great intimacy with the spirit, but from what I heard, it did not appear that they were more acquainted, than their neighbours. The sermons which I heard from some of them, were indigested rhap­sodies, destitute of sentiment, and crowd­ed with absurdities. They made exceed­ingly free with the Scriptures, in applying them to cases quite beside their purposes. A mystic jargon, which might have suit­ed the days of John Dun Scotus, made up the greatest part of their discourses, and their prayers were composed of irreverend addresses to the Deity, concerning things of very little importance. A shameful particularizing of individual persons, and of things, which appeared to be intended rather as flattery to their hearers, than so­lemn addresses to God Almighty.

[Page 104]One thing appeared very strange. The minister from the pulpit thought it no shame to sound his own praises, and speak to his own commendation, in a manner that no modest person could ei­ther do without shame, or hear without blushing. A minister must be far gone in the practice of hypocrisy and self de­ceit, before he can have the face to com­mend himself before a public audience. It is impossible that any man can have a good meaning, when he commends him­self.

After we had been a long time in the meeting house, we at last retired to the tavern; where the devotion was succeed­ed with a good dinner, and the Sermon washed down with a good glass. We all were entertained at the expence of the so­ciety, where the devotion was performed, and made kindly welcome by a few very decent laymen. The master of the aca­demy sat at the head of the table, and our entertainment was opened with a pretty long grace;—all hands soon made the best use of their time, till their appetites [Page 105] were fully satisfied; when two or three toasts went round, and every man drank what he pleased.

A little tartar of a parson, whose con­science seemed to be scandalized with the dresses of some of the lay-brethren, though his own was very spruce, and his fingers covered with rings, began an oration up­on the sinfulness of tye-wigs. ‘Such ornaments (he said) were inconsistent with the profession which they made, and in the days of the puritans would not have been allowed.—But now the times were bad, and sin abounded to a great pitch.’ A waggish young doctor who was present, could scarcely keep his gravity, when the dispute con­cerning the tails of wigs was begun, which greatly chagrined the little parson. The lay gentlemen said some sensible things in defence of their wigs, and seem­ed to have the better of the argument. I did not chuse to interfere in this religious dispute, any farther than by asking this enemy of tailed wigs, ‘whether the im­morality of a wig lay in the tail there­of?’ [Page 106] —The question raised a little laughter at the expence of the parson.

As there was nothing to pay, every man had liberty to go when he pleased, so the gentleman who introduced me, and the waggish doctor, bade them adieu, and came away.

Upon the first of August, I was invited to an entertainment at the Nag's-head Tavern in Leadenhall-street, where a num­ber of ministers were met to celebrate the accession of George the First, to the throne of Great-Britain. They had a sermon before they met here, but I was not present to hear it.

The complexion of this meeting of clergy, was different from that of the for­mer—they seemed to be pleased with one another, and shewed all the marks of true friendship.—When dinner was over, and the toasts gone round two gentlemen enter­tained us with two songs; "the glorious first of August," and "the Roast Beef of Old England;" and I dare say that few [Page 107] in England could have sung it better. There was no dispute concerning wigs in this assembly, but every person was a friend to another.—The reverend gentle­man who preached the sermon, was a chearful old man, and with the gravity of the divine, mixed the chearfulness of the friend and companion so well, that he seemed to be an amiable character. This entertainment was carried on with decen­cy, and ended with joy.—So, Reader,