To T. S. Eſq.

I am perfectly aware that no man ought to obtrude himſelf unneceſſarily on the public—but when chance has thrown in the way of even the meaneſt individual occaſion to remark on a variety of matters that lead to ſuch information as may afford general or particular inſtruction and amuſement, I know no reaſon why ſuch a labour ſhould not aſpire to popular notice.

Upon this principle—I addreſs, to the beſt judge I know of all general ſubjects, whether natural or acquired, my MUSICAL TOUR. In which I have had opportunity, at different times, to laugh, to deplore, to pity, and applaud—it has excited, in ſome inſtances, my aſtoniſhment; in others, my indifference; it has called forth my warmeſt gratitude, and moved my ineffable contempt.

The provocation of theſe different feelings, of courſe, had its riſe from my different public and individual reception. I have been loſt in admiration [2] at the benignant liberality of one man in power, and obliged to ſhelter myſelf under a ſort of contemptuous compaſſion at the ignorant importance of another. I have been charmed to wonder at profeſſional candour, and I have ſmiled, un⯑moved, at profeſſional envy. I have warmed to delight at inſtances of private friendſhip, and have beheld with unhappineſs, and forgiven, wanton attempts to do me private injuries.

As for my public reception, it has been flattering in the extreme, as far as it relates to applauſe. I wiſh I could ſay the ſame as to profit. One advan⯑tage I have certainly reaped from it—my country experience has given me a more competent view of popular opinion than all I had before done. I believe it may be owing to my having converſed with my audience, and taken them at the moment I made them feel. Among the number, however, who have at⯑tended me, I ſhall not eaſily forget the few who are firmly convinced I am a moſt impudent impoſtor—for that Mr. DIBDIN amaſſed ſo large a fortune by the Padlock and the Jubilee ^* as to be perfectly independent; whereas I ſtroll about the country; that I am a ſtout, jolly young man, in my own hair, whereas Mr. DIBDIN is a tall, thin man, and wears a wig^†. On this ſubject I have a large ſtock of Anecdotes, which you will get in their place.

This TOUR alſo will, as far as opportunity has permitted me, give the public ſome uſeful hints relative to inns, manufactories, natural and artificial curioſities, the ſtate of the country as to cultivation, and ſuch other particulars as have curſorily ſtruck me—and, really, Mr. PATERSON ought to ſubſcribe [3] handſomely—for I ſhall be able to improve his road book, which, in ſome in⯑ſtances, is very erroneous. Having alſo had many opportunities of converſing with men of genius, I ſhall communicate my remarks on thoſe converſations; in which, in particular, will be compriſed my ſentiments on MUSIC in all its points of view; for, to tell you a ſecret, while I merely conſidered myſelf as a public man, I held up diſdain as a ſhield to ward off the ſhafts of envy, and conceived myſelf under no obligation to blunt that malignity which neither gave me pain, nor injured me in the opinions of the candid and liberal. Hav⯑ing, however, made my election to cramp myſelf no more in the trammels of public drudgery, I mean, without favour or affection, honeſtly to point out, that muſic neither is, nor ought to be, what it is repreſented; that a know⯑ledge of it, ſufficiently competent for all common purpoſes, is to be eaſily at⯑tained; and, in ſhort, to ſhew the world how to beware of counterfeits, for ſuch are abroad—and, as I pledge myſelf to do this fully and fairly, I have no fear of ſucceeding to the diſcomfiture of all ſuch as have maintained that I am no muſician, that I do not know the nature of harmony, a ſingle method in modulation, or a rule in compoſition. Another object which peculiarly de⯑mands my attention is the THEATRE. Nor will a fair expoſition of its arcana come by any means improperly through the medium of this publication. An ac⯑count of the motives which induce me to quit my native country are a part of my compact with the public, and they cannot be enumerated without relating many theatrical tranſactions—beſides, a recent correſpondence with Mr. HARRIS ac⯑tually comes within the meaning of the TOUR, and as I conſider myſelf under an examination—and, what ought to be ſerious indeed, a ſelf-examination—would it not be unpardonable to conceal any part of the truth? which, for my comfort, will infallibly be credited; becauſe, ceaſing to be a public man, I cannot be ſuppoſed to have any intereſt in what I do.

Theſe matters, together with a prodigious number of obſervations, both of my own and others, on all general ſubjects—anecdotes, and the eſſence of what I have delivered, at different places, under the title of READINGS and [4] MUSIC, will make up a ſeries of letters which, as they are to contain the re⯑marks of a man long in the habit of adminiſtering to the pleaſure of the public, will, I truſt, with the advantage of your ſentiments on each ſeparate letter, be found to excite and ſatisfy public curioſity. Thus, you ſee, like Othello, I could take a hint—no ſooner had you ſignified a wiſh that I ſhould addreſs theſe letters to you, than I plumed myſelf upon that opportunity of introducing them eligibly to the world, and I hope you will ſuſtain no diſgrace in this liberty taken by,

To T. S. Eſq.

I cannot have a ſtronger ſtimulative to proceed than your kindneſs. The praiſe you are pleaſed to afford my introductory letter—which cannot, from its nature, be ſo entertaining as thoſe of which it is the harbinger—gives me very flattering hopes that this teſtimony of public grati⯑tude will hold ſome rank in the world's eſtimation. Be aſſured it ſhall be written with the moſt rigid integrity, and I think it will create ſome intereſt. You are ſo kind to ſay ‘"that you really think a ſeries of ſuch letters would take; and, though much depends on popular caprice and momentary taſte, for which there is no accounting, yet you muſt encourage me to proceed—for it is a muſical age, and an annus mirabilis of anecdote."’ Under the auſpices of a generous public, aſſiſted by the advice of a warm and experienced advo⯑cate, I ſhall fearleſſly go through my taſk, aſſured, while I addreſs myſelf to you, my feelings will meet every indulgence from the kind friend, and my FAME every advantage from the ABLE CRITIC.

To T. S. Eſq.

A meaſure, without a motive, is a ſuperſtructure without a foundation. There has been as much ſpeculation on my becoming an itinerant, as might, in France, have procured me the honour of a lettre de cachet. Vainly I ſay, at the bottom of my bills, that, having received a long and liberal patronage from the public, I come to thank that body for having amply requited my ſervices. Say the cavillers, ‘'your argument makes againſt you. Had you drawn ſo much money as you report, the preſent meaſure would not have been worth your while; and if you are ſuch a favourite, why not continue in a ſervice that has procured you ſuch reputation?'’ Some few I have ſet right in theſe particulars—the reſt are referred to this very letter, which ſhall ‘"a round, unvarniſhed tale unfold."—’

Firſt then—I certainly have received more public applauſe than any En⯑gliſh compoſer, except ARNE; nor was it leaſt when I could boaſt of that glo⯑rious competitor's friendſhip. Can any other than myſelf count upwards of ninety ſongs of his own compoſition, that have been encored? and yet I never in my life wrote a ſingle puff on my own account—but, on the contrary, conſtantly reprobated that contemptible ſupport of imbecility, and rotten prop [7] of debilitated reputation. Out of nearly ſixty pieces which I have written and compoſed, and which, before I have done, I will enumerate, no one has been actually damned—three only have been withdrawn—The Shepherdeſs of the Alps, which was miſerably performed—The Chelſea Penſioner, which was actually ſo ſucceſsful as to have four ſongs encored on the laſt night it was repreſented—and Amphytrion, which I was compelled to write on a plan I never approved. Many of the remainder have been performed more than thirty nights, ſome more than ſixty, in the firſt ſeaſon—not to mention thoſe which conſtantly keep the ſtage, and are favourites all over the kingdom; and yet, among theſe I have not included the Padlock, the Jubilee, nor any of thoſe pieces which, though compoſed by me, are not of my writing. A reception like this is evi⯑dently a liberal one, and muſt have brought an immenſe ſum of money—but to whom? To the managers of the theatre—who have conſtantly the oyſter, while the poet and compoſer divide the ſhells. Thus, uniting both thoſe cha⯑racters in myſelf, I have been encumbered with two ſhells inſtead of one—for fame, after all, like a theatrical banquet, though very fine, is not EATABLE. Theſe reaſons, which, I truſt, bear no marks of vanity, ſince they are plain facts, and I offer them only in my vindication, will ſhew that, though I have been handſomely paid, yet it has been in a coin advantageous to no other being than a camelion; and, as I am no air eater, but, on the contrary, love, as well as any body, the good things of this world, my intention is certainly to go where I am informed they are to be found.

Thus, you ſee, I have made the matter fairly demonſtrable, without the ſmalleſt depreciation of the public liberality. They gave the money, and I the pleaſure; and, therefore, I have not the leaſt doubt but they had rather I had received the profit.

Nevertheleſs—I ſhould have made the beſt of theſe bad bargains, and jogged on in the old way, had it not been evident that my unfortunate con⯑nection with the Circus barred the doors of the theatre—or rather, left them [8] a little open, that they might ſqueeze me the harder. I have had no piece ſince Amphytrion but Liberty Hall, which, after having nine ſongs encored the FIRST night (ſix of which were repeated, and the other three excuſed, out of compaſſion to the performers) was hiſſed by a party on the tenth, and immediately withdrawn. This cannot poſſibly be attributable to Mr. LINLEY—for, though, eleven years ago^*, Mr. SHERIDAN excuſed himſelf from keeping [9] a promiſe he had made of giving me the ſituation of compoſer to the houſe, which I had ſeven years held under Mr. GARRICK, by telling me that a connection with Drury-lane would certainly cauſe a heart-burning—though in the affair of Liberty Hall Mr. LINLEY protracted the benefit till it was no benefit at all—though Mr. LINLEY poſitively accuſed a friend of mine as the author of the above ſupererogate damnation, which friend has given me many ſtrong and unequivocal proofs that he is no dealer in words only—though I had the honour of kicking my heels in Mr. LINLEY's hall about thirty times in one ſeaſon, concerning a farce which was curſorily read, liked, re⯑viſed, and at length returned through the medium of the under prompter—which farce, by way of parentheſis, I afterwards ſent to Mr. HARRIS, who returned it, writing me word I had better get it performed at Drury-lane—though, notwithſtanding all this, I ſince ſent two pieces to Mr. LINLEY which were returned unread—and, laſtly, though Mr. LINLEY, to put the matter upon a footing, wrote me a letter, ſaying they did not want my talents at Drury-lane—yet, Mr. LINLEY's character as a fair, candid, honeſt man; free from littleneſs, and above all envy—his diffidence of his own merit, which he has often confeſſed to me did not at all qualify him for dramatic compoſitions—in ſhort, his amiable private virtues, his wonderful public abi⯑lities, which are ſo real that they are ten times over repeated almoſt every day in almoſt every newſpaper. All theſe abundantly prove that the above-related circumſtances, though ſelf-evident, have, ſomehow or other, like a ſham flaw in a good indictment, a ſort of apparent defection; and can, by ſpecious and ingenious arguments, which are a great deal better, becauſe more faſhion⯑able, than plain truth and common ſenſe, be made to quaſh the charge; and not only ſhew the accuſed immaculately innocent, but groſſly injured. But to drop all pleaſantry—are not theſe fardels of the mind? and if ſo—are they not incomparably more galling and ponderous than thoſe of the body? Mine, however, will always be relieved by the reflection that I have a friend like you, and the pleaſure I take in aſſuring you that I am unfeignedly yours,

To T. S. Eſq.

AS Triſtram Shandy was a long while employed on writing his hiſtory before he was born, ſo I ſhall be ſome time getting on with my MUSICAL TOUR before I ſet out. My motive which I talked of in the laſt letter is like a quantity of vivid quickſilver, which, being touched, ſeparates into a number of ſmaller globules. Theſe, in order to go on with preciſion, it muſt be my taſk to ſweep again into the original maſs—or, to ſpeak leſs circularly—it will be proper to touch on all that train of ſubordinate events which induced me to muſter up the abſolutely neceſſary reſolution of roving into foreign parts. To do this without a retrogade motion, for I hate every thing ungraceful, I ſhall not go regularly back, but at once ſkip to that period when, in conſequence of a difference of opinion with Mr. HARRIS, about the mode of altering Amphytrion—which, being done his way, was, as I predicted, performed without ſucceſs—that gentleman and I ſeparated. At that time I applied to a friend of mine to enter into ſome ſcheme with me, who prevailed on ſeveral other gentlemen to join him in building the Circus. The hiſtory of that place—the infamy of its preſent occupier—the blindneſs of the Surry magiſtrates—the ill treatment of the proprietors—and my incorrigible [11] weakneſs and folly in tamely ſuffering ſo many impoſitions, would make up matter for a much larger work than this I am writing—but, as I will not pay your patience ſo ill a compliment as to require that you ſhould rake in a jakes, and as alſo I mean, in my public deceaſe, to die in peace with all men, I ſhall only ſay that, having laboured four times more during three years than any other man ever did, I found I had nothing for it but to regain the theatres. This was certainly a forlorn hope, and I ſtruggled with it as long as I could. In particular, I had the pleaſure of kicking down about 290l. by building a caſtle in the air near Pancras, by virtue of an agreement with the famous—I had almoſt added another ſyllable—JACOB LEROUX, Eſq. architect, brick-maker, and trading-juſtice in the diſtrict of Clerkenwell. This gentleman, with a daſtardly ſpeciouſneſs for which a Hyena might envy him, promiſed me a licenſe in the name of ſeveral magiſtrates who oppoſed the motion, and know⯑ing, I ſuppoſe, the actual value of the proteſtations he had made, erected the ſkeleton of a building, which was blown down by the firſt high wind after the licence was refuſed.

Foiled thus in every attempt at independancy, I did my utmoſt to get reconnected with the theatres, but to no purpoſe. One manoeuvre, which I practiſed to accompliſh this, deſerves notice. I got a friend to preſent a co⯑medy to Drury-lane, without naming the author, who had ſo much intereſt, that Mr. SHERIDAN himſelf read about half a dozen pages, and praiſed them. The reſt of the piece was read by Mrs. SHERIDAN, who liked it very much. It was then referred to Mr. TICKEL, who referred it to Mrs. TICKEL, who read and approved it. After this, Mr. TICKEL pronounced that, with a few alterations, it would do; and ſomething was in agitation, though never com⯑pleted, concerning an accommodation for 100l. till the piece ſhould make its appearance. My friend is ſince gone abroad—and ſeeing I had nothing elſe for it, I wrote to Mr. TICKEL, ſetting him right concerning the author of the comedy, and deſiring to have it returned. Though I took a great deal of pains to get an anſwer to the letter, I have never yet received one, and the piece of [12] courſe remains in their hands. As I ſhall certainly, throughout the whole of this work, be very tenacious of advancing what I do not poſitively, and from my own conviction, know to be fact. I ſhall remark upon the above—that, as I had no communication whatever with Mr. TICKEL concerning this ſame co⯑medy, I could come at what I have related through my friend's account only. I have a pretty ſtrong preſumptive proof, however, that it is literally true; for, during the tranſaction, to clench the buſineſs, which the readers ſee it did with a vengeance, a near relation of Mr. TICKEL had a curacy given him of two liv⯑ings, not an hundred miles from Bedford, by the very gentleman who pre⯑ſented the comedy. Another friend, in the ſame manner, ſent an afterpiece to Mr. HARRIS, who returned it, ſaying, ‘"though it had great theatrical merit, it would not do on the ſtage."’—Hear this, ye would-be-witlings, and rejoice! theatrical merit is no longer a dramatic requiſite! This piece is now in the hands of Mr. COLMAN, who, by agreement, was to have per⯑formed it during his late ſeaſon—but, whether he did not wiſh to riſque the principal character with any body but Mr. PALMER, which is the reaſon he aſſigned to me, adding, that the piece was ſo well written it deſerved good actors, for that it was in the ſtyle of the Guardian, but more delicate—or, whe⯑ther he was ſhocked at the cruel and inhuman murder of Harveſt Home ^*—or, in ſhort, whatever may be his reaſons, it ſtill lies in his hands. I even, to leave nothing untried, made an agreement with Mr. DALY, the Iriſh ma⯑nager, which, after being broken, on his ſide, three times, yielded me, in three years, about 120l.—whereas, had it been properly kept, I muſt have received ſix times that ſum.

Finding myſelf therefore in the ſtate of ADAM, with all the world before me, where to chuſe—for I have pretty well proved that the theatrical paradiſe was ſhut againſt me—it ſtruck me that the warm and foſtering climate of ASIA might revive a drooping plant that had been neglected in its native ſoil; but then, as Mr. BAYS ſays, came in the Quomodo—how to procure the ways and means. I had never travelled much in England, and I thought it would be no bad thing [13] to pay my perſonal reſpects to my old patrons, to thank them for their libera⯑lity, and at the ſame time preſent them with ſuch an entertainment as ſhould not only inſure me their good wiſhes and intereſt them for my proſperity, but ſupply me with the means to accompliſh my deſign.

Determined however to make ſure of every thing in my power, I wrote to Mr. HARRIS, telling him my intention, and offering to ſale ſuch materials as I conceived might be uſeful to him. I received a letter encouraging me to fur⯑niſh him with pieces of any deſcription; and I have actually from that time to this, at my leiſure, been hard at work for him.

But I know not how it is—my mind miſgives me on this ſubject. I have ſince ſeen Mr. HARRIS at BRISTOL, and heard from him at YORK. However, I ſhall anticipate nothing—all matters ſhall come in their proper order—and, if you have the patience I wiſh you—for patience you muſt have if you jog on with me through my TOUR—indeed, if I was to follow the examples of ſome muſical travellers, I ſhould exerciſe no other virtue in you—you will permit me to place the banquet I have invited you to, in what manner I pleaſe. In⯑tereſt forbid, having ſuch work for my own imagination, I ſhould not leave the reader as much room as poſſible for the workings of his. It has been affirmed that the pleaſures we fancy, are completer than thoſe we enjoy; and, if this poſition be founded, who knows but, by conſtantly keeping curioſity on tiptoe, I ſhall receive credit for having furniſhed a good feaſt, even though half the merit lay in exciting the appetite. There is more art, ſay the pain⯑ters, in concealing than ſhewing. Would any one read an epigram if the laſt line were taken away? Not to gratify, would be to to make a TANTALUS of the reader; but ſtill let us remember that poſſeſſion, eaſily attained, is but another word for SATIETY.

Thus, having, by a regular gradation, with a few ſhirts and books in a trunk, a well-digeſted plan in my head, and a letter from Dr. ARNOLD to Dr. [14] HAYES, in my pocket, ſeated myſelf in the Oxford ſtage-coach, my next letter will of courſe contain what happened to me at that confuſion of tongues. In the proſecution of which, as well as of all the reſt of my adventures, though no more than OTHELLO would I have any thing extenuated, or ought ſet down in malice; yet like DICK, in The Miller of Mansfield, I ſhall certainly ſpeak truth, and if that happens to be SATIRE, I cannot help it—yet never ſhall I ſay truer than when I aſſure you,

To T. S. Eſq.

IT was not in the dull month of November, when Engliſhmen hang and drown themſelves, but in the ſprightly month of March, when they rouſe from their lethargy, when citizens and tom-tits begin to in⯑hale the bracing influence of the eaſtern breeze, and ponies and country-lodg⯑ings are ſmartened up for cuſtomers. You who are perfectly, correctly, cri⯑tically erudite, will not ſurely blame me for being particular as to dates. Some readers remember nothing but the chronological parts, and it does not ſignify three-pence by what means this Queen happened to be raviſhed, or that Em⯑peror flayed alive, ſo that they can give a faithful account of the time ſuch an event took place. Mr. SHERIDAN marks the time in the commencement of his Duenna by making the clock ſtrike four, though he ridicules that very cir⯑cumſtance—forgetting of courſe that he had uſed it—in The Critic.

On the ſeventeenth of March, 1787, I left the regions of ſmoke for the regions of accompliſhment. Nothing paſſed on the road worthy your notice. The con⯑verſation of the paſſengers in the ſtage-coach was in the uſual ſtile. Almoſt every object brought with it ſome remark. We admired, as uſual, the entrance of Sion-Houſe, the convenient ſituation for ſtar-gazing of Mr. HERSCHEL—we [16] ſighed, as uſual, to think on human depravity, on contemplating the gibbets upon Hounſlow-Heath; and we lamented their fate who were poiſoned at Salt-Hill. The very dinner was as uſual—ſome ſoup which might have been miſ⯑taken for a doſe of ſalts reliſhed with leeks, and a boiled leg of mutton ſcarcely warmed through. At length the majeſtic view of lofty ſteeples, towers, and turrets demanded our admiration—and we preſently arrived at Oxford.

The next morning I called on Dr. HAYES. If you have never ſeen this gentleman, I muſt tell you that he is the very kind of man that of all others intereſts you ſtrongly in his favour the moment you ſpeak to him. I believe no human creature ever poſſeſſed a better or a more blameleſs heart, and never was a countenance more the index of a mind; for whatever fancy can picture of benevolence, mildneſs, and benignity, is written there, in characters ſo le⯑gible that they cannot be miſtaken. If he ſhould ſee this portrait of himſelf, and from his diffidence wiſh I had blotted it out, let him forgive me in the re⯑flection that I am only ambitious to do him that juſtice which he has ſo much pleaſure in rendering to all mankind. Nay—you ſhall yourſelf confeſs I am not a flattering painter. Can you tell me, my dear Sir, a character ſo near perfection as he who, a profeſſor himſelf, knows not profeſſional envy? This man then is Dr. HAYES—and he is ſo very different from JOSEPH SURFACE, that all the world ſpeaks well of him, and yet all the world ſpeaks TRUTH.

After we had talked over my buſineſs, in the courſe of which converſa⯑tion I told him that I had a very ſtrong wiſh to ſtart my entertainment at the Univerſity, to give it a proper ſanction, he referred me to THE VICE CHANCEL⯑LOR, and gave me an introductory letter. I aſked him if Dr. CHAPMAN was eaſy of acceſs, and he told me I ſhould find him the moſt chearful, amiable man I had ever converſed with. This report was ſo true that I muſt try my hand at another deſcription.

[17]THE VICE CHANCELLOR OF OXFORD is a tall, well-made man, with all the eaſy grace and native ſimplicity of a plain country gentleman—and yet a de⯑meanour that might ſhame a courtier. His eye is ſo piercing that it ſeems to penetrate your very intentions—and yet ſo mild that it is eaſy to diſcern his only ſolicitation is to know your wants, and ſupply them. His converſation is as ſimple—yet as elegant as SWIFT's Drapier's Letters. His diſcernment re⯑markably acute; and his diſcrimination preciſion itſelf. This gentleman, if he ſhould ſo far honour me as to read this book, may wonder how I can venture to affirm ſo much from the little opportunity I had of converſing with him; but I will be ingenuous enough to declare that I went to him pre-determined to make my obſervations—and thoſe obſervations went not more to any other part of his conduct, than his invincible integrity—of which as well as the reſt you ſhall judge.

I muſt premiſe however, I would not declare what paſſed between us, could I for a moment ſuppoſe it would create the moſt diſtant chance of belief in the breaſt of any young gentlemen of the Univerſity, that Dr. CHAPMAN is not as anxious to give them pleaſure as they to receive it. He certainly debarred them at that time of what they afterwards did me the kindneſs to conſider as a very high gratification. I told him the nature of my entertainment, and his words were theſe: ‘"I am very ſorry I muſt refuſe you my conſent. Your profeſſi⯑onal abilities deſerve a different anſwer; and I dare ſay you would perform nothing that could diſcredit either yourſelf or the Univerſity—but I am, at this moment, particularly circumſtanced. There have been lately many riots; and though I am very deſirous of pleaſing the ſtudents, they ſome⯑times put it out of my power. Here was a Mr. COLLINS, and I could not with propriety let him perform. He went away—and the young gentlemen took the matter ſo much in dudgeon that they encouraged ſome Italians to ſing here, without my permiſſion. I was in conſequence under the painful [18] neceſſity of ſending them to priſon;^* and it is more than probable, were I now to tell you—which I wiſh I could—Mr. DIBDIN you may perform your entertainment—they might think I ſet you up againſt their favourite Italians, and it might turn out a ſerious quarrel—for, in ſuch a caſe, your profeſſional reputation would be of no avail—and they would reſent in their anger what in a cooler moment they might be convinced they had reaſon to thank me for."’

Nothing could be handſomer than this reaſoning. I felt myſelf ſo influ⯑enced by it that I was more pleaſed at ſuch a refuſal than I ſhould have been by an unconditional permiſſion. This gentleman took a great deal of pains to prove himſelf right in a matter wherein, had he been ſo minded, he had no⯑thing to exerciſe but an ipſe dixit. The diſcharge of his duty as vice chancellor did not ſatisfy him—he choſe to diſcharge it as a man. In fine, as he ſaw no⯑thing that he could diſapprove in the nature of my entertainment, he could not bear that I ſhould come to Oxford for nothing; and thinking very probably that his apparent refuſal might be of public diſadvantage to me, he gave me his word that I ſhould perform my amuſement in the following term. Thus I took leave of Dr. CHAPMAN, a character, were it more imitated by the clergy, religion would be more revered by the laity.

To prove however that I have no further intereſt in what I have ſaid above, than that fair and candid juſtice I am determined to do every man I mention in this ſeries of letters, I declare I did not put ten guineas in my pocket by my performance at OXFORD, on my return—and I neglected what would have been a conſiderably greater advantage to me. I can therefore have no other reaſon for what I here advance, than a regard for truth, unbiaſſed by any ſer⯑vile [19] motive; and as that ſhall honeſtly actuate me upon all occaſions, you will by and by get the portrait of another vice chancellor who had his motives for refuſing me too—but they were not exactly of the ſame complexion as Dr. CHAPMAN's. In ſhort, PLUTARCH compared the paralleled virtues of his he⯑roes—MINE will be all contraſt. And though I will not ſuppoſe but that all characters are honeſt who wear black, yet it will be readily granted me there are ſhades of that colour, even from the diſmal, dingy firſt mourning of an heir, to the light, airy French-grey in which he takes poſſeſſion of his father's titles and eſtate.

Adieu! Hey for BATH—where you will find me in my next letter.

To T. S. Eſq.

ON Sunday, March 20, I arrived at that mixture of lowlineſs and grandeur, pride and meanneſs, politeneſs and impertinence—BATH—the region of faſhion and dullneſs—of elegance and vapidity—of public reputation and private intrigue—of extravagance and impoſition. Where dreſs is the ne plus ultra of all virtue—where a graceful minuet is conſidered as the height of human perfection—where good-breeding is carried to ſuch a pitch of refinement that doves and rooks mix ſans façon, and the foxes and geeſe are all of one family—where the buildings, like the viſitors, are grand, heavy, and ſmoke-dried—where Iriſh gentlemen of high families and low fortunes lay in wait for opportunities to amuſe thoſe miſſes who paſs their whole time in con⯑triving how they ſhall moſt conveniently leave ſick mamma to the care of the old nurſe—and where convivial lords who have worn out the cellar, the larder, the waiters, and themſelves in London, are wheeled down, with about ſix months to live, to drink the waters, hobble cotillions, pick their teeth, qualify Burgundy with ſpruce beer, faintly revive expiring nature by the adminiſtration of ſtimulatives, beat falſe time, ſcream bravo, mal apropos, and hiccup out non nobis domine.

[21]Here—for Fortune ſo willed it—was I to make my coup d'eſſai; and hav⯑ing fixed myſelf in a lodging, I began to prepare for my entertainment, which I advertiſed for the following Tueſday, Wedneſday, and Friday. On the Monday morning came a loud rap at my parlour door. I called ‘"Come in,"’ and a genteel, well looking man entered the room with—in what they call the ſinging or faſhionable brogue—‘'Sir, your moſt obedient humble ſervant. I underſtand you are Mr. DIBDIN, whom all the world knows—the compoſer of The Padlock, and The Jubilee, and Poor Vulcan, and The Quaker, and all thoſe charming pieces that 'tis a long time we have been delighted with. Oh! by my ſoul I do tink that beautiful ſong—ſtay a minute—which is it? Ah fait its no matter—you never made a bad one in your life. Well, Sir, don't let me interrupt you. I take the liberty of calling—for you ſee I am diſtract⯑edly fond of muſic, and I find we are going to be charmed with a little enter⯑tainment of your fabricating. Sir, I have it in my power to do you a great deal of ſervice; and to be ſure I ſhall conceive it the duty of myſelf and every other friend I have, to be as ſtirring as poſſible in this buſineſs. I know al⯑ready of a party of fourteen that I have not ſpoken to. And den there is—Oh fait there are ſome very capital families here—don't be uneaſy—pray could you favour me with ſome little, delicate, charming, beautiful touch—only juſt you know to make their mouths water by telling them what I have heard.'’ I was at the Piano Forte, and complied with great readineſs, and indeed as much as any thing to know the drift of this long harrangue, which I ſhrewdly ſuſpected implied ſomething more than mere ſpontaneous good na⯑ture. After I had done—he cried—‘'ah by my ſoul—there's no other man alive but yourſelf wid ſuch taſte. Well now I'll tell you ſomething—where do you perform?'’ I anſwered ‘"at the newrooms."’ ‘'Well, but ſure there won't be room enough for the people, they'll come in ſuch crowds—but that is not what I am going to ſay—do you know you have it in your power to do me the greateſt favour in the world.'’ ‘"I am ſure then Sir I have it in my inclination."’ ‘'Ah, now that's what I have always ſaid—true genius and politeneſs conſtantly go hand in hand together. Sir, I thank [22] you very kindly. You muſt know there is a lady in this town of great diſ⯑tinction—one of the firſt Iriſh families—the honourable Mrs. O'N—. She is at the head of fifteen thouſand a year, and writes poetry like an angel.—Oh to be ſure I have not the ſweeteſt ſong of her writing—here it is—you ſhall read it'’ He then produced me the firſt ſtanza of a ſong, certainly very prettily written. ‘'Now do you ſee, I entreat this may be a ſecret between you and I'’—and ſo very Iriſh was this requeſt, that MATHEWS, of BATH, to whom I had been playing the ſongs of Harveſt Home, was in the room from firſt to laſt.—‘'what do you tink I have promiſed—you muſt know I have a pretty notion of muſic, and I play tolerably well, for a gentleman, on the violin—I have promiſed to ſet this ſweet ſong to muſic, and for the life of me I don't know how—now you ſee—you would do it it in three minutes—I can ſay it's mine—and, as we ſhall keep the ſecret, nobody can know any tink about it. What do you tink of this?—you know I ſhall make ſome large parties for you—oh, by my ſoul, you may depend through my means of having a thick audience. Well, Sir, if you will be ſo very kind as to do me this great favour, I ſhall have a very ſingular and particular pleaſure—and in return, excluſive of the attention I mean to pay your performance, which, indeed, is but the duty of every man who is a lover and encourager of profeſſional merit—I ſhall certainly ſerve you any way within the ſcope of my intereſt and ability.'’ Not to tire you—I ſet the ſong; promiſing, like the PRINCE OF WALES about the death of HOTSPUR, that if a lie would do him grace, I'd dreſs it in the fineſt terms I had. The captain was in raptures—promiſed me to bring ALL BATH—and then came—alone. I met him after⯑wards at the catch club, where he made no ſort of apology for his breach of promiſe, but careleſſly ſaid that Mrs. O'N— was charmed with the ſong—that he felt himſelf very gay in his borrowed plumes—that he was ſorry I had ſuch a bad room—that it would do my heart good to hear them ſing catches and glees in Ireland, where he ſhould be very happy to have the pleaſure of ſeeing me—and, in ſhort, reſorted to ſuch paltry ſubterfuges, as induced me to pity him for a contemptible ingenuity which, I dare ſay, he thought merited praiſe.

[23]Determined, however, by an honeſt manoeuvre, to repay his nefarious one—I gave the ſong to Mr. INCLEDON, who ſings it charmingly at Vaux⯑hall, and it is now printed with my name to the muſic in the title page. The negroes, with that ſhrewdneſs for which they are remarkable, call a promiſe windy. At a place called DEEP BAY, in ST. KITT's, the young men are remarkable for taking advantage of the credulity of the negro girls. One of the poor creatures who had been abuſed and forſaken, complained to her brother: Honeſt QUAMINO anſwered—‘"Siſſy, I always ſay you dam fool—for what you go DEEP BAY?—you no ſavey Deep Bay young man full a windy."’—which compliment, however it may belong to the Iriſh gentleman, has no⯑thing to do with me, when I aſſure you I am,

To T. S. Eſq.

ON Tueſday, the twenty-ſecond, at noon, I made my public appearance—if performing an entertainment before eight and thirty perſons can be called ſo—for the firſt time during twelve years; and, if I had not a perſeverance beyond any other man, it would have been my laſt. Hea⯑ven defend me from ſuch a ſet of inſipid, vague, unmeaning, countenances. One of the number I have ſince performed before at MONMOUTH, and another at WAKEFIELD, both of whom inſiſted upon it that the performance was much better than at BATH—when the fact was they were only in company more diſ⯑poſed to be happy. All thoſe paſſages which to your knowledge have kept the audience in a roar, were received with a vacant gravity, an unfeeling ſtare, a milk and water indifference. Enough, as I ſay of my poet, to make a man forſwear ever taking a pen in his hand—yet; I found afterwards that they were all pleaſed—it was only their manner of expreſſing themſelves. It was BATH, and therefore it would have been vulgar to laugh or give way to any emotion that indicates pleaſure ſuch as the heart participates. This I had occa⯑ſion [25] more minutely to remark by paying a viſit to the catch-club—where even the glaſs, which never circulated more freely—nor all the toaſts that accompa⯑nied it—the ſongs that relieved it, which were pretty well fraught with that reproachful ſubſtitute for humour that men who are ſtrangers to real wit find ſo much pleaſure in, could ſcarcely raiſe a ſmile—the broad bottoms of the glaſſes, as if inſtinctively, reſounded a peal of applauſe at the end of every ſong, but till the end of the next, all was ſilent as death. I note this as an inſtance of faſhionable gravity, beyond credibility—for, that a meeting, profeſſedly convivial ſhould apparently be held without mirth, is a kind of exiſtence without a ſoul—a mental death—but it may be reconciled by ſaying that it is a refinement on politeneſs, reſerved alone to grace the luke-warm court of the luke-warm KING BLADUD.

As theſe remarks on the affected ſtupidity of the BATH auditors natu⯑rally lead to audiences in general, I ſhall, while I am on the ſubject, ſpeak a little of the different feelings of different ſpectators. Some have been in rap⯑tures about nothing—others have applauded without diſcrimination—ſome have intruded their opinions on every body, and others have not dared to feel till they had aſked the opinions of their neighbours. But it is not BATH alone—every ſeparate place I have ſeen has its peculiar mode of indicating its plea⯑ſure. You may remember, in a letter written to me ſome time ago, you wondered at my advertiſing my entertainment at BIRMINGHAM, when it was notorious that at one of the meetings, where L'Allegro il ed Penſoroſo was per⯑formed, the audience was unmoved at every part of it but the line ‘"Drew iron tears down PLUTO's cheeks"’

At BRISTOL—which place, to a proverb, is remarkable for hoggiſhneſs—they did not conſider ſo much the quality as when they had enough—and ſo of the reſt—the particulars of which local taſte will come in their place. I cannot, however, refrain from noticing the delight that Grog has given all [26] the captains of ſhips, and The Race Horſe ^* all the ſportſmen. The claſſical men have chuckled at The Siege of Troy, and the muſical at Pompoſo—not to mention that every individual member of all the audiences ever aſſembled to hear me has bridled up, and been charmed beyond meaſure, at the compli⯑ment contained in the laſt four lines of the entertainment. I ſhall conclude this letter with an anecdote of GARRICK and old CERVETTO.

When GARRICK returned from ITALY, he prepared an addreſs to the au⯑dience, which he delivered previous to the play he firſt appeared in. When he came upon the ſtage, he was welcomed with three loud plaudits, each finiſh⯑ing with a huzza. As ſoon as this unprecedented applauſe had a little ſubſided, he uſed every art of which he was ſo completely maſter to lull the tumult into a profound ſilence—and, juſt as all was huſhed as death, and anxious expec⯑tation ſat on every face, old CERVETTO, who was better known by the name of NOSEY, anticipated the very firſt line of the addreſs by—aw—a tremendous yawn. A convulſion of laughter enſued, and it was ſome minutes before the wiſhed-for ſilence could be again reſtored. That, however, obtained—GAR⯑RICK delivered his addreſs in that happy, irreſiſtible manner in which he was always ſure to captivate his audience; and he retired with applauſe ſuch as was never better given, nor ever deſerved. But the matter did not reſt here—The moment he came off the ſtage, he flew like lightening to the muſic room, where, collaring aſtoniſhed NOSEY, he began to abuſe him pretty vociferouſly. ‘'Wha—why—you old ſcoundrel—you muſt be the moſt infernal'’—at length poor CERVETTO—‘"Oh! Mr. GARRICK! vat is the matter—vat I haf do—Oh God vat it is!"’—‘'The matter! why you old, damned, eternal, ſenſeleſs [27] idiot—with no more brains than your damned baſs viol—juſt at the—a—very moment I had played with the audience—tickled them like a trout, and brought them to the moſt accommodating ſilence—ſo pat to my purpoſe—ſo perfect—that it was, as one may ſay, a companion for MILTON's viſible darkneſs'’—‘"Indeed, Mr. GARRICK, it vas no darkneſs."’ Darkneſs! ſtupid ‘'fool—but how ſhould a man of my reading make himſelf underſtood by—a—anſwer me, was not the whole houſe, pit, box, and gallery, very ſtill?'’ ‘"Yes, Sir, indeed—ſtill as mouſe."’ ‘'Well then, juſt at that very moment did you not, with your damned jaws extended wide enough to ſwallow a ſixpenny loaf—yaw?—Oh I wiſh you had never ſhut your damned jaws again.'’ ‘"Sare, Mr. GARRICK—only if you pleaſe hear me von vord. It is alvay the vay—it is indeed, Mr. GARRICK—alvay the vay I go when I haf the greateſt rapture, Mr. GARRICK."’ The little great man's anger inſtantly cooled. The cunning readineſs of this Italian flattery operated exactly contrary to the laſt line of an epigram—the honey was taſted and the ſting forgot—and it not only procured NOSEY's pardon, but forced a declaration from his pa⯑tron that he ought to be forgiven for the wit of the offence. Upon this prin⯑ciple, perhaps, the yawning of the BATH audience was all rapture—in which caſe CHURCHILL can only mean that every man has a right to expreſs his feel⯑ings his own way—mine is to ſay literally what I mean; which I do when I aſſure you that I am,

To T. S. Eſq.

I had ſcarcely returned home after my firſt perfor⯑mance at BATH, when two ladies knocked at my parlour door. They were uſhered in; and, having thanked me for my entertainment, and profeſſed themſelves extremely ſorry that I had been ſo thinly attended, they proceeded to aſſure me that as apparently I was a ſtranger to the mode of conducting an amuſement at BATH, they, who were leaders of faſhionable matters, could not refrain from calling to ſet me right concerning ſome particulars, and offer me ſuch advice as might be conduſive to my intereſt. After a good deal of converſation, it was agreed that I ſhould ſuſpend the performance, to give them an opportunity of enquiring when a repetition of it would be moſt agreeable to the company then in the town. Theſe preliminaries adjuſted, they went away; and one of theſe ladies actually took the trouble of adviſ⯑ing me, by letter, of what ſhe had learnt, and a time was at length appointed which would, according to her advice, procure me a full audience. The morning came, and I had the honour of meeting only ſixteen perſons; but what moſt aſtoniſhed me was, that my two patroneſſes did not appear among the number. It immediately ſtruck me that they had played me the ſecond part [29] of the ſame tune through which I had been ſo completely hummed by the Iriſh Jolmon. But why?—wherefore?—from what motive? They wanted no ſong ſet to muſic; and yet there muſt be ſomething in the wind, or elſe why call on me and write letters? Not to tire you about ſuch a ſtupid buſineſs. I at laſt learnt for a certainty that they were ſupporters of the Old Rooms, and had taken every poſſible pains to decry the entertainment—to repreſent me as an impoſtor—and appoint a time when nobody would attend—not becauſe they had the ſmalleſt objection to me, but—becauſe I performed at the New Rooms. Thus, at BATH, I fell a ſacrifice to a ſtupid caprice in which I had not the ſmalleſt concern.

At length my eyes were opened by Mr. DERHAM, the maſter of the New Rooms, who aſſured me it would be the height of folly to attempt another per⯑formance. I cloſed with him in opinion, and offered the money I had agreed to pay for the rooms, which he refuſed with theſe words—‘'Mr. DIBDIN, how⯑ever you may have been treated by others in BATH, you ſhall meet with no⯑thing illiberal from me. I have no ſort of objection to getting money, but I never yet got any dirty money—and I am ſure I will not begin now. If you think I have done you any kindneſs, the only return I require is, to hear of your proſperity, which I ſincerely wiſh and ſhould be happy to promote.'’ I ſhall make no comment on this kind conduct of Mr. DERHAM, his domeſtic and general character is too well known to need my panegyrick; and I am ſure, though my regard to juſtice would not permit me to do ſo, I ſhould have better pleaſed him, had I been totally ſilent on this head.

Theſe matters paſſed at that notorious moment when the buſineſs of Mr. TWYCROSS's E O tables engroſſed all the converſation of the place—when the dove-houſe exulted and the rookery ſhook to its foundation. That building however I am afraid is erected upon too permanent a footing to be overturned ſo eaſily. Thoſe are temporary convulſions, and only ſerve to diſcover the damaged parts that at a proper expence they may be the more ſecurely ſtopped. [30] At this time—for things fall out generally pretty apropos with me—I received a meſſage from Mr. DALY's agent, who happened to be at BATH to engage a performer.

You may remember, in Letter IV, I mention an engagement I had made with Mr. DALY, and this is a proper place to go into the particulars of it. To do ſo I muſt ſtate the ſubſtance of a hand-bill I was compelled to publiſh in the month of February laſt. It mentioned that I had entered into an article, under a penalty of 200l. with Mr. DALY, for three years, to furniſh certain pieces and certain muſic for the Iriſh theatre; that Mr. DALY had broken this arti⯑cle in three ſeveral inſtances, two of which I had overlooked, and was willing to qualify the third, if Mr. DALY would let the whole matter go to a reference. This—being then in England—he ſeemed to conſent to. A gentleman on each part was appointed; but as it was evident his friend was too cloſely connected with his intereſt (being afterwards his agent, and indeed the very gentleman who ſent to me at BATH, as above) my appointed referee, ſeeing all this, wiſhed to have an umpire. The buſineſs was however trifled with. Mr. DALY would not ſign the bond of arbitration; and in ſhort nothing had been done when my friend was obliged to leave town, and Mr. DALY on the eve of his departure for Ireland. In this ſituation I was determined to bring him to reaſon; and for that purpoſe commenced an action againſt him—but reſolving to treat him with every kind of delicacy, I would not ſuffer it to be ſerved. This he was informed of by my attorney, to whom he acknowledged that I had treated him ſo handſomely, and with ſo much lenity, that he engaged his word and HO⯑NOUR not to leave England till I ſhould be fully and fairly ſatisfied. He thought proper however to forfeit his promiſe, and my friends urged me to publiſh an account of the matter, as a warning to others.

This buſineſs had ſtood over from February till the above meſſage. I met the gentleman, and after a fruitleſs attempt to obtain my due, fearing that ſome trick might be played me—as the article was not at that moment cancelled—I [31] agreed to receive forty pounds for TWO HUNDRED, and exchange general releaſes, ſo charmed was I to get rid of ſo ſcandalous a buſineſs; and as it was repre⯑ſented to me that much inconvenience might accrue to Mr. DALY from the above hand-bill, which ſtill ſtood out againſt him uncontradicted, I voluntarily offered to give a declaration under my hand that I was ſatisfied with the conclu⯑ſion of the buſineſs. Theſe matters premiſed, the proper writings were put in hand I received thirty pounds in CASH, a note at two months of ten pounds, and a promiſe in writing that the pieces of mine then in Mr. DALY's poſſeſſion ſhould be delivered into the hands of a friend as ſoon as poſſible. Had theſe pro⯑miſes been fulfilled I ſhould have conceived myſelf prohibited by my written declaration from publiſhing this tranſaction—but as in TEN months, inſtead of two, the payment is not made, nor the pieces returned, I look upon the au⯑thority I gave to ſay I was ſatisfied in the light of a defeaſance on the back of a warrant of attorney, which is done away if the conditions annexed to it are not literally complied with—the bond therefore, as far as it relates to Mr. DALY's having behaved unhandſome and diſhonourable, remains yet in full force and virtue, and if any perſons after this chuſe to engage with Mr. DALY, without a proper ſecurity, I think a ſtatute of lunacy might be taken out againſt them without much impropriety.

I ſhould be wanting to myſelf and common juſtice, if I did not ſay, before I quit the ſubject of BATH, that with particular pleaſure I ſaw my old friend KEASBURY, with whom, twenty years ago, I have heard ‘"the chimes at mid⯑night."’ He was well and happy, and may he long continue ſo! Nor muſt I omit that I witneſſed a moſt reſpectable performance at his theatre. The farce, which was Mr. SHERIDAN's St. Patrick's Day, was acted infinitely bet⯑ter than ever I ſaw it in London. Indeed this is one excellent property of a regular company in the country, the minuter parts—which a town actor thinks ſo little of, and which by the bye are remarkably material, witneſs GARRICK's attention to them—are paid much more reſpect to; but however this applies more immediately to BATH, where my old friend's veteran judgment and gen⯑tlemanly [32] deportment will always inſure from the performers a proper reſpect and attention. But leſt it ſhould be thought that I am applying the motto at the head of this letter to any intereſted purpoſe, I aſſure you I only wiſh it to tell againſt the ladies and the Iriſh manager; for I aver with the trueſt ſincerity, that I deſire no favour at Mr. KEASBURY's hands, and only wiſh I may ſee him alive and hearty many years to come, and that ſo far from wheedling you, I mean nothing but truth when I aſſure you that I am,

To T. S. Eſq.

'TIS indiſpenſably incumbent on me to ſay ſome⯑thing concerning the manners, muſical taſte, &c. of the inhabitants of all thoſe places in which I have been, or may yet paſs through. This however I ſhall not be even tolerably qualified to do, till I come to where I re⯑turned to Cambridge, having before that time made no reſolution to publiſh my TOUR, and therefore of courſe many matters which I have ſince treaſured were almoſt forgotten as ſoon as paſſed. Indeed I do not conceive it at all my province to point out market-days, fairs, wakes, and ſtatutes, the number of inhabitants, or talk of corporations, charters, grants, and privileges, unleſs in⯑deed it ſhould ſeem to be neceſſary for the illuſtration and eſtabliſhment of any particular fact which common opinion has grosſly miſrepreſented. Thus, I will not call BRISTOL the ſecond town in England, in point of the number of inhabitants, when I am ſure SHEFFIELD contains as many—and I believe MAN⯑CHESTER, but certainly LIVERPOOL double the number. I ſhall however give ſuch curſory hints as I have promiſed in my firſt letter. At preſent I have not quite done with BATH—which, as a city, is like a Frenchman's ſhirt—the ruffle is very fine, but the body very coarſe. Place a man in his ſleep in the Creſcent, and he might upon waking conceive himſelf in an amphitheatre, [34] erected by the ſame workmen who built the Temple of Solomon; but inſtead of this, place him in one of thoſe blind alleys—for there are no other commu⯑nications—which ſeparate the old town from the new, and fancying himſelf in Field-lane or St. Giles's, he would immediately ſearch for his pocket hand⯑kerchief. In ſhort, as I obſerved before, all is either ſplendidly dull or dirtily vulgar. As to their muſical taſte, it is a bad imitation of that in town—they contented themſelves with bagpipes till the famous commemoration, and then they muſt ſqueak, belch, and ſnort out oratorios. I aſked one of their capital hands how they managed to underſtand HANDEL, and he anſwered me, ‘'they fund un woundy crabbed at firſt, but after they had altered un a little they did un auver rarely.'’ At the only inn I ſaw at BATH they were extravagantly dear and intolerably impudent. In reſpect to natural curioſities, the Baths may be reckoned of a very extraordinary kind—but every body knows what they are; for artificial ones, faces and faſhions^* exhibit them at every corner. In ſhort, BATH is the fitteſt place in the world for art to banquet on credulity—for extravagance and folly to go unmaſked at noon day, for reaſon and wiſdom to ſhun—and to ſpeak in the language of the poet, for rakes and idiots ‘"to talk of beauty that they never ſaw, and fancy raptures that they never felt."’

In my next letter you will find me at BRISTOL, at which place, and in all places, even in the luxury of an orange grove ſhaded by the ſpreading ce⯑dar and refreſhed by the ſpice-conveying breeze, I ſhall not be leſs than at this moment,

To T. S. Eſq.

WOULD one think it poſſible that a diſtance of only twelve miles ſhould make ſuch a difference in manners, as to preſent you with two diſtinct ſpecies of human beings? At BATH every thing is ſuperfi⯑cial—at BRISTOL every thing ſubſtantial. At BATH every thing gay—at BRIS⯑TOL every thing grave. In BATH they live in fine houſes, and are poor—in BRISTOL in ſhabby ones, and are rich. At careleſs BATH nothing is thought of but the preſent moment—at provident BRISTOL no ſtep is taken but with a view to the advantage of poſterity. In ſhort they are both actuated by an equal, though different ſpecies of folly; for, one flies off from the reaſonable part of human purſuits, and ſeeks for pleaſures that have no place but in the imagination, like a volatile body which leaves the earth and loſes itſelf in ſpace, while the other is buried in the muck and groſſneſs of ſenſual enjoyments, till the wearied appetite is ſunk in gorged ſatiety, without capacity to know diſtinction.

On my arrival at BRISTOL, which was on Monday in the paſſion week, the firſt objects that preſented themſelves, when I alighted from the coach, [36] were three living turtles, lying on their backs. This circumſtance ſoon pro⯑duced me an account from the WAITER, that, on the following week, the DUKE OF PORTLAND was expected there, with a large body of the minority; and that ſhips had been diſpatched to fetch good cheer on the joyful occaſion. Their only fear, it ſeems, was, that as his GRACE laboured under an indiſpo⯑ſition, and was obliged to eat by preſcription, he could not be able to cut any capital figure at the noble exerciſe of the knife and fork. Mr. Fox, Mr. SHE⯑RIDAN, and their facetious colleague Capt. MORRIS, who it was reported was hired on purpoſe to abuſe the miniſters in a new ſong ſet to an old tune, were however expected to fill up the principal parts in the gormandizing concert, which was to finiſh with a capital duetto between burgundy and diſaffection. But ſo fallacious are the hopes, and precarious the expectation of turtle-eaters, as well as all other ſublunary beings, that theſe glorious proſpects vaniſhed like a dream, for the DUKE OF PORTLAND came almoſt alone—no one adherent of conſequence having accompanied him but LORD STORMONT, whoſe paſſion in no way leaning from the line of a perfect gentleman, and a true bred man of faſhion, the poor dear BRISTOL MEN felt awkwardly throughout the whole buſineſs, and were even, ſome ſay, heard to groan when they preſented the DUKE—not with his freedom, for that coſt nothing.—but with the gold box and five pounds a year—for, though this laſt was not ſterling, yet a promiſe with a merchant is the ſame as money—the ſalary annexed to the high office to which they did his GRACE the honour to call him.

Paſſion week being obſerved in BRISTOL with great exactneſs, by way of balance in hand, to anſwer the expected diſburſements during the feaſts after Eaſter, nothing like amuſements could be thought of. In the Eaſter week every moment was appropriated to the DUKE OF PORTLAND, therefore, of courſe, I could not get my entertainment in edge ways. On the week follow⯑ing, when I did perform it, and heaven knows to very little purpoſe, the conſtant cry was—that ſo much more money had been expended on the above occaſion than was expected, that they were obliged to pull up a little—but if [37] I would ſtay a fortnight longer, and perform upon more reaſonable terms, there could be no doubt but I ſhould find it worth my while. Never having been fond of any thing ſo rigidly methodical, and fearing it would not anſwer my purpoſe—the conſtant maxim of a BRISTOL MAN being to take care that no⯑body ſhall get any thing by him—I gave the matter up, and devoted the re⯑mainder of my time to pleaſure.

Among the reſt—for the firſt time I had ever ſeen any thing written by Mrs. INCHBALD—I attended at the performance of Such Things are, and The Widow's Vow—the firſt of which I ſhould have known belonged to a lady if it had been only for the wig, which I will venture to ſay outdoes every thing in Mrs. BEHN's Rover. The parts were many of them incomparably well played. I never ſaw Mr. LEWIS in Twineall, but I ſhould think nothing could ſurpaſs BERNARD in that character. Mr. DIAMOND was very correct and able in Haſwell—and, indeed, where there would otherwiſe have been any defi⯑ciency, perfectneſs and good diſcipline gave the whole an air of reſpectability which I could wiſh to ſee imitated on a LONDON Theatre—where, frequently, in a game of romps, the author is kicked and buffetted about in a moſt un⯑merciful manner. In theſe particulars, my old, valuable friend JEFFERSON—who, hearing I was at BRISTOL, came from BATH on purpoſe to ſee me—perfectly agreed with me. What can be the reaſon JEFFERSON is not engaged in TOWN? This queſtion I did not aſk him, but it has twenty times occurred to me. Surely the man whom GARRICK took delight to perform with cannot but be an object to the Theatre. He was conſtantly, as every body knows, the Colonel Briton to his Dox Felix—the Claudio to his Benedict—the Aimwell to his Archer—the Frederick to his Don John—and I could name many other ſimilar inſtances—nay, when he left off walking as Benedick in the Jubilee, he choſe JEFFERSON as the only perſon that could repreſent him. JEFFERSON is like GARRICK in the face, and he gives you a ſtrong idea of him altogether, only larger. Nor let it be ſaid that GARRICK uſed him as a ſoil. It is well known at the Theatre that GARRICK was particularly careful to have thoſe [38] plays well got up in which he appeared himſelf. Upon theſe occaſions he had recourſe, wherever he could, to JEFFERSON, PARSONS, WESTON, and DODD. Did not then GARRICK's judgment rank JEFFERSON reſpectably? It is true he ſhrunk a little from the very firſt-rate abilities. He would never couple with BARRY in Tragedy, and very reluctantly indeed with KING in Comedy—and, if the common courſe of the buſineſs made it indiſpenſible—for where is there a play in which KING has not ſucceſsfully performed?—you will always ſee that the two characters wear ſo very different a complexion that no auditor can draw a comparative view of their merits. And here I cannot refrain from noticing, that there was no man whom Mr. GARRICK openly careſſed and ſe⯑cretly hated ſo much as Mr. KING.^* I know this fact, or I would not aſſert it; and I believe it may be eaſily reconciled, when we conſider that Mr. KING, added to his uncommon merit as a performer, is an independent man. Yet, with all his faults, ſhould the memory of GARRICK be revered. I have an en⯑thuſiaſtic reverence for his merit as a performer—and, as JEFFERSON was at leaſt his faithful and approved companion in his theatrical career, let us no more neglect him when we think of GARRICK, than we would Pylades, Achates, and Patrocles, when we think of Oreſtes, Aeneas, or Achilles. Perhaps, how⯑ever, as my intereſt at the Theatre is not very ſtrong, I had better have let alone this recommendation of my friend—but it cannot, at any rate, injure him with the world—and as his ideas at leaſt, like mine, are independent, he muſt content himſelf—for no man, through the wonderful ſerenity of his diſ⯑poſition, is more eaſily contented—with being reſpected, inſtead of affluent.

My opinion, however, of my theatrical influence was ſomewhat different at the time I mention—for, on that morning, I met Mr. HARRIS, who was, [39] for the benefit of his health, at the Hot Wells. This gentleman ſo corrobo⯑rated the contents of the letter I formerly mentioned, that, during the play, I took meaſure of BERNARD and BLANCHARD—and they may remember I told them ſo—for thoſe parts I intended to introduce for them in a new Opera, which has been long ſince finiſhed, but I fear will never be performed.

In this letter you ſee I have ſtuck cloſe to my motto—for whether men perform the farce of greatneſs, zeal, faſhion, or gormandizing, in real life, or on the ſtage, as FOOTE ſays ‘"the purpoſe is the ſame, and the place im⯑material."’ As I have not, in the writing of thoſe letter, a ſingle document to conſult but my memory, how naturally have the greateſt part of my quo⯑tations been from SHAKESPEARE! VOLTAIRE, meaning to abuſe him, pays that wonderful poet a moſt elegant compliment. He ſays ‘"The Engliſh, becauſe they find in SHAKESPEARE many paſſages fraught ſo ſtrongly with force and nature that they get them by heart in ſpite of themſelves, think him a great writer."’ If they wanted a better proof, I am ſure it was not in Mr. VOLTAIRE's power to give it them.

Why have I not heard from you!

To T. S. Eſq.

AS ſo many procraſtinations threw ſome time on my hands, I improved it, as much as poſſible, by cultivating the friendſhip of a gentleman whoſe profeſſional abilities and private virtues endear him to all who have the pleaſure of his acquaintance. A better proof, I think, of his private worth need not be given than that he paſſes from eight to twelve hours, out of twenty-four, in fagging at teaching, that moſt miſerable of all drudgery, and the remainder cheriſhing his wife and improving his children. Nor need I hold him up better as a model of profeſſional excellence than by remarking that he has genius, judgment, taſte, and, what is better, good ſenſe to regu⯑late them. His compoſitions, which are many of them models for harpſichord muſic, never ſink to mediocrity, and often riſe to perfection. He has not the folly to ſubſtitute abſtruſeneſs for nature, but contents himſelf with pleaſing inſtead of ſurpriſing. As a performer, he ſhall take any man's ſtile, and excel him—and I will demonſtrate it in a moment. Firſt, there is no paſſage ever ſo difficult but he can execute—and what no other player I ever heard could attain—I mean keeping regular time—he has in the higheſt perfection; for, let the paſſage be ever ſo rapid or interwoven, a child, with an ear, may as eaſily mark the accented parts as of the moſt familiar tune. I beg, however, I may be underſtood to mean that my friend is no conjurer, nor performer [41] of impoſſibilities—for three-fourths of harpſichord muſic have neither plan nor motive, nor indeed any drift but difficulty—in particular thoſe unmean⯑ing, ſenſeleſs rhapſodies in muſic that, were they executed by APOLLO, would have no better effect than a Dutch concert. For the ſake of ſimplicity, that beautiful ground-work of all ſublimity, I hope I am underſtood—and yet, is not that hope, like many of mine fruitleſs? I ſhall make myſelf clear, however, by ſaying there are two poſitions in muſic, which common ſenſe ſays muſt ever be kept ſeparate and apart. Theſe are the different diſtinctions of time—one is to count four, and the other three. Yet, the muſic-mongers—againſt common ſenſe—with no other remedy for their imbecility than abſtruſeneſs—no other ſubſtitute for their ſterile and unprofitable imaginations than extrane⯑ouſneſs—pretend to make one hand play four and the other three in and at the SAME TIME. Cannot the moſt common underſtanding, without the ſmalleſt knowledge of muſic, ſee, in one moment, that this is an impoſſibility? If you ſhould go to BRISTOL, call on Mr. BOYTON—the gentleman to whom I have alluded above—and he will, for my ſake, be glad to ſee you—unleſs he ſhould be offended—which I entreat he will not—at my endeavouring to do him a piece of juſtice, which he will think more than he deſerves, though I well know my utmoſt praiſe is inadequate to his merit. The ſubject of this letter has given me ſo much pleaſure, that I will not mix it with other matter. I cannot flatter—but 'tis like winning ones own heart to ſpeak the praiſes of the deſerving. 'Tis hard you will not write to me—yet, were you never more to do ſo, I could not ceaſe to be,

TO THE PUBLIC.

I have ever conceived it the utmoſt height of extrava⯑gant folly to deal with even the ſlighteſt appearance of diſingenuouſneſs in any appeal to the public. The truth is ſo eaſily told—and, beſides, it brings with it ſuch a ſaving of trouble, art, and duplicity—all which are mighty diſagreeable things—that—excluſive of the comfortable conviction that a man's argument cannot fairly be controverted—'tis in every other way his intereſt to keep that honeſt, manly monitor in view. Thus, to give fairly up the moſt diſtant appearance of double dealing, I ſhall addreſs no more letters to T. S. Eſq.—Not that I have altered my ſentiments in any reſpect relative to that gentleman—I know his admirable talents, nice diſcernment, and correct judgment—I know theſe letters would have been greatly benefitted by his remarks—I know his erudition is profound, his taſte elegant, and his ſtile beautiful. Nor do I at this moment believe he has altered his opinion in relation to me; and, as one ſtrong proof of if—though I confeſs I have yet received no anſwer to my ſecond letter, which introduced the five ſucceſſive ones, as will be ſeen by comparing their dates—he very lately told a particular friend of mine that my ſeven firſt letters—I uſe his own words—‘"are wonderfully well written."’ The fact is, I hope to leave England by the beginning of April, and chance having thrown [43] this gentleman and I ſuch a diſtance from each other, were I to wait for an⯑ſwers reſpectively to my letters, it would now be morally impoſſible for this publication to come out till I had loſt the INDIA ſeaſon. I therefore—as I have frequently done, and I never repented it—throw myſelf upon the candour of the Public; not, however, in the paltry manner in which their indulgence is too frequently ſolicited on the ſtage^*—but, backed with an aſſurance that, though the front of my army cannot come up, yet I am winged with particular literary friends, and well flanked with caſual ones; add to which, I have ſe⯑veral out-poſts—well ſituated—of well-wiſhers, and an admirable corps de reſerve of—the lovers of muſic; nor am I yet without hope that I ſhall derive ſome aſſiſtance from the main body. Thus, when all my forces are muſtered together, I flatter myſelf I ſhall not fail of a complete victory over my enemies, whom I ſhall deliver up to the public to be admoniſhed and FORGIVEN.

A friend of mine, when he ſwore an oath, would ſay—God forgive me—which he called rubbing out as he went. Thus—by way of clearing my ground, or, as the ſailors call it, bringing up lee-way—I ſhall make this letter one entire digreſſion, into which I ſhall collect all extraneous matter. And, firſt—being figuratively at one place and literally at another—it may be aſked why I did not ſet down thoſe tranſactions I celebrate at the time they hap⯑pened. I have already ſaid that at my firſt ſetting out I had not the ſmalleſt [44] idea of writing any account of my TOUR at all. Again—Circumſtances, at the firſt bluſh, dreſſed in the deluſive charms of novelty, have a ſtrength and falſe glow, which, upon a nearer inveſtigation, meliorate into ſober truth, and wear off the influence of primary prejudice. Thus, had I ſpoken of my friend BOYTON in the moment I was witneſs of his wonderful performance, I might have injured him by exaggeration; and in this I give the ſtrongeſt poſſible inſtance—becauſe language can ſcarcely produce an hyperbole on the ſubject. To give a contrary inſtance—Had I not waited till contempt had died away, and given place to indifference, I could not probably have told my ſtory of the Iriſh Jolmon with that triumphant coolneſs which will never ceaſe to make a much more uncomfortable wound than the keeneſt ſhafts of haſty reſentment. I inſiſt upon it CIBBER gave POPE more uneaſineſs, and the world a better opinion of his good ſenſe—in his eaſy, well-tempered, facetious letter—than did the other atchieve againſt CIBBER, or with the public—with all his weight of abilities—in the laboured bitterneſs of his invidious Dunciad. ^* I might have raſhly blamed one man for a ſlight, or an unkindneſs, that originated in another; and I might have extolled a third for tinſelled wit, which—from a graceful manner and faithful memory—he had the art to paſs for ſterling.—FOOTE, when he heard GARRICK repeat his ode at the Jubilee, declared— [45] whether the ſubject had inſpired him—whether the genius of SHAKESPEARE had deigned to illuminate his fancy with ſome rays of its wonderful effect—or, from whatever cauſe it proceeded he knew not—but that certainly the ode was elegantly and poetically written. The next morning—having read it—he ſwore he muſt have been in a dream^*—for that the whole was the moſt ſtupid rhapſody of incongruous nonſenſe that ever was liſtened to. If he had taken a month to conſider of it and had been unprejudiced, he probably would have decided that it was a meritorious attempt; and, if not executed in a manner wor⯑thy the ſubject—which could not be without the pen of another SHAKESPEARE—the errors of the poet ought to have been forgotten, in the inimitable merit of the ſpeaker, which was beyond all deſcription admirable, and fairly equal to the wonderful taſk.

Having cleared away all the froth of the whipped ſyllabub, to which this letter may be compared, I am now come to the drop of wine at the bottom. It was written, howſoever the rovings of fancy may have led me aſtray, in a great meaſure—to ſay this—

Five minutes before I ſat down to this table where I am now writing, be⯑ing at BEVERLY in Yorkſhire, I diſpatched to the printer at HULL a manuſcript of the propoſal for publiſhing my MUSICAL TOUR. It immediately afterward occurred to me, as a thing not impoſſible, that when the liſt of ſubſcribers [46] come to be publiſhed, if the names of all thoſe I praiſe ſhould appear in it, ſome of my kind friends may be ſo civil as to conſider what I have ſaid, as ſo many purchaſed encomiums; and as a man practiſes firing at a mark to put himſelf au ſait to a duel—ſo, by anticipation, do I falſify all ſuch malice. At this pre⯑ſent writing I do not know who will ſubſcribe, and I cannot ſpeak warmer or cooler of people than I have occaſionally done already: beſides, I muſt be a poor hireling indeed to ſell panegyricks for twelve ſhillings a piece. To be more ſe⯑rious, I declare ſolemnly, that no conſideration ſhall warp my pen to the de⯑formity of an invidious lie, nor—which would be equally reprehenſible—the proſtitution of unmerited praiſe. Kindneſs has a moſt wonderful effect upon me. Perhaps becauſe I have received as little of it as any man. There are many living inſtances that I can forget injuries, but never obligations; and tho' many parts of this work will ſting home—and I would have them do ſo—yet will they wound the keener becauſe it will be plainly ſeen—I have no rancour.

I have met with more real kindneſs during my MUSICAL TOUR, than in all the reſt of my life put together—yet think not I mean of a pecuniary nature—I deteſt all ſervile conſiderations. Rectitude is a chearful companion, and no⯑thing is ſo ponderous as obligation. Though I hope this very book will yield me a good ſum of money—yet I ſhould receive it with reluctance, if I did not feel I had EARNED IT. Theſe ſentiments will not, I am ſure, be cenſured by the public, who have not in the whole round of their ſervants, one more ambi⯑tious to merit their favour than

To Mr. B.

YOU who ſo largely contributed to make BRISTOL agreeable to me, deſerve in preference to any other this letter, which I take the liberty of addreſſing to you—eſpecially as it comes where I am to deſcribe thoſe beautiful ſituations with which that place abounds, and which would for ever have been unknown to me, but for your kind ſolicitude. You taught me to admire the extenſive and pictureſque views from DURDHAM DOWN, CLIFDEN HILL, COOK'S FOLLY,^* and KING'S WESTON. Nor had I more pleaſure in the charming variety theſe ſweet places afforded than in your converſation. What a number of circumſtances it called home to my recollection, as you pointed out the former theatre to me, where POWELL, HOLLAND,^† and ſo [48] many of the old ſchool were ſuch favourites! Poor POWELL! Poor HOL⯑LAND! The one a ſacrifice to youthful impetuoſity^*—the other, a proof that the moſt rigid prudence is no ſafeguard againſt the grim tyrant.^† From the [49] theatre, you led me to that natural wonder, the Hot Well, and to that ſtill ſu⯑perior one, St. Vincent's, as well as that vaſt chain of rocks which form a conve⯑nient boundary to conduct the river ſafely to KINGROAD, employ a number of workmen, make up highways, build houſes, and ſupply foppiſh peaſants with glittering ſleeve-buttons.

As to the muſical taſte of BRISTOL, the treatment at inns, and other in⯑diſpenſible matters, I ſhall mention them when I return; for I will not give you pain by ſpeaking truth of your neighbours. Adieu.

To Mr. DIBDIN.

WHEN I had the pleaſure of witneſſing your per⯑formance, I ſaid but the truth when I aſſured you it would be no trifling ſatis⯑faction to me to promote whatever you ſhould conſider as your intereſt. As to your requeſt of addreſſing your public letters to me, I embrace with great ſatisfaction an opportunity of receiving an earlier entertainment from them than the reſt of your friends. Nobody can be more zealous in your cauſe. There is, I confeſs, one conſideration that will make me read them with reluctance—every ſucceeding letter will be one approach nearer to your departure, which you know I never cordially liked—though I own you have conquered every ſcruple but one. Anſwer me. What will the people of INDIA ſay of you, when they ſee in your book that you make a viſit to them, your ſorlorn hope? You ſee I begin the office of a friend by treating you with freedom. My re⯑marks, however, will not be very troubleſome to you. Your career is brilli⯑ant, and it were pity to ſtop it. Adieu. I have read thirteen letters, and be aſſured I ſhall make a peruſal of the reſt ſupercede every other conſideration of buſineſs or pleaſure—being

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I thought the beſt way of thanking you for your let⯑ter, would be to inſert—and anſwer it. It ſhall be printed however without your name—nor ſhall I publicly uſe it at all, though out of kindneſs you have ſtipulated for no ſuch arrangement. My reaſon is, that though I may find it neceſſary to go to loggerheads with witlings and crotchet-mongers, it would be unhandſome to bring you in as my ſecond, or even bottle-holder. Thanking you heartily for your zeal and kindneſs, and aſſuring you that I ſhall take every care to merit your attention to my letters, and by that means inſure myſelf the good opinion of the public, I ſhall firſt, anſwering your only remaining ſcru⯑ple, proceed on my TOUR. The prejudices of general opinion, from which I believe no man is wholly free, incline one naturally to form ideas of a long voyage, a foreign climate, a ſtrange race of people, and new laws and cuſtoms, that after fairly and maturely conſulting our reaſon we really find do not exiſt. Theſe beget a repugnance to leave our native land, which, were it examined, would be found to originate in folly and ignorance. I am ſure there is not more danger in a long voyage than a long journey. I have myſelf been overturned, during this TOUR, in a chaiſe, and was within a very little of breaking my neck. Lloyd's Evening Poſt contained, ſome time ago, an account of a gen⯑tleman who having been two voyages to the Eaſt-Indies, returned, and in taking [52] a ſhort journey in the mail-coach—was overturned and killed. As to a foreign climate, can it be worſe than the month of November in England? For ſtrange people—they are to be met with every where. New laws cannot certainly be better than the ſpirit of thoſe in this country—but the letter and the execution cannot any where be worſe.

I ſhall hereafter have occaſion to animadvert a little ſtronger on this ſub⯑ject. It is very true I leave England, becauſe I think I have not been well treated; but ſurely this is paying a compliment to the liberality of INDIA. They love pleaſure—it is in my power to give it to them. The compact is a fair one; and if they find me capable to take a review of their amuſements, regulate them, ſupply them with novelty, put them upon an eligible and per⯑manent footing, and at length leave them in poſſeſſion of ſuch materials as will induce them to encourage me while I ſtay, and remember me afterwards—what will it be between us, but a mutual obligation? And yet, though I ar⯑gue ſo coolly, and I hope reaſonably, I had till very lately every one of the above vulgar prejudices and abſurd notions—for which no man alive can invent a rational excuſe. Nay, I had eight years ago gone to INDIA, could I have conquered theſe ſcruples, which—though I had in great meaſure got the better of—returned with irreſiſtable force, upon receiving the news of my brother's death. My election however is now made; yet, believe me, I go not like an exile. I go to give and receive pleaſure and advantage—to earn honeſtly a com⯑petency, and return with it to my native country. If there be any difficulties to encounter, I ſhall hope to ſurmount them, by the means of unconquerable ſpirits and a ſtrong conſtitution; and, if after all—it ſhould ſo happen that I am beckoned there by the finger of fate, I could not better obey the ſummons than in believing, with our immortal poet, ‘"that there's an eſpecial providence in the fall of a ſparrow."’ I am not however foolhardy enough to court the accompliſhment of this; nor will I ſay, with the philoſopher, ‘"ungrateful [53] country, thou ſhalt not have my aſhes."’ Sacred be deſtiny's immutable de⯑cree!^*

I ſhall be proud to ſee you again in Old England, and aſſure you, face to face, as I do now under my hand, that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —

FROM BRISTOL—I ſat out with a view to perform a night or two at GLOUCESTER; to which place—I cannot avoid noticing—I had a moſt beautiful journey. The wonderful rich ſoil round that city ſo invigorates vegetation, that the country looked as if the ſeaſon had been a month older; but, when I arrived, one would have ſworn the place was en⯑tirely deſerted. I could not help fancying that ſome public occaſion had in⯑vited all the inhabitants to a diſtance. No ſuch thing. It aroſe from nothing more than—as the reſidents in other places get out, and mix with each other, and thus enjoy the comforts of ſociality and good fellowſhip—thoſe at GLOU⯑CESTER ſtay at home, in their own hugger mugger way—and form no ac⯑quaintance but with the cats and crickets, by the fire ſide. Without exagge⯑ration—'tis ſo remarkable for its dullneſs, that you may, upon an average, look from one end of the ſtreet to the other, twenty times, and not at any one time ſee twenty people. This gave me but poor hopes of GLOUCESTER. Nor were my expectations more ſanguine when, in a converſation with Mr. RAIKES, I found the town was as much in ſackcloth as if there had been a general mourning. Four or five unexpected bankruptcies had thrown them into a conſternation not to be deſcribed; which, added to their natural gloom, made GLOUCESTER, at that time, the moſt unfit of all places for making an ex⯑periment [55] with my entertainment. I therefore got into a chaiſe, and poſted away to CHELTENHAM; but there were yet arrived only a ſick lord, an old maid, and a monkey:—ſo I ſtayed all night, ſlept in a damp bed,^* and went on to WORCESTER. Of this pretty and very ſprightly town—I own—I au⯑gured well. Nor was I deceived in my expectations. I found the inhabitants, however, very tardy; and, had it not been for a reverend and honourable gen⯑tleman—who never fails to countenance public amuſements whenever he can with propriety—I ſhould never have had a ſecond night. This owed its riſe to a report—which ſomebody had very good naturedly propagated—that I was an impoſtor. When one conſiders it has been affirmed that a man took thirty pounds to be ſhot for ADMIRAL BYNG—and that FOOTE had his leg cut off on purpoſe to procure a patent—or—as ſome have maintained—to give him a graceful hitch in his walk—is it wonderful that a ſtranger ſhould have ſome difficulty in proving his own identity? They were, however, reaſoned with in the following manner. 'Tis true this man may poſſibly not be Mr. DIBDIN—in which caſe, thoſe who attend his performance would be ſubject to ſome kind of raillery; but it is alſo poſſible he may be the very identical man—and, that admitted, would not his departure in dudgeon bring a ſtronger ridicule on the place? ‘'Suppoſe,'’ ſaid a few—who really were poſſeſſed of ſomething like reaſon—‘'the firſt performance ſhould be watched with a critical eye, and a report ſpread as to its merit, and the originality of its fabrication—if he be an impoſtor, it will be then time enough to give way to our reſentment: if not, ſurely he deſerves ſome apology, and future attention—for having paid us the compliment to come among us.'’ So ſaid—ſo done. I was attended by eleven critics, who, I am ſure, had made up their minds before they came—for it ſo happened that they had good ſenſe enough to ſee there does not exiſt a man who could have performed what I promiſed and yet have been an impoſtor.—I plainly perceived the drift of this manoeuvre, and went through my enter⯑tainment with a ſpirit that ſurpriſed my audience. When I had finiſhed—an [56] apology was made me, in the name of the city of WORCESTER—and, to be brief, I had afterwards four very decent nights; and, that not ſatisfying them, they exacted a promiſe from me to return in the race week.

The report of my being an impoſtor originated from an unmarried lady, who had ſeen me, ſhe ſaid, at BIRMINGHAM, and who—as ſhe did not confeſs herſelf a member of the tribe of old maids—was not a little nettled, as I after⯑wards underſtood, when I remarked—upon hearing this ſtory—that her love of juſtice had got the better of her amour propre; for, that by mentioning BIRMINGHAM—where I had not been for twenty-five years—ſhe was tacitly obliged to agree to an age rather more ancient than it was her uſual cuſtom to acknowledge.

I ſhall ſpeak of WORCESTER more fully on my return—and, in the mean time, beg the favour of your company to BIRMINGHAM—whither I went in the ſtage coach, in company with a plain, agreeable man, who I could very ſoon perceive was intimately concerned in ſome large manufactory. As I am, upon all occaſions, juſt as willing that the laugh ſhould go againſt my⯑ſelf as another, I here inform you of a matter in which I conceived myſelf to be wonderfully ſagacious. About ten months before the period I ſpeak of—or, as Mr. BAYES has it, long before the beginning of this play—I went, with a party, to dinner at the ISLE OF WIGHT, where a genteel man ſent in his compliments, and requeſted he might dine with the company. Our own being rather a promiſcuous meeting, he was readily admitted. He turned out to be a pleaſant, chatty companion—ſeemed to be very ready on every general topic—but the whole of his converſation appeared purpoſely to allude to his being a man of property. I took it for granted that he was ſo—and did not teſtify a little ſurpriſe when the landlord told me he was a rider, or what they call in Yorkſhire—a bagman. I was determined afterwards to take care who I believed to be men of property—and this Journey from WORCESTER to BIRMINGHAM was the firſt time afterward that my ſuſpicions were awakened. [57] Every time the gentleman was talking of bills of parcels and bails of goods, I could not get rid of the idea of—bagman; and, before we arrived, I had actu⯑ally ſet him down for a vain, empty pretender to property—a pattern carrier—a ſtirrup holder—in ſhort, the very ſhadow of what he appeared to be. Dur⯑ing the interval between our arrival and dinner, he went out—and the waiter aſking if I knew who that gentleman was, I anſwered careleſſly—ſome bagman I fancy. ‘'Bagman!'’ cried the waiter, ‘'the gentleman is worth eighty thouſand pounds!—a great clothier, near CHELTENHAM.'’ This incident may ſerve to ſhew how deceitful are appearances! and it ſhould teach us this leſſon—to pay every object its proper degree of reſpect:—for as there is no rank, ever ſo high, but vice may debaſe—ſo there is no ſtation, ever ſo low, but virtue will exalt. Both theſe men behaved very properly. One kept a little higher than his real rank, like an able ambaſſador, to demand reſpect to his maſter—while the other, like a king, condeſcended a little—to ſhew he had no pride. If it had not been for the officiouſneſs of the landlord at the ISLE OF WIGHT, I ſhould never have known—that the firſt had only credentials to ſhew; nor ſuſpected—that the latter was the leſs a man of property for not aſſuming airs of conſequence. How I came to be thus ſuſpicious, I cannot conceive. My characteriſtic—and 'tis no feather in my cap—is credulity? and my pocket and peace of mind have often ſmarted for believing the ipſe dixit of other men in preference to the evidence of my own ſenſes. The poet ſays ‘"ſince the world will, why let it be deceived."’ Do not you, however, believe that there is the ſmalleſt deceit in my aſſuring you that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —.

OUT of three times that I advertiſed my entertain⯑ment at BIRMINGHAM—I performed it only twice. Theſe fuliginous ſons of Vulcan were, at my arrival, too buſily attending to feats of horſemanſhip—a ſpecies of amuſement ever fatal to my intereſt—to take any notice of me. One thing completely diſguſted me. At WORCESTER it was ſuggeſted to me that, as my price was three ſhillings, the tradeſmen and others in middling ſituations could not afford to pay that ſum, or mix with the company who could—and, therefore, I made a diſtinction; and, partitioning the town hall—which is very large—admitted company at three ſhillings and eighteen-pence. The ſpirit of the people was rouſed at this circumſtance—and very few indeed were to be found in the back ſeats, while thoſe in the front were crowded. Upon making the ſame experiment at BIRMINGHAM, it was exactly the re⯑verſe—for as the inhabitants of WORCESTER, of middling property, made a point of paying three ſhillings, ſo people of very conſiderable property in BIR⯑MINGHAM, ſkulked in at eighteen-pence. One circumſtance, I own, made me look upon BIRMINGHAM as a very likely place for ſucceſs. It was the firſt town in which I appeared as an actor; and, as I ſignified this by a para⯑graph in the hand bills, and made—what I there ſaid—a ſort of invitation, to witneſs the maturity of thoſe abilities which they had ſeen in their infancy, [59] I naturally ſuppoſed I ſhould awaken their curioſity—and that they would be pouring in by hundreds. Not a bit. The people of BIRMINGHAM were too much taken up with hobnails and horſemanſhip to pay me the leaſt atten⯑tion. Upon mentioning my ſurpriſe to a Frenchman, he exclaimed—‘Mon dieu que eſt ce que voulez vous? Comment agir pour faire un cheval vuider l'avoine q'il n'ai jamais mange'.’ I confeſſed the juſtice of the remark, and comforted myſelf with a letter I had in my pocket from Dr. HAYES, encloſing one from THE VICE CHANCELLOR, which gave me leave to come to OXFORD for three days in the following week.

Thus I left BIRMINGHAM—without being able to ſing the glee of ‘"Smiths are good fellows."’ Of my journey to OXFORD, I can give you no farther account—having travelled in the night—than, that at the White Lion at STRATFORD-UPON-AVON—that very Inn which I ſaw in ſuch confuſion at the JUBILEE—we had the moſt ſcandalous ſupper that ever was ſet upon a table. But as, on my return to WORCESTER, I ſhall have ſomething to ſay further of this houſe, you will now, if you pleaſe, attend me to Dr. HAYES, who received me with his accuſtomed cordiality and politeneſs. We ſettled the mode of commencing the entertainment, and I waited on the VICE CHANCELLOR to thank him for his kindneſs, and requeſt that I might ſub⯑mit the copy of my amuſement to his inſpection. He was pleaſed to ſay—he had a particular pleaſure in obliging me; and—as he did not ſuppoſe I would offer any entertainment to the ſtudents unworthy my reputation or their attention—he truſted the matter wholly to me, and thought a peruſal of the copy totally unneceſſary.

The firſt night was announced—and with every care and circumſpec⯑tion I prepared for it. I cut out Grog, and introduced—for the firſt time it was ever ſung—The Siege of Troy. I took occaſion—merely becauſe I felt it—to introduce an oblique compliment to Dr. CHAPMAN; which afterwards, as [60] I underſtood, was inſerted with ſome handſome remarks in the OXFORD paper.^* In ſhort, I performed the three nights, for which I had permiſſion—and was granted, at the preſſing inſtance of many members of the univerſity a fourth—and I may truly ſay, as to applauſe, no man ever experienced hanſomer encou⯑ragement. The profit, however, was only what I have before mentioned.

During my ſtay at OXFORD I became more intimate with Dr. HAYES—and, as our converſations on Muſic were very frequent, he could not help tell⯑ing me what trouble he had been put to, at different times—though he had never ſeen me—to defend my reputation againſt the malignity of the ignorant and the invidious. Theſe converſations finiſhed with my making him a ſort of half promiſe to put a ſtop to the tongue of envy, by compoſing the proper exerciſe and taking the complicate degree of Bachelor and Doctor of MUSIC. This promiſe, however, ſo given, I fancy I ſhall not keep. I de⯑ſpiſe envy too much to fear it—and, therefore, cannot condeſcend to ſilence it. As to the exerciſe, it is compoſed—and—be it known to the muſical critics—though it is a taſk infinitely more complex than any thing I had before done—I never ſet myſelf an eaſier leſſon in my life: ſo much leſs difficult is it to work by method than fancy. As, however, the ſong of hope is a part of it, one half of the kingdom will witneſs for me that melody and harmony may be blended; and, as I ſhall, previous to my departure, make a preſent of the overture to ſome of the firſt concerts—particularly thoſe of LIVERPOOL, MANCHESTER, and LEEDS—the moſt rigid theoriſt ſhall be obliged to con⯑feſs—that the firſt ſugue I ever thought it worth my while to make, is one of my beſt compoſitions: for it does not wrong my own-eſtabliſhed maxim—of never loſing ſight of melody—yet it extends and expatiates through all the wide [61] field of modulation. If the cavillers take up this, let them conſider it merely as a whet—by and by they ſhall have a full meal.

At OXFORD, I received a letter from a friend, informing me, that my little piece of Harveſt Home had been performed, and received with very great applauſe. To corroborate this account, I ſent the next day for the Morning Chronicle, where I found it ſpoken of in the higheſt terms. Mr. WOODFALL, among other things, having predicted it would become a popular favourite, and I ſincerely believe his words would have been verified had it been performed every night afterwards in the ſame ſtate as on the firſt. On the fourth, how⯑ever, I ſaw it myſelf, and I declare moſt ſolemnly—though, as MAJOR STUR⯑GEON ſays, ‘"I have ſeen ſome deſperate duty"’—I never witneſſed ſo wanto [...] a mutilation. I ſcarcely knew it—and my friend, who was with me, and who gave me the above account, aſſured me that all the alterations had been made ſince the firſt night. I bore my diſgrace like a philoſopher—and was not at all ſurpriſed when, inſtead of getting a remittance for the profit of my benefit, I received a letter, informing me, that there was a balance againſt me of nine pounds! But to pleaſe managers, who are not attached to you, is a more ridiculous attempt than the man with his ſon and his jack-aſs. Thank Heaven I have now only the public to pleaſe—of which, as a valuable individual, I beg you will take your ſhare, and believe me

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I will not leave OXFORD, without noticing the civility which, in addition to that of Dr. HAYES and the VICE CHANCELLOR, I re⯑ceived from that fine, hearty, friendly character, Mr. JACKSON, the bookſeller; nor muſt the great attention ſhewn me by that able artiſt, Mr. ROBERTS, paſs unſung—whoſe paintings, and in particular his ſmall whole lengths are remark⯑able for ſpirit, expreſſion, good drawing, and exact ſimilitude. No ſtronger in⯑ſtances of the latter quality in them can be given than the following circum⯑ſtance. When I was at WOLVERHAMPTON, a gentleman came into the room, and being muſical, chatted with me ſome minutes before the performance. I thought I had met with him before—but it turned out that I had ſeen only his portrait at Mr. ROBERTS's—that diſtance of time was at leaſt three months; and as I never ſaw either original or portrait more than once, and that for a very ſhort ſpace of time, the reſemblance muſt have been not only correct, but very ſtriking indeed. This gentleman's name is SPENCE, and he is a ſtudent at the Univerſity. Mr. ROBERTS does not want my recommendation—if he did, I ſhould ſtrongly adviſe thoſe who wiſh to preſerve their likeneſſes, and poſſeſs at the ſame time good paintings, to apply to him.

Before I ſet out for London, I ſent a letter of thanks to the VICE CHANCEL⯑LOR, [63] which I ſincerely wiſh I could remember, as it would ſerve admirably well, by way of contraſt, to one that will appear in the next letter, which I kept a copy of—the transaction that occaſioned it having fixed in me a firm determination to publiſh this work.

OXFORD is ſo well known that it will be neceſſary for me to ſay but little about it. Every child knows that it has thirteen pariſh churches, twenty col⯑leges and five halls, which being intermixed with the houſes, give it an air of ſuperb magnificence not perhaps to be equalled in the world. As to its muſical taſte, I need not ſay more in its praiſe than that Dr. HAYES is their profeſſor of muſic. The inns are, in term time, filled conſtantly with riots—which render them very uncomfortable to ſtrangers. Nor can this be reſtrained. The autho⯑rity of the moſt powerful, or the examples of the beſt man upon earth—and it will be difficult to find out a better than Dr. CHAPMAN—can avail but little, while fathers, inſtead of a modeſt ſtipend ſufficient to anſwer the purpoſes of a ſtudent, ſend their ſons to the Univerſity, one would think, to plunge them into extra⯑vagance, and diſqualify them for every ſtudy—but profligacy and brutality. And now, in my uſual way, muſt I break off to throw together ſome of thoſe thoughts which have often ſtruck me on this important ſubject. The young gentlemen of the Univerſity have generally ſeparate tutors. I do not ſay the following re⯑marks apply to every tutor; but do they, generally underſtood, conſider any thing but the pleaſures of the pupil? Nay, are they not often commanded to do ſo? Is not his vanity gratified? Are not his wiſhes anticipated? Is there an incentive to idleneſs, a ſtimulative to diſſipation, but it is their ſtudy to procure? Are miſdemeanors to be inveſtigated?—they wrack invention to find an excuſe. Is pleaſure the word?—the tutor is the jollieſt fellow in the throng. In ſhort, would you teach your ſon to trample upon reaſon, violate decorum, deſtroy every ſocial trace of virtue, and to finiſh—in his own language—knock down order, give him a tutor that will paſs muſter among the reſt; if he be of any other deſcription, he will be hunted down with undeſerved calumny till he ſhall be obliged either to take refuge in a ſchool, or behind the reading-deſk [64] of a country curate. And the miſchief is—it is ſo difficult to make a choice. Sanctity is no more to be truſted than the grief of an actor, which con⯑tinues only till the curtain drops, to make room for the farce that is to follow it. Thus fools come in as large ſhoals from the Univerſity, as knaves from church. Your right collegian can give you vices of an hundred years ſtanding a new-cut to bring them into faſhion—but, as to books, they are the ſame to him as drugs to an apothecary—both are preſcribed and both taken; but neither the phyſic by the DOCTOR, nor letters by the SCHOLAR. A ſet of unintelligent terms ſerve the purpoſe of both, and one adminiſters to the body and the other to the mind, while they truſt to chance for the ſucceſs of the operation.

Of natural curioſities—I believe there are none at OXFORD. Artificial ones manufactured there may be ſeen in many of the pulpits throughout the king⯑dom.

Perhaps you will ſay I am ſomewhat too hard—for this ſhould ſeem to imply that our univerſities produce nothing but dunces. I allow, which is a great deal, that, once in ten times, they may turn out a man of tolerable abili⯑ties—two thirds of the remainder are but at beſt Pedants—fellows who go over a whole library—book by book—as faithfully as a MOTH; but who—after they have both read and retained every thing—have not ſufficient taſte to diſtinguiſh a ſingle literary beauty. The reſt—as I have deſcribed above—are either pretty fellows, or jolly dogs—a ſet of beings comparatively leſs obnoxious in propor⯑tion as they approach to inſignificance.

I returned to LONDON on Monday the twenty-firſt of May, exactly in time—as I mentioned in my laſt letter—to ſee Harveſt Home on the fourth night; from which circumſtance, I as poſitively predicted its downfall, as Mr. WOOD⯑FALL had done its popularity. That very evening I formed—what I thought amounted to a reſolution of drawing my pen no more for the ſtage; but ſo much was I miſtaken, that three days afterwards I caught myſelf finiſhing a ſeene in [65] I think the beſt piece I have ever written. But any one would have done the ſame. The encouragement I had received from Mr. HARRIS no man would have ſuſpected to be trifling; and two or three pieces purchaſed at a good price would not have been an uncomfortable circumſtance upon a long voyage. How fallacious however this dependance was, will be ſhewn in its proper place.

Little happened during my ſtay in town worthy notice—except many in⯑ſtances of friendſhip I received from Mr. PRESTON, in the Strand, and that Dr. HAYES, who came up to the feſtival, did me the kindneſs to dine with me on the king's birth-day, and caught me hard at work at my exerciſe—for my intention was pretty ſtrong then to go for the degree; for I was pleaſed with my work, and thought it a pity to take ſo much pains for nothing. Other purſuits, however, have ſince diverted me from it—ſo there lies honour—it will not ſtop the tide, nor reſtrain the winds—therefore I'll have none on't.—You will as readily believe it as that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

ON the ſeventh of June I quitted LONDON for CAMBRIDGE. In the coach happened to be a gentleman of ſome medical con⯑ſequence in the city, who not only turned out a very agreeable companion, but made ſome of the beſt general remarks I ever liſtened to. Theſe, though I may avail myſelf of ſome of them in the courſe of my work, I ſhall ſay no⯑thing of here. I cannot refrain, however, from giving his opinion—which I earneſtly requeſted, as that ſubject came up among a number of others—con⯑cerning the execution of DONNELLAN. I could not withhold myſelf from re⯑probating, in pretty ſtrong terms, the pre-judgment in that buſineſs—the rigour ſhewn from the bench—where the priſoner ſhould never want an advocate; and, in particular, the remarkable circumſtance—that the charge to the GRAND JURY, previous to the trial—contained the very words of the ſentence of CON⯑DEMNATION; all of which, I believe the public have but one opinion of.—This gentleman's ſentiments of the matter, as a phyſician—ſetting aſide all the nonſenſical controverſies that have happened concerning the quality of laurel water—he very ſenſibly confined to this: That poiſon of any kind could not effect death ſo inſtantaneouſly—the ſhorteſt period between the ſwallowing of poiſon and the conſequent death, that he had ever heard of in all his practice, [67] was nearly four hours, and SIR THEODORE BOUGHTON is ſaid to have died in leſs time than one minute. In ſhort, ſaid he, if that phial contained any thing of DONNELLAN's invention which actually cauſed that ſudden death ſworn to by the mother, he diſcovered what no other ever did. Unleſs it was one of thoſe ſecrets which Dr. MEAD is ſaid to have kept from the world, leſt, knowing human depravity, he might be the inſtrument of providing them with a novel opportunity of perpetrating the dictates of a cowardly and diabolical revenge. As to Dr. RETRAY's killing rats and dogs to prove he had been miſtaken when he ſwore SIR THEODORE BOUGHTON was poiſoned with arſenic, we laughed at it as it deſerved; but when we came to conſider that Dr. HUNTER was pinned to a ſingle queſtion, namely, whether the deceaſed died of poiſon or not—which no man could have poſitively anſwered—we agreed in a ſincere wiſh that the learned interpreter of the law—who acted the part of judge and jury upon this occaſion—was in his own mind clearly and fully convinced of the priſoner's guilt; and ſo with that laudable and upright deteſtation—with which his lordſhip is well known to accelerate the extermina⯑tion of murderers—he reſolved that the victim then in his power ſhould not eſcape.

I was unfortunate enough to loſe this gentleman's company after we had travelled together about ſix and thirty miles. On my arrival in CAMBRIDGE, where I cannot refrain from noticing, that though the coach from Gray's Inn Lane is bound to the White Hart—yet the paſſengers will far every diſagreeably, if they are obliged, as I was, to ſtay all night. As ſoon as I could, the follow⯑ing morning, I got into a lodging, and began to make my preparations in form. I delivered a letter to Dr. RANDALL, who begged to be excuſed from taking an active part in the buſineſs, on account of his age, and the reſolution he had made not to concern himſelf but as little as poſſible with public matters. I afterwards called on a gentleman of Trinity College, to whom I had a very friendly and preſſing letter from a man of fortune in town—but unluckily the gentleman was not then at CAMBRIDGE. My next application was of courſe [68] to the VICE CHANCELLOR; and as every other channel was—as the reader has ſeen—dammed up, my only reliance was on the permiſſion I had received from Dr. CHAPMAN, and ſome other documents which I put in my pocket for his inſpection. But as this interview, and the reſult of it, make too marking a part of my TOUR not to have every poſſible advantage—I ſhall give ſo ſingular a tranſaction a letter by itſelf. I have ſhewn, in this letter, a judicial cur in office—in my next I ſhall give you the portrait of a clerical one:—but all theſe are the foils that ſet off the brilliancy of true friendſhip, and the value of ſter⯑ling worth—for the knowledge of theſe kind and eſtimable qualities in you, give me leave to aſſure you that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I have often wondered that in the common tranſac⯑tions of life men meet with ſuch continual rudeneſs, when civility is ſo cheap, and ſo becoming. If hackney coachmen and waiters made a point of uſing a little of this good quality, they would find themſelves richer, and lead more comfortable lives. But if rudeneſs be unpardonable in thoſe we rule, for hea⯑ven's ſake what is it in thoſe who rule us! A man in a high and reſpectable ſituation can add nothing to his dignity ſo truly great as complacency and gentleneſs of manners. Thus, the VICE CHANCELLOR OF OXFORD, who is an abſolute monarch for the time being—like a little Emperor of GER⯑MANY—diſpenſes his decrees with ſuch impartial even-handed juſtice, and tender regard to his own honour and the ſuſceptibility of individuals, that a man muſt be ſelf-condemned before he puniſhes him; and, I will venture to ſay, that if any conſideration could induce a diſtinction in his conduct or carriage to any different deſcriptions of men who, on various accounts, have occaſion to apply to him, the benevolent affability which ſo eminently characteriſes him, would be conſpicuouſly extended to the moſt unfortunate [70] among them^*. What then can be ſaid of a VICE CHANCELLOR OF CAM⯑BRIDGE, who has equal power, and whoſe haughty and imperious deport⯑ment, ſullen aſpect, and premature determination, ſeem—contrary to all ac⯑knowledged juſtice—to ſuppoſe every man guilty till he is proved innocent? Such a VICE CHANCELLOR muſt ſurely be unfit for his ſituation. He muſt be uncandid, ungenerous, and unjuſt; and—what are terrible qualities in that high character—ignorant and incapable of diſcrimination. Leſt it ſhould be thought I had Dr. ELLISON in view when I drew the above portrait, I will entreat the reader to attend minutely to what paſſed during my interview with that gentleman—and afterwards, in conſequence of it—and it will be plainly ſeen whether he meant any thing more than a faithful diſcharge of the duties of that office committed to his care.

I had waited on Dr. ELLISON, who was not to be ſpoken with—I therefore, by way of breaking the ice, entreated Mr. WYNN, who keeps a muſic ſhop, to call and leave ſome of my bills. That done—after four viſits to no purpoſe—I was at length admitted; and my memory—which is pretty faithful—aſſures me what follows was the converſation that paſſed between us.

‘'Sir, I have the honour to introduce myſelf to you—my name is DIBDIN—I come to CAMBRIDGE with a view of offering the univerſity a [71] little muſical entertainment, which has given very great ſatisfaction at ſeve⯑ral places—and in particular at OXFORD—where, with the VICE CHAN⯑CELLOR's permiſſion, I had the honour of performing with much reputa⯑tion.'’ ‘"Ha—you had the VICE CHANCELLOR's permiſſion there had you? how do I know that?"’ ‘'I aſſure you Sir, upon my honour I had; how⯑ever, as I am a perfect ſtranger, you are certainly not to oblige me upon my bare aſſertion—therefore, pleaſe to look at thoſe letters.'’ I then produced the letter from Dr. HAYES, written to me at WORCESTER, and that from Dr. CHAPMAN to him, which accompanied it. ‘"Ah—well—this letter gives you leave, to be ſure—but it does not ſay that your entertainment is ſuch a one as ought to be delivered at a univerſity."’ ‘'It is true, Sir, Dr. CHAPMAN never ſaw the entertainment in queſtion, not even to this moment, but he was kind enough to ſuppoſe I would not commit ſuch an outrage on propriety, or ſo far offend againſt the etiquette of that univerſity, of which he is ſuch an ornament, as to offer them any thing unworthy the patronage under which I had the honour to appear before them; and, to convince me he was of this opinion, Mrs. CHAPMAN, and ſeveral ladies with her, attended the performance; nay, Sir, to ſhew you beyond con⯑tradiction that the amuſement had the good opinion of the univerſity in ge⯑neral, here is a paragraph in the OXFORD paper, announcing, that at the particular requeſt of many reſpectable members of the different colleges, the VICE CHANCELLOR extended his permiſſion, in conſequence of the ſatisfaction I had given.'’ ‘"Oh, the paragraph in the paper is nothing at all:—a man put a paragraph in the CAMBRIDGE paper, the other day, againſt me—and it was all a lie."’ ‘'Sir, Mr. JACKSON, who prints the OXFORD paper, is a man of probity and fortune—he idolizes the VICE CHAN⯑CELLOR—and could not be induced, for any conſideration, to uſe his name to grace a falſity.'’ ‘"Upon my word, you ſpeak very well—one may eaſily ſee, by your converſation, you have merit."’ ‘'I am obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir.'’ ‘"But, you ſee, the morals of the young [72] men are all in my care, and as Dr. CHAPMAN never ſaw the entertainment, he may yet be impoſed upon. I have ſeen your bill, and I own it ſeems to hold out ſomething immoral. Beſides, if you are a man of this reputa⯑tion, what can induce you to come ſtrolling about the country?"’ ‘'Sir, I am going to INDIA—and, as I wiſh, before my departure, to ſay good bye to a generous public, who have afforded me a long and liberal patro⯑nage—'’ ‘"Why do you know any body at CAMBRIDGE?"’ ‘'No Sir.'’—‘"Then it is plain the people here do not make up any part of that public to whom you are ſo much obliged; conſequently, they have no right to be thanked. Thus, you ſee, as you are rich enough to come with no other motive than mere gratitude—why pay it where it is not due?"’ ‘'Good God, Sir! am I obliged to be perſonally acquainted with all thoſe who wiſh me well as a public man?'’ ‘"Well Sir, I don't know what to ſay to it. It has always been my rule to give no perſon permiſſion who is not recom⯑mended by ſomebody belonging to the univerſity. You ſay you know nobody."’ ‘'I brought with me a letter for Dr. RANDALL, Sir.'’ ‘"Oh, Dr. RANDALL won't do."’ ‘'What kind of perſon muſt it be, Sir?'’—‘"Why, for inſtance, a fellow commoner of one of the colleges."’ ‘'I have a letter to a gentleman ſo deſcribed in my pocket—it is unſealed—pleaſe to read it Sir—he is unfortunately not at CAMBRIDGE—but you will readily believe that, upon the ſtrength of his friends recommendation, he would otherwiſe have waited on you with pleaſure.'’ ‘"It does not ſignify, Sir—the gentleman is not here to ſpeak for himſelf, and I cannot credit mere appearances."’ ‘'Sir, had I known there would have been ſo many diffi⯑culties thrown in the way of a requeſt which it would have done you no diſhonour or diſcredit to grant, I would not have given myſelf a moment's trouble about it.'’ ‘"Oh Sir, if you begin to talk of difficulties, I have done."’ ‘'So would I Sir, did I not feel myſelf a little hurt at being de⯑prived, by your ſuſpicions, of an opportunity of giving CAMBRIDGE an amuſement that has been ſo followed at OXFORD.'’ ‘"My ſuſpicions Sir!"’ ‘'Yes Sir—for you muſt ſuppoſe me a moſt impudent impoſtor, after every [73] thing that has happened.'’ ‘"Well, but ſurely—why you are not the Mr. DIBDIN who compoſed the Padlock and ſuch a number of muſical works?"’ ‘'I am Sir—and I am ſorry you could not prevail on yourſelf to believe it ſooner.'’ ‘"Why—really—this to be ſure alters the caſe."’ ‘'In ſhort, Sir, as this converſation has imperceptible ſtolen on thus far, I am determined you SHALL be convinced. The DUKE OF GRAFTON, as I take it, is CHAN⯑CELLOR OF CAMBRIDGE, and you are only VICE CHANCELLOR, and I am ſure I know a channel through which I can get you his GRACE's recom⯑mendation of me.'’ ‘"Why, now, upon my word, this is a ſtrange miſtake—pray ſit down."’ ‘'I beg to be excuſed Sir.'’ ‘"I am ſorry a conſtant rule which I preſcribe myſelf in theſe caſes, ſhould occaſion ſuch a miſunder⯑ſtanding. You may perform Sir, on Monday."’ This being the very point I wanted to bring him to, I abruptly wiſhed him a good morning, and he fol⯑lowed me to the door, with many apologies, of which I took no manner of notice. As ſoon as I got home I ſent him the following letter.

I muſt not quit this ſubject without obſerving, that it is more than poſſi⯑ble I went the wrong way to work. This I know to be fact. A certain mimic who had once ſome ſort of lectures at CAMBRIDGE, in which his great merit was an imitation, of ME—procured a permiſſion for his performance, by giving the VICE CHANCELLOR's butler—I will not ſay what VICE CHANCELLOR—a guinea. Thus, as it frequently happens in life, was the ſubſtance neglected for the ſhadow. If this ſtings, ‘"let the galled jade wince:"’ In which caſe, you and I have free ſouls. Adieu. Believe me

To the Rev. Mr. —.

CAMBRIDGE having detained me a week to no purpoſe, I was perſuaded to try HUNTINGDON, which place was ſaid to have a very ſpirited neighbourhood. LORD SANDWICH not being then at HINCH⯑INBROOK, none of the muſical tribe would ſtir a peg without their firſt fiddle—and having performed one night to an audience of about twenty-five, who were not in the habit of following a leader, I flattered myſelf by the ſatisfac⯑tion thoſe few received, a ſecond would be worth trial. But I had not con⯑ſidered, that on that very evening MADAME MARA performed at CAM⯑BRIDGE, or I ſhould not have been ſo abſurd as to expect that any lover of muſic, within twenty miles, would loſe the opportunity of hearing her. I was ſo thinly attended that I would not perform—and the next day ſet off, with a view of going to NORWICH. I cannot refrain from mentioning a ſenſible remark of the MAYOR, to whom, as commanding officer, I as uſual applied. ‘'Sir,'’ ſaid he, ‘'it is not in my power to give you permiſſion: on the con⯑trary, I am expreſſly ordered by the late proclamation, as MAYOR of this town, to prevent every exhibition not authorized by a regular licence.—Now, as according to the preſent laws there cannot be a licence to tolerate any ſort of amuſement at HUNTINGDON, nor indeed at any other place more [76] than twenty-one miles out of LONDON; and, as it is certainly unfair that we ſhould be denied rational amuſements, I ſhall, as long as my office con⯑tinues, take the liberty to make this diſtinction. Whenever an entertain⯑ment preſents itſelf that, like yours, promiſes to give pleaſure without being immoral, although I give no leave as a magiſtrate—I will certainly, as a man, recommend it to the attention of my friends. If, therefore, you ſhould think proper to perform, I dare ſay nobody will inform againſt you; and if you wiſh for the Town-hall, the man who takes care of it will, no doubt, let you have it for a mere trifle.'’

I am ſure you will pardon me for noticing this gentlemanlike conduct. I ſhall, in the courſe of this work, go into a full deſcription of the laws re⯑lative to public amuſements—to which I am very competent, having had as much public and private legal advice as any man.

HUNTINGDON—which gave birth to OLIVER CROMWELL—is a pretty town. It lies, however, on a flat, and the proſpect near it is remarkable for nothing but a number of handſome ſpires. The road to CAMBRIDGE is very fine. The hair-dreſſer gave me a long account of the number of pariſhes it formerly had—‘'but alas Sir,'’ ſaid he, ‘'they are now dwindled—and we have only four church yards, three ſpires, two churches, and one PARSON.'’

When I came to NEWMARKET, in my way to NORWICH, upon hear⯑ing the races were to be the following week at IPSWICH, I changed my deſign, and went to that place. I found it in glorious confuſion, and trying to get a lodging, I diſcovered a manaeuvre, the mention of which may ſerve as a cau⯑tion to thoſe who mean to viſit any place in the race-week. The landlord of one of the principal inns had advertiſed his beds at a guinea a-piece; and fear⯑ing, on account of the exorbitant demand, that viſitors ſhould be induced to take lodgings, he procured, with great cunning and induſtry, a promiſe from the other inhabitants that they would aſk the ſame price. What was the con⯑ſequence? [77] IPSWICH is very large, and the ſtrangers naturally ſaid, If we can get lodgings no cheaper at private houſes than at inns, we had better be where our horſes can be taken care of. Thus, few private lodgings were let—the inns were full—and the landlords laughed at the credulity of their neigh⯑bours.

At IPSWICH I gave my entertainment twice before I went to COLCHES⯑TER, and once at my return. The two firſt times I was as well attended as, conſidering the number of amuſements that poured in from all quarters, I had a right to expect. The fourth night, however, was to make me large amends; but, like my dependences in general, turned out a rotten one.—An unfortunate and truly ridiculous circumſtance happened to give a fort of tacit umbrage to many of the company there. It was this. I was invited to ſup with about eight of the leading gentlemen; and as they had a ball that evening, and it was very unlikely that theſe eight ſhould ſup away from the general meeting, where as ſort of ſtewards their preſence ſeemed to be abſo⯑lutely neceſſary, I ſuſpected ſome artifice in the buſineſs. Now it is a rule with me—as I was once under the unpleaſant neceſſity of hinting to one of my auditors—that when I am ſtuck up in my temporary orcheſtra and playing my tricks, I am unconditionally at the devotion of the audience, but before or after my performance—as there was never any thing either imperious or pre⯑ſuming in my deportment, of which I am ſure I ſhould have witneſſes enow were I to aſk it—I cannot conſent to conſider myſelf in an ineligible light.—Whether this rule ſtruck theſe gentlemen and ladies as falſe conſequence, improper pride, or what, I will not determine, but certainly the invitation to ſupper, meant nothing more than that I ſhould relieve the pipe and taber, by doing my utmoſt—to entertain the company. And here I cannot, for the life of me, avoid pauſing to tell two ſtories of poor SHUTER.

This child of humour was at a dinner one day, in a promiſcuous com⯑pany—and, as ſoon as the cloth was taken away, one of them got up and [78] entreated, as a particular favour, he would begin, to be comical. ‘"God,"’ ſaid SHUTER, ‘"I forgot my fool's dreſs—but, however, I'll go and fetch it, if you'll be my ſubſtitute till I return."’ The man thought this very comical, and declared he would. SHUTER then took his hat and cane—went away—and did not return at all.

Another time—a ſet of warm citizens, who had been uſed to the com⯑pany of BENNET—an actor of very mediocre abilities, at Covent Garden The⯑atre—got SHUTER to a tavern in the city.—No man's intellects were ever ſtronger, nor did any utter brighter ſallies of wit and pleaſantry. At every good thing the gaping citizens were in raptures. SHUTER could not con⯑ceive the reaſon of ſuch very laviſh praiſes—till, at length, hearing one of them exclaim, ‘'Oh that's great!—that's charming!—that's ſo like BENNET!'’ He was immediately let into the ſecret. BENNET was, with them, all that wit and humour could comprize; and they had not the ſmalleſt idea of pay⯑ing him an ill compliment by comparing him to their favourite. But to return.

Having given a pretty ſhrewd gueſs at what was going forward, I went to the Coffee-houſe—in BOOTS. The gentleman who invited me was evi⯑dently diſappointed at my appearance—and this confirmed my ſuſpicions.—I told him—as the party was private, and conſiſted only of gentlemen—I had taken the liberty to come with no ceremony; eſpecially as I ſhould be under the neceſſity of going to COLCHESTER early in the morning. He heſitated—and we were joined in the Coffee-room by other gentlemen, through whoſe enquiries, after ſupper, the murder came out. I immediately wiſhed this gentleman a good night—ſaying—it was utterly impoſſible to mix with the company in that trim—and gave a ſtrong hint that I could not conſent to be a performer any where but in my own entertainment. The juſtice of my re⯑mark was admitted—and I retired. At my return from COLCHESTER, this gentleman told me it was impoſſible to blame what I had done, but that it [79] threw an univerſal gloom over the company—every expectation was balked, and they never paſſed ſo unpleaſant an evening.^* Thus was I expected, like SHUTER, to be comical, or jump over a ſtick at the word of command; but I was determined to convince them I had not ſo much docility. Beſides—after all—there might be ſome BENNET or other whoſe comic abilities I might not have been able to equal.

How far the gentleman I here allude to had a ſhare in the buſineſs, I will not pretend to ſay. I have given a faithful relation of it—and as, upon ſeveral occaſions, he was very attentive to me—though there certainly was a blunder ſomewhere—it would be ungenerous in me to ſuppoſe he meant any thing more than my intereſt. I ought not, ab origine, to have been deceived—and a worthy baronet, with whom I converſed on the ſubject, at BURY—and who was to have been of the party—agreed I had been diſingenuouſly dealt with. However, ‘"as old birds are not caught with chaff,"’ I took care—though it affected my intereſt a little—it ſhould not make me ridicu⯑lous. I own I was hurt at it—and in particular becauſe it induced me to leave my kind friends near COLCHESTER ſo ſoon.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

TO COLCHESTER I poſted—and being recom⯑mended by the ingenious Mr. MOORE—whoſe clock and other curioſities all the world has ſeen, and wondered at—to the White Hart. I there received a hearty welcome to—as he ſaid—the land of Oyſters, Baize, and Eringo, from Mr. REYNOLDS, who is known among his ſuperiors by the title of honeſt George—by his equals as a kind friend and AGREEABLE COMPANION—and among his inferiors as a generous and liberal benefactor. Indeed, both he and his ſon, in underſtanding and demeanour, give you an impreſſion of ſome⯑thing conſiderably above inn-keepers. He ſhook his head at the idea of a muſical entertainment at COLCHESTER—but, as the aſſembly-room was in his houſe, I reſolved to try it. My ſucceſs turned out neither good nor bad, and he and I ſettled the matter as men ſhould do who mean fairly by each other. One circumſtance, however, rendered my jaunt to COLCHESTER very pleaſurable. A gentleman, who has every thing within himſelf that can con⯑ſtitute the enjoyments of a country-life in the trueſt and moſt delectable ſtile, laid himſelf out, with the unaffected and hearty kindneſs of old Engliſh hoſpitality, to charm away every moment of my time. Were I to mention every particular of his flattering partiality in terms it deſerves, I muſt invent [81] new ones—as no idea but the kind attention of this gentleman, and the be⯑nevolence of his family of love engroſſed me—I ſhall only ſay of COLCHES⯑TER—that the applauſe was exceſſive—the profit ſcarcely any thing.

On my return to IPSWICH, my night was ſpoiled by the intervention of that little pique which I have ſo fully mentioned in my laſt letter. I there⯑fore got away to BURY ST. EDMUNDS, at which place, as I paſſed through in my way to IPSWICH—as the players call it—I took the town; that is to ſay, made my enquiries, and ſaw how the land lay. Before I ſit myſelf down at BURY, I ſhall ſpeak of ſome characters at IPSWICH. Among the foremoſt, I anxiouſly ſeize the firſt opportunity in my life of noticing two members of the law of liberal and gentlemanlike manners—and, that ſo extraordinary an event may be fully proclaimed, whether theſe gentlemen will or not—their names are Mr. KILDERBEE and Mr. SQUIRES^*.

The faſhionable and friendly Mr. TROTMAN certainly ſtrove to ſerve me as induſtriouſly as ever the BUSY BODY did to ſerve Sir GEORGE AIRY; and, notwithſtanding, it has been ſaid the laſt ſtorm was of his brewing, yet, I really would try my hand at his panegyrick, if my pen was not reſtrained every time the idea comes acroſs me, by a recollection of the following lines in PRIOR.

[82]Nor muſt I forget that ſon of LINNEAS, Dr. COYTE, who had—when he did me the honour to conduct me to his botanic plantation—arrived to ſuch a pitch of perfection in improving upon nature, as to deprive the ſun of the power of maturing a Magnolia for a whole fortnight, that it might bloom for the gratification of his friends in the race week. The father of this gen⯑tleman is ſaid to have been one of the firſt botaniſts in Europe.

I ſhall alſo ſpeak of another gentleman, who repeatedly expreſſed a very ſtrong deſire to be preſent at my entertainment, but a foreigner—which too often happens—attracted him with ſuch magnetic force, that in ſpight of his own wiſhes, he had not the power to turn from the charm that faſcinated him.

But laſt—‘"though not leaſt"’—I ſhall ſpeak of PUNCHARD and JERMYN, whoſe kindneſs was fraught with ſuch unaffected attention, that it will not eaſily be eraſed from my remembrance. One thing, in particular, marked a ſtrong deſire to pleaſe, which is one of the beſt recommendations of a tradeſ⯑man; though heaven knows the trifle I paid them was ſcarcely worth an acknowledgment. The receipt was thus worded. ‘"Received the contents of this bill—with thanks."’

I have before expreſſed my ſurpriſe that civility, being ſo cheap an ac⯑commodation, ſhould be ſo little attended to. It is, indeed, ſo winning, that it inſures attention to the meaneſt trifles. A good introduction does wonders; and though an inſinuating prologue cannot ſave a bad play, it may ſoften conſiderably the rigour of its ſate. Is not a fine lady cheated by a ſhopkeeper with all the willingneſs in the world, if he compliments her perſon while he palms on her his damaged goods? Appearance—like the firſt blow in boxing—is half the battle. What a figure would a judge look if he were to try a cauſe in a black bob wig and a pair of jack boots. I was once witneſs to a farmer's abuſing a pair of young, ſpruce, unwigged counſellors [83] for ſpoiling his ground, in the afternoon, in whoſe preſence he had—on a trial in the morning—trembled from head to foot. But to ſettle my account with COLCHESTER and IPSWICH.

Both of theſe places ſeem to have been formerly of conſequence, but are now greatly declined. The manufactory of baize, as well as moſt of our ſtaple commerce is getting north. A ſtronger proof of which cannot be given than that LIVERPOOL is inſenſibly drawing away the trade of BRISTOL, and HULL all the coaſting buſineſs, except YARMOUTH, from IPSWICH to SALTFLEET:—and thus it will be found inland. Manufactories that begin about the center of the kingdom, puſh on to the north; till—having taken up their reſidence in Yorkſhire—they expand to the eaſt and weſt; but par⯑ticularly the eaſt, in a moſt aſtoniſhing way. Thus, from LEEDS to LI⯑VERPOOL—through BRADFORD, HALIFAX, ROCHDALE, MANCHESTER, WARRINGTON, and PRESTON—the population is wonderful. The work⯑men are like ſo many ants employed about their heaps; but they are ſo dif⯑ferent from thoſe in London, that while the ants of the north labour for the general benefit, the other piſmires work hard for the GENERAL CONFUSION.

As for the inns—the White Hart at COLCHESTER is one of the beſt in England. It is large, handſome, and convenient, and has admirable ac⯑commodations. I was witneſs to Mr. REYNOLD's ſending out—with ſome company who had been to pay a viſit to Mr. RIGBY—two and twenty pair of horſes in one morning. I cannot ſo correctly ſpeak as to the inns of IPSWICH, for when I was there they were all in confuſion, and it was firſt come firſt ſerved. Proviſion ſeemed to be very good, and the ſoles they get from ALD⯑BOROUGH are incomparable.

I acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and thank you for your re⯑marks. It is true I have yet ſaid nothing of the country as to cultivation. It muſt have been owing to a want of diverſity in the ſubject. The face of [84] nature, at the time I am recording, appeared to me like a ſerene day, fair and full of ſmiles. The only change was from arable to meadow land, and from meadow to arable; and this you may diſtinguiſh with your eyes ſhut—for ‘"the ripe harveſt of the new-mown hay gave it a ſweet and pleaſing odour."’

Pray do not fail to give me your ſentiments fully, as I aſſure you nothing can give me more pleaſure than the attention you are pleaſed to pay.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HAVING ſat myſelf down in a lodging at BURY, I paid my reſpects as uſual to the commandant—who is there called THE AL⯑DERMAN—the reſt of the magiſtracy being twelve feoffees. This gentleman made not the ſmalleſt objection, except to the uſe of the Guildhall, which was a part of my requeſt, and this he could not, according to conſtant uſage, grant without the conſent obtained in writing of the feoffees. I aſked him which among them was the moſt muſical, and he anſwered Dr. NORFORD; which intelligence was ſo true, that having waited on that gentleman I found him ſurrounded with friends who were liſtening to a morning concert. He came to me into the hall—and, upon hearing my name, inſiſted on my entering the room, where the IPSWICH gentleman and the foreigner mentioned in my laſt letter made a part of the company. Some inſtrumental things were per⯑formed, and I was at length requeſted to play a leſſon on the piano forte. I felt all the diſadvantage of having no foreign attraction, and therefore knew that I ſtood but little chance of being ranked with my preſent competitors, un⯑leſs I could in ſome arch way turn the tables. I therefore ſaid I thought a ſong would be a kind of relief to what had gone before, and played Pompoſo, which [86] hit exactly as I wiſhed it ſhould. This circumſtance—for you know I love il⯑luſtrations—brings another to my mind which alſo told very ſtrongly in this way.

I was aſked to dine at one of Mr. Fox's annual meetings, were there were about two hundred Weſtminſter electors. Before I gave my conſent, I ſtipulated with my friend that I ſhould not be aſked to ſing. This indulgence he ſaid he could inſure me; but, upon reflection, I placed very little reliance on the promiſe. I therefore was prepared with my famous Jew's ſong, which will be found in The Readings; and it is not in the power of language to de⯑ſcribe how wonderfully well it hit. That ſine veteran, MACKLIN, was in raptures, and I ſincerely believe it was the ſole cauſe of his burning his wig, which made ſuch a noiſe the next day in the newſpapers. But to return to BURY.

The conſent I wanted was eaſily obtained—and in my life I never expe⯑rienced handſomer or politer treatment. One reverend gentleman however was ſcrupulous—but it is a becoming thing for the clergy to be conſciencious—and though the Rev. Dr. WOOLASTON's readineſs to forward a rational amuſe⯑ment, which he did me the honour to attend and highly approve, had certainly nothing reprehenſible in it, the other reverend doctor was ſurely under no obli⯑gation to do the ſame. 'Tis true, if others had imitated this wonderfully ſaga⯑cious, prudent, and wary forecaſt, BURY would have been deprived of what they were ſo kind as to think a pleaſure. What then! Prevention is a wiſe thing; and upon the ſame principle—a little more rigidly exacted to be ſure—that it is better to let twenty guilty perſons eſcape, than that one ſuffer inno⯑cently—ſo the ſuppreſſion of fifty harmleſs amuſements is meritorious, rather than run the ſmalleſt riſk of giving encouragement to vice and immorality.

After the performance was over—which I had advertiſed but for one night—I was obliged to promiſe a repetition of it; and as I wiſhed very much to go [87] to NORWICH before the players could get there, I appointed a late day in the following week, and packed off. I have really had the luck of meeting with friendly printers. Mr. STEVENSON, the valuable and worthy partner of Mr. CROUSE, ſhewed me a thouſand civilities. Among the reſt, his friendly re⯑commendation to YARMOUTH, rubbed off all difficulties in the way of my performing there—yet would it be injuſtice to Meſſrs. DOWNES and MARCH, not to ſay that their attention for the ſhort time I remained at YARMOUTH, was very gentlemanlike and perfectly liberal. But let me firſt ſpeak of NORWICH. On the firſt night—though I addreſſed upwards of an hundred letters to the principal people—I had only five perſons. I did not perform, in courſe; and indeed I was doubtful whether I ſhould give them the trouble, or myſelf the expence of another night. Having however underſtood that I was there alſo conſidered as an impoſtor, I inſerted a paragraph in the bill which I expected would have its effect; and indeed I was ſtimulated to this by the very handſome conduct of a gentleman preſent on the firſt night, who ſaid every thing he could think of to palliate the matter. I drove him however into a corner, by ſaying that I was very willing to ſtand or fall by the merit of the entertain⯑ment, and it would give me particular pleaſure if they would pitch upon twelve critics, who ſhould be men of real underſtanding, to report the matter, and let it be decided upon according to their judgment. He anſwered that it was a fair offer, but that it never could be ſettled, for there was not any ſuch num⯑ber as twelve critics in NORWICH. At the ſame time he ſuggeſted that the ſucceſs might be better—that the number of nights I had advertiſed, I ought to conſider as a compact with the public. This laſt argument rouſed me. I determined to perform every night I had engaged for, at all adventures. I did ſo; and though no opportunity was neglected, and thoſe who attended were greatly pleaſed—according to the Iriſhman—I gained a loſs. Enough therefore of NORWICH; at which place however—as at almoſt every other—I found ſomething to counterbalance my diſappointments. The attention and civility of my friend STEVENSON, made me large amends for the vapid, un⯑meaning languor that pervaded the place itſelf; not but I have many acknow⯑ledgments [88] to pay thoſe who attended the performance—for they one and all agreed that I could not, in painting my TOUR, throw NORWICH too much into the back ground.

At YARMOUTH I had two nights, which—though not numerous—were brilliant. There is a gentleman at YARMOUTH, to whom the faſhionable people look up—and well they may—as the arbiter of their amuſements. His attention to me—could I conceive I really merited it—might make me vain of myſelf indeed. To ſhew however that nothing can win me on a pecuniary ſcore, be it known, I rather loſt than gained at YARMOUTH. But Dr. COO⯑PER's anxiety on that account—his ſolicitude for my accommodation—his handſome, well-bred conduct, gave me ſo exalted an opinion of him, that I was not at all ſurpriſed when Mr. ROUPE (to whom he is a ſort of patron without his own knowledge—for he confers to oblige himſelf) aſſured me that there is not a human mind fraught with more worth or diſintereſted benevo⯑lence. And here Mr. ROUPE muſt forgive me, if in order to illuſtrate his and my poſition, I ſpeak a little of his own comfortable ſituation.

This gentleman poſſeſſed a competent fortune, ſubject to alienation at the death of a relation—which relation being dead, he is deprived of it till the de⯑ceaſe of another. Upon his loſs, by the advice of his friends—and Dr. COO⯑PER at the head of them, he made what had been his amuſement his profeſſion, and having an admirable muſical turn, he is now organiſt, and has all the prin⯑cipal teaching of YARMOUTH. I never had the pleaſure of hearing him play, but have heard a great account of his performance. I however chatted with him ſome hours on muſic, and he ſeems to be of my own ſentiments. He has a ſtrong fancy, and deſpiſes every rule that is not reconcileable to REASON.—May he long be happy! which there is little fear of; for through the benig⯑nant influence of Dr. COOPER, and his own mild and amiable manners, he feels himſelf as independent, and is as much reſpected, as when he baſked in the ſunſhine of fortune, and had no right to conſider himſelf as a profeſſional man.

[89]You muſt underſtand that I performed at NORWICH and YARMOUTH alternately—which circumſtance occaſioned the appearance of a paragraph in the BURY paper, ſaying, that it was a wonderful thing—ſetting aſide all con⯑ſiderations of the merit of the performance—that Mr. DIBDIN ſhould be able at all to perform an amuſement in which he ſung twenty four ſongs, and de⯑livered an adequate quantity of ſpeaking, on Monday at NORWICH—Tueſday at YARMOUTH—Wedneſday at NORWICH—Thurſday at YARMOUTH—Friday at NORWICH—and Saturday at BURY. This circumſtance however would have been attended with more pleaſurable conſequences to me, if every one of theſe nights had been equal to the laſt, which I ſeriouſly declare was more than the other five put together.

NORWICH is a large city—but the ſtreets are ſo narrow and ſo alike, that a man would ſooner learn to be his own pilot in LONDON than in that place. There are ſo few ſpires in NORWICH, that the view of the town and cathedral from the YARMOUTH road acroſs the river, has a moſt beautiful and pictu⯑reſque effect. Not ſo very ſtriking as that bird's-eye-view of BRISTOL, from Cliffden Hill, but neat and well grouped. The ſtreets of YARMOUTH are yet narrower than thoſe of NORWICH, but the ſpaciouſneſs of the Quay makes handſome amends. The firſt has all the heavy ſtupidity of a city where the manufactory is on the decline, and the other the ſprightlineſs of increaſing trade, varied by an influx of commodities from every part of the world. I never beheld ſuch a wonderful ſcene as the prodigious fine, large, rich fields of corn exhibited for a ſtretch of eight miles together, between NORWICH and YARMOUTH—and yet go where you would the farmers grumbled; but it has been well obſerved, that Engliſhmen are never rolling in wealth ſo much as when they complain of the weight of taxes, and the impending ruin of the nation.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

AT my return from NORWICH to BURY, which was on the laſt day of the aſſize week,^* I found every thing prepared for my performance, at which a very ſplendid audience attended, and among them one of the learned judges. The applauſe was prodigious, and never did better humour prevail in an aſſembly. I felt myſelf however rather awkward at having announced the ‘"wolf who had been a lawyer."’ I intimated this ridi⯑culous diſtreſs to a gentleman who ſat near me, and the ſubject ſo got about that no member of the law went unconſulted, and it was reſolved nem. con. that I ſhould cut at the lawyers. You will find the paſſage in The Readings. My feelings however were too prophetic; for though many of the gentlemen—particularly him I conſulted, and the judge—enjoyed the ſatire, yet were there many chop-fallen on the occaſion. I mention this circumſtance to ſup⯑port that conſtant opinion I have ever broached, that in the practice of the law there are ſo many temptations to knavery, that every lawyer who does not feel a ſeverity of this kind as a poſitive reproach to himſelf, muſt be hurt at having been bred up to a profeſſion that ſtigmatizes nine-tenths of his brethren.

[91]On Sunday I ſet out for WORCESTER, and on the following Tueſday arrived there. I have mentioned that before I left this place, I made a promiſe to return to it, and I now put myſelf to the expence of travelling poſt one hundred and forty-nine miles to keep my word. Having at BURY purchaſed Mr. PATERSON's Travelling Dictionary, I ſhall now begin to point out a few of its errors. He ſays from BURY to WORCESTER is 138 miles; and his miſtake originates from calling it 15 miles from AULCESTER to WORCESTER, whereas it is 23. From AULCESTER to DROITWICH is 14, and from thence to WORCESTER 9. He is wrong a ſingle mile in three other places, which makes the diſtance in all 149 miles from BURY to WORCESTER.

My going this long journey was the more inconvenient, having received a letter at BURY, telling me that a gentleman at HULL and BEVERLY could accommodate me with a room, and had no doubt of my doing extremely well at thoſe towns—but of theſe places in their turn. I was ſurpriſed to find a much colder reception at WORCESTER than formerly. Except from one or two friends, I never experienced more milk and water treatment in my life. I advertiſed my entertainment however and was tolerably attended. ‘"Very tolerably,"’ as Teſter ſays, and I ſincerely believe, had it not been for the interference of a friend, I muſt have uſed the word INTOLERABLY. To this gentleman, who is no other than T. S. Eſq. I ſhall beg leave to ſay, that if he meant his friendſhip and attention to my intereſt ſhould finiſh where it ap⯑parently has—God forbid I ſhould load him with more trouble than he is will⯑ing to ſuffer! So far from it—I here, in the face of the world, acquit him of any intentions in relation to me, but thoſe of ſerving, obliging, and pleaſing me; and ſhould it ſo happen that neither upon paper, nor any other way, we again exchange a ſingle word, my wiſhes towards him are, may he enjoy a long life of health, happineſs, and proſperity! And I hope he retains ſo much of his former good wiſhes for me, as to return an equal portion of eſteem, with equal ſincerity.

[92]My ſucceſs at WORCESTER was little worth the pains I took to get at it. Dr. EVANS, the archdeacon, who was very partial to the entertainment, ſaid my reception was a reproach to the place; and really as they diverted my courſe in a moſt expenſive and inconvenient way, it would have been but handſome to have let me known in time that they had changed their mind, or have paid me ſome attention when I did come. I will not quit this ſubject without ſpeaking of that friendly and goodnatured creature Mr. SMART, who I ſincerely believe was as anxious for my ſucceſs as myſelf. Nor muſt I leave DIGLEY unſung—the heartineſs of Mr. PEACH its owner—nor the beauties of that charming place, watered by the Severn, and bounded with a view of Malvern-hills. Mr. SHENSTONE would preſently have knocked you off half a dozen ſtanzas on this ſubject; wherein he would have told you in verſe that goes ‘"trippingly o'er the tongue,"’ that the hills are blue at a diſtance, more diſtinct when near—that the river has the property of reflection, and that you may ſee in it imperfect trees ſtanding on their heads—with many more poetically ſelf-evident images. I once parodied ‘"My banks are all furniſh'd with bees."’ The firſt verſe ran thus:

In this manner one might, I ſhould ſuppoſe, run on, without any great ſtretch of difficulty, till all the wonderful variety in the whole round of rural objects were enumerated.^* Yet—let me not be profane—SHENSTONE's [93] eclogues and many other of his things have great poetic ſweetneſs—but, hav⯑ing an inveterate averſion to inſipidity, I never could feel any other ſenſation than drowſineſs at that famous ballad which is ſaid to contain all the beauties of paſtoral poetry. But this will always be the way—the generality of man⯑kind give an author credit for what, in all probability, he conſidered in the light of an inſignificant trifle—ſuch as the ballad above-mentioned—while his higher-finiſhed and more beautiful works—ſuch as the ſchool miſtreſs—is little known, and leſs taſted. But there is always this comfort:—men of real taſte will ſeparate the gold from the alloy, the applauſe of one of whom will outweigh a whole crowd of inferior critics.

I muſt not quit WORCESTER without mentioning a moſt ſingular and extraordinary inſtance of the falſity of that vulgar poſition—that fortune is inattentive to virtue. There is a gentleman I would name if I did not fear to wound his well known modeſty, who made his fortune by the exerciſe of that one ſingle virtue—forbearance, I do not mean that he has not all the reſt in as great perfection—but this happened to be put moſt to the trial. And, to ſhew that I am determined, whenever I have an opportunity, to celebrate the virtues of profeſſional men with the ſame willingneſs as any other de⯑ſcription, this gentleman was originally nothing elſe than a muſician—a mere thrummer of wire, and a ſcraper of catgut. He taught a young lady who fell in love with him, and even went ſo far as to propoſe an elopement. Did he, think you, give way to the tender impulſe, and, while his heart beat high, ſnatch ſweet occaſion, and become happy! No ſuch thing. ‘"Oh fie [94] miſs,"’ was all he was heard to utter! Having finiſhed this laconic re⯑proach, he left the diſappointed, loveſick fair one, and ſought her father—when—firſt ſtipulating that the young lady ſhould not be ill treated—he mi⯑nutely acquainted him. To do which, it ſeems, he was obliged to relate a tale that might be called the hiſtory of the Sabines inverted, with his daugh⯑ter's ſhocking violation of her duty. What was the conſequence? This amiable young man's unheard-of prudence ſaved the family; the daughter became prudent, by deſpiſing the man ſhe had courted; was married ſoon after to one of equal birth, and I hope equal impetuoſity; the father pru⯑dently rewarded the author of his domeſtic happineſs; and that author prudently put the reward in his pocket. After this, our muſical Joſeph fell in love himſelf—but, with his uſual patience and forbearance, he de⯑termined that time alone ſhould prove whether the object of his affection was worthy of it. The lady, however, being a little in the ſtile of the other—not quite of that paſſive temper which contents itſelf with imaginary bliſs—was firſt uneaſy—afterwards unhappy—then ILL—and at length DIED.—Our mirror of prudence, having loſt a fortune by her, had nothing for it but to conſole the mamma. He conſidered himſelf as her ſon—ſhe conſi⯑dered herſelf as his mother—and, that nothing might be left undone to con⯑firm this ideal conſanguinity, ſhe died, and left him all ſhe was worth—which turned out to be no trifle.

Is there a fortune-hunter, who reads this, but will, in future, change his battery—and ceaſe to tear forward children from the arms of indulgent parents; ſince—by imitating the excellent example before them—the fortune—which is always the object—may be gained without the loſs of honour, or—which is a more material conſideration—the poſſeſſion of a wife?

So much for WORCESTER—where you ſee, after all, I was ſhabbily treated. ‘"But 'tis a plain proof the world is all alike"’—and, indeed, I know not which was moſt to blame—they for promiſing, or I for believing. [95] If I had properly reflected, I might have known it was the whim of the moment, and would naturally ſubſide. I ſhould be ſorry if there was not more ſtability in my aſſuring you that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

FROM WORCESTER—having been joined by an intimate and valuable friend—I ſteered my courſe, on the eleventh of Auguſt, for GLOUCESTER, BRISTOL, and MONMOUTH; my plan—while he ſhould remain with me—being, to make the matter a mutual intercourſe of buſineſs, and call at thoſe places that might be moſt convenient to both. Nothing in my way was to be done at GLOUCESTER—for though the gloom of the bankruptcies before mentioned was worn off, yet the place looked as melan⯑choly as ever; we therefore proceeded to BRISTOL, ſpent three or four happy days with my friend BOYTON, and paſſed on from thence to MONMOUTH, being the firſt place where I intended to diſplay my ſtandard.

The current account of places remains unſettled ever ſince NORWICH. BURY, which is the picture of cheerfulneſs, conſiſts—together with its vici⯑nity—of people who ſeem determined to be happy. The ſeats of Mr. SY⯑MONDS, Sir CHARLES BUNBURY, Sir CHARLES DAVERS, and many others, moſt charmingly enliven every morning ride; and its proximity to NEW⯑MARKET [97] occaſions frequent viſits from many people of the firſt diſtinction. The corn-market alone gives you a very reſpectable idea of the place. Of the inns, the Bell is a remarkable good one—if civility, good cheer, and a reaſonable charge are the right diſtinctions. If you would meet with the reverſe in every reſpect go to the Angel.

My journey from BURY to WORCESTER, was performed in ſo ſhort a time, that it would be a farce to talk of making any material obſervations. The roads are charming from CAMBRIDGE to WILLINGBOROUGH, and then very indifferent till you get four miles beyond WARWICK, in the way to STRATFORD-UPON-AVON; afterwards they are good all the way to WOR⯑CESTER. I promiſed to ſpeak of the White Lion at STRATFORD, and com⯑mon juſtice obliges me to ſay, that the inſolence of the people who keep it exceeds all example. I ſhould paſs by the contempt with which they treat travellers in a ſtage coach—which is hard, by the way, for they muſt go there or nowhere—and alſo their wanting to put me into a return chaiſe, and make me pay full price for it. All this is in the way of buſineſs. But when you are in a hurry to have the very worſt horſes picked out, and be told ‘"that the others are for your betters, and you may have them or none"’—though they do not know you—and, if they did, your betters do not pay a farthing more—is a ſpecies of contemptuous impudence that I hope will, by ſomebody more competent than myſelf, be taken down. I have a great deal more of this ſort of conduct to complain of, and I ſhall ſeriouſly adviſe the reſpectable inhabitants of capital towns—for at STRATFORD I know not if it would be worth while—for their own private benefit, for the benefit of thoſe who in viſits of buſineſs to them, pamper the pride and fatten theſe inſuffer⯑able inn-keepers, and for the benefit of the public in general, to imitate the ſpirit of the DUKE OF NORFOLK, and as completely curb the haughty im⯑pertinence of theſe ſervants out of livery—which in general they are—as he has—as far as its influence extends—by building the Tontine, at SHEFFIELD, and placing in it a man whoſe ſolicitude for the convenience of his gueſts [98] ſhould be quoted as a precedent for every one in his ſituation. The ground from WORCESTER to BRISTOL I have gone over already. I promiſed, on my return, to give an account of the muſical taſte of BRISTOL—but, upon the moſt diligent enquiry, I do not find they have any at all. The road is all the way delightful, and from TEWKSBURY to GLOUCESTER remarkably ſo. It wanted nothing but a few ſcattered Romiſh chapels to have finiſhed ſubjects for the pencil of CLAUDE. From BRISTOL we croſſed the Severn, in a dung barge, and proceeded to CHEPSTOW—where we were offered our choice either to ſtay, or have four horſes to take us on; and all this becauſe the landlord of the other inn was juſt become a bankrupt. Let me caution all travellers to make any ſhift rather than ſubmit to be drawn by four horſes. They make no more expedition than two—and, excluſive of the expence in themſelves, poſtillions, oſtlers, and turnpikes, you have a great deal of difficulty to ſhake them off again, and your bill is in proportion to your oetelage. Theſe four horſes brought us very ſlowly—for which I was obliged to them—over one of the moſt uncommonly beautiful hills that can be imagined—the whole country every where abundantly rich with corn—to MONMOUTH; where, for the pre⯑ſent, I ſhall bid you adieu—aſſuring you that I am ever,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

MONMOUTH was not worth a printer. To make my intentions known, therefore, was a matter of no ſmall difficulty. A few reſpectful letters, however, to the principal inhabitants of the town and its vicinity, did the buſineſs pretty well, and I was tolerably attended a firſt night (Auguſt 17) and much better a ſecond; and, as a general good humour and inclination to receive pleaſure was the predominant ſenſation, I felt almoſt as happy as if the advantage had been equal to the applauſe.

I muſt not paſs by ſome particular civilities that I received at MON⯑MOUTH. The Rev. Dr. DAVIS, who was then the Mayor, paid me very great attention; and—what made it more welcome to me—it was very much in the ſtile of Dr. COOPER, of YARMOUTH. For this kindneſs I then re⯑queſted him privately—and do now publicly—to receive my thanks. Nor will I have the ingratitude to forget the anxious heartineſs of my good friend OWEN TUDOR, the bookſeller, who, though not a printer, was ſo good a publiſher upon this occaſion, that much more intelligence was received thro' his kind aſſiduity, than I am ſure would have been conveyed by means of hand bills. I left him—and may he long continue ſo—comfortable in himſelf, [100] beloved by his neighbours, and ſurrounded by that beſt of happineſs—domeſ⯑tic felicity. In fine, I gave and received great ſatisfaction at MONMOUTH; but, as it is the lot of human beings to do nothing perfect, I underſtand there is one gentleman for whoſe caſtigation I was ſuppoſed to have written the buſineſs of inventing quotations. Nay, ſome went ſo far as to ſay, he will never be able to invent another undoubted fact as long as he lives. If this be the caſe, how unfortunate am I in having deprived a good ſtory-teller of the greateſt embelliſhment his talents can derive advantage from. Should it be ſo, I can only ſay—which I entreat the gentleman, if he read this, to believe—that it was written many months before I had the pleaſure of his company at my readings, and always highly approved as a deviliſh good thing.

From MONMOUTH—which, though an ancient town, is a very ſprightly one—juſt as a reaſonable old man (MACKLIN for inſtance) in ſpight of his years, reſolves to be merry—we jogged on to ſtupid HEREFORD. I have made this remark in my TOUR, that the cities in general—as I ſay of the Dominos—are ‘"grave, elegant, genteel, and—ſtupid;"’ to which if I was to add poor and proud, the phraſe I think would apply pretty well. For if we except BRISTOL, which, being a ſea-port, is naturally a buſy and induſtrious place—WORCESTER, which has a manufactory for gloves and porcelain—tho' both are on the decline—it is impoſſible to conceive any thing ſo phlegmatic and inſenſible as are the reſt of the cities I have ſeen. Thus ſhall I always ſay ſtupid HEREFORD, melancholy LICHFIELD, pitiful LINCOLN, and frothy YORK. This laſt place, however, being the LONDON of the North, has ex⯑actly as much of it as a ſhadow has of a ſubſtance; and, upon the ſtrength of this, it preſumes to be courtly, and make promiſes, which—like the non⯑ſenſe of a Frenchman—are PLEASING, and mean nothing. They buoy you up like an air jacket, but the ſmalleſt inlet—even a ſingle pin hole—can evapo⯑rate the air, and down you go. They will take care to promiſe nothing [101] but trifles, and even thoſe they take as good care not to keep.^* I am, how⯑ever, not yet at YORK, therefore I may as well keep what I have to ſay of that place till I get there. I ſhall nevertheleſs ſo far digreſs as to finiſh my remarks on cities.

Some have averred that this vapidneſs is owing to the Cathedral, which nurtures ſo many drones as to make all the reſt of the hive lazy. I hope this aſſertion is more invidious than true. I have, literally ſpeaking, had no op⯑portunity, at the four places above mentioned, of taking perſonal cognizance of this fact. At HEREFORD I did not perform; or if I had, their cathedral had juſt tumbled down, and of courſe—like rats, which never fail to leave a ſinking ſhip—the black gentlemen were ſheltered in ſome ſafer aſylum. I could not refrain from remarking, that though the church lay in ruins, the chapter-houſe ſtood ſmiling at the danger—all the rent-rolls, tythes and commutations were ſafe:—as ſafe as the iron cheſt of a miſer who has inſured his houſe—which de⯑fies the ſpreading flames, and keeps its ſterling value in ſecurity, though bu⯑ried under a load of rubbiſh.

At LICHFIELD they were providentially repairing their cathedral, leſt, unable to bear the ravages of time, it ſhould alſo tumble down—the clergy therefore were again abſent upon furlough.

At LINCOLN indeed, where the cathedral ſeems to have the ſtability of a rock, and yet the lightneſs of a temple built with cards, the clerical gentlemen ſeemed to be on full duty. And here, though nothing but my compact to [102] ſpeak the truth ſhould force it from me, I cannot help ſaying that the above re⯑mark obtained a little—but this I ſhall ſpeak to particularly when I arrive at LINCOLN.

At YORK, whoſe ſtately and majeſtic minſter looks magnificently ſtupen⯑dous at a diſtance, and when you are near it as petite as the Lord's prayer, the creed, and ten commandments ſtuffed into a walnut ſhell. I know nothing more of the clergy, than that their ſituations are generally ſinecures, and that whether their cathedral ſtand or fall—which latter there is no great probabi⯑lity of—they may be abſent when they pleaſe. I know however a prebend of YORK whom my heart warms to think of. But of this hereafter.

As to NORWICH, diſguſt was my predominant paſſion, and therefore, like the father who would not diſinherit his ſon becauſe he was angry with him, I will paſs by that ſubject. I ſhall alſo for the preſent have done with all other conjectures concerning the clergy; and content myſelf with offering my own obſervations relative to cities, which are, that having in general no manufactory or other public object to engroſs their attention, they are divided into people of tolerable fortunes, ſmall fortunes, a few adventurers—by way of Cicesbeos to the wives and gallants to the daughters—and the remainder are ſuch tradeſmen as furniſh the neceſſaries of life, and pick up a livelihood by the expenditure of the money circulated by thoſe before deſcribed. The attor⯑nies and medical gentlemen are in number according to the ſize of the place. A tolerable large city will maintain you—about thirty of the firſt, and fifteen of the latter: ſo much dearer in this country is property than health.^*

Over all theſe, of courſe, are placed the clergy, who can certainly give [103] a ſort of Ton to the place; and if they ever happen—which all the world knows is very rare—either to be ignorant, overbearing, or void of taſte, theſe pe⯑culiar qualities will be as ſurely predominant in their influence on the reſt—and indeed ought, even as the whiſtle of the ſhepherd brings the ſheep into the fold.

Thus you ſee how I throw my ideas about at random, which indeed is all that can be expected of me; for manners and men can no more be deve⯑loped by a curſory view, than can a ſingle glance determine the colour of a cameleon—which muſt have ſhade and ſunſhine, night and day, and every other adventitious opportunity, to diſplay its different hues; and after all, ſo blind is human judgment, that it will be impoſſible to fix on that particular ſhade that is proper to it. ‘"All is not gold that glitters,"’ ſays the proverb. Heaven knows! my profeſſions in no way can glitter; if they could, they would wear nothing but the ſober appearance of truth, when I aſſure you that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

YOU aſk me when I mean to ſpeak of muſic; and hint that my obſervations on poetry, painting, the theatre, and other matters, might be well intermingled with the narrative of my TOUR. I thank you for ſaying exactly what you feel, as you read my remarks. I have not been unmindful of any of theſe ſubjects; but I ſhall have ſo much looſe ground to run over for three or four letters to come, that I would willingly ſhake it off my heels, before I come into the company of men of ſcience and genius. In ſhort, I ſhall not begin my critical attack till I get farther on my journey; for, to give you a pun in the place of a better phraſe, one cannot be too far north for them.

From HEREFORD I went to LEOMINSTER, where I was told the inha⯑bitants were very anxious to ſee me. Mr. PENE, the organiſt—to whoſe civi⯑lity I am greatly indebted—took much pains for me, previous to my arrival, and I had one very decent night. The old ſtupid objection however took place. I was an impoſtor—and my performance was to be watched very nar⯑rowly:—my audience were ſo much entertained however that they encored nine ſongs.

[105]Nevertheleſs Mr. EVANS, a clergyman, propoſed to Mr. GEARY, a ſurgeon, a bet of ten guineas that I was an impoſtor. The wager was accepted, and Mr. KIRKMAN, a country 'ſquire, was to decide between them. This laſt menti⯑oned gentleman very gravely determined, ‘"that to be ſure of all the impoſtors that ever lived, I was the clevereſt—but that certainly I was not Mr. DIB⯑DIN, whom he knew perfectly well—that not long before he had been pub⯑licly in his company, and heard him ſing ſeveral jolly ſongs—and that he was a tall, thin man, and wore a wig."’ Mr. GEARY having loſt his wager, query whether he ſhould not have appealed to me as a court of equity; or in⯑deed when this TOUR ſhall come out, may it not be conſidered ſuch ſtrong, legal evidence as may entitle Mr. GEARY to the recovery of his money—nay more, to a remedy through the medium of that act which makes it felony to obtain money by falſe pretences; for it was certainly a falſe pretence in Mr. KIRKMAN to ſay he had been publicly in my company. Had it ſo happened, I muſt have known it—for his perſon could not have been miſtaken, being remarkably like a ninepin with the addition of ſins. Theſe premiſes therefore duly weighed and conſidered, I would adviſe Mr. EVANS to refund the mo⯑ney, and Mr. KIRKMAN to give a handſome treat—which he ſeems very fond of—and pledge himſelf over the firſt pint bumper, never—in imitation of the long-eared gentlemen—to deſcribe the roaring of a lion, leſt, by exerting his own voice, he diſcover the braying of an aſs.

From LEOMINSTER we went to that pretty, clean-looking town, LUD⯑LOW—whoſe appearance, from the diſtance of two miles—with the church in the center towering above the houſes—forms as pictureſque a coup d'oeul, as imagination can conceive.

At LUDLOW I would not perform, becauſe the players were there. I ſhall not ſo far lift Mr. MILLAR, their manager, into conſequence, as to make him a party in this TOUR; nor ſhall I pay the reader ſo ill a compliment as to relate the particulars of a low, contemptible plot, which—as every thing founded [106] in falſity ought—recoiled, and ſeverely wounded the above pretty gentleman its contriver. ‘"A lion preys not upon carcaſes"’—out of pity—for I found by ſome converſation with one of the magiſtrates, that the ſtory had made him as contemptible at LUDLOW as at WORCESTER. We dined, and went on to BRIDGENORTH, which place, and COALBROOK DALE, we had a great deſire to ſee. As nothing but pleaſure engroſſed us for ſome time, I ſhall go on with my account of places, roads, &c.

From MONMOUTH—which commands a beautiful view of both the Wye and the Munow—we paſſed to HEREFORD; the whole time beguiled by exten⯑ſive, rich, and variegated proſpects. Brown CERES every where had ſpread her golden ſtore, and plump POMONA half ſunk under the weight of her abundant horn. My friend, who—till he took this journey with me—had never been forty miles out of LONDON, felt as if he had been tranſported to Elyſium; and as our journey from MONMOUTH was on a Sunday, we took occaſion to remark on the decent cleanlineſs of the villagers, and the ſober, thankful appearance which nature that morning wore. We did not go to church, but I think we had as much the glow of religion in our hearts as thoſe who did. You know, among my amuſements, I practiſe painting; and I declare moſt ſacredly, that in delineating the form of a tree—ſweeping with my pencil over hills and vallies—reflecting the various tints of fleecy clouds on the ſmooth boſom of an extenſive river;—but more than all this—rolling in the aetherial expanſe, and commanding the winds to ſhape a collected vapour into a graceful form—HERVEY never had more delicious contemplations in his flower-garden, than I in thoſe moments. An adoration of the author of nature thrills through my ſpontaneous fancy, and the expanſion of my mind lifts me above the dazzling ſplendour of emperors. All this I felt on our journey—and for four hours could talk of nothing elſe. I lamented the evils that perſecutions, dogmas, and ſchiſms have introduced into the world; and how often the mildeſt and moſt charitable name that ever dignified human nature has been wickedly uſed—by abominable prieſts—to enforce ſlaughter, [107] exaggerated by cruelty! How much more conſonant to the eſſence, would be the worſhip of a SUPREME BEING, if—without a ſingle reflection on what others do—it were comprized in an obedient thankfulness of heart, and a ſin⯑cere and grateful acknowledgment of the imminent favours and diſtinctions we ſo bountifully receive from his gracious hand!

HEREFORD ſeems to be as inſenſible of theſe bleſſings as a gorged alder⯑man of true flavour. The views continued with very little variation, in point of beauty, through our whole route, till we got to WOLVERHAMPTON; when the country became flat, and the ſoil ſandy. About five miles before you reach LEOMINSTER—which circumſtance I mention as a remarkable in⯑ſtance of erudition in the commiſſioners of the highway in that part of the world, of which body I hope 'Squire KIRKMAN is not a member—there is a board placed up with the following words:—‘"Whoever drives of this road ſhall be informed upon."’ For my part, I would not make any impertinent remarks on any thing I meet, but perhaps they hold ſome charter in this part of the world, by uſing this ſort of orthography. It is full as ſenſible—and much more innocent—than baiting the bull, at STAMFORD; as however—though it was incomprehenſible—it muſt imply ſome caution, my friend made a very admiſſible alteration, and it read thus: ‘"Whoever drives on this road ſhall be impoſed upon."’ Which, it muſt be confeſſed, after the four horſes from CHEPSTOW, and an extravagant bill at the Beaufort Arms, at MON⯑MOUTH, we conſidered as no unwholeſome hint; and it was pretty well con⯑firmed when we ſet out from LUDLOW: going from which place to BRIDGE⯑NORTH—if the traveller do not take great care—he will be ſent twenty-five miles, inſtead of eighteen. You are aſked if you chuſe to make it one ſtage or two, and told that the road is very hilly. It is more likely therefore you will prefer—as we did—the two ſtages, that the horſes may be freſh and draw you with more ſpirit, eighteen miles being really a long ſtage in that country. Thus, without ſaying a word more, they take you to CLEBURY—for in the direct road over THE MOOR, and through ASTON and DOWN, there is no [108] place to change horſes. CLEBURY is twelve miles from LUDLOW, and BRIDGENORTH thirteen more from CLEBURY. Thus, according to my friend, it is plain, thoſe who drive on that road—if they are not wary—will be im⯑poſed upon.

Paſſing over the clay hills in Shropſhire, is perhaps one of the moſt ſtu⯑pendous and wonderful inſtances of extent and fertility that nature has in all her domain. The objects are ſo innumerable—their forms ſo varied—and their colours ſo beautiful, that the eye is—if I may be allowed the expreſſion—agonized with enjoyment. Every hundred yards preſents a new ſcene, and every ſcene more charming than that which went before it, till the rapt fancy riſes to ſublimity, and exquiſite pleaſure is loſt in mute wonder! Nor are theſe expreſſions too ſtrong for the ſubject. The hills were ‘"cloud capt,"’ and no air balloon could be better ſituated for a good proſpect than was our chaiſe.

In the whole of this journey, I was loſt in pleaſing aſtoniſhment; and could not help exclaiming in the text of this letter—which you may call a ſermon, if you pleaſe, for even in this age I am not aſhamed of moralizing—‘"When I conſider the heavens and the work of thy fingers!"’

Adieu. Confeſs, with me, there is not an enjoyment equal to that which pleaſes on reflection. One of which is that I take when I tell you that

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HAVING wound—like the worm of a cork-ſcrew—round that natural fortification that renders BRIDGENORTH a little GIBRAL⯑TER—we arrived there, and ſupped on the wonders we had ſeen—for as to the muſty chickens and high-flavoured ham, there was no eating them. The next morning we explored all the beauties of that uncommonly pictureſque country; and after dinner, while curioſity was on tiptoe, went on to COAL⯑BROOK DALE, where we intended to ſtay the night, and ſee every thing wor⯑thy of obſervation. This however was not in our power—for the ſtench of the ſulphur was ſo potent that we were taken ill; and I proteſt—though I have as few ſqueamiſh ſenſations as moſt people—I never felt myſelf ſo over⯑come in my life. Indeed, the day was inſufferably hot; which, added to the monſtrous piles of coal burning to coke—the furnaces—forges—and other tremendous objects of fire and ſmoke, which ſpread round us to an immenſe diſtance—might probably cauſe that ſuffocating ſenſation, of which I can give no adequate deſcription, but by ſaying that—as far as conception can picture—it muſt have a faint reſemblance of being placed in an air pump.—And yet, though we laboured under this difficulty of reſpiration, the inhabi⯑tants [110] —and the workmen eſpecially—feel no inconvenience; but, on the con⯑trary, as we were told, are remarkably healthy, and live to a great age.

Some particulars relative to the place we were determined, however, to aſcertain. The tar-ſpring, for example, was too curious an object to be paſſed by unnoticed. We went into the mouth of a bricked arch-way, which reaches three hundred yards; and when we had got about thirty yards, we began to ſee the tar ooze from between the crannies in the rock. It muſt be underſtood, that from the top of the rock, a pit had been ſunk, which went to ſuch an immenſe depth, that it would have been very expenſive, and in⯑deed almoſt impracticable, to work it. But, finding the coals of an admira⯑ble quality, it was thought worth while to form the arch-way, above de⯑ſcribed, at the foot of the mountain, and very near the Severn, that the coal might be drawn out in carriages; which mode of getting at them—inſtead of the uſual way—it was thought would be ſo much more expeditious and con⯑venient, as to make a ſaving—in a ſhort time—equal to the expence of hav⯑ing formed the arch-way. In the proſecution of this ſcheme, the tar made its appearance—at firſt oozing as we had ſeen it, and afterwards pouring like an inundation, fairly flowing into the Severn. The diſcovery was made known, and the courſe of the tar diverted by means of iron pipes, which, I aſſure the reader, are nearly as large as thoſe which convey the water from the new river in LONDON. Large pits were immediately dug, and caldrons of a prodigious magnitude ſunk; and, by boiling in thoſe, it hardened into pitch. There are three ſprings; one of which emits an aſtoniſhing quantity. The firſt, when we were there, was nearly dried up; which induces the work⯑men to believe that, in time, the whole will ceaſe. But who can ſay in what time. The ſame rock may be traced ſeven miles—and every body knows at that diſtance they are now extracting tar from coal, which very probably is a droſſy part, of the very tar, that—about half a mile from the iron bridge—runs thicker than treacle, but as pellucid as Burgundy.

[111]I have ſince converſed with a chymical gentleman, who has bought a great deal of it, and he aſſures me it has the ſtrongeſt ſimilitude of any thing he ever ſaw or read of to the famous black pitch uſed by the Egyptians for embalming. This tar is remarkably free from impurity, is as bituminous as aſphaltum, and has an agreeable odour, not unlike benjamin.

I muſt not leave COALBROOK DALE without ſaying ſomething of the famous iron bridge. That ſtupendous pattern card—for it may well be called ſo—is in every reſpect one of the moſt artful and ingenious contrivances that ever was conceived or executed by man^*—for at the ſame time that it proves the duſky inhabitants of that gloomy region are equal to any thing in the way of iron work—though ever ſo ponderous and immenſe—it is a ſource of continual profit—a conſtant toll being kept up; which cannot be for the repair of the bridge:—for, though it looks like net-work wrought in wire, it will apparently laſt uninjured for ages.^†

This place wants nothing but CERBERUS to give you an idea of the hea⯑then HELL. The Severn may paſs for the Styx—with this difference—that old CHARON, become a turnpike-man, uſhers you over the iron bridge in⯑ſtead of rowing you in his crazy bark. The men and women might eaſily be miſtaken for devils and furies—and the entrance of any one of thoſe blazing caverns for the approach of TARTARUS. Jeſting apart. If an atheiſt, who [112] never heard of COALBROOK DALE, could be tranſported there in a dream, and left to wake at the mouth of one of thoſe furnaces, ſurrounded on all ſides with ſuch numbers of infernal objects—though he had been all his life the moſt profligate unbeliever that ever added blaſphemy to incredulity—he would in⯑fallibly tremble at the juſt puniſhment he was, in imagination, going to receive.

My friend's firſt remark when he ſaw theſe dingy gentlemen was—that he ſhould be ſorry to meet any of them in a bye lane. Having made the very ſame obſervation to my friend BOYTON upon the colliers at KINGSWOOD—and being by him ſatisfied as to the fallacy of it—I was able to refute his appre⯑henſions, by ſaying that I made no doubt but ſome reformer had done the ſtate ſo much ſervice as to have reconciled theſe people to their ſituation—by an aſſurance that, if they would be honeſt, they ſhould only have a hell in this world. This turned out to be the caſe. One half of them are quakers, and the other methodiſts. Thus, was gloom familiar to them.—Nor do I mean to be ſarcaſtic—for I declare I think that the civilizing the colliers of KINGSWOOD, does more honour to Mr. WESLEY, is a better fight, and crowns him with more laurels, than ever were reaped by all the heroes of the holy war—the upright perpetrators of the maſſacre of St. Bartholo⯑mew—or the pious tortures of all the unfortunate victims that ever were brought to an inquiſitorial ſtake. ‘"What a piece of work is man!"’—and yet, while there are ſuch characters as the above ‘"man delights not me:"’ except, indeed, a few ſelect friends, to whom I devote myſelf, and among whom no one more than yourſelf has the good wiſhes of—

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HAVING waſhed the ſulphur out of out throats by a diſh of tea, we ſet out for SHEFFNAL, and afterwards for WOLVER⯑HAMPTON, where it was ſaid we ſhould find the beſt inn in the kingdom—namely, the George. Arriving there, however, at eleven o'clock, and find⯑ing every body in bed, did not give us an idea of the moſt watchful inn in the kingdom—and getting no ſupper till one o'clock, and then a very bad one, did not prove it was the beſt provided larder in the kingdom.

The next day we moved to the Red Lion, where we were really well treated—and, the aſſembly room being in the houſe, I advertiſed my enter⯑tainment for one night, which was a very indifferent one indeed; as however it was an unfavourable time, and the notice was ſhort, I ſincerely believe I ſhould have mended my ſucceſs if I had ſtayed longer. I have in the little time which I was there, to thank Mr. LANE, a merchant, and Mr. SMART, the bookſeller, for ſeveral civilities—and I believe this is all I have to ſay of WOLVERHAMPTON, except that we ſaw the proceſs of working up that very iron, which at COALBROOK DALE was in ſo crude a ſtate, into every poſſi⯑ble kind of form—with the addition of all that belongs to the art of japanning. [114] I muſt not forget to remark, that the wonderful diſcovery of the tar ſpring was at WOLVERHAMPTON—though at ſo ſmall a diſtance—conſidered as a mere fable.

Leaving WOLVERHAMPTON we went to BIRMINGHAM, and from thence to LICHFIELD. Here I reſolved to give my entertainment, and procured for that purpoſe the vicar's hall, which requiring the conſent of a certain number of gentlemen, it came out, among my enquiries, that Mr. PETER GARRICK was living, and in good health. As the newſpapers long ago—indeed juſt after the death of his two brothers—had been inhuman enough to kill him, I never was more ſurprized at any thing in my life; for, never having ſeen the account of his death contradicted, I own I firmly believed him at reſt with his anceſtors.

The moment I found where Mr. GARRICK lived, I haſtened to pay him my reſpects. He was very glad to ſee me, and we chatted together I believe an hour. The old times of the Jubilee and the levees of HAMPTON made great part of our converſation, and we felt mutual pleaſure and pain at the recollection. There were ſo many points of ſuperior abilities about GARRICK, that though hiſtorical juſtice, obliging one to be faithful, impels a retroſpect of little ^* as well as great actions, yet in recollecting the pleaſure⯑able moments paſſed in his company, one naturally rejoices that, in the duty [115] of a recorder, we can mingle a little the taſk of a panegyriſt. I certainly had many differences with GARRICK, and they aroſe from nothing but this—I would never flatter him. Indeed, had I been capable of that creeping adula⯑tion, without which no man can arrive to a reſponſible ſituation in the the⯑atrical cabinet, or at leaſt keep it—unleſs perhaps he be independant—I might certainly now have been in poſſeſſion of a decent appointment—roundly aſ⯑ſeſſed by the bye—together with the ſuperlative happineſs of being puffed in all the newſpapers.

GARRICK, notwithſtanding, I ſincerely believe had as good an opinion of me as of any man he ever was connected with; and, on my part, I de⯑clare that nothing ever gave me more pleaſure than my reconciliation with him before he died; which happened—and it is a remarkable circumſtance—at the laſt rehearſal of my pantomime of The Touchſtone, on the night before he went to LORD SPENCER's, from whence all the world knows he returned to the ALDELPHI to breathe his laſt.

Mr. PETER GARRICK attended my performance—and, for one, teſtified much ſatisfaction. The company however, in general, were extremely grave, which I could not poſſibly account for, eſpecially as Mr. SAVILLE—who made me many profeſſions of kindneſs and ſervice—took minutes of the moſt ſtriking ſerious ſongs, with a view of ſinging them himſelf. The truth, however, at laſt came out. It ſeems Miſs SEWARD was there—without whoſe permiſſion nobody at LICHFIELD dares to judge of any thing literary. My entertainment, therefore, coming in ſome degree under this deſcription, and that lady—angry I ſuppoſe that I ſhould burleſque the Siege of Troy, or con⯑jure up the ſpirit of an old maid, or for ſome other notable reaſon no doubt—did not chuſe to wear a ſmile the whole evening. What was the iſſue? [116] The DEAN looked grave—Mr. SAVILLE looked grave—every body but Mr. PETER GARRICK looked grave. I announced the ſecond evening—every body looked grave. I attended the ſecond evening—NOBODY CAME.

It has been confidently ſaid to me, that a muſical man at LICHFIELD was very induſtrious firſt to prevent, and afterwards—finding that impoſſible—to decry my entertainment. If this be not a fact, the man I allude to—un⯑conſcious of ill—will ſuffer nothing. If it be, let him reflect—for I will not give myſelf the pain of ſaying more—that illiberality was never yet the com⯑panion of real genius.

Before I quit LICHFIELD I muſt not forget to mention Mr. GREEN's muſeum—which certainly, for its ſize, is one of the completeſt in the king⯑dom. The ores, of various ſorts, are remarkably curious. The coins, me⯑dals, and impreſſions, large—in point of number—and valuable—in point of neatneſs, correctneſs, and preſervation. The diſplay of the force of magne⯑tiſm is ſingularly worth attention; but, indeed, to enumerate every particular of this cabinet of curioſities—which is wonderfully well filled—would go far beyond my limits, and yet fall infinitely ſhort of what the ſubject deſerves.

Adieu LICHFIELD—and adieu Mr. GARRICK—may he long enjoy that ſolicitous attention he ſo amply receives from his friends; nor may the dart of death or any other human ill, for years, have more power to hurt him than the ineffectual calumny of a newſpaper.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

WE came to DERBY a day after the races, which might be ſaid to be—for me—a day after the fair:—for though during two nights that I performed there I was not ſo thinly attended as at WOLVER⯑HAMPTON, yet it turned out nothing of conſequence. Here we ſaw that wonderful effect of human ingenuity, the ſilk mill. We purchaſed ſome of the productions of the Peak, and we were witneſs to the whole proceſs of forming, drying, painting, and burning porcelain.

It has happened, among the uncommon circumſtances which have at⯑tended this TOUR, that—like Sir ROGER DE COVERLY with his watermen and hackney-coach men—I have employed, by way of bill-carriers, ſcarcely one who has not had ſome natural infirmity. At OXFORD, I had two men who had not an arm and a half between them; at another place, I had a ſailor with a wooden leg. I have had men with one eye out of number; but here, at DERBY, my factotum had been twice ſcrewed up in his coffin. He gave the account of it himſelf—and deſcribed, that having lain ſo long in the cold, had given him ever ſince ſuch a pain in his bones, that—as HAMLET ſays—‘"mine ached to think on't."’ He had had from his cradle a lethargic [118] habit, and the firſt time he was ſuppoſed to be dead, he laid in a profound ſleep for ſeveral days; the ſecond time longer; but—being aware of the pro⯑bable conſequence of nailing him up too ſoon—they kept him till they were convinced he was actually dead, and having ſcrewed him up—being nearly ſuffocated—he knocked as before, and was let out. His ſenſes were conſider⯑ably impaired after this—yet, as far as they went, they were ſo acute and collected that he never made a ſingle blunder in all the meſſages I gave him.^*

Having been on a flat ſandy ſoil ever ſince we left Shropſhire, we be⯑gan to look about us in our way to NOTTINGHAM—where there are cer⯑tainly many pictureſque views—and, for people not juſt come—as we were—from the borders of WALES—for I affronted a Welch waiter in Monmouth⯑ſhire, by aſking him if we might not call ourſelves in WALES—to which he [119] anſwered—‘'Cot pleſs hur and luff hur, to be ſure it is Waales, but it is not Welch Waales look you.'’ NOTTINGHAM caſtle is a very handſome object, and the uniformity of the piazza in the market-place, gave me an idea of its being a very likely town for my purpoſe—but I was born to bear and laugh at diſappointments—as you ſhall hear.

We are told that NOTTINGHAM was, by the Saxons, called SNOTTING⯑HAM; upon which word one might ſo pun as to make it truly deſcribe the inhabitants; for they are a kind of mucus, which, though uſeful in the ge⯑neral work of commercial circulation, cannot avoid being in itſelf naſty.

After having conſulted with Maſter BURBAGE, the printer, I thought it neceſſary to ſee Mr. MAYOR, who paſſed by the ſhop door as we were talking, and, at BURBAGE's deſire, walked in. I do not recollect the gentle⯑man's name—but, having told him my buſineſs, he exclaimed ‘"niow, you actor man, what would you hay? I hope you don't coom with ony [120] drooms and troompets?"’ ‘'What Sir!'’ ſaid little BURBAGE, ‘'drums and trumpets! Mr. DIBDIN with drums and trumpets! Good God, Mr. MAYOR! Sir!—why Sir!—drums and trumpets!—do you know the price is half-a-crown?—you don't know Mr. DIBDIN—how could you—Lord have mercy! Mr. MAYOR—drums and trumpets!'’ ‘"Well, well, well, well"’—cried the MAYOR ‘"I do not know about theſe things, but I don't want a hooboob in the tiown. Will you onſwer that it wawnt corrupt the morals of the prentices and the work folk?"’ BURBAGE undertook for me—but not till he had completely gone over the buſineſs of the drums and trumpets once more.

After Mr. MAYOR had retired—quite ſatisfied no doubt with having ſhewn his conſequence, and great regard to the morals of the SNOTTING⯑HAMITES—I enquired of my friend, little BURBAGE, how the taſte of the town ſtood in relation to entertainments, and he very honeſtly told me that if I would advertiſe to ſwallow pins or eat burning tow, I ſhould ſtand a better chance than by furniſhing any thing that appealed to the underſtandings and liberal feelings of mankind. ‘'Or ſuppoſe'’—ſaid he—‘'you was to let them come in gratis at a ſhilling a-piece.'’ I could not poſſibly conceive what he would be at. Upon aſking him to explain—‘'Oh,'’ ſaid he, ‘'the CHEVALIER TAYLOR practiſed ſuch a manoeuvre with wonderful ſucceſs.—He wrote a letter indiſcriminately to every inhabitant of NOTTINGHAM—ſaying—that he would give a lecture on the eye gratis. His room was not only thronged, but every lady made a point of dreſſing herſelf in her beſt, in return to the CHEVALIER's politeneſs. They were firſt admitted into an outer room, and attended by a kind of maſter of ceremonies, who in⯑formed them, with great good breeding and deference, that as the lecture the CHEVALIER meant to give was very abſtruſe, and could not poſſibly be rendered familiar to the comprehenſion of ſuch as did not anatomically underſtand optics—his employer, the CHEVALIER, had with great conde⯑ſcenſion and good nature cauſed a book to be printed which would clearly [121] explain the moſt difficult paſſages of the lecture, even to the meaneſt under⯑ſtanding; that, indeed, this book was worth half a crown—but the CHEVA⯑LIER, determined in all things to ſhew his candour and diſintereſtedneſs—would have the very great kindneſs to ſell it at no more than one ſhilling. Some few murmured, but the major part bought the book; and thus the crafty CHEVALIER put in his pocket about five hundred ſhillings, through an impudent ſtratagem, when, by the common mode of advertiſing two ſhillings admittance, he would have been a fortnight receiving five pounds. God,'’ ſaid little BURBAGE—for he is a talkative, goodnatured fellow—‘'I'll tell you another ſtory of the CHEVALIER. He beſpoke a wig, Sir—a tie wig—of a poor, harmleſs fellow—a barber here in our good town of NOTTINGHAM—and went away to LOUGHBOROUGH without it. It happened to be market-day—I had ſome buſineſs at LOUGHBOROUGH, and I ſees a fellow ſtalking along, with a deviliſh great bandbox under his arm. I thought I knew him—and who ſhould it be but our barber—ſhaves me—makes my wigs. All he is angry at is—that I wear my red cap ſo long in a morning, that I make one wig ſerve the time of THREE. Well, Sir. Who the devil are you looking for? ſays I. Why, ſays he, the CHEVALIER TAYLOR—the poor, dear gentleman forgot his wig. Good lack! And you have been ſo civil to tramp with it ſixteen miles after him. Very kind indeed. Well, but Maſter BURBAGE, 'twas worth while—a deal of money. To make ſhort of the ſtory to you, Sir. The barber carries the wig to the Chevalier. What do you call this? ſays the occuliſt. A wig, Sir, ſays the barber. A wig! Why 'tis no more like a wig than a cabbage. The hair is frizzled and crampt, and hedge-hogg'd, and porcupin'd—Oh take it away! In ſhort, after having ſo abuſed it that he almoſt perſuaded the barber to be out of con⯑ceit with it himſelf—he offered about a fourth for it of what they originally agreed for; and at length the poor ſhaver—rather than carry back a wig that would ſuit nobody elſe—received the money, and they parted.'’ Thus was the CHEVALIER collectively and individually too cunning for the fraternity of ſtocking weavers. I could not, however, buckle to any thing that carried [122] with it the face of an impoſition, and therefore thought but little of my chance. As, however, I had incurred ſome expence, I reſolved to perform—but ſo determined were they—this time—not to be tricked, that if I had not actually held out a manoeuvre—though a very honeſt one—I ſhould have made nothing of NOTTINGHAM. So much had they the old proverb with them.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

THE old contemptible buſineſs of ſuppoſing me an impoſtor was brought up at NOTTINGHAM. The report had gone out, and one WISE gentleman aſſured me that he had ſeen Mr. DIBDIN, in a black wig, three years before, at the Circus. Finding matters were taking an un⯑pleaſant turn, I advertiſed that—as I underſtood ſuch a rumour had prevailed, and as it was a very ſerious thing for me that it ſhould be cleared up—if any at the end of the entertainment ſhould feel the ſmalleſt difficulty to believe that I was in no reſpect an impoſtor, their money ſhould be returned. This brought me a good room, and ten minutes had not paſſed before I plainly ſaw all their doubts were vaniſhed. At the place I generally pauſe, many apologies were made me; to which ſome ſpirited officers preſent anſwered, that ‘'the beſt thing they could poſſibly do was to be totally ſilent, for the utmoſt in their power to ſay would rather aggravate than leſſen the abſur⯑dity of their conduct.^*’

[124]I thought my buſineſs was now to make an honourable retreat; which I did, having previouſly agreed—with the only gentleman who paid me any thing like attention—to return in the month of November, when it was ima⯑gined they would think I did them a favour, and conſequently make up for their former neglect. Whether this was a reaſonable conjecture or not will appear in due time.

On the following Thurſday we arrived at that pretty, clean town NEW⯑ARK. I made ſome enquiries concerning the place, and found little proſpect of performing to advantage, therefore, after dining at the Kingſton's Arms—the hiſtory of which houſe I ſhall give in its place—on the beſt cutlets that ever were eaten, we extended our journey to LINCOLN, where we put up at the Rein Deer.

[125]I could make nothing at all of this place. Every thing ſeemed ſo grave and inanimate that I conceived it would be a great folly to ſtay. This reſolu⯑tion was accelerated by finding that the corporation was in a ſort of demur about the propriety of my performance. I might however have been aſſured that every thing was perfectly ſafe when they ſent a meſſage by the waiter to invite me to ſupper. I nevertheleſs excuſed myſelf, and though the MAYOR told me I might act whenever I pleaſed, we left LINCOLN, paſſed through SPITAL, BRIGG, and BARTON, and arrived in the afternoon—after a very good paſſage acroſs the HUMBER—at HULL.

[126]Here I was to be introduced to a gentleman who could give me every poſſible accommodation for my entertainment, and, on my friend's account, was to do this gratis. According to cuſtom however I was to be diſappointed. This gentleman was then in LONDON, nor did he arrive in time to do me any material ſervice, ſo that this part of the world—which I expected would do ſuch great things—failed; nor could I, in four nights at HULL, and three at BEVERLY, muſter more than my expences.

[127]In my next letter, I ſhall carry you a longer circuit to as little purpoſe; all which looſe matter I ſhall bring to an end as ſoon as poſſible, that I may not tire either you, or my readers in general, with repeated ill ſucceſs—upon which indeed I ſhould be ſilent, if I did not conceive it my duty to ſet down every thing. As to the men of NOTTINGHAM, I made up my mind to their incredulity, as firmly as Antonio did to the arguments of Shylock; which had not more of cruelty, than the declaration I now make you—has of kindneſs—that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —.

AT HULL, my friend left me, with a view—as his affairs in town preſſed his return—to proſecute the remainder of his jour⯑ney with more expedition than my ſcheme would permit. From HULL I went to YORK, where I performed, by way of eſſay, without mentioning any ſpecific time. I was tolerably attended, and a gentleman—in the name of the reſt—adviſed me, as the oratorios at DONCASTER were to be in the following week, not to do any thing more at YORK till they ſhould be over. I took his advice, and went to MALTON and SCARBOROUGH. At the firſt place, I received many promiſes, which, as they were made by the parſon and the attorney, it is not wonderful that they came to nothing. At SCARBOROUGH nobody would ſtir without the DUCHESS OF RUTLAND; and as I had neither time nor intereſt to conciliate her patronage, I returned with my jaunt for my pains. At my next eſſay at YORK, the company were to be ſure returned from DONCASTER—but they were not recovered from their fatigue. I there⯑fore—to give them a little more breathing time—was coaxed into another ex⯑curſion, and promiſed great things on my return.

[129]My intention was to have a few nights alternately at LEEDS and WAKE⯑FIELD. Having however a very thin audience indeed at the firſt place, and being out of temper with YORK, I went, by the advice of a clergyman at WAKEFIELD—in whoſe company I had the pleaſure of paſſing ſome happy hours—to SHEFFIELD. Having however very little time to ſpare—this being the fifteenth of October, and my advertiſements ſtanding for the eighteenth at YORK, I performed two nights—one of which was a very decent one—and received ſo much private and public civility, that I promiſed, when the players ſhould be gone—which was not expected to be till after Chriſtmas—to return. Coming back to WAKEFIELD, I had a third night, which was a very good one. At SHEFFIELD I met with Dr. MILLER of DONCASTER, and Mr. F. SHARP of GRANTHAM, both of whom gave me warm invitations to their reſpective towns, which you will find, in the ſequel, I accepted.

I ſhall not ſay a word at preſent of theſe different places—having to touch at them again—not even of YORK, to which I returned to worſe purpoſe than ever, and left it in diſguſt. From thence I went to BEVERLY, to call a council of war with my friend SOUTHERN, to whom I ſhall introduce the reader. This gentleman has the whole buſineſs of HULL and BEVERLY as a dancing maſter—a character not always worthy a conſpicuous ſituation—but here, and in the inſtance of Mr. SOUTHERN's ſon, at WAKEFIELD—who I could not place before his father—remarkably ſo.

Mr. SOUTHERN is no foreign impoſtor, of which deſcription—to the diſgrace of our ſchools, the injury of the ſcholars' morals, and too often the deſtruction of family peace—this kingdom ſwarms.^* He is an honeſt, plain, [130] unaffected, well-meaning man—is a father himſelf—has brought up a large family creditably and induſtriouſly, and therefore proper to have the care of youth entruſted to him. He is univerſally beloved, and his company—for he is remarkably cheerful and hearty—every where courted. His advice and his influence has been of great uſe to me, for there is ſcarcely a place in York⯑ſhire, ſince I firſt left BEVERLY, where his name has not done me ſervice.

[131]My journey to BEVERLY—as I before remarked—was more for a conſul⯑tati on than from any proſpect of ſucceſs. Mr. SOUTHERN, however, had—previous to my arrival—conſulted with all the principal people, and I was to be invited, as ſoon as I came, to a ſupper, in order to form the beſt poſſi⯑ble plan for making me two good nights. Out of nineteen, however, who attended the ſupper, but four came to the performance. I muſt not neglect to ſay that Mr. ACKLUM, Mr. HARDEN, then the Mayor, and ſome few others, merit my acknowledgments for their attention; but as to the reſt, they had ſkimmed the cream of the entertainment for nothing, and how could I be ſuch an ideot as to ſuppoſe they would afterwards be contented to pay for the ſkimmilk. But—‘"for this among the reſt I was ordained"’—and ſo I was to tell you very frequently, but always truly, that I am,

To Mr. DIBDIN.

GO to INDIA—dig in mines—tempt any danger—do any thing to better your fortune—to place yourſelf beyond the power of ſuch humiliation! I declare to heaven I could not ſuſtain the mortifications that you have ſmiled at, let what might be the conſideration. The naſty Snottinghamites alone would have ſickened me to ſuch a degree, that when I appeared before them, it would have given me all the qualmiſhneſs and have produced all the effect of an emetic. And yet you promiſed to return. It will diſappoint me, and—though I warmly wiſh you well—diſpleaſe me, if it produce any advantage to you.

What ſhall I call you? That you are ſuſceptible—quickly, vividly ſo—I am convinced; and yet, where ſenſibility might laudably, honeſtly take fire, you exhibit a ſtoiciſm beyond all example. I cannot comprehend you. I have traced you now, ſince you firſt correſponded with me, nearly fourteen hundred miles. What to do? It is impoſſible it can have been worth your while. Can the converſation and attention of a few individuals of taſte and diſcernment, approach any thing near to an amends for all the contumely heaped on you by the ſuſpicions of a ſet of people who have placed you in [133] every unpleaſant point of view, and who believe nothing but that you levy contributions among them. Have I not myſelf ſeen doubts and difficulties ſtarted in every corner of the room; nods, winks, and ſhrugs have gone round, and when at laſt in ſpite of their teeth they have been obliged to con⯑feſs their ſuſpicions were invidious and unhandſome, their ſelf-conviction has put them ſo out of humour with themſelves, and the tardy lagging juſtice came out in ſo reluctant a conceſſion, that they ſeemed to wiſh you had been proved an impoſtor rather than that their own ignorant and illiberal ſuſpi⯑picions ſhould be falſified?

If you reſtrain your real feelings to teach you patience, give you forti⯑tude, and brace your mind to an endurance, and make it up to all the conſe⯑quences, of your intended voyage, you muſt have a philoſophic heroiſm but little known, and leſs practiſed. In which caſe—and indeed in any caſe—I now give you leave to go to INDIA; where a ſmall part of this perſeverance—I ſhould think—muſt enable you to return in comfort, and enjoy years of happineſs, ſweetened with INDEPENDENCE: which deſirable ſituation no man more truly wiſhes to ſee you in than,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

YOUR laſt letter is ſo pointed that I ſhall ſtop ſhort my narrative to anſwer it, and that the world may be in better poſſeſſion of the ſubject, I have a printed proof of it before me.

You have taken more pains to abuſe me than I have to deſerve it, and I could ſilence all that warmth and vivacity in which you calumniate me under the title of a ſuſceptible ſtoic, by ſingly aſſerting that I am a PUBLIC CHA⯑RACTER. ‘'Good God!'’ ſay you, ‘'ſo am I.'’ Have patience. You can dictate to your audience; you can win them, by honeſt and fair perſuaſion, to a diſcharge of that duly without the exerciſe of which they can neither be good men nor valuable citizens. But—admirable as your doctrines are—do you think no pulpit oration of yours has been criticiſed? Did you never ſee a guttling alderman aſleep—while ſome fortune hunter was making love to his daughter—in one of your very beſt ſermons? When you have ſtrove with benevolent mildneſs to inculcate the principles of reaſonable religion, and blend public worſhip with private morality, were you, upon your honour, never blamed for tameneſs and inſipidity, and cenſured for not frightening your hearers into a ſenſe of their miſerable ſinful condition, by lowering out damnation with uplifted hands?

[135]A field preacher is not fairly inducted into his calling till he has been forty times ſtunned with brick bats and blind puppies. But this is nothing to what is every day ſuſtained by men in much more conſpicuous ſituations than you or I. Is Mr. Fox's poiſoned bag forgot? the difficulty with which Mr. PITT made his eſcape from the grocers' company? or the dingy appear⯑ance of Lord JOHN CAVENDISH after he had been rolled in the kennel at YORK. Beſide, theſe matters fluctuate. What is a mark of diſgrace at one time, ſhall, at another, be a badge of honour; and it has been often ſeen that a man who has been pelted with dead cats to-day—by the hands of the MOB—has, to-morrow, received a ribbon at the hands of his SOVEREIGN.^*

Shew me the moſt fulſome puff you ever ſaw to prop a ſinking play, or recommend a faded actreſs, and I will ſhew you an advertiſement from a par⯑liamentary candidate to match it. How completely has CHURCHILL written a lampoon on himſelf in the Conference. I think it is the paragraph which begins with that nonſenſical diſtich

He goes on enumerating what, in his idea, contains the ſum total of opprobrium and obloquy, and finiſhes with ſaying—that the friendſhip of one WILKES will make—amends for all. In another place—and I believe ano⯑ther poem—he pants for fame, and fondly fancies that ſome one ſtraying in [136] the church-yard where he lies buried, ſhall read his works over his grave, by way of epitaph. No bad ſtroke of vanity by the bye for the manly CHURCHILL. But how would his duſt feel if the gentleman by accident ſhould hit upon—the above quotation!

Every man has his motives for his public conduct; mine are—notwith⯑ſtanding the conjectures of a few unbelieving individuals—neither more nor leſs than thoſe I announce. I will be free to acknowledge that, in the pro⯑ſecution of my ſcheme, I have met with ſore diſappointments: but theſe are the very ſpurs, the very incentives to a further purſuit. If I had retired upon meeting a rebuff or two what would have been the concluſion of my enemies? ‘'This man fondly fancied himſelf a favourite of the public, but they have convinced him they do not care three-pence about him.'’ Having perſiſted, they will ſee that it has procured me ſuch friends as will ſilence the tongue of envy, and blunt the poiſoned arrows of malignity. If CHURCHILL gloried in his WILKES, what muſt I do when I can name more than twenty who really poſſeſs thoſe valuable mental requiſites which in his favourite he doatingly fancied. The firm attachment and perſevering kindneſs of that gentleman alone who made with me a circuit of more than ſeven hundred miles—firſt left me at HULL, and afterwards took his final leave at YORK—is more than enough to compenſate for all the arrogance, ignorance, and empty conſe⯑quence that have diſgraced thoſe who could not diſtinguiſh between a fair and liberal compact with the public, and the dirty impudence of a depredating itinerant. It is true I did not acquire this gentleman's friendſhip in conſe⯑quence of my tour; I have poſſeſſed that pleaſure for ſome years; but it con⯑firmed and ſtrengthened it. So many mortifications has he been witneſs to and ſo much has he pitied and commended me for a temporary perſeverance—as the foundation of ultimate independence—that I am ſure I have ſecured his valuable eſteem upon ſo firm and permanent a baſis, that nothing can ſhake it. Let me here aſſure him that the many and handſome inſtances of broad and generous liberality that I have repeatedly received, both at the hands of [137] his father and himſelf, neither time nor diſtance ſhall eraſe from my memory, and that I never employed any moment to more grateful or pleaſurable advantage than that when I have endeavoured to promote their intereſt; which, after all, is but a mutual obligation between them and the public. Many other very marking traits of friendſhip and attention you have already ſeen, and many more are to come; among which I cannot help noticing the kindneſs of a ſmall number in LONDON, where I proteſt I began to fear I had ſcarcely a friend. The many ſtruggles I have there made to enfranchiſe myſelf from the ſhackles of dependence—the general, hurtful, falacious opinion, that I have often had fortune in my power, but have wantonly and prodigally ſpurned the courteous benefit,^* laid ſo firm a foundation for the dexterous exertions of ſlander, that, like the mutilated picture of PRAXITILES, I con⯑ceived myſelf, in LONDON—where any man's fame can be murdered with impunity—to have been all one blot. Happily however, through the filth and dirtineſs of all the malice ſputtered out by irritated dulneſs and burſting envy, a choſen few have been able to diſcern the neglected condition of an inoffen⯑ſive traveller, and—like the good Samaritan, opened their hearts to a ſenſe of his ill treatment. Not that I mean to paint my caſe as a deplorable one. No, pride and my good ſpirits forbid it; but there is—as I have remarked before—ſomething for me ſo winning, ſo warm, ſo exhilirating, in ſpontaneous good⯑nature, that I receive from it the ſame cheering and invigorating ray of genial comfort that a plant imbibes from the cheriſhing influence of the ſun. I ſhall hereafter particularize ſome of the inſtances to which I here only allude; and will conclude this letter, while my heart is full of the kindneſs of my friend and fellow-traveller above, with ſaying, that though I conſider ‘"fame as an echo,"’ and—as much as SHAKESPEARE—hold it ridiculous to ‘"ſeek the bubble reputation in the cannon's month;"’ yet I hope demeaning myſelf with proper humility, as a public character, will not render me unfit for the [138] duties of private friendſhip, or induce me to make an ill uſe of fortune, ſhould it ever be in my power. Thoſe will beſt command who know how to obey, is an eſtabliſhed maxim; and I believe the beſt command and obedience within the exerciſe of the human mind, is a peremptory ſubduction of all feelings but thoſe which tend to the expanſion of the heart, and promote the wide and be⯑nevolent circulation of univerſal liberality, and an implicit ſubmiſſion to all thoſe moral duties which ſoften the manners, humanize the ſoul, and impel us to beneficent acts of general fraternal kindneſs that can alone dignify reaſon, and lift us into MANLY PREEMINENCE.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HAVING pretty well—I hope—quieted your ſcru⯑ples in my laſt letter, I ſhall now proceed in my narrative, which—like the man with a black and white coat in the maſquerade—ſometimes preſents you with one colour and ſometimes another. You have ſeen the black ſide too much, I confeſs, but in future the white will be predominant. I have men to introduce you to, who will convince you that honeſt-hearted liberality is not extinct;—but they are ſtars that can ſhine without any borrowed luſtre, and therefore let them come in their place.

At BEVERLY I firſt iſſued my propoſals for printing this work; after which—taking one night at HULL—I paſſed on to LINCOLN, where my friend SOUTHERN was told—on his return from LONDON—they would be glad to ſee me. On the fourth of November—falling on a Sunday, and be⯑ing exactly ninety-nine years ſince the memorable revolution—the wind being almoſt due ſouth, very ſtrong and ſqually, accompanied with a ſevere and in⯑ceſſant rain. I ſet ſail from HULL to BARTON. Nor is all this preparation unworthy the occaſion. I am ſure I ſhall endure nothing in my voyage to INDIA that will exceed what I then experienced; for if it did, we ſhould be all paſt endurance. ANSON, it is ſaid, was in the ſame ſituation, and was [140] heard to exclaim, that ‘"he feared, after having been ſafely round the world, it was his fate to be drowned in a fiſh-pond."’ But he eſcaped, and ſo did I, which I believe is all we can either of us ſay. But to proceed.

As we were getting out of the harbour, a man fell overboard from a brig which lay very near us, and diſagreeable as the weather was, three or four boats haſtened immediately to his aſſiſtance; but will it be believed that when they found he was an exciſeman, it was with the utmoſt difficulty they could be prevailed upon to afford him relief. I declare to God I never felt ſo wretchedly in my life. That private piques between admirals and generals ſhould reſtrain their public exertions, and ſo tarniſh the glory of nations one does not wonder at: that a judge ſhould recommend a jury to find a man guilty, rather than break through an eſtabliſhed etiquette, or loſe his dinner: that the ax ſhould now and then be poiſed, and the halter frequently ſtretched, and the executioner glory in his dexterity: that a mercileſs attorney, for the ſake of thirteen and four-pence, ſhould coolly adviſe his client to ruin a whole family: none of theſe ſurpiſe one. But that a ſet of wretches ſhould mock the agony of an expiring fellow-creature—merely becauſe he was diſcharging a diſagreeable office by the king's authority—is a wanton cruelty ſo unneceſ⯑ſary and ſo diſgraceful, that I ſincerely hope it never was practiſed before, nor will ever again. The poor exciſeman, through much earneſt perſuaſion, was lodged ſafely in one of the boats; and I had the pleaſure, before we got out of the harbour, to ſee him ſtanding upright. At firſt, however, he ſeemed quite gone. ‘'Damme, the exciſeman's dead'’—cried one—‘'So much the better'’—cried another—‘'he is gone to his father the devil then.'’ ‘'No, no'’—ſaid another—‘'he ſtirs, he is only drunk.'’ ‘'Ay, ay'’—ſaid a genteel man on board our ſloop—‘'he could not help taſting; he has been gauging you ſee the good liquor below. Ha, ha, ha—the dogs always drink more than they meaſure.'’ Many more things were ſaid, equally ſmart and equally humane. For my part I thought I ſhould ſtand but little chance by mixing in the converſation—not having wit enough to make calamity a ſub⯑ject [141] of merriment, or ſtupidity to curb what would have been as impractica⯑ble a taſk as commanding the wind to be ſtill which was then whiſtling in my ear.^* I therefore contented myſelf with ſeeing the gaſping object of their pleaſantry return to life, and when that event was eſtabliſhed, ſneaked into a corner of the cabbin to ruminate.

The firſt thing that ſtruck my attention was a diſpute between the ſailors, whether they ſhould take in two or three reefs in the mainſail and foreſail, the majority however—being two to one, for our ſhip's company conſiſted of no more than three—was in favour of the two reefs, and preſently we were a mile from land. It now blew and rained very hard, and three ſailors, who happened to be paſſengers, came down into the cabin. They were aſked by the reſt many queſtions—for an univerſal terror had began to prevail—and they all agreed that we carried too much ſail, but refuſed to interfere—for they were ‘"not afraid of weather—beſide, it was no concern of theirs."’ The diſſentient voice upon deck was continually heard to exclaim, ‘"don't you ſee what ſhort ſeas ſhe ſhips. Damme, my lads, but you'll repent not taking in another reef."’ The other two ſwore ſhe could carry every thing that was ſet, and declared there was not a cap full of wind, while the firſt as confidently af⯑firmed 'it blew like the devil.' For my part, I always think that if thoſe who [142] manage the ſhip do not feel themſelves in danger, I have no right to fancy I am; but here being evidently a difference of opinion, and the ſqualls ſo fre⯑quent, ſtrong, and ſudden, I own I began to think, with the ſailors below, that there was certainly a chance of ‘"our being capſized"’—and this I had more opportunity to reflect upon than the reſt, being the only one, out of more than forty paſſengers—two of the ſailors excepted—not ſea-ſick; which I have in ſome moments ſince lamented—for it has loſt me a fine occaſion to de⯑ſcribe, in imitation of Mr. BARETTI, all the various effects of that important and very delicate embelliſhment to the obſervations of a traveller; though, upon ſecond thoughts, I have been conſoled with the reflection that it might have tainted my ſtile in all the reſt of my narrative, and made it—like his—as taſteleſs as warm water.

After our poor little ſloop had been buffetted three hours and forty minutes, during which ſhe, above a hundred times, as fairly dived as ever did a duck, our ſailors were ſo kind to run us aground at the mouth of BARTON harbour—the tide however ſtill continuing to flow, we were ſoon got off, and at length arrived. At which time, the ſailors who managed the veſſel were not one whit drier than the poor, half-drowned exciſeman.

Being ſafely moored a long ſide of a cold ham, I left care once more to the winds, congratulating myſelf that there were yet ſome deſirable conſidera⯑tions for which one would wiſh to live; one of which has ſince turned out to be the enjoyment of that kindneſs you are pleaſed to afford to

To the Rev. Mr. —.

IN the coach which carried me from BARTON to LINCOLN were two of thoſe ſailors who came paſſengers, and who had been ſent from LONDON to HULL, and now were returning back to LONDON, in ſearch of a little prize-money, which had been due to them ever ſince the laſt war. They ſaid they did not know how ſuch things came about, but it had always been the way to ſend poor fellows—who earned their little at the riſk of their lives—from agent to agent, till what they received was not worth hav⯑ing. To be ſure they might have ſaved their journey; but they thought it was better to ſee into it themſelves than truſt their affairs in the hands of thoſe land-ſharks, the lawyers. ^* That there was ſomething wrong, but they hoped, one day or other, every thing would be righted; for they were ſure [144] when his majeſty—God bleſs him—came to know how the poor, honeſt fel⯑lows were ſerved who manned his wooden-walls, ſome of the underſtrappers would get a ſalt eel.

This was one inſtance, out of a great many, in which I have had oppor⯑tunity to notice the ſtrong intellectual feelings of ſailors. They are honeſt and liberal, to a proverb; and it has been remarked, that public depredators, who have gone to church to pick pockets, have been converted into good ci⯑tizens on the forecaſtle of a man of war. A friend of mine ſays, ‘"their ho⯑neſty and good ſenſe are fully accounted for, by conſidering that they have very little commerce with mankind; owing to this they deſpiſe money, and therefore have no inducement to become knaves; and as their wants are few, and thoſe ſoon ſupplied, they have no occaſion to rack imagina⯑tion to keep up a conſtant deception in their words and actions. Thus, their ideas go immediately to the point they want to expreſs, and their tongues tranſmit thoſe ideas faithfully, and without embelliſhment."’

I muſt do my friend the juſtice to confeſs, that he gives us here a very ingenious argument, and for ſo very extenſive a theme, as pithy a one as any of thoſe for which the ſailors receive from him ſuch warm encomiums. It is certain, honeſtly and good ſenſe are very congenial, and I ſhould ſooner ſuſpect that an argument, which threw out a ſtrong and brilliant diſplay of lo⯑gical and rhetorical figures, was calculated to diſguiſe, rather than ornament THE TRUTH. I have certainly, in the courſe of an hour, heard a ſailor utter as many good things—and I am ſure with as little affectation—as Dr. JOHN⯑SON. Nor do their technical alluſions rob what they ſay of its beauty.^* A ſhip is a glorious epitome of the world; and its management is the ſtrongeſt inſtance of ingenuity that human invention has furniſhed us.

[145]With theſe ſailors in the coach I held ſome converſation concerning our narrow eſcape—for they aſſured me it might be ſo called—and they ſaid it aroſe from this: the men who in conduct thoſe paſſage boats are, in general, tolerable pilots, but bad ſailors; they ſaid this I might have noticed, not only by their neglecting to take in more than two reefs, but keeping the ſails continually ſhivering in the wind—by which means we lay at the mercy of every ſquall, and the veſſel had ſo many different motions that ſhe ſhipped twice the ſea ſhe would have done had they laid her fairly cloſe to the water. I mention this the more particularly becauſe I think it will operate as a good caution to all thoſe who draw the concluſion—which I did—that if the people themſelves will venture, the paſſengers are in no danger; when, at the ſame time, we have every day ſo many inſtances of peoples loſing their lives through foolhardineſs.^*

The journey to LINCOLN having been in proportion as diſagreeable as the paſſage to BARTON, I was glad after a ſlight ſupper to get to bed—where, the [146] whole night, I was toſſing about in the HUMBER, nor could I believe I was really in an inn when I awakened (for never were thoſe lines in Hudibras more applicable).

This noiſe having awakened me—and I your curioſity—I ſhall poſtpone an explanation of it to my next letter, being in the interim

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I lay I am ſure half an hour before I could form the moſt diſtant conjecture of what this noiſe could proceed from. Bells, ket⯑tles, horns, hallowing, hooping, huzzaing, by men women and children, conveyed to my drowſy fancy a noiſe more horrible than did the angry billows which laſhed the yawning cavern of the ſix mouthed SCYLLA to the affrighted mariners of ULLUSSES, for I will not ſuppoſe but that HE delighted in the danger.

At length, by a few oblique words which catched my ear, I was let into the ſecret. It was the fifth of November, and the mob were carrying about a figure of GUY FAUX, which they informed me, when I came down to breakfaſt, was a ceremony performed on this day at LINCOLN with great regularity and ſolemnity; and that there was alſo to be a bull-baiting at twelve o'clock, and another at four. I enquired particularly where, and was told if I wanted places to ſee it I muſt be very expeditious, for they were not only dear, but perhaps all beſpoke. My anſwer was, that I only aſked that I might avoid ſo diſagreeable a ſight. I received nothing but a contemptuous [148] look for my declaration, and was extremely mortified to find that I unfortu⯑nately run into the very predicament I was ſo ſtudious to avoid; for though I did not ſee the bull baited, I was by accident ſo hemmed in that I could not avoid witneſſing the miſerable lacerated condition of the poor creature afterwards—and they were then leading him to where he was to be again baited in the afternoon. Heavenly God! I have heard of ſavages who have tortured their priſoners and afterwards eat them—but I could find ſomething like a motive for this. A bull is baited we are told to make him eat tender—let him be hunted then!—let him become the fair victim of the chace!—let us feel nobly like our anceſtors, nor degenerate from the brave EARL OF WARWICK by cruelly, cowardly tying a noble animal to the ſtake, and ſtimulating a number of peaceful domeſtic creatures to worry him, that human brutes may reliſh their dinner! I am told at STAMFORD they let the bull looſe after baiting it—if ſo, I moſt ſincerely hope the next time that event takes place he may toſs the firſt man who ſets a dog at him. Lions tear their prey, Hy⯑enas betray it—but theſe are provoked only by the calls of hunger. But a wanton unneceſſary cruelty—to which there cannot be a poſſible incentive, but ſavage hardneſs of heart—is a refinement on brutality reſerved alone for the ANIMAL OF REASON; and, to make the caſe more lamentable, this moſt contemptible of all unmanly paſtimes is the peculiar diſgrace of the braveſt nation upon earth.^*

I performed at LINCOLN three nights—the ſecond of which was tolera⯑bly well, but the firſt and laſt miſerably bad. Dr. KAYE was unfortunately, [149] while I ſtayed, but a few hours in town. He attended me, however, and had the goodneſs to ſend me afterwards a polite invitation, which I am ſorry I could not accept. Mr. MONEY, to whom I am almoſt wholly indebted for the little company I had, gave me proof of as liberal attention as I have any where met with. In ſhort, I believe through that gentleman's means every body was aſked, though ſo very few choſe to come. In the round of invita⯑tions, however, it would be an unpardonable omiſſion if I neglected to men⯑tion the excuſe of one gentleman, with whom I think I had the honour of riding in the ſtage coach to NEWARK. This gentleman was preſſed very hard to go to my entertainment, and would have been there, he ſaid, with great pleaſure if there had been no muſic. I hope this gentleman is a bull baiter. At length, being very cloſely preſſed, he ſaid ‘"you know my deteſtation of muſic, and if you will only prevail on Mr. DIBDIN to introduce ſomething to abuſe it, in order to give colour to my appearing there, I will go with all my heart."’ I hope it will be allowed that this is one of the moſt cu⯑rious anecdotes I have yet recorded.

[150]I here pay my acknowledgements to Mr. VANEIL, to whom my friend SOUTHERN introduced me by letter, for his very kind attention to me both at LINCOLN and at NEWARK, in which he did honour to his friends recom⯑mendation, and to me particular ſervice.

I muſt endeavour before I leave LINCOLN to account a little for the ca⯑priciouſneſs I experienced. There is a high town and a low town, and they are as much at variance as the MONTAGUES and the CAPULETS. Thus, the place having ſeparate intereſts, and, taken aggregately, ſtanding upon a very limited circumference, and containing but a ſcanty number of inhabitants, it is madneſs to think of an entertainment there. A playhouſe at LINCOLN I ſhould ſuppoſe muſt be in this predicament: if it was ſituate on the hill, it muſt be all boxes—if under the hill, all gallery—and if in the mid-way, all pit—and as a playhouſe cannot live but by box, pit, and gallery COLLEC⯑TIVELY, I ſhould conceive the laſt place for the drama in this kingdom is LINCOLN.

From LINCOLN I went to NEWARK, where I performed one night, to a very thin audience, who promiſed great things if I would return in the courſe of another week. This being in my power, I did ſo, and met with no better ſucceſs. Upon ſoliciting LADY LINCOLN, however, I received a moſt generous and elegant anſwer, appointing a night, and giving me the liberty to make uſe of her name and LORD LINCOLN's. This produced me as good a night as I believe the place can afford, and manifeſted one inſtance—among many I have experienced—that real diſtinction dignifies itſelf by eaſy and amiable affability, while all the pride and oſtentation of affected conſe⯑quence—like a deformed figure conſpicuouſly ſituated—ſolicits contempt; when, by a decent conſcious humiliation, it might command reſpect. But, it is the nature of folly to expoſe itſelf.

I have ever remarked that the crooked women are always the firſt to go without cloaks, the uglieſt to expoſe their faces, and thoſe with thick legs [151] are ſure to wear ſhort petticoats. I am returning to NEWARK, when I ſhall illuſtrate this and ſome other poſitions; in the mean time, beg your com⯑pany to NOTTINGHAM, where your warm wiſhes for my ill ſucceſs will be fully gratified; where little BURBAGE—after receiving a good price for the bills—could not help remarking that it was a damned ſhabby buſineſs. But I believe there is no more cauſe in nature for thick heads than hard hearts—therefore, let us blame not thoſe who do not enjoy the pleaſures of good-fellowſhip and ſociality equal to ourſelves, but rather thank providence for giving us the charming enjoyment of that ſort of ſenſation I feel when I tell you I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I thank you for your impromptu—I deſerve it and a great deal more^*—but one cannot be always infallible. Who, for inſtance, would have believed that genteel DERBY ſhould, on my return, have ſerved me as ſcurvy a trick as ſhabby NOTTINGHAM. I had the folly to linger on three nights, each of which was to be great things, and turned out nothing at all.

Let me, however, before I mention the particulars of theſe matters, bring you up—as the ſailors ſay—as to the time and place. My firſt night at NEWARK was on the tenth of November. I then went to NOTTINGHAM, had one night, proceeded to DERBY, and returned to NEWARK to perform on the ſeventeenth—then, to give opportunity for the night beſpoke by LADY LINCOLN, I went to GRANTHAM, and returned to NEWARK for the per⯑formance on the twenty-fourth.

[153]I found DERBY ſplit into factions in conſequence of the eſtabliſhment of a new aſſembly, the etiquette of which could not be ſettled to the general ſatisfaction. One lady was deſirous of being queen or conductreſs, and this gave offence to the reſt. Thus, the partizans of Mrs. A. turned up their noſes at the friends of Mrs. B. while Mrs. C—whoſe adherents were alſo nume⯑rous—retorted the contempt upon them both, and in her turn was ſaluted with a whole volly of gibes and ſarcaſms by the ſtaunch abettors of Mrs. D. A decent poet might have picked up ſomething tolerable among them for ſatires and lampoons. How it operated with me is very apparent. Water and oil—fire and ice—modern muſic and genius—could not be more inimical than were theſe parties to each other. If I would have performed four times in the day, I might have had them all ſeparately; but together! no conſideration upon earth could have induced them to mix. One lady certainly did trifle with me in a ſtrange kind of way—but as no longer ago than yeſterday I received intelligence that ſhe ſubſcribes for four copies, I ſhould hope matters were miſrepreſented to me; for as to her uneaſineſs leſt I ſhould introduce her into my TOUR—which has alſo been hinted—I cannot ſuppoſe ſhe has any apprehenſions on that account. To be ſure her conduct was a good deal like the ladies at BATH; ſhe did appoint a time for me when nobody could be there, and afterwards made me keep a company waiting more than an hour, under an idea that ſhe was coming at the head of a large party—and, at length, ſent word that neither they nor her could attend me—though ſhe knew the performance of that night was an additional one in compliment to her.

The moſt curious treatment I met with at DERBY was from old ſurly DREWRY, the printer. This groſſly ignorant man of letters took it into his head—becauſe I thought proper to pay ſome attention to Mr. PRITCHARD, who was once under him, and to whom he cannot have the ſmalleſt objec⯑tion, except that he begins very faſt to take away his cuſtom—to be offended; and the method he took of ſhewing his reſentment was to charge half-a-crown a hundred for the ſame ſort of bills which he had printed the firſt time I was [154] there for eighteen-pence. I really thought an advance of forty per cent, even in ſo trifling a buſineſs, was worth a remonſtrance. This was what he wanted. He boiled with rage, and the truth came out. I aſked him how he would like to be put in the TOUR. ‘"Damme,"’ ſaid he, ‘"clap me up in your Tower at your peril."’ I told him I always did what I was dared to; and here he may perceive I am as good as my word. My diſcovery, however, has nothing new in it—his overbearing, purſe-proud ignorant conſequence, are as much known in DERBY, as the accommodating, modeſt, and obliging behaviour of MR. PRITCHARD—the object of his envy—and it will have this operation: in proportion as one grows malicious, the other will be proſperous. I mention this circumſtance with ſome regret, as it is the only inſtance of incivility I have, to this day, met with from printers. To all I am indebted for ſome kindneſs; to MANY for much civility and kind attention; and to SOME FEW for a liberality and friendly ſolicitude which will ever make the warmeſt im⯑preſſion on me; even little BURBAGE—as far as it conſiſts with a money get⯑ting man—I ſincerely believe would do any thing to ſerve me.

I returned to NEWARK on Friday the twenty-ſixth, and took up my abode with honeſt, worthy JEMMY WALLIS, who keeps the Wing Tavern and makes monuments—being at once employed on feaſting the living, and com⯑memorating the dead. Nor is he more inadequate to one than the other: his cellar is as full of good wine as his head of taſty and neat ornaments. But as no man is better beloved, or ſtudied to do me more friendly offices, ſo my panegyric, even were it twenty times as ſtrong, will anſwer no other pur⯑poſe than that of doing common juſtice to a valuable character. Some indeed may blame me for telling the world of the merits of a man only particularly known at NEWARK—and cry out—‘'what is Mr. WALLIS's wine to me, who ſhall never drink any of it.'’ Sir RICHARD STEEL had his ESTCOURT, and why ſhould not I have my WALLIS? No ESTCOURT upon earth ever de⯑ſerved to be better ſpoken of. The only difference is, the two pens are not alike equal to the taſk, which certainly is not an unworthy one, for it has [155] drawn from the editor of the Spectator—in that nervous touching eulogium which he concludes with ſaying the pen drops out of his hand—one of the brighteſt effuſions of his genius. It is true this beautiful glowing tribute of warm friendſhip to private worth deplores the death of ESTCOURT, while WALLIS—though every day recording the deceaſed virtues of others—keeps a ſtate of robuſt health that ſeems, like a towering elm, to defy the depre⯑dations of time.

The hiſtory of my jaunt to GRANTHAM—during the preparation for LADY LINCOLN's night—was this: I took a letter to a gentleman, who told me he could do me no manner of ſervice; and in particular, that he could not be preſent on the firſt night of my performance. Finding, how⯑ever, that LORD and LADY BROWNLOW and ſome other people of diſtinction were there, he came alſo; but adviſed me not to have another night till the following week; to which I did not conſent. He, however, propagated that I did, and in conſequence nobody attended. This gentleman's kind conduct was owing to his being director of the GRANTHAM concert, and it is evi⯑dent he feared that if I drew too much company, his appearance would be but thin. All this Mr. F. SHARP can teſtify for me, who was very ſolicitous to oblige and do me ſervice. This nonſenſe, and the arrival of the DUKE OF RUTLAND's corpſe, ſent me back to NEWARK, to prepare for the next Saturday, and ſet JEMMY WALLIS a curſing the GRANTHAMITES.

From the evening of my performance at the deſire of LORD and LADY LINCOLN, I date the commencement of my itinerant proſperity; which—differing from the matter in this letter as widely as earth and air—will be the ſubject of another, and I ſhall finiſh it, as I do this, with complete ſin⯑cerity, by aſſuring you that I am, moſt faithfully,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

AT GRANTHAM, on the 22d of November, I received a letter from Mr. HARRIS, the contents of which I ſhall defer mentioning till I go over that matter regularly. Before I left NEWARK for GRANTHAM, in order to accommodate LORD and LADY LINCOLN, I made an application reſpectively to the corporation for uſe of the aſſembly room; and having obtained leave individually, I was aſtoniſhed to find, on my return, that collectively they objected to it. In conſequence of this, I found myſelf unpleaſantly ſituated. I was relieved, however, from my anxiety by Mr. MIDGELEY, who keeps the Kingſton Arms; the hiſtory of which houſe, in a former letter, I promiſed to give in its place. Mr. MIDCELEY offered to let me have his large room gratis, and I accepted the offer; in conſequence of which I fancy he expects to be ſpoken very well of in this publication, and handſomely recommended to the notice of people of faſhion, whoſe ac⯑commodation—to the great annoyance of ſtage-coach travellers and bagmen—he very anxiouſly ſtudies. I ſhall, however, go no ſtep further than the truth to oblige all the Mr. MIDGELEYS upon earth. And the truth is this: When I firſt paſſed through NEWARK—as I mention in its place—I ate a dinner re⯑markably [157] well dreſſed, and in conſequence returned to the ſame houſe. I then found that the landlord had been cook to the PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES, and that the houſe was famous for culinary excellence. I therefore indulged myſelf in two or three favourite diſhes, the merits of which I ſo loudly chaunted the praiſe of—having eaten them in perfection in FRANCE—that he, I ſuppoſe, fancied me UN MY LOR. Finding, however, I was—according to the mayor of NOTTINGHAM—only an actor man, I ſuppoſe, by what followed, he was determined to be revenged of me for being in⯑nocently the cauſe of his paying me a little reſpect. He therefore gave me a miſerable bad pair of horſes to NOTTINGHAM, one of which fell down, and detained me half an hour on the road; and though he promiſed that he would very faithfully take care of any letters that might be directed for me to his houſe, yet he refuſed ſome that were brought in my abſence, which, but for the kindneſs of JEMMY WALLIS, I ſhould not—without great difficulty—have received. When he found LORD and LADY LINCOLN had beſpoke a night, the tables were turned again, and it was impoſſible, with all his conſequence, to put on a more fulſome ſhew of adulation. If he thought this was the way to procure my praiſe, he will find, by reading the above, how far he ſucceeded.

NEWARK, like MALTON, in ſome degree failed, owing to my having imprudently placed my dependance on a parſon and a lawyer; but, in return, I became acquainted with another attorney, who paid me much attention, and without an intereſted motive; I therefore record the circumſtance accord⯑ing to my promiſe, as one of thoſe which in all my life—much leſs during my tour—I have ſeldom had the good fortune to meet with.

On Sunday the twenty-fifth I arrived at DONCASTER, and that evening paid my reſpects to Dr. MILLER. I own I had nohopes of this place, and if I had entertained any, they would have been baulked—for it was like DERBY, [158] divided into parties: each of which ſeemed determined to deprive itſelf of its own pleaſure rather than not diſturb the tranquillity of its neighbour.

This inſtance in country towns of deſtroying that ſociality which they ſeem ſo peculiarly ſituated for the enjoyment of, is aſtoniſhing. Some au⯑thor mentions a circumſtance of four perſons who were going to the land's end in a ſtage coach. The firſt twenty miles they all ſpoke together; further on they were the beſt friends in the world, but were content with ſpeaking one at a time; preſently they all yawned; by and by fell aſleep; and, before they parted, cordially wiſhed one another at the devil. Now all this is natural enough. Theſe people were never to meet again. But the firſt idea of ſettling in the country is a ſociable neighbourhood; and, as thoſe who are ſo ſituated muſt neceſſarily be near each other during a number of dull months, common policy would induce them, one ſhould think, to give and receive as much rational pleaſure as poſſible. But pride attends every ſituation in life. Mrs. DOUBLE TRIPE, the cook, looks with contempt on the ſcullion. Mrs. HANDY, my lady's maid, addreſſes Mrs. DOUBLE TRIPE by the title of good woman. Mrs. CRINGE, the toad-eater, ſneers ſupercili⯑ouſly at Mrs. HANDY; while ſhe, in her turn, is huffed and dinged about by My LADY, and blamed for putting her out of humour, ſpoiling her complexion, and loſing her lovers. A corporal is as proud of relieving a centinal as a general of commanding an army, and a ſtrolling actor is as much a monarch for the time being as the EMPEROR of GERMANY.^*

[159]At DONCASTER the ladies of independent fortune had eſtabliſhed an aſſembly, and finding on a former occaſion they were intruded on by others of inferior diſtinction, they came to a reſolution of admitting no tradeſ⯑man nor any of his family to the aſſembly. This of courſe gave umbrage to the major part of the place, who, in return, determined to have an aſſembly apart. Here for a little time the matter reſted, and it muſt have been no un⯑pleaſant thing to ſee the lower houſe muſter numerouſly, when the upper houſe could get ſcarcely any members to attend it. At length this ſecond aſſembly began to divide. Miſs LATITAT, the attorney's daughter, made Mrs. FRIZ, the barber's wife, no return to her curtſey; while Mrs. PTISIC, the phyſician's lady, ſneered at the upſtart conſequence of Miſs BUMPER, the innkeeper's daughter, and wondered that ſhe ſhould have the impudence to precribe rules of good breeding to her. A ſecond diviſion was the conſe⯑quence, and a third meeting formed, which, for diſtinction, was called the checked apron aſſembly. This caprice deſtroyed every expectation of enjoyment among them; their meetings being ill attended—and of courſe unſoci⯑able—inſtead of anſwering the deſired purpoſe, produced nothing but envy, bickering, and diſcord; and, were a ſample of rational manners to be taken from them, would give an idea that human creatures were born to plague inſtead of accommodate each other. All this would have been the conſequence at NEWARK, which LADY LINCOLN very ſenſibly foreſeeing—with an ami⯑able complacency truly noble—headed the aſſembly, and diſpenſed her favours with ſo equal a hand, that it cauſed every where an emulation—not to aſſume falſe conſequence, but imitate true greatneſs.^*

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I ſhall trouble you with nothing concerning the en⯑tertainment at DONCASTER, which I did but twice—each time to a loſs. Not, however, to be inconſiſtent, I ſtick to my aſſertion, that my plan began to brighten up at DONCASTER. The buſineſs of the ſubſcription went on pretty faſt, and I received ſuch good intelligence from WAKEFIELD, LEEDS, and other places, that I could no longer doubt of good ſucceſs. Beſides, DONCASTER introduced me to the intimacy of Dr. MILLER and the counte⯑nance of Mr. DRUMMOND, who I ſincerely hope will not be offended if, according to my purſuit of common juſtice, I take the liberty to ſpeak of him. It is not, however, neceſſary to ſay much—for, when it is known that a clergyman is venerated by his neighbourhood—that the poor among his pariſhioners look up to him as a father—that he is the benefactor of merit—the comforter of the helpleſs—that born largely to enjoy the promiſcuous bleſſings of life, his ſole delight is the rational and enchanting pleaſures centered in the amiable duties of a huſband and a father—and then add that this ex⯑ample of human perfection is no more than twenty-ſix—I believe it will be pretty difficult to advance any thing ſtronger on the ſubject. I cannot, however, debar myſelf the pleaſure of relating one circumſtance—in corro⯑boration [161] of the above—which happened while I was there. The ſmall pox—of a confluent and fatal kind—had raged very violently and was continually ſweeping off numbers of the inhabitants—Mr. DRUMMOND having attended ſeveral burials, determined to ſtop, as much as in his power, the progreſs of this alarming evil, preached a ſermon full of good ſenſe and ſtrong feeling, in favour of inoculation, and afterwards proclaimed that thoſe who choſe to have their children inoculated might do ſo at his expence. So blind, however, is human folly, that but nine applied while I ſtayed. One poor woman being aſked why ſhe did not avail herſelf of Mr. DRUMMOND's goodneſs, anſwered—‘'I thank God, my children are all bleſſed angels in heaven!'’

I was in the whole a week at DONCASTER, which I paſſed very happily, in the company of Dr. MILLER. I know no man of more liberal ſentiments, nor whoſe ſtudies are applied to more worthy purpoſes. His public letter concerning the muſical fund, and advice towards the eſtabliſhment of ſuch an inſtitution in the country, is full of generous, ſpirited, and ſenſible re⯑marks; and it will do him laſting honour that his plan has already been in ſome meaſure adopted. His inſtitutes are another proof of his wiſhes to make his abilities of public uſe. They are a work calculated to reduce the ſtudy of muſic to ſomething like rule, in the nature of a grammar; and for a firſt attempt in this way—for he was very conſcious that any thing of ſuch a kind would be conſidered as a dangerous innovation—has great perſpicuity, and may be made generally ſerviceable. But here I muſt tell Dr. MILLER and the public a ſecret. The maſters, as they are called, fearing their myſteries ſhould be revealed, which, like the glorious uncertainty of the law, is the ſource of emolument, decry this work of his whenever they can, and make their ſcholars believe it is only capable of teaching them a few ſuperficial rules; whereas their whole fear is, leſt it draw aſide the veil of impoſition, and diſcover that deception by which they contrive to lead on a ſcholar, in the courſe of two or three years, to the knowledge of what they might, upon a plain, eaſy, ſimple principle, accompliſh in a few weeks. His elements of thorough baſs is ano⯑ther [162] ingenious work. He ſeems to have kept RAMEAU ſtrongly in mind, and he could not—tempered with his own obſervations—have had a better model. I am only ſorry he did not keep to thoſe uſeful poſitions which ſo dumb-found theoriſts, as they are called—ſuch as maintaining that there is not in the ſyſtem of harmony any thing more than the common chord and the ſeventh—ſince by ſhewing how abſtruſe reſolutions may be made, every man will not take the matter upon the ground of its being a ſevere ſatire on mere profeſſors, but ſuppoſe he countenances the introduction of ſuch chords. It is certain his book would have tended more to ſimplify harmony without it. But then he would have had all the cavillers, in full cry after him—and every man is not obliged to ſet himſelf the Herculean taſk of a reformer. He therefore gave them two roads, which—like thoſe of virtue and vice—one is flowery and the other rugged. Perhaps he did wiſely. Thoſe who would be pleaſed with little trouble will chuſe ſimplicity for their guide—thoſe who would ſearch and never come to the end of their journey will follow difficulty.

I cannot introduce muſic ſo well—for I confeſs to you I mean now to dwell ſome time on that ſubject—as by a deſcription of muſicians; nor muſi⯑cians, as by ſpeaking of the muſical fund. This inſtitution is too well known to need a ſtatement of its origin, riſe, and progreſs. The newſpapers give frequent accounts of the thouſands which are continually pouring into its coffers. But does any one know what becomes of them? Is ſuch an inſtitution worthy the benevolent contribution of hundreds, and the auguſt patronage of a great, powerful—and what is more, incomparably more—a good and bene⯑ficent monarch, which ſuffers the neglected duſt of the matchleſs ARNE to lie without a ſtone to tell where it periſhes? Who can ſuppreſs his indigna⯑tion when he conſiders that the widow of this great man—old and friendleſs—applied to this ſociety—ſo ſupported, ſo patronized—and went away with the tear of diſtreſs on her check, ſtarted by the language of reproof? And what think ye was the excuſe for this unfeeling refuſal? ‘'Dr. ARNE had been, it was true, one of the moſt ancient members of the muſical fund; he had [163] many years given it countenance and ſupport; his oratorios had produced it good benefits, and'’—which one would think was a ſtronger argument than all the reſt—‘'his catches and glees had cauſed half the drunkenneſs and diſor⯑der that pervaded their convivial meetings, when the reckoning was paid out of the ſtock;—but, there was a law which ſubjected any member to a ſen⯑tence of expulſion, if he or ſhe ſhould neglect to ſubſcribe his or her quota for four ſeveral times; and Dr. ARNE having been in IRELAND, and ſo guilty of this neglect, he and his were for ever cut off from any claim to be relieved by the fund!'’

The widow of MICHAEL ARNE applied with as little ſucceſs. There was ſomething in this caſe whiſpered about difference of opinion in religion. If it be true, it can only be ſaid that the beſt names may be proſtituted to the vileſt purpoſes. It is curious, at any rate, to talk of the religious ſenti⯑ments of muſicians. Harmony, in its extenſive and univerſal acceptation, is certainly allied to a contemplation of that great and expanded ſymmetry and grace which ſo wonderfully qualify and knit together the various contra⯑rieties on the face of nature, through the influence of contending elements, into one concordant whole—but for the members of the muſical fund to draw an inference from the ſimilitude of muſic to moral or revealed religion—liſten to the calls of humanity—or, indeed, make any uſe of their ſtock except to relieve their tools and gratify their own luxurious pleaſures—would be a ſpecies of harmony beyond their capacity; for it is founded in nature, it opens to benevolence, and modulating through all the fine and exquiſite feelings of nice honour and ſmiling philanthropy, it cloſes in that beſt of keys—the HEART.

A conſideration of Dr. MILLER's public letter, and a further inveſti⯑gation of this charitable inſtitution, ſhall be the ſubject of my next; after which I ſhall open my cauſe in form of NATURE, verſus THEORY. The firſt I take to be the ſtate of muſic after the chaos, and the latter ſo ſweetly deſcribed [164] by DRYDEN, ‘"while in a heap of jarring atoms lay"’—to which ſtate, in the minds of many of its profeſſors, have the want of fancy, the abſence of taſte, and the dearth of genius, again reduced it—far removed from the harmony of the ſoul; and, of courſe, from that pleaſure with which I repeat ſo often that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

DR. MILLER addreſſes himſelf, in his firſt letter, to the noblemen and gentlemen managers of the different feſtivals in comme⯑moration of HANDEL, praying that the muſicians in the country, as well as thoſe reſident in LONDON, may be entitled to ſome relief from that fund which their labours help to accumulate. He truly ſays, that charity ought not to be confined to any particular place; and urges a variety of ſtrong argu⯑ments to ſupport his laudable purpoſe. His ſecond letter is to the directors of the fund itſelf—whom he adviſes to admit regular country muſicians as mem⯑bers. He ſtrenuouſly appeals to their feelings as men and profeſſors of the ſame art—inſtances the numerous charities for whoſe emolument muſicians perform gratis. He exclaims, ‘"unfortunate profeſſors of a noble ſcience! Unhappy ſons of an unnatural parent! who, while ſhe procures wealth and comfort to others, ſuffers her own children to pine in miſery and want!"’

This effort to procure relief for country muſicians is however as extrava⯑gantly abſurd, as it is nobly liberal. What have the noblemen and gentlemen to do with diſpenſing the profit of the Abbey feſtivals? It is ſifted as often [166] as flour, and—according to honeſt JOE—it would be wonderful if ſome of it did not ſtick by the way. I have had very particular opportunity to notice, that if nothing elſe diſgraces the king's patronage in the buſineſs of the feſti⯑vals, the paltry haggling bargains that are made with the country muſicians—and all in the names of theſe noblemen and gentlemen who know nothing about it—are a ſcandal to any ſet of men who boaſt the ſmalleſt pretenſions to exerciſe a liberal profeſſion. In ſhort, it is—like every thing of that kind—a job. And how ſhould it be otherwiſe? Inſtead of placing at the head of it ſuch men as Dr. HAYES and Dr. BURNEY, the power is veſted in ſub⯑ordinate muſicians; who, like COLONEL COCKBURN, never get rid of the black hole, the gin, and the cat-o'nine-tails. ^* And theſe, by this appointment, are to dictate to men under whoſe command common policy ſays they ought to march. Can any thing therefore be ſo futile and ineffectual as an attempt to turn ſuch a tide as this—over which theſe men are the moon, and con⯑trive to influence it into that channel where it can ebb and flow at their pleaſure.

As to the letter to the directors of the fund itſelf, how could a man of Dr MILLER's good ſenſe expect to have it noticed? Will a miſer ſpare a ſingle guinea out of his iron cheſt to ſave a life, or a drunkard a ſingle drop out of his pint bumper? Poor men! their fund amounts at preſent but to thirty-three thouſand pounds, and I declare—though I have had pretty nearly as much to do with the muſical tribe as any man—I do not know at this moment any one object who derives a benefit from this charity.

[167]Theſe letters, however, though they could make no impreſſion on that marble to which they were addreſſed, nevertheleſs rouſed the reſolutions of a few hopeleſs men, who—among a number of others—had been the ſport of that ignorant arrogance that diſtinguiſhes the horn and kettle-drum, which make up the factotum of this wiſely and honeſtly conducted inſtitution.^*

Mr. SMART—who keeps a muſic ſhop in OXFORD-STREET, and is alſo a performer—applied to become a member of the muſical fund. Mr. SMART happens to be one of thoſe very few who are bleſt with good intellects; and it is not wonderful that he ſhould, in his life, have differed in opinion from theſe conſequential muſical COCKBURNS, at the head of the harmonic army. There could not be any poſſibly legitimate reaſon for getting rid of his appli⯑cation; yet diſmiſſed it muſt be—‘"becauſe why?"’ ſaid one, ‘"if we lets that there feller come among us, damme, but he'll be up to the rig preſently."’ ^† At length an idea was ſuggeſted—for which the perſon who ſtarted it received the thanks of the meeting—that it being a rule for every propoſed member to give in an account of his ſituation and the ſtate of his family, Mr. SMART had certainly produced a paper ſaying he had a wife and four children, but in ſo doing his intention muſt have been to impoſe [168] on the charity; for at the very time he delivered in that paper, ſo worded, he well knew Mrs. SMART was pregnant of her fifth child. It was moved and carried that Mr. SMART had endeavoured to get admiſſion as a member of the muſical fund by ſurreptitious means, and, therefore ſhould never be entitled to any benefit from it.

It was after this tranſaction that Dr. MILLER's letter got into Mr. SMART's hands; he conſulted a few others, and, by dint of a laudable perſe⯑verance, a NEW FUND is actually eſtabliſhed, which already conſiſts of a decent ſum, and has the ſanction of many gentlemen of both worldly—as well as profeſſional—rank and conſequence.

This letter will rouſe the charitable muſicians more than all the rods with which I mean to tingle them hereafter: but I defy them to controvert it. Dr. HOWARD has an hundred times declared that it was an iniquitous [169] buſineſs. Dr. BURNEY ſaid, ſome time ago, he had waſhed his hands of them; and they will never get over the reſpectable meeting at the free-maſons' tavern; where their ſcandalous conduct was ſo ſeverely reprobated, and the NEW FUND ſo liberally contributed to. In ſhort, while the living profeſſors of a liberal art are totally diſcouraged, men of real genius will naturally turn their thoughts to ſomething elſe; obliged, however, to deplore that promo⯑tions in ſcience—like thoſe in the army and navy—go not by merit but intereſt; and that, in future, to aſpire to muſical preferment, you muſt begin by being a fifer in the guards. Theſe are the ſchools, as Mrs. PEACHUM ſays, which produced ſo many great men. I will venture to ſay, SIMPSON, the hautboy player, has done more injury to the cauſe of real genius—to which he was a ſtranger himſelf, and therefore hated it in all mankind—than all the feſtivals in commemoration of HANDEL will ever do good.^* I do not, however, pretend to ſay that the guards have not aſſiſted the cauſe of muſic in this country very materially. The two PARKES, FORSTER, poor HOLLAND, and many others, are convincing proofs that it is the beſt nurſery for wind inſtrumental performers in this kingdom. But ſurely theſe are not to be put in competition with men by means of whoſe expanded fancy and fine judgment are conceived thoſe delicious ſounds which, at beſt, they can but utter! My whoſe ſenſitive faculties revolt when I hear of an imperious kettle drummer chaffering with ſuch a man as Dr. HAVES—and out of the thouſands received for admiſſion to the feſtivals—like a huckſter, haggling for a few pounds—which at laſt, perhaps, may go to furniſh out the revels of a guard room, at the SAVOY. The old women in this country ſay, if any thing is amiſs, ‘"the king ſhould know it."’ If he properly knew this—ſo graciouſly benignant are his private virtues, ſo much does he greatly pique himſelf on being much a MAN, as well as a MONARCH—that I ſin⯑cerely believe the words of the ſailor would be verified, and that ſomebody would chance to get a ſalt eel.

[170]Arm yourſelf with patience. I have dipped into muſic, and you know when I begin I do not eaſily leave off. To ſhew, however, that I am con⯑ſiſtent, there are other things I as cloſely ſtick to—one of which is my continually aſſuring you that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

LEAVING DONCASTER, I went, by invitation, to WAKEFIELD; where, having ſome leiſure, I threw a few looſe thoughts on paper concerning muſic—which can no where come ſo properly as in this letter.

Philoſophers truly ſay that even the minuteſt objects have place on the ſcale of univerſal harmony; and—ſpite of VOLTAIRE's PLATO's Demiurgos ^*—nettles and toads are not without their uſe. But it does not follow that men are to be continually peeping into the holes and corners of nature for objects that cannot poſſibly ſatisfy a ſingle ſenſation but curioſity, which even in its gratification will be accompanied with diſguſt. Theſe poſitions mi⯑nutely hold good in relation to muſic. Diſcords are ſaid to be the ſoul of harmony; which—if this declaration be admitted—muſt be, according to POLONIUS, very unlike wit; diſcords being the very reverſe of brevity. So much indeed are they the limbs and outward flouriſhes, that one would think they were introduced to bewilder what they ought to elucidate. Yet fear not, [172] ye mere harmoniſts, but I ſhall allow that diſcords have their uſe; but dare not to think of them otherwiſe than as the ſpiders and hemloc of muſic, or that they are more material to the ſoul of harmony than thoſe noxious objects to the univerſal ſyſtem of nature.

Speaking to men of common ſenſe, I cannot be ſuppoſed to addreſs my⯑ſelf to more than one out of twenty muſicians. Nor am I aſhamed or afraid of making the declaration. No man need be aſhamed of telling the truth; and for the fear—the whole twenty will reſpectively believe themſelves alluded to by the above exception; in which caſe I ſhall be thanked rather than blamed: for where is the man—a muſician eſpecially—who will not chuckle at even an imaginary hit at his neighbour.

To expreſs myſelf leſs archly, and probably more to the point. What I am going to ſay relative to harmony ſhall, or I have loſt my aim, apply to all men who have underſtandings, be they muſicians or not muſicians; and as it is a ſubject on which a great deal has been both ſaid and done to very little purpoſe—as it has opened, as far as it goes, as many doors to impoſition as law or prieſtcraft, and as been as conducive to picking of pockets as a ſemi⯑nary at St. GILES's—I conceive it my duty at leaſt to attempt a reform.

If ever term had a poſitive implication, the etymology of the word muſic is—to pleaſe, to charm, to delight. Mr. HERON, the critic, if he felt what I do at this moment, would ſay—I will ſpurn at common rules, and change—the better to expreſs myſelf—this ſubſtantive muſic into a verb, and conjugate it through all the moods and tenſes. It is true, muſic may excite horror, but then it is a mimic horror, which has its delectable effects. The ear is the door of the heart—and I will venture to pronounce there is no perfect muſic but that which is pleaſing. The demonstration is clear: nothing can be perfect that is incomplete. Mere harmony is incomplete, for it is a BODY to which melody is the SOUL. Ergo—mere harmony is not perfect muſic.

[173]The Engliſh, from their natural goodneſs of heart, take upon hearſay a man's abilities. ‘"I am no judge—I can't ſay I heard any thing ſtriking in ſuch an air—but the man has great reputation, and of courſe his muſic is good—though I muſt confeſs it does not ſeem to me to be very pleaſing."’ Let this for ever decide upon ſuch ſort of judgment—

If a man have a diſpoſition to be pleaſed with muſic—though he be totally ignorant of it as a ſcience—if he can point out what air has ever given him real pleaſure—which he muſt be qualified to do if he has heard the Beggar's Opera or Comus—if ſuch a man ſhould liſten with attention a firſt, a ſecond, and a third time to an air, and yet cannot feel a delight capable of the cleareſt explanation—and heaven knows that may eaſily be now a days!—that muſic deſerves to be burnt, even though HANDEL were the compoſer. This rule, however, is liable to ſome correction. Original muſic will never ſtrike at firſt equal to what it will upon repetition; ſo that original com⯑poſers—and indeed ſo do writers—run the moſt riſque. Care therefore ought to be had to examine whether it is from the ſtile of the muſic the hearer can⯑not immediately decide. The infallible way, however, is to hear the air repeatedly—and if at length it catch hold of the heart, the trouble is well recompenſed by the pleaſure it will ever afterwards afford.

By the ſame token, let not the auditor form a haſty judgment. A fami⯑liar air jigging upon the ear may be pleaſing, but it will, moſt probably, be ſtolen; in which caſe, it can be entitled only to an illegitimate reputation; and—like a preſent imitation of GARRICK—though ever ſo perfect, ſerve only to make us regret that the incomparable original—is no more!

Any man with an ear and a heart, made rather of more penetrable ſtuff than the gentleman at LINCOLN, may venture to pronounce his opinion on MUSIC. I do not, however, mean thoſe carping, cavilling critics, who, as it were, take the dimenſions of ſounds, and go about to explain their excellence [174] as methodically as they would to bore a cylinder or weigh air. Theſe have ears too, but they are, like that of DIONYSIUS, expanded to diſcover—all the faults.

Let not, therefore, any one be deterred from freely giving his ſentiments, after having conſulted his heart. Harmony is not intended to conceal the beauties of muſic, but to round and perfect them; and men may as well talk of a picture without an outline, as muſic without air. In ſhort, all the labyrinth of harmony may be mechanically explored, but melody is that charm from which muſic receives animation, which cannot be attained by the art of man, but is an intuitive principle derived from nature. I do not un⯑derſtand the text—‘"from harmony, from heavenly harmony, the univerſal frame began."’ It could not be harmony till it was completed. From a chaos of ſounds men of brilliant fancy and good taſte ſelect a certain number, and model them into form and order:—for it cannot be denied that a ſong is as perfectly underſtood with a ſingle voice as accompanied by a band.—Harmony ſerves to ornament and ſet off the melody, but cannot do more. In ſhort, melody is the naked figure, and harmony the dreſs—which now a-days is as fantaſtical and ridiculous as the clothes of men and women—and believe I need not ſay any thing ſtronger to prove that harmony ſhould contain nothing but what is neat, convenient, and graceful, which every body underſtands. Ergo every body is muſician enough to be a muſical critic; and thus the ſtupid nonſenſe of theoriſts ought for ever to be ſilenced:—but there would be as much difficulty to do that, as to prevent me from telling you how much I am

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I ſhall drop a little the ſubject of muſic, to tell you. how I ſped at WAKEFIELD, and introduce to your notice ſuch characters and incidents as are now ripe for your obſervation. Among theſe let me firſt ſpeak of one of the moſt intelligent, cheerful, pleaſant men I have met with. I mean Mr. CLEMENTSHAW, who is by every body admired and reſpected, and whoſe converſation—for indeed it is very deſireable—is every where de⯑ſired. He is the organiſt—was a pupil of Dr. MILLER—has all the neigh⯑bouring teaching—and is in a very comfortable and reputable ſituation. His performance on the harpſichord is ſecond only to BOYTON; nay, when we conſider that this happy, eaſy man—whoſe face is never without a ſmile, nor I believe his heart without a benevolent ſenſation—is blind—which I would not declare did I not know his perfect good ſenſe and ſtrong philoſophy—he may, in ſome reſpects, be conſidered as BOYTON's equal. No man's conver⯑ſation is more agreeable, for no man has a more perſpicuous and decided judgment on all general ſubjects. But his great forte is a rational laugh. He ſhall make you more and better extemporary puns in an hour—with a view to laugh at punning—than Mr. O'KEEFE would ſtudiouſly introduce in a whole [176] piece, in expectation of ſame. ^* He has read every thing, has a wonderfully retentive memory, and ſeparates and diſcriminates ſentiments and opinions in an elegant taſte, and with modeſt and convincing arguments. In ſhort, I know not any man in whoſe company I have felt more pleaſure; no wonder therefore I take ſo much in repeating it. Mr. SOUTHERN, of WAKEFIELD, who is a fine young man, and much beloved, is alſo entitled to my acknow⯑ledgements; and the Rev. Mr. VINCENT will, I hope, pardon me if I take this opportunity of thanking him with great ſincerity for the many kind ſervices he did me. Nor ſhall WALLER the printer, that well-mean⯑ing kind creature, go without my hearty good wiſhes, for I am ſure I have his.

I had one very good night at WAKEFIELD—Saturday December 8th—and after ſpending the Sunday moſt agreeably with CLEMENTSHAW, went on the Monday to LEEDS. On Tueſday I performed to a very decent number, among which were ſome of the principal people, who, at the end of the entertainment, begged I would give it again on the Thurſday. One gentleman, in particular, took a great deal of pains, procured me the aſſembly room, was in a great meaſure the cauſe of its being well filled, and gave me a handſome letter to a gentleman at MANCHESTER.

[177]I muſt not paſs by an incident which very ſtrongly proves a poſition—not a bad one by the bye—of Mr. ASTLEY, the rider. Says he, ‘"your SHAKESPEARE there, upon the ſtage, ſays that all the world's a ſtage.—Damme, I ſays, ſays I, all the world's a puppet ſhew. Why now d'ye ſee ben't every body ſhew-men? Don't the king, good bleſs him, ſhew his lions at the tower?"’ But to proceed. There happened to be at LEEDS, at the time I mention, a full grown gentleman, ſix and thirty inches high; and about an hour before I began my performance, an ambaſſador from the little man was diſpatched to negociate with me the terms of an itinerant alliance. I liſtened to the propoſal with great coolneſs, and aſked if it was the wiſh of this man in miniature to be produced out of my pocket, or ex⯑hibited on my finger while I ſhould ſing ‘"ſay little fooliſh fluttering thing."’

At LEEDS I became acquainted with Mr. WARBURTON, an independant profeſſional man, who has it amply in his power to aſſiſt the amuſement of the public, without the neceſſity of ſubmitting to humiliation. His ſpirited and ſenſible conduct in a buſineſs that happened juſt before I came to LEEDS, as above, gives a ſtriking proof of this. I had heard at WAKEFIELD that it would be impolitic to apply to Mr. WARBURTON, for he was out of favour. ‘'How out of favour?'’ Why he had neglected to attend one of the concerts.—My anſwer was, that I ſuppoſed he was better engaged. The fact however was this.—Mr. WARBURTON was choſen by the managers of the concert as commander in chief: for it would have been an affront to his ſituation in life to have conſidered him in any other light. Notwithſtanding this, he was continually thwarted, and though out of pocket by the concert, expected to be at their beck and call upon all occaſions. This he overlooked with the con⯑tempt it merited—determined to go on as ſmoothly as he could till the end of the ſeaſon; but being ill—they ſay, through having drank too much the day before at a turtle-feaſt—he thought it could be no ſuch great matter if they were for once to make a trial of ſpelling out the concertos and ſonatas by them⯑ſelves. A reſolution was immediately formed—and immediately repented of— [178] to admit Mr. WARBURTON no more: who, on his part, very properly de⯑termined to have nothing more to do with them. What is the conſequence? It never would have given him any pleaſure to have his ears tortured with the diſſonance and falſe time of gentlemen players, who, after all, he muſt not dare to command—for they were in the ſituation of Trinculo in the Tempeſt—‘"You ſhall be king, and I'll be viceroy over you."’ He muſt therefore ſecretly rejoice at being rid of a trouble, which nothing but his own good nature—of which no man poſſeſſes a larger ſhare—ever induced him to give himſelf; and they repine at their nonſenſical folly which has deprived them of the only means by which their concert could ſtand the ſmalleſt chance of flouriſhing, or being reſpectable. As to the buſineſs of the turtle-feaſt, 'tis too illiberal to talk about it; but, admitting it were true, it only proves that Mr. WARBUR⯑TON cannot ſtand liquor quite ſo well as themſelves. I have ſo particularly mentioned this circumſtance, that it may ſerve as a hint to the diletanti in the country, who—and they may take my word for it—becauſe they can ſcrape upon the fiddle out of tune, toot a little upon the flute, or growl upon the vio⯑loncello, are neither qualified to command ſuch men as Mr. WARBURTON, nor give the ton to the MUSICAL WORLD.

My TOUR has already pretty well ſhewn that I have as much patience as any public man need; but I declare, were I in the affluent ſituation of Mr. WARBURTON, which—as he truly deſerves—may he long comfortably en⯑joy! I ſhould content myſelf with the eligible and diſtinguiſhed attention paid me by LORD MEXBOROUGH, SIR GEORGE ARMYTAGE, Mr. FAWKES, &c. and feel very little inclination indeed to be at the devotion of a ſet of mechanics who think themſelves of prodigious conſequence, by having taken it into their heads to become gentlemen fidlers. Among theſe, God forbid I ſhould have the ingratitude to rank any of thoſe who attended me.

LEEDS is a town of great trade; ſo much ſo, that a gentleman belong⯑ing to one of the banks aſſured me the whole returns of the place could not be [179] leſs than from five to ſeven millions a year. This cannot be done but by men who have thrown fortunes into trade, who, as I have often experienced, have nothing of the littleneſs that ſprings in low minds from turning the penny. I deſire alſo I may not be underſtood to ſay that there are not tradeſmen who have heads and hearts that would do honour to the higheſt ſituations. Kings may do little actions, and coblers—great ones. I aim at nothing but to diſtin⯑guiſh between meanneſs and generoſity. Thoſe who poſſeſs—and that largely—the latter quality, are now among Mr. WARBURTON's friends; and I fancy any man, upon the ſame terms, will not feel uneaſy at being—in the way he is—out of favour. Such favour is as indifferent to him, as yours is material to

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HAVING in my laſt letter but one ſpoken gene⯑rally of harmony, and ſhewn that it is the mere wood and ſtone of MUSIC—which might as well have lain dormant as a part of the original chaos, if me⯑lody did not lend it order, ſymmetry, and proportion. I ſhall, in this, in⯑veſtigate it ſomething more minutely, and ſhew that what is called harmony is now refined into ſuch a pitch of barbariſm—which, though it may ſeem a paradox, is literally truth—that the ear would be better gratified by the groſſeſt violation of the rules of compoſition, as they are called, than by ſuch abſtruſe ſubdiviſions of tones and reſolutions of diſcords as—according to theoriſts—are the very eſſence of harmony. Nor am I unable or unwilling to prove what I advance.

Every rule of compoſition, except avoiding conſecutive fifths and octaves, are—in the hands of men of genius—to be violated with conſiderable advantage; elſe, the great HANDEL—the maſterly CORRELLI—the charming, natural, eaſy ARNE—the graceful GALUPPI—and almoſt every body of real conſequence muſt be excluded from among the adepts. To theſe two ſtanding rules how⯑ever the boldeſt ſons of nature have paid ſome reſpect; and it is true that two [181] major fifths ſhould never be conſecutive. Upon this I ground my argument. Let any man play two ſenſecutive fifths—which would be a muſical ſacrilege—and it ſhall ſound more pleaſing to an indifferent ear than the introduction of the chord of the thirteenth, ever ſo well prepared and reſolved—which is a muſical excellences. But who ſhall anſwer when I go further and ſay that the very harmoniſts themſelves have only to play on a full organ, and they will infallibly add to the charms of their own ingenious modulation, all theſe complicate violations of harmony!—for the diapaſon, principle, and ſeſqualtra compounding the very diſtances which muſicians are commanded to avoid, the beauties and faults are blended together, and how muſt the underſtanding be ſhocked by the admiſſion of error into a ſyſtem of perfection! How then ſhall this be reconciled? The organ is a noble inſtrument. Some poet ſays it is calculated to inſpire holy love. The muſician, therefore, cannot lay the fault on the inſtrument, as the devil did upon the water becauſe he could not ſwim. This will be found to be the fact: Let a ſimple, unadorned melody be accompanied only by ſuch modulations as ariſe from the general and per⯑fect nature of the ſubject, and—notwithſtanding the violation of the rules in conſequence of the complicate conſtruction of the inſtrument—my life for it the right effect upon the paſſions will be produced; without which harmony is no longer pleaſing, and conſequently no longer muſic.

One ſhould think theſe dogmatic muſicians knew their own defects and encouraged them—like callous hearted lawyers, who dare not indulge the ſofter feelings leſt they ſhould incline them to pity and compaſſion. I am told there is a certain great harmoniſt who wears the hind part of his ſhirt before, by way of armour againſt CUPID—fearing leſt any thing tender and natural ſhould get into any of his compoſitions; and as to Mr. BAUMGARTEN, who is at this moment ſuppoſed to be the beſt theoriſt in the kingdom, he has ſo wonder⯑fully improved upon fuguing, that he never leads the band at Covent Garden [182] theatre but the inſtruments all follow. ^* Indeed, were I to enumerate all the tricks of theſe profound theoriſts, it would take up a larger portion of time and pains than I am willing to allow ſo unprofitable a ſubject. As far, however, as it conduces to the point I wiſh to carry, I ſhall in my free way go a little further, regardleſs how they may feel, ſo I but ſerve the public cauſe. Some of theſe—and, for a man of ſuch admirable genius, it is a pity juſtice obliges me to ſay one of them is HAYDN—give you an idea of a rope-dancer, who, though you cannot too much admire how prettily he friſks and jumps about, keeps you in a conſtant ſtate of terror and anxiety for fear he ſhould break his neck. If this country had produced nine HOOKS, and they had divided among them the manuſcript of HAYDN's compoſitions—or, indeed, were to work upon them now they are publiſhed, which is juſt as fair play as times go—there would be materials enough to furniſh each a muſical reputation:—and yet, is there a fair, well-wrought-up movement in his whole works? Do they conſiſt of any thing more than ſtrong effuſions of genius turned into frenzy, and labouring as ineffectually to be heard as a flute in a belfry, or equity in a court of juſtice? In ſhort, purſue every thing that is cold, unnatural, complex, and dry, and it is the road to the altar of APOLLO—if diſcord be the high prieſt: But I rather think—like the uſurper who, as he worſhipped at the ſhrine of folly, fondly thought he knelt in the temple of fame—they will find imagination, ſenſibility, and ex⯑preſſion are as neceſſary requiſites to the accompliſhment of a perfect mu⯑ſician, as courage, clemency and humanity are to make up the true renown of an hero. In ſhort, teach a child to walk upon his hands that he may [183] be more expert with his feet—let him play with fire to endure the ſmart if he chance to be burnt—inſtruct him in algebra to teach him multiplication—or do ought but take the plain, eaſy, natural courſe of ſetting about any thing, and you ſhall have an idea of the ſhallow, miſerable reſources of theſe empty men, to hide the ſterility of their intellects; which, after all, is like the gooſe that thruſt its head in the hedge to conceal itſelf—forgetting that its body was ex⯑poſed. But if they are ſo reprehenſible while they ſtick to ſtraight forward thrumming as many notes at a time as they have fingers—which they would if they had as many as BRIAREUS—what ſhall we ſay when we go with them into chromatics! Dr. WAINWRIGHT is known to have rejected every thing natural, maintaining that a tone, by a man of ingenuity, might be ſoftened into as many ſhades as a colour! Here is glorious ground work for the theo⯑riſt! Who knows but the full tone, which is now only divided, may one day or other be ſo ſubdivided as to form a new ſyſtem of theory—in which caſe a man would find it as tedious to go from one end of the gamut to the other, as it was formerly to take a journey from YORK to LONDON. If it ſhould—the utmoſt that can be ſaid about it is, that a learned muſician, like a greyhound, jumps over hedges and ditches at the riſk of his hide—while the child of nature, like a horſe, jogs on ſafely, contenting himſelf with the turnpike road. ‘"Nature ever was above art,"’ and will be ages after I have the power—for ſo long ſhall I have the inclination—to ſubſcribe myſelf

To the Rev. Mr. —.

MY account of places, manners, &c. is of a long ſtanding—therefore I may as well give you time to digeſt my arguments con⯑cerning muſic, and clear my ground as far as I have gone—as gardeners dig in the old cabbage ſtalks to make the ſurface of the bed the fairer on which they are preparing to plant a new crop. Indeed I have generally ſpoken of every place, but I would willingly leave nothing undone. To ſet about this completely, I believe I muſt go back as far as BIRMIGNHAM, the ingenuity and populouſneſs of which place are wonderful. The increaſe of buildings, both for convenience and pleaſure, has extended the place to a ſpace at leaſt as large again as when I knew it twenty-five years ago. The firſt, however, is as praiſe worthy as the laſt is ridiculous. Not that I would not have men enjoy the money they have earned—let it be procured through whatever me⯑dium it honeſtly may—but the country houſes of the BIRMINGHAMITES are embelliſhed to as little purpoſe as a chimney-ſweeper waſhes his face, and as awkwardly as a Guinea-pig imitates a ſquirrel. As to their manners, I am ſure they are not good ones. A tenacious man muſt infallibly, in BIR⯑MINGHAM, be affronted ten times a day:—for even if you go to buy any thing, it is fifty to one if you receive a civil anſwer:—and this rudeneſs ex⯑tends [185] to the moſt opulent among them. A man who is ſaid to poſſeſs two hundred thouſand pounds uſed me with a ſtyle of incivility that would have diſgraced a porter in Thames-ſtreet; and I called upon another man of the firſt conſequence there, whom I could not ſingle out from the journeymen blackſmiths that ſurrounded him. Indeed maſter and ſervant is confounded among them, for each leads the ſame life, works as hard, drinks as much fat ale, and undergoes as much drudgery as the other; nor do I ſee that one has more felicity in counting uſeleſs guineas, than the other in carding buttons. I really ſpeak here without acrimony, and it may be ſeen by this: I had no better ſucceſs at WOLVERHAMPTON than at BIRMINGHAM, and yet there I found civility not incompatible with trade.

I have been trying what to ſay more of LICHFIELD, but can find no⯑thing—unleſs I were to go over the old ground of the maſſacre of DIOCLE⯑SIAN—in which a thouſand chriſtians were martyred, and their bodies ex⯑poſed to wild beaſts. For this cruel event it ſeems to have mourned ever ſince; for it is ſo melancholy, that one would wonder Miſs SEWARD could write verſes that have ſo many charms for the reviewers, in a place appa⯑rently calculated to engender only the vapours; but, indeed, thoſe gentle⯑men in general ſeem to have a peculiar knack of ſpeaking eloquently upon dull ſubjects.

I ſhall ſay nothing to the antiquity of DERBY, but only mention it as a clean, pretty-looking, genteel town, where I ſincerely believe the in⯑habitants want neither ſpirit nor taſte. As to what happened to me, it was one of thoſe ſtrokes—a traverſe—that have attended me all my life, and which, like the miſtake of a figure in the ſolution of a mathematical prob⯑lem, in proportion as you expect to come home to your point, carries you out of your way.

[186]NOTTINGHAM, as I have before ſaid, has ſomething charming in its ſituation; the caſtle has a beautifully romantic effect, and the Trent breaks the country near it in a moſt delightful and pictureſque manner. Indeed I know not, at times, whether the mind does not as ſtrongly pant for objects that derive their grandeur from ſimplicity, as for thoſe ſurpriſing natural effects which as it were pain and giddy the ſenſes, till ſober reality is loſt in intoxicated imagination.

NEWARK is ſomething in the ſtyle of DERBY. I do not think the in⯑habitants are ſo rich, but they do not want ſpirit. NEWARK is a very deſirable place for perſons of ſmall fortune to ſettle at. Houſe rent is reaſon⯑able; and the corporation being, for the ſize of the place, rich—paving, high⯑ways, public building, and repairs, maintaining the poor, and many other neceſſary but heavy charges are defrayed without aſſeſſing the inhabitants; and yet, they are better paid than in any other town of its ſtanding that I have ſeen. The town-hall and the poor-houſe are, in proportion, I believe I may venture to ſay the beſt in ENGLAND.

If it be true that LINCOLN formerly contained fifty two pariſh churches and one thouſand and ſeventy one houſes of entertainment, it is certainly very much fallen into decay. The ſituation from the hill is wonderful, and the clergy, who are aſtoniſhingly numerous there, ſeem to have got on as high a pinnacle as they can, with a view, I hope, to evince how idle to them are all the vain pomp and glory of this world. I am not honoured with the know⯑ledge of theſe gentlemen, nor had I the leaſt converſation with any except Dr. KAYE, who, though a certain newſpaper is extremely angry that he ſhould be praiſed at the expence of the reſt of the clergy, has in the opinion of many others, as well as myſelf, ſet an example in the buſineſs of the tithe child, that we ſhall ſtand very little chance of ſeeing imitated. The manners of LINCOLN ſeem to be a conſtant internal enmity, and a remark⯑able ſhyneſs to ſtrangers. Their muſical taſte I have given an inſtance of.

[187]HULL, originally a ſmall fiſhing village, is now a very conſiderable ſea port; and, lying between YARMOUTH and NEWCASTLE, is remarkably con⯑venient either for homeward or outward bound ſhips. The increaſe of their commerce is apparent in the new dock already made, and that lately applied for to parliament. Round the dock is formed a kind of creſcent, conſiſting of magnificent houſes, which form an appearance of extraordinary novelty, by being the boundary of one of the dirtieſt places in the kingdom. On the oppoſite ſide of the dock is a row of warehouſes, to a prodigious extent, very ſpacious, and admirably well ſtored. As to their taſte, I do not think they reliſhed much of my entertainment, except Grog; and for their manners—being all ſeamen—they are blunt, honeſt, and careleſs. I muſt not forget to mention the kind attention of Mr. MARLEY, whom I ſhould have been happy to have know better, that I might have ſpoken of his profeſſional merit with the ſame certainty as that of BOYTON and CLEMENTSHAW. It is univerſally allowed to be very brilliant, and I am ſure, if it bear any proportion to his kind and obliging private conduct, his friends—who are a very large num⯑ber—cannot ſpeak too highly of it. Nor will I neglect to record the kind⯑neſs of poor HUDSON—how no more—who died like the wife of BONIFACE—but in this life we have need of CORDIALS—ſo peace to him.^*

As this ſubject is rather dry, I ſhall now ſpeak alternately of muſic and places, till I have fairly brought up my account as far as my ſecond viſit to LEEDS—after which I ſhall open a new field, and expatiate largely on a vari⯑ety of public ſubjects. Adieu.

To the Rev. Mr. —

THEORY in muſic, and the empty nonſenſe of its profeſſors being the ſubject of my laſt letter—in which I think I have plainly ſhewn that a ſingle air, with ſimplicity for its object and expreſſion for its effect, is infinitely preferable to the moſt laboured production that can be worked up mechanically—I ſhall proceed to remark on the pernicious effects of following a doctrine ſo very falſe and deluſive, and point out that it has ſtep by ſtep perverted and vitiated the Engliſh taſte. Firſt of all, theoriſts content themſelves—indeed they want invention to do otherwiſe—with very indifferent, and in general trite melodies. Thus, having acquired great repu⯑tation by the pomp annexed to their being profeſſed muſicians, their muſic is liſtened to, and at length liked, upon the principle of a man's eating biſcuit at ſea becauſe he can get no bread. The human mind is ſo prone to the re⯑ception of pleaſure, that it very often takes it upon credit, and is ſwindled into a belief of the reality of what upon examination turns out to be only counterfeit. Thus the manly, and I will venture to ſay correct taſte of the Engliſh, which admired the works of PURCELL, ARNE, and BOYCE—and ſurely they have among them ſome of the ſweeteſt melodies that ever ſpoke [189] to the heart—is now dwindled into an admiration of the groſſeſt inſipidity. It ſhould ſeem as if muſic had expired with the ſingers who uttered it, and that LEVERIDGE and BEARD^* having given way to the uſe of effeminacy and falcetto, the ſtyle ſhould ſink in proportion: otherwiſe, how can it be ac⯑counted for that the ‘"Hark forwards"’ of the preſent day ſhould be ten times more in circulation than ‘"With horns and with hounds,"’ or ‘"The early horn?"’ Has not a ſingle inſipid ſong, called the Manſion of peace, brought ſix times the profit to the compoſer that the whole Chaplet did to BOYCE?—though to mention the comparative merits would be like talking of a Scotch bank note and the riches of the treaſury. Nothing in nature can be more beautifully delicious than ‘"Vain is every fond endeavour"’ and ‘"What med'cine can ſoften the boſom's keen ſmart?"’. Pſhaw, what are theſe trifles, ſays a theoriſt, to a fugue? To which I anſwer—a great deal; for they can make only the fugue, whereas Dr. BOYCE could make BOTH. But to enumerate other inſtances. Is it not true that, at this moment, were the beauties of ARNE collected together, headed by all the melody, ſweetneſs, ſpirit, character, and expreſſion in Comus; the charming, peculiarly natural airs to which he ſo enchantingly ſet the Songs of SHAKESPEAR—which taſk I will venture to ſay no man in the world could have executed equal to ARNE—and made up of thoſe innumerable charms which pervade his volu⯑minous works, would they not be all neglected for that miſerable, unmeaning imitation of La virginella, and twenty other things—called Ma cher ami? And to give yet a ſtronger proof: Were all PURCELL's duettos brought forth—who had, beyond all queſtion, a more vigorous mind than HANDEL—were ‘"Let CESAR and URANIA live"’—‘"To arms"’—‘"As I ſaw fair CLORA"’—and in ſhort all thoſe admirable compoſitions which ſo honourably mark the [190] ſtrength of Engliſh genius^*—would they not be deſpiſed for that moſt execra⯑ble of all apologies for MUSIC, the Duetto ſung by Mr. KELLY and Mrs. CROUCH?

I beg I may not be underſtood to mean, by what I have here advanced, that the compilers of ſuch contemptible ſtuff are the theoriſts of whom I have ſpoken above. Theſe are only the dabblers, who take advantage of the bad taſte of the times. But to come more cloſely to the point, and ſatisfy every enquirer what are the ſteps which have cauſed this gradual declenſion in the public taſte? I anſwer, in great meaſure, a blind predilection for the works of HANDEL, and an indiſcriminate avidity for German compoſitions. What! ſhall any man dare to make ſo bold a declaration? I do—but let me have fair play. HANDEL was a compoſer of wonderful abilities; his conception was ſtrong, his imagination immenſe, his knowledge of muſic, as a ſcience, clear and profound—and thoſe maſterly combinations of ſounds which make up many of his choruſſes abundantly prove it; but, like hounds led on by the huntſman on a falſe ſcent, he is admired in ENGLAND for his very errors.^† When I ſay errors I do not ſpeak as to his knowledge as a muſician, but to his taſte as a man of genius. Theſe errors in HANDEL relate to ex⯑preſſion, which was ſometimes falſe, like tinſel in poetry; ſometimes ridi⯑culous, like bombaſt; often begun upon a principle which ſunk in the end to [191] abſurdity—making exactly the bathos; and very frequently indeed ſound without either meaning or expreſſion, anſwering exactly to nonſenſe verſes.

I believe it will be allowed me that the parts of any thing which offers itſelf to human obſervation are complete only as they regard the whole. In muſic no man ever did or will greatly ſucceed who takes up particular inſtead of general expreſſion. HANDEL was a ſlave to this—but to adduce my proofs.

His falſe expreſſion was this: If the ſubject happened to be joy, he toO frequently invetend ſomething ſprightly—without conſidering time, place, or occaſion; as ‘"Rejoice oh daughter of SION"’—which ſurely ſhould convey a holy joy, expreſſive of religious, ſoul-felt rapture; inſtead of which, this ſong was firſt a jig, and afterwards a hornpipe. Another inſtance occurs in Judas Maccabeus—in the ſong ‘"Let honour with deſert be crown'd".’ The word trumpet here happening to be introduced, he has taken ſuch an advan⯑tage of it that the whole ſong ſeems as if it was ſet to diſplay the effect of the trumpet, in a key which does not belong to it, and where of courſe it has the worſt effect that can be imagined; and as if this was not enough, the words ſeem to be written as a burleſque on the muſic; for they run thus—‘"The trumpet ne'er in vain ſhould ſound."’ I have heard this ſong praiſed as the beſt in all his works.

The ſecond inſtance which I call ridiculous, or bombaſt, is a worſe fault than the other—and yet it occurs as frequently. Who can liſten to ſuch a pantomime tune as ‘"The land brought forth frogs,"’ and call it any thing but burleſque?—and yet this is a popular favourite. I heard a man in the gallery ſay, while the chorus was performing which begins ‘"And he ſpake the word, and there came all manner of flies and lice in all their quarters"’—that he itched from head to foot. Would the gentleman have been obliged to HANDEL for giving him this ſenſation if he had lived in the days of JAMES I. who is ſaid to have prohibited ſcratching? ‘"THAIS led the way"’ [192] and ‘"The king ſeized a flambeau"’ are again of this complexion—for they both convey a kind of drunken gaiety, and give you more the idea of their going up ſtairs to bed together than to ſet the Perſepolis on fire.

As to the bathos, it occurs in ſuch inſtances as the chorus in the Meſſiah beginning ‘"All we like ſheep are gone aſtray"’—which profanes the words it ſhould expreſs, and might with great propriety be put into the ‘"Peep behind the curtain"’—where the ſtory of ORPHEUS is burleſqued. The ſheep cer⯑tainly dance and friſk about very curiouſly, and run away from each other; but, unfortunately conceiving himſelf under a muſical neceſſity of making a cloſe in the line ‘"We have turned every one to his own way,"’ he brings them all back, and they finiſh by huddling lovingly together. Query, whe⯑ther ſo great a man as HANDEL might not with impunity have invented ſome new ſpecies of inverted counterpoint that might have finiſhed the chorus with their all baaing to one another at a diſtance. But I am getting into length, and therefore ſhall, in imitation of HUDIBRAS, break of in the middle. I will reſume the ſubject, however, after the next letter, till when, and at all times, I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —

BEVERLEY is ſaid to be one of the prettieſt towns in ENGLAND. To this I cannot wholly agree. It is a ſnug decent town; has a ſpacious market place; and its minſter—which is very ancient, and was formerly a ſanctuary to bankrupts and criminals—is yet a very hand⯑ſome church; but I think it inferior to many towns in Yorkſhire as to beauty, conſequence, or ſituation. The inhabitants, however, appear to be independent; and, by mixing ſocially together, promote very pleaſantly all that is neceſſary or agreeable towards forming a friendly and comfortable neighbourhood. This town has many advantageous privileges, among which is their being exempt from toll and cuſtom.

I know not what to ſay of YORK, except that it fell infinitely below my expectations in every point of view. I expected to ſee a large, oppu⯑lent, populous place—ſecond to nothing in ENGLAND but LONDON—inſtead of which, except the church and the gaol, there is no one object that con⯑veys an idea of ſuperiority to the other towns around it. It is not near ſo populous as LEEDS, nor half ſo much frequented. Talking to a gentle⯑man at LEEDS, I told him YORK put me in mind of a man in converſation, [194] who, though rich in volubility, finiſhed as he began—having impreſſed no one with either truth or reaſon in his argument; whereas LEEDS put in only a word now and then, but always to the purpoſe. YORK is, in proportion, the pooreſt place in the whole county of which it is the capital. Its ſituation being in the very center of all the great north roads, which are now very fine, and aſtoniſhingly frequented, it is continually buſy, without having any thing to do; and though conſtantly crammed, thinly inhabited. The inns alone ſeem to thrive there. In ſhort, it has many churches and but little devotion; fine clothes and ſpare purſes; a magnificent priſon always full; and a theatre royal where they perform at a conſtant loſs. As a proof of their muſical taſte, they think Mr. KELLY and Mrs. CROUCH's duetto comprizes all the excellence of all the maſters that ever bowed at the ſhrine of APOLLO. It muſt be re⯑membered I have one exception to theſe general rules—and I believe when I ſay I have but one, I write as ſtrong a ſatire as words are capable of conveying.

MALTON is a ſhabby town apparently in every reſpect—I will therefore leave it, and go on to SCARBOROUGH, which is one of the prettieſt ſeaports I have ſeen. Every body knows it is maintained upon the principle of BATH. One thing, however, ſurprized me; though I was cautioned againſt the un⯑reaſonableneſs of their charges, I found them ſo much the reverſe, that I paid leſs for better things than at any place on that ſide the HUMBER.

WAKEFIELD I confeſs is one of my favourite places. There is ſuch a ſprightly cleanlineſs about it, that the inhabitants ſeem as if they were born for the real purpoſes of life. The village of HEATH, near it, is one of the ſweeteſt ſpots for neatneſs and ſimplicity that imagination can form. The vicinity of WAKEFIELD is filled with opulent and reſpectable inhabitants, all of whom inherit or have accumulated fortunes by trade. Their manners appear to be ſimple and unaffected; their converſation is poliſhed, and in their muſical purſuits they go my way to work, and praiſe every thing that pleaſes them upon reflection.

[195]DONCASTER has all the neatneſs of a quaker, and on a firſt view be⯑gets very ſtrongly your ſober admiration; but when you come to conſider that they have no ſoul, no taſte, no characteriſtic but inſipidity—after having admired the church, the manſion houſe, and the guildhall—you wiſh yourſelf any where but at DONCASTER.

As to the roads to all thoſe different places, there are now no bad ones but what are neceſſarily ſo through ſituation and ſoil, and near manufacturing towns, where time can be more valuably employed than in mending roads—though one would think that work would contribute to their convenience, ſince the goods muſt be carried after they are made. Thus, almoſt every where in ſwampy LINCOLNSHIRE the roads are generally very diſagreeable, eſ⯑pecially in winter; and great part of DERBYSHIRE, on account of the hills, render your journeys unpleaſant, and not always very ſafe. I muſt not for⯑get, in particular, to mention that the nine miles from WAKEFIELD to LEEDS is ſo ſcandalouſly neglected, that even in a poſt-chaiſe, and in the middle of the day, you expect every moment to be overturned.

Having now ſpoken of all thoſe places to which I ſhall not find it neceſ⯑ſary to return, except perhaps for ſome general obſervations, I ſhall go on from LEEDS to HALIFAX, where I was adviſed to perform a night or two previous to my touching at MANCHESTER. When I came there, however, they had a company of players, and were otherwiſe ſo full of amuſements, that after ſitting down a few days, and writing a part of this TOUR, I went on to MANCHESTER—promiſing, if I could make it convenient, to call on my return.

On my arrival at MANCHESTER, I not only found that the theatre was open, but that Mr. ASTLEY was figuring away in great ſtyle with his horſe⯑manſhip, to which amuſement I have the ſame averſion—and perhaps for better reaſons—that ſome men have to a CAT. I therefore encloſed a letter [196] I had brought with me to an opulent gentleman—informed him I would take another opportunity to pay him my perſonal reſpects—and poſted away to LIVERPOOL.

As my ſucceſs at this place, and the ſubjects on which it muſt neceſſa⯑rily induce me to ſpeak, will make a moſt eſſential and intereſting part of this work, I ſhall introduce them as conſpicuouſly as poſſible in the following letter but one; and, in the interim, ſupply the next with the remainder of my argument reſpecting HANDEL and German muſic, which ideas I threw looſely on paper at HALIFAX, which is ſaid to be the moſt muſical ſpot for its ſize in the kingdom:—for there Mrs. BATES received her muſical education—there Mr. BATES has ſo planted a veneration for the works of HANDEL, that chil⯑dren liſp ‘"For unto us a child is born,"’ and cloth-makers, as they ſweat under their loads in the cloth-hall, roar out ‘"For his yoke is eaſy and his burden is light."’ I have been aſſured, for a fact, that more than one man in HALIFAX can take any part in the choruſſes of the Meſſiah, and go regu⯑larly through the whole oratorio by heart; and, indeed, the facility with which the common people join together throughout the greateſt part of YORK⯑SHIRE and LANCASHIRE, in every ſpecies of choral muſic, is truly aſtoniſh⯑ing.

This kind of curſory work is like poſting the day-book into the ledger; by and by we ſhall take out the different articles, and come to a general account.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

THE inſtances of HANDEL's total neglect of ex⯑preſſion occur much more frequently than any of his other faults. How many of his oratorio ſongs conſiſt of a complex accompaniment—ingeniouſly worked up indeed, but without the ſmalleſt relation to the ſubject of the words—while the voice drawls out an unmeaning train of ſounds, deſtitute of melody, or any power of conveying a pleaſing ſenſation. Sometimes in theſe ſongs, that the voice may have no reaſon to complain of having leſs to do than the inſtru⯑ments—for in this ſpecies of muſic every thing is upon a footing—it floats away upon a long diviſion, and often ſuch a one as no voice upon earth can execute. This is ſurely the very reverſe of what vocal muſic ought to be, where every thing manifeſtly ſhould be ſubordinate to the voice; and, even in a hautboy ſong, or any other where a particular inſtrument may have an obligato accompaniment, the voice ought to be every where aſſiſted, but no where eclipſed.

Vocal MUSIC is clearly the eſſence of whatever can render ſound delec⯑table; that which is ſimpleſt and moſt expreſſive is the beſt vocal MUSIC; and, I will add, that a ſong perfect in all its qualities is the utmoſt height of [198] excellence to which MUSIC can arrive. This poſition I ſhall hereafter more fully go into, as I mean to leave what I advance on this ſubject unanſwerable.

In ſolo ſongs—where one point of expreſſion ſhould be obſerved, where a ſingle, unembarraſſed ſubject ſhould be well begun, followed, and finiſhed—HANDEL very often falls below mediocrity. This proves that he is a better inſtrumental than a vocal compoſer; for in the major part of his choruſſes where the expreſſion need not ſo much depend on the voice—for there it acts only as a kind of inſtrument to fill the parts—he is much more happy; and in his other works, where the voice has no ſhare at all, he is incom⯑parably greater than any where. Who can deny this when they recollect the minuet in Ariadne? There is not a ſuperfluous note in it, and being made up of one ſimple, and yet grand, object—regularly purſued, and greatly worked up—nothing in MUSIC, for what it is, can exceed it. To which if you call in the other minuets, together with the marches and gavottes which make up the laſt movements of his overtures, the balance will be conſider⯑ably in favour of my argument. And yet, while we whiſtle all theſe with the greateſt facility, without conſidering to whom we owe this ſatisfaction, we get crowded at the abbey—to the tune of two guineas—to be ſtunned with the abſtruſeſt of his works, which, if the heart has any thing to do with MUSIC, is the worſt.

To prove this, let me aſk any man in his ſenſes, not a mere theoriſt, if he ever felt ſo much real pleaſure in hearing ‘"The horſe and his rider,"’ as in the laſt movement of his famous coronation anthem of ‘"God ſave the king?"’ where there is ſcarcely a diſcord that might not be admitted, without wounding ſimplicity, into the moſt familiar ſong. After a tedious and tireſome reiteration of diſcords, placed unneceſſarily in every point of view, how are we charmed in the Meſſiah with ‘"For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth!"’ Why? Becauſe it is full of grandeur and ſimplicity. The ſoul is ſtruck with the ſublime greatneſs and beauty of the expreſſion, and we feel the DEITY in our hearts.

[199]Thus I think I have proved my poſition without injuring the reputa⯑tion of HANDEL. He his certainly left behind him ſome wonderful MUSIC, but it cannot be denied that this ore is plentifully ſurrounded with droſs.—Let us therefore—which would be infinitely more to his honour—take his MUSIC upon credit of our own feelings, and not blindly and implicitly from thoſe who, living in a labyrinth, wonder how any one ſhould prefer a direct road.

As to the other Germans—as they have no opera, ſo they import no vocal MUSIC; and thus by torturing ſounds into new poſitions, to make old ideas wear a novel ſhape, difficulty is the only characteriſtic of their compoſi⯑tions; and by this means the ear gets accuſtomed not to what pleaſes in MUSIC, but to what ſurprizes. I will venture to ſay ſolos and ſolo concertos have done but little good to the cauſe of MUSIC. LA MOTTE's great merit was to figure away in alt, till at laſt, approaching to the bridge, he played himſelf, as it were, out of ſight. The dexterity was wonderful, but for heaven's ſake where was the pleaſure? This is a ſolid fact—and to prove it, let me aſk how came GIARDINI and BARTHELEMON conſtantly to call in Lango Lee, The Dargle, &c. to help out their concertos.

The human mind cannot pay proper attention but to one object at a time. ZOFFANI's admirable portrait of the gallery of FLORENCE—at which one might look a month and not diſcover half the beauties—though it con⯑tains more grand objects than any twenty pictures that ever were painted, has the meaneſt tout enſemble that can be imagined. It is a chaos of exquiſitely charming objects, which cannot be properly diſtinguiſhed, becauſe one con⯑founds the effect of the other. There is a ſoberneſs in real pleaſure that can⯑not bear the impertinence of tickling and teazing. In architecture it is the ſame. Mr. WOODFALL may remember, as he and I were near each other in HENRY the ſeventh's chapel, to ſee the ceremony of inſtalling the knights of the Bath, he took notice of the wonderful labour that had been beſtowed [200] in ornamenting that place; that there was ſuch a variety, and the parts were ſo minute, that the eye was at a loſs where to fix. I ſaid if this was the caſe, he muſt confeſs it was labour in vain:—and the obſervation holds good in every thing that appeals to the ſenſes. And, as to MUSIC, if a man in⯑vent a tolerable melody, and prevent its effect by complex accompaniment, he will have no better ſucceſs than the Iriſh painter who, undertaking the portrait of a gentleman going a ſhooting, hid the figure behind a large tree, for fear he ſhould frighten the partridges.

I underſtand there has been already much curioſity concerning what I can poſſibly mean in my propoſal by an expoſition of muſical quackery—by the time the crotchet-mongers ſhall have read this letter they may perhaps ſmell out what I am diving at. I have yet, however, ſpoken only of impoſitions on the ſenſes; I mean hereafter to mention, under the article of teaching, ſomething concerning deſigns on the pocket. I ſhall firſt, however, place the different merits of dead compoſers ſide by ſide, in which taſk I have no doubt but I ſhall prove to the ſatisfaction of every reaſonable man that had not ARNE all his life been diſcouraged, and HANDEL conſidered as another APOLLO, the fame of the ENGLISHMAN would have exceeded that of the GERMAN. This will nearly involve all that it will be neceſſary for me to ſay—and, without mentioning a ſingle name, throw the merit, or the want of it, if you will, of many living compoſers into that point of view in which it is but common juſtice to have it ſeen. Then, as the buſineſs of teaching is a ſerious evil, I ſhall lay it open as bare as poſſible, and give a receipt to heal the wound; after which, if the public chuſe to be gulled with it, no teach⯑ing tickets ought to paſs between maſters and ſcholars without a ſtamp, that thus muſical quacks may be at once upon the footing of phyſical ones. Strange, ſays SWIFT, ſo much difference ſhould be 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. The world is more impoſed on by trifles than is generally imagined. It is a trifle to be ſure—but however no impoſition—to ſay I am truly yours,

To the Rev. Mr. —

TO LIVERPOOL I went, without the ſmalleſt re⯑commendation, except indeed a letter to Mr. PYE, who keeps a muſic ware⯑houſe there, and to whoſe attention and indefatigable pains to oblige and ac⯑commodate me, I confeſs myſelf greatly indebted. The difficulty I had to get at the Mayor, and the doubtful reception I at firſt met with, had at one mo⯑ment nearly worked me up to a reſolution of returning from thence as I went. On my firſt performance, however, which was attended by about thirty-five people, and greatly reliſhed, ſeveral gentlemen made ſtrenuous application to me to repeat it, and propoſed a better room for the purpoſe. The next evening I had a very handſome audience, on the third a better ſtill, and on the fourth—though it was chriſtmas eve, and a concert night—I had the very beſt room I have experienced, at any place, ſince I firſt began my rambles. Having done very handſomely at LIVERPOOL in relation to my entertain⯑ment, and muſtered ſo many more names to my ſubſcription than at any other place except LONDON, it may be ſuſpected, by the uncandid, that I am induced on this account alone to ſpeak well of that truly ſpirited place. Thoſe, however, who think liberally, and who, by the way, are of the only deſcription I care three-pence about obliging, will ſee—as I have every where [202] been juſt—that I give to LIVERPOOL, as I do to BIRMINGHAM only its due.

Throughout life it holds good, as an infallible maxim, that the mind will be influenced by its employment. Able financiers have ſeldom, in any country, been great miniſters; becauſe their meaſures have been conſtantly clogged by the cold regularity of mere calculation. Retired tradeſmen live ſtill in the miſery of fearing to ſpend a ſuperfluous penny; but merchants, though expert at every qualification for the accumulation of profit, are in their minds, like their traffic, extenſive and expanded. It is aſtoniſhing to witneſs the difference between a counting houſe and a counter. For my part, I look upon merchants to be the firſt of characters, and an Engliſh one to be the firſt of merchants. VOLTAIRE having drawn a paralleled view of different diſtinctions among men, after mentioning the good ſenſe of the Engliſh, in intermarrying their nobility with commercial characters, goes on, and ſays—‘"After all, it were worth while to conſider which is the more truly noble, he who knows to a moment when the king riſes, or goes to ſleep, or—ſomething elſe—or he who trades to every part of the globe, thereby con⯑tributing to the comfort and convenience of human nature."’

Nothing ſhews an object ſo well as a contraſt; therefore, as I am not yet come to MANCHESTER and NEWCASTLE, where at one place they mea⯑ſure ſerret by the yard, and at the other coals by the buſhel, I cannot to my ſatisfaction dwell on LIVERPOOL. On my return to that place I ſhall be more competent to diſplay that open-hearted liberality which, in ſo ſhort a time, I might only have imagined they poſſeſs. But my obſervation cannot but be well founded, as they have leſs of hypocriſy than any ſet of people I ever met with in my life.

A compact with any part of the public is with me a very ſerious thing; therefore—though I was offered very handſomely to ſtay—I left LIVERPOOL, [203] and returned to HALIFAX—where my advertiſements ſtood for Thurſday the twenty-ſeventh.

On chriſtmas-day, therefore, I left LIVERPOOL for MANCHESTER, and the following day—after being nearly loſt in the ſnow, near ROCHDALE—arrived at HALIFAX. I think it would be doing injuſtice to ſo well known a character, if I were to omit mentioning that in the diligence from LIVER⯑POOL to MANCHESTER I was accompanied by Mr. ASTLEY, who at that time was returning from LIVERPOOL, after having taken the town. From eight o'clock in the morning till five in the afternoon—for ſo long is that dili⯑gence crawling thirty-ſix miles—I am ſure he did not ceaſe, I will not ſay talking, but BAWLING; for this gentleman being eternally on his hobby-horſe, always fancies he is holding converſation with Mr. MERRYMAN. In the courſe of this curious rant, he was ſo kind as to oblige me with his idea of improving the theatres, the courts, the parliament, and the nation. He wiſhed he had known what I was about, he would have given me ſuch hints for my entertainment! In ſhort, if I would but have liſtened to him, I ſhould have had new rules for making muſic, writing, ſinging, playing, and ſpeaking Engliſh. ‘"But,"’ hallowed he, ‘"there is no talking to any of you. Now, there, about law—LORD THURLOW told me in my riding houſe—but that's no matter. There now you ſee, there's that there PAL⯑MER, if I had a mind I would have ſhewed him a trick that would have laid them all flat on their backs. For you ſee—to be ſure I knows nothing about ſenſe, but I knows law; for I caſt SIR JOSEPH MAWBY, and I have had ſeveral ſuits, and I have been twice took up; but you ſee nobody won't be ruled by me, ſo I goes on by myſelf—and what does I do? Why I cuts and contrives. Why where will you find ſuch another monooverer?—learnt it in the army—under my particular friend and acquaintance GE⯑NERAL ELLIOT. Why don't you ſee what I am about now? I thinks our licences will carry us through—but if they ſhould not you know—I am at a heavy charge—ſo you ſee I goes about and gets the profit of a ſeaſon [204] before the ſeaſon comes."’ And good generalſhip it has turned out, for I am credibly informed—at BIRMINGHAM, MANCHESTER, and LIVERPOOL—he cleared nearly two thouſand pounds.

While I was at LIVERPOOL the buſineſs or the ſlave trade began to be agitated, and out of curioſity I learned ſome particulars concerning it. Theſe, however, I ſhall defer till I mention what I gathered afterwards on that ſub⯑ject at MANCHESTER, and add the rejoinder of the people of LIVERPOOL, on my ſecond viſit to that place.

Whether any thing be done in this important buſineſs or not, the na⯑tional character of the Engliſh will derive an additional luſtre from the hu⯑mane endeavours that have been exerted to annihilate a traffic which thoſe who have petitioned againſt it think cruel and oppreſſive. Perhaps an inveſtiga⯑tion of the abuſes under the line may lead to an expoſition and an amend⯑ment of thoſe at home. If ſo, MANCHESTER will have unwittingly begun a reform of more magnitude than they were aware of, and become the for⯑tuitous perfecter of a conſtitution which wants only to be purged of humours, contracted by—too much health:—which performed, it cannot be rendered more pure than the ſincerity with which I profeſs myſelf

To the Rev. Mr. —

IT is my buſineſs at preſent to ſpeak of my ſucceſs at HALIFAX, and my return from thence to SHEFFIELD, which MOUN⯑TAIN (for I love to uſe hackneyed expreſſions to mediocre ſubjects, notwith⯑ſtanding LORD CHESTERFIELD to his ſon reprobates them as vulgar, that he may keep them to himſelf I ſuppoſe, for nobody has more) brought forth A MOUSE. But firſt for HALIFAX.

I had two nights at this place, and conſidering the inhabitants of the neighbourhood—for this black, diſmal town has in it very few people of any conſequence—were locked up in their houſes by the froſt and ſnow, they turned out decent, but that was all. My audience, and indeed all HALIFAX and its environs, men, women, and children, being muſical, and, as ſome think, ſquall in tune—juſt as the negroes ſwim—as ſoon as they are born, my performance was critically attended to, but I am afraid not much liked.^* I am, however, not very ſorry this circumſtance occurred, for it gives me [206] an opportunity, which will be more ſtrongly confirmed when I get to MANCHESTER, of noticing that the conoſcenti ever receive the leaſt pleaſure, and, in fact, are the leaſt infallible. I ſincerely believe, however, having pauſed on the ſecond night, and conſidered whether it was right to be pleaſed or not, they would have attended with more ſatisfaction a third.—While they were deliberating, however, I was gone; for having received a letter from Mr. GALES, who was ſo kind to make the neceſſary enquiries concerning the entertainment, I got away to SHEFFIELD, on Monday De⯑cember the thirty-firſt.

Of Mr. GALES I ſcarcely know how to ſpeak. He is the printer of this work: if, therefore, I ſhould uſe ſlight language, it will look like a compact between us,^* and if I am laviſh in my praiſes of him, ſome may be apt to quote from SHAKESPEARE, and ſay ‘"a little flattery ſometimes does well."’ I ſhould therefore feel myſelf awkwardly ſituated but for one circumſtance, which has major, MINOR, and CONCLUSION in its favour, as clearly as any problem in EUCLID. Before I ever ſaw Mr. GALES I had re⯑ceived numberleſs civilities at the hands of different printers, from many of whom I have had offers to print my TOUR—after I knew Mr. GALES, I pre⯑ferred him to all the printers I had ſeen. Thus I am enabled, by a ſelf-evi⯑dent circumſtance, to expreſs my ſentiments as ſtrongly as by trying my hand at a ſtudied panegyrick; which had I done in the ſort of ſtyle my wiſhes led me to, I ſhould have been obliged to have enjoined Mr. GALES's foreman [207] to have printed it unknown to his maſter; for ſo diffident is he of his own worth, that I ſhould never have prevailed on him to let that iſſue from the preſs which would have been as great a credit to the public as any thing that ever did or ever will paſs through it. Another circumſtance will by and by oblige me to ſpeak in Mr. GALES's favour in ſpite of his teeth. Among my general ſubjects, it will be very proper to take up newſpapers, in which caſe it would be very improper not to mention the Sheffield Regiſter with that de⯑gree of praiſe it deſerves.

My firſt night at SHEFFIELD, notwithſtanding I had beat about almoſt expreſſly for ten weeks, with a view of properly paying them a viſit, was a very bad one; and feeling myſelf a little let down, I ſhould not have an⯑nounced a ſecond but for the perſuaſion of two or three gentlemen; and the conditions I made were, that my continuing the performance for any length of time at SHEFFIELD, ſhould depend wholly on the degree of ſucceſs on the ſecond evening, which turning out but very little better than the firſt, I gave the matter up—nor could any perſuaſions induce me to reſume it. I can ſcarcely account for that ſtrange kind of caprice through which people take ſo much pains to manifeſt the inſtability of their minds. Nothing could be warmer than the apparent heartineſs with which I was entreated to return to SHEFFIELD, nor any thing cooler than my reception when I did return. My welcome, to a ſtranger, would have ſeemed as if I had been ſent away with contumely, and they had wondered at my impudence at intruding my⯑ſelf among them a ſecond time. I looked down upon it, as I can do—heaven be praiſed—when I ought, with a calm and tranquil mixture of pity and in⯑difference; and, though not one of all the number who teſtified ſuch ſatis⯑faction at my firſt viſit came near me on my ſecond, I contented myſelf with a reflection, that as it is the lot of mankind to be fickle, and this worthy quality is generally influenced by local prejudice, it muſt have ariſen, as the French ſay, from L'air du pais, and I have only to conſider that the iron which was hot when I firſt went there, had cooled in my abſence.

[208]To ſhew, however, that I have a pleaſure in being juſt, I here publicly thank the inhabitants of SHEFFIELD for bringing me back, even with all this obloquy, for through it I acquired the friendſhip of Mr. GALES, and the ſatisfaction of employing him to print this work.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

MY labour-in-vain expedition to SHEFFIELD hav⯑ing trifled away that whole week, a nonſenſical buſineſs ſtarted up which loſt me the next. From the little town of ROTHERHAM, a propoſal was ſent me which, to this moment, I can ſcarcely make head or tail of. My inten⯑tion was to have performed at MANCHESTER on the Tueſday, I however received a meſſage that it would be a profit to me, and a pleaſure to the people of ROTHERHAM, if I would give them a night there, and that LADY EFFINGHAM had expreſſed a wiſh to that effect. The inhabitants of that place, after putting me to ſome expence, and making me loſe my time, choſe, however, to affect a perfect indifference about the matter, and no night took place.

The following letter, which I wrote to clear myſelf from any ſuſpicion of diſreſpect to LADY EFFINGHAM, who ſuffered me to ſay in the bills that the entertainment was at her particular deſire, will elucidate this curious bu⯑ſineſs a little better.

As I could have proved loſs of time and money in this tranſaction, I think it would have been no bad hit to have propoſed to Mr. TUCKER—who, be it known, is a worthy member of the law—an action againſt Mr. WEBB; for if one may judge by the liberal offer of the half crown, he would have joined iſſue in ſuch a buſineſs with me. But adieu Mr. TUCKER, and adieu ROTHERHAM. An Iriſh jolmon, to whom I was relating the ſtory, cried out—‘"ROTHERHAM! Ah now for the future will you be after changing the R into a B, and calling it BOTHERHAM.’

Laughing at theſe diſappointments, I began to anticipate the advantages of a viſit to MANCHESTER, where, as my recommendations were good, and the inhabitants were ſaid to emulate the ſpirit of LIVERPOOL, I had no doubt but I ſhould reap a plentiful harveſt. In my next you will be able to judge how far my expectations were verified. Adieu. Yours,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

ON Saturday, January the 12th, I went from SHEFFIELD to MANCHESTER, by the way of CASTLETON, and of courſe over thoſe tremendous hills which form the moſt romantic part of the won⯑ders of the Peak—but theſe I ſhall more particularly deſcribe hereafter. On the Sunday I waited on two gentlemen of conſequence in MANCHESTER, and came away ſo ſatisfied, that I flattered myſelf I ſhould find equal ſucceſs there to that I met with at LIVERPOOL. In the higheſt ſpirits, therefore, I adver⯑tiſed, at a venture, three nights—Tueſday the fifteenth, Thurſday the ſeven⯑teenth, and Friday the eighteenth—and on thoſe three nights I received almoſt one half of the ſum which the laſt night yielded me at LIVERPOOL. The re⯑ception of the entertainment ſmacked a little of HALIFAX, the judges ‘"bore a wary eye,"’ and people, holding tight the captive half crown, made ſtrict enquiries into the value to be received before they could muſter up reſolution to liberate the coin. To ſay the truth, I was at laſt aſhamed of them, and, out of pity, relieved them from their uneaſineſs, by bidding MANCHESTER adieu.

To reverſe what I have ſaid of LIVERPOOL, let me not be cenſured if—faithful to my promiſe of telling the truth—I ſhould be obliged to place MAN⯑CHESTER [214] in an unfavourable point of view. My diſappointment there will tell the ſtory for me. At LIVERPOOL I had no previous recommendation that could influence the leading people. At MANCHESTER, a gentleman of the firſt conſequence in the town introduced me perſonally to all whom he could deviſe might be of ſervice to me; and, on my account, gave a ſupper, to which he invited a large number of his particular friends, on the night before the firſt performance. Nor did they want a reporter, and a very able one, of what they were going to hear. One of the gentlemen preſent had been at the amuſement the laſt night at LIVERPOOL, and ſpoke in the kindeſt way, not only of the thing itſelf, but of the liberal treatment I had received; inſtancing in particular, that as the concert had been on that very night, many who had indiſpenſible engagements there, juſt made their appearance, and then devoted the remainder of the evening to me—a kind of attention he wiſhed to ſee imi⯑tated at MANCHESTER. Nevertheleſs, the fact was as I have related. At my coming away, I might have had any thing if I would give them a night or two more, which I took as it was meant—a mere promiſe—and declined it as it deſerved.

It was allowed, on all hands, I had been very ill treated, and it was ſaid, as I had failed in the entertainment it ſhould be made up to me in ſubſcrip⯑tion; and they hoped, if I found that to be the caſe, I would yet in the courſe of ſome weeks pay them another viſit. This I promiſed to do; but paſſing two months afterwards through the place, and finding that there was not a ſingle additional name to my ſubſcription, I forewent my intention of calling on any perſon beſide the bookſellers—and left MANCHESTER with an opinion which I am very ſorry to be convinced it merits.

Let me not however be ſo ungrateful as to neglect ſaying that from one gentleman—whoſe name all MANCHESTER will recollect without my menti⯑oning it—I received a warm and friendly attention beyond my abilities to de⯑ſcribe. If he had intreated for a favour to be conferred on himſelf, he could not have been more ſolicitous, more anxious, or more induſtrious. Indeed I [215] wiſh I had never gone to MANCHESTER; for I am ſure there are many of thoſe who call themſelves his friends, whom—after this buſineſs—he can never cor⯑dially think ſo. I take leave in this place to thank that gentleman, and to aſ⯑ſure him that no length of time or change of ſituation ſhall ever efface his kindneſs from my memory.

The buſineſs would have turned out better if it had been undertaken by any body but this gentleman; and will it be believed why? He knew no⯑thing of muſic. 'Twas in vain that he held out, with the greateſt good-nature, ‘'Am I obliged to learn ſol fa to receive pleaſure when I hear an agreeable ſong!'’ ‘"Mr. DIBDIN ought to have been taken up by the conoſcenti,"’ who I would lay my life would be the very firſt to pick a hole in his coat.

This and the promiſed pleaſure of the enſuing week, when a new organ was to be opened at their concert room, deprived me of all the gentlemen mu⯑ſicians. Mr. GREEN, who was putting up the organ, was a deity among them. Have you ſeen him? What ſort of man is he? Oh ſir, he is a won⯑derful creature! In ſhort, they were ſo full of it, that I expected to ſee a portrait of the organ and organ-maker in the next MANCHESTER print; and yet, with all this fuſs, when the grand day came, they had not—after ſuch an expence and ſo long a notice—two-thirds of the number that uſually attend a common concert at LIVERPOOL.

The narrowneſs that characteriſes the people of MANCHESTER is not con⯑fined to their pleaſures, it is evidently apparent in their trade. Conſidering them as a community, they are like an army of MERCENARIES. At their head are a few individuals of conſequence, under whom all the reſt are doomed to ſerve in perpetual ſubordination; but LIVERPOOL is a corps of volunteers in which any may riſe by induſtry, merit, and perſeverance, to the higheſt poſts. Some few at MANCHESTER muſt aſſuredly be immenſely wealthy, but it is impoſſible that it can boaſt, within a prodigious ſum indeed, the ag⯑gregate riches of LIVERPOOL. As therefore the wealth falls comparatively [216] into a few hands—the tradeſman-like plodding routine of whoſe buſineſs is to pay weekly wages and ſettle ſhort credits—there cannot be the ſame extenſion of ideas, the ſame neceſſity for a large ſcale of calculation, for a competent knowledge of the comparative intereſts of nations, for clear and well-digeſted general intelligence, and all thoſe other important mental requiſites which make up the broad, comprehenſive purſuits of a merchant. In ſhort, MANCHES⯑TER, where a ſmall number hoard conſiderable wealth, and the reſt are merely paid for their labour, cannot, on the ſcale of commerce, be put in competi⯑tion with LIVERPOOL; where the tide of treaſure—like the ſea that produces it—rolls in a wide and expanſive circulation; nor is it more conducive to pri⯑vate and partial advantage than general convenience.

Men however of theſe contracted principles generally are ſtrictly honeſt, and poſſeſs the leſſer virtues with as much punctuality and exactneſs as they honour a bill of exchange; and there can be no doubt but from the timidity attendant on the common moral duties of life, and an anxiety to comply as far as men can with the letter of that religion they punctually attend the cere⯑monies of—by way of example to their children and ſervants—the humanity ſo evidently manifeſt in the preſent efforts to aboliſh the ſlave trade had its riſe, The motive beyond contradiction is laudable.

After examining, in my next letter, whether the people of MANCHES⯑TER get or loſe by ſetting themſelves up rather as judges than as lovers of MU⯑SIC, I ſhall proceed to inveſtigate their arguments relative to this important ſub⯑ject, place thoſe of LIVERPOOL by the ſide of them, and ſee whether their ge⯑neral policy merits that attention from the legiſlature they expect, or whether it has proceeded from that ruling paſſion which POPE ſays time itſelf cannot tame; and he might have added, had he known my friendſhip, any more than it can the ſincerity with which I profeſs to be

To the Rev Mr. —

SOME years ago there was a party of critics who conſtantly made a point of attending the theatres. They were always headed by a chief, whom they diſtinguiſhed by the name of Mr. TOWN; and this gentleman being choſen for his ſuperior adroitneſs at diſcovering the faults of authors, very gravely—in the name he had the modeſty to aſſume—pronounced the fate of many a trembling poet and compoſer. It happened however after a length of time, that indifferent people, who really went to the theatres to be pleaſed, and to judge for themſelves, thought proper to take up the buſineſs, and a few ineffectual ſtruggles over, Mr. TOWN and his partizans were obliged to leave the field in diſgrace, and withdraw to pot houſes, their maſter's offices, or ſuch other obſcure retreats, from which they originally iſſued, in arrogant expectation of giving the ton to an opulent metropolis in an enligh⯑tened age.^*

[218]This party has never been entirely quelled, their fury however now vents itſelf only in bickerings at coffee houſes, ſnarling in the box lobby, or now and then a ſquib in the newſpapers; but this laſt never happens, unleſs inte⯑reſt be made with the underſtrappers when the editor is out of the way—for free tickets, the performance of now and then a farce, and other douceurs, have locked up the newſpapers from the admiſſion of any ſtrictures relative to the theatres, but ſuch as are within the deſcription of Mr. SHERIDAN's liſt of puffs in The Critic. Leſt this laſt policy however ſhould not be ſufficient to inſure to the managers all the ſucceſs it may be convenient to command—for that it has been ſometimes thought expedient to accelerate the damnation of pieces I know to be a fact—a formidable phalanx of orderly people are ſtationed to cruſh in its infancy every attempt at a riot. Theſe have their various taſks aſ⯑ſigned them; and to ſay the truth, they have often as hard parts to play as thoſe on the ſtage.^* Through theſe and other wiſe precautions, theatrical matters are put upon ſo deſirable a footing, that it is not what the town has [219] an opinion of, but what the manager, through intereſt—to oblige a favourite, or ſome ſuch equitable motive—chuſes to obtrude on the public, which we ſee continually crammed down their throats, and which has ſo perverted the original inſtitution of the drama, that it would be as uſeleſs to ſearch for mo⯑rality, wit, taſte, genius, or any intrinſic requiſite of the ſtage, in moſt of the modern dramatic productions, as for charity in the heart of an USURER, or truth in the tongue of a HYPOCRITE.

Scions from this old ſtock of party ſeem pretty freely to have ſpread them⯑ſelves over moſt of the towns of conſequence in this kingdom. Playhouſe critics however have in the country very little to do; for by then they have ſeen Macbeth two or three times break his truncheon—Richard ſtart at the ghoſts, all the men have fallen in love, and all the women envied ſome bloom⯑ing actreſs of ſixty; and a few of the firſt rate having gone to LONDON for orders, and ſeen the performers there, have pronounced the country actors to be damned ſtuff—expended curioſity dies away, and the unfortunate ſons and daughters of Theſpis having ſtamped, roared, grinned, and ſqualled as long as any 'prentice boys are to be found to make up their gallery, are obliged to take to their cart and undergo the ſame humiliation in ſome other place.

Muſical critics have a great deal more to do. An attorney's clerk who can play WEIDEMAN's minuet joins a mercer's apprentice, who, from fre⯑quenting hops has learnt to ſcrape a little of one of the city waites. The at⯑torney decamped—perhaps after being pilloried for perjury, and the mercer become a bankrupt, the clerk and the apprentice are in buſineſs for themſelves. Perhaps one becomes an alderman and the other a town-clerk. A ſubſcrip⯑tion is now propoſed, a concert-room is built, where the MERCER leads, and the ATTORNEY plays ſolos. The plan is at length extended, till in the race-week, at the aſſizes, or ſome other public ſeaſon, whatever ſinger happens then to be popular is invited, an oratorio performed, and Meſſieurs LATITAT [220] and REMNANT quit the red tails and the quality binding, to emulate—in noiſe at leaſt—the feſtivals of the Abbey.

I really mean no more by my MERCER and ATTORNEY than the latter would by A and B did he put a caſe. What I have inſtanced is virtually the fact; and it has this operation. If it ſo happen that the lovers of muſic out-number the judges—as they call themſelves—every thing will be conducted upon a broad, liberal plan, and the concert do honour to the place, by giving encouragement to men of abilities and refining the taſte of the inhabitants; if on the contrary the judges have a majority, it will be carried on upon a nar⯑row, jealous, contracted ſcale. The muſic will be injudiciouſly choſen, an unneceſſary conſequence aſſumed; and at length, what was meant as an har⯑monic meeting will become a ſcene of confuſion, till the gentlemen players have no opportunity to diſplay the brilliancy of their ſuperior talents, but thro' the mortifying medium of private meetings at each other's houſes. At LI⯑VERPOOL, the lovers have the majority twenty—perhaps fifty—to one: At MANCHESTER, I am afraid it goes as ſtrongly in favour of the judges. Let them therefore take care not to follow the example of LEEDS; where—and I have already ſhewn why—there will not, in all probability, next year be a concert at all. None of this would however be worth a comment, if the ſports of theſe children—like the others in the fable of the frogs—was not the death of genius, and conſequently the cauſe of ſtagnating that profeſſion they pretend to encourage.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

THE objections which originated at MANCHES⯑TER, and which have ſince extended to a large part of the kingdom, againſt the ſlave trade, are as follow.

That it is a diſgrace to humanity, and a reproach to a nation which boaſts the mildeſt government, and profeſſes the juſteſt religion upon earth, to buy and ſell our fellow-creatures.

That the Engliſh, not contented with the priſoners taken in thoſe wars among the different powers o [...] the coaſt of AFRICA, which are provoked by their own jealouſies and other private motives, irritate the natives to commit partial depredations on each other, and thus unneceſſarily are the cauſe of ſpilling human blood, and laying waſte the habitations of harmleſs and peace⯑able individuals, for the purpoſe of ſupplying ſlaves for the markets in the WEST-INDIES.

[222]That theſe poor wretches are treated with the moſt inhuman cruelty; that on board of ſhip they are ſtived down in the hold, without the ſmalleſt reſpect to ſex or age, or any regard to common decency; and that if they re⯑pine, chains, whips, and thumb-ſcrews, bring them to a ſenſe of their miſerable condition, and the ſcene often ends with their embracing death to free them from a worſe calamity; that this cruelty extends throughout the whole term of their ſlavery, which—unleſs they can raiſe a ſum, generally impoſſible—is for life; that they are cart-whipt and treated with much other cruelty, under which a white man would expire, for the moſt trivial faults; and that four years generally wear out—owing to this reiterated torture—the moſt robuſt conſtitutions among them, when they fall willing victims to their dreadful fate, which becomes a ſtanding and indelible reproach to the name of Eng⯑liſhman.

That there have been ſome inſtances to the contrary, ſince all the world is not poſſeſſed of the ſame want of feeling; that indeed they have been rare, but when they have happened, the planter has found his firſt ſtock become ſufficiently numerous to anſwer all his purpoſes—for by gentleneſs and kind treatment they have increaſed aſtoniſhingly, and, as his humane endeavours have been evidently viſited by a bleſſing from heaven, he has amaſſed immenſe riches—while the negroes have extolled him as a benefactor, whom they ex⯑pected to find a grievous and oppreſſive taſk maſter.

That a planter may take away the life of a ſlave without being in the ſmalleſt degree accountable for his actions.

That the GUINEA trade, over and above the other evils which attend it, is the deſtruction of many brave Engliſhmen, inaſmuch as that the flower of our intrepid tars find a grave upon the coaſt of AFRICA.

[223]That the abolition of this unnatural traffic would be rather a benefit than a diſadvantage as to the conſumption of our commodities, for that we might then have returns in articles the produce of that country.

That a total abolition of the ſlave trade, and nothing leſs, would go to a reform of the grievances ariſing from it; for, by being convinced that they could no longer recruit their ſtock from the old market, planters would ceaſe to be wantonly cruel, and naturally turn their thoughts to the care and pre⯑ſervation of the ſlaves then upon their hands, imitating the ſingle inſtance of the merciful Weſt-Indian before mentioned, which would produce many great and ſalutary effects. The planter, contenting himſelf with the ſlaves already in his poſſeſſion, would, as the negroes are naturally prolific, increaſe his ſtock every year; alſo having no more purchaſe-money to pay, he could in a ſhort time be enabled to part with his ſugar and rum cheaper than formerly, and thus we could afford to underſell all the other Weſt-India iſlands. That theſe deſirable bleſſings would perpetuate the merciful reign of GEORGE the Third, and finally, to the end of time, ſtand forward as as an example of hu⯑manity unparalelled in the annals of the world.

Many other inland towns having caught fire at the long enumeration of grievances ſuſtained, and advantages that would ariſe from the extirpation of the cauſe of thoſe grievances, have, to their honour, taken up the ſubject, and in a variety of petitions—among which that of SHEFFIELD is one of the beſt written—beſought parliament to interpoſe their authority, and put a ſtop to this growing evil; and they hold out what appears to be a ſtrong proof of the handſome diſintereſtedneſs of MANCHESTER, namely, that their goods go now to purchaſe the African ſlaves, whereas they are willing to forego all ad⯑vantage as dealers, rather than be remiſs in their duty as men.

Theſe petitions look forward to the happy conſequences that they ſay would be derived from ſo noble an exerciſe of Engliſh philanthropy. In them [224] is introduced every argument that generoſity can dictate, and the moſt power⯑ful language uſed to intreat the legiſlature to protect the ſavages, and to in⯑duce the merchants who have an intereſt in that trade nobly to throw it up with the ſame greatneſs of mind in which they have been ſet ſo laudable an example by the benevolent inhabitants of MANCHESTER.

Beſides the petitioners, a number of ſocieties have formed, who ſplit the different queſtions into every poſſible diviſion; but as this would take off from the ſolemnity of the buſineſs, and ſeem as if I wiſhed to ſupply LIVERPOOL with opportuity to introduce palliating ſubterfuges, I ſhall, in my next letter, let them meet the queſtion on its preſent ground. After which, the reader and I will fairly compare both arguments—which done, I ſhall leave him as a jury to decide upon the merits of the caſe.

Mercy upon poor LIVERPOOL, if the arguments of MANCHESTER be found as infallible, as that I am,

To the Rev Mr. —

IN reply to theſe charges, LIVERPOOL ſays,

That if there can be no reaſon, ſupported by ſound policy, legiſlative neceſſity, or any of thoſe indiſpenſable urgencies which in all politics occaſion⯑ally introduce a partial and apparent oppreſſion for the ſake of general conve⯑nience, the African ſlave trade is as it has been repreſented—an infamous traf⯑fic, and a diſgrace to the national character of the Engliſh; but if it be made appear that it is perfectly expedient, and alſo that it is a bleſſing—inſtead of a misfortune—to the ſavages, whoſe Situations are ſo loudly and vehemently de⯑plored, they conceive the various petitions for its abolition ought to be thrown out—though certainly originating from benevolent intentions—as frivolous and vexatious.

That ſo falſe is the report that the Engliſh provoke wars up the country on the coaſt of AFRICA, for the purpoſe of purchaſing ſlaves, no Engliſhman ever yet returned who ventured five miles from the ſhore. That were the Engliſh ſo inhuman as to meditate any ſuch thing, it is perfectly unneceſſary. The nations on the coaſt of AFRICA are remarkably prolific, and naturally [226] lazy, cultivation is ſcarcely known among them, and fiſhing and hunting procure them the only bleſſings of life their ſavage nature is capable of enter⯑taining a conception of. There are among them many tribes, and they are never without being in ſome place or other at war. The priſoners made in theſe wars are doomed ſome to be ſacrificed, ſome eaten—for they are cannibals to a man—and ſome ſold. Theſe laſt are purchaſed by the ENGLISH, the DUTCH, the FRENCH, the PORTUGUESE, the SPANISH, the DANES, and, as all the world knows, by many other nations. Do all thoſe go up the country to provoke wars? Or do they lay in wait for the poor captives who are tricked by the inſidious arts of Engliſhmen into unneceſſary quarrels? Bravery, and all the generoſity attending on it, is the characteriſtic of Engliſhmen. Why then ſhould their fellow country men load them with ſuch unworthy ſuſpicions? But the wars alone do not furniſh the ſlaves ſold upon the coaſt of GUINEA. If a negro have thirty wives, they are his ſlaves, ſo are their children; and it is not uncuſtomary to ſee a man ſell his whole family. Of the poor devoted wretches taken in war, thoſe who are ſold are the happieſt, unleſs it can be proved that they are treated with all that cruelty which again is rather harſhly laid to the charge of Engliſhmen; in which caſe indeed, death were deſirable. Theſe poor wretches are brought forth—ſuch a number are put apart to be EATEN at the public ſacrifices, the reſt are carried to market—the refuſe of whom, which always amounts to a conſiderable number, are beheaded, and then—or perhaps alive, as a prey to the ſharks—thrown into the ſea. A gen⯑tleman, from whoſe mouth this is taken, ſays that a Captain FARRER, after having purchaſed as many as his ſhip would conveniently contain, ſaw thoſe he had refuſed to buy, beheaded before his face to the number of ſixty-two.

That on board of ſhip no ſlave was ever treated but with the greateſt mildneſs and lenity, unleſs he were mutinous, in which caſe common policy will make it neceſſary to be a little rigorous. That the accommodations are ſtudiouſly laid out for their convenience,^* and every effort exerted to preſerve [227] them in health and vigour. Indeed, if Engliſhmen had all that ferocity at preſent attributed to them; if they could be hardened enough to gall a poor de⯑fenceleſs ſlave with chains, flog him into ſickneſs, and invent new horrors to increaſe the calamity of his ſituation—their intereſt would forbid it. They muſt be madmen to brave an unhealthy clime, and expend immenſe ſums to purchaſe a ſet of miſerable objects merely to exerciſe on them ſo much wanton barbarity. When the ſlaves come to the Weſt-Indian, by being re-purchaſed at a higher price, it ſtill more behoves their maſters to attend to their treat⯑ment. They are certainly ſet to work, but their labour is not within any de⯑gree of compariſon equal to that of a farmer's man, who, at the harveſt time, has not a ſingle hour's ceſſation from binding and carrying, from three o'clock in the morning till nine at night—whereas a negro can never work but from ſix to ſix. In ſhort, any Engliſh labourer is worked much harder—but then the climate! Why it is congenial to their nature—but the cart whip! Is nothing. They are lazy beyond any thing that can be conceived; and if they were not ſtimulated to it, would do nothing. But it is a miſtake that a planter can whip a negro to death—he muſt receive but thirty-nine laſhes; and if every one of the thirty-nine were ten, they would be ſtill nothing to a dozen at the gangway. That ſo far from the planter's treating them with any thing but general kindneſs—for he muſt not ſuffer them to get the upper hand of him, unleſs he chuſes to have his throat cut—every negro has his little ſpot of ground, from which the markets are ſupplied with vegetables on a Sunday, with the produce of which they make little parties of pleaſure, have their balls and different paſtimes, and, unleſs it be ſome few moody malecontents—which are to be found in all ſtates—are as happy as any people under the ſun. Nei⯑ther is this ground taken away from them—as ſome aſſert—when they have brought it to perfection; for if this were the caſe, where would they get the money to purchaſe their freedom, which happens every day.

In ſhort, a negro's idea when he is purchaſed is, that he is to be eaten; and as nothing can induce him to drive this idea from his imagination—for [228] perſuading him to the contrary confirms it the ſtronger, as he thinks he is only told ſo that he may become chearful and get fat—therefore they generally come to market very thin, which probably has given riſe to the report of their being cruelly treated at ſea—but when he finds he is only to work, and ſees himſelf in the midſt of his countrymen, who have wives and families and are happy, only upon condition that they labour a little, he, like them, buckles to his ſituation, and finds that the bread he regularly earns by induſtry, is ſweeter than the precarious ſubſiſtance he before picked up—which perhaps was not procured till his poiſoned arrow had drank the blood of his countryman.

I will not ſay how far 'tis expedient by doing a little wrong to do a great right—but we will go on with the reaſons of LIVERPOOL, after I have once more ſubſcribed myſelf

To the Rev. Mr. —.

THE objections of LIVERPOOL to the aſſertions of MANCHESTER, go on thus.

That certainly thoſe who treat the ſlaves with the moſt lenity ſtand a chance of being beſt aſſiſted by their ſervices; but the inſtance adduced that they are likely, through good treatment alone, to grow ſufficiently populous for the WEST-INDIES to need no further ſupply of them, is a moſt extraordinary aſſertion. It is well known there are very few women brought from AFRICA, and many of theſe, through their connections with white men, get their li⯑berty. This is certainly a ſubject not to be defended upon rational principles, but it is a worldly bleſſing which the negroes have a very ſtrong reliſh for; and that the fact exiſts, witneſs all thoſe degrees of complection under the titles of Mulatto, Muſtee, &c. who at laſt enjoy the immunities of Engliſhmen, and become planters themſelves. Beſides, it can never be credited that, if there were any poſſible means of keeping up a ſufficient ſtock without a freſh ſupply, that men would laviſh away large ſums to purchaſe new ſlaves merely for the pleaſure of treating them ill.

[230]That a planter cannot take away the life of a ſlave without being account⯑able for his actions. The laws formerly were very looſe on this ſubject, and murder of this kind has been committed—and ſo it has in ENGLAND—with impunity. There was always however a heavy fine for this crime, and in aggravated caſes the puniſhment was never leſs than death; and what is this but our diſtinction of manſlaughter and murder? Theſe laws however, be⯑fore MANCHESTER ſaid a word on the ſubject, it was thought neceſſary to render more rigid, and JAMAICA has already determined to make this crime death without benefit of clergy;^* but even if theſe laws did not exiſt, there is an unfeeling cruelty beyond deſcription in a man's coolly ſitting down and ſuppoſing that his fellow creatures—his countrymen—can depart from thoſe ſenſations by which alone they deſerve to be linked to ſociety, and deliberately commit murder, to their manifeſt diſadvantage, in the moment a poor wretch needs moſt his pity and compaſſion, merely becauſe that wretch is in his power. No animal in the circuit of creation ever took a life, but to gratify hunger or ſatiate revenge. To the latter ignoble propenſity man moſt aſſu⯑redly is too much addicted—but not more in the WEST-INDIES than in ENG⯑LAND, or any other part of the world; nor indeed are Engliſhmen more re⯑markable for this ſavage brutality than the inhabitants of any other nation; why then, in a moment of forward and unneceſſary zeal, ſingle out the Eng⯑liſh Weſt India planters, in particular, as the perpetrators of unprovoked and uſeleſs barbarity?—which, were they capable of, they would deſerve to be ſwept from the face of the earth.

That nothing can prove ſo decidedly the ſuperficial and fallacious princi⯑ples upon which the inhabitants of MANCHESTER ground their arguments, as their aſſertion that the GUINEA trade is the deſtruction of ſome of our braveſt ſeaman. It is well known that when king's ſhips are paid off, unhappy ſailors, who have ſo nobly maintained during a war the glorious naval ſupe⯑riority of Engliſhmen, take to bad courſes for want of employ, and that the [231] gallows groans with thoſe neglected objects of bravery, who perhaps, a few months before, were the dread of their enemies. Is it wonderful then, that thoſe who have the reſolution to withſtand the temptations which ſeduced their companions, ſhould leave their country—which they muſt do or ſtarve—upon any terms? But this object is ſcarcely worth contending for:—the ſailors who man the Guineamen are very few of them of this deſcription—they are moſtly ſuch wretches as, having eſcaped juſtice in this country, are obliged to fly; for it may be fairly averred, that the veſſels bound to AFRICA, by taking ſuch peſts of ſociety with them, go more to the prevention of de⯑predations on the public than all the watchfulneſs of the Engliſh police. To ſay the truth, theſe ought moſt to be terrified at the chains in which they are ſure to be manacled, whenever they treat the ſlaves with cruelty.

That if the aſſertion be founded—‘"that it would be rather a benefit than a diſadvantage to aboliſh the ſlave trade, becauſe we might then have re⯑turns for our commodities in articles the produce of AFRICA,"’ it contra⯑dicts that which went before; for, in this caſe, would not the ſailors be as likely to find a grave upon that coaſt in any common trading voyage as by bartering for ſlaves? Beſides, this holds out a ſort of argument that the diſ⯑intereſtedneſs of MANCHESTER is not quite ſo clear as upon the firſt bluſh it appeared; for if a mutual commerce of produce for produce could be brought about, the MANCHESTER goods might in that caſe, not only be ſold in as large quantities, but probably to much greater advantage. But, after all, what is the value of the produce of AFRICA? What of conſequence have we ever done even with SENEGAL? If we could colonize indeed!—but then, would not the death of the emigrants be an improvement on the cruelty which it is ſaid has ſtimulated us to carry ſo many ſailors to their graves in that unwhole⯑ſome country?

That a total abolition of the ſlave trade would ſhake the very exiſtence of our WEST-INDIA poſſeſſions; for there cannot be a falſer argument than that [232] a ſtock of ſlaves is to be kept up without a conſtant ſupply from AFRICA; and as to the viſionary notion of putting them on a footing with hired ſervants, 'tis too ridiculous to deſerve a thought. In ſhort, were the ſlave trade put an end to, the French, and others, who at preſent participate with us upon an equal footing the advantages ariſing from the produce of the Caribbee Iſlands, would then come at their produce upon better terms, and in greater abun⯑dance; and thus would one exertion of humanity, perfectly laudable in private ſpeculation, in its public operation, train with it the moſt pernicious and de⯑ſtructive conſequences.

Theſe arguments have branched into a multitude of others, to which MANCHESTER has replied, and LIVERPOOL rejoined—the material points how⯑ever are contained in what I have already ſet down; but this controverſy has drawn from LIVERPOOL a queſtion of certainly much greater magnitude than the ſlave trade—and it is this: ‘"Were it not wiſer, and even more humane, before we carry our clemency to AFRICA, to exert it a little for the relief of that oppreſſion under which our fellow ſubjects groan at home?"’

Some of their obſervations on this ſubject, which are very pointed, ſhall make up a part of the next letter—this I finiſh without any farther comment, ſince this important ſubject is a pending one, and will no doubt undergo a full and ſatisfactory inveſtigation. Then to ſay that, at any rate, the exertions of MANCHESTER are praiſeworthy, and if their prayer had gone no further than to a correction of abuſes, not one word would or could have been ſaid againſt it; for in that caſe, the reaſonableneſs of their demand would have been as evident as that I am

To the Rev Mr. —

I ſhall now ſpeak to the grievances which exiſt at home, and are ſaid by LIVERPOOL to have thrown ſuch a ſhadow over the preſent ſoi diſant philanthropic exertions, as almoſt totally to eclipſe them.

Theſe are comprehended in a general abuſe and wilful perverſion of the ſpirit of our laws. Hence all the diſtreſſes to harmleſs and induſtrious families, by kidnapping and preſſing for the army and navy, through which deſerted wives and children are committed to the care of mercileſs overſeers, and un⯑thinking boys, in time of peace, flogged to death for deſertion.^* Hence all [234] the injuries ſuſtained by the conſtitution, owing to ſmuggling, through which the fair trader fails, and the neſarious one becomes opulent^*—through which the exciſeman keeps his horſe and his girl, and ſpends five hundred a year, though he receives from government but fifty^†—through which are levied ſhop and other grievous taxes, whoſe produce the cuſtoms and exciſe alone would yield, were they not defrauded by thoſe who ſmuggle, and others who countenance ſmugglers—and through which a few half-ankers of brandy are [235] ſeized by conſent, to cover the running of valuable goods to an immenſe amount. Hence come all the evils ariſing from impriſonment for debt, through which an unmerciful creditor has been known to decide upon the liberty, pro⯑perty, and even LIFE of an oppreſſed debtor^*—through which attornies ſwarm in this country like locuſts—through which the villain is ſure to eſcape, and the unfortunate man to be puniſhed—through which rogues in priſon banquet in luxury, and innocent men, envying the milder lot of felons, petition to be tranſported to BOTANY BAY;^† and laſtly—for were I to enumerate all the in⯑ſtances they adduce, and the variety of partial evils ariſing from them, the re⯑mainder of this publication would not contain them—hence come the ineffi⯑cacy of the penal laws, through which thieves thrive in the neighbourhood of juſtice—through which informers, who are the only inſtruments to put the laws in force, are deemed infamous—through which juſtice is made a trade, and lawleſs bandittis are every thing but protected by thoſe whoſe duty it is to exterminate them.^‡

[236]All theſe the people of LIVERPOOL are of opinion require a reform—not that they would wiſh any amendment that might go to the extirpation of the laws, for they are evidently a benefit, though their execution may be an evil; and they conclude what they have offered on this ſubject, by ſaying that though they would recommend a cure of home abuſes, as a project of amore ſane and rational nature, rather than a reform on the coaſt of AFRICA, yet ſhould the preſent complainants be really able to point out any abuſes in the ſlave trade, and hit upon an expedient that may go to their redreſs, they will be the firſt to offer them their public thanks, not from any oſtentation of greater libera⯑lity than their neighbours, but becauſe in that caſe they will have done a deſi⯑rable and material ſervice to the community in general, and in particular to the inhabitants of LIVERPOOL.

In this ſtate I leave the ſubject of the ſlave trade. It was in ſome degree my duty to report as much as I knew of it, and it would have exceeded my duty to ſay whoſe arguments are the moſt worthy attention. The only cir⯑cumſtance I can ſpeak to, from my own conviction, is, the accommodations on board the Guineamen, which are wonderfully calculated for the comfort and convenience of the ſlaves; indeed the crew, and even the officers them⯑ſelves, are very ill accommodated, merely that the whole ſhip may be appro⯑priated to the uſe of thoſe objects on whoſe health and good treatment certainly depend the ſucceſs of their voyage.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HOWEVER expedient, however wiſe, however ſalutary may be the political JUSTICE of the laws reſpecting debtor and credi⯑tor in this country, nothing can teem with more moral INFAMY than their execution. A detenſion of the perſon has been thought, by every wiſe man, to be oppreſſive, and even impolitic; but I will not go upon that, the laws war⯑rant, or at leaſt tolerate it, and I ſhall hardly betray ſo much folly as to offer a ſentiment on what will never be effected till law lords ceaſe to dictate on ſub⯑jects that wholly apply to their own intereſt, though the very ſame plea is at all times ſufficient to render the teſtimony of a witneſs inadmiſſible in the courts.

Any man who will make oath to a debt of ten pounds, may arreſt ano⯑ther, and if he cannot give bail to the action, put him in jail. It is not neceſ⯑ſary that there be ſuch debt in actual exiſtence; for if any accounts have paſſed between the two perſons, and there ſhould be only a balance of twenty ſhil⯑lings, an oath may be legally made of the whole, let the amount be ever ſo large, and when the debtor is once in jail, it will take five terms to bring the matter to a final iſſue, provided the creditor chuſe ſo long to procraſtinate the [238] diſpute. Thus a man who only owes twenty ſhillings may, in this country, be impriſoned a year and a quarter, loſe his time and reputation, pay fifty pounds for law, and emancipate from his confinement a beggar—whereas common reaſon ſays, that the creditor ought to have been compelled in the firſt inſtance to ſtate the account fairly, and receive his due, without having it in his power to indulge an indignant and implacable revenge, from which motive alone could ſpring a wiſh to harraſs a fellow-creature, for the pleaſure of contemplating his ſufferings. But it will be aſked whether creditors in ge⯑neral are ſo unneceſſarily oppreſſive; and if they are, what can induce them to it? My anſwer is, there are three times the number of attornies that can honeſtly get employ in this kingdom. From this it ariſes, that when one of them is conſulted, inſtead of healing a breach—which is his duty—he makes it wider; for indeed he muſt do ſo, or ſtarve. Vengeance is always adviſed inſtead of compaſſion, and this muſt be gone about in the moſt expenſive way poſſible, that they may more completely hamper the poor devil who has the misfortune to come under their hands. The action commenced—the next object is to ſerve it in as diſgraceful and inconvenient a manner as poſſible—for lawyers as naturally ſtudy the intereſt of bailiffs as phyſicians do that of the apothecaries. By this means, they look out for red letter days, and ſuch other adventitious means as may put it as much as poſſible out of the power of the poor debtor to eſcape, till—to uſe their own words—‘"every man has had a leg or a wing."’ To explain myſelf. We will ſuppoſe Saturday and Monday red letter days—the defendant, in this caſe, is always arreſted on a Friday—but not before ſix o'clock in the evening. Thus, though he be pre⯑pared to give bail or pay the money, he cannot be releaſed till the following Tueſday—becauſe the intervention of the two holidays and the Sunday, pre⯑clude all poſſibility of ſearching the office, though at the moment of the cap⯑tion fifty to one but they know that there is nothing elſe againſt him. Dur⯑ing the four days he is in cuſtody, to a certainty every art is uſed—nine times out of ten by the attorney, but always by the bailiffs—to induce other credi⯑tors to lay detainers againſt him. At length, after accumulated diſgrace, mor⯑tification, [239] and expence, by ſigning notes, cognovits, and warrants of attor⯑ney, he purchaſes a temporary liberty, at an immoderate diſadvantage—and after finding it impoſſible to fulfil theſe engagements ſo extorted, he goes to priſon for life, at the will of the creditor. If he be adviſed to reſign himſelf to exonerate his bail, he is told that if his creditors do not proceed in ſuch a number of terms, he can get a complete releaſe from their power, by ſuper⯑ſeding their actions. This advice taken, and a releaſe obtained, after a tedious impriſonment, he is juſt where he ſet out, and may be ſued again on every debt for which he was impriſoned, which is ſure to happen, if he have any thing to pay the coſts.^*

At the time LORD EFFINGHAM—with a benevolence that will reflect on him laſting honour—ineffectually, owing to the interference of the law lords, attempted a reform on this ſubject, he gathered together many well atteſted caſes to ſtrengthen his arguments, and prefaced them by ſaying that every caſe was a deep tragedy—more were in preparation for him, and one of them I know to be truth. It was this. A man in the year eighty-three, was five hundred pounds in debt. An attorney, a partner, and a bailiff, by falſe re⯑ports, brought all his real creditors againſt him, and added fictitious ones, till having been in priſon two years, he obtained a releaſe upon ſuperſedeaſes from debts, for which he could again be ſued, and having paid upwards of ſix hundred pounds for law, he found himſelf between ſeven and eight hundred pounds in debt, though in the interim he had not contracted a ſingle new one. One of theſe fictitious debts is worth notice. This man was arreſted for a [240] debt he did not owe. The account on which it was pretended to ariſe having long before been liquidated—he went to trial, and obtained a verdict in his fa⯑vour, the plaintiff, when an execution came to be ſued out for the coſts, was in priſon. The defendant, therefore, was obliged to pay his own coſts in this unjuſt action, which amounted to ſeventeen pounds. In ſhort, when a man delivers himſelf implicitly into the hands of an attorney, there is no advantage that may not be taken of him, and with ſafety, for let the attorney undertake what he pleaſes, the client is obliged to acquieſce; and for God ſake what man of common, plain underſtanding, unacquainted with all the different and equivocating conſtructions of the law, can guard againſt the conſequences that are ſure to attend even a winning cauſe;^* what then muſt be a loſing one? [241] Look at the common expences of the moſt trifling trial, and ſee what fortune can make a ſtand againſt going often to law. No, no, let every man be wary how he is impoſed upon; but when he is ſo, let him ſit down contented with the firſt loſs. He may eaſily cure the ſting of one hornet, but what a plight he muſt be in, if he be unwiſe enough to rouſe THE WHOLE NEST! But a ‘"lawyer's is an honeſt employment,"’ ſays Peachum: I wiſh it was half ſo honeſt as I am ſincere, when I aſſure you that I am

To the Rev Mr. —

FROM MANCHESTER I returned to SHEFFIELD, where, on the following week, this TOUR was put to preſs—the dates of the letters will ſhew how much of it was at that time written. Having inſpected the firſt ſixty-four pages, which—except one or two half ſheets—is all I have had opportunity to examine, I went to LEEDS; where, with the advantage of LADY MEXBOROUGH's name, I had a very good night at the aſſembly-room, on Monday February the eleventh. My friend WARBURTON alſo acquainted me it was very much the wiſh of Mr. FAWKES that I might have another night at YORK. This, I confeſs, I had no great reliſh for; but knowing well the powerful influence of Mr. FAWKES, and how much the inhabitants of that dull region are obliged to the taſte and faſhionable elegance of Mrs. FAWKES, for teaching them how to diſtinguiſh what ought to amuſe them, and ſet them examples of poliſhed manners and finiſhed good breeding, I did myſelf the honour to call on that gentleman, who aſſuring me his utmoſt in⯑tereſt ſhould be uſed to make a night worth my while, it was fixed for Thurſ⯑day February the twenty-eighth; and in the interim, I went on to DURHAM and NEWCASTLE. Paſſing DURHAM, I arrived at NEWCASTLE on Friday the fifteenth; and the next day, after delivering a recommendatory letter to a gentleman of ſome conſequence, who, like the Iriſhman at BATH, promiſed [243] GREAT THINGS and did nothing, I waited on the Mayor, and began my attack in form. I performed four times with very nearly as bad ſucceſs as at MANCHESTER. The kind way, however, in which Mr. HODGSON, the printer, teſtified his concern for what he was pleaſed to think want of taſte in the people of NEWCASTLE was truly flattering and obliging. He put a para⯑graph in his newſpaper to induce a better attendance, and he was indefatigable in promoting the ſubſcription. I here thank him for his handſome and gen⯑tlemanly treatment of me.

I had trifled away ten days at NEWCASTLE, when I was determined to repaſs DURHAM, and get on to YORK. For this purpoſe I ſet-out on Sunday the twenty-fourth, but the weather being remarkably diſagreeable, I went no farther than DURHAM that night; and, having ſeen Mr. EBDON, the organiſt of the Cathedral, whoſe candid and untheoretical ſentiments greatly pleaſed me, I reſolved—as I had to play with my time till the following Thurſday—that I would ſtay and ſee what Monday night would produce. It not only greatly exceeded my expectations, but I was entreated to perform a ſecond time, which turned out to be nearly as productive as the firſt.

During the time I was at DURHAM, I had many kindneſſes ſhewn me, which I would more particularly notice but that my TOUR is haſtening to its cloſe. Thoſe that were public I received from Dr. COOPER—which has been a fortunate name to me—Mr. BIRD, Mr. SMITH, and ſeveral others whoſe names are in the liſt of ſubſcribers; the private ones, from Mr. EBDON—for I never acknowledge any thing as kindneſs but what is meant as an unaffected intention to pleaſe and oblige. As to familiarity, unneceſſary and ill-aſſumed conſequence, and invitations to dinner, merely to ſport a ſideboard, it never yet had any attractions for me, and therefore, if any perſon at DURHAM ſhould recognize this for the portrait of his conduct, let it be a ſecret between him and me—but let him alſo endeavour to perſuade himſelf that every man who ac⯑cepts his acquaintance upon thoſe terms laughs at him in his ſleeve.

[244]Maſter HOULT, at the Red Lion, ſeemed anxious to be celebrated in this TOUR. I am willing to tell the truth, which I dare ſay is all he deſires. He appeared very anxious to pleaſe, and undertook to give his ſiſter at NORTHAL⯑LERTON a caution how ſhe treated me on my return, as that lady had been ſo accommodating on my road to DURHAM from YORK, to put me into a damp bed. What the caution was I will not pretend to ſay, but certainly ſhe gave me horſes that knocked up between NORTHALLERTON and EASINGWOULD; as to himſelf, he ſaw I had two tolerable nights, and thought, I ſuppoſe, he had a right to his ſhare of them—for having left the bargain concerning the room to a ſort of eventual deciſion, though there could be no ſuch virtual con⯑ſtruction put on it, he adhered to his bond as rigidly as SHYLOCK. I had a part of the TOUR with me, which he read, and I remember appeared charmed with my account of JEMMY WALLIS, at NEWARK. If he conceived he me⯑rited a ſimilar panegyric, he will now ſee he and I are of different opinions.

On my return to YORK, the buſineſs of Thurſday night was ſo ſpoken of, that I really thought, out of compliment to the lady who had taken ſo much pains—and in obliging whom the inhabitants, by the way, would have paid themſelves a compliment—that I ſhould have found reaſon to change my tone. I remember it was ſuggeſted to me that I ſhould be obliged to re⯑write that letter where, ſpeaking of cities, I put YORK in ſo unfavourable a point of view. Not a bit. The night, though it proved to the cleareſt de⯑monſtration the weight and conſequence of Mrs. FAWKES's name, only con⯑firmed me the ſtronger in my belief of their general ſhabbineſs, for I had not a promiſcuous audience, but a party of ninety-nine perſons, which is an aſtoniſhing number to be brought through one intereſt to an aſſembly-room in the country.

A very extraordinary adventure happened to me at this time. A decent man came into the parlour in which I was ſitting at the Inn, and after the moſt confuſed, unconnected preface that can be imagined, told me I had been [245] innocently the cauſe of injuring him with the people of YORK. I begged to know how, and he informed me that his buſineſs in that place was to deliver an entertainment ſomewhat ſimilar to mine, but that of courſe he was ſilenced by my arrival. He then entered into a deſcription of his diſtreſſes, in moſt pathetic language, calling himſelf a ruined clergyman, ſaying he was driven to the laſt deſpair, and that he had frequently been on the point of ſhooting himſelf; at length, calling me out of the room, he ſaid the ſmalleſt trifle would be of infinite ſervice to him, and entreated I would lend him half a crown. This I gave him without heſitation, and at his requeſt alſo a ticket for the performance, and he went his way. When I came to examine his bills, I found them ſo worded that he might have been miſtaken for me. He had followed exactly in my track, and announced nothing more than that the gen⯑tleman who had ſome time before, at ſuch and ſuch a town, given his Read⯑ings and Muſic, meant to repeat that entertainment; and I afterwards learnt, that at HULL and BEVERLY, he entertained his audience with nothing more than the ſame lively picture of his diſtreſſes, till they conſented to go home, and leave their money behind them.

I ſhould not have mentioned this here, or at all—eſpecially the buſineſs of the half crown—had not Mr. BLANCHARD, the printer—who is another of my favourites—come ſoon after into the room, when upon giving directions for ſome bills on the morrow, ſomething induced him to notice that there was a ſtrange kind of man who had made ſome application to him to print bills—‘"but,"’ ſaid he, ‘"he made uſe of an odd recommendation, for he ſaid he was in the greateſt diſtreſs."’ In ſhort, liſtening to Mr. BLANCHARD's account, I heard every word that had juſt been repeated to me by the ruined clergyman, which ended with the old requeſt of the half crown, which was of courſe given to him.^* ‘"But,"’ ſaid Mr. BLANCHARD, ‘"I ſhould have let the half [246] crown buſineſs die, had I not afterwards had reaſon to believe he is an im⯑poſtor of ſome conſequence—for a very little time after I ſaw him bowling along in a poſt chaiſe alone, and having the curioſity to aſk the landlord where he baited whither he was going, I found the chaiſe was to take him twenty-two miles."’

This gentleman attended at the room, and what became of him ulti⯑mately I know not, but he was certainly taken out by ſome man he had ſwindled, and who had followed him from another town.

Thus after having been ſo frequently taken for an impoſtor myſelf, I at laſt met with a perſon who was really one; and this ‘"petty larceny raſ⯑cal,"’ after all, was probably in many places more reſpected. Here I recal to mind your kind letter now printed, and the ſeveral friendly remarks you have ſince made—all which convince me how much credit I do myſelf in ſo often aſſuring you that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

HAVING returned to SHEFFIELD, and given di⯑rections for advertiſing three nights at LIVERPOOL, I repaired thither, and ar⯑rived on Tueſday the fourth of March. As I neceſſarily paſſed through MANCHESTER, I thought I might as well make ſome enquiry concerning the ſubſcription, which would of courſe ſet me to rights as to the attention that had been paid me in my abſence. Finding, as I before repreſented, that not a ſingle name had been added to the liſt, I thought it would be a folly to ſee MANCHESTER any more.

At LIVERPOOL—the only place in all my tour to which I returned to any good purpoſe—I had ſix handſome nights, taking the average of them, and it gave me pleaſure to announce that I ſhould finiſh my career in that ſpirited town. My reception was certainly flattering to an exceſs—if I could have dined in ten places at once,^* I ſhould have been welcome, and indeed [248] kindneſs of this ſort came ſo thick, that I was obliged to decline all invitations, leſt I ſhould be incapacitated from affording that entertainment for which pur⯑poſe I went among them.

On Tueſday the eleventh, I attended at their concert, and declare that I heard two acts from the Meſſiah performed much more reſpectably than I could have conceived. Mr. MEREDITH and Miſs HARWOOD are known to have much merit in this ſtyle of ſinging. Mr. WILTON's preciſion and care in leading the band cannot be too much praiſed; and Mr. WAINWRIGHT conducted the choruſſes in a very able and ſpirited ſtyle, and alſo, in a very delicate way, gave us the ſecond of HANDEL's concertos. I have already no⯑ticed how expert the ſingers of YORKSHIRE and LANCASHIRE are at choruſſes. Thoſe who performed them the night I ſpeak of at LIVERPOOL, did HAN⯑DEL as much credit as if they had been drilled by Mr. JOAH BATES, which between ſeven and eight hundred perſons who were preſent can teſtify.

Were I to ſpeak fully of the attention paid me at LIVERPOOL, I ſhould have nothing elſe to ſay. As, therefore, thoſe who were ſo forward to pleaſe and ſerve me are the leaſt conſcious of it—the whole ſum of their kindneſs being no more than the common exerciſe of that liberality which ſo remark⯑ably characteriſes them—I muſt content myſelf with feeling that which I can⯑not properly deſcribe.

[249]I quitted LIVERPOOL on Friday the fourteenth of March, having the night before exhibited myſelf as a public character for the laſt time, paſſed on through BIRMINGHAM, in my way to BRISTOL, whither I went on pri⯑vate buſineſs, ſpent three or four days with my friend BOYTON, and finally, arrived in LONDON on Saturday the twenty-ſecond.

My running account of places, inns, &c. and a few more gleanings, will now wind up my TOUR—previous to which, however, I ſhall go into the buſineſs of my negociation with Mr. HARRIS, and endeavour to account for its failure. This I ſhall enter upon in my next letter. That done, my laſt remarks on the ſubject of muſic will naturally introduce a ſtatement of my pieces, and the profits which aroſe from them. Thus every letter will leſſen the frequency—though never the pleaſure—with which I aſſure you I am

To the Rev Mr. —

YOU already know the nature of my application to Mr. HARRIS, in March, 1787, and the ſubſtance of the anſwer I received. From YORK, in the following October, I ſent that gentleman a muſical farce, telling him that I had a firſt-piece nearly ready, and three other after-pieces, which in a very ſhort time I could perfect, and alſo ſome good materials for pantomimes.

I will confeſs to you, that I choſe to ſend the piece I ſet the leaſt ſtore by firſt—for I have, unfortunately, upon theſe occaſions, a ſort of pre-ſenti⯑ment, and my feelings at that time, I am free to declare, did not very much lead me to place any great faith in Mr. HARRIS's ſincerity. It was however a farce that, as times go, Covent-Garden need not have been aſhamed of. Mr. HARRIS returned one act of it, ſaying, ‘"it was taken from the French, and like Sir JOHN VANBRUGH's Country Houſe, therefore it would not do; but that whenever I would ſend any thing completed, that would be of ſervice to the theatre, he ſhould be glad to treat with me; but not for hints, or de⯑tached muſic, for that they were crowded with unappropriated muſic, by [251] the beſt compoſers."’ I wrote him an anſwer to his letter, ſaying, ‘'I ſhould be glad of the other act of the farce—that I was ſorry he thought indifferently of it—that I certainly took partly the idea of it from a French piece, but I had not literally tranſlated a ſingle ſpeech; nor had I ever read VANBRUGH's Country Houſe, therefore it could not be ſo like either as to make his objection a ſubſtantial one; for it was very eaſy to ſhew from whence almoſt every piece that had appeared for ſome years was taken, and one might venture to add, the ſame of thoſe which would appear for ſome years to come. I went on ſaying, that I hoped he and I ſhould agree better on what I ſhould next ſend. I begged however that he would explain himſelf in one point. If he meant by the word completed, that he expected me to ſend muſic, as well as words, I certainly could not conſent to it, as I thought I ought to be con⯑ſidered as perfectly competent to decide on its merits myſelf—that I deſired fairly and honourably to be underſtood to mean exactly what I had aſſerted that I was going to INDIA, and wiſhed very much to leave ſomething behind me, to have my fame remembered—for which I ſhould never ſtand candidate again. I ſaid, that when I wrote to him, ſome years ago, on the ſame ſubject, he thought that hints, or any thing elſe from ME, would be valuable to him, and that I really did not believe my rivals had ſince given him rea⯑ſon to alter his opinion. I had a variety of materials which would certainly be uſeful, and indeed he muſt think ſo, otherwiſe why crowd his theatre with unappropriated muſic—for I flattered myſelf I had no right to be conſi⯑dered as an inferior maſter. In ſhort, I told him, if he thought I could leave him nothing that would be of advantage to him, it would be a folly for us to have a ſingle moment's further trouble on the ſubject.'’

This was the ſubſtance of my letter; to which, at GRANTHAM, five weeks afterwards, I received an anſwer, and the ſecond act of the farce.

Mr. HARRIS ſaid, ‘"He was ſorry I had the trouble of ſending again for the ſecond act—it had been miſlaid by an accident."’

[252] ‘"He had only to repeat to me, that any work I might ſend completed, ſhould be read with attention, and without delay, and if found likely to ſuc⯑ceed, he ſhould readily treat with me for the purchaſe of it—but not for any unappropriated or detached muſic."’

This letter determined me to let nothing out of my hand till I had come at a fair explanation of the word completed, and to do this, I once more wrote to Mr. HARRIS, telling him, ‘'that till he ſhould pleaſe to explain that word matters muſt ſtand in ſtatu quo, for that I could not conſent to ſend muſic for inſpection.’

Having received no anſwer to this letter, not even when I arrived in LONDON, the firſt thing I did was to take my final leave of Mr. HARRIS, in a letter, a copy of which ſhall be tranſcribed for your peruſal, after I have once more ſubſcribed myſelf

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I Shall now lay before you my letter to Mr. HARRIS.

[258]This matter has thus terminated, and through you I give to the public a ſtrong fact—which is worth a thouſand arguments. As a proof that every man who thinks independently muſt lay his account to having no concern with the THEATRE, Mr. SHERIDAN has the boldneſs to ſay in The Critic, ‘"that very few go through the fatigue of thinking for themſelves."’ If ſo, we have only to lament that ſtage manoeuvres are not as honeſt as they are IN⯑GENIOUS, and that the firſt dramatic writer of the day holds out fallacy as the principal ingredient in a theatrical compoſition. That he has as little of ori⯑ginality in the plots of his pieces as Mr. CUMBERLAND—againſt whom he ſeems to head the whole force of his ſatire—is certain. I do not mean howe⯑ver to accuſe him of imbecility—he has genius equal to any thing; but the generality of Engliſh audiences have been ſo uſed to cayenne and high cookery, that he knew plain nature would ſtand no chance among them. He is how⯑ever the only man who has ventured to impoſe upon them, and tell them ſo in the ſame breath; but the Engliſh have ſuch a redundancy of good nature, that if a man arrogates a ſuperiority, ſupporting his pretenſions at the ſame time with any formidable ſhew of ability, their characteriſtic benevolence is at once appealed to, and they implicitly give him credit for the very merit he aſſsures them he poſſeſſes.

Thus, men who have the conſtancy and reſolution to climb any given height, atchieve the taſk they have ſet themſelves, by adding perſeverance and intrepidity to ſtrong intellectual endowments, ſtrengthened by intenſe, wary, and correct obſervation. There is however a want of feeling in this—'tis a ſort of poaching for fame—‘"while the fair hunter's cheated of his prey."’ I know you think it a ſort of dramatic ſacrilege to attack the works of Mr. SHERIDAN, and this will, in my next letter, put me upon a curſory view of them; for if I were capable of advancing any thing I could not prove, I ſhould be unworthy your friendſhip, and have told you a falſity every time I have aſſerted that

To the Rev Mr. —

A Few words on Mr. SHERIDAN's dramatic works, and adieu to the Theatre—except ſuch circumſtances relative to it as will ne⯑ceſſarily come out in my ſtatement of pieces.

The Rivals has had the leaſt ſucceſs, and yet it is the moſt original of all his pieces. It was nearly damned on the firſt night, and Mr. SHERIDAN—profiting by the experience with which its reception furniſhed him—withdrew it with this remark. ‘"I have now got the laſt, and it ſhall be my fault if I don't make the ſhoe to fit next time."’ His labour however being only cobler's work, it required too much of method for his volatile genius to buckle to, and we may venture to pronounce, without any great outrage on probability, that had not Mr. SHERIDAN ſo much influence in the theatre, The Rivals would never have made its appearance a ſecond ſeaſon. It is a neat, well written piece, but has that ſort of cold correctneſs which will not go to the galleries. The incident, from The Nut-brown Maid, though written with great ſweetneſs and delicacy, is no more proper for the theatre than the fine ſtrokes of a miniature painter would be in the finiſhing of flats and wings.

[260]All this perhaps inducing Mr. SHERIDAN to think with the chairman in relation to POPE, he produced The Duenna—where there is not a ſingle new ſituation from beginning to end. The whole plot of turning the daughter out of doors, and paſſing the maid for the miſtreſs, is conjointly the Scicelienne of MOLIERE and Il Filoſofo di campagna—where every circumſtance is to be found, from the ſerenade at the beginning to the marriage at the end. The other plot is The Wonder—which, the moment it is told, muſt be obvious to every body—becauſe every body knows both pieces. Not even any ſingle ſubordi⯑nate circumſtance is original. Father Paul is MARMONTEL's Philoſophe ſoi diſant—who, as he eats delicacies, talks of the roots of the earth—and, as he drinks burgundy, praiſes the wholeſome chryſtal ſtream. The dialogue is by no means brilliant; but Mr. SHERIDAN was determined it ſhould penetrate every where, and in particular the aſide ſpeeches of Iſaac—ſhewing beforehand how clearly he ſhall himſelf be taken in by his different attempts to deceive others, is the moſt artful ſpecies of anticipation that ever was practiſed, and ſhews a judgment of theatrical effect powerful, new, and extraordinary.

The School for Scandal is no more original than The Duenna. The ſchool itſelf is CONGREVE's Cabal, and the play may fairly be called a ſequel to The Way of the World. The ſcandal has all been detailed in different pieces, but principally in The Plain Dealer. When in NOVEL, Lord Plauſible, Olivia, and Eliza, will be found Sir Benjamin Crab, Lady Sneerwell, and Mrs. Can⯑dour. The brothers have been in a variety of things, from The Adelphi to Mr. CUMBERLAND's Faſhionable Folly—but the Squire of Alſatia on the ſtage, and Blifil and Tom Jones in the cloſet, are the cloſeſt reſemblances. The uncle lately returned from abroad, and introduced to the drunken company, is ex⯑tremely like the The Intriguing Chambermaid. The circumſtance of the uncle's picture is in a French piece called L'ecole de la Jeuneſſe; and Joſeph and Lady Teazle—are Conſtant and Lady Brute.

[261]Mr. SHERIDAN has ſaid that there is not a new character or incident—and all that can be done is to take old matter and give it a novel appearance. Had he ſaid that it is ſafer to do ſo, I would join with him; for certainly when any thing comes in contact with the imagination that has been before familiar, or rather congenial to it, without conſideration, we give credit for its merit on the ſpot, whatever we may do upon reflection—and having once praiſed a thing, a falſe pride prevents us from diſcovering that we were de⯑ceived. The dialogue of this piece is as accommodating as the reſt of it. Mr. HERON points out the tinſel ſcattered up and down by way of ſentiments, which, by the theatrical people, are known by the name of clap traps; and Mr. SHERIDAN cannot take it amiſs, if in juſtice to his abilities and our own diſcernment, one is obliged to ſay, that he can—whenever he pleaſes, write ten times better.

The Monody, which ſeems written expreſſly to deſire all the world to forget GARRICK, has again very little of originality in it. LLOYD's Actor furniſhed the outline, in addition to which Mr. SHERIDAN certainly has touched in ſome beautiful ſtrokes; but, after all, it is but a ſketch, and much more likely to be forgotten than him whoſe memory it laboriouſly profeſſes to prove ought to be buried with his aſhes. My great quarrel with Mr. SHERIDAN in this buſineſs is, that he has with great ſkill and ability ſpoken of all the arts, except muſic. He has ſhewn that the ſame of the ſtatuary is moſt perfect when the ſtatues themſelves are broken to pieces—that RAPHAEL and SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS are cotemporaries,^* and that theſe arts are ſubordinate to poetry; but he has not once even hinted that there is any ſuch ſtudy as muſic—to which, I inſiſt upon it, none of the arts are ſuperior. I beg to aſk Mr. SHE⯑RIDAN a queſtion. Does he believe if—added to his own conſummate know⯑ledge of ſtage effect—he could borrow the pen of SHAKESPEARE, and by [261] blending ſuch talents, form a play beyond all conception the moſt perfect: that ever graced a theatre, that the audience would not—ſpite of their anxious ſuſ⯑pence—ſpite of their bruiſed hides in crowding to the houſe—hiſs down the curtain, if they were deprived of the firſt muſic. But indeed whatever may be the conſcious haughtineſs with which this gentleman may think proper to look down on an art, to which I hope he owes no grudge, he had good ſenſe enough to court its alliance before he thought proper to put his dramatic fame to a ſecond trial.

The Critic is ſurely nothing equal, as a ſatire, to Tom Thumb—and when we talk of The Rehearſal, it ſinks to nothing. FIELDING and BUCKINGHAM have taken in the whole round of tragedy, and properly conceived that DRY⯑DEN, LEE, and the old ſtandards, were fair game. What has Mr. SHERI⯑DAN done? Why truly, except indeed where he chuſes to ridicule SHAKES⯑PEARE—which, by the bye, I do not think an Engliſh audience would have ſuffered in any body elſe—he has expoſed the puerile, modern ſtuff, which if it be deficient in merit, he—as a manager—muſt bear his ſhare of reprehenſion for obtruding it on the public. The buſineſs of Sir Plagiary is ſevere enough; but, unfortunately, the very words he intends ſhould give the deepeſt wound, recoils on himſelf—for they are a plagiary. Puff, is full of pointed obſerva⯑tion, but that part of the piece is the firſt inſtance—as I before obſerved—where an audience have quietly ſat down and conſented to be laughed at by an author. As to the drift of the piece, it appears to be written with a view alone to diſ⯑courage writers of tragedy; for there is no poſſible ſituation that can excite pi⯑ty, terror, or any of thoſe paſſions which it is the buſineſs of tragedy pecu⯑liarly to call forth, but this work, which ‘"profeſſes to be critical,"’ attempts to laugh at—and really not always with ſucceſs; for, if figure and imagery may at all be introduced in this ſpecies of writing, the criticiſm itſelf is more an object of ridicule than the thing it profeſſes to criticiſe. In ſhort, I defy Mr. SHERIDAN himſelf to write a tragedy ſo as to ſteer clear of his own laſh; and how abſurd muſt a man appear who provides a caſtigation for himſelf! [263] The matter relative to the clock, at the beginning of The Duenna, ſhews evi⯑dently that he is vulnerable, as well as his neighbours; and as the circum⯑ſtance goes to a reprobation of the unities, it were as modeſt to propoſe ſome better criterion before he invited us to explode the admitted ſtandard: ‘"but one man may ſteal a horſe better than another look over the hedge,"’ ſays the old proverb. Mr. SHERIDAN can write in any ſtyle, and to any degree of perfection he pleaſes, but his public writing, like his public ſpeaking, is more catching than CAPTIVATING; it dazzles, but does not IMPRESS—it charms, but does not CONVINCE. In ſhort, as that gentleman's aim is popu⯑larity, he does every thing for the moment, and it is a queſtion, after he has ſunk into eaſe and independance, from his natural indolence of mind, whether he will ever again be known but by a few eminent trifles written to grace the private cabinet, and make up the delices of the elegant and euridite.

Mr. SHERIDAN having moſt probably done with the ſtage, as an author, it is but fair to examine how far, in that capacity, he has been an acquiſition to the public; and when we conſider that he has deprived the world of the beſt ſinger, beyond all compariſon, that we have ever heard, it is very doubt⯑ful whether what he has given be adequate to what he has taken away—and, admitting this, the public would rather have gained than loſt had Mr. SHE⯑RIDAN originally kept to politics, and have had nothing to do with the theatre.

This gentleman, from his earlieſt youth, reſolved to be at the top of his profeſſion, be it what it might. May his integrity equal his abilities, and there is no ſituation but he will adorn!

To the Rev. Mr. —.

FINDING in LONDON the muſical world up in arms at what they had heard concerning this book, I cannot reſume the ſubject better than by taking them while they are warm. I am only ſorry the ſmall re⯑maining portion of room which I can dedicate to this ſubject will prevent me from going into it ſo fully as I could wiſh—for it is prolific, and cannot, for the ſake of the public, be too cloſely inſpected.

I have advanced that PURCEL had a ſtronger mind than HANDEL, and that had ARNE been encouraged, he would have been a greater man. At the time PURCEL lived, muſic was in its infancy in this kingdom, and all the perfection compoſers had an idea of, was to ſhackle themſelves with rules, and thus they dared not give way to the brilliancy of their genius—for there was as much good ſenſe in this practiſe as there would be in tying a man's legs to make him run the faſter—but where, in ſpite of dull cuſtom, the ima⯑gination of PURCEL beamed forth. It had a majeſty and a reſulgence, like the ſun breaking from a cloud. How beautiful is that heavenly bit, ‘"I call you all to WODEN's hall!"’ What a bar or two will be found in, ‘"Let not a moon-born elf!"’ Can any thing, for exquiſite ſimplicity and ſweet⯑neſs, [265] exceed ‘"Lovely iſle?"’ Nor will I go out of this very piece to prove my poſition relative to HANDEL. ‘"Come, if you dare, the trumpet ſounds,"’ gives me a fine opportunity to throw down my gauntlet, and I challenge all the world to ſhew me any thing in muſic that can go beyond it. HANDEL had a glorious opportunity, had it been poſſible; but, in his attempt to excel it, he has fallen to an immenſe diſtance indeed. The words for both are written by DRYDEN, and thoſe which HANDEL ſet, for grandeur, has the pre-emi⯑nence: one runs

I cannot correctly remember the remainder—but this will be enough for my purpoſe: the other words are,

PURCEL's expreſſion, is one great, ſoul-felt effuſion of ſimple ſublimity; and as it ever will be the caſe with great minds, at the ſame time that theſe few bold notes carry us to the rough manners of the court of King ARTHUR, there is a natural eaſe and irreſiſtable grace in them that will vainly be imitated by all the ſtudied poliſh of the Italian ſchool; and indeed ſo ſtrongly from ge⯑nius did PURCEL poſſeſs that ſymmetry in fancy, which—like the native dig⯑nity of ſome forms—cannot in any poſition be ungraceful, that the very error Dr. BURNEY reprobates in HANDEL—which he qualifies, by the bye, ſaying that it was not reformed till lately—is here in PURCEL, who lived in ruder [266] times, better than corrected—it is avoided; for his great conception—while others labour to improve nature into eaſe—derived eaſe from nature. What I allude to is, the accommodating the melody of the capacity of the trumpets—which HANDEL ſcarcely ever does—and ſurely there is ſomething like barren⯑neſs of invention in this. But to examine what HANDEL has done with the other words—and here I am afraid integrity obliges us to ſay he has ſervilely imitated PURCEL. I ſay ſervilely, becauſe the time and the conſtruction is the ſame, but—like a clumſy tranſlation—the literal intention is barely pre⯑ſerved, and all the beauty and correctneſs left out. Indeed the curious mode of accenting the beginning of every bar—for it runs thus, ‘"The trumpets loud clangour excites us to arms,"’ the lovely introduction of the fourth for the trumpet, and the lameneſs of the double beat of the thundering drum—though thundering happens to be of three ſyllables, and thus there can be no excuſe for it—ſhews that though HANDEL came after PURCEL—which is ad⯑mitted to be an advantage—it was in ſuch a hobbling kind of way, and he was at ſuch a diſtance, that he never was able to come up to him. The words ‘"Charge, 'tis too late to retreat,"’ though they are materially hurt by the continuation of that baſtard kind of minuet which accompanies them through⯑out, have much of HANDEL's natural grandeur which certainly characterized him, wherever he is helped out by inſtruments, but which ſeems perpetually to forſake him when the voice ſhould convey the MIND.

PURCEL—though probably very unconſcious that he had ſucceſsfully challenged all the world to excel him—follows up ‘"Come—if you dare,"’ with ‘"To arms,"’ which harmony HANDEL has twenty times played upon, and ‘"Britons ſtrike home"’—and if any man will ſhew me a ſuperior ſelec⯑tion from any one piece compoſed by HANDEL—as no man is more open to conviction—I will confeſs that PURCEL and I are conquered.

ALEXANDER is ſaid to have emulated ACHILLES, and CHARLES XII. ALEXANDER. It has alſo been remarked that SPENCER had only the [267] ANCIENTS to conſult—DRYDEN the ANCIENTS and SPENCER—and POPE all theſe—and that we may by deduction pronounce that SPENCER was the greateſt poet, DRYDEN the next, and POPE the moſt inferior. It is certain whatever DRYDEN and POPE have come in contact—witneſs, for example, the Ode on St. Cecilia's day and Alexander's feaſt—POPE has conſtantly been worſted, and probably all the fancy in DRYDEN's works together bear no pro⯑portion to the wonderful imagery in the teeming imagination of SPENCER; let me therefore be allowed, when I ſpeak of PURCEL, the time in which he lived, the little information he could have gathered from what went before him, and the many diſcouragements he laboured under, and I am not afraid but every man who has the candour to take up my arguments upon this liberal ground, will allow me that this wonderful compoſer had a ſtronger mind than HANDEL.

My next taſk will be to prove my poſition in relation to ARNE, and this I ſhall endeavour to do in my next letter. In the mean time, I cannot either introduce that or finiſh this better than by remarking, that when ARNE came to alter the muſic of King ARTHUR for Drury-lane, with that good ſenſe and philanthropy of which no man poſſeſſed a larger ſhare—though he introduced ſome charming things—ſo far from mutilating PURCEL, as a modern compiler would have done, with proper reverence for ſuch great abilities, his whole ſtudy was to place his idolized predeceſſor in that conſpicuous ſituation, the brilliancy of his reputation demanded; for ARNE—and I well know it—had as much of the harmony of humanity, as of ſounds. His latter excellence I am now going to examine. Give me however an agreeable relaxation, by ſuffer⯑ing me once more to repeat that I am

To the Rev Mr. —

IF any of the lovers of HANDEL were to open this book exactly at this page, they would think it was written in Bedlam, and immediately, pitying the poor maniac of an author, ſhrug up their ſhoulders, and lay it down. As to their opinions, whoſe minds are ſhut againſt convic⯑tion, I am perfectly indifferent—but I will not let them paſs without remark⯑ing, that thoſe who admire one man of genius to the excluſion of all others, muſt naturally poſſeſs ſuch narrow, contracted ſentiments, that their very blandiſhments are tainted with poiſon, and deſtroy that reputation they profeſs to cheriſh.

I ſtart ARNE againſt HANDEL, by ſaying that HANDEL has not produced a piece ſo complete, from firſt to laſt, as Comus. As a man of genius, by in⯑finite degrees, Acis and Galatea is HANDEL's beſt work; and I will venture to ſay, but for that piece, he could not have borne that great rank, notwith⯑ſtanding all that has been vaunted of the Meſſiah, among men who know really how to diſtinguiſh. Acis and Galatea contains a number of beautiful me⯑lodies; and what liſts it into great conſequence is, that the ſubject is every [269] where paſtoral, and yet HANDEL has contrived, without injuring it, to make it every where different. Even Polypheme and the octave flute are con⯑ſiſtently coupled together. The famous trio, ‘"The flocks ſhall leave the mountains,"’ is a compoſition replete with ſweetneſs and expreſſion, and ‘"Wretched lovers,"’ is an aſtoniſhing chorus. ‘"Huſh! ye pretty warbling quire,"’ and ‘"Love in her eyes,"’ are delicately pretty, though if there were not ſo great a maze of modulation in the latter, it would be more pleaſing. In ſhort, there is prodigious merit in Acis and Galatea, and yet I am not afraid but ARNE can ſtand fairly up to his competitor. I would not wiſh to match my HERO with a pigmy.

Comus has one character as well as Acis and Galatea; and the bacchana⯑lian revels of ARNE is every where equal to the paſtoral ſimplicity of HANDEL, and in many places SUPERIOR. ARNE has diverſified his ſubjects, and in a very peculiar way given them a maſculine and a feminine colouring. Among the firſt are, ‘"When Phoebus ſinketh in the weſt,"’ ‘"By the gaily circling glaſs,"’ ‘"Fly ſwiftly ye minutes,"’ and ſeveral others; and amongſt the latter, ‘"By dimpled brook,"’ ‘"Would you taſte the noontide air,"’ ‘"Come, bid adieu to fear,"’ and many more. Nay, he has contrived to blend this colouring in ‘"Live and love, enjoy the fair,"’ which is a moſt happy com⯑poſition indeed, and fairly equal, in its kind, to ‘"The flocks ſhall leave the mountains."’ All theſe ſongs are full of rich and pleaſing melody, and in them there is not a ſuperfluous note. There ARNE takes the lead of HANDEL—becauſe muſic does not want alone fancy to conceive, but judgment to com⯑plete it; and in many of the ſongs of Acis and Galatea, ‘"Shepherd what art thou purſuing,"’ ‘"Conſider fond ſhepherd,"’ ‘"Ceaſe to beauty,"’ and ſome others, the ſubject is worked on, till the ear can bear it no longer, and the compoſer ſeeming to be aware of this laſſitude, takes his advantage of it, and comes any how to a cloſe while the ſtupor prevails, that ſo the hearer may not with preciſion judge of his deſects.

[270]So far, Comus is at leaſt upon a par with Acis and Galatea, and when we call in ‘"Nor on beds,"’ that heavenly melody, ſo greatly conceived, ſo delicately purſued, and ſo exquiſitely finiſhed—‘"On every hill,"’ which is a ſpecies of paſtoral muſic peculiar to ARNE, and being in a minor key, and conſequently of a more primitive nature, eſpecially as its ſimplicity appeals wonderfully to the heart, may be ſaid to be ſuperior to any other. ‘"Sweet echo,"’ which ‘"takes the rapt ſoul and laps it in elyſium,"’ and many of inferior kind, ſuch as that pretty ſong, ‘"By the ruſhy, fringed bank,"’ there can be no doubt but Comus is a greater effort of genius than Acis and Galatea.

But there are more complete pieces to aſſiſt this argument. Artaxerxes is a moſt powerful performance—there the hearer may be gratified with every ſtyle of ſerious muſic, and yet the whole is managed with ſuch judgment—which outgoes Mr. SHERIDAN—that though perfectly in nature, the ſtage boxes are not more ſatisfied than the upper galleries.

If we ſearch further, we ſhall find Judith, an oratorio, that does honour to Engliſh genius—where we may ſee ſacred ideas, without burleſque accom⯑paniments—ſweet air and forcible expreſſion—capital ſongs, perfectly vocal—and aſtoniſhingly brilliant choruſſes, without a fugue.

If we have ſtill to ſhew—for I would willingly ſatisfy every body—whe⯑ther ARNE knew muſic ſcientifically, I'll beg leave to inſtance the choruſſes in Abel, which, it muſt be admitted, explore the regions of harmony with a lati⯑tude as bold and as maſterly as any thing in muſic. And now I think, if ARNE had been equally patronized with HANDEL; if he had not been obliged to hu⯑mour managers; to conſult the caprice of actors and actreſſes; to witneſs the arrogance of Italians, whoſe baſe metal became a faſhion, while his ſterling coin was diſregarded; to do jobs for now and then twenty guineas; and dance attendance at catch clubs to make up an annual benefit, he would have had better reaſon to think himſelf properly encouraged, and perhaps been ſtimu⯑lated [271] to the accompliſhment of various other works, for which his exalted ge⯑nius ſo eminently qualified him. This alone has made him apparently inferior to HANDEL, and this induced him to keep within the limits of his mediocre ſituation, contenting himſelf by the exerciſe of his own cheerful and even temper, with that precarious pittance which is too often allotted to real merit in this country.

Certainly ARNE's faults were few—HANDEL's innumerable; and when we conſider that HANDEL compoſed when he was in the humour, and to pleaſe himſelf—ARNE when he could get a job, and to pleaſe his employer; that HANDEL was rich, and ARNE was poor—our wonder ought rather to be, that he left ſo many and ſuch admirable compoſitions behind him. But DRY⯑DEN is ſaid to have been prevented from writing an epic poem by his engage⯑ment with the theatres, which obliged him to write four plays in a year; and thus are we conſtantly deprived of the beſt efforts of Engliſh genius by laviſh⯑ing that on foreigners—who laugh at us—which is ſo honourably due to our own countrymen.

My next letter will ſpeak of teaching—which will be all I ſhall have oc⯑caſion to ſay generally of muſic. I am charmed that I have opened your eyes relative to Mr. SHERIDAN. ARNE is a favourite of yours, and therefore this laſt taſk has not been ſo hard. I hope you believe me juſt to every body; is I were not ſo, I ſhould not deſerve the pleaſure with which I ſubſcribe my⯑ſelf,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

A Shall now ſpeak of that myſtery by which ſo many young ladies, at a great expence, in the courſe of ſeven years, attain the ſupreme felicity of expoſing themſelves by playing MALBROOK out of tune, and hammering out unmeaning, progreſſive leſſons, by which the taſte of whole families is vitiated, through the ignorance of mere ſtrummers and octave players, through which the foundation of genius is ſapped and de⯑ſtroyed, and through which pretenders to a liberal profeſſion—mere quacks—are lifted into conſequence, and permitted to vilify and traduce thoſe produc⯑tions they have not the taſte and judgment to underſtand.

A teacher nurſes a ſcholar as an apothecary does a patient; and a ſlow ſe⯑ver and a dunce are much about upon a par: it is not the intention that one ſhould recover, or the other improve—the buſineſs is to keep them in hand as long as poſſible; and if a robuſt conſtitution in one, and ſtrong intellects in the other, manifeſt ſigns of health or merit, 'tis wonderful to what ſhifts the poor devils are put—to curb nature, in order to ſwell out the bill.

[273]Good teachers—like good lawyers—are very ſcarce. Thoſe who are really good ones, will firſt of all inculcate the principles of muſic to a certain degree, prove thoſe principles in every poſſible manner, and ſtrongly root their efficacy in the ſcholar's mind—and nothing in nature, to men of real inge⯑nuity, is eaſier than this.

Bad teachers ſwarm all over the kingdom, and their practice is to their ſcholars immediately to the inſtrument, to explain nothing but as it oc⯑curs, to make a myſtery of every thing, and at length—ſome wilfully, and others out of ignorance—to confirm in their ſcholars ſo many bad habits and perplexities, that they are further from the real mark when they leave off, than when they began.

A third ſort of teachers—who are certainly bad ones too, but not ſo miſchievous—are thoſe who go about every thing ſcientifically, and teach thorough baſs, fugue, and counterpoint, inſtead of Foot's minuet. One of theſe had taken a young lady in hand, and taught her, in the courſe of three quar⯑ters of a year, every poſſible ſituation of the ſixth, and fourth, and common chord. Dr. MILLER and I had a laugh about this, for we calculated that, taking in all the concords and diſcords, with their proper and inverted rela⯑tions, this young lady might entertain lively hopes, in the courſe of two and thirty years and a half, of accompanying a concerto.

Both ſorts of bad teachers do equal miſchief—for thoſe who wilfully im⯑poſe on parents, decry the works of genius out of envy, as much as the other deſcription out of ignorance; and the conſequent evils are, the loſs of time and expence, and the introduction of bad taſte. From this laſt abuſe ſprings half the muſical folly for which this country is ſo celebrated, which, like Veſuvius, is frequently breaking out, bearing down taſte, genius, and every cultivated object in its way; for whether a human voice an octave above a [274] blackbird—a French-horn that plays every thing but what is natural to it—a fugue, or an Iriſh jig—a double drum, or a bagpipe—be the object, this monſter, this devourer, rages like the Minotaur, and taſte is the bleeding ſa⯑crifice devoted to appeaſe his ravages. Alas, that ſome muſical Theſeus would but deſtroy this peſt, and rid our country of its barbariſm! But a clue to the labyrinth where it is concealed, will hardly be found while there are ſo many to participate the golden fleece.

There is no coming to the end of this ſubject, eſpecially circumſcribed as I am. I can therefore only ſay, in addition to the above remarks, that a practical knowledge of muſic, as far as it can be neceſſary for common pur⯑poſes, is very eaſily attained; for it conſiſts of nothing more than learning the gamut—the names, lengths, diviſions, and meaſure of the notes—diſtinc⯑tions of all the major and minor keys—the ſituations of the ſemitones, and the doctrine of uſing the ſharp ſeventh to modulate into the fifth of the key, and the flat ſeventh to return to the original key. Theſe, with all colateral matters, are nothing like ſo difficult as the firſt four rules of arithmetic, with the fractions relative to them; and yet, upon the ſame principle that Addition, Subtraction, Multiplication, and Diviſion comprehend the whole ſtudy of figures, ſo do theſe rules in muſic comprehend the whole ſyſtem of harmony; and all there is more to be done is, to blend, ſeparate, diverſify, and in ſhort, uſe them in every poſſible point of view. Let not a ſcholar then learn more than this, let it be learnt perfect, and then put in practice—which done, it is a thouſand to one—if there is any genius to aſſiſt ſtudy—but the whole ſcience will lay clearly open to view:—if it ſhould not, by the union of what has been learnt, it may be eaſily attained; and it would be as abſurd to teach muſic upon any other plan, as to ſet a ſum in the Rule of three for a ſcholar who had not learnt his Numeration Table.

With all this, great care muſt be uſed in the choice of a maſter; and as to teachers decrying good muſic, and introducing falſe taſte, I ſee no cure for [275] this but my former rule, which is—let no man ſubſcribe to the goodneſs of any muſic that is not pleaſing. It would be good indeed if it were as pleaſing as the ſenſation I feel when I repeat to you that I am,

To the Rev Mr. —

AS a dramatic writer collects all his matter toge⯑ther at the beginning of the laſt act, in order to introduce his Coup de Theatre, which, as it may ſuit him, either leads to, or finiſhes the cataſtrophe, ſo ſhall I immediately carry into one general account all the remains of places, inns, and other ſubordinate matter, in order to introduce ſuch a Coup de Theatre as ſhall command applauſe at the fall of the curtain.

I have mentioned already the opulence and populouſneſs of LEEDS, and ſhall take my final leave of the inhabitants as a ſpirited, manly, and enlight⯑ened people, who have the induſtry to get money, and the liberality to ſpend it, It has two very large cloth-halls, and the aſſembly-room is by far the handſomeſt I ſaw in my tour, for a ſingle room.

HALIFAX is an aſtoniſhing trading town for its ſize. I ſaw the cloth-hall on a market day, and it gave me an idea of a bee-hive; the prodigious number of cells, and the porters coming in and out with their bundles of cloth, were exactly the loaded bees. The pariſh contains twelve chapels of eaſe, and is ſaid to be worth about twelve hundred a year.

[277]MANCHESTER is a charming town, and I have ſeen nothing ſuperior to Moſely-ſtreet, but Portland-ſquare. The number of people on a market day is aſtoniſhing, and the entrance into the town from STOCKPORT—which is to MAN⯑CHESTER what WOLVERHAMPTON is to BIRMINGHAM—is very magnificent. The choir in the Collegiate church is beautiful, and the progreſs of the ma⯑nufactories, and in particular the cutting fuſtians, and paſſing even the fineſt muſlins over a red hot iron, are matters aſtoniſhingly curious, and which, if time permitted, I ſhould have great pleaſure in dwelling on.

LIVERPOOL is beyond all queſtion the firſt town in the kingdom after LONDON; its capacious docks, its roomy ſtorehouſes, its entenſive and well-filled harbour, the prodigious plenty in its markets, particularly of corn—its ſpacious ſquares, its magnificent public buildings, of which the Change is a moſt capital one—its churches, and indeed all that great variety of edifices for duty, buſineſs, and pleaſure, to which by act of parliament they are now making conſiderable additions, abundantly prove the truth of this aſſertion. I did not ſee the theatre at MANCHESTER, but that at LIVERPOOL, which is altering upon an admirable plan, under the direction of Mr. TAYLOR, is ſpa⯑cious, convenient, and handſome. I counted in the directory nearly an hun⯑dred ſtreets, and this circumſtance obliges me again to ſpeak diſadvantageouſly of MANCHESTER, which place has, unlike LIVERPOOL, neither directory nor hackney coaches.

DURHAM, in ſummer, muſt be one of the moſt beautiful ſituations in ENGLAND. The river, the caſtle, the cathedral, the biſhop's palace, and the ſtraggling ſuburbs, preſent you with a new and pictureſque view wherever you turn. It is remarkable for a good choir of ſingers; indeed the ſalaries are higher here than any where, and in conſequence—for encouragement wonderfully nurtures genius—our concerts have been well ſtocked from thence. The more genteel part of the inhabitants are more a community than a neighbourhood, a family than a ſociety.

[278]NEWCASTLE is ancient and romantic, and the inhabitants ſeem to reliſh of both. They give you an idea of a man who piques himſelf on his birth and extraction, though his manſion is mouldering and his eſtate falling to de⯑cay. I do not mean to ſay that NEWCASTLE is not rich—it is remarkably ſo, and I am informed hoſpitable. However, there muſt be a manner with me—it is not the ſize of the diſh, but the ſtyle in which it is dreſſed; not the number of eatables, but the mode of their being put on the table; and, after all, it is not the wine, but the converſation that accompanies it. NEW⯑CASTLE ſeems to have very little taſte. There is a new and remarkably handſome theatre, which is a hobby-horſe at preſent, and will, in all proba⯑bility, be thrown away next year for ſome other bawble. In ſhort—for I am always obliged to have recourſe to LIVERPOOL when I would make an advantageous compariſon—NEWCASTLE is proud, LIVERPOOL induſtrious—NEWCASTLE is near, LIVERPOOL liberal—and one may pretty well conclude, that if they did not dig their riches out of the bowels of the earth, and un⯑load them in the river Thames, they would not count on their riches; for they would never have the ſpirit and courage to adventure for them, with any degree of intrepidity, to the fartheſt corner of the world. The road from YORK to DARLINGTON is beautiful. It is a heavy ſtage from DAR⯑LINGTON to DURHAM, and, on account of the hills, ſtill heavier from DUR⯑HAM to NEWCASTLE.

For the inns I muſt go back again to BIRMINGHAM, where there are ſeveral good ones, but all immoderately dear. At LICHFIELD, which is in the public road from LONDON to LIVERPOOL, they are pretty good and to⯑lerably reaſonable. At DERBY much better for accommodations, but much the ſame as to their charge. At NOTTINGHAM, the Blackamoor's Head is an inn where travellers will be ſhewn every civility, get good entertainment and accommodation, and upon moderate terms. I have ſpoken of NEWARK.—At LINCOLN I would recommend the Spread Eagle, which is a decent, civil houſe, and reaſonable. At BARTON, where it may ſometimes happen that [279] you are obliged to ſtay ſeveral hours, and where you generally arrive wet from HULL, there is but one miſerable inn, the ſmalleſt accommodation or any thing decent by way of eating and drinking. BAKER's, at HULL, is a very good inn—and ſo is the Tyger, at BEVERLY At YORK, and every where in the north road, there are good inns, but in general very dear—the Angel, at DONCASTER, in particular. At LEEDS there is not a real good inn in the town. At HALIFAX they are not remarkable for appearance, but they are for decent neatneſs, and good eatables and drinkables, and the loweſt charges any where in Yorkſhire. At WAKEFIELD, the Stratford Arms is a very good inn, and they pay you attention, and charge pretty reaſonable. At MANCHESTER there is not a ſingle good inn, and the treatment is inſolent beyond deſcription—at leaſt where I have been. Only ſee the gradation—at HALIFAX I paid four ſhillings for the ſame tea, ſupper, and breakfaſt, which at DONCASTER coſt me nine, and at MANCHESTER thirteen;—but this laſt was at the Hotel, which exactly gives you the idea of a bagnio in LONDON.—This Hotel belongs to the man who keeps the Bull's Head, at which houſe I had a room, and an indifferent one for the performance, yet were my friends under a neceſſity of aſking it as a ſort of favour, though the man was hand⯑ſomely paid, and the accommodations were very contemptible indeed. As to DIXON, at the Swan, the laſt time I was at MANCHESTER I was from ſeven o'clock in the morning till eleven getting away in a poſt-chaiſe, and during that time, having a letter to ſeal and a parcel to tie up, after—in the courſe of an hour and a half—intreating the favour of a wafer and a bit of pack thread; I was at length obliged to go to a ſhop to buy it, and the man told me he did not wonder at it, for it was a remark that the innkeepers of MANCHES⯑TER ſpit in people's faces in return for their favours. As far as my experience goes, this uſage extends alſo to lodging-houſes. Every body knows where I lodged at MANCHESTER, and I paid there for board and lodging full four times as much as I was charged at LIVERPOOL for better living. ^* The inns [280] at LIVERPOOL are pretty rich, and therefore of courſe pretty conſequential. Maſter FORSHAR, in particular, whoſe room I had, has a good deal of con⯑ſequence, but he has an idea of reſpect, and would be the firſt to reprove his waiters for the ſmalleſt incivility to ſtrangers. As to their charges, the diligence took me to the Croſs Keys, where I was very comfortable for a day or two, upon very reaſonable terms. The roads in Lancaſhire are, in gene⯑ral very ſandy and bad, but this is ſometimes remedied by paving them, and in great part of Yorkſhire there is a ſtone cauſeway, which is a very agree⯑able recommendation to foot paſſengers.

Leaving all theſe, and ceaſing at once to be a public character, I arrived in TOWN, as I told you, where the firſt news that I heard was, that GRI⯑MALDI, that incendiary by whom was bred ſo much of my public uneaſi⯑neſs, that viper who bit me becauſe I foſtered him, was no more. Perhaps it is a good omen—and having completed my reſolution of quitting all thea⯑trical purſuits, in which it is plain I could not hope for proſperity, the ma⯑lignant fiend has ceaſed his deteſtable influence. He has not living left his [281] equal—for if fifty ABURNOTS were to lend their aſſiſtance, they could not write an epitaph expreſſive of him whoſe corrupt heart harboured more vice than could reſide in the ſoul of fifty CHARTERISES.^* See how my plot winds up! The monſter is dead that obſtructed my former fortune—in my next I ſhall introduce the guardian ſpirit, whoſe benign goodneſs has ſent me ſmiling hope to protect my fortune in future.

To the Rev Mr. —

IT had long been my ambition to bring out this work under the protection of the PRINCE OF WALES. For this purpoſe I ſolicited the kindeſt and moſt generous friend I have, who frequently has the honour of being where his ROYAL HIGHNESS viſits, to do what he could with propriety to procure me this high and flattering advantage. Indefatiga⯑ble to oblige and ſerve me, he did not let the matter reſt a ſingle moment, but watching the firſt opportunity to mention it with proper decorum; the PRINCE, with all that amiable affability which ever diſtinguiſhes the truly noble, condeſcendingly ſignified a wiſh to ſee me.

By his ROYAL HIGHNESS's gracious appointment, I had the great honour, at the houſe of a gentleman where my kind friend is very intimate, of playing and ſinging in his preſence thoſe ſongs with which—not leſs as a correct and per⯑fect judge of muſic, than of nature, expreſſion, and diſcrimination—I thought he was moſt likely to be entertained; and though I did not perform fewer than twen⯑ty, I had the ſingular ſatisfaction to find I did nothing but what received perfect approbation, nor for nearly two hours did the time ſeem to wear—even tho' [283] MARCHESI had, during the interval, made his firſt appearance^* at the Opera, and vainly looked round for this illuſtrious auditor, who, at that moment, was perhaps paying the tribute of a ſigh to the memory of poor JACK RATLIN, or regretting the unhappy fate of the worn out race horſe.^†

My friend took an opportunity, before the PRINCE retired, to requeſt the honour of his name to my ſubſcription; to which his ROYAL HIGHNESS thought proper to anſwer ‘"I might uſe his name in any way that I thought would be of ſervice to me."’ No terms can convey a panegyric adequate to this noble condeſcenſion; what could induce it but that true greatneſs of mind which, as PORTIA ſays of mercy, ‘"becomes the throned monarch better than his crown."’ But the genial ſun cheriſhes not more the ſpread⯑ing ROSE than the humble VIOLET.

Having this honourable and flattering Carte blanche, my firſt wiſh I own was a dedication; but, upon conſidering how many of theſe ſort of ad⯑dreſſes teem with ſuch ridiculous hyperbole and fulſome adulation, as would make one think they attempted to ſatyrize that PATRONAGE they profeſſed to ſolicit—though never did opportunity occur where flattery was ſo impoſſible—I thought an inſcription—for what with ſuch a name is not an advantage—would be moſt adviſeable, and I could then give a latitude to thoſe feelings, in a letter to you, which addreſſed to the ROYAL PERSONAGE from whoſe bounty I have the happineſs to derive them, could not, without wounding reſpect, have been dreſſed in terms forcible enough for the purpoſe; nor indeed, with this ſcope, do I flatter myſelf with perfect ſucceſs—for the real language of a ſuſceptible heart never yet found its way to the pen.

[284]Yet I cannot finiſh without a word or two more on this generous ſub⯑ject. In this TOUR will be found many noble and illuſtrious perſons, with whom I have had the honour to converſe. I have, in that warmth which truth alone inſpired, ſpoken of theſe in terms of praiſe, and I do not, upon recollection, repent of any ſyllable to this effect. I have ſeen courtly breeding in FRANCE—I have ever made it my particular felicity to notice the talents of ingenious men—but I confidently declare that all I have wit⯑neſſed ſinks into nothing before the object of my preſent panegyric. In de⯑portment, never was there ſuch an union of eaſe, grace, and dignity, as in the PRINCE OF WALES. His manners are gentle, mild, and affable, or as SHAKESPEARE has it, ‘"ſweet as ſummer"’—and yet always PRINCELY.—His obſervations are keen and penetrating; his intellectual intelligence ſtrong, diffuſive, and refined; his information ſelect and judicious; in ſhort, that beau⯑tiful picture in which HAMLET paints the mental as well as the perſonal per⯑fections of his father, never called for application ſo ſtrongly as in the preſent inſtance; for if ever countenance, form, manner, and underſtanding are to be relied on, thoſe of this ILLUSTRIOUS YOUTH clearly point him out as the protector, benefactor, and FRIEND of MANKIND.

But I muſt force myſelf from this indulgent employment, leſt that ſhould become diſreſpect which ought to be humility—for who can truſt the effuſions of a HEAD full of praiſe and a HEART full of gratitude!

With theſe auſpicious feelings I finiſh my TOUR, and beg you to be⯑lieve that I am now, as ever,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I ſhall now, as faithfully as my memory will permit me, proceed to ſtate the ſucceſs, both in profit and reputation, of every piece I have produced to the public. I am afraid, however, I ſhall not be very ac⯑curate in my account of the more ſubordinate kind; for were I to be put to the torture, I could not enumerate ſome of the interludes and pantomimes which have been done at Sadler's Wells and ſome other places; nor can I place thoſe I do recollect in accurate order, as to their dates; I ſhall, how⯑ever, be as correct as poſſible, and where my intelligence is uncertain, I will myſelf ſuſtain the loſs rather than fill up the blank by exaggeration.

• 1. The Shepherd's Artifice, performed in May 1762, and 1763. This piece, which I wrote and compoſed at ſeventeen, was only got up for my own benefit. It has a thouſand faults, and in particular, as at that time I did not know how to put my muſical thoughts upon paper but by mere ſtrength of imagination, 'tis impoſſible to deſcribe the number of its inaccuracies. Theſe however the ſame force of fancy enabled me to correct, and, without any aſ⯑ſiſtance, I produced the ſame piece in a perfect ſtate, by only liſtening to the faults as I heard them in the band. It was performed at two of my benefits, [286] and each time brought a tolerable houſe—but it never came forward in the com⯑mon buſineſs of the theatre. The muſic was very much applauded.^*
• 2 Love in the City, performed in the year 1764—a piece written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF, and performed but ſix nights. In this I compoſed the overture, the firſte horus, the finales of the firſt and ſecond acts, and three ſongs. Love in the City has ſince been altered into the farce of the Romp, in which the chorus, the quintetto, the boxing trio, and ‘"Dear me how I long to be married,"’ are mine.^* This muſic I made Mr. BICKERSTAFF a preſent of.
• [287]3 Lionel and Clariſſa—written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF, and performed in the ſeaſon of 1767 and 1768. By looking at the index it will be ſeen that, from firſt to laſt, I compoſed for this piece about twenty-five things, for which trouble I received, at different times, forty-eight pounds—giving up the copy⯑right. The ſale of this muſic did not yield much, till it came out under the title of The School for Fathers; otherwiſe I think I ſhould not have been ſo completely overreached in the following agreement.
• 4 The Padlock—written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF, and performed at Drury-Lane, in October 1768. The ſucceſs of this piece is pretty well known all over the kingdom; it may not, however, be amiſs to mention that no con⯑ception can be formed of the ſale of the muſic. Comus is known to have ſold very extenſively, but after upwards of thirty years, three fourths of the ori⯑ginal plates are ſtill in uſe. What then will be ſaid when I aſſure the public the Padlock had, ſeven years ago, nearly worn out three entire ſets! But how will their wonder be augmented when I declare, upon the faith of a man, that I never received, in the whole, for compoſing that muſic, but forty-five pounds; though I dare ſay the ſale of the muſic alone yielded Mr. BICKERSTAFF nearly five hundred pounds. In addition to this, his benefit yielded two hundred pounds, Mr. GARRICK made him a preſent of one hun⯑dred pounds,^* and the words muſt have alſo been greatly productive, for he [288] kept the copyright—and, twelve years ago, there had been upwards of twenty three thouſand copies ſold. My agreement, however, was made before the piece came out, and I conceived his recommendation of me to Mr. GARRICK, in the light of a great obligation; whereas, had I not been the ſtupideſt of all idiots, I might have ſeen that my being pinned to Drury-Lane upon ſuch eaſy terms, was a matter concerted between them. I hate to think of it—therefore, let me pauſe, and bring myſelf into temper, by aſſuring you that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —.

PLEASE to go on with me.

• 5 The Maid the Miſtreſs—performed in the ſummer of 1769, at Ranelagh, and written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF. Having made an agreement that ſeaſon to compoſe for Ranelagh, and occaſionally ſing, for which trouble I was to have an hundred guineas, this piece comes within that article, and the muſic has never yet been publiſhed.
• 6 The Recruiting Serjeant—performed the ſame ſeaſon, on the ſame terms. I publiſhed the muſic on my own account, and found it unſucceſsful.
• 7 The Jubilee—written by Mr. GARRICK, and performed in October 1769. It would be an endleſs taſk to go through the variety of circumſtances which diſtinguiſh this memorable buſineſs; but nothing deſerves notice more truly than that SHAKESPEAR might have laid very quietly in STRATFORD church—nobody would have diſturbed his aſhes—had not ſuch a popular meaſure been the probable means of inſuring a plentiful harveſt to Drury-Lane [290] on the following ſeaſon. And yet, it was managed with ſo much caution, ſo much warineſs, that, according to the repreſentation of the matter to every body who was concerned in it, there did not appear any ſuch thing in agita⯑tion. This cautiouſneſs anſwered two purpoſes—it not only drew many to STRATFORD who would otherwiſe have ſuſpended their curioſity till they ſhould ſee it in LONDON, but it ſerved as a feaſible excuſe for requeſting every body's trouble and attendance for nothing. Thus, among the reſt, I took unwearied pains—not ſeeing that I ſhould materially aſſiſt in filling the coffers of Drury-Lane treaſury—without any emolument to myſelf. All this, however, I could have forgiven, if I had not been obliged to ſuſtain fifty hu⯑miliations. I will venture to ſay that had it not been for my muſic the audience would have ſhewn much more diſſatisfaction. They were not in very good humour as it was. They heard certainly Dr. ARNE's beautiful Oratorio of Judith, and his charming muſic of the Ode—and what was the moſt exqui⯑ſite and inexpreſſible treat that ever tranſcendent abilities could convey, or longing ears experience, they heard GARRICK repeat that Ode. Yet, being diſappointed of the Pageant—being wet through at the Maſquerade^*—they were certainly very much diſcontented; which diſſatisfaction would more than ſilently have manifeſted itſelf, had not ‘"The Warwickſhire Lads, &c."’ brought them into good humour:—yet was that very ſong privately ſet by Mr. AYLWARD, and the ‘"Mulberry Tree"’ by Dr. BOYCE, and had not my kind friend, Mr. GARRICK, been told at a rehearſal, where I was not preſent, that mine were ſet the beſt for effect, he would have waved all delicacy to me, and have had theirs performed. GEORGE GARRICK, who, where DAVID's immediate intereſt did not claſh, could be juſt to all the world, informed me [291] of this fact.^* In ſhort, GARRICK, in relation to the Jubilee, manoeuvred every where, and with every body. He procured abuſe to be inſerted in the papers, which he got all his friends to anſwer. He enliſted a prodigious num⯑ber of volunteers, whoſe exertions he pretty liberally extracted, at their ex⯑pence; and at length performed the ſame entertainment ninety-five times, in one ſeaſon, at Drury-Lane, which he ſent people an hundred miles not to ſee. The muſic of the Jubilee, having ſold it, previous to the performance, at STRATFORD—except ſome trifling part of it—yielded altogether about forty-three pounds.
• 8 Damon and Phillida—the ſame ſeaſon. This piece I was deſired, by Mr. GARRICK, to alter and new ſet. I was told that there was no ſettled price for ſuch a job, but I might make out a bill. I conceived this a good opportunity to make me amends for the trouble I had with the Jubilee, and did it cheerfully. The piece was not often performed, but before the time arrived to talk of ſettling for it, Mr. GARRICK propoſed to enter into an article for ſeven years, at ſix pounds a week for the three firſt years, and ſeven pounds for the other four; and in making the agreement he contrived—or LACY, inſtructed by him, as I mentioned before—to include every thing that was yet unaccounted for; ſo Damon and Phillida went for nothing, except fifteen pounds, for which I ſold the copyright of the muſic.
• [292]9 The Epheſian Matron—written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF. The ſame ar⯑ticle went over to a ſecond ſeaſon at Ranelagh, where this piece was performed, and under this article I compoſed it. The publication of this muſic was ſold on ſome eventual agreement, and I think yielded me only a few pounds—but I cannot at this moment ſay what. This piece was performed about thirty times.
• 10 The Brickduſt-man, a little muſical piece, performed at Sadler's Wells, written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF. This trifle had great ſucceſs, and introduced an engagement which I entered into with Mr. KING, which though no great matter as to emolument, was as good as Sadlers Wells could afford, and one of the pleaſanteſt I ever made. Indeed I am happy to have this opportunity of acknowledging my great regard and reſpect for this gentleman, which I hold from principle, and the reſult of many years experience of his manly, liberal, and uniform conduct; and he muſt forgive me if, feeling thus, I here make a public acknowledgment of the letter I received from him at MANCHESTER, wherein he ſubſcribed to this book, and gave as a reaſon, that ‘"he ſhould be ſorry to be left out of the liſt of my well-wiſhers."’ This friendſhip, dear ſir, is of the complexion of yours—for which, give me leave to ſay,

To the Rev Mr. —

WE now return to Drury-lane.

• 11. The Pigmy Revels—a pantomime which was performed in the ſeaſon of 1770 and 1771, with conſiderable ſucceſs. I know not who wrote the words, I only ſet the muſic, and it produced me no emolument, as it came under my article.
• 12 The Wedding Ring—the ſeaſon of 1771 and 1772. This piece I wrote and compoſed—but foreſeeing the difficulties I was likely to encounter, had no intention of making myſelf known as the author. The world recol⯑lects the ignominy with which Mr. BICKERSTAFF left this kingdom, and an invidious public print had the audacity to attribute this piece to him. Finding the attack a very ſerious one, I immediately made an affidavit that Mr. BICK⯑ERSTAFF was not the author, and publiſhed it. This oath was called a preva⯑ricating one, becauſe it did not ſay who was the author, and a whole ſtring of paragraphs of a moſt abuſive kind were immediately levelled at me, in the ſame paper. I did not wait for the tedious forms of law, but endeavoured to take that ſort of revenge which men perhaps imprudently endeavour to do, when the offence is beyond legal reparation. The printer however had as little [294] courage to meet my anger as he had principle in ſeeking to wound my charac⯑ter. He left town to avoid me, and for ſome time was not to be ſeen. I therefore moved the Court of King's Bench for him to ſhew cauſe why an in⯑formation ſhould not lodge againſt him for printing a libel. The rule was granted, and afterwards made abſolute; and there is no doubt but the gentle⯑man would have been publicly exhibited, had not my attorney taken it into his head, to decamp to FRANCE with the money, which, to the great credit of the Drury-lane performers—who inſiſted upon taking up this attrocious matter as a public cauſe—was raiſed by a ſubſcription among themſelves to defend the action. On the firſt night of this piece, I was called on the ſtage, and required to declare the author, which I did without heſitation; and the matter taking this turn, I reſolved, inſtead of concealing my name, always in future to an⯑nounce it, and rely on the public for the event. I had a benefit for this piece over and above my article, which yielded me upwards of an hundred pounds. The publication of the muſic I undertook myſelf, and got nothing by it. In⯑deed I have always made this remark, that the muſic I have ſold has yielded but very little, except to the publiſhers; and that I have publiſhed on my own account has conſtantly brought me in debt.
• 13 The Inſtallation—the ſame ſeaſon—written by Mr. GARRICK, and compoſed under my article. This I ſold, with a ſet of harpſichord leſſons, for a conditional ſixty-five pounds. The conditions were fulfilled, and I re⯑ceived the money.
• 14 The Ladle—a little piece for Sadler's Wells, in the ſeaſon of 1772, written and compoſed by me.
• 15 The Miſchance—the ſame place, and alſo written and compoſed by me. For the publication of this piece, The Ladle, and The Brickduſt-man, I received thirty guineas.
• 16 & 17 Two pantomimes—the names I cannot recollect. The publi⯑cation of one of theſe I ſold for ten guineas.
• [295]18 The Grenadier—written for Sadler's Wells, the ſame ſeaſon, by Mr. GARRICK.
• 19 The Widow of Abingdon—written alſo for Sadler's Wells, the ſame ſeaſon, by Mr. HULL. All theſe were compoſed under my article. They made up the entertainment of the whole ſeaſon.
• 20 Trip to Portſmouth—written by G. A. STEVENS, and performed at the Haymarket with good ſucceſs. I received for the compoſition and the pub⯑lication of the muſic nearly fifty pounds.
• 21 The Deſerter—altered from the French, and performed at Drury-lane in the years 1772 and 1773—the muſic partly retained, partly ſupplied from Philidor, and partly mine. For this piece I had a benefit, which yielded me about ninety pounds—the muſic turned out a very trifle—I got by the publica⯑tion of the words about thirty pounds.
• 22 The Chriſtmas Tale—written by Mr. GARRICK, and performed the ſame ſeaſon. The intrinſic value of this compoſition being equal to my whole ſalary, I expoſtulated with Mr. GARRICK—who ſaid he conſidered it in the ſame light, and I ſhould have no reaſon to complain. My trouble on this oc⯑caſion was inconceivable, and I expected my extra reward would be propor⯑tionable; but when the end of the ſeaſon arrived, in the office were found two promiſſory notes of ten pounds each, which I had given by way of memo⯑randums at two different ſettlements, and theſe were ſent me by GEORGE GARRICK, as a valuable conſideration for my additional trouble. The publi⯑cation of the muſic I ſold for twenty-five pounds down, twenty-five pounds on the twelfth night, twenty-five pounds on the eighteenth night, and twenty-five pounds on the twenty-fifth. The piece was performed twenty-four times.
• 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 & 29 Two pantomimes, and four little pieces for Sadler's Wells, under my article.
• 30 A ſhort maſque in Amphytrion, in the ſeaſon 1773 & 1774, under my article of courſe. I ſold this muſic for ſome trifling ſum.
• [296]31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36 Two pantomimes, and four little pieces for Sad⯑ler's Wells. Two of theſe I wrote, but though I recollect the ſubjects, I really do not the titles—'tis however no great matter, theſe ſix performances made up the entertainment of the ſeaſon. I had nothing of conſequence bid for the muſic, and I did not chuſe to venture the publication of it on my own ac⯑count.
• 37 The Waterman—performed the ſame ſummer, 1774, at the Hay⯑market. The ſucceſs of this piece is well known. The benefit yielded me but thirty-five pounds. The publication of the words about forty-eight, and the muſic I believe about thirty pounds.
• 38 The Cobler—performed in the ſeaſon 1774 and 1775. Mr. GARRICK would inſiſt upon having this piece. I had taken to him The Seraglio, which was afterwards performed at Covent Garden—and which if I had been on the ſpot I am convinced would have had better ſucceſs—but he had conceived great diſpleaſure at my bringing out The Waterman at the Haymarket, though under different pretences he refuſed to perform it himſelf, and therefore I muſt write, he ſaid, a direct farce, and nothing elſe, which the more I altered the leſs I liked, though the alterations were to pleaſe him. At length, I underſtood he did not intend to perform any thing; but having urged him pretty ſtrenuouſly, he ſaid it ſhould be done if I would get it up in a week. This I did to his aſtoniſhment; and the next news was that the Lord Chamberlain would not licenſe it. Upon my talking of waiting on Lord HERTFORD about it, as there was nothing immoral in it, all of a ſudden a licenſe arrived, and the picce came out. It was not greatly received, but after the fourth night it went on very well till the tenth, when—like Liberty Hall—it was damned by a party. I got from firſt to laſt by it about an hundred and twenty pounds.

I am afraid this matter of fact buſineſs tires you. I'll pleaſe you however with another matter of fact, which is, that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —.

FOR BRERETON's benefit in 1775, I brought out

• 39 The Quaker. This piece meeting with ſucceſs, he bought it of me for ſeventy pounds, and ſold it afterwards to GARRICK for an hundred. Had I not parted with it in this way, however, I might have kept it by me, for GARRICK had for ſome time determined not to produce any thing of my writ⯑ing, if he could poſſibly avoid it. He had no idea that I intended to dabble in this way, when he ſigned the article, and therefore conceived my whole em⯑ploy would be to ſet words of his writing; and a bleſſed time I ſhould have had on't, if I had never done any thing elſe. For this purpoſe, he was ſchem⯑ing to get rid of Mr. BICKERSTAFF as faſt as he could, and the very particular civilities he juſt then ſhewed that pretty gentleman, to cover his intention, probably procured him that ſcandalous and undeſerved poem from Dr. KEN⯑RICK—his wiſhes however were anticipated, as the world knows. When I produced him the Wedding Ring, and afterwards the Deſerter, he found I could make ſome ſtand in this way, and his diſcontent from that moment was evi⯑dent to every body. He was like Captain Plume, he would not have a man who could write in his company. Indeed, the moſt tremendous weapon in [298] the world to GARRICK—was a pen. The Waterman following up the Deſerter, and becoming alſo very popular, my buſineſs was done. I have ſhewn how he behaved in the affair of the Cobler; and as to the Quaker, he would not have ſuffered it to be got up at BRERETON's benefit had not the latter inſiſted upon it as his right. Even then, the copy was ſubmitted to his inſpection, and he returned it with a ſneer, ſaying, ‘"he wiſhed him ſucceſs, but he was rather afraid the ſpirit would move the audience to damn it."’ BRERETON took fire at this, and ſhewed it to his friend Mr. SHERIDAN, who ſpoke of it in terms of commendation. All difficulties were now at an end, Mr. SHERI⯑DAN's pen was more to be feared than mine. The next ſeaſon. Mr. GARRICK purchaſed it, as I mentioned before, but not with a view of performing it, for this piece did not make its ſecond appearance till the management of Drury⯑lane fell into other hands. Added to the ſeventy pounds, I received forty pounds for the publication of the words, and about the ſame ſum for the mu⯑ſic. It will be ſeen that I did nothing of conſequence under my article, ſince the Chriſtmas Tale, which was entirely owing to this jealouſy of GARRICK's—in conſequence of which he gave the Maid of the Oaks to Mr. BARTHE⯑LEMON, and Alfred to THEODORE SMITH—in both of which pieces, by the bye, I received orders to make alterations, and ſet additional ſongs. Altera⯑tions I peremptorily refuſed to make, thinking it ſcandalouſly indelicate to thoſe gentlemen; nor would I compoſe an additional ſong for Alfred—which Mr. BLANCHARD, of Covent Garden, then a child, may remember was intended for him—but, menaced with an action for the penalty of my article, rather than incur the forfeiture of five hundred pounds, I reluctantly ſet the ſong be⯑ginning, ‘"What cannot beauty, lovely beauty do?"’ in the Maid of the Oaks.
• 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45 My uſual quantity of buſineſs for Sadlers Wells, ia the ſeaſon 1775.
• 46 The Metamorphoſes—an after-piece, brought out at the Haymarket in the ſummer of 1776. When this piece had been performed four nights, I [299] left the care of it to Mr. FOOTE, who promiſed to do every thing handſome in it, and went to FRANCE. The moment my back was turned, however, he forgot his promiſe—for he only performed it once more, and I reaped no manner of emolument from it whatever. Indeed, every thing, about this time, went at ſixes and ſevens with him, for he never ‘"joyed himſelf,"’ after the buſineſs of the coachman.^* On the words I had a loſs, and the muſic was never publiſhed.
• 47, 48, 49, 50 Buſineſs for Sadlers Wells. Mr. KING did not call on me for more work this year.
• 51 The Seraglio. This piece was accepted by Mr. HARRIS, previous to my departure for FRANCE, and performed in the ſeaſon 1776 and 1777. I ſhould mention alſo that I then left my affairs in the hands of Dr. ARNOLD, who ſuperintended them till my return, and common juſtice bids me ſay, that he diſcharged his truſt with great honour and fidelity, for which kindneſs I now give him my public thanks. I have yet every letter he wrote me, and really there are many of the kindeſt and moſt diſintereſted ſentiments of friend⯑ſhip I ever read. To ſay the truth, he had trouble enough on my account; for the firſt ſtipulation Mr. HARRIS made was to alter the pieces in whatever way he pleaſed. In conſequence of this, when I came to read in the paper the plot of the Seraglio, at CALAIS, I found it totally different from that which I had ſent, and I remember the doctor's letter that accompanied the ac⯑count of its reception, ſays, that if I were to ſee it I ſhould ſcarcely know my own piece. Mr. HARRIS alſo obliged him to new ſet ſome of the ſongs, which he aſſures me was a moſt irkſome taſk, but he rather undertook it than that [330] the piece ſhould not be performed. The benefit for this yielded me forty-eight pounds, the words fifty, and I ſold the muſic for an eventual ſixty pounds—forty-five of which became due.
• 52, 53, 54, 55 The Razor Grinder—Yo, Yea, or the Friendly Tars—Old Woman of Eighty—and The Mad Doctor—four pieces which I ſent Mr. KING from FRANCE. Theſe pieces were ſold out and out at a very reaſonable price. But I again repeat that all my engagements with Mr. KING were pleaſurable ones, and had I made him a preſent of half I have done for him, I ſhould ſtill be under obligations to him.
• 56 Poor Vulcan—a burletta, performed in the ſeaſon 1777 and 1778, at Covent Garden, and which I boldly pronounce, had it been given to the pub⯑lic in the ſtate I ſent it, would have had much greater ſucceſs. It is uniformly ſaid that the firſt act of this piece is remarkably complete; and it muſt be con⯑feſſed that from the beginning of the ſecond act to Vulcan's ſoliloquy is as dull as any thing poſſibly can be, and the reaſon is, the burleſque is totally dropt, and Adonis—by the aſſiſtance of Mr. HULL's ſomniferous muſe—converted into a ſighing, dying, ſleeping ſwain; whereas I had made him a burleſque character, as well as the reſt.

I am glad of this opportunity of ſhewing how authors are treated by ma⯑nagers and their privy counſellors; and am ready to ſtand or fall by the deci⯑ſion of the public on the merits of what has been taken away, and what ſub⯑ſtituted. This ſhall be conſidered in the next letter. In the mean time, re⯑joice with me, that at the end of two more, we ſhall have waded together through this rubbiſh.

To the Rev Mr. —

MY idea of making Adonis, a burleſque ſhepherd, I thought perfectly a new one.^*

[302]I could not reſiſt the inſertion of theſe ſongs, that it may be ſeen whether either juſtice or judgment is generally exerciſed in mutilations of this ſort.—The benefit for Poor Vulcan yielded about ninety-five pounds, the muſic was ſold for fifty pounds, and the words for ſixty pounds. At this time the ex⯑pence [303] of the benefits was raiſed, by the famous coalition of Mr. SHERIDAN and Mr. HARRIS, to an hundred guineas. I however would not pay it, nor was it, after my poſitive refuſal, inſiſted on.

• 57 The Gypſies—an after-piece, written by me, and compoſed by Dr. ARNOLD. It was performed at the Haymarket in the ſummer of 1778, but was rather a loſing game. The profits—had there been any—were to have been divided.
• 58 The Touchſtone—performed in the ſeaſon 1778 and 1779, a panto⯑mime, written and compoſed by me, under a verbal agreement with Mr. HARRIS, at the rate of three hundred pounds for the quantity of three after-pieces, and every thing over and above to be paid for in proportion. This piece has been attributed to Mr. PILON, and to Mrs. COWLEY. The fact is, that in ſpite of all I could do, Mr. HARRIS would be trying to foiſt in altera⯑tions, which had very nearly parted us before this entertainment came out. I conſented however to none but a few that were made by Mr. GARRICK. After the piece was out however, and fairly Mr. HARRIS's property, it was not in my power to prevent his doing what he pleaſed with it; and by this means that contemptible ſcene got into it of the rout, which I with particular pleaſure acknowledge is not mine: the emoluments however were, and they conſiſted of an hundred pounds for the piece, as a performance, an hundred pounds by Mr. HARRIS for the copy-right of the words, and twenty pounds for the muſic.
• 59 Roſe and Colin—a piece of one act, performed very frequently, and with great applauſe.
• 60 Annette and Lubin—of the ſame deſcription, and performed as ſucceſs⯑fully.
• [304]61 The Wives revenged—rather longer, but of the ſame deſcription. Theſe pieces—together with the Saloon, the Graces, and the Statue, afterwards per⯑formed with great ſucceſs at the Circus—are what I allude to in my letter to Mr. HARRIS. I received fifty pounds for each of them, and ſixty pounds for the muſic of the three from Mr. HARRIS—the words I kept, which, accord⯑ing to cuſtom, were unproductive.
• 62 A pantomime—the name of which I do not recollect. In it was in⯑troduced that ſong, ‘"Give round the word diſmount, diſmount."’ It was only a revived thing, and together with the ſong ſung ſo well by Mrs. KEN⯑NEDY, in the Comedy of Errors, and ſome other matters, eſtimated at fifty pounds.
• 63 The Chelſea Penſioner—ſame ſeaſon. This piece came out with Miſs MORE's Percy—which tragedy, though it is by no means devoid of merit, was not well received; and my opera had like to have ſuffered by being in company with it. The ſucceſs of the Chelſea Penſioner, however, afterwards was very flattering; yet it was done but three nights in all—owing to the lateneſs of the ſeaſon. Why Mr. HARRIS has not repeated it ſince, he knows beſt, as there were four ſongs encored on the laſt night it was performed. This piece was an overplus charge of an hundred pounds. The words I pub⯑liſhed according to cuſtom at a loſs, and the muſic—except a few ſongs which were introduced into a periodical work—never was made public.

To the Rev. Mr. —.

I Shall not have room particularly to mention how much my pieces have ſuffered from mutilation; however what I neglect in detail, I muſt make up in point.

• 64 Mirror—a pantomime burletta, performed with conſiderable ſucceſs at Covent Garden, in the ſeaſon of 1779 and 1780. This piece was ſtrong ſatire, and therefore ‘"cavier to the multitude,"’ who, however, were charmed with the ſcenery. One circumſtance marks this performance very ſtrongly. The character of Punch, whoſe bibbery bino begot all the fal de rals and te de rees, which have ſo largely contributed to make up the reputation of Mr. ED⯑WIN, and which was a ſatire upon nonſenſe, is now forgotten for nonſenſe it⯑ſelf. For this piece, I received a ſixth of the ſix firſt nights, amounting to about an hundred and thirty pounds. The words yielded me about twenty pounds, and the muſic ten pounds.
• 65 The Shepherdeſs of the Alps—an opera in three acts. This piece fell for want of ſupport. I remember VERNON's ſaying, when he was aſked why he did not get perfect, and play his beſt, ‘"that he ſaw it was the general wiſh [306] the piece ſhould be damned, and, as in duty bound, he lent it a hand."’ My agreement for this piece was, to have a third of the nine firſt nights. It was performed but three. I received about ſeventeen pounds.
• 66 Plymouth in an Uproar—a piece brought to me by a ſeafaring gentle⯑man. I made ſome alterations in it at his deſire, and it ſucceeded pretty well, being performed about twelve nights. My ſhare of the profits came to about ſixty-five pounds.
• 67 The Iſlanders—an opera of three acts, performed in the ſeaſon of 1780 and 1781. This piece had very good ſucceſs, and is remembered to have con⯑tained ſome of Mrs. KENNEDY's moſt favourite ſongs, and many other very popular things. I was to have had for it a third of the nine firſt nights; but the KING coming to the performance on the ſixth, I was obliged to ſubmit to take in the tenth, which made a difference to me of more than fifty pounds. I however, from firſt to laſt, got by this piece about three hundred and fifty pounds. Inſtead of coming out in the courſe of the buſineſs in the ſecond ſeaſon—which it might have done with conſiderable reputation—Mr. HARRIS made me cut it down into a farce, and call it The Marriage Act. The alte⯑rations this piece underwent, previous to its coming out, were innumerable. Some few of them were ſuggeſted by Mr. HARRIS, but I'll venture to ſay it gained nothing by that. Mr. WOODFALL ſaw a ſketch of the firſt act, in a rough ſtate, and in a letter which I have by me, declared it bid the faireſt for popularity of any thing he had ſeen. It was certainly a very great favourite with Mr. HARRIS, who adviſed me not to confeſs myſelf the author, urging me with words ‘"more than belonged to ſuch a trifle;"’ for he ſaid JUNIUS was not yet known—and therefore he would not adviſe me to declare myſelf. To be ſure there were ſome flying reports that Mr. HARRIS wrote it himſelf—but it will hardly be thought he wiſhed thoſe to be credited.
• [307]68 Harlequin Free Maſon—ſame ſeaſon. This piece had a prodigious run. I wrote the words and compoſed the muſic. My emoluments were ſe⯑venty pounds from the theatre, I ſold about 2700 books, which yielded me—for ſo well are theſe things managed—about thirty-five pounds, and the muſic was diſtributed in a work called the Lyriſt, which publication yielded me nearly fifty pounds.
• 69 Amphytrion—performed in the ſeaſon of 1781 and 1782. This piece was the only inſtance in which I made a point of ſecuring myſelf. Mr. HAR⯑RIS and I parted, as I have before mentioned. I had nothing to do with con⯑ducting it, and it was performed but two nights. I received for it two hun⯑dred and eighty-five pounds.
• 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84 The Barrier of Parnaſſus, The Graces, The Saloon, The Milkmaid, The Refuſal of Harlequin, The Land of Simplicity, The Paſſions, The Statue, Clump and Cud⯑den, The Benevolent Tar, The Regions of Accompliſhment, Lancaſhire Witches, The Ceſtus, Pandora, The Long Odds. Theſe, two or three other panto⯑mimes, four or five intermezzos of a more trifling kind, and at leaſt fifteen bal⯑lads, each taking twelve or fourteen airs and an overture, with a variety of other matter, make up what I did for the Circus; where, in the firſt ſeaſon, I cleared upwards of nine hundred pounds—but from that moment, my con⯑nexion with this place has been a ſeries of trouble, loſs, and vexation, which, to enumerate, would make up as long a work as this I ſhall ſay a few words on this head however in a future letter.
• 85 Liberty Hall—performed with the ſucceſs I have already ſtated, at Drury-lane, in the ſeaſon of 1785 and 1786. The benefit yielded forty-eight pounds, the words nothing, and the muſic—by which if it had been performed oftener I ſhould have received a conſiderable ſum—brought, though handſomely bargained for, no great matter.
• [308]86 Harveſt Home—performed at the Haymarket, 1787. I was nine pounds in debt on the benefit, the words I ſold for forty pounds, and the muſic did about as much as Liberty Hall.

Theſe pieces, were I to go over every ground, would come up to very near an hundred, but Richmond, Marybone, Exeter Change, and ſome other places where I have produced performances, ſhall be given in to heap up the meaſure. What I have done will aſtoniſh the reader ſufficiently—for he will ſee that, in twenty-three years, I have received only about five thouſand five hundred pounds, even when I add my different ſalaries and annual benefits.

Think of this, and all my drudgery, and tell me if you do not wiſh ſafe in CALCUTTA

To the Rev. Mr. —.

IT now remains to add to my TOUR and the ſtate⯑ment of pieces already given—the entertainment which I have ſo often deli⯑vered, and frequently to very little purpoſe, under the title of READINGS and MUSIC. This I ſhall follow up with ſome finiſhing obſervations, a very brief recapitulation of all I have advanced—placed by way of critique on myſelf in every poſſible point of view—and, at length, a farewel to that country which I hope I have ſhewn that I quit not upon ſlaviſh and narrow, but liberal and laudable principles.

You have ſeen, but others will pleaſe to ſuppoſe me upon my platform, with a piano forte before me, muſtering up either a patient, contented, or delighted ſmile—but never a contemptuous one—according to the number either ſcattered about or crowded in the room—and beginning, by way of

EXORDIUM, ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,’

The introduction to my entertainment ought to explain its nature and tendency. The firſt would be no very eaſy matter to accompliſh, for it is of [308] ſo eccentric a kind that it will not in any reſpect tally with whatever may be meaſured by the ſtandard of regularity. But as to its drift, I believe it may have as legitimate pretenſions to public favour as any other amuſement.—Matters of this kind in general aim at ſatisfying the auditors, with an eye to the advantage of their fabricators; like the phyſician, who, as he held out his hand for a ſee, and was profeſſing how diſintereſted he gave his advice—ſaying ‘'I take all this pains for you'’—was anſwered by the ſick Iriſhman, as he put the guinea into his hand—‘'true, true, all for me, and a little for yourſelf, doctor.'’

Were I kept to the letter of my promiſe, it would be my indiſpenſible duty to improve and amuſe. This text, however, I ſhall divide; leaving it to others to inſtruct, while I try the utmoſt of my poor endeavour to enter⯑tain. The beſt regulated underſtandings may pant for relaxation, at which time, trifles light as air are the welcomeſt pleaſures. The mind unbent from its ſeverer duty, ſhall find a very nothing full of charms. An anecdote, a bon mot, a jeux d'eſprit, ſhall be delicious. Theſe will be my moments of tri⯑umph. Beſides, I have a reſource to which many have reſorted with won⯑derful ſucceſs. Sound has often proved a fortunate ſuccedaneum for ſenſe—for muſic, like charity, covers a multitude of faults. How often has the rickety deformity of a hobbling line been wrought into ſymmetry by the ele⯑gance of a beautiful paſſage—an uncouth rhime rendered as ſmooth as the honey of Hybla by the force of modulation—and a whole mouthful of exple⯑tives gracefully ſwallowed by the operation only of a few chromatics.

Various friends, however, have ſuggeſted various improvements on my own ideas. One of theſe you would have taken for a cook, for he ſaid he would undertake to ſupply my mental banquet with a curious and plentiful collection of diſhes, ſuitable to all palates. He told me he had roaſted NA⯑BOBS, and ſtewed PATRIOTS—ſurprized GENERALS, and devilled LAWYERS. For needy gentlemen, become gamblers in their own defence, he had a choice quantity of pigeons. He had ducks and drakes for ſpeculators in the alley. Then [309] for fiſh, he had a plaiſe for ſycophants who choſe to apply for it. He had good ſoles for the promoters of conviviality—and he had gudgeons for political and phyſical quacks. That to be ſure he could not brag much upon the article of maids; but then, to make amends, he had a liquoriſh old wife in high ſea⯑ſon for a ruined ſpendthrift. Then for a deſert—he had ſugar plums for the conſcientious; trifles for fops; whip ſyllabubs for orators; ice for young widows; and hard cruſts and bitter almonds for—critics. But what he moſt of all re⯑commended was his flummery, which he ſaid was made of ſuch delicious ma⯑terials, that it would be greedily ſwallowed by all diſtinctions, from a biſhop to a beggar.

A Frenchman adviſed me to fill my entertainment with dances, which he aſſured me was not only the very eſſence of all public amuſement, but contained every requiſite accompliſhment for the completion of a fine gentle⯑man. But I will endeavour to give you his own words. ‘'Monſieur—Sare—look all over de varld, every ting depend pon larn to danſe. Sans cela vidout larn to danſe you cannot vat you call ſee life—you cannot know noting. De younk chentelmen danſe away vid dere money before dey come to dere eſtate; de lofer danſe away vid de laty to Scotland; de mar⯑chand clerk danſe away vid de Engliſh bank note. Ven de houſband find chentelman little too kind to his wife, he don't quarrel, make no noiſe, he make one very low bo—ſerviture Madame. Vat de devil you call dis but larn to danſe. If you would do any ting vid great man, begar you muſt danſe attendance. C'eſt encore—larn to danſe. Enfin—in ſhort, if you vould go vit great eclat troo de varld, you muſt do comme en France—vare de pauvre danſe avay dare miſere, de riche danſe avay dare conſcience, de general dance avay from de enemy, and all the reſt of de varld danſe away from dare friend, ma foi.'’

I referred the gentleman to the Opera houſe, telling him, if he ſhould chance to get paid, he might perhaps dance away with Engliſh bank note too.

[310]An Italian let me into the ſecret of all that has been done in the way of taking people by the ears ſince this country could boaſt an opera houſe. He told me it was as eaſy to make muſic by receipt as macaroni. But as an Ita⯑lian never explains himſelf ſo well at when he ſings, I will endeavour to give you his idea of a recipe for a bravura ſong to muſic—and to muſic in the next page follows the very ſong I introduced upon this occaſion. I therefore finiſh this letter with recommending it to your attention, and myſelf to a continu⯑ation of your good wiſhes, being,

To the Rev. Mr. —

THE ſong over, I thus went on.

I could not help confeſſing there was certainly ſome ingenuity in this mode of ſpinning muſic; but I thought it too much like the labours of the ſpi⯑der, which—though curious—have neither beauty nor durability, I conſequently determined to rely on my own judgment. You will, therefore—proceeded I—ſuppoſe me a painter, with my canvaſs upon an eifel and my whole appa⯑ratus lying before me, preparing to preſent you with a faint ſketch of human nature; not as I have ſometimes ſeen it deſcribed, with the virtues riſing on each other like the Alps and Apenines, altogether as STUPENDOUS, and alto⯑gether as cold: nor again, as a thing ſo fraught with depravity, ſo pitiably contemptible that a man would rather be an oyſter than an emperor—but as we ſee it every day, without making it either a flattering likeneſs or a caricature; for, though I ſhall throw the human mind—if I may be allowed the figure—into every poſſible ſituation, yet I ſhall not place it where I have not actually ſeen it. It may ſometimes be ludicrous, but it ſhall be always like.

[312]Imagine, then, that I have now filled my canvaſs with a number of lines, curves, parallels, perpendiculars, and dots; faintly to repreſent a large groupe of characters—one projecting a leg, another an arm, and another a head; and then ſuppoſe me—like the man who ſhews the tombs in Weſt⯑minſter abbey—about to explain their good, bad, and indifferent qualities—juſt as it may ſuit to illuſtrate my poſition; and to this man I may be aptly compared—for, like him, I have all the talk to myſelf, and, like him, am paid before I ſhew any thing.

Very poor, however, would be my reward if it was only derived from pecuniary gratification. A warmer and more thankful ſentiment fires my breaſt, no leſs than that as I am impelled alone by gratitude to appear before you, I may hope for your kind and gentle wiſhes for my ſafety, health and proſperity.^*

[313]This ſong finiſhed the exordium—I then began as follows:

PART I.

CASSANDER, cut to the ſoul at being torn—through the avarice of her father—from the arms of his SOPHRONIA, retired to a remote part of the kingdom, to contemplate on her virtues.

HORTENSIA, the beautiful and envied wife of the gallant FERDINAND, had been married but a little month, when, provoked by the inſolence of a ſaucy calumniator, her huſband fell defending her honour. Grief induced her to retire, and chance directed her to where CASSANDER ſighed in ſecret for the loſs of his SOPHRONIA. Accident brought them together—when, urged by the congeniality of their ſentiments, they vowed on the ſpot an eternal friendſhip, and agreed to meet every morning in the ſame place to recite ſuch ſtories of private miſery as had fallen within their notice, occaſioned either by falſe honour or the inſatiable cruelty of avaricious parents.

CASSANDER, on his return, ranſacked his library to find food for new friendſhip, which at its birth demanded to be nouriſhed. HORTENSIA came home—ſat down to her harpſichord—ſighed and ſung

After this the ſubject changes—I ſhall therefore ſtop ſhort for the preſent, with a freſh aſſurance—and as true as the reſt—that I am,

To the Rev. Mr. —

To chequer the entertainment, and render it a little more lively, I thus went on.

I ſhall now introduce you to a ſet of gentlemen whoſe evenings were jovially employed in the ſame degree, as the mornings of CASSANDER and HORTENSIA were devoted to deſpondency.

This company conſiſted of a PROJECTOR, who had tired the royal ſociety and impaired his fortune by ſchemes that had every thing to perfect them but practicability. A SPECULATOR who had invented an inſtrument which was to foretel the coming change of the ſtocks, upon the principle of a barometer, but who—unfortunately truſting too far to the infallibility of his project—was obliged to waddle out. A COMMODORE, who had riſen by his merit from the forecaſtle, and had retired in diſguſt. A POET, who had never been able to get a play heard to the end of the firſt act. A wild IRISH⯑MAN, who had blundered through a large patrimony fill he had nothing left—to uſe his own words—but the purſe of a beggar and the heart of a prince. And a LEVEE HUNTER, who, in the courſe of thirteen years, was once within five minutes of ſeeing the great man himſelf.

[316]Theſe ſix, grown wiſe from their diſappointments, had gathered toge⯑ther the ſcattered remains of their broken fortunes, and determined to laugh away the reſt of their lives. Health followed them to the chace; pleaſure filled the teeming bowl; and the only contention at their meetings—where ANACREON might have been proud to ſit preſident—was—who ſhould be forwarderſt to promote harmleſs mirth and inoffenſive hilarity.

The board being met, and a few toaſts drank, the poet was called upon for a ſong. He ſaid he would give them a little ſatirical touch, which he had that morning written againſt a lady, who had been cruel to him. He confeſſed it was malicious—or ſo—but he ſincerely believed exactly in point for all that.

The converſation next turned on the law—and one of the company had mentioned the frequency of executions in this country. From this the PBO⯑JECTOR, who was a bit of a wag, took occaſion to relate the following anecdote.

A carpenter, who could not get his money for two gibbets that had been beſpoke, refuſed to make a third; and an execution having been in con⯑ſequence delayed—the jailor being called to account—blamed the carpenter, who was at length ſummoned before the judge. The judge told him he had ordered the gibbet, and demanded in a very preremptory way the reaſon it had not been made. The carpenter, with the greateſt ſimplicity in nature, excuſed himſelf by telling the truth—ſaying—‘'I refuſed the hangman and the jailor to make a third gibbet, becauſe I had not been paid for the two firſt; but if I had known the gallows had been for your LORDSHIP—why lord love you it ſhould have been done out of hand.'’

The POET was noticing how ſometimes the moſt trivial and unforeſeen accident overturns an author's hopes. ‘'A thing,'’ ſaid he, ‘'once happened to me which was enough to make a man forſwear ever taking a pen in hand. I had a tragedy—GARRICK performed in it—I muſt confeſs the principal incident was a little ſimilar to LEAR's abdication of the throne in favour of his daughters. Mine were two daughters; and the king—after giving them a leſſon, fraught [318] with legiſlative advantages that might have done honour to SOLON or LY⯑CURGUS—finiſhed his harangue with ſaying ‘"and now I divide this crown between you"’—Sir, a malicious ſcoundrel peeping over the ſpikes of the orcheſtra, and ſtaring GARRICK full the face, cried out—‘"Ah, that's juſt half a-crown a-piece."’ Sir, an inceſſant laugh immediately prevailed, and if it had been to ſave your ſoul, another ſyllable was not to be heard; and thus the world loſt for ever four acts, and a half of the fineſt writing—'‘"I am glad on't,"’ ſaid the COMMODORE, ‘"if you had not been diſabled in giving chace to the public, you would never have come to ſafe moorings in grog harbour. Here,"’ ſaid he—taking the bowl—‘"is the only ſheet anchor a ſeaman can truſt to. Blow high, blow low, let the ſtorm tear the cable from the cat-head, or the ſhrouds from the cat-harpin, grog will bring us through all weathers, and ſhew a ſmiling face in the bowl when clouds and billows are in the maddeſt contention."’’

The COMMODORE's ſong of grog ſhall begin my next letter; in the in⯑terim I finiſh this as uſual, with aſſuring you that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —

NOW for the COMMODORE's ſong.

The COMMODORE then gave, May our ſea of delight never ebb! The POET ſaid it was impoſſible—for they drew their mirth from the follies of mankind, which ſource was inexhauſtible. This gave riſe to a mixed con⯑verſation, in which ſcarcely any ſubject eſcaped them. Impoſtors of all de⯑nominations were ſeverely handled, and particularly pretenders to courage. This naturally brought up duelling; and one of them ſaid, in a country like this, where there are ſuch admirable laws, he wondered it was not put a ſtop to. Laws! exclaimed the Iriſhman—

Oh, my ſoul, cried the Iriſhman, a little pinking is the only way to bring a jolman to good manners. Why, Sir, a friend of mine has made a book, where he has ſet down all manner of inſults and reparations, poſſible and impoſſible. Ah! twenty fine fellows that he ſtretched, but for dat book would have been alive and merry; but then their honour will never die, you know: what the devil would they have!

I ſhall reſerve his further remarks and other matters; and having here written about my uſual quantum, ſay adieu for the preſent, profeſſing myſelf what I truly am,

To the Rev. Mr. —.

THE COMMODORE, in anſwer to the IRISHMAN's remarks, ſaid, ‘'Well, but ſurely you don't mean to countenance thoſe pre⯑tenders to courage—thoſe petulent waſps, who'’—‘"All now do ſtop a mi⯑nute,"’ retorted the IRISHMAN—‘"I countenance!—be my ſoul, I'll tell you how I ſerved one of theſe ſpalpeons. The gentleman, d'ye ſee, was telling a long, roundabout rhodomontade ſtory about fighting, which he finiſhed the concluſion of by ſaying he had killed three men. I told him that his three men was nothing at all at all, a jolman in my country would kill thirteen, and eat them afterwards. I myſelf, ſaid I, have had eleven duels, and kilt my man every time, and in a twelft—But, ſaid I to the company, you ſhall hear gentlemen. I was a ſad, wicked, rakehelly, young dog—played deep—dranked hard. Well Sir, I had a quarrel wid a box-lobby beau—called him out—kilt him. I did not fly, you ſee—I knew I had pinked a puppy, and ſhould be thanked for it. This affair, however, being wid a fly, a gnat, a muſkito, my courage was only tought a flaſh in the pan, and I was preſently inſulted by five of the moſt reſolute among them, dat wanted to quarrel with me. Oh to be ſure I was not a ſcoundrel, paltroon, and a [324] puppy. Oh it would have done your heart good to ſee me rouſe from my lethargy of paſſive endurance. I appointed them all at different times and places on the ſame morning—kilt 'em, and retired to the Continent. About a month afterwards, I was in a coffee-houſe in France, where a great, big Swiſs officer, who was poring over the papers, ſeemed extremely offended at the vacant ſillineſs of a young Frenchman, who—as SHAKESPEARE ſays of Gratiano—was talking a great deal about nothing at all at all. Ah—ſaid old cruſty—le diable ſoit le petit jean foutre. The youngſter, in a hop ſtep and minuet jump ſkipt up to him, and demanded, in the civileſt manner, who he had thought proper to honour with ſo elegant an appellation? He was anſwered, Vous—Moi!—Vous—vous etes un petit jean foutre. They went out, and in ten minutes the Swiſs returned, in all the eaſy tranquillity imaginable, having killed the Frenchman. The affair became preſently the talk of the coffee-room—c'etois bien dommage mais comment faire—Monſieur avois le humeur noir. I could not help ſaying that Monſieur's humeur noir was but a poor excuſe for having kilt the young man. I was aſked to ex⯑plain myſelf. To be ſure I did not civilly comply with his requeſt, by knocking his Ramilee wig about. Out we went, and by as pretty a little, genteel, cunning lunge as ever made an eyelet hole—I cured Monſieur of his humeur noir, and, fait, every other care. This was my ſeventh man; my eighth was a Dutchman, whom I was obliged to fight with knives over a table, for nothing in life only becauſe I happened to ſay by accident that their women, their ſhips, and their pugs dogs were all caſt in the ſame mould. My affair in ENGLAND being now pretty well blown over, I ven⯑tured to return; but that I might be ſure every thing was ſung, I got a friend to look out for me while I lay quiet at a lodging in DEAL."’

‘"In the family, you ſee, dere was an old gentleman, who out of four children had three ſons and a daughter. I had not been there a week before the daughter fell in love with me. Dat you know was natural enough. 'Tis a dillycate affair—but a pregnancy was the conſequence. What was to be [325] done! The brothers—Oh they watched me with the eyes of a cat or a rat⯑tle ſnake. They were determined, it ſeems, to maſſacre me. I had an in⯑timation of their deſign from the dear girl herſelf—a charming, lovely, dear, tender, delicious creature. I appeared before them, and deſired I might be permitted to defend myſelf. My requeſt was generouſly granted. Oh it cut me to the ſoul, but I performed my part as nobly as Horatius with Cu⯑riatii—I kilt 'em all three. The father was now determined to have a touch with me—a fine, ſtately, vinnerable parſon—about ſixty-ſeven—aquiline noſe—ſilver hair. Oh if I was to explain myſelf ever ſo, it would be im⯑poſſible to tell you what I felt. Well, Sir, we met. After a genteel ſa⯑lute—which you know good breeding always allows—he made a lunge in tierce—I in flanconade. To make ſhort of my ſtory, after an ineffectual attempt to diſarm him—taking advantage of my confuſion, and whipping in a well imagined lunge in carte over arm—arrah ſait—HE KILT ME!"’

The jolmon would not believe a ſingle word of all I had uttered; at which I told him, that as I had not diſcredited his ſtory, I ſhould inſiſt on his not doubting mine. At this the laugh became general, and the poor devil of a duelliſt was glad enough to ſneak out of the room.

And ſerve him right too—ſaid the COMMODORE. There are three occa⯑ſions, and only three, that juſtify a man's riſking his life—his country, his wife, and his friend; for life, d'ye ſee, is a ſhip that providence has given us to command, and he who runs her on the rocks of folly, goes beyond his inſtructions, and may be ſure to be called to a ſevere court martial for it.—Give me a fellow like JACK RATLIN.

As I never ſung this ſong but I was obliged to pauſe a little till the buz of the company ceaſed, I will now make a pauſe to tell you that I am as much and as warmly yours as ever.

To the Rev. Mr. —

YOU may remember, after the ſong—I ſaid

Neither the COMMODORE's remarks nor his ſong could do away the vein of converſation that had before taken place. Every notorious lie that could be thought of was related. One ſaid he had heard a lawyer aver his buſineſs was of ſo vaſt and extenſive a nature, that he cleared two hundred a year by only melting the wax of the chancery and other ſeals, in the courſe of his practice. This gentleman, however, was outdone by another, who ſaid he had ſuch a counting-houſe full of clerks, that he ſaved double that ſum, in ink and expedition, by only leaving out tittles and daſhes. But the thing that ſeemed to be beſt reliſhed was an account of a man who under⯑took to jump off the monument. ‘'The fact,'’ ſaid the ſpeculator who told the ſtory, ‘'was as follows. One PETER WILKINS, a biſcuit maker by trade, undertook to jump off the monument. He was to mount on the rails when St. PAUL's clock ſhould ſtrike twelve, and he was to jump off at the laſt ſtroke. Every precaution was of courſe taken to keep the poor devil from breaking his neck. Feather beds, loads of ſtraw, and woolpacks were piled upon each other to an immenſe height. The day came—the [328] ſtreets ſeemed to be paved with faces, and the houſes roofed with people. The uſual accidents happened. Broken limbs, diſlocations, fractures, and contuſions were plenty. Women with children in their arms were thrown down and trod upon; while old chimney ſtacks, tiles, and brick-bats flew about like hail. Well Sir, the moment arrived—the clock ſtruck—and honeſt PETER, true to his truſt, mounted upon the baluſtrades. At the laſt ſtroke—off he went. Icod Sir—when he was half way down—his heart failed him—and—HE JUMPED BACK AGAIN.'’

The company getting a little into diſorder, ſilence was commanded, and a hunting ſong called for, which was given them by the POET.

I then returned to my deſponding lovers; but—leſt the matter ſhould grow too grave—I gave it the following turn.

CASSANDER met his friend HORTENSIA as uſual, and while they were moralizing on the uncertainty of ſublunary felicity, a converſation on the other ſide of the hedge attracted their attention. I ſhould have told you that ROBIN, CASSANDER's confidential ſervant, retired from a diſappointment in love, as well as his maſter; nor was JENNY, the handmaid of HORTENSIA, behind hand with her miſtreſs in heroic ſentiments. Theſe two it ſeems—profitting by the leſſons of their ſuperiors—had ſought alſo for conſolation in each others friendſhips. ‘'And ſo Mr. ROBIN,'’ ſaid JENNY, ‘'you really ſay you have a pleaſure in my company?'’ ‘"So much, Mrs. JENNY,"’ ſaid ROBIN, ‘"that I almoſt begin to forget PEG already. But if this is the caſe, what ſort of things we lovers muſt be! I certainly did love that jade, elſe what need had I to run two hundred miles to ſhut myſelf up among woods and grottos, dripping fountains and murmuring brooks. I'll tell you how the thing is—"’ ‘'No, no,'’ ſaid JENNY, ‘'let me tell you how it is. You [330] men are a ſet of eaſy, credulous, fooliſh creatures, and the ſimpleſt of us women can wind the cunningeſt of you about her finger.'’

Before I return to the company, I will juſt take leave to ſay that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —.

WE are going to viſit the club again, who being ſtill very loud on the ſubject of braggadocias, are ſtopped ſhort by one of the company, who ſings the following ſong.

They then talked of authors. The PROJECTOR, who once had an idea of inventing a windmill to grind poetry, maintained—throughout the whole [333] time he was bit with this ſcheme—fourteen authors. The company being very deſirous of hearing ſomething of the project and theſe ſcribbling depen⯑dants, he gratified them by ſaying that his plan was in idea ſo conſtructed as to grind poetry according to the degree of violence or ſerenity with which the wind blew. Zephyrs were to make paſtorals—an unequal ſqually wind was to write pindaric odes—May breezes were to fabricate love ſongs—and thunder ſtorms were to give a faithful deſcription of warlike exploits. Then, proceeding to ſpeak of his poets—what was the moſt extraordinary, ſaid he, no two of them ſeemed to know each others profeſſion any more than if they were of different profeſſions. Upon inquiring how this came about, I found that poetry, no more than phyſic, is ever done in the lump; for that one is employed to write tragedies and another dying ſpeeches, juſt as you have one doctor for the teeth and another for the corns. Thus, of one I learnt punning by rule. ‘"By rule?"’ ſaid the POET. Yes—thus. A man ſays ‘'Mr. LOCKE was a great metaphyſician.'’ ‘"Oh Lord!"’ ſays you, ‘"that's nothing at all—I met a phyſician myſelf yeſterday."’ The next rule is to lay a trap for a pun, by a previous queſtion. Says you ‘'do you think the dinner is ready?'’ ‘"I really don't know,"’ ſays one of the company, ‘"I am going to ſee."’ ‘'Oh, to ſea are you!'’ ſays you, ‘'I wiſh you a good voyage.'’—Or thus—ſays you ‘'what do you think of this buſineſs of the EMPEROR and the TUKRS?'’ ‘"Think!"’ ſays one, ‘"why that the EMPEROR will play the very devil with them. Why, Sir, in another twelvemonth there will be no Turkey in EUROPE."’ ‘'Upon my word,'’ ſays you, ‘'I am very ſorry for that—it is a very charming diſh, eſpecially with a pudding in its belly.'’ Thus when you have learned to pun with facility, you may do what you pleaſe. One ſays—‘"Come, pun away."’ ‘'Away!'’ ſays you—‘'I had better pun here had not I?'’ ‘"Icod,"’ ſays another, ‘"he is in for it, ſtop him who can."’ ‘'Nay,'’ ſays you, ‘'what the devil ſhould they ſtop me for, I have ſtolen nothing.'’ ‘"Well, upon my word,"’ ſays the firſt, ‘"that is beyond every thing."’ ‘'Oh,'’ ſays you, ‘'if that is the caſe, you know I can go no farther.'’ So much for punning. Another ſets up for ſu⯑perficial [334] learning—that is to ſay—teaching you to lard your converſation with quotations, which if you cannot do off hand, you muſt invent. ‘'Arrah is it invent you mean?'’ ſaid the IRISHMAN, ‘'to be ſure that is not as natural a bull as if I had made it myſelf.'’ I am perfectly right for all that, ſaid the PROJECTOR. A man aſks your opinion of a work, which, though you know nothing at all about, you muſt pretend to be critically acquainted with. ‘'Why,'’ ſays you, ‘'TULLY ſays—'’ It does not ſignify a halfpenny whether he ever ſaid it or not. But if your man ſeems to know any thing about TULLY, you muſt add—‘'ſomewhere.'’ Says you ‘'TULLY ſays—ſomewhere'’—ſo then you may ſay any think out of your own head. ‘"Well, upon my word,"’ ſaid the POET, ‘"that is all mighty well, but ſuppoſe it ſhould not be a very bright thing."’ ‘'Oh, why then you know that is TULLY's fault—not yours.'’ ‘"Oh, but upon my ſoul this is treating poor TULLY very ill."’ ‘'Oh Sir,'’ ſaid the PROJECTOR, ‘'theſe poets care not three-pence who they treat ill, ſo they are but clever themſelves; but I am too ſore when I think of my follies—therefore let us talk of ſomething elſe.'’—‘"With all my heart,"’ ſaid the COMMODORE—‘"come POET give us a ſong."’ ‘'I'll give you,'’ ſaid the POET, the ‘'muſicians lamentation for the loſs of his miſtreſs.'’

This ſong with the muſic immediately follows, I ſhall therefore finiſh my letter aſſuring you, with no leſs truth than pleaſure, that I am

To the Rev. Mr. —

I ſometimes, inſtead of this ſong, introduced a ballad—the hint of which I took from the origin of the patten in GAY's Trivia. I ſuppoſe a blackſmith ſings it to a milkmaid.

‘'Now you have been after giving us a ſong,'’ ſaid the IRISHMAN, ‘'to be ſure I have not a pretty little bit of a chaunt for you myſelf. Do you know I have been all this week tranſlating HOMER!'’ ‘"Tranſlating HO⯑MER!"’ ſaid the POET. ‘'Why yes ſure—out of POPE. And my head has been ever ſince ſo full of flaming chariots and ſpeaking horſes, that I have turned poet for the firſt time in my life, and ſet the whole ſiege of TROY to an Iriſh tune.'’ ‘"Oh pray let us have it,"’ ſaid the POET. ‘'Oh to be ſure you ſhan't,'’ anſwered the IRISHMAN, ‘'but pray now don't be laugh⯑ing at my brogue.'’

[337]After the Siege of Troy, I again adverted to the lovers—the better to reliſh the ſociety's mirth when I ſhould return to them. I ſaid—

To follow CASSANDER and HORTENSIA through all their meetings would conſiderably exceed my plan. They continued, ſomething more than a fortnight, during which time ſo remarkable a parity of ſentiment manifeſted itſelf, that they ſeemed animated with one ſoul. Every look—every ſigh—every wiſh was the ſame; and they neither of them believed—though nothing could be more certain—that friendſhip had long ſince ſoftened into love.—About this time—as CASSANDER was preparing to entertain HORTENSIA with a ſtory calculated to awaken the whole force of her ſenſibility—a ſhower of rain obliged them to take ſhelter in the houſe, where the firſt object that preſented itſelf was a portrait of SOPHRONIA. It is wonderful to what ad⯑vantage the little ſubtel god turned this accident. CASSANDER could not find a feature that was not imcomparably outdone in the face of HORTENSIA.—One was pretty, the other BEAUTIFUL—one eaſy, the other GRACEFUL. In ſhort, I am afraid one was abſent, and the other PRESENT. His heart out-went his reaſon, and he finiſhed a rhapſody—which, not to conceal his weak⯑neſs, was a plain declaration of love—with a ſong, which he intended ſhould ſhew HORTENSIA the ſuperiority of her charms to thoſe of SOPHRONIA.

Adieu. In my next we will return to the company. Mean time, ac⯑cept my ſincere aſſurance

To the Rev. Mr. —.

TAKING a final leave of the lovers, we will now viſit the club, for the laſt time. Their topic was that noble animal, the horſe: and the viciſſitudes of fortune that mark that creatures different ſtages of life, naturally introduced a ſong, which it ſeems was a favourite of the company.

A whimſical extract from an entertainment was next produced—where a magician had confined two unfortunate lovers, who were tormented with the ſevereſt and moſt ingenious rigour. This duty ſometimes fell on a journey⯑man [337] conjurer, who not being exactly au ſait to this diabolical buſineſs, did not always execute it ſo as to operate to his maſter's wiſhes. In the extract I mentioned, he is left with an injunction to conjure up every ſpirit of diſtreſs he can think of, to terrify theſe lovers. Poor TYCHO is horribly put to it to conceive how he can poſſibly find out theſe ſpirits of diſtreſs. Having, how⯑ever determined to make the beſt of it, he thus begins his incantation.

[338]Our TYCHO did not conceive there could be greater ſpirits of diſtreſs than theſe. The poet, however, could not get his piece on the ſtage. The hiſtory of its refuſal brought up the ſubject of the theatre, and this introduced ſeveral theatrical anecdotes, among which the following one, relative to THE. CIBBER, gave the company ſome pleaſure.

THE.—who all the world knows to have been a great voluptuary—and who would give his laſt guinea for an ortolan, and confiſcate ſomething to get it dreſſed—had dined in the city at a public entertainment, and rendered himſelf very agreeable by relating a number of anecdotes, and ſporting other ſallies of wit. A few nights afterwards, being in the boxes of the theatre, he ſaw there one of the citizens he had dined with. He ſpoke to him with great familiarity, but was aſtoniſhed to find his ſalute ſcarcely returned. A ſecond and a third attempt were as unſucceſsful. He, therefore, went into another box, where ſat one of his boon companions, who had noticed the tranſaction. The bon vivant began upon THE. immediately. ‘'What,'’ ſaid he, ‘'the old gentleman would not ſpeak to you.'’ ‘"No,"’ anſwered THE. ‘"and I cannot, for the life of me divine the reaſon. It was but three days ago we were as intimate as gormandizing and hilarity could make us. Why, Sir, I made him chuckle and ſhake his fat ſides and roſy gills as often as there was a pauſe between a glaſs of burgundy and a mammoc of green ſat. Now he affects not to recollect me."’ ‘'And you pretend you don't know why,'’ ſaid the other. ‘"I have not the ſmalleſt conception,"’ ſaid THE. ‘'I'll ſet you right then,'’ ſaid his companion. ‘'Your intimate friend over a bottle chuſes to diſclaim you in the face of the world, that's all. He is a merchant of the city of LONDON—a man of credit and reputation—pays twenty ſhillings in the pound—'’ ‘"Oh that's it, is it!"’ ſaid THE.—‘"why then damme if I ſpeak to him, for I pay FIFTY."’ I ſhall let the company enjoy their laugh, and take that opportunity to give myſelf pleaſure, by aſſuring you once more that I am, with great truth, yours,

To the Rev. Mr. —

AS one anecdote naturally produces another, I at different times took the opportunity, while the club were on the ſubject of the theatre, to introduce thoſe which follow.

An actor who had been uſed to perform tragedy and comedy indiſcrimi⯑nately, was ſent on for BUCKINGHAM, in Richard the Third, but not being very perfect, he floundered through the part with great heſitation, and in much confuſion. When he came to that ſoliloquy where RICHARD leaves him with theſe words—‘"I'm buſy—thou troubleſt me—I am not in the vein"’ he was quite at a loſs—and ſo intimidated, that he could not catch the word from the prompter. The audience began to hiſs, and poor BUCKINGHAM—after the loſs of the ‘"Earldom of HEREFORD"’—had very nearly been pelted with rotten apples. At length he recollected that he had played HODGE in Love in a Village the night before, and feeling the ſituation to be exactly the ſame as that of BUCKINGHAM, he hollowed out—‘"I thought it would come to this, I'll be ſhot if I did not."’

[340]Another related an anecdote of Mrs. CHARKE, the daughter of COLLEY CIBBER. She was playing IAGO in a barn, and they were in great confuſion about the difficulty of managing the buſineſs of the quarrel between CASSIO and RODERIGO—for which they wanted three ſwords, whereas they had among them but two. It was agreed, however, that one of them ſhould ſtagger into the corner, and ſo let his ſword fall, as if by accident, between the ſcenes, that thus ſhe might find it, and come on to wound CASSIO.—This, however, was neglected—and ſeeing it was impoſſible to get a ſword—‘'What the devil ſhall I do?'’ ſaid ſhe, ‘'I muſt knock the fellow down.'’ Saying theſe words, ſhe ran into the dreſſing room—which was alſo a bed⯑chamber—and catched up an old bedpoſt, with which ſhe ran furiouſly at CASSIO, and not to be worſe than her promiſe, laid on him pretty ſeverely. He ſpeaking mechanically, when he heard his cue—which was accompanied by a blow on the head—cried out in the words of his part—‘"Oh my LEG is cut in two."’

The company being all lovers of theatrical merit, theſe anecdotes in⯑duced them ſeparately to hold forth in praiſe of thoſe actors or actreſſes who had been their greateſt favourites, and having arrived to that pitch of tenacity when no one of them would cede his opinion, the poet ſet them to rights by ſaying—‘'Gentlemen, we have all our prejudicies. I once illuſ⯑trated this poſition pretty ſtrongly in a fable.'’

A large company went to ſee a collection of various animals. A ſoldier admired the lion, a ſailor the nautilus, a fine lady the oſtrich, a courtier the jackall, and an hypocrite the hyena. A hump-backed man declared they were all fools; each, he ſaid, might have its particular merits, but he would venture to prove, beyond contradiction, that for beauty and ſymmetry no animal upon the face of creation could equal the—CAMEL.

This reproach ſet them all into good humour, and produced the fol⯑owing ſong from the COMMODORE.

The COMMODORE now cried out ‘'POET I ſhall call upon you—what will you give us?'’ ‘"Why,"’ ſaid the POET, ‘"you may remember Mr. O'SHOCKNESY, the other night, favoured us with the whole ſiege of Troy to an Iriſh tune—for my part, I felt my conſequence as a poet a little touched at it—and ſo, not to be outdone, I have brought ULYSSES back to ITHACA ſafely through all his perils, to the tune of—Yankee doodle. You muſt [342] ſuppoſe him unknown to PENELOPE, in the character of an OLD BEGGAR, giving her an account of his adventures. It is preceded by a few lines of recitation—in which you'll ſee how poetically PENELOPE interrupts him.’

He ſays