The TWO LADIES.

‘THIS is the most fashionable Coach on the stand,’ says a pretty young lady, stepping into me, with all the hilarity of soul that distin­guishes the cheerful children of pros­perity; after whom followed an elder­ly lady her mother. ‘This Coach,’ says the old lady, ‘from its neat ap­pearance, was never intended for a Hack, I am positive: No doubt it was, [Page 2] in its primitive state the vehicle of pride and presumption; but finding ‘Their faint means would not grant continuance.’ were obliged to dispose of it for half the money it cost them, before they had soiled the pannels.’ ‘'Tis very like, Mamma; there are such a num­ber of coach-going gentry in this ca­pital now a-days, that people of dis­tinction are puzzled to discover the Baronet of Grosvenor-square from the aspiring cheesemonger of Fish-street­hill. 'Tis surprising some of those li­terary beings do not give us The Ad­ventures of a Hackney Coach; I am sure there is an extensive field for a fertile genius, and no contemptible one: We have The Adventures of a Guinea, a most entertaining work; and similar adventures, full of fancy and instruction. It is one hour the seat of pleasure; the next, of anxiety: In­cidents [Page 3] innumerable it is daily a wit­ness of:—Disappointment often steps into it from a great man's levee with a heart full of anguish; pleasure takes a juant to Vauxhall with the syren of his ruin: The nuptial pair to be mar­ried; the disconsolate maid to her lo­ver's funeral. In short, I don't know adventures, if naturally related, would prove a higher source of pleasure to the generality of readers.’

Thy wishes my fair companion, shall be from this day, which is the first of my setting out, complied with; I have no doubt from my present ele­gant appearance, of being speedily acquainted with the various characters of life; and of putting into thy hands in a few years, a repository of enter­tainment and instruction, as full as the Bath Machine that has just passed me.

[Page 4] Before I introduce any of the cha­racters I mean to exhibit to my rea­der, I must beg leave to introduce my

ORIGIN.

I WAS made by a distinguished Coach-maker, of Great Queen­street, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, for Mr. M—, a very worthy merchant in Thread-needle-street, who acquired a considerable property, by an early and intense application to commercial bu­siness. He had as great a soresight of future events as most speculative men; could decypher a man of small capital and great appearance, whom he ge­nerally called a cracker; shook hands with the first merchants on the Royal Exchange, and was ever foremost in all their cabinet councils. As he had [Page 5] a rising family he was circumspect even in trifles; studied little else than how to acquire a provision to shield them from the winter of adversity. Notwithstanding all this sagacity, he trusted as much to appearances, where riches centered, as his unthinking neighbours; and by the failure of that plunderer F—e, this laborious son of industry, and his darling family, were bereft of the honest harvest of many toiling years. At the time of this national calamity, I was at his little villa at Clapham Common, with his wife and children, who mostly resided there.

When Rumour, the harbinger of these dreadful tidings arrived, the ge­nius of misery only could express the horror that ran through the family; which was scarcely felt, before the [Page 6] unfortunate wreck himself arrived with the confirmation.

He entered the back part of his garden and retired to an arbour, where he and his little family used often to assemble—to hide the bitter­ness of his affliction.

He did not remain long in this si­tuation, when his wife and children came to pour the balm of consolation into his bleeding bosom. His eldest daughter, with surprising fortitude suppressed her anguish, while she be­gan to chase from his tortured ima­gination, the approaching spirit of despair.

‘You know my dear Papa,’ says she, with the endearing tenderness of youthful affection, ‘when Lady No­table did us the honor of a visit last, how very much she admired my em­broidery, placed it in as flattering a [Page 7] point of view as the ingenious and un­rivalled Mrs. Wright's. My brother Billy's minatures are much admired likewise: I have now a very good likeness, neatly executed of the Du­chess of —; Lady Notable shewed it to her, and she admires it highly: She is a good creature,—I will make her a present of it; she will be a friend to us, my dear Papa, and will recommend me.’

‘There is no fear, between my brother and I, but we will realize something to begin the world anew.—’

‘This little villa belongs to my uncle, who often told me we should reside here, if we wanted his assistance; he too will be generous; for you know he calls my Mamma his darling sister.’

‘We will retrench all our super­fluities, and live like our primitive pa­rents, when there were no F—s’

[Page 8]He pressed the little charmer to his bosom; and desired her brothers and sisters to do the same; after which he rose, with his wife in one hand, and she in the other, and walked into the house.

A few days after I was driven to the coachmakers, where I was made but two months before; who told my master he would settle with him next morning; when he generously re­turned the original price.

I did not remain long in this situ­ation, when I was purchased by a Hackney-man, of Oxford-street; who had me numbered and sent to his stand next day in Piccadilly.

I remained but a few minutes here, when I took up

AN OLD OFFICER.

THIS is a Character, of all o­thers, I have the highest re­spect for; but more so, since I heard the story of Captain Shandy and Le Fevre, which was read by a sensible gentleman, a companion of my old master's at Clapham, who often de­lighted him with his excellent compa­ny, with a good book, his constant companion. We have made many little excursions round London; in all of which he has amused him highly with the best literary works, and his own sensible observations.

This venerable veteran was accom­panied by his wife, the patient and loving partner of his life, in many a hostile clime: Old as they were, their [Page 10] satiety did not cease from military pleasures, for they desired they might be taken to

THE REVIEW IN HYDE-PARK.

PHOEBUS was in his utmost splendor and pleasure diffused the happy tidings to all her children within the vicinity of London. The Park was uncommonly crouded— The KING and his amiable CONSORT had just arrived and were receiving the royal salute as we got up to the lines. Harmony took her seat in the soul and all was charmed attention for some minutes.—

‘Well EMILY,’ says the veteran, ‘how do you like the troops?’ ‘They make a very noble appearance,’says she, worthy the admiration of their Royal Master and the warriors in his [Page 11] train: It brings to my recollection some pretty lines I once met in a poem but little known, written in compli­ment to General WOLFE, on the con­quest of Quebec; and may very pro­perly be introduced here:

‘Very happily observed,’ says he, the KING is fond of his soldiers and waits for a glorious opportunity to shew our perfidious enemies and his admiring countrymen, the spirit and intrepidity of his renowned grandfa­ther and the immortal WOLFE.

"Observe that Hero on the right hand of his Sovereign, the valiant and successful Amherst; what perils has he [Page 12] not encounter'd for his thankful coun­try, near half an age in her service with unsullied honor! highly beloved and gratefully rewarded.—On his left, behold the happy heir of eternal honor, the offspring of the glorious Granby! Methinks I see thee, blissful Spirit! with a branch from thy palm of victory binding his youthful brows! hear thee tell him, when his country calls to remember thy unshaken loy­alty and victorious fame; the soldiers view him with paternal fondness tra­cing delighted in his youthful coun­tenance the lines of valor and huma­nity! Happy youth! mayst thou sink to the grave with the same weeping honors on thy hearse, thy father's spirit found on his.

"Beside him stands that brave offi­cer Townsend, with all the soldier in his appearance! he is just returned from [Page 13] the government of that kingdom that knew not how to prize his liberality till it lost him: He fought with the spirit of Hannibal, when his brave counryman dropped at Quebec! and highly deserves every honour his ge­nerous Prince bestowed on him.

"The greatest military monarch in the world, immortal Prussia is not surrounded by braver heroes.

"Let us retire; the KING is lea­ving the field." I left this happy cou­ple at their habitation, wishing them that serene repose attendant on felicity,

A few days after I attended

AN OFFICER's FUNERAL.

IT was one of those cheerless morn­ings, when the sun withdrew his enlivening beams from the heavy at­mosphere [Page 14] of London, that I was or­dered out very early to attend the fu­neral of an officer belonging to a re­giment in America; who died at his father's in Westminster.

My company consisted of some of his most affectionate companions, who were assembled to pay the last sad tri­bute to their departed friend. This testimony of friendship to survivors is a pleasing momento of indubitable sincerity, notwithstanding what the children of disappointment may as­sert to the contrary.

Their discourse chiefly turned on the many virtues of the deceased: His convivial disposition; amiable fidelity; and above all, the affection he bore his faithful nurse; whose husband was one of the unfortunate soldiers that fell at the battle of Bunkers-Hill; his al­lowing her six-pence a-day out of his [Page 15] pay from that hour and taking her child into his protection.

"But see," says one of my com­panions, "the disconsolate Theodora at her window; she has been watching the sad procession, though early;— amiable woman! how much art thou to be pitied!" She was drest in deep mourning, with her window open.— she raised her swimming eyes to hea­ven; and as she closed them the passing breeze bore from their heavy lids a tear—and drop't it on the coffin.

During the momentary intervals from grief, she rested her eyes on the hearse, till it was out of sight; then sat down in the window seat and wept bitterly.

"This lovely woman's connection with Charles," continued he, "may not be so well known as it should be; and as I had the happiness of a closer [Page 16] intimacy with them both, than most others, I shall relate it.

"This excellent young Lady is the daughter of a Baronet in the West of England, who died some few months ago, leaving her, at her own disposal a fortune of ten thousand pounds. In a village near her residence Charles was brought up, under the inspection of his grandfather, an officer on half pay, who retired to his rural asylum after many hardships, and little else to solace old age, than a heart of in­tegrity.

"Charles was the favourite of this veteran; he infused in him the virtues of the soldier and the man. The fa­ther of the youth, observing the won­derful progress he was making, was resolved, though dear his company was to him, to let him remain with his excellent preceptor, till he was every thing he could wish.

[Page 17]"In this retirement he lived till he was eighteen years old, the delight of every companion and the lover of the beauteous Theodora! The war-worn Hero was a constant visitor at the Ba­ronet's, always accompanied by his pupil.

"Theodora and her maid used fre­quently to meet them in a pathway that led from her house to the village; and by that means had an opportunity of indulging herself with the conversation of her favourite Charles.

"They generally let the old Gran­by go up the avenue, while they walk­ed through that part of the demesne that led to the back part of the house. Every one of these excursions was con­sidered by them both as the height of human felicity; how delicious was her winning converse to the happy [Page 18] Charles! every interview, their smiling genius revelled on a bed of roses.

"Charles, ere his blisses were tasted by some fortunate rival, was deter­mined in one of those walks to unbo­som himself to Theodora. She listened to him with the attention his virtues merited; told him to wait till next morning, and he should have her answer.

"Ere he was yet risen from his fan­ciful embraces of Theodora, her maid and confidante was dispatched with the following short letter to him:

"This terminated as poor Charles's fears foreboded; the connection was broke between them; the old officer ceased to visit the Baronet, and Charles had only a few mutual glances at church every Sunday to comfort him; and an ardent letter now and then, which was left in a box-tree for him by the hapless Theodora.

"In the last he found there, was enclosed her picture, neatly folded in a paper, with the following words: ‘The painter's genius, however su­blime, would convey to my fancy a faint image of my Charles, compared with that already engraved on my heart, which no time can obliterate; [Page 20] so that I desire no shadow in return for this trif [...]e.’?

"In this vicissitude of hope and anxiety, he continued for a year after the separation; when his father drew a part of his mother's fortune from the funds, and purchased an ensigncy for him, in a regiment ordered for America shortly after. You are ac­quainted with the rest of the story.

"Three years have elapsed since he left the last passionate kiss upon Theo­dora's lips; he was every thing in the field his brave preceptor was anxious for, valiant and enterprizing. But who can turn aside the shaft of adverse fortune? he was wounded at the head of a scouting party, but not mortally.

"His mourning mother, when she heard the melancholy tidings, begged he would return to her arms; he was too affectionate to disobey the voice of [Page 21] parental love and arrived about three months since.

"Theodora, whose father has been dead these nine months on hearing the state of her lover hurried up to town, to participate in his affliction; she took lodgings in the same street, that she might be near him, visited him every day, morning and evening.

"When he had a respite from his anguish, so as to be able to sit up, she would read by him, or tell some soothing tale. But alas! the dreadful herald of her grief arrived and de­stroyed the prospect of her future fe­licity; his wound turned to a morti­fication, which deprived him of his life; and left his family inconsolable, and his lover in a state of phrenzy."

By this time we arrived at the Church-yard, where they left me [Page 22] to join the melancholy train: Poor Charles was consigned to his clay-cold mansion; and I returned with his af­fectionate friends to where I took them up.

THE WEDDING.

I WAS engaged a few days after to go to Westham in Essex, by an af­fectionate couple who were desirous of tasting the joys inseparable from wed­ded love. The bride was one of those captivating vestals that win upon the affections rather than enchant the eye; possessing that agreeable something, to be seen beautifully drest in that ad­mired actress, Miss Brown, of Covent-garden theatre; but not in Mrs. Hart­ley, who is a Venus de Medicis.

She was accompanied by two agree­able females in neat habiliments; the bridegroom had one attendant and the [Page 23] bride's father, who was a widower, was the last who took a seat with this happy assemblage.

Our journey was very pleasant; the young folks of the village, who had timely information of this event, were prepared with the sweets of the season made up in various forms. When the bride was handed out, she was pre­sented with a handsome bouquet, by a comely youth; while the bride­groom received the like favour from a sprightly lass with the countenance of Hygaeia.

Six feemale villagers instantly step­ped from the throng, strewing the way with flowers till they were in the church.

As they returned from the altar, they were presented with a chaplet of flowers, which they were requested to preserve, while it remained together, [Page 24] as a testimony of the felicity they wished them.

The bridegroom was not behind hand in acknowledging the honor they did him, he gave them five guineas, which made them as happy as their wishes.

We drove to Wanstead, where the bride's father had a villa. "I cannot divine, my dear Amelia," says her father, "what makes you so dull this morning, you were all cheerfulness yesterday?" Indeed, Sir, says she, "I cannot account for it, it arises from no cause of displeasure; you have married me to the man I love, and I will ever retain a just sense of your goodness; there are hours when this languor of the mind will not suffer us to think or speak; they are winged with melan­choly on the nuptial morn of every rational woman."

[Page 25]"Your husband served me with a son's integrity in his apprenticeship, and I doubt not but he will be an or­nament to the line of life I shall leave him in.—His father was an honest man, an excellent companion; we seldom missed spending a convivial evening together at the Queen's arms.—Your husband took a liking to me from his childhood [...] I have had him in my thoughts for thee a long time; but more so since his father's misfortune in trad [...].—I shall leave you a comfort­able provision— and my blessing."

The tear of fatherly affection drop­ped from his eye; he strove to conceal it—it was the lucent messenger of a soul in ecstacy:— They saw in it the image of benignant nature, and both fell on his neck with gratitude and wept.

[Page 26]"I Shall retire," says he, to this little habitation we are going to, for the remainder of my days; I can bring to my imagination, as I sit under my favourite elm, the memory of my lost friends—dwell upon their virtues— point to many a memorial of their sincerity; and when thy happy ap­pearance cheers my little dwelling, think it a day of celestial festivity.

As this happy company were to spend some days in the country, I re­turned to town without them.

THE SAILOR.

"HOLLO! — Coachman!"— bawled a Sailor, as we were driving through White-chapel,— "steer me right a head to some pret­ty little cock-boat in Covent Garden; but avast—don't run me a board a [Page 27] fire-ship.—A good tight cabbin this, "says he, looking round me; "what damned bum boats we have got about Wapping— ‘'Twas when the seas were roaring’

"Aye! sink me to the bilboes! those land lubbers of Westminster take care of their tinsel carcases; let 'em alone for that.—Hollo!—pilot! tell that there lass with the short petticoats and tight heels to step aboard, I've got a letter from her brother for her."

"What cheer! what cheer, Nan!— what storm hast thou been in, my lass, thy rigging seems a little tattered and yet thy bottom is tight and clean?"

"The storm of adversity, says the poor girl—"O,—an' that be all, here is what will set thee to rights speedily, my girl;" pulling a dirty letter from his pocket.—She read it, and found [Page 28] it contained an order on her brother's owner for ten pounds.

"But tell me, my lass, what hove the out of thy last birth?"— "An act of charity," says she; "my master has got a new mistress, as great a virago as any under heaven. An old sailor, once a comrade of my father's, who is reduced to beggary, used daily to come for a little charity: I told his story to my old mistress, good soul! who de­sired I might give him every day what I could spare:—I did so;—we consider­ed him a pensioner in the family; the children grew delighted with the Ad­miral's sea stories, (as they used to call him) and often had him down to the kitchen to divert them. My poor mis­tress had not been dead six months be­fore my master married this cursed shrew and then our calm prospect was changed to a dreadful storm; the poor [Page 29] Admiral was discharged and to pre­vent my assisting him with her bounty, as she called it, I was discarded likewise.

"I have been six months out of place, and was very much reduced when Providence directed me to you." "Sink me! what a picaroon harpy!— ne'er mind, ne'er mind, my good girl; thy deeds are registered where her's will never be; let that be thy conso­lation."

Here lives Tom's owner, let us un­ship ourselves." Saying which, he gave a spring out of me, and handed her into the house, with that warmth of affec­tion proceeding from a generous soul.

This humane creature's case was truly pitiable; and yet such revolutions in families are daily seen. What an of­fence to humanity!—when a man is blest in one blissful object, and doubly happy in her children: why, ah! why [Page 30] should he steep their little pillows with the tears flowing from an injudicious choice! rather, why could he not find that society in them, he once expe­rienced with their loving mother,— and think of them only?

I returned to my stand without them and the next day took up that universally admired character

DOCTOR GOLDSMITH.

"TO have the pleasure of meet­ing Doctor Goldsmith this morning, is a happiness I did not ex­pect," says a smart little man addres­sing a gentleman of a saturine com­plexion, who saluted him. A poor female with one leg, who was black­ing shoes near them, raised her head at the salutation, and instantly cried out, "Ah, God bless him, he was born [Page 31] to protect the wretched, and will go to Heaven for it" "Let us retire," says he, "this poor woman's bene­diction will draw a crowd about us." "I am just returning to Chiswick," says his friend, and if you will do me the honor of your company to dinner, I shall be highly obliged; you shall be master of your own time as usual; and retire when you think proper."

"With all my heart, says he. It fell to my lot to accompany this genius.

The day being uncommonly fine he desired the coachman to take off his number, that we might go through

HYDE-PARK.

"WHAT a motley scene," "says the genius, "is ever here about this time of the day! pomp, self-importance and lounging nobility, ambling in the troop of pleasure.—Poverty looking up to them for relief, yet fearful of the harsh menance of denial.—There shines the proud ensign of nobility— a star;—here sickens in the eye of suf­fering virtue—a tear.—Yon tattered wretch, possibly, owes her remnant of poverty to some of these lords of the creation;—yet they pass her by with all the indifference of a merciless vizier."—

"Here comes the beautiful Duchess of — with a splendid train of fa­shionable youths around her;—if I had a wife, I should be sorry to see her [Page 33] a spectacle for such gazers.—The fair tints of vernal loveliness adorn her de­lightful countenance!—perfection is charmed with her graceful form! and the perpetual buzz of flattery give her cheeks an additional bloom, that al­most hides their native roses.

"Beautiful woman!—thy situation in life places thee above the contempt of bitter invective, else thy pillow would be lined with many a thorn.— The world is villainous, and fiction has taken the seat of truth, which makes it dangerous for any, but such as thee, to be seen in this situation. And yet, thy wife (speaking to his companion) is a much happier wo­man;—the flowers of her little garden cannot flatter her: A good book; thy society; and a few friends, whose con­verse never stained the tablet of scan­dal, seated in her little bower, are the utmost earthly happiness she desires.— [Page 34] Let us quit this scene of gaiety."

"You forgot," says his companion, "to give me your opinion of the Pros­pect of Poetry." "I did so; I was so immersed in a variety of business, that I had not time to read it till last night; I had it once in my possession, when I was at Lishoy; ^* I lost it, and did not meet with a copy till you savoured me with yours.

"If my opinion could enlarge the merit of it; I think it inferior to no poem on the subject in any language, and superior to most: One passage gave [Page 35] me infinite pleasure, and as I have it in my pocket, I shall read it for you.

[Page 36]"This is the sublime! without swelling into bombast. The Author ^* is but little known out of that part of the world he lives in ^†; I am told he is stepping fast into the age of child­hood, like his predecessor SWIFT and finds but little comfort from any thing but his own random thoughts.

"I remember the ingenious Earl of Orrery thought the dedication of this poem to him a great compliment. It is the most elegant piece of poetic genius I have ever seen from Ireland."

His companion proposing that he should return to London in his car­riage, put an end to my journey with this sensible genius.

THE SPUNGE.

"TAKE you me for a spunge, Sir? says a gentleman, step­ping into me. "Yes, and know you to be one," says the gentleman, with an indignant smile; "thou wert nur­sed in the cradle of infamy, thou wert fed by the hand of hypocrisy; thou hast given genius a ghastly smile; and the sufferings of virtue, the tears of Medusa. I have traced thee through every stage of life, and found thee what I assert. You live by the exercise of e­very vice, and that day is fair indeed, when merit does not receive a wound from the poinard of thy malignant spirit. Thy abettors are the terrors of society! Their remorse is that of the crocodile; and the feelings of Tar­quin, their humanity. Thou hast [Page 38] neither genius, education, nor what are called the shining qualities of il­lustrious life to recommend thee; and yet the hateful volume of thy martyr­dom takes the lead of every other of their perusal, where bleeding reputa­tion presents her mangled image! and the tear of pity was never traced up­on the sanguine page! Thy subscrip­tion to this villainous work is extensive and by this thou art enabled to tri­umph over honor and unsullied inte­grity."

My companion escaped from this bitter lecture of the injured heart as speedily as he could. My driver was resolved to be a connoisseur in this masterly painting, and therefore did not attempt to stir, till his exaspera­ted fare exerted his Tartarean voice with the penetrating words, "Go on, you rascal!" A crack of the whip ac­companied [Page 39] this harsh appellation and we passed through the shouting croud with the swiftest celerity.

We stopped at the Mount-street Coffee-house; where a gentleman took a seat with him, who saluted him by the name of Mr. Cheany. I believe this to be a corruption of china; it is, probably; the baptismal signature of some facetious wight, who seeing such distorted images, from his infernal fancy, as we behold on china, be­queathed him this expressive legacy for his excellent designing.

"Well, my propitious genius!" says his companion, "what news from Mount Ida! does the pulse of the god­dess beat in unison with mine?—what says she?" "She is a compound of in­consistency," says he, "one hour she is on the wing to Scotland, panting for your embraces; the next, a very Sigis­munda, [Page 40] dissolved in tears: feasting on a lover's smiles this minute, and sigh­ing at a father's sorrows the next: In short, I believe, Hope and you will never take a seat in that quarter."

"I cannot fail to make the voyage with safety, in the beauteous Manilla, while you are at the helm: come, my fortunate Archer! be successful in this, and thou shalt repose with my genero­sity under a shadow of laurels, and magnificent happiness! I played pret­ty deep last night at Arthur's; the blind goddess shook the box every cast! here are two fifties on this tempt­ing paper! manage this affair, and they shall be multiplied to the store of Croesus."

"Your former liberality made me hazard every finer movement of the heart in this enterprize, a discovery would be winged with inevitable ruin: It is not your sanctuary would protect [Page 41] me from the fury of her ferocious Knights of the Rainbow, who eye me with the fierceness of a vulture, and wait but for the opportunity to de­vour. You shall hear from me in a few days: if my genius wears her wonted smile, the willow shall not deck your brows.

"This morning I am engaged by a lady of distinction, to settle the preli­minaries of a crim con with her para­mour, a handsome youth in the city, the son of a merchant, who caught a fast hold of her affections last night at the opera. If I succeed in this nego­tiation, the richest votary at the temple of Plutus will grudge me the treasure of my victory! my paper, then, will bear the impression of hundreds, in­stead of fifties; for the feelings of ec­stasy are trifling to the transports that will arise from this interview! she is all [Page 42] phrenzy to embrace this Adonis of traffic. Farewell! you may rely on my assiduity."

It is a reed that may pierce him to the heart! thought I, and make him as hateful to himself as thou art to honor and honesty.

THE MISER.

BY this man's corrugated brow, and watchful attention to his pockets, he seems to be a Miser:—I was not mistaken. He desired he might be taken to the Bank.—He ob­served a perpetual silence on the way. —A poor old soldier with one arm, on his return, begged a small portion of his charity.—He had none;—but he had a canvass bag, which contained what would answer the same purpose; [Page 43] but his callous soul caught the alarm on the poor man's supplication, and it was hurried with the rapidity of lightning into his pocket.

"Stay," says he, "I think my maid gave me a farthing, when she returned from the chandler's shop this morn­ing, if I have it I will give it to thee." —He had it not; but a gentleman, who begged to take a seat with him, offered to lend him a shilling. "O, by no means," says he, "he is but a poor old soldier!" "A poor old sol­dier!" rejoined the other, "who has a better right to your bounty? the first, the foremost in the list of indigence, once the trusty guardian of that trea­sure you are hiding from the world,— the glorious privilege of nature—your freedom. Come, Sir, the giving of your shilling and mine will never in­jure us, and it will be a mine to him.

[Page 44]"Probably his little family wait with weeping anxiety for the little harvest of the day, and at present it does not consist of above a penny."

"Fine preaching, indeed!" says the Miser; "no, no, you may give him your shilling, but mine shall be re­served for a nobler purpose; it shall go towards the endowing of an hospi­tal, which I have had in my thoughts some time; and then I shall have the prayers of thousands."— "Away!" says the gentleman, jumping on the pavement, "'tis not in your nature." —He gave the soldier his mite, and quit the Miser.

I was uneasy till I got rid of this de­tested being, which shortly happened.

A few days after I took up a nobler subject of humanity.

MISS C * * * * Y.

"COME, my dear," says she to her little boy, "we will go seek this poor woman, and relieve her if we can." She had a petition in her hand; it came that morning from a poor woman, who had been seized with the pains of travail, in a miser­able habitation, friendless and for­lorn. I had heard such a number of humane souls, that take more delight in this first principle of nature, than boasting of starched virtue, mention this woman's goodness of heart on many occasions similar to this, that I ceased to wonder at her ready atten­tion to the petition.

"Do you stay in the carriage, my dear," says she to her child, "while I step up stairs, and see this poor woman's [Page 46] situation." She remained about half an hour, and returned with the fol­lowing tale.

"I was apprehensive, my dear, my sudden appearance might throw the poor woman into confusion; to prevent which, I stept into her neighbour's apartment, and sent to apprize her of my visit. She did not keep me long, when the little girl that brought me the petition conducted me to her chilling abode.

"She told me she was the wife of an industrious tradesman, who had been prest on board a tender off the Tower, about six weeks ago; that she never knew calamity till then: She spent the residue of his earnings endeavouring to procure his discharge: The few friends she had were as poor as herself, and she ceased to persevere in the pursuit [Page 47] the last week, giving herself up to her sorrows. "Yes, indeed," says her lit­tle one, "my mammy does nothing but weep night and day, though I do every thing in my power to please her." I gave the poor comfortless wo­man an assurance of her husband's discharge, cost what it would: Her thanks were too much for me to listen to. I relieved her for the present, and desired her little girl might call on me every week, till she was restored to her health,—and her husband."

A lady, shortly after, mentioned ths circumstance to her companions, as I was taking them to this excellent woman's benefit; with the conclusive part, that she had not only released the husband, but restored them to their former comfortable situation, with her own bounty, and that of the admirers of her benevolence.

THE RESURRECTION THIEVES.

THE pulse of toil was still;—and Morpheus began his silent reign, when I was summoned by a hoarse voice, as I was returning home from my stand, to an obscure house, where four masked figures instantly [...]ok a seat in me.

My conception of their destination I soon found to be erroneous; I thought their intention was to rob the living: But I was mistaken, for their prey in this nocturnal enter­prize, was a poor wretch's corpse, who they understood, from a villan­ous sexton, was a friendless stranger who died that morning in the habita­tion of misery, and was buried in a shell at the expence of the parish.

[Page 49]Perhaps some Chatterton—or Boyse, whose surprising indifference to a de­cent situation in life, or death, was marked for this detested under­taking. Dear names!—let me give a tear to each of your memories; and may they find companions from the Samaritan soul of sensibility in this pause of exquisite sorrow.

When we arrived at that distin­guished church-yard that gave up its dead more than once, for a more shock­ing purpose than anatomy; ^* they left me, taking my driver along with them, [Page 50] to prevent his giving the alarm, and leaving one of their companions to keep watch. But, "murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ," and in less than five minutes the villainy was dis­covered; for my safeguard (which they did not recollect) was subject to fits, by which means a violent alarm was instantly given.

The lanterned host, with their clap­pers thundering din, hurried to the helpless son of Hippocrates, who lay plunging in the kennel.

One party surrounded me, thinking I contained some prey for the consta­ble of the night; while another, who smoked the proceeding by seeing a gliding figure in the church-yard, who they instantly termed a Resur­rection Devil, got over the railing and secured the thieves.

[Page 51]Men, women and children, on the alarm being given, from the illustri­ous group in the attic story, to the subterraneous sprites of the cellar, started from their sleep, and popping their heads out of the surrounding windows, gave a shout of applause, at their being apprehended, enough to rouse the dead.

So violent was the bitter phrenzy of those that were near them; that they discharged the drowning flood of their jordans on them, inattentive to the tottering file of Somnus' ve­terans, the conquerors of goblin ar­mies that were heroically guarding them to the round-house. My dri­ver making it appear that he was forced into the church-yard along with them, they suffered him to mount to his elevated situation, and return home with me.

[Page 52]For the pleasure of those feeling minds, whose humanity is shocked with this outrage on the grave, I have the satisfaction to inform them, that those plunderers, of, perhaps, one of their companions in some quarter of the globe, whose heart was a mine of virtue and benevolence, were heavily fined on their trial, and imprisoned for six months, and the perfidious sexton received a severe flagellation from the hands of that merciful mi­nister of justice, Jack Ketch.

Some time after I became the com­panion of

A PRIEST.

"BEGONE, ye wooden deities! ye cold sprinklings of super­stition! the Lethe of iniquity! in whose shallow fount the crimes of our sanctum sanctorum bigots are daily plunged, that they may exhibit to an astonished world that virgin purity of heart that mark their immaculate ac­tions! rest with the fools that are a­bove the joys of sensual pleasure. Thou, my little rose-lip'd queen! whose charms excel the brightest saint in our legionary calendar, to thee, my lovely deity, I shall bow the knee to-night!"

Courteous reader, excuse me; I should have introduced this damsel to thee before, who was handed into me by this amorous pastor, with that [Page 54] ecstatic fire that blazed in the bosom of Abelard, when his kiss of rapture re­velled o'er the beauteous cheek of Eloisa, and in the soft impression left the lily of his felicity, encircled in the blooming rose of her beauty! this I would have done, but that it would be inflicting a severe penance on my genius to interrupt the enthusiasm of his carnal adoration.

Three times my Dalilah companion cried out, bravissimo! at the lovely phrenzy of her raven's-grey Sixtus, who seemed to be a branch of the renowned Pontiff's prolific stock, and considered women and wine the great­est happiness the human heart could aspire to.

"Transcendent woman!" cried he, "what fascinating lures we behold in the dominion of thy beauty! vernal [Page 55] pleasure scatters her fragrant roses in all thy steps! the sweet blandishments of love flow from the Hybla of your tongues! and the Graces adorn ye with the smiles of Hebe, and the beatific charms of beauty! oft in thy flowery scenes I rove delighted with Proteus, my cheerful companion!—last week I rambled to Vauxhall a-la-militaire— last Monday I figured in the boxes of the Hay-Market theatre with a lovely fille-de-joy, in Parisian splendor! and last night I revelled in Lovejoy's Cir­cassian convent!—well done Sixtus! thought I. "You are the happiest creature in the world," says his com­panion, "that can divide your time so pleasantly, between imaginary saints and the angels of the blissful paradise of Covent-Garden! with the first you may indulge yourself in all the luxury of fanciful gratification, just like a poet when he banquets on the Hesperian [Page 56] beauties of his muse: with the last, you are not so secure; a penance may ensue, severer than the terrors of your Duke-Street inquisition.

"I passed yesterday through the arch that leads from the Sardinian ambassador's Chapel into Lincoln's-Inn-Fields; where I beheld a man on his bare knees, in the kennel, in an agony of grief not to be expressed: His incoherent lamentation brought a crowd round him, who concluded him insane; till a friend of his told them it was a penance inflicted on him by one of your rigid rulers, who ensnared him into a confession of a criminal tete-a-tete with a publican's wife in the neighbourhood, where the good Levite lodged; and who, I dare say, burned the same incense on the altar of her credulous confession as of­ten as the culprit. The poor wretch [Page 57] was sentenced to rave,—weep,—and thump his agonized breast for half an hour in his situation, the sport of un­feeling wretches, and the pity of the enlightened beholders; who could not help pouring their maledictions on the cruel persecutors of your church, who seem to delight in this sacrifice of peace and happiness."

"Call it not persecution," says he, "if it was not for this weakness of the understanding, a priest's situation would be as disagreeable as a Welch curate's. This blind zeal of our fol­lowers give us a supremacy highly ne­cessary, where there is no establish­ment to support us. If it was not for our incessant exertions to quench the lamp of reason and intellectual refine­ment the Protestants are daily lighting in the breasts of our deluded multitude, we might wander with the itinerant [Page 58] orators of Moorfields, and Tottenham-Court-Road, the mendicants of arro­gance, whose pulpit is a beer barrel, and whose canopy the sky.

"Let us drop the subject, and enter into the temple of superior felicity."

I left his inamorato, and the saint of his adoration at the Fountain Ta­vern, Catherine-street; where, we may suppose he sipped Sabaen nectar from the lips of wanton happiness; and the tears of penitence from the current of reflection.

THE SUICIDE.

RETURNING from the Royal-Exchange this morning, I was stopped at the Somerset-house Coffee-house, in the Strand; where a gentle­man, with an inimitable wildness of countenance, took a seat in me.

There was something so expressive of the baleful purpose he was engaged in, that I shuddered to meet the heavy lightning that shot from his frantic soul, through his tearless eye.

He desired he might be taken to Kentish Town. He spoke this with a manly firmness, and an emphasis of the utmost harmony at heart.

Wretched mortal! thought I; could nothing lure thee from the frightful verge of misery;—the freezing gulf of [Page 60] eternity! —how many sad examples fill the tearful volume of affliction!— untune the genial heart!— and rend the bosom of serene philosophy!— Poor Werter!—thy cureless woes were too poignant for thy fortitude;—Me­lancholy reposed her heavy head early on thy breast, and led thee her unso­cial round, with sighs and tears thy constant companions, till the sable portal of the grave enclosed thy crim­son corse, and sealed the eye of ge­nius and thy hapless love with thy Charlotte's flowing sorrows.

My companion fixed his eyes on a croud that was approaching; there were two poor youths going to be ex­ecuted:— he looked wistfully at them with weeping compassion.—"Thy si­tuation, poor fellows, I cannot help feeling for!" says he, "though my own is attended with a lesser ray of hope, [Page 61] in the state I am rushing into: I shud­der on the dreadful precipice,—but misery could not wear a more hide­ous aspect when she feasted on the af­flictions of wretched Ugolino, and his little victims of unparalleled cruelty, than she wears in my presence this mi­nute!—begone, thou horrible fiend! thy bitter luxury in my cup of misery here, is just exhausted; seek some other residence, and let me enjoy one placid moment in this sad hour of calamity

"My dear,—my hapless Maria!— may the inflexible heart of thy cruel father melt with compassion o'er my untimely bier:—may he choose, from the fortunate of mankind, an object [Page 62] worthy of that amiable treasure, thy affections, when thy Frederick's suf­ferings rest in oblivion.—Thus I fi­nish the terrific behest of madness and affliction!"

The report of the pistol alarmed my driver, and some labourers who were in an adjacent field, who ran to his assistance; one of them was a te­nant of his, and felt his loss in a sen­sible manner.

We drove to his habitation, where the face of harmony was changed to a scene of tears, and audible sorrow. His faithful domestics, trembling with the shock of anguish, bore him in. The best of masters!— the most excel­lent of friends!— was the tenor of their lamentations. Anthony's afflic­tion over the bleeding body of his be­loved Caesar, could only be expressive of the faintest picture here of sorrow.

[Page 63]On my return, I discovered the following paper, which dropped from his pocket in the confusion.

This letter was returned to his fa­mily in the evening.

My reflections continued for some days, on the lamentable exit of this poor being; whose philosophy was a shadow; and whose feelings, had they been less refined, would have done honor to humanity.

Does the fault lie in nature, or the clime? My reader will, probably, say the first; in which opinion I will rea­dily coincide: It cannot be confined to any clime in particular; for every region has this lunacy upon record. I have heard it asserted, by scientific re­searchers, that the British clime is full [Page 66] of this vapor of phrenzy; but I will not, by any means, give my consent to it: I am very well persuaded every enlightened country in the terraque­ous globe can produce yearly instances of the like nature. We pay more at­tention to what happens at home, than we do to any other quarter; and from this alone arises that universal received opinion, that Britain is more culp­able in this respect.

May the hand of Heaven interfere, and destroy this plague of the mind —this fell ravager of peace and hap­piness.

THE MILLINER's PRENTICE.

"YOU seem greatly fatigued, my dear," says a gentleman to her; "will you permit me to carry your band-box, or do me the pleasure of your company in this coach? I will be happy in conducting you to where­ever you are going." "Indeed Sir," says she, very modestly, "I am very faint, for I have not rested since I breakfasted: My situation in life is more than I can patiently bear." "I sincerely believe it," says he, "the hardships of this life crowd upon us before we can gather strength to sup­port them, let that fortitude be thy companion through life, that propt through a series of afflictions thy re­nowned and virtuous country wo­man, the memorable Elizabeth.

[Page 68]"Anguish oft slumbers on the pil­low of regal virtue, as well as thine; your parents should have been more watchful of your soul's ease."

"There, Sir," says she, "you pre­sent to my imagination a picture I would willingly avoid looking at; I lost my felicity when I buried my a­miable father; my happiness died with him; and left me with a mourn­ing mother, to bemoan his loss in a comfortless situation.

"He was a captain in a regiment stationed in Ireland, where he died; my mother, fond of living within the bosom of her little family, free from the inquisitive and prying eyes of bu­sy, medling neighbours, who cannot be happy if they are not acquainted with every domestic secret around them, was obliged, after this heavy af­fliction, to quit that kingdom.

[Page 69]"She had ever a predilection for the village where I was born in War­wickshire, where she settled about three years ago, and lives at present, with my brother and sister. A friend­ly lady in the neighbourhood shewed me many marks of her esteem; and requested I might be put prentice to her milliner in Cornhill.

"I am sensible of the sincerity of her friendship, for the day I was bound, she put into my master's hands a two hundred pound bank note, to be delivered to me at the expiration of my time.

"This she did, lest any unforeseen accident should deprive her of the means on which I was to build my fu­ture independence. She little knows the slavery of a milliner's younger prentice, and the vices they are ex­posed [Page 70] to." She shall speedily be ac­quainted with them," says her com­panion, "for I will, with your per­mission, solicit her countenance and your mother's to our immediate union."

This was one of the unexpected sallies of violent love, and she blushed exceedingly, without a reply to it, for some minutes.

To read a countenance on this oc­casion requires some sensible delibe­ration; she did not think herself suf­ficiently an adept in this point, so re­ferred him to her master, for the most material part of the reply she would wish to give him.

He begged an interview with her that evening in the Temple Gardens; when he would give such proofs to her [Page 71] friend, as would leave no doubt of the sincerity of his proposal: She saw that harbinger of the virtuous soul, truth, glow in his countenance as he ad­vanced this proposal; and she no lon­ger doubted him: The meeting was settled between them, and the issue of this adventure will appear to the reader's satisfaction, in another part of this work.

THE PICKPOCKETS.

WE'LL take a pleasurable jaunt to the Spaniards on Hamp­stead hill, George," says a smart wo­man to a handsome young fellow. "By no means," says he; "we'll go to St. Martin's church, there is a cha­rity sermon to be preached there by the Bishop of P—, who ever brings a great congregation with him: It is the only place we can do business to [Page 72] day; and after let us proceed to the Spaniards." "'Tis very well," says she.—I could not help admiring the exterior of this youth: He had all that refined elegance in his person and manner my reader would expect from the finest mould of nature, and the tuition of the Graces: —And can this man be a pickpocket, thought I. — "You look very well to-day, George," says his companion; "the K — would as soon be suspected of your intention this morning." "'Tis a cursed life," says he, "but I must feed my ambi­tion."— I waited till they returned with the spoil, and then we drove ra­pidly off to Hampstead.

"Thy advice has been very pro­phetic to-day, and I have profited largely by it," says she; "how did you come off?"— "Nabob like," says he, "my plunder is a little brilliant! I [Page 73] tipt the sextoness half a crown, and she placed me in one of the best seats in the church, among a set of weighty dowagers:— This neat repeater, set round with diamonds is no trifle; Varnish, the watchmaker, of Bartho­lomew's Close, shall baptize it with a new name, and away it goes to the East-Indies.

"This massy snuff box is of the true antique; my friend Solomon, of St. Mary-Axe, will soon dispose of this: He won't scruple saying it was the companion of Edward Worthly Montague in his travels to the written mountains; and off it goes to a virtu­oso, at as great a price as the Monk's horn-box— if Yorick's heirs would dispose of it.

"The rest are trifles, a gold etwee, a smelling bottle, a purse with two [Page 74] guineas, and a lottery ticket. Come, my ingenious sister in the magic art, let's see your spoil."

"Here's the beauteous assemblage that will tell no tales," producing a purse of guineas, — "and this beauti­ful topaz ring, five guineas, and a bank note for ten pounds in another:—I have got a watch too—but fire me, it is Cockspur-Street sterling, that Jew ^* has often bit me in this manner.

"Yonder goes Harriet, as I live let us post after her, and take a view of her new flash-man, I am told he is very handsome, and has seen better days."

"He has," says her companion,— "I understood at the billiard table, [Page 75] the other day, that he was an officer in America, lost considerably at ha­zard, and was necessitated to sell his commission to discharge some press­ing debts.

"He has been in London some months, and constantly attends our nocturnal meetings in Russel-Court; —he won twenty pieces last night from Ned Nimblewrist, and seems af­fectionately fond of Harriet; she ne­ver suffers him to decide her disputes like most women in her situation, but rather wishes to screen him from pub­lic attention. I found him at the Cocoa Tree the other day very me­lancholy, which convinces me how very disagreeable his situation is to him. He is very accomplished, but what can he do in London, where no­thing but the means will signify a rush? Without that, a man cuts as ridiculous [Page 76] an appearance as the Vicar of Wake­field's son, trudging from the fair with his green spectacles. But see, they salute us,—we'll discharge the coach, and step into the garden after them."

I was very happy in getting rid of such sharpers, and returned to town with a hope that I might one day have the pleasure of conducting them on board some lighter, for Mr. Camp­bell's Marine academy at Woolwich: —I won't say to Tyburn.

THE COUNTRY GIRL.

"LARD love you, Sir, an you be so koind to direct me to Chandos-Street Common Garden," says a rosy country girl, with a little parcel under her arm, addressing her­self to an old gentleman with a com­placent countenance.

[Page 77]"'Tis a dangerous road, child,— and as thou seem'st a stranger, we will step into this coach, and I will be your safeguard through it." "Ah! dear a me," says the simpleton; "I should be waundidly afread to trust myself, for I heard as how they be voil folks in London." "Fear not, sweet inno­cence," says the courteous stranger, "I am the parent of such as thee, and will protect thee with as much attention."

"GOD Almighty bless you for your koindness."

On the way he asked her what bu­siness could bring her to London, a­lone, or could tempt her to leave the inn without a guide? She said her sweetheart had listed for a soldier, and had gone to America; that she could not bear the country after him, for he used every evening, as duly as the sun went down, to meet her in the mea­dow [Page 78] when she was milking, and assist her going home:—"He was the sweet­est soul living, (continued she) and waited for the death of an aunt who is to leave him ten pounds a-year. For the last month I did nothing but weep, but more so when I went to the meadow,—we were as merry as the lark once,"—here she wept bitterly.

"I was advised," says she, "to come to a sister of mine that lives in Chandos Street, and she would get me a place:—I had but little money when I took my place in the waggon; and when I got to the inn, I had but a shilling left; which I kept, lest I should not find my sister. There were several in the inn-yard offered their sarvices to shew me the way, par­ticularly an old lady, with a patch on her face, drest very genteelish; but I was afread, and pretended to know [Page 79] London as well as they, so I left them whispering about me."

"Thou didst very right," says the old gentleman, "for they wanted to ensnare thee,—I am very glad I hap­pened to meet you, for my daughter wants a child's maid, and you will just answer her; it is such as thee I could wish every mother would place with her children: Their little minds would then be free from the taints of corrupt and perfidious servants, that swarm in this metropolis.

"I shall leave you with your sister till to-morrow; when you may take up your abode where your affliction will be lightened in the bosom of in­nocent tranquility."

I left this couple, and returning to my stand, took up

A DISCONSOLATE WOMAN.

HER husband had been just hur­ried from her embraces by two of those vultures of inhumanity, she­riff's officers; she was in a violent a­gitation of mind, —she trembled ex­ceedingly, as she was stepping in, and instantly burst into tears. "No: — says she, (let what will betide) he shall not be from my arms to-night, —my af­fectionate husband!— unfeeling cre­ditor that my children could not stop thy rigor for a few days; but thy heart will ache for it yet.

When she arrived at her house, a little boy came running to the door. "Well, my dear Mamma, —did you find him?"— "No, child, but I won't [Page 81] be long so." "O, indeed," says he, "he said he was only going to take a walk with the two gentlemen, and would be home in about an hour." "Fear not, Charles," says she, "so he shall."

She did not keep me long, when she returned with a few valuable arti­cles, which she took to a pawnbro­kers, and deposited for as much as would procure his enlargement; from whence she hurried to Southampton Buildings, Holborn; and returned— with her soul's felicity!— and a coun­tenance of inexpressible delight.

"He is disappointed," says she; "he thought to injure you in the ten­derest point, by confining you, and this for a trifling quarrel: —Shame on the villain,— have no farther inter­course with him, and a little time, [Page 82] and industry will restore us to what we have lost by his cruelty. My dear husband! —I scarcely knew how to face my children,— poor Charles said he would not stir from the door till you returned,— and see, he has kept his word."

The little fellow kept skipping a­bout the hall till he embraced his fa­ther, and harmony and joy once more took their seat in this little family.

NED SHUTER.

"YOU will be sure, Ned, to come at nine this evening." Says a smart female, to a lively fea­tured man who had taken a seat in me.— "I shall be punctual, Harriet," says he;— adieu."

He desired he might be taken to Suffolk-Street, Middlesex Hospital. On my way I could not help recon­noitering this man's facetious counte­nance; there was something very in­teresting in it; — it contained more expression than any I had seen for a long time,— there was all that vivaci­ty of soul sparkling in his eyes, that Reynolds would give to the comic muse!— He drew a manuscript from his pocket — looked over it in a cur­sory manner. — "I shall never endure to get it by heart," says he; "this fel­low's [Page 84] muse of fire will set the green-room in a blaze! I wish the Lilliputian manager of the next house had secu­red him before he had bit us in this manner."

He beckoned to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who ran to meet him,— shook him by the hand very cordially,— inquired after his health, — "pretty well, pretty well," says he, "I shall kill the king of grief yet. But tell me what success the last campaign, any thing of the vis comica in it?" "Yes, faith, a great deal," says the other: "Some silly youths left their solid pudding in London, for the empty praise of a barn; mad to put the buskin'd muse out of counte­nance; we had a whining Romeo — a ranting Richard— a very dolorific Hamlet, and a Lear of sixteen years old.— Bob gave the rustics the cries of [Page 85] London, after the manner of the ini­mitable Mr. Shuter, they were so well pleased they would have given any price to have heard the original.— We shared pretty well with tolerable be­nefits.

"Our Calista had the good fortune to captivate a Tony Lumkin, a well fed booby with twelve hundred a-year; it occasioned much mirth with the ill-natured. Rancour, as usual, was high­ly applauded for authentic informa­tion; in one circle it was firmly assert­ed there would be a young Montezu­ma before six months at least: But we that knew the worth of Calista better, rejoiced, heartily wishing her that fe­licity her amiable life merited.— I shall see you at the theatre — farewell."

I found by their discourse, the fa­cetious Ned Shuter was the person whose countenance made such an im­pression [Page 86] on me. Conveying my first master from the theatre, I had often heard him mention this gentleman's name in a strain of approbation, felt only when the heart accompanies the tongue.

We had got to the top of Berner's-Street, when he pulled out the check string,— there was a poor wretch, with an anguish-worn countenance, sitting beside a watchman's box:— She was almost naked, with an infant folded in her shiv'ring arms.— A peeress stopt her carriage and sent her a shilling, —three fourths of her body was bent over her infant, so that the donation was not seen by her, till a little boy told it was dropt into her lap. She paid no attention to any thing but her babe, and continued rocking it in her cradle of misery, till my humane pas­senger wrapped her in his great coat.

[Page 87]He took some money from his poc­ket, and gave her a guinea; — desired she would call at his lodgings Wind­mill-Street every week, "I will en­deavour to assist you." Saying which, he returned to me with his eyes swim­ming in tears. The people that were gathered round, together with her own weakness, prevented her from shewing her gratitude, which he wish­ed to avoid.

"God of Humanity!" says he, "I thank thee that thou hast enabled me to draw from the margin of calami­ty, a miserable sufferer of thy chil­dren, and her helpless innocent! — di­vine Langhorne! how beautifully hast thou pictured a scene like that just be­fore me, in thy apology for vagrants.

I returned without this distinguish­ed son of humanity.

A few days after I took up

A FINE LADY.

"DRIVE to the florist's in Cheapside," says she; I must positively have an elegant nosegay on the occasion, cost what it will. —Let me think two moss roses, with three carnations between them, and the minionet I have already, will be very lovely!— it will be a good signal for my dear William to discover me.— Mrs. Fanciful, of Tavistock-Street, shall make me the handsomest mas­querade habit that will be there.— My papa told me that he would not sing psalms for nothing,— his daugh­ter's [Page 89] future figure in life depends on a bold stroke in her prime; and he will stint himself in every particular to support me." — She could not get the flowers under half a guinea, and sooner than be without them, she gave it, from one of the loveliest hands I had ever seen.

One of those silent objects of dis­tress, who had been just raised from the falling sickness, cast a weeping glance at the dear purchase. She gave it a look of thoughtless admiration, inattentive to the face of sorrow.— Good Heaven! thought I, as we re­turned, what a world of extravagance we live in!— how thoughtless of past indigence, and how madly vain in the sun-shine of prosperity. —Here is a being now, the daughter of a psalm-singer, totally absorbed in thoughts [Page 90] of pleasure and dissipation, and by her own account, her father the agent of her ensuing ruin.

Possibly I may meet thee yet, silly damsel, faint and weary; when a shilling of what thou art lavishing now, will not be left thee to purchase a seat in me; and as little attention paid thee, as thy heart paid the sickly daughter of adversity it disdained looking at just now.

May thy foolish father see his folly betimes, and snatch thee from the ap­proaching genius of bitter reflection. —Thy face is too lovely to perish in the wild of misfortune.

GARRICK's FAREWELL.

AN uncommon demand for coaches this evening, by the enthusiastic admirers of dramatic ex­cellence, who were hurrying to Dru­ry-lane theatre to see that great lu­minary of theatric genius, Mr. Gar­rick, take his farewel of an admiring and polished audience, who for thir­ty years shewed him the highest marks of their favor, drew me to the house of a distinguished gentleman in the republic of letters; he was accom­panied by his wife and daughter.

A taciturnity, the companion of men of severe study, deprived me of this gentleman's observations on the occasion while he was going, but he made me ample amends on his return.

[Page 92]"Well, my dear," says his wife, "what do you think about the little man's departure?" "I am sorry for his departure, as an actor, but must confess myself highly pleased at his leaving the literary chair, in which he reviewed dramatic composition so disingenuously.—I would not be the primary cause of as many heart-achs as he has occasioned, to purchase the universe.—He was a wonderful actor! the mirror of our immortal Shake­speare—in whom we saw the life and soul of his matchless muse: divest him of this—what is he? Is he an honest man?— Yes—simply so.— Where are his good actions? do they consist in cruel oppression? and so did avarice. Fie on them! they are rank weeds!—do they consist in patroni­zing flatterers, the weather-cocks of indigence?

[Page 93]"Call me the children of affliction, from the cave of obscurity: See what a croud lay their sufferings at his door! Observe that pensive genius, wrapt in the gloom of pining anguish: —the years of captivity crowded on him so fast, that his abilities perished almost unnoticed, in the wreck of oppression before this mock monarch quit his mimick kingdom. What is his name? L—; see his Ranger, Bene­dict, Iago, Pierre, Wolsey, and Rich­ard: — Where lies the superiority?— criticism is puzzled to find it out. Did he use him cruelly? so tyrannically, that when he found him treading close on his heels in the public favor, he engaged him at a great salary for a number of years at his theatre, and ex­hibited him in the cyphers of the stage; such as the Prin [...] in Romeo and Juliet, when himself played Ro­meo. In this manner did he exercise [Page 94] his monarchical tyranny, till he re­duced him in public estimation to the applause of a scene shifter.—Hundreds can authenticate my assertion; it is not built upon the base of retaliation, for I know him not —thank Heaven.

"Is this the object of universal ad­miration!— Observe that literary be­ing with the manuscript — what says he? That he gave him a comedy, highly approved by his ingenious friends, which he kept till the open­ing of the ensuing season, and then returned it, with a compliment to the author on his abilities, and his judi­cious advice to amend and correct it: At the same time he stript it of its most brilliant thoughts, and tortured the poor man's ears, next season, with the plagiary in a piece from his own manufactory at Hampton.

[Page 95]"What says Mossop to him? That the best critics of the age could get him to say only— "The man had some genius."— Then where lies this man's munificence, his honesty, and loud-boasted virtues.—Shame on the world! —He is a gay convivial companion— that gives a varnish to his crimes:— Full master of the superficial etiquette of polished life; a member of the first literary societies in London; and qui­etly inurns the children of his fertile imagination, now and then, at Bath-Easton.

Tell me, ye puffing tribe, is this his liberality? Ye who partook of his bounty such a number of years, dis­close the popular secret! — What, all mute! Is Lear, then, abated of all his train? His office of bribery is closed, and the pen of dissimulation is employed for a new master. He [Page 96] made the ingenious Cunningham a present of two guineas for the dedi­cation of his poems to him!—Excel­lent patron! how I envy thee thy li­berality of soul! the public did not reward thee so, for thy flowers from the foot of Parnassus—they were la­vish in their praises on them—a cen­tury will show which blooms longest."

My companion being arrived at his house, I was deprived of the remain­der of his remarks on this high fa­voured Roscius, whom I heard such a number of opinions of, the chief of which terminated like this gentle­man's.

THE SPOUTERS.

THIS evening I was summoned to one of those distinguished houses ‘where 'prentic'd kings alarm the gaping street.’

The company consisted of a few youths who had caught the theatrical influenza that rages with such vio­lence; and injures the tranquility of many parents in this populous city.

By the time I arrived at the door, they were kicking up a dust with the people of the house; one of them who personated Alexander the Great, was so elated with the sublimity of his elo­quence, that he broke a pier glass with his truncheon, as he swung his Her­culean arm backwards.—The landlord insisted on immediate payment for [Page 98] the accident; the hero, with all the majesty of Macedonia's conqueror, told him all accidents in the green room were overlooked by the mana­gers; and if he expected payment, he must wait till he took his seat in the chair Roscius had just retired from— "Damn Rogers, and you," rejoined the landlord; "I will be paid for my property,—I'll lace you tighter than you were laced in that tinsel doublet you wore just now, if you don't make good the damage." Here a general engagement took place; the heroes took fire at the in­dignity offered their Garrick, and all was uproar in an instant:— the land­lady ran for a constable.— Alexander made his escape; and poor Hamlet, who had given the landlord a black eye, was secured. When the consta­ble was shewn his prey, he griped him like a tiger by the collar, and [Page 99] was hurrying him off to prison, when he roared out, with becoming ener­gy, — "Perdition catch thee, — I prithee take thy fingers from my throat,—I am Hamlet the Dane!" "I don't doubt it," says the constable, "I had much rather you were Christian the Dane, you should be speedily in­augurated with a crown of Tyburn manufacture." — The poor Prince was taken to prison, and the rest of his comrades, after promising to en­large him the next morning, took their seat in me. —They were trouble­some passengers, and I was anxious to get rid of them, which soon hap­pened; for they ran from me like so many bedlamites, to get six penny-worth of Miss Brown's ^*pretty blue-eyd nun of St. Catharines.

MARIA AND LAVINIA.

"AS the hours are heavy in town, Maria, and the day is fine," says a young lady, addressing her com­panion, "suppose we step into the coach and take a little jaunt to Chel­sea." "Nothing pleasanter," says Ma­ria; "I love country excursions and am seldom indulged that way.

"Bless me!—something is going forward in the gay world, that has mustered this amazing concourse of agreeable faces."—"The KING is go­ing to the house of peers," says Lavi­nia; "the people of London, the women in particular, are delighted with this species of pleasure;—the picture they present to their pleased imaginations of a crowned head is superior to any they have ever seen, [Page 101] and they are willing to have a lasting impression, by seeing one as often as they can. The King of England, I have often heard, has more princely dignity in his countenance and de­portment than any Monarch in the universe.—Prussia has more of the hostile hero in his war worn figure, and less of the king;—France is a mere petit maitre;—Spain a hunts­man fit only to rule a kennel of hounds;—and the Emperor of Ger­many the prince of justice and huma­nity, which is superior to his princely appearance." — "But see, as I live," says Maria, "here comes

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

WHAT a lovely Youth!— vic­tory has laurels yet in store for thee;— thou art born to rule a great and sensible people, tenacious of their freedom, and affectionate to their Prince; in whose veins run the clear current of brave and me­morable Britons: a people that will never forsake thee, while thou pre­servest their rights untainted."

We proceeded till we arrived in

CHELSEA.

MARIA is one of those happy females that take a particular pleasure in reviewing the scenes of domestic felicity;—she saw a pensioner sitting on a bench, under a tree near the hospital. He had a fine little boy dandling on his knee, and another about nine years old stood before him, performing the manual exercise with the old man's crutch; this was a delicious treat to Maria.—She sat down beside the veteran.

"You seem quite happy with your little soldier, and this smiling prat­tler," says she, taking the child in her arms, and pressing it to her bosom.

"My present situation, dear lady, may be justly called happiness, as it [Page 104] is so closely connected with inno­cence; there was a time, when I could kiss my children and enjoy their endearing society but seldom, being then confined to duty. I am recovering the lost felicity with my grand children; they are the harbin­gers of cheerfulness, — their little sports divert me, and help to brighten my solitary hours in this comfortable asylum. Their mother is an industri­ous soul,—she rents a small habitation in the village, that she may be near me; it was her mother's dying request; she knew she would be my best com­forter in my last moments. She ge­nerally spends an hour or two with me when her task for the day is con­cluded, when we take the little ones home. She has been a widow these two years; she lost a valuable friend in the death of an officer, in whose service we were in Germany and Lon­don; [Page 105] and who shewed us many in­stances of his affection; my daughter nursed a child for him, and was much beloved by the family; it was his set­tled resolution to bequeath us an in­dependence, above hardship, in our decline.— He died suddenly in the country, and left us to the situation in which you have found us; —poor Ma­jor Noble!"— "Noble!" exclaimed Maria,—"of Clifford-Street, Burling­ton-Gardens." "The same," says the veteran. "Ye gracious powers that lift the delighted soul to ecstasy, ena­ble me to support this sudden tran­sport! My brave old man! let me em­brace you for the happy discovery!— do you see nothing of my father in me?"— "Yes," says the enraptured veteran, gazing on her with eyes swim­ming in ardor; "I behold his manly soul smiling in thy gracious counte­nance!" "But tell me," says the love­ly [Page 106] Maria, "why did you and she fly to obscurity from us? why did you de­sist from claiming from my affection­ate mother your master's promise?"— "We did not desist," says he, "till your pampered housekeeper told us, you would not see any of your father's dependants; we repeatedly endea­voured to get an interview with you, or your dear mother, but ever met with contemptuous answers; — you were in the country, or engaged a­broad, whenever we called." "Well," says Maria, "the perfidious wretch shall be discharged this evening; bring my poor nurse to us the instant she returns from London, she and you shall be situated to your wishes. I will take the little ones to my mother, who will be rejoiced to see them.— Be sure you accompany your daugh­ter the instant she returns."

[Page 107]"Well, Lavinia," says Maria, on their return, "don't you think this morning's adventure a little extraor­dinary?" "I think it a great instance of divine Providence," says she. "When I tell you," says Maria, "what a treasure I have recovered in this venerable old man and his faith­ful daughter, what a hoard of integri­ty and affection towards me and my mother, you will congratulate me on one of the most pleasing events of my life." "I do, most sincerely," says Lavinia; "and shall often bor­row your little charge, to shew my generous friends a picture of your transcendent goodness."

Happy woman! —while the dissi­pated of thy sex are revelling in the lap of pleasure, you are busy in pro­moting the happiness of your fellow creatures. —It is such exalted beings [Page 108] I would wish to accompany through life.

Some time after I became the com­panion of

A HARRIDAN.

"BE expeditious, Lucy," — says an emaciated old man, totter­ing under the weight of age and in­firmities,— "I shall call on you in the evening, and will expect a lovely ex­otic." "You shall not be disap­pointed," says the withered Harridan. —Let me look in thy wicked counte­nance,— what a wretched picture of iniquity! — the blush of shame has fled from thee many a year since, and the tinge of art supplies its place; —I would give the world to know the villainous purpose of thy soul this mi­nute. — Thou hast got hold of some [Page 109] fair daughter of affliction, and art busy in conveying her to that le­cher's loathed embrace, ‘To melt the ice that chills his shiv'ring heart.’ Some darling, perhaps, of a fond fa­ther and mother, whose misfortunes rest in the grave with them; while their poor child is left trembling in the arms of infirm virtue.

Some wretch, perhaps, committed by a remorseless creditor to a loath­some prison, has been tempted for his enlargement, to barter his child's fu­ture felicity: —what horrid pictures, in such a situation, does imagination present to torture the feelings! I will look no more at them.

I had scarce formed the intention, when the lovely victim took her seat beside the Runnion; she was handed [Page 110] in by one of those gorgons of socie­ty, the mistress of a register-office. Though sorrow had been her partner for some time, and was still visible in her tearful eye, she retained a just re­semblance of Rowe's beautiful pic­ture;

Alas! thought I, fair creature, thy doom is almost confirmed; and in a little while, possibly, thou wilt have nought but sighs and tears to alleviate thy misfortune.

"Will you be so kind, Madam," says she, "to tell me what my occu­pation is to be in your family?" "My own maid, child; I will shew thee a parent's fondness, and felicitate thy [Page 111] innocent wishes. My family consists of an old brother and myself; we live very retired, and seldom mix with the gay world.— My last maid beha­ved herself so well, that I married her the other day to an eminent apothe­cary; and gave her a handsome for­tune. — As I have no children, it gives me inexpressible pleasure in promot­ing the happiness of those around me.— Your last residence I understand was with a clergyman's widow, since dead;" "Yes, Madam," says the fu­gitive; "I lived with her in Shropsh [...]e from my childhood,— my father was her brother, who died a short while after I was born, followed by my mother the week after, —he was an officer of excise, and lest very little for my support,— I found an affec­tionate parent in my aunt, who taught me the essential requisites for a decent servitude;— she could do no­thing [Page 112] else for me, as her support arose from a yearly bounty.— I never knew distress till my tears bedewed her coffin,— pardon me, Madam." — "I am heartily sorry I have awa­kened your afflictions, my dear child — be cheerful—dry up your tears, —I will endeavour to prove as wor­thy your affection as she;— If you cannot love me as a parent, I will do every thing to make you love me as a friend." — Abominable monster! thought I, could not the innocent relation of her grief move thy hard heart to a virtuous purpose.—Thy pangs in a future state must be dread­ful indeed: repentance in this life cannot possibly erase thy crimes from the infernal roll.—GOD help thee, hapless maid,—and send thee a pro­tector in the hour of calamity!

THE HAPPY PAIR.

"IF you recollect, my dear," says a pretty woman, addressing her husband, "this is the coach that was the instrument of uniting us." "You are very right," says he, "it was in this I endeavoured to convince my Constantia, of what she has often told me she has experienced since— con­nubial happiness,— I shall never for­get the anxiety I felt as I walked round the Temple-Fountain that evening, waiting for your appearance: the hapless lover that left the following beautiful stanzas on a bank his mistress used generally contemplate on every evening, could only feel as I did:

"Indeed, Ferdinand," says she, "my disagreeable situation, not the violence of indiscretion, prest me to a compliance with the assignation. I had much fear and trembling on the occasion; but I had a fast friend be­side me, who was awake to my in­terest.— May our future hours be blest with the same sincerity of soul we have felt in our dwelling since;— and the happy day remembered with transport that gave us mutual feli­city." I joined my best wishes most [Page 115] fervently with Constantia's, —they were a tribute to virtue and honour.

A few days after I took up that very sanctified and distinguished zea­lot,

JOHN W * * * * y.

HE had just returned from his farewell visit to a pious lady of distinction, who had, before her righteous spirit flew to her Redeem­er's bosom, bequeathed him a small mark of her esteem for his Christian consolation, and a considerable dona­tion to be distributed among the af­flicted in spirit.— "Credulous wo­man!" says he, as he looked over the bequest, "this treasure of thine, hoarded with so much secresy from thy relatives, shall be disposed of in a different manner from the religious [Page 116] enthusiasm of thy last hours:— thou hast given it from thy nephews for no other reason than one marrying a virtuous maid, against thy consent; and the other observing a disrespect to the pious incantations of our midnight assemblies. — Thy dutiful niece who soothed thee in thy weary afflictive hours, with a daughter's fondness, must sink into pining obscu­rity with thy generous bequest of twenty pounds a-year; while this no­ble donation is intrusted to me, for those who never felt a pang for the preservation of thy health. The white cloaks ^* of our order in the Foundry, shall receive their weekly stipend of half a crown each, out of [Page 117] thy bounty; which thy immaculate spirit shall oft hear loudly acknow­ledged in spiritual groans, wasted to to thy blissful mansion! This distri­bution shall cease after a few weeks. It should appear now as my own bounty, but that thou hast mentioned thy bequest to some of our spiritual friends, who might attaint my sanc­tity and Christian integrity. If the satirical author of Sketches for Ta­bernacle Frames should get the most distant information of this affair, I should be hunted with the same ter­riers, that led me such a perilous chase when Warburton attacked me about my affair of crim-con in Ame­rica." —What a disciple of iniquity this venerable founder of the new birth exhibits! and how fortunate in gaining such an ascendency over the minds of so many thousand frantic followers of the new light, the "ignis [Page 118] fatuus" of Moorfields, and the Seven Dials. W—d might have been called the boisterous prophet of un­heard of wonders: but this calm doctor of spiritual grace, seems to pride himself on appearing the flow­ery linguist of mystical divinity.

As an instance of W—'s pul­pit thunder, give me leave to squeeze in here a bellowing exclamation of his, and a sailor's laconic reply, the authenticity of which my reader may rely on.

This wonderful doctor of souls was preaching to a numerous con­gregation in his conventicle in Tot­tenham-Court Road, with his usual vehemence, with his eyes flaming in their sockets, and an expansion in his arms as though he were buffeting the billows.

[Page 119]"We will suppose this temple of worthies," says he, "my dear bre­thren, a ship in a dreadful tempest! your spiritual pilot not on board to guide you to the beacon of safety! he that has conducted you through the many storms of this perilous life, with celestial comfort! I need not tell you how watchful I have been for the comfort of your dear souls! in such a situation, "when the winds howl o'er the darkly rolling sea," as that profane writer Ossian expresses it! in such a situation, what would you do to be saved? —I ask you, what would you do to be saved? — "why, d—n my eyes," replied the tar, "take to the long boat to be sure; what would you have us do?"

But to return to my inspired com­panion, whose rhapsodical doctrine has set so many wretched mortals mad­ding; [Page 120] whose seraphic hymns have ta­ken place of simplicity and Cunning­ham, in every village and town in the three kingdoms; whose cantings, the cobler, the hosier, and the barber, hourly belch in the face of decency and decorum, while the fizgigs of the assembly chant their raptured ac­knowledgment for the dear comfort in a torrent of groans.

This sedulous minister of hocus-po­cus orthodoxy, has with his colleague W—d, and the numerous unedu­cated cushion thumpers that cant and declaim in the rostrum with them, with the thunder of Alecto's horn, or as Creech emphatically expresses it,

[Page 121] done more real injury to society, than the evils of Pandora let loose among them.

Many a poor proselyte to their ridiculous doctrine, sits moping in her family, made up of sighs, and reiterated lamentations, indifferent to her husband and children; while her domestic concerns are left to pilfer­ing servants: no lenitives can sooth her but the soft measure of a hymn; nay,

so confident is she of her strength in the Lord. No society can charm her but the dear good man! the harbinger of love! her parlour can find no room for the profane picture of Shake­speare or Otway; but her dear brother [Page 122] W****y must appear in the most con­spicuous situation, in a frame of curi­ous carving and gilding, tho' her fami­ly wanted a dinner, —what madness!

I parted from this hypocritical im­postor, with the same detestation I felt when I parted with the pick­pockets; and the same earnest hope, that I might shortly attend his banish­ment; which would restore a multi­tude of his Majesty's subjects to their right reason and extirpate a seminary of the vilest hypocrites that ever dis­graced Religion.

Next day I took up a company of the middling order of beings, who were going to honest

NED SHUTER's FUNERAL.

WHEN I recollected the many instances I had heard of this man's life of humanity, and that me­morable one I was witness of, men­tioned [Page 123] in a former page, I was sunk to the same melancholy situation of my companions.

They were a set of people that had shared his munificence, when they were in the rear of fortune, and were now assembled to testify their grati­tude with their tears at his grave.

"He had a soul," says one, "su­perior to any I have ever known; his feelings were alive to the most distant call of indigence—and he suffered him­self to want, rather than not relieve.— His visits to the very poor were fre­quent; the sudden transitions from grief to joy he was fond of looking at, he used to call it the finest picture in nature.—I remember a noble instance of his fellow-feeling I was a witness of at Jupp's, his favourite house of resort. The facetious and memorable Harry Howard came in there one evening, [Page 124] wrapped up in disconsolation, he call­ed for a pint of porter, rested his head on the table, and continued in that si­tuation till Shuter came in.—"What, Harry," says he clapping him on the shoulder, "melancholy!" "Yes," says Harry, "a little," "What's the mat­ter?" says Ned. "A rapacious land­lord has seized on my little effects for rent, to the amount of five guineas; which I would be enabled to give him in a few days.—I left my wife and lit­tle ones lamenting; I could not stand it,— and stepped here to soften my af­fliction, and devise some means to rescue my property from the merci­less ruffian." "'Tis very unlucky," says Ned, I have a heart ache this moment myself." "Ah! but you have no wife and children," says Harry. "No, but I have four guineas, which I insist you will accept of—my heart ache arises for want of the fifth;—but I will borrow [Page 125] it for you.— You know I am an ene­my to set speeches, give me the lan­guage of cheerfulness, — sing me a song in return — it is all it merits."

"In this manner," says my compa­nion, "did this incomparable player spend his days: —it is a doubt to me whether Thalia or Humanity will shed most tears at his funeral.

"His foibles, if they may be called such, arose from a peculiar turn of thinking: they might be said to be comprehended in this point only, that he loved the society of middling and low life; ever preferring it to the gor­geous etiquette of the most princely, — was happier at Jupp's, with his bot­tle of port and cheerful companion, than he could find himself at a peer's, where his humorous converse would be expected in return for his enter­tainment.

[Page 126]"From this singularity of taste, his representations of characters in low life were beyond any ever seen; he could cast his flexible features to any situation; and his audience of the up­per gallery saw the caricatura so very strong, that they never failed to bestow on him their loudest pea [...] of applause.

"If those of the upper gallery were so highly delighted, the rest of the au­dience saw his superiority with the same unspeakable pleasure in his Mi­das, Miser, Hardcastle, Sir Harry Sy­camore, Master Stephen, and innume­rable characters of the same cast.

"His liberality ever outran the greatness of his salary, ^* which exposed him very often to the buffets of adver­sity."

[Page 127]By this time we arrived at St. Paul's Covent Garden, where he was inter­red.—I shall never forget a singular circumstance attending this man's funeral: the poor women in Covent Garden market, all decently attired, left their stalls to the care of their children, and joined the melancholy procession: their benedictions were innumerable and so fervently uttered, that the soul might be said to accom­pany every word. —I thought their appearance superior to all the posthu­mous pageantry I had ever seen enter Westminster Abbey. ^*

[Page 128]Some time after, returning with a gentleman from the London Coffee House, I discovered, on his leaving me, the following poem which he dropped on my seat. If my reader can find any entertainment in it, it is at his service.

THE FUNERAL OF LEAR; A VISION. Inscribed to the Memory of SPRANGER BARRY, Esq.

DR. DODD's EXECUTION.

I THINK he had many virtues, and deserved a better fate." "'Tis a merciful opinion, and will do thee more honour than a thousand ill-na­tured reflections," says an elderly gentleman, to a young man, who had both taken a seat in me.

"I will acknowledge the justice of his sentence," continued the first; but I think the many essential services he has done the public,—the streaming tears of the Magdalen, the benedic­tion of the captive and his wretched family, just freed from the dreary tomb of relentless oppression,—should extenuate the rigid behest of justice,— should grant him the poor privilege of lingering out a miserable existence in [Page 137] the obscurity his sorrowing soul de­sires.—From the gloomy confines of self reproach, and never ceasing an­guish, to cast a retrospective look at his former elevated situation in life,— his boundless popularity!—admired genius and powerful influence! will be punishment enough Heaven knows! to a mind formed like his."

By this time we arrived in Oxford-street. What a crowd!—it was as much as we could do to get along:— the melancholly procession had not yet arrived.— "We will have an op­portunity," continued he, if we stop here, to hear the various opinions of the multitude assembled on this so­lemn occasion; they will speak their minds freely,—'tis the privilege of Englishmen;—and what their honest natures cannot conceal."

[Page 138]"Poor soul!" says a tattered wretch, he relieved me in my last ly­ing-in." Thou art a grateful creature for the acknowledgement at this hour," says an old gentleman, giving her a shilling.—"He was a vile hy­pocrite," says a fine gentleman, riding by, who paid more attention to the one offence, than to the numberless good actions of the criminal.

"Thou art a merciless monster," says a clergyman, "and deserve a worse fate for thy cruel assertion." Hundreds wished for an opportunity to appease their rage, by executing a certain lord high in office in the criminal's stead.

His cruel decree in the privy coun­cil,—the weight of his thoughts with the most merciful of kings, who was pressed by pity and clemency to as­cend their throne, but could not van­quish the voice of obduracy.

[Page 139]"A thousand guineas, says a young fellow, "was offered the turnkey last night for his enlargement." "Split my top-sails, Jack," says a sailor to his com­panion, I wish I had been in his place, the poor parson should be free from the sharks this morning." "If he was a popish parson and in my country," says the other, dash me on the needles! he'd never swing in the sheriff's pic­ture frame; no, no, they're too fond of their admirals of the Brest fleet there.

By this time the wretched criminal appeared, with general commiseration around him;—the voice of pity e­choed to his ear the universal con­cern.—Captivity," says my young companion, "has robbed thee of thy lively countenance;—thy features con­fess the tyrant hand of affliction,—sere­nity has fled thy bosom; thy tears have formed a channel in thy cheeks;—and [Page 140] now they flow abundant.—Merciful Heaven! to be five months shut from the cheerful habitation of friendship!— the happy embraces of connubial fe­licity!— and yet thy cup of misery is not the bitterest; parental anguish does not wring thy soul—thou hast taken leave of no weeping children, none but an affectionate wife, and a few faithful friends—it is enough!"

As there was a report prevailed that some means would be used to prevent his execution, my passengers were anxious to see the issue.—We drove as close to Tyburn as the mul­titude would suffer us.—A gentle­man gave a guinea for a front seat in one of the galleries: it might have been applied to a nobler purpose.

As the criminal kept the hind leaf of his hat very low upon his face, it was impossible to discover his coun­tenance [Page 141] at a distance; he had not re­mained long in this situation when a sudden gust of wind blew his hat off; — then at once, his fears of death were evident,— his disordered features blushed for concealment, which were instantly hid. Shortly after he embraced his worthy friend Dr. *****, who attended him; spoke for a few minutes to the unhappy youth, his companion, and then his afflictions ceased in this world.

We waited till he was delivered to his friends, which happened some minutes before his fellow sufferer; which the spectators took particular notice of, together with the execu­tioner's manner of cutting him down; he put his left hand down his collar in such a manner, that he seemed dis­engaging one thing from another; and with a knife in the other hand, he cut [Page 142] the cord.—I am thus particular as it was firmly believed by every one, but the inhuman, that he was alive at the time.

Some time after, I became the companion of

A PATRIOT.

"PEACE to his hallowed manes!" says an old gentleman to his com­panion, "and may he find that bliss in the life he is removed to, his honest na­ture diffused in this.—He was the glo­ry of Britain and the admiration of every enlightened nation. Long, long shall Britannia bewail the luckless hour she lost thy favoured voice,—the hap­py harbinger of assured success..—Let us proceed, my friend to the melan­cholly scene." I did not divine what this pathetic flow of the soul could arise from, till we arrived at

LORD CHATHAM's FUNERAL.

"GRATEFUL people," says he, as we passed through the multi­tude, "the incessant rain of this morn­ing will not retard ye from pouring the tribute of your tears at his funeral.— What noble worthies from the sad procession!—The voice of merriment is mute, and sorrow's requiem, like midnight's melancholy bird, is only heard around.

Behold the illustrious patriots, Cam­den and Rockingham! the afflictions of their country give way to a nobler sorrow, the flowing tears of eternal friendship.—See the dishevelled youth, his loving son;—disconsolation has taken early possession of his youthful bosom, and he walks in her tearful path with ceaseless sorrow.— [Page 144] Thy father's memorable life, in time's immortal list of fortunate events, shall oft present thee a heavenly balm for thy afflictions.

How finely Hacket expresses him­self in praise of the illustrious dead!

"Let us quit the carriage, and en­deavour to get into the Abbey."

[Page 145]Their place was immediately taken by what some people near me called

TWO NATTY LADS.

A VIOLENT outcry of a genteel woman-pickpocket being de­tected, and then at the Gun-Tavern, Westminster bridge, curiosity urged my companions to see the thief.— They had a fellow feeling on the oc­casion.

By the time we got near the door, they were hurrying her to prison. My reader will not be surprised when I tell him it was the distinguished Bet West, already introduced to him in a former page, that was the criminal. She had, on that solemn morning, as­sumed the name of Mary Groves; but no deception could be of any use to her, her face was too conspicuous in [Page 146] Akerman's court beauties, to escape making a lasting impression.

It seems she had pilfered a watch, which she instantly conjured with the dexterity of Breslaw, into *** ****. Some female novices searched her from head to foot,—the poor crea­ture was guiltless,—she had no such thing.—An adept in the magic art, who had retired to Woolwich to hide the blushes of her iniquity in her de­cline, started from the throng, in­spired by the animating amazonian spirit of London, a few glasses of right Hollands, and instantly pulled from the curious repository the shin­ing treasure!—those that were gather­ed round to see the sight, stood mute when they beheld it, but could not long govern their roaring throats, nor grumble pity.

[Page 147]The discovery was instantly ru­moured, and she was conducted to prison amidst the applause of some hundreds of honest people, and the regret of a number of her relations of the diving generation, Jews and Gentiles.

"Poor Bet, says one of the Natty Lads, "though we had a tiff about the division of our spoil the last time at Vauxhall, d— my eyes but I am sorry for thee:—this will be the three-and-twentieth time Jack Ketch will take his stand beside thee in the Old Baily, throwing his baleful eyes on thee like a Cerberus.—Shall we go see her, Ned?"—"With all my heart," says his companion, I love to comfort the afflicted; I have a few grunter's gigs ^* at the poor girl's service, which may [Page 148] soften the weight of her misfortune.— —Let's quit the coach and step after her."—Though I admire the gene­rosity of thy feelings, thought I, I should be heartily glad to hear of thy captivity with her, which might bring thee to a sense of thinking and acting justly; and probably prevent a mul­tiplicity of sighs and tears, the con­stant companions of thy aged and honest parents.